Sweet Love

by Violet Blue

  Curiously, while Jesse is hardly the amorous type, he’s downright exuberant when it comes to expressing affection. He’s the first to reach for my hand when we’re out in public, the first to kiss me good morning, good-bye, and goodnight. He says, “You’re lovely,” and “I love you,” and “How was your day, love?”

  But sometimes—and pardon my appropriation of lugubrious song lyrics; I’m trying to illustrate a point here—love just ain’t enough. Sometimes I need a little lust to go with my love; I want Jesse all hot and bothered, panting and pulsating and perspiring, his hands greedy and his cock needy and… Well, you’re a woman. You understand the pleasure principle.

  You know, that’s exactly what I need right now. Understanding, I mean. I need to vent and lament this conundrum with my flock of female friends.

  Lindsay studies me, her shoulders hunched, her brows bunched up like a hair scrunchie. “What are you bitching about, Marnie? I should have your problems,” she snivels, for Lindsay is a product of the me generation. “My boyfriend is insufferable. And insatiable. He’s insufferably insatiable, that’s what he is. I think there’s something seriously wrong with his”—she pauses, trying to decide on an appropriate euphemism—“little soldier. It’s like some sort of maniacal jackhammer. I say give the man his walking papers and be done with it.”

  On the opposite side of the booth, Jocelyn shakes her head slowly, pitying her prissy, prudish friend. “Pay no attention to her, Marnie,” she counsels, sprinkling sugar into her coffee. “It’s dysfunction junction, I’ll bet you anything. You know what he needs, don’t you? The little blue diamonds. It’s been well-established that diamonds are a girl’s best friend.” Now would probably be a bad time to point out that Jocelyn is an advice columnist. I still haven’t decided whether she’s underqualified or overqualified for the job.

  “I didn’t say he couldn’t perform,” I remind her. “I said—”

  “Maybe he’s gay,” Paula interjects, spreading a schmear of cream cheese onto her bagel. “Why don’t you strap on a strap-on and see if that gets his juices pumping?” she suggests, because the world according to Paula is nothing more than a cramped, colossal closet.

  It occurs to me then that the glass of orange juice sitting in front of me is no longer half-full but half-empty. I push it away. My temples throb, my unmitigated frustration having manifested itself in the form of a migraine. I’m about to utter the official declaration of defeat—check, please!—when Bethany, the only one of my friends who prefers to be seen but not heard, offers her assessment of the situation.

  “Maybe,” Bethany begins, taking the tentative approach, “Jesse does enjoy sex, just not the kind of sex you’re having. Maybe it’s too tame for him, too…vanilla.” She pauses, concentrating on scraping the charred surface of her toast. “I’m sure he likes vanilla just fine, but maybe he likes variety, too. Maybe he wants to…sample other flavors every once in a while, change it up a bit. You told me once that Jesse is the first guy you’ve dated who has no interest in, um, in pornography, right?”

  It’s true. Jesse isn’t a sleaze-and-please type of guy. None of it stimulates him. Not if it’s captured on celluloid, not if it’s circulating in cyberspace. He flinches at the sight of women in the throes of faux ecstasy, winces at the plight of vixens immersed in violence, voyeurism and vulgarity. Even sapphic smut fails to whet Jesse’s appetite. Soft core or hard core, it’s all an eyesore to him.

  “Maybe,” Bethany surmises, coaxing a strawberry onto her spoon, “it’s not disgust that he feels when he looks at those kinds of images. Maybe it’s envy.”

  Envy.

  Envy?

  Envy!

  Finally, a gem of advice amongst cubic zirconias.

  “Perhaps,” Bethany continues, a welcome respite from her maybes, “he hasn’t told you how he feels because he’s worried you’ll think he’s depraved.”

  That’s just like Jesse, worried I’ll think he’s depraved. He doesn’t even curse in my presence, because he’s afraid he’ll offend my delicate sensibilities.

  “You’re a sex-life saver,” I gush, giving Bethany a much-deserved squeeze and thank-you.

  Well, ladies, it looks like the old in-and-out has gotten old and is on its way out. I need to start thinking outside the box. To be more precise, I need to start thinking outside my box. (Hey, when I get horny, I get corny, what can I say?)

  I can say that I’m confident I can fix this.

  Yes.

  Just give me a week.

  And a whip.

  Come Monday morning, I am up and at him bright and early, taking advantage of the fact that Jesse is a heavy sleeper. Please—Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice could be participating in an orgy right there on the bed and my guy wouldn’t even stir. I flip back the covers, revealing the slumbering form nestled in the sheets. I take a moment to scrutinize Jesse. His hair, trimmed in woodruff blond locks, tickles his eyelashes, his lids concealing the hazel hue of his irises. His body, slim yet sturdy, is swaddled in briefs and an undershirt, both white, the color of virtue and purity.

  I shift Jesse onto his side and proceed to strip him from the waist down, as if peeling the wrapper off a lollipop. My eyes descend to his belly, to the flaccid phallus beneath his navel. It dangles there, idly, like an earring. Be patient, I instruct myself. Good things come to those who wait. Opting to leave his undershirt on—a heavy sleeper is anything but lightweight—I nudge Jesse back into a prone position. This has the desirable effect of baring his hind quarters, and I decide to partake in a little voyeurism. Jesse’s backside is his best side, sinewy and sinuous, like a hothouse tomato. Ripe for the beating.

  I leave Jesse’s side momentarily to retrieve the restraints. (Though I don’t anticipate a struggle, it never hurts to be prepared.) Before settling on bondage tape, I considered a variety of manacles and fetters: handcuffs, scarves, ropes. Handcuffs are best left to novices and magicians and officers of the law. Scarves and ropes, on the other hand, well, let’s just say that my stomach twists into knots at the thought of having to remove them. (I’d be lucky to last five minutes alone in the wilderness.)

  As I snip the powder blue tape into strips, I begin to feel giddy, refulgent with rapture. There’s something to be said about this whole power-trip concept, I muse, winding the clingy material around Jesse’s wrists and ankles, tethering him to the bedposts. With his arms and legs splayed, he looks like he is in the middle of a cartwheel.

  When I have secured all of the necessary appendages, I go and fetch the whip. Eschewing simplicity, I have chosen a rather unique implement. I could have picked a regular old riding crop or a cat-o’-nine-tails, something a little more classic. You know, tried and true, designed to leave its victim black-and-blue. But those instruments are a little too insipid for my tastes.

  So I’m going to give Jesse a hand. No, I’m not being facetious. I selected this switch specifically for its sentimental value. The flogging end of the whip is shaped like a hand, the fingers stubby and pudgy, and it reminds me of the Mickey Mouse glove that Jesse and I bought as a souvenir on our first vacation as a couple. I love the illusion that it conveys. How could anything so cute and cartoonish possibly inflict pain and punishment?

  As I flex the whip between my fingers, I ponder the shades of the bruises. The contusions will emerge in hues of pink: pink like a pink Cadillac, pink like a pencil eraser, pink like pink lemonade, pink like the Pink Panther. As the whipping increases in vigor and velocity, those hues of pink will shade into tones of red: red like a stop sign, red like a Valentine heart, red like Dorothy’s ruby red slippers, red like Mickey’s shorts and Minnie’s dress, red like—

  “Marnie, what are these?”

  I look up from the lash to see Jesse twisting his wrists and ankles against the restraints.

  “These, my dear,” I reply, tapping one with the whip, “are the ties that bind.”

  Jesse bristles, but the flush of color in his face belies his discomfort. “What are we doing?” he
inquires, his choice of pronoun conveying his desire to participate.

  I tilt my head, bending the shaft of the whip until it is curved like a semi-erect cock. “Well, now, you tell me, Jesse,” I reply, and flutter my lashes, my eyes stretched wide.

  “Why, Grandma, what big eyes you have,” Jesse remarks. His voice has a quavering quality to it, a feeble attempt at sounding petrified.

  “All the better to see through you with, my dear,” I counter, climbing onto the bed and settling down beside his exposed rear end. “I have to admit, sweetie, I never thought of you as the kinky kind.”

  “I’m not,” he insists, denying it with the movement of his lips but confirming it with the movement of his hips.

  “Oh, you are,” I insist, the Mickey Mouse hand poised above his backside. “No ifs, ands or butts about it.”

  Jesse cranes his neck, peering over his shoulder at the switch in my hand. His eyes narrow as he inspects the instrument. “That looks like—”

  “I know. Isn’t it precious?”

  Jesse chuckles, tugging on his tethers, but he isn’t resisting. “I doubt it’ll do much damage,” he surmises. “You’re almost better off using a flyswatter.”

  “Well, we’ll soon find out just how big a wallop it packs, now, won’t we?” I murmur, the hand coming closer.

  “I guess we—”

  I deliver the first blow, the firm black vinyl of the crop connecting with the taut white flesh of his ass. Jesse yelps, sounding at once pained and pleased. I take my time, allowing several seconds to lapse between blows. During this brief period of recovery, I watch closely for signs that the throbbing has begun to subside, and when his breathing becomes more effortless, when the muscles in his ass become more relaxed, the switch strikes again.

  With each whack, Jesse emits a whine-cum-whimper, like windshield wipers squeaking against the glass. I watch as his backside, now sporting a crimson complexion, jumps and jiggles on impact.

  Jesse wails as I whale him, the bruises invading his flesh, spreading like spilled red wine. I can feel my heart thudding inside my chest, beating in time to the cadence of the thwacks. My skin smolders, tingles surging through my body, zipping back and forth from neuron to neuron, yet always returning to my pussy. The intensity of the whipping escalates, until the flogging becomes fast and fervent and frenzied.

  “Tape.”

  Instantly, I stop, the hand hovering over his ass. “What?” I mutter, bewildered.

  “Tape,” Jesse repeats, his voice raspy. “Please take off the tape.”

  Please? Did he just say please? I almost laugh out loud. Even when he’s ensnared in the throes of passion, Jesse still minds his manners.

  I release him from his restraints, carefully peeling the self-clinging tape away from his skin. When he is free from captivity, Jesse turns onto his back. I see him cringe in distress as his bottom makes contact with the mattress.

  “It seems so much harder now,” he observes, squirming against the sheets.

  My gaze gravitates to his groin. “The same goes for you,” I remark, my mouth watering until it is nearly as moist as my pussy. The spiked organ looks positively regal, and I revel in its beauty, in the corpulence of his cock. Precum drizzles down his shaft, like an icicle melting in the heat of the sun.

  Jesse beckons me to the bed and I shuck my panties midstride. “Do you want to be on top?” I offer, concerned about his comfort.

  “No, thank you,” Jesse declines, embracing my waist.

  I straddle his thighs and settle onto his lap, welcoming him into the confines of my cunt. I can feel my pussy expanding to accommodate the length and girth of him. My torso undulates, grinding gently and gradually, his cock sloshing within the wetness of my pussy. His eyelids languish, the only part of his body that is flaccid at the moment.

  Jesse’s hand treks along my abdomen, and I tremble as his fingers venture between my legs. His palm drifts across the shroud of curls covering my pussy, en route to my clit. Instinctively, I pick up the pace. Our breathing becomes emphatic, erratic, spurts of sound slithering through our lips as the friction builds swiftly to a frisson.

  The time between our climaxes is immeasurable, infinitesimal. The ardor of Jesse’s arousal, the rapidity of our lovemaking, activates a geyser of jism. It mixes with my juices, creating a euphoric elixir and propelling me to orgasm as well.

  Afterward, we curl up together, the Mickey whip nestled between us. “Jesse, I don’t think you’re depraved,” I say, anticipating the question before he can ask it.

  Jesse simpers. I smile. “How did you know that I would… enjoy that?” he wonders, stroking my hand as I stroke his bottom.

  “I didn’t,” I admit. “Bethany did.”

  “That’s a very unusual case of woman’s intuition,” Jesse remarks, blushing profusely.

  “I’ll elaborate when I’m not so exhausted,” I offer, tucking the duvet under my chin. “Would you like to do this again sometime? Say, tomorrow? And again every day for a week? And then… Well, I think after that, Mickey’s got some vacation time coming to him.”

  Jesse nods, his enthusiasm bordering on fanaticism. “Yes, please. And…thank you.”

  My fingers curl around his hip. “What are the magic words?”

  “I said please and thank you,” Jesse protests, his mouth drooping into a pout.

  I make a mental note to treat Bethany to a day at the spa, because I can’t think of anyone more deserving. “No, sweetie,” I insist, a smirk sneaking onto my lips. “The magic words are please and spank you.”

  A LITTLE PUSH

  Felix D’Angelo

  How had I let her talk me into this?

  As “Bolero” pounded slowly toward its climax, Carrie stretched out on the bed with legs spread wide, thick pillows tucked under her hips. This position tipped her perfect ass upward at just the perfect angle. Her asshole, glistening and virgin, beckoned to me between her slightly spread pale pink cheeks. It was wet from my spittle; I’d spent the last forty-five minutes rimming the hell out of her while I finger-fucked her senseless, two orgasms’ worth; that’s why immediately under her ass her cunt was pink and dripping. There’d been no lube so far, just my tongue, buried deep in her ass. I snapped on the glove, popped the top on the tube of Think Anal lube and saw Carrie’s pretty face regarding me over her slim shoulder. She reached back and gently parted her asscheeks, displaying her asshole to me shamelessly.

  “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” she purred wickedly. “Come on, babe…you know you want it.”

  Did I? I wasn’t sure, but I did know I couldn’t resist it. The taste of her musky ass filled my mouth; with each stroke of my tongue my cock had throbbed harder, my lust for her tight virgin asshole growing. I locked eyes with my girlfriend as I glorped lube out onto my fingers and began to massage it into her asshole.

  She was snug, even with the long strokes of my tongue; by the end there, my tongue had been deep into her back door. But just one finger made her gasp, and the snug cinch of the sphincter around my middle finger sent a wave of hot desire through my body; Christ, I wanted to fuck Carrie’s ass so bad….

  I withdrew my finger.

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “Is it the music?” she asked. “I’ve got David Bowie—”

  “No, I just can’t,” I said.

  “Can’t?” pouted Carrie. “But my ass, Jack…my virgin tight ass…” she wriggled her perfect apple cheeks back and forth, clenching, releasing, slipping one middle finger down to caress her crack; then she whimpered as she began finger-fucking her own ass, and—

  “Fuck it,” I said, and lurched forward.

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Carrie, letting me nudge her finger out of the way to replace it with my own, rubber clad, slick with lube, gently working her open, quickly replaced by a second, which made her gasp and hiss and whimper, rocking her hips as she pushed herself onto me.

  “Cock, baby,” she moaned softly. “I want your cock.”
>
  “We’re supposed to go slow.”

  “Then I want your cock slowly.”

  “You’re getting it.” It wasn’t so much that I worried about hurting my girlfriend—I did, but then Carrie was very much capable of letting me know if something didn’t feel right. Quite the contrary; I worried—no, best not to think about that now.

  I worked in a third finger, and Carrie pressed back onto my hand, sliding rhythmically back and forth like she was giving a lap dance. Her muscles clenched tight and I let her relax as I worked all three fingers in deeply, till they formed a little heart shape, holding her asshole open stretched and eager.

  “I think I’m ready,” she said. “I want your cock.”

  “Do you want a condom?”

  She made a disdainful noise and a sour face. “Fuck, no. We’re tested, remember?”

  “Wouldn’t it be smoother?”

  “Than your cock? I don’t think so,” she said. Then, deep, hot, in a low, sensuous purr: “I want your cock naked inside me, Jack…put it in already, will you?”

  I leaned firmly forward. My cock, still wet from her spit, slid easily into my grasp and as my fingers went softly slurping out, I felt the snugness of her asshole up against my naked cockhead.

  “Breath in deep, and then—FUCK!”

  She gave a little push back onto me, whimpering. My cockhead popped in, and she made a bestial sound as she pushed her snug ass slowly down my shaft, looking over her shoulder to make sure I saw the rapturous expression on her face as she took me into her virgin hole. “You were saying?” she asked me.

  My eyes rolled back into my head. I fumbled the wet rubber glove off of my hand and threw it on the floor. I let her snuggle down onto me and gradually acclimate herself to the bulk in her hole. She started clenching-releasing, clenching-releasing, each time relaxing more. I felt a quick rubbing and realized she was stroking her clit fervently, periodically dipping two fingers into her cunt. When she did that I could feel her ass tighten, even feel the pressure, a little, of her fingertips against my cock.