Seriously Sexy 2

by Miranda Forbes

  Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that this could happen to me. Now my fingers were digging into Peter’s groin while I sucked harder, deeper, my tongue slipping around inside my mouth tantalising him while I began to get a faint rhythm going with the cock, neither of us seeming to want to alert Peter to what was happening.

  I knew I was on the verge of coming and so was Peter so I pumped my mouth over his cock wildly hoping the guy fucking me would keep on going. He did. So within seconds I came, gushing around his cock, while Peter exploded down my throat.

  As soon as my hot juices poured over this guy’s cock I heard a faint murmur of approval and he too came in gallons, his spunk mixing with mine as he shot up high in me.

  He pulled his saturated cock out of my pussy and wet my puckered hole with his knob. I tensed, never having had it up the arse before, but all he did was rub my bum with his hand affectionately before pushing his fingers in and out of my pussy, smearing my juices everywhere before leaving me alone.

  I snuggled up against Peter, dying for morning to come so I could see the face of the guy who owned the unknown cock, hoping I’d be pleasantly pleased.

  High Tea In Suburbia

  by Mark Farley

  I have this friend. Her name is Kim. I see her once a week on a Tuesday evening, in the couple of hours between her book club meeting and her husband arriving home.

  Her husband knows all about me. She told him quite recently.

  She is a good fifteen to twenty years older than me, and I’m thirty. She is tall and demure, blonde hair, ample bosom, simple hips and a curvy bottom. You know those women who hold themselves like they went to school with one of the Mitford sisters and wear it like a badge? Well, that’s how Kim is. Prim, polite and asking the vicar if he would like more tea.

  Time has also been good to her for a near fifty-year-old too, despite what she calls ‘life‘s collateral damage’ in reference to the excess skin she has collected over the years from giving birth to her three children. She has warned me that a similar fate will eventually befall me, although, without certain advances in medical science, I am not sure how that will happen.

  I met her about a year ago. I remember it well.

  It was at this high-end deli called Ottolenghi on Ledbury Road, in that affluent part of West London suburbia I walk through on my way to work. In fact, it’s still our private little joke when we see each other. Now, during those awkward pauses when we’re getting dressed we think back and laugh about how we peppered each other with curious glances over the bowls of sautéed peppers, mushrooms and thirty different types of potato salad.

  As I stepped out onto the leafy residential avenue moments later to rummage through the embossed paper bag for my over-priced sandwich, I noticed that Kim was at sixes and sevens with the basket on the front of her traditional Pashley Princess bicycle. She fiddled with the chain lock before stuffing it into the wicker basin over the front wheel and putting on her helmet.

  She saw me and again we exchanged smiles and I decided to wait before setting off to Portobello.

  She looked as if she was about to pedal away but then glanced at me once more. I nodded and rolled my eyes in a very naughty way. She looked away haughtily and started to rotate the pedals. I thought fast. There was only one thing I could think of to say.

  “I’ll race you, if you like.” I chuckled, realising that I was giving her the opportunity to make me look like a right idiot just by pushing off and leaving me behind on the pavement.

  I am sure this crossed her mind too, as she paused with a hint of a smile on her face.

  “Where would you race me to?” she asked, warming to my cheeky charm, I hoped.

  “Anywhere,” I replied. She looked slightly alarmed, perhaps she realised she was being chatted up, possibly for the first time in years. She glanced me up and down, in what I am convinced was wonderment.

  “Oh dear,” I thought. “You’ve gone too far this time.” She was wearing that expression that said ‘God, you’re young enough to be my son’.

  She sighed and looked around for anyone she knew. The coast was clear, so she signalled for me to join her. We walked, as she pushed her bicycle, to an outlet of a coffee chain on Westbourne Grove. As I queued and ordered lattes, Kim chained her bike to a lamppost and found a table. I turned with my hands full and noticed her sitting bolt upright and felt a bit guilty about the lascivious thoughts swirling around my head.

  Why would a woman like her want me, I pondered? Or was she just being polite?

  My lust, fuelled by my long-standing penchant for older women, was not deterred though, as I admired her in her light, flowery summer dress and white tennis shoes. I saw that she held her knees together and had her hands placed demurely on her lap.

  The conversation soon turned to those thoughts in my head. She didn’t mess about and clearly wanted to get down to brass tacks. She started to berate me even before the head of my posh coffee had been disturbed.

  “I hope you realise that I have absolutely no plans to let you fuck me.”

  I paused, hot beverage in mouth. I smiled. I was ever so slightly flattered that she had at least thought about it, but I was worried about the twitching ears of the people at the neighbouring tables.

  “I hadn’t asked.” I said quietly. “Yet.”

  “Well, don’t be getting any of those ideas, young man, because I am a happily married woman …” she nodded to herself in agreement.

  “Right then.” I sipped at my coffee with a defeated sigh. We glanced at each other as we returned our cups to their saucers and leaned back in our chairs.

  “So why did you come then?” I asked her. Her eyebrows rose as she contemplated her answer.

  “You intrigue me, and one assumes that considering your boldness … enough to almost proposition a woman, particularly someone like me, in the street like you did, you are a man who likes to dominate …?”

  “Well, err …”

  “I take it you like to spank your women too?”

  “Actually, no. I’m more of a submissive. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry …?” she bellowed with a hearty bray, before leaning forward towards me and patting my thigh. “Oh darling, don’t be sorry. We’re going to get on splendidly.”

  “Earl Grey, OK?” she said , as she dropped her keys next to a bowl of potpourri on her hall table. She untangled herself from the pashmina around her shoulders and I ran my eyes across her bare shoulders and over her breasts. My chest started to pound.

  I was surprised how the snug, almost cottage-like terrace opened up from the inside. I hadn’t realised that places like this existed. I walk past houses like this every day, without even a thought of what might be inside. I stepped back towards the front door; an oak door to my right was ajar and through it I could make out a piano in the vast room beyond. I walked over to it and saw some Mozart sheet music open and some scribbling and alterations made on it.

  She ushered me into the kitchen and seated me at a recently stripped wooden table. I had an urge to flick through the open newspaper but thought twice when I realised it was the Daily Mail.

  “What do you do?”

  “Me? I work in this bookshop and I write. I’d love to be able to do it all the time but bills have to be paid, you know?”

  “My son is a freelance journalist. I hear all about it.”

  “Tell me about your husband,” I enquired.

  “George is a brilliant man. He’s in the city. Hedge funds. Wastes his life down there. I’ll be so glad when he finally hangs up that tie and briefcase and we can actually get on with our marriage.”

  I nodded, slightly distracted.

  “The thing is that he’s a terrible fuddy-duddy. Always has been. Think it’s the Oxford in him personally. If we had met over in Cambers, I might have been able to bring out his wilder side.”

  I tried to laugh, but it really was another world to me.

  “What I am trying to say is that he doesn’t fulfil me sexual
ly. You understand?”

  My ears pricked up and she had my full attention.

  “The sex always dies after a while though …” I sympathised.

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  I had already guessed what this was all about. I was just being polite really.

  “He won’t let you spank him?”

  “Exactly my dear. Or vice versa, which I don’t mind myself. Honestly though, you hear all these stories from professional mistresses about how all their clients are captains of industry and company executives and love having the power taken away from them, whereas mine is not all interested in giving his wife a little pain for pleasure.”

  She continued to talk to me as she moved back to the boiling kettle. I watched her as she kicked off her shoes, her dainty feet leaving the slight impression of bare soles on the tiled floor. I stared at the floor as she poured the water. She wiped her brow. The sweat marks on the floor soon disappeared and the submissive in me wanted to search for her scent trail on my hands and knees. I wondered what it would be like to smell of her.

  “What is it?” she snapped, as I drifted off into a reverie.

  “You have lovely feet …”

  “A foot man, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded, our eyes locked together. She carried over the tea tray and smiled wickedly to herself.

  “I knew it. I could tell. My last plaything was a foot lover. Do you want to know what I made him do?”

  I nodded respectfully. She took a ceramic pot and placed it in front of me. She arranged the cups and saucers meticulously between us. The milk, the sugar bowl. They were all correct and, I imagined, just how they should be laid out. There were ginger biscuits arranged neatly on a side plate. I could already smell the infusion of bergamot as she wagged her finger at me, beckoning me as she backed away from the table.

  She stopped in the middle of the kitchen floor, the exact part of the floor she had just crossed when I noticed her feet. I stood facing her, towering over her.

  “Strip …” she demanded. “Everything.”

  I needed no more encouragement. A beautiful and smart older woman putting me in my place. She leaned back onto the black marble counter behind her and watched me undress until I stood before her, naked as the day I was born.

  “Wonderful boy …” she grinned as she took in what I had. “Now kneel …”

  I obliged.

  She held out her leg and pointed her foot, not unlike a ballerina. She ran her toe up my chest and the lines of my neck, to my ear and then it hovered over my mouth. I turned slightly and put out my tongue for her.

  “Nah ha ha,” she gasped. “Not yet. You’re mine to play with.”

  I closed my mouth obediently, and let her continue. The sole of her foot pressed against my lips and I was treated to a toenail tickling one of my nostrils. The scent of her, her very being, filled my senses and I devoured the taste. She rubbed the ball of her foot into my nose and over one eye before scratching down the middle of my chest, stopping at my crotch. My legs parted for her and she started to bat playfully at my balls. She continued to lean back on the counter and demanded I should lean back on the floor behind me so she had a full view of me. She lifted the front of her skirt and rubbed her crotch as she continued to knead my flaccid cock with her toes.

  She placed her foot on my chest and pushed me back until I was flat on my back and looking up at the ceiling. Again with her foot in my face, she instructed me to open my eyes and watch her masturbate. I had a view right up her skirt and to her ugly grey panties. I could see that she was enjoying my looking at her. That was enough for me to harden down below. She commented on it.

  “My, what a gifted young man you are.”

  I laughed, not feeling in any way uncomfortable. She purred delicately. She held her sole to my closed mouth for me to savour and rubbed away gently at herself with two lean fingers until she was satisfied.

  She walked over to the table and poured herself a cup of the Earl Grey.

  “Okay, down there?” she directed her question to where I was still lying beneath her.

  “Yes, absolutely.” Actually I was reminded of my state by a draught from the hallway.

  “Good, go to my room. I’m just getting started.”

  I clambered to my feet, as she rummaged in the drawer of a nearby dresser.

  “… and take this. I may have a use for it.”

  She handed me a long wooden ruler, the kind she probably used years ago at school.

  “Hmmm, I like the look of this …”

  She sipped at the porcelain cup.

  “You won’t be doing much looking at it. But you will be feeling it soon.”

  I grinned, happy that I had found a kindred spirit.

  “Go, top of the stairs, second door on the right.” she ordered. “I will join you when I have had my tea and finished reading the paper.”

  She turned away from me and took a seat, her back still straight.

  I scurried away obediently.

  Spring Break Girls Hot Sun, Sand, Surf, And S-E-X

  by Lynn Lake

  Spring Break, that one-week mid-March holiday when kids young and old break free of the snow and cold to soak up some hot sun, warm waves, cool drinks, and good times on faraway beaches. A pleasant vacation for parents and their children, a rowdy party for high school and college kids. And for many barely legal beauties burgeoning into sweet womanhood, a rite of passage into the very grown-up world of sexual pleasure.

  As a travel agent, I’ve put together literally thousands of Spring Break getaway packages for my clients, including many for giggly, gushing girls just turned that most glorious of all ages – eighteen. They’re young and anxious for fun in the sun; an escape from the drudgery of dorm life and study halls; a chance to experience new and wild things far removed from normal parental controls and school and community standards. But as I’ve found out time and again, what happens on Spring Break doesn’t always stay at that Spring Break destination.

  Most of my clients are repeat customers, and since bubbly young women just can’t keep a secret, I often get to hear all about their previous Spring Break adventures when I’m booking their next escapade. I get good feedback on the accommodations, restaurants, and entertainment packages, of course, but I also get sizzling bonus commentary on what went down when the girls went wild.

  From frantic first-time groping on the sun-baked white sands of Pensacola Beach, to all-out girl-on-girl foam party dancing into the wee small hours of a Mazatlan morning, I’ve heard it all. And broken down by the current hottest Spring Break destinations, are just some of those tales of teen girl travel lust.

  Cancun, Mexico

  Located at the tip of the Yucatan Peninsula, this 13-mile-long sunshine island offers just about everything for the dedicated tourist and party animal alike: wide, sugary beaches; warm, turquoise Caribbean waters; exotic nightclubs by the dozen; and even historically significant Mayan ruins. There’re plenty of watersports to choose from, of course, and a wide variety of beach games, like volleyball and soccer, bikini contests, limbo dancing and salsa wrestling. But what got one client of mine, Emma, all tingly with excitement was the infamous Cancun ‘booze cruise’ – the party boat ride over to Isla Mujeres.

  ‘I guess I had, like, maybe, one or two drinks,’ the brunette cutie concedes.

  Dressed in her sober school uniform – simple white blouse and blue plaid skirt, white stockings and black shoes – it’s hard to even imagine the hard stuff passing between the petite, pigtailed eighteen-year-old’s lips. But harder stuff than tequila passed between those kewpie-doll lips, it seems.

  ‘It was my first blowjob ever!’ she enthuses. ‘And I think I did pretty good at it.’

  I ask her to collect her thoughts, get them in order, and she nods.

  ‘Okay, I was on the boat, right, and everyone was drinking and dancing and stuff, having a really good time, right. And I guess I got kinda carried away – with, like, a total stran
ger!’

  It seems young Emma got separated from her high school friends and ended up in the touchy, feely arms of a college boy five years her senior, on the one part of the boat not swarming with humanity – a storage locker below-decks.

  ‘It was all full of life jackets and gasoline cans and yucky junk like that. It wasn’t very romantic, that’s for sure. But we made out for awhile anyway, kissing and frenching and stuff. Until Brad sorta pushed me down – you know, down to my knees.’

  Emma pauses, her pretty face flushing red.

  ‘He wanted me to, you know, suck his … thing,’ she finally continues, looking up at me with her shy violet eyes. ‘I know, ’cause he pulled his shorts down and his … thing popped out and kinda slapped my chin.’

  ‘Had you ever performed fellatio before?’

  ‘Nope. But I was in a performance of Othello once.’ Emma laughs at her joke, then quickly turns serious again. ‘I’d never even seen a … cock before that night – in person, anyway. And I didn’t see it any too good that night, either, ‘cause it was so dark and stuff. But I sure did feel it.’

  Emma admits to liking the feel of Brad’s big, hard cock in her small, sweaty hand, the grunts of pleasure she drew out of her fellow traveller by moving her hand up and down his shaft.

  ‘He was all, like, ‘Suck it! Suck it!’ So I opened my mouth and he stuck it right inside. It was pretty weird having the thing, like, half-buried in my mouth. It was all hot and hard, and I could feel it, like, throbbing. Feel it all the way down to my cunny, you know. Anyway, I kinda bobbed my head up and down, sucking on it, right.’

  The fresh-faced teen worries her pleated skirt with her gloss-tipped fingers, then says, ‘I probably actually scraped it more than sucked it, but I must’ve done something right, ‘cause Brad grabbed my pigtails and pumped his hips and groaned like he was really enjoying himself. He even smacked the back of my throat a couple of times, and I hardly gagged at all,’ she brags. ‘But then he really started jerking around, and my mouth filled up with this warm, salty stuff – his, uh, cum, right.’