With a final conspiratorial smile at the make-believe Aussie, Angela allowed herself to be ushered out to the car.
It was the final straw really, the thing that pushed her to do it. He knew the course mattered to her, it was her release, her hobby, but it made no difference to him. He only had to make the right noises, just humor her really, he didn’t have to do much.
But no, he had to say it.
“I don’t know why you waste your time when you haven’t got the flair for it. I mean nothing you take is worth looking at. Take up something else and stop fooling yourself.”
Angela didn’t trust herself to speak because she would have said something she’d regret but that was when she knew she was going back to the tapas bar. He’d said she could call any time and he’d let her take shots inside.
OK, she thought as she turned into the parking space later that afternoon, there would be customers there, but if she was seen with a camera they would all think she was a pro, maybe that she was with a magazine or something.
At least if there had been anybody there they might have . . .
He didn’t seem surprised to see her. Was that good or bad?
She looked around and he answered her unspoken question.
“Kerry isn’t here. Monday nights are even slower than the other nights and I can manage these huge crowds all on my own. What do you want to drink?”
The bottle of wine had gone, all too quickly, and suddenly Angela realized she wouldn’t be able to drive home and that meant a taxi bill and another row. But that was for later, for now she was enjoying the conversation, the wine and the view. He was quiet really, it was her that was doing most of the talking but that was OK.
She took a few shots from angles around the tables and the bar; it was beautifully lit, atmospheric and quaint with a Spanish feel that didn’t seem artificial in a provincial British town. His offer to open another bottle was unexpected, unnecessary and obviously she shouldn’t agree. But it was as she drained the first glass from this second bottle that the words escaped from her mouth in a rush.
“I see you’ve got a calendar of Spanish scenes on the wall. Bit dull, isn’t it? Why don’t we work on a calendar together, maybe a hunky pin-up one, pull a few hen night crowds in here?”
God she felt pathetic but the feeling didn’t last.
“Well, you’re the expert, do you want me to be January?”
His smile cut straight through her and it was inviting and intense enough to give her even more courage than the wine had.
“Well, you have to trust my judgement then. The T-shirt will have to go, of course.”
He didn’t need a second invitation; he peeled it off and threw it behind him, striking up a comic pseudo model pose. His chest was as good as her imagination had played it, almost hairless so that nothing obscured the view of his taut, hard-looking musculature. She had to fight not to actually lick her lips at the sight of his broad shoulders, but her eyes were drawn irresistibly to the line of dark but fine hair from his stomach to where the top of his jeans clung onto him.
Angela focused her camera, her grip was a little shaky, but it gave her the chance to gather her thoughts. God what was she playing at? She was forty-eight, he was possibly no more than twenty-five – he must think she was an old tart! Go home and go home now, she told herself, you’ve done no harm yet.
She lowered the camera and walked over to him. She traced one finger along his chest then began to run it downward along that line of hair. As she reached the top of his jeans, she knew she was at the end of a line in more ways than one. If she went any further . . .
He looked straight at her, his eyes willing her not to stop. It seemed to her he was pleading to be touched more intimately. He was her host after all, he had invited her here . . .
Angela moved her fingers down to his crotch and a shiver of excitement surged through her as she felt how hard he was, felt his bulge grow as she began to stroke him between his legs. She found a voice but it didn’t sound much like her own.
“Of course for the summer months you’re a bit overdressed.”
She pulled almost savagely at the zipper of his jeans and, as she forced it downward, the thick dark mop of hair confirmed he hadn’t bothered with any underwear. Feeling the moisture form between her own legs and a growing tingling in her hardening nipples, she freed him from his jeans completely and gazed hungrily, unashamedly at his nakedness with uncomplicated lust.
His cock was huge now and the purple tip seemed to be straining toward her as it jutted out from the black pubic forest.
“Maybe July I think,” she breathed as he seemed to be waiting for her. It was as if she were in charge of his movements. Angela stepped closer and took his length in her right hand, enjoying the steel-like hardness and then brought her left hand around to massage his silky soft balls. She savored his moans of pleasure, knowing she could do whatever she wanted with this man who was easily young enough to be her son. There was nothing maternal in her feelings for him though. She wanted to feel him inside her, to taste every bit of him, to possess him for the night. She grabbed the camera and focused it below his waist, thinking if she got the right shots she could enjoy reliving this night as often as she wanted.
But there was one more barrier to cross. She was still fully dressed, she had to show him what he was going to get, display her body for him. And he must be used to fit young women with fresh firm bodies and no lines, no signs of years taking toll of them Would he still want to do this when she stripped for him?
Angela discarded the camera again and peeled off her light summer dress as seductively as her nerves and her heart rate would allow, revealing the lacy cream-colored underwear beneath. Still trying to keep a casualness in her voice that she was a million miles away from feeling she said, “It doesn’t seem fair for me to keep all my clothes on. Can you put up with an old woman naked for you?”
He smiled deeper than ever at her and came within inches of her body. “I’ve been thinking about you since you left earlier this afternoon. It’s sort of how I pictured you, but you’re still overdressed to me.”
He moved forward, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, crushing her against his lips, his stomach, his legs. She felt the rock-like hardness of his erection against her stomach and the primitive pleasure of a young man’s body against hers made her sizzle with expectation. She felt him fumble, but eventually unclasp her bra and she eased herself slightly back for a second to allow it to fall to the floor. Then she pushed her now diamond-hard nipples into his chest. She knew her breasts were her best feature but she felt his hands move down to her bum and then they were inside her knickers, massaging her cheeks gently. Pausing for a second to look deep into her eyes, he thrust his eager tongue deeper inside her mouth, exploring and probing. Angela suddenly felt desperate to have that tongue probe her other set of lips – an image of him on his knees in front of her making her pussy melt with pleasure coursed through her mind. Telepathy is a much underrated medium of conversation and, as he broke away again and practically tore off her lace knickers, she just knew he was going to make her wish come true. She saw his eyes widen with excitement at the sight of her thick bush of black curly hair and the last vestige of fear at rejection evaporated. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.
And he had a little variety to add to her dreams.
He dipped his fingers in his wine glass and then traced them over both her nipples. It made her tense with anticipation. He ducked his head downward and began to lick the liquid from first one then the other, his hot eagerness contrasting with the cool wine, and Angela felt like screaming for more as the wine trickled down her body. She felt him suck, lick, almost bite her aching points but the pulsing throb of desire between her legs was now overwhelming.
Again, his instincts took over as he dropped in front of her, reached into the glass again and liberally splashed the wine around her lips and her bush. Angela was soaking wet before the red liquid was on her and, as
he began his journey around her now gaping tunnel of pleasure, she wound her leg around his neck, capturing him, pushing, encouraging him to give her more. She wasn’t disappointed as he drove his tongue into her, lapping at the raised nub of her clit, slower then quicker, as if he were mapping out a plan of her pussy, making it his possession. She felt as if he was exploring every soft pulsing fold of her labia, drinking her juice as if he were drinking water in a desert oasis. His rhythm became more urgent and frantic and then she came, gloriously, helplessly and she had to release his mouth and try not to collapse onto him. Dripping wet, waves of orgasmic shock still pulsing through her, could this get any better?
She didn’t have to wait for the answer. As she openly admired his athletic young body and still rock-hard cock, he clasped his arms about her waist and lifted her effortlessly up and sat her on the bar. He pushed her legs wide open, her swollen bloated pussy still wet and inviting. She had never felt so completely vulnerable or as completely turned on. He eased his body up so that the head of his shaft brushed against her velvet soft lips. He fingered her clit, teasing it, and hooked two fingers inside her.
She couldn’t stay silent any longer. “Come inside me now. Fuck me hard, I want to feel you properly.”
He placed his hands under her arms and suddenly hoisted her downward as he moved in the other direction. Angela gasped, almost screamed as she sank down onto him, her gaping wet opening enveloping his huge shaft as it drove deep into her, filling her with liquid heat. He began to rock forward, driving inside, and she wrapped her legs around the base of his spine, timing her movements with his. She felt shock waves powering through her body and she reached her left hand down so she could play with the edge of her engorged, shivering lips. He was almost splitting her in two as his thrusts became more powerful. She touched herself as she had done so many times before, but with the urgent thrust of a man’s cock bringing her close to orgasm, she had never experienced such primitive total abandonment in her life. Her fingers sometimes brushed against his shaft, which only heightened her pleasure and she couldn’t stop herself crying out, “More, come on, give me more, please.”
And to her wild delight she found he was reaching forward and twisting, coaxing, and fondling her nipples, which had never felt so hard or sensitive as they did then. Her fingers, his fingers, but most of all his fabulous weapon of pleasure, meant she was being stimulated three ways and she knew she was close to the best physical moment of her life and then . . .
It came, she came, he came . . .
As they dressed, silently, almost shyly, Angela remembered the camera. And as she rang for a taxi to take her home, she thought, for the first time ever it was good to have a husband who wouldn’t want to see the pictures she had taken.
As he’d said, maybe she should take up another hobby.
BUSINESS & PLEASURE
Vav Garnek
They say you should never mix business with pleasure. They also say you shouldn’t knock it until you’ve tried it and that certainly worked for this couple.
Amy is in her early twenties. She has dark-brown hair, matching her eyes, and a creamy olive complexion that looks great with a tan, so she makes sure she has a good, all-over one most of the time. Her petite frame really makes the most of her perky little boobs. She may be only five foot two in her stockinged feet, but all her friends reckon she is a real “pocket rocket”.
Amy works in Lancashire in the general office of a well-known international company. She started there as an office junior two or three years ago and that was where she met Steve. He’s now the office manager, very ambitious and on the up. He’s also drop-dead gorgeous, blond hair fashionably short, and works out at the gym very regularly, so he is toned and tanned.
Almost inevitably their “office romance” began at the annual Christmas party. And as Steve’s star rose, so too did hers, although they were always careful to keep it cool and businesslike at work. And that was how they both came to be jetting off to Denver for a four-day international sales conference.
It was Amy’s idea, naturally, that they should see if they could extend for a further four days before flying back. The conference was fine as far as it went and the hotel was fine too, as far as single rooms on different floors of a conference hotel can be. But the hotel receptionist was really “helpful” when they explained that what they wanted was a chance to see a little of the country and “have a little fun”. He arranged for car hire and said the hotel owned a small cabin up in the mountains about an hour’s drive west of Denver which was let privately.
They decided to stop and stock up with provisions in Forest Springs since the map told them this small town was the last before they reached the cabin. Amy said she’d get the food, Steve the beer and wine, and they agreed to go their separate ways, rendezvousing at the car in an hour or so’s time. They arrived back laden with a selection of boxes and carrier bags.
The cabin was easy enough to find but still a delight. It was about five miles off the highway, three miles down a blacktop and a mile or so down an unmade forest track. Suddenly there it was: a real log cabin, but on the shores of a small lake, decking at the front that went out over the water with solid wooden garden furniture and even a small rowing boat tied to the jetty. And no sign or sound of another human being.
It was small but very comfortable and well furnished. Just two big rooms really: a kitchen-diner and a bedroom containing a huge pine-framed bed, small wardrobe, dressing table and a walk-in bathroom with a big-enough-for-two tub with a vast, old-fashioned shower head fixed to the ceiling above it.
“It’s wonderful,” gasped Amy. “It really is just too good to be true. Thank you so much, darling. Let’s fix something to eat and then I promise I’ll be a really good girl . . . or perhaps I mean a really bad one.”
They dined on superb steaks with crisp green salad, washed down with full-bodied Californian red wine and then fine French cognac and fresh percolated coffee to finish.
The cabin had no central heating and later, as the temperature dropped – although it was never really cold – log fires blazed in open fireplaces, warming and lighting both rooms. Later still, as Amy came out of the bathroom, wet and wrapped in a large, white bathrobe, she found Steve already in bed and a small, pink box lying waiting for her. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper scented with pink rose petals, were a pair of frothy, crotch-less knickers in midnight purple silk, cut high at the thigh and trimmed with red ribbon and a matching half-cup bra, fastened with a ribbon tie at the cleavage.
“Surely you don’t expect me to wear these,” she teased, waving each one between finger and thumb, “I’ll look like a whore.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Steve apologized. “Don’t you like them? I got them in Forest Springs, from this little shop, they’re all handmade—”
“Shut up, silly,” she interrupted. “They’re absolutely gorgeous. But if you want me to look like a whore then I suppose I’ll have to behave like one. Close your eyes!” He listened as she changed. “Now open them.”
The towel lay in a damp heap on the floor and, with her body bathed in the red fire-glow, Amy pirouetted in front of Steve.
If she was a whore then she was the best-looking one on the planet. The lingerie fitted her like a glove: panties framing her neatly trimmed, still damp pubic triangle and bra pushing her tits together and upward, leaving the hard, brown buds fully visible.
“Lie back and enjoy it, cowboy, because I’m going to fuck your brains out,” she said, pulling back the covers and straddling Steve’s naked body.
Hands on the pillows either side of his head, Amy began sliding herself up and down Steve’s body, grinding her groin erotically against his chest and hard, flat stomach. Her strokes became longer and longer until her pubic hair just brushed his chin and, as she slid down, his rigid cock was pushed back, trapped between the cheeks of her buttocks.
Stopping, she placed a second pillow under Steve’s head. Using her left hand to support herself
against the headboard, Amy cupped one of her breasts with the other and leaned forward so she could feed the hard little nipple into Steve’s mouth. He sucked on it greedily for a while until he felt a tiny tremor run through her body and then nipped it playfully between his teeth. Amy gasped and then, repeating the process, allowed him to suckle her other breast.
Feeling herself getting hornier and hornier, Amy swayed backwards until his lips released her nipple with a faint little pop. Taking his hands in hers, she moved them up to the head of the bed and made him grasp two of the turned pine-rods with a look that warned him not to let go.
She slid forward again until her shins were across his upper arms and her pussy – still sheathed in the crotch-less purple silk – directly over his face. Holding on to the headboard, she began to ease her body tantalizingly up and down until she could just feel her pubic hair tickle the end of his nose.
As expected, she felt his tongue snake out and lap around the entrance to her hole and along her slit. And, with a contented sigh, she settled down upon his face. This was her favourite position for “O”. It somehow felt as if she was stretched impossibly wide and incredibly wanton. Looking down, she could stare into his eyes, looking back up at her, head trapped between her thighs, as she felt his tongue burrowing away inside her.
“Mmmm, that’s it. Good boy,” she breathed encouragingly, making small circling motions with her hips. She was becoming hot and wet now, love juices coating Steve’s face. His lips found her clitoris and he sucked it and her inner lips into his mouth, then rolled them around with his tongue. Amy stiffened, lifted slightly until she could feel herself being stretched tight and held herself as still as she could as her first climax rolled over her.
Quickly, she straddled his hips and fed his cock inside her, sliding home until she was fully impaled, sitting straight-backed, her mound pressing hard down on his. Motionless and staring straight into his eyes, Amy licked one forefinger and thumb then the other and began to roll her nipples between them, pulling and stretching the tender morsels. Suddenly, she closed her eyes and pinched hard, feeling it trigger a contraction deep inside her as her vaginal walls clenched around Steve’s shaft. Almost imperceptibly, she stiffened her body, raised her hips just a few millimeters and then clenched her pussy around him again as if she were actually trying to suck him deeper inside her. Clench, relax, clench, relax, in an ever-quickening tempo. She was good at this too, she knew, and she could feel that Steve’s climax was not far away.
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Stories Page 22
