Dirty Forbidden Collection

by Amira Bradford

  "All in good time!" I reply, teasing you. I kick the little bag under the couch, and we relax on to it together, with me slightly underneath you. We kiss again, and my hand finds its way up under your blouse to tweak your left nipple - you don't wear a bra when you know I'm visiting. You really enjoy having your nipples played with, the harder the better, and soon you are moaning in heat.

  "Get undressed, darling!" I whisper in your ear, and you rapidly oblige, standing up and practically tearing off your clothes. I remove my shirt while you are stripping, and you return to lie against me again, completely naked. Your pussy presses against my thigh and I can feel your wetness through the fabric of my jeans.

  I prop myself on my left elbow and you naturally roll onto your back. I take your left nipple in my teeth, nipping gently, and you gasp. I run my right hand up your right thigh to your groin, and you automatically part your legs and bend your knees to let me get at you. I find you so slippery that I wonder if you have wet yourself. Your hands go around me, one in my hair and one against the middle of my shoulderblades. You pull me against your breasts, and I swap from one to the other and back again, licking, sucking and biting you. You gasp with a mixture of pleasure and pain, and your legs part even further as my fingers start to penetrate your wet sex.

  I frig you with my fingertips, playing with the bud of clit that hardens at my touch. It isn't many more minutes before you come, arching your back, pulling me to you, clamping your thighs around my hand.

  Again we break our clinch, gently, with kisses, and I get up to retrieve the wine and two glasses. We sit close together, touching at hip and shoulder, my arm around you, as we sip our drinks. You ask me about my day, and I tell you briefly, then ask you about yours. You tell me that you have the day off tomorrow, so you can sleep in. I don't but I say I might just sleep in anyway.

  We pass a happy forty minutes or so, refilling our glasses, until the wine has all gone. We are both feeling mellow and relaxed, you more than me, because you have already enjoyed an orgasm. I don't mind though, I'm happy to wait, to draw things out as long as I can. Unlike you, once I have come, I can't do it again quickly, especially now I am advancing in years.

  We lie on the couch again, together, and I lower myself until my lips brush your belly. I kiss my way down to your clit and there I stay, licking, sucking, nibbling. You pull my head down to your groin using both hands, and you moan. With my right hand, I feel inside you with two, then three fingers- you are wetter than ever. I feel the time has come to try something out of your comfort zone.

  I cast around and find the empty wine bottle -- it is one of the long-necked variety with a conical neck. Gently, I introduce the neck into your vagina - you don't notice straight away. The bottle neck is long, nearly eight and a half inches from the mouth to where it stops flaring out. At the mouth, it is only about an inch in diameter, which is probably why you haven't noticed - my fingers are larger. At the body of the bottle, however, it is three inches across, or ten inches in circumference, and about four and a half inches long.

  I gently slide four or five inches of the bottle into you, pushing into you then pulling back a little. By now, the bottle neck is about two inches across where it enters you and you have noticed at last. Your right hand leaves the back of my head and explores down to where the bottle is doing its work. "Wow!" you say.

  "Do you like it?" I ask, raising my head. "How does it feel?" You think about it for a few seconds.

  "It feels good! It is definitely big and very hard -- there's no give. But it's a good feeling, for sure."

  "Think you could take more of it?"

  "I'm sure I could try, especially if you keep your mouth busy, lover...."

  So, for the next quarter hour or so, I keep my mouth busy. Little by little, the bottle gets slid deeper and deeper into you, never too fast or too hard, always just at the limit of what I feel you can cope with, always with a little bit of pressure to stretch you gently. You come three or four times during this process. Finally, all of the conical section of the bottle is inside you and the parallel part has begun to go in, but there's no more room lengthways inside you.... You are very turned on indeed, however, and are keen to do more.

  "Put it in big end first!" you tell me.

  I'm all for that, as you can well imagine. I'm concerned that you aren't subjected to any more discomfort than necessary, though, so I retrieve my little bag from under the couch. One of my treasures is a tube of KY and I liberally anoint you and the base of the bottle with dollops of Johnson & Johnson's finest. You giggle because the goo is cold. I offer the base of the bottle up to your by now distended labia, and with a bit of wiggling, it slides inside you quite easily -- and keeps on sliding in, until probably about six inches of it are inside you and your labia have begun to close around the conical section again. You gasp a little, but say that you are good when I ask you.

  I frig you with the bottle for what seems like hours, but is probably only ten minutes or thereabouts. To begin with, you find it difficult -- it is very hard and unforgiving and you are tender. You quickly learn to relax and enjoy it though, especially when I start to use my tongue on you again. You have another incredibly powerful orgasm and ask me to stop while you recover. I go to take the bottle out but you say no, leave it in me.

  I just love to see you lying there, with the bottle neck protruding from your glistening labia. If I look closely, I can see that it is jerking slightly in time with your heartbeat. I caress your labia gently where they close around the bottle -- they feel smooth and slippery -- so very sexy. You look like a goddess to me and I tell you so. You tell me not to play the fool, but I can tell you are pleased. I ask if you are comfortable and you tell me that you are -- you feel a bit "full" but it's not an unpleasant sensation.

  I ask if you are ready to try my hand yet? You say yes, why not?

  "Just take it slow...." I promise that I will and you say not too slow, though, laughing. I gently pull out the bottle -- your pussy gapes open a little. You say you now feel empty and hollow.... I anoint you again with the KY, and put a generous quantity on the fingers of my right hand. I have no trouble putting three fingers in you up to my knuckles, so I make it four and still have no trouble. I rub your clit with my thumb and I feel little twitches and spasms from your vaginal muscles. I ask how you are and you say fine, don't stop now.

  I rub more KY onto my knuckles and the ball of my thumb. I fold my thumb across the palm of my hand and into the hollow formed by my fingers, so my hand is in the duck-bill shape that is easiest to insert. I slide all my fingers and thumb gently into you, all the way to the knuckles. I can feel some resistance now. I start to gently pump my fingers in and out of you, pushing slightly harder and harder each time. You start to gasp, and your right hand comes down to your pussy and you start to rub your clit -- hard. I take this for encouragement and push a little harder. I am making slow but steady progress now, and a little more of my hand is entering you each time I push.

  Suddenly, your left hand shoots to my right wrist which you grasp in an iron grip. I think that you are going to pull my hand out of your pussy, but you do the complete opposite and pull me into you, urgently and firmly. You are gasping loudly now, your right hand still busy on your clit. I go with you, pushing inside you at your urging, and within thirty seconds, my knuckles pass inside you and my right hand is in your pussy to the wrist. You scream out loud and come simultaneously, your vaginal muscles spasming and clamping hard enough onto my hand to be painful.

  As the tremors subside, I leave my hand absolutely still inside you -- I know that any movement will be extremely intense for you. You need time to become accustomed to the sensation, and for your muscles to relax again after your mammoth orgasm. Eventually, you tug experimentally at my wrist to try to remove my hand from you. I tell you it will be better if you bear down and push me loose, rather than if I pull free. You do as I suggest and within a minute or so, my hand emerges from your tender and sensitive pussy.

 
"I want you to fuck me now," you say. I don't need telling twice and tear off my jeans and underwear. I have an erection I could cut glass with. I enter you so smoothly and easily and bury myself to the hilt inside you. I feel as though I am filling every cubic inch of your pussy. Your legs wrap around my thighs and buttocks and your arms around my back, and you draw me deeper into you.

  "That was amazing!" you say. "I want to do it again real soon -- but not tonight, OK?"

  The End.

  Domestic Bliss

  Norman Plunchnik didn't know why he spent each morning lately lying on his back, with his secretary's thighs wrapped tightly around his cheeks, her juices pouring into his less than eager mouth for what seemed like hours. God knows, a five-minute quickie used to be enough. Once he got his rocks off, he could return to work. But no longer. And Pam had become absolutely insatiable. Right now, his tongue felt as though it had spent the last half hour in a blender, and still Pam rocked back and forth violently on his face, the walls of her cunt contracting around his nose as his obedient tongue lapped furiously at the bud of her clitoris. Her gasps were becoming quicker and quicker now. She grabbed his head and forced Norman's mouth even tighter against her mound. She jerked violently, threw her head back on her shoulders, and let out one of her patented shrieks, as orgasm number twenty-three overcame her. Norman wasn't sure why he bothered counting them. A way to relieve the boredom, he supposed.

  He only prayed the new soundproofing he had installed in the office was working. Otherwise, the patiently-waiting Ellen Griebstein was getting quite a show out there in the reception area as she waited to see her mysteriously delayed attorney.

  He wasn't sure why he had begun to indulge in such practices. Certainly, Monica's all too frequent bouts of infidelity had instilled a need for some kind of revenge. And the fact that she had tried to put out a contract on him last year hadn't helped matters. He still couldn't quite bring himself to forgive her for that one. Sure, her lawyers had proved beyond any doubt in court that it had been a clear case of entrapment by the F.B.I. and those bastards on CNN. Were it not for the U.S. justice system's amiable willingness to let any criminal defendant go scot-free if she (or rather Norman) could hire a Dream Team of attorneys to exploit every available legal loophole, Monica would be sitting down in the state prison this minute, right where she belonged, getting buggered alternately by bull dykes and redneck guards, as she deserved. Instead, she was sitting watching Jerry Springer, smoking cigarettes and tossing down whiskey sours back at the house, where she was undoubtedly getting buggered by the pool boy.

  Monica had never quite been the same since their darling daughter Clara, she of the navel ring, barbed wire tattoo, shaved head and chicest of heroin addictions, had run off with those two bikers. No Harvard Med School for her. Still, that was no excuse for Monica's occasionally successful attempts to screw the lights out of every hapless male that happened to saunter by the front porch of their humble domicile, or for hiring some greaseball to pump five rounds of lead into Norman's admittedly defective brain, for that matter. He wasn't quite sure exactly why it was that he stayed with her. Perhaps it was because he suspected that he was at least partially to blame for her insanity. He could have been a better husband, he thought to himself, as he watched the delightfully bouncing bottoms of Pam's breasts, barely visible now as he peered up at them through her pubic hair. She lowered herself onto him more tightly and grasped his hair. He felt the increased flow of her juices into his still famished mouth and the walls of her cunt beginning to tremble against his chin once again.

  Here goes number twenty-four, Norman thought, as he sent his enflamed tongue into even more feverish motion. He sincerely hoped that wasn't the beginning of a temporomandibular joint problem he was feeling in his jaw. As Pam began to shriek once more and threatened to pull the few remaining hairs out of Norman's already depilated head, Normal suddenly realized that he had left the briefs for this afternoon's session back at the house. He'd better drive back and get them right after he took care of the always patient Mrs. Griebstein. But first things first. After all, one had to have one's priorities in order. And he would need to finish taking care of Pam before he could get to Griebstein. He redoubled his efforts, feeling the beginnings of number twenty-six on his tongue. If he worked her hard, he could probably induce the next five in rapid succession. Thirty usually did it. Although the way Pam was lately, you never knew.

  As Norman pulled into his driveway, the first thing he noticed was the mail truck, oddly parked on the street directly across from his house. "Et tu, Cliffy Claven," he muttered to himself as he shut off the engine. Postal workers were known to be a tad testy at times and prone to scattering each other's brains across the mailroom walls with various sorts of automatic weapons. Still, Norman figured it might still be fun to give the two lovebirds a little surprise. He silently opened the door of the house, sneaked through the kitchen and tiptoed up the stairs. As he grasped the handrail, he found it to be covered with a sticky substance having the general consistency of cum. He grimaced, wiped his hand on his shirt and continued to make his way to the top of the stairs. Once there, he noticed a trail of slime on the carpet leading from the stairs to Clara's old room, where Monica had taken to sleeping lately. From beyond the door, there emanated a rapid series of Monica's trademark denials and affirmations. "Oh yes, oh yes, oh no, oh yes, oh no..." she panted in seeming indecision.

  Norman pushed the door ajar and was instantly greeted by the unseemly spectacle of the mail carrier's undulating ass as he pumped his way in and out of the obliging Mrs. Plunchnik. The courier's bobbing butt seemed surprisingly tanned and well-toned as it completed its appointed rounds, forming a striking contrast to Monica's pasty, alcohol-soaked flesh. Surely the possessor of such an impressive gluteus maximus could find something better to diddle than his present company, Norman thought to himself as he switched on the light.

  "I must say, you have found a very creative approach to tipping the mailman, Monica," Norman said. He turned to the steroid-enhanced mail carrier. "I came to collect my briefs and I suggest you collect yours," Norman told him, patting him on his well-developed rump. The postman's flesh was strangely oily and surprisingly cool. Norman felt a wave of pleasure come over him the instant he touched the mailman's flesh. He felt himself becoming instantly erect, surprisingly so in view of Pam's recent ministrations back at the office.

  The postman turned and grinned at Norman, as if aware of Norman's state. The irises of his eyes seemed to spiral. Nonetheless, he proceeded to disengage himself from Monica and picked up his clothes. His movements were almost preternaturally swift and graceful. He seemed almost to glide out of the room.

  Monica remained sprawled on the bed, her sagging breasts and potbelly a counterpoint to the postman's perfect flesh. She opened her legs wider, as if to taunt Norman with her splayed sex. "At least somebody around here can still get it up," she informed him, cackling and reaching across the bed for a cigarette.

  Norman grunted and left the bedroom for the office to retrieve his papers, talking care not to step in the fresh trail of slime that led down the hall.

  Heavenly shades of night had fallen by the time Norman returned to the house. He liked to postpone his arrival until well after dark these days. That way, there was a ninety-nine percent probability that Monica would be fully into her alcoholic stupor and he would be spared her usual diatribe. Tonight, for instance, he had eaten a sumptuous dinner of twice-cooked pork at the Hunan Pavilion, while trying to ignore the many eyes pitying him for his single-diner status. He had followed that up with a full hour of fascinating browsing at the CVS store next door to the restaurant, checking out the latest paperback releases and becoming intimately familiar with the contents of various brands of toothpaste.

  Oh well, time to face the music, he thought as he turned off the ignition. As he got out of the Lexus, he noticed a light on in the bedroom of the house next door. He looked up. Sure enough, Helga Anderson was parading around in the bu
ff again, her magnificent rose-nippled Viking breasts displayed to all and sundry with wanton abandon. It was high time he started to get to know his neighbors better, Norman thought. But not tonight. He barely had enough energy to insert his key into the lock as it was.

  As he crossed the threshold, his nose was assaulted with a strange odor. Perfume. Monica never wore perfume. A red glow emanated from the general direction of the living room, the result of Monica's latest experiments with mood lightning. Reluctantly, Norman entered the living room, poised for yet another confrontation.

  Improbably, he found Monica both unconscious and alone. But this was a different Monica. She wore the peignoir she had bought at Victoria's Secret during the first year of their marriage. Her breasts jutted firmly. Her stomach was taut. Her limbs were tanned, with superb muscle tone. Gone were the dark bags under her eyes and the nascent wattle on her neck. She looked truly magnificent, the perfect picture of health (and seduction).

  "I'm sorry about this afternoon," she cooed. "Sometimes, I get so horny. Things haven't been right between us and I miss you, Normy." She gave him a Shirley Templesque pout of the lips and looked up at him with deep, strangely enlarged eyes.

  As he came closer, Norman noticed the drying trail of slime leading up to the chair she was sitting in. He felt strangely compelled to reach out and touch her. He stroked her hair, and then reached down to cup her left breast, his hands tracing her erect nipple through the thin silk of her nightgown. As he touched her, an electrical charge seemed to surge through his body. He felt a strange tingling in his balls. His penis became not just tumescent, but granite hard. His genitals throbbed with a sweet but urgent pain he had not felt since he passed his eighteenth birthday.