Whip Me

by Cathryn Cooper

  ‘You guys are just great,’ said Julia, her face glowing from a quickly-consumed gulp of wine. ‘There’s no married couple I’d rather go to bed with.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Margaret with a chuckle.

  Julia wasn’t laughing, though. She was sincerely affectionate, and she leaned in to give Margaret a hug. I got my hug, in turn, a moment later. Not sure where to go from there, I hugged Margaret. This time, all three of us chuckled.

  Over the wine, we gushed about how great it was to have friends one could feel so close to, be so naked with.

  When the wine was all gone, Julia put her hand in my crotch. ‘Could you fuck me, Bertie?’ Before I could answer, she turned to Margaret. ‘Can Bertie fuck me?’

  I smiled at them. ‘Can I? Or may I?’ I looked down into my lap, where I could detect a stirring of dormant flesh. ‘It looks like I can’

  Margaret kissed me sensuously on the lips. ‘And you may,’ she said. ‘We did tell Julia she could have it all, remember.’ The wine on my wife’s breath smelled like love and generosity.

  Julia wasn’t kidding. She lay down, sprawling, her pussy an invitation. Margaret gently pushed me toward her, urging me on with giggles.

  I nibbled my way up Julia’s torso, from just above her fair-haired mound to the crook between her breasts. I placed two tentative hands on her chest and leaned my face in, wondering if she would like to be kissed . . . or simply fucked. She suddenly popped her head up and took the initiative, giving me a sassy kiss that tasted like tipsy daring.

  She was so ready for me that I almost didn’t notice her sliding my cock inside her. But the velvety warmth soon awoke all my nerves down there. I saw her shoulders dance against the bed beneath me, and I felt her inner womanhood melt around me.

  ‘Go on, my darling,’ a most familiar voice whispered from behind. ‘Fuck her in your best style.’ Margaret’s palm was on my butt cheek. Her fingers were trembling with excitement.

  It all happened so fast that it was, in a way, hard to believe afterwards that it had really happened at all. However, the scream of joyous release in my ear and the clenching, raw gift of a friend’s pussy were too vivid to be products of my imagination. As my come shot out of me, I felt that I had consecrated a tender friendship in a way that would enrich all our lives for ever, even if it were never repeated.

  I wanted to fuck Margaret next, but I was tired, she was tired . . . we were all tired. Julia fell asleep in Margaret’s arms. They looked like sisters now. I joined them under the quilt, feeling a sort of fulfilment that was not quite like anything I’d ever known before, even in a life full of happy feelings.

  ‘What happens next week?’ Margaret and I wondered in the morning. But Julia had already decided.

  On the following Friday, she sat near us on the bed, dressed again (but with her pussy visible at key moments). She got herself off within inches of us, but she didn’t touch us.

  On the Friday after that, she sat in the armchair across the room and kept her panties on. She brought herself to climax through her silk.

  On the next Friday after, she invited herself to dinner but made it clear it was for dinner only.

  Julia’s involvement in our lovemaking proved to have been like the moon waxing and waning through a single cycle . . . or like a roller-coaster’s parabola.

  The friendship never diminished – it became, in fact, richer, deeper, and more joyous than ever – but her presence as a guest was more irregular. Before long she found herself a splendid boyfriend. Margaret and I always love giving them dinner – after which they trundle home to enjoy each other in private, while Margaret and I do the same here.

  The ripples from the sexual splash that Julia made in our lives have yet to vanish, though it’s been years now. Margaret and I agree that our intimate moments have been that much more mind-blowing since those unforgettable Friday nights.

  And once in a while, when I’m nuzzling into Margaret on the bed . . . perhaps just beginning to kiss her neck or fondle her bottom or grope her crotch . . . she whispers, ‘Let’s pretend Julia’s watching.’

  Prima Volta Del Samantha

  by Avi Moskovitz & Conrad Lawrence

  Any hope of being swept off her feet set with the sun slipping off the far edge of the flat plain of Chicago. Framed in the pane of her window more than twenty floors above that metropolitan plane, she peered through her own translucent face, reflecting a dull pragmatic reality. The best she might ever expect from a man would be someone… different.

  Perhaps, by lowering her expectations, an incredible experience could be shared with a man of a typical nature. She closed her laptop, closing down another solitary workday executed at her office/dining room table. Prince Charming had not called for a date. Hell, Prince Charming didn’t even have her number… Still, someone had called and just having someone to meet meant breaking up her solitary routine of waking, walking the dogs, working, walking the dogs, lunching, working, walking…

  Samantha sighed. Once there had been a time when prepping for a date had been exciting, filled with pampering and anticipation, luscious self-touching, self-denying anticipation. This evening, though, the memory of all the recent romance-challenged, post-relationship underdogs who’d paraded her through a variety of unimpressive restaurants and self-indulgent conversations caused her to speak aloud with no one to hear her. ‘For once, could someone at least impress me by having some interest in me, beyond what kind of lingerie I wear. Take some interest in my hopes; or at least be so good-looking as to excuse the testosterone-driven self consciousness.’

  Ensconced in post-Blackberry recall technology, the address of a restaurant oozed to the surface of her Palm as disappointment sunk deeper into the largest organ of stimulation she possessed, her mind. Family dining did not bode well for romantic impressiveness, though she had to say it qualified as unique. ‘You owe me one, brother dear.’

  Newest attorney at her brother’s power-litigating firm had a nice ring of potential to it, so during the date setting phone conversations, she had ignored the father of five aspect hiding behind the curtain of reality. Seeing the choice of restaurant somehow parted that curtain, with images of kids banging utensils on glasses and conversations peppered with parental admonishments. Samantha soaped her breasts trying to sponge away the sense of obligation and frustration, hardening her nipples, letting them swell with that old anticipatory hope. The glass door steamed up, wrapping her into her a familiar world of sensual gratification, fulfilment cascading down her in a hot spray; a world that swirled down the shower drain.

  Oh well, a prematurely ending date would leave her out of the house and sexied up. Why not take all that repressed sexual energy and inflict a bit of simpatico torment on the hoard of carnally deluded males swarming the throbbing hip hop clubs. Who knows? If dancing didn’t suffice to quell hormonal frustration, then one might prove interesting enough to be allowed to intrude on her night. Interesting enough to be allowed to peel off the cashmere turtleneck, grey wool skirt, thigh-high black lace, flower-patterned stockings, and black lace bra; all fitting so tightly they might have been brushed on her by the stroke of the artist.

  Sexy, sophisticated, yet edgy; Samantha grabbed a cab, struggling to hold onto sophistication or at least edginess, fighting the gravity of impending disappointment. I am on time. I look amazing. With confident elegant strides I will make an entrance and turn every male head in this restaurant. Well, at least the heads of every male above the age of ten.

  Before reaching the door, a man wearing a grey cashmere overcoat and tightly woven tweed scarf stepped out of the recesses; either from her mind or an adjoining doorway. ‘Excuse me, Samantha? Are you Samantha Rose?’

  The most incredible man with wavy black hair, blue eyes and a strong chin occluded everything else along

  Michigan Avenue

  , his stunning, tall, Italian virility exuded strength and control. ‘Why, yes, I am. Why do you ask?’ ‘I am Ray LaRosa and I am sup
posed to meet Samantha Lambkin here.’

  Alive with an infusion of difference, she gazed on a man any woman would gladly allow to father a whole tribe. She looked away from the aqua blue eyes which she wished only to swim within, as if they were warm Caribbean waters, searching for signs of his children. Reality rose to hopeful expectation. None were visible.

  ‘I am Samantha.’

  One hand, so large and strong that Samantha yearned to be taken within his grasp, extended to her. ‘Great! Your brother doesn’t do you justice, but then what brother does? I cannot believe that an incredibly beautiful woman such as you has not been swept off her feet into marriage! Such is my great luck. I can see I’ll have my work cut out to make it to date two!’

  His soft warm hand enveloped hers, her soul. Though possessing an outdoorsman’s build, his touch betrayed hours spent in an office.

  His second hand gracefully reached out, covering both their hands, holding them both in a world of their own, one of those worlds created under the privacy of a quilt. Did he pull her closer, or had she moved of her own volition? He smiled. ‘I have a car coming for us. I only asked you to meet me here because it’s an easy place to find and I needed to be sure you were really OK with the concept of dating a father of five. I hope you are also OK about surprises.’

  An inner calm radiated into Samantha through his touch, assuaging any hesitation she felt. She was not in the grip of a common or garden conservative lawyer-father. No. This creature transcended any concept of male she had previously conjured up. She surrendered herself to surprise. Maintaining both a physical and cerebral hold, Ray conveyed the sense that his attention was completely absorbed by her, even while his eyes moved.

  He doted on her, placing her in the limo that appeared at the curb, as if she were a Fabergé egg, settling her safely into the seat. A tropical humidity warmed her at the thought of kissing Ray, the anticipation of feeling hard muscles against her bare breasts, coiling in his arms after a long deep tryst. Never before had she been taken by someone with such immediacy, such urgency.

  She wanted to make love to him right at that moment; but how to signal to him and maintain her signature sophistication and elegant grace? Had she worn a button-down blouse, she could have opened another button, signalling her surrender. Such an odd conundrum, usually she found herself fighting off a lecherous onslaught, not seeking to expedite it.

  Though he entered from the other side of the limo, Ray sat close enough for Samantha to feel the warmth he exuded. She sidled closer so that her contact with him became more than a light touch, but an actual press.

  The usual routine of surrender would be far from routine with this man she knew. Samantha would have been delighted simply taking Ray home to her bed. Usually, she had to be unclothed with someone physically fawning over to feel the level of sexual arousal she felt now, the deep wetness that filled her as well as the feeling of being so hooked into Ray, as if they had been lovers for ever. She did not want to waste time with dinner; she could have gone right to her place and gotten lost in the evening.

  So absorbed was she in Ray, Samantha took no note of their destination or the time it took to get there. Ray drew her out of her seat with the same strong gentle grip that drew out the need to kiss him. Standing, she did not release him, but pulled him to her, brushing the lobe of his ear with her lips. ‘Thank you for making our blind date so special.’

  Brushing her lips along his cheek, Samantha likewise brushed a nipple aching for release from her sweater along his arm, then to ensure Ray would understand her attraction to him and trust for his plans, she pressed her breast against him. Rarely, if ever, did a man impress Samantha enough to be so floridly forward.

  Somehow she knew Ray to be capable of raising the sexual tension of the night while still encouraging intimacy. He’d already ensured a second date. A welcoming smile, a bowl filled with the ripe cherries of seduction, spread across his face. ‘Samantha, be yourself tonight and do not hold back. I am hoping to draw something out of you that perhaps you didn’t know existed.’

  Both hope and the expectant kiss hung in the air, leaving Samantha incensed at her inability to engage Ray and her immediate desire to succumb to him. She felt what? Rejected? No! Challenged! Challenged in the most dichotomous way: her inability to manipulate this man into taking control of her, of imposing his masculine essence on her feminine self.

  The epitome of chivalry, Ray opened a door. ‘I just need to get a gift for the party. Do you mind helping me pick it out?’

  Samantha passed through the door Ray held open for her, finding herself in a world of fine lingerie: La Perla, her favourite. What kind of party required lingerie? Samantha’s pulse rate and ardour rose. She bobbed in a sea of lingerie swimming in Ray’s aura of appreciation, the knowledge that together they posed a striking image. Men in the store smiled at Samantha, winked at Ray, sharks in warm friendly waters, the waters of a stranger. ‘Do you,’ Ray spoke into her hair, ‘have a suggestion?’

  Surprise pulled Samantha toward the safety of full-length nightgowns, propelled by the conundrum of not wanting to give the wrong impression, yet wanting to reveal her wild spirit yearning for release. She plucked three silk and satin gowns from their perches, eyeing Ray for approval. He smiled and nodded toward the dressing rooms. She eyed the sales person for permission. The woman’s smile and nod mirrored Ray’s.

  Eyeing herself in the dressing room mirror, Samantha couldn’t help wonder what Ray’s reaction might be at the sight of her thighs through the slit plackets of the first gown. Her hand parted the placket, slipping up along her inner thigh, following her stomach, cupping and fondling her breast. Would Ray’s enormous hands follow that same path? Were the view in the mirror his, would it pique his manhood? Her eyes closed, shutting out the distraction of his absence. Would he speak? Loudly or in…

  A whisper behind her, husky and virile, spoke. ‘Nice’

  She opened her eyes. Ray didn’t just look at her. He drank her in, his savouring adoration warming the chill of surprise. Samantha turned to Ray, searching deep in his adoration for approval, willing to submit to being wrapped in that admiration. A moist fever spread down the insides of her thigh the same way a desire to be closer, to beckon touch, spread through her, but she didn’t want make to the first move. No. She needed to be taken. Ray denied her, leaving her suspended in uncomfortable silence. ‘Please leave me, so I can try the next gown.’

  Surprised by the husky quality her voice had taken and suddenly alone in her memory of it, Samantha draped herself in the next gown. Less silk, more lace, more flesh prompted her to reach for the matching robe. ‘Come, Ray. Would you like to feel… the fabric?’ she called and held out her arm and the silk.

  Ray entered and reached to her, his hand extending not toward her sleeve, but toward her breasts. Samantha drew in a breath, waiting in fearful hope. Ray took the fabric that caressed the inside curve of her breast between thumb and forefinger. He denied her full satisfaction again, his hand rising to her shoulder. Appreciative eyes coupled, acknowledging the feint and the parry.

  Determined to make the pursuit worth his while, Samantha’s hand brushed the lace along her stomach with her fingertips, as if reading it like some erotic Braille that would tell her the next move. The movement captured Ray’s eyes, following her hand to thigh, then back up to breasts.

  Still, Ray did not make an advance. Damn his will. He defers his gratification, striving for something better.

  Samantha looked away, her own image in the mirror peering back at her. The innocence of the moment had passed. Animal passion overrode guileless deference. Hands pressed on Ray’s chest, Samantha leaned into him and a deep kiss. Large strong hands clamped her wrists, pulling them behind her; a control hold. She struggled to break free by pressing her torso to him, an unsuccessful attempt to break his grip. His strength didn’t falter. She released a perfectly timed involuntary whimper, a beckoning wince. Ray released her, his grasp lingering with a gentle kiss on the
lips. ‘I’m sorry. I hope that I didn’t hurt you.’

  Deft hands and empathetic eyes drew a forgiving, responsive, kiss from Samantha, returned with a gentle flattening of her breasts against his chest. Tit for tat, Samantha held the kiss until she felt him relax, then bit his lip. Both drew back, looking for blood. Samantha suddenly became aware of the beat of her heart. The stakes for the evening had been raised. ‘Get out so I can try on the next gown,’ Samantha admonished.

  Hell hath no fury.

  Ray should not have denied her.

  With nipple-hardening anticipation, Samantha feared retribution. Ray left, obediently, only to return with fervour as she laced up her shoes, throwing aside the dressing curtain, towering over her, an ensemble of garters, lace stocking, bra and thong held out; not so much as a tithe, but more like a demand. Dropping them on the bench, he cupped her under the shoulders, lifting her to him, penetrating her lips with a deep demanding passion. Thankful that he held her, keeping her head above the surface of her swirling desire, she said, ‘I – I thought you wanted to go.’

  ‘Try this on!’ He left, leaving her hanging on the residual memory of his grip. He’d not asked. For that very reason, Samantha considered not putting on the ensemble, but she wanted him, wanted to feel his hands on her, wanted to be taken; but on her own terms.

  She considered waiting for him, without wearing a single stitch of clothing; considered whether that would be surrender or domination. Surely, the surrender of herself would hold some power over Ray, some force that would break his will to deny her the satisfaction a man like him could give her. Surely, this denial of her must be a denial of self for him. Surely, he must want her as much as she wanted him.

  As if donning a life vest to keep her afloat in a churning carnal sea, Samantha put on the outfit Ray had thrust at her, knowing full well that she had already gone overboard; treading water, waiting for rescue from her own craving.