Kareem moved forward, gently lifted her feet and rested them on his thighs. She looked down at him and inhaled sharply when she saw the dark, hard column of flesh sticking up from the centre of his trousers. His cock was glorious. It was so hard, so vital. It made her mouth water.
She sought out her clit and flicked it purposefully. She had never been so turned on before, never so desperate to come, but she wanted more, so much more than the ministration of her own well known touch. She wanted Kareem.
‘Touch me,’ she gasped, ‘Kareem, please, I want you.’
‘Yes, Janeman,’ He whispered the term of endearment with such tenderness, she melted inside. ‘Anything for you.’
He rolled forward quickly on the casters of the chair, his mouth descended on her pussy and his tongue slipped between her slick lips. She screamed out in shocked pleasure and threw back her head in delight. He pressed back her thighs with his strong hands and held her open so that his tongue had access to all of her. She didn’t want it to stop. She was lost in lust. She’d forgotten where they were, that someone could watch them. She didn’t care.
‘Fuck me,’ she exclaimed, shocked at her own audacity. She wanted it and she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
‘Yes, yes, I’ll fuck you.’ He pulled back from her cunt and smiled wickedly. He licked his lips and as she watched he pushed away the chair and stood. He positioned himself between her thighs and pushed his dick into her slowly and purposefully.
‘Kareem,’ she cried and he stilled inside her.
‘Are you OK, Aisha?’ he asked. ‘I only want to bring you pleasure.’
‘You are,’ she gasped back, ‘you are but it’s so new, I’ve never felt this. I can feel you inside me and it feels like … like I’ve never been complete before.’
‘Oh, it’s going to get so much better, love.’ He smiled and pushed deeper. She discovered that he was not merely boasting. As his rhythm built she felt as if her skin was on fire, as if her insides were molten, as if she were made of liquid passion.
‘Touch yourself again,’ he crooned, ‘Make yourself come. I want to feel your ecstasy as I fill you, my love.’
She snaked her fingers between them. She was so very close and knew she would come soon. The desk vibrated and creaked as they rocked and shook with passion and just when Aisha thought she couldn’t take one moment more of the anticipation she came. Hard, fast and with an intensity that brought a strangled cry to her lips.
He stiffened between her thighs and as she was whipped up in a whirlpool of ecstasy he came, their orgasms mingled as freely as their juices.
‘Fuck,’ he panted, ‘I’ve wanted to do that since I met you in Bradford.’
‘I’ve wanted you to do it since then too,’ she admitted coyly. ‘Let’s keep doing it, shall we?’
He laughed heartily. ‘Your wish is my command. I have to keep my leading lady happy.’
Only In Vegas
by Elizabeth Coldwell
By night, Las Vegas lights up the sky with its shimmering neon signs, and the sidewalks ring to the clatter and hum of a million slot machines in constant motion. By day, it’s just another American city, stripped of its colour and vitality. Nothing worth enduring an eleven-hour flight for.
At least, that was the impression Rosalie gained, climbing out of the cab bringing her and Paul from McCarran Airport to their hotel. When Paul first suggested this holiday as a way of celebrating their wedding anniversary, she’d thought it a brilliant idea. The Zephyr Hotel and Casino was to be the venue for Swingcon, the world’s biggest annual swinging convention. They’d talked about attending in the past, intrigued by the prospect of meeting so many people who shared the same attitude to sex and relationships as they did, but never quite had the courage to fill in the online booking forms. Now, married for ten years, in the lifestyle for five, the time somehow felt right to make the trip.
‘And while we’re there,’ Paul had said, as they discussed the idea in the soft golden glow that so often follows good sex, ‘we can renew our marriage vows in one of those chapels where the minister dresses up as Elvis. How does that sound?’
‘Tacky but perfect,’ Rosalie replied.
Now, waiting for the girl on the front desk to check them into their room, it just sounded tacky. She was sure that was just the effect of the long, enervating flight, and once she’d had a shower and a nap she’d feel much better.
‘So, you’re here for the convention,’ the receptionist said. When Paul admitted they were, she handed him a welcome pack, her tone as perfectly neutral as if they’d been attending an event for air conditioner manufacturers. ‘That’ll give you all the information you need about the weekend’s events. Registration takes place today and tomorrow in the Verandah Bar. Enjoy your stay, Mr and Mrs Woolf.’
A red-liveried bell boy who couldn’t have been any older than twenty took them up to their room on the ninth floor. Rosalie supposed he must know they were swingers, the hotel being entirely given over for the weekend to people attending the convention. Did that change his opinion of them? Given the reputation Las Vegas had for being Sin City, she doubted it.
The Zephyr had a reputation for luxury on a budget, and their room confirmed it. Spacious and spotlessly clean, it had a view of the famous Stratosphere tower from its window, and the bed was easily big enough for three people. That fact alone would be fuel to her husband’s fantasies, though whether the extra body would be male or female was open to debate. Paul was fluid enough to take his pleasure wherever he found it: he loved to suck on a hard cock just as much as he loved to watch one sliding into Rosalie’s welcoming pussy. It had added so much extra spice to their marriage over the years.
While Paul unpacked, Rosalie took a long shower, sampling the array of complimentary lotions and potions laid out on the bathroom counter. When she emerged, a towel wrapped round her compact, curvy body and her red hair hanging in damp ringlets, Paul looked up from the literature he’d been perusing with an approving grin.
‘Stay like that,’ he told her, ‘and you’ll be perfect for the party in the Towel Room.’
‘There’s a Towel Room? Seriously?’
She joined Paul on the bed, and together they pored through the schedule of events. By day, they could visit the big trade Expo, with hundreds of stalls selling everything from fetishwear to suggestively iced cupcakes, and regular fashion shows and displays featuring male and female exotic dance troupes, burlesque performers and what was described as an adults-only magic act. The real fun began when the sun went down, with various themed parties and playrooms open to convention-goers. Beginners could attend an event designed especially for them, offering them a chance to swing with others for the first time in a safe, relaxed environment. More experienced players had the choice of the Towel Party – which, as its name suggested, took place by the hotel’s spa pool and had a towels-only dress code – the Bare As You Dare party or the Toys Are Us party, which encouraged women to take along their favourite sex toys to use on themselves and others. Everything led up to the Grand Masked Ball on Saturday night; the couple had exquisite Venetian-style masks stowed away in their luggage, ready to take part in the showpiece party of the weekend.
‘Tonight we’ll take it easy, what do you say?’ Paul said, stroking Rosalie’s bare thigh where it emerged from the towel. ‘Have dinner, take a walk along the Strip and maybe pop into one of the theme rooms, just to take a look at what’s going on.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Rosalie replied, happy to let Paul set the agenda. Deep down, she still couldn’t believe they’d travelled halfway across the world with the intention of having sex with people they’d never met before. What if they didn’t meet anyone they liked? Worse, what if no one liked them enough to want to swing with them? Putting the negative thoughts firmly to the back of her mind, she determined that, whatever happened, they would make this a holiday to remember.
Rosalie’s enthusiasm for the city had grown considerably by the time they returned to
the hotel later that evening. They’d discovered an old-fashioned Italian restaurant that had been popular with the Rat Pack, with photos and memorabilia plastered to the wall. The food was surprisingly good for such an obvious tourist trap, and they’d dined on chicken cacciatore, washed down with mellow red wine. Then they’d taken a slow stroll along the Strip, astonished by the noise and bustling crowds, so different to the atmosphere when they’d first arrived. The sights were so familiar to them from episodes of Paul’s favourite crime show, they half-expected members of the cast to go hurrying past, searching for clues to help solve some improbably gruesome murder.
Jet lag was starting to kick in, but they determined to at least stick their heads round the door of the spa pool, just to see what was happening. Rosalie felt rather self-conscious making the trip down to the lobby in nothing but a towel, but when a woman joined them in the elevator on the fourth floor, wearing a babydoll nightie so sheer it revealed every detail of her big, pink-nippled breasts, she relaxed a little.
‘Fake,’ Paul murmured as they crossed the lobby, the woman safely out of earshot.
‘I’m sorry?’ Rosalie replied.
‘Her tits. Fake. Nice, mind you, but you know I prefer the all-natural look ...’ He gave her bum a loving squeeze through the towel.
The party by the pool was already in full flow when they arrived, people curled together on loungers, kissing and caressing, while others had shed their towels and frolicked naked in the pool and hot tub. The room seemed to pulse with a sense of erotic anticipation, and Rosalie’s pussy grew wet as she took in the sights and sounds of the various couplings taking place around her. Two blondes on a lounger to her right were locked in a slow, tongue-tangling kiss, caressing each other’s breasts as they ground their bodies together. If that wasn’t exciting enough, a black woman sat on the lip of the pool, legs spread wide to allow a muscular, shaven-headed white man to give her pussy extensive oral attention. Rosalie shivered with lust at the sight of the man’s head burying its way even more deeply into his partner’s crotch.
When she ran a questing hand down over the front of Paul’s towel, she felt his cock jutting out beneath the material, clear proof he was as turned on as she was.
‘I’d love to play,’ he told her, ‘but I’m so tired.’
‘Me too,’ she replied, letting him wrap a brawny arm around her shoulders and hold her close.
Fortunately, it seemed their fellow swingers were more than happy for them to watch, with no pressure to join in. They were approached a couple of times, but when they explained their situation, no one saw their refusal to play as a rebuff. Instead, they found themselves being complimented on their cute English accents, with promises being made to look out for them at the Masked Ball.
‘Though how they’ll recognise us if we all have masks on, I don’t know,’ Rosalie said, as they made their way back up to their room.
‘Oh, I think I’d know the girl with her pubes shaved into the shape of a lightning bolt if I saw her again.’ Paul grinned, as Rosalie snuggled into his embrace.
She couldn’t help but return his smile. Her fears that they wouldn’t find a suitable swing partner over the weekend seemed to be proved groundless. The magic of Vegas had caught hold of her, and something special was going to happen at the masked ball, she knew it.
The Zephyr Hotel’s ballroom resembled a scene from Rosalie’s most debauched fantasies, peopled with guests in next to no clothing; bodies proudly on display and faces disguised behind all manner of sequinned, beribboned and feathered masks. Dancers in tiny, glittery bikinis gyrated on high podiums, and bubbles spewed from machines, floating through the air all around her.
In keeping with the party’s lingerie dress code, she’d chosen to wear a skimpy peach slip, trimmed with scalloped lace, and a matching pair of panties so small she might as well not have any on at all. Paul wore only black trunk-style underwear that outlined the firm cheeks of his arse and left no mistake as to the state of his arousal. He’d been hard before they even left their hotel room, turned on by thoughts of Rosalie being fucked by another man, or having her cunt licked by a cute blonde like the one who’d come on to them the night before.
‘Hey, look, there’s a stripper pole!’ Paul said, pointing out a little catwalk in the corner where partygoers could try out their best moves. As they watched, a lithe redhead twirled around the pole, hair flying as she tossed her head back. ‘Fancy having a go, Roz?’
Rosalie shook her head. ‘I think I’ll leave it to the experts, if it’s all the same to you.’
They wandered over to the bar. Unlike the clubs they usually attended in London, where only soft drinks were available, the alcohol flowed freely here. Paul ordered a couple of Champagne cocktails, and they stood by the bar for a while, sipping their drinks and watching the guests at play all around them.
It seemed the etiquette was to meet here, then head to one of the designated playrooms for the serious action. Though all the light groping, kissing and partial undressing taking place close to where they stood was exciting enough.
‘And how are you enjoying our beautiful city?’
Rosalie started at the voice in her ear, low and sensual, carrying the heavy Southern drawl she always associated with Elvis Presley. She turned to see a man a good head taller than her own five foot six, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, wearing dark underwear not dissimilar to Paul’s. The top half of his face was hidden behind a black domino mask, and his lips were set in a generous pout. Hello, beautiful stranger, she thought.
‘I’m having a great time,’ she admitted, ‘but I have to say you don’t sound like a local.’
‘No, ma’am.’ He grinned and brushed the back of her hand with his long fingers, sending a little thrill of lust coursing through her. ‘Though neither do you.’
‘Well, then, that makes us even. I’m Rosalie, this is my husband, Paul, and we’re over for the convention from London.’
Paul and the stranger shook hands, each silently appraising the other. ‘London, hey? Now there’s a city I’ve always wanted to visit. Though I couldn’t imagine living anywhere but here. Moved here eight years ago, and it was the best thing I ever did. I’m Riley, by the way.’
‘So, is your wife partying with someone, or–?’ Rosalie asked, already thinking about all the possible permutations. If Riley asked them to exchange partners, she had no intention of refusing.
Riley shook his head. ‘No wife, no girlfriend. Just me. One of the few single men who’s lucky enough to get a pass into this wild and wonderful event. And believe me, the organisers know just how grateful I am they allow me in year after year. But then, I know how to behave myself ...’
His finger trailed along the length of her arm. Rosalie’s pussy, already plump and wet, responded with another gush of juice into her ineffectual panties.
She glanced at Paul, silently asking his permission to invite this man to join them for sex. A slight nod of his head told her he felt the same way she did.
‘Riley. I was wondering ... Would you like to take this party somewhere a little quieter?’
‘And just where did you have in mind?’
The playrooms would be busy, and besides, Rosalie wasn’t in the mood for public sex. ‘Come up to our room.’
‘Why, I’d be honoured.’
With that, they left the ballroom, pushing through the crowd of masked revellers. Rosalie couldn’t believe how easily they’d found a suitable swing partner, but the fit felt right. This courteous Southern gentleman with the body of a god and what seemed to be a nice-sized cock tucked away in his clinging shorts was everything she’d hoped to find.
He kissed her for the first time in the elevator, head tilted so their masks didn’t get in the way. His mouth was soft, tasting faintly of peppermint, and his hands clutched the cheeks of her arse through the slip. Paul merely watched, knowing it wouldn’t be too long before he too joined in the action.
As the lift approached their floor, Riley pushed th
e silky slip from her shoulders. It slithered to the floor, and, when she stepped out of it, Paul snatched it up before she could. Between them, the two men had contrived for her to walk down the hallway to their room in nothing but her soaking wet panties. There was very little chance of them being seen, and in a hotel full of swingers, no one would turn a hair at the sight of her strutting along topless, but even so she fought the urge to cover her breasts with her hands. Part of her almost wished one of the men would grab her wrists, so she’d have no option. Maybe they’d even pull her panties down, stripping her completely. With two big, gorgeous men for her to play with, there were so many options ...
Paul let them into the room, raiding the mini-fridge for the complimentary bottle of fizz they’d found waiting for them on arrival but been too tired to drink the night before. He opened it with a flourish while Rosalie made herself comfortable on the bed. Spreading her thighs, she beckoned Riley to join her.
He needed no more in the way of invitation, but first he removed his mask, revealing high cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes. Peeling down his shorts, he treated her to a first sight of his cock. Like most Americans, he was circumcised, an intriguing contrast to Paul, and his shaft had a distinct curve to the right. How would that feel, she wondered, pushing up inside her? What spot would it hit on the inside of her sugar walls? She couldn’t wait to find out, but Riley had other pleasures in mind.
Settling between her legs, he mouthed her pussy through her panties, the thin fabric barely dulling the feel of his tongue tip on her clit. Twining her fingers in his thick, black hair, Rosalie let her own mask fall to the bed, giving herself up to the thrill of being licked. When Riley hooked the crotch of her panties to one side, allowing his mouth to make contact with her exposed sex, little ripples, the foretellers of orgasm, eddied through her belly.
French Kissing Page 5
