Juanita’s next urge was to suck on Joshua’s tongue, and when she hesitated, Joshua made the move for her. He located every bit of white chocolate that was inside her mouth and swept it into his own.
It was the perfect kiss and Juanita was too afraid, too enraptured to interrupt the moment and let her lover know that he was doing it right.
The kiss sent sensations throughout her body, beginning from her fingers and slowly traveling to her round breasts. She felt it in her abdomen, the tugging of desire and soon it landed in her center.
The kiss had been going on for the last few minutes. They were engaged in an intense locking of lips covered by the remnants of a white chocolate truffle.
“This is it,” she wanted to say to him. “You’re doing it right.”
But she didn’t want to disrupt the magic that was this moment.
Joshua could feel it, too. He was in no hurry to use his hands. In fact he kept them straight at hid sides, sending her reeling and spinning using only his lips, mouth and tongue.
Juanita was longing for more than the kiss. She reached for Joshua’s hands and placed them on her waist.
The white chocolate truffle had dissolved, but the sticky sweetness lingered.
The kiss had her aching for more. She was dying to have him inside her.
When he finally laid her back on the sofa, Juanita breathed a sigh of relief into his mouth. He was frustratingly slow about removing her pants. Her shirt, he simply unbuttoned, exposing lace covered breasts.
Joshua pulled her panties down. Juanita was only able to take one leg out, the panties dangled around the other.
Joshua used one hand and one swift motion to ease her legs apart. She let them fall at an angle on the cushions. He crawled between them, still delivering sticky, sweet kisses.
She could feel him hardening, and he released himself from his own jeans and t-shirt, resting against her in only his boxers. But Joshua didn’t give Juanita his cock, not yet, like she was expecting. Instead he lifted her legs up high, so high that her rear end was lifted slightly off the sofa cushions.
Joshua brought his face directly in front of her pussy, but instead of immediately applying kisses there, she heard him toying with another foil wrapper.
Surely he wasn’t craving truffles, not still, and not now.
Juanita’s breathing was heavy.
What was he doing?
But Juanita soon found out. She felt slight pressure at her opening, like he was finger fucking her but not quite. He was pushing something inside her, something small, solid and round.
It was a truffle.
His tongue wasn’t far behind the chocolate goodness. He was pushing it in and sweeping it back toward him, tongue fucking her using the truffle.
Juanita could barely contain her excitement.
“Don’t let it get lost in there,” she said playfully.
Joshua growled a laugh against her cunt. “Baby, it’s so hot in there I’d be worrying about it melting instead.”
And it was. Juanita could feel it oozing between her legs. Between quick kisses to her cunt, Joshua licked and sucked at the strategically placed chocolate.
Juanita wrapped her small fingers around his ears, holding him in place.
“I can’t take it,” she said soon after. “I need you inside me now.”
Joshua laughed. “Not yet. Just a little more play first.”
He halted his oral offering and opened another truffle and handed it to her. “Do with it as you wish,” he said to Juanita, winking.
And Juanita did.
First she took a bite. Then she moved so that she and Joshua could shift on the sofa. He was now beneath her, his cock forming a small tent in his boxers. She eased them over his hips so that his cock was fully exposed.
She had almost finished the truffle, but not quite. She hovered over Joshua’s middle, and with her mouth, she spread what remained of the chocolate goodness over Joshua’s body. He lay back on the sofa and let himself be overcome.
Juanita teased his pebble like nipples, ran her tongue down to the fuzzy cave that was his belly button.
She felt his abdomen tighten. His penis rose and was now close to her face. Juanita took Joshua’s penis into her mouth, treated it like the truffle she had just devoured. She watched Joshua’s eyes flutter and close, his lips fold under the pressure of his teeth.
She took him as deep into her mouth as she could, licking and sucking, listening to him moan and watching his body buck.
“I’m ready,” Joshua said.
And Juanita gave him back, “No, baby, not yet.”
She spent time licking and teasing the head of his cock. She knew this drove him crazy. Playfully she kissed it.
Juanita knew Joshua wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer, and she knew that when he finally did explode, she wanted him to be inside her.
She took the attention of her mouth on his cock away, and crawled on top of him, lowering her saturated pussy onto his cock.
She rode him soft and slow. She could see the torture in his face. He was ready to come, but he was holding back, waiting for her, and she was holding back herself, wanting it to last.
It was all in vein. Her climax escaped her within minutes and she was coming in near convulsions as she was on top of him.
Joshua immediately followed, spilling into her, pressing his fingers roughly into her skin as he came.
When Juanita came down from the high that was fucking Joshua in the middle of the afternoon, she could feel the stickiness on their skin and smell the sweetness of the truffles in the atmosphere.
She looked down at Joshua, down at herself.
They were a mess, a beautiful fucking mess.
The End
Caramel Velvet
Vanessa de Sade
They had first met whilst browsing together at an antique fair in the Portobello Road just before Christmas and found that they both shared the same love of 1950s paper ephemera - particularly old women’s magazines and chocolate wrappers. Then their paths had crossed again, just by chance, at a sale room in Dulwich the following week, where they had vied fiercely against each other for the same item. However, finally out-bid by a retired doctor from Harrow with considerable resources, they had retired to the coffee shop to lick their collective wounds and commiserate with each other, agreeing to join forces at the next auction and share the booty.
Thus the weeks quickly passed, each enjoying the other’s company more and more, quickly sharing phone numbers and then eventually car-pooling, and so it came as no surprise to either of them when Viv proposed that they should go into business together that chilly spring day at the Reigate Collectors’ Fair, just as the first cherry blossoms were lining the sun-dappled streets with cascades of snowy white bloom.
Barbara had hesitated at first, afraid of a commitment when, embryo-like, she was only just beginning to enjoy her new hard-fought-for freedom, but she had to admit that her heart had given a little flutter of delight when she had heard Viv’s proposition and, throwing caution to the winds, she had quickly agreed. So they put down a month’s deposit for a top-floor stall at the labyrinthine collector’s market at the Angel, Islington, ignoring the amused glances of the rat pack of regular dealers and scorn of brittle American buyers, and set out on a fortnight of frantic buying to deck their table in the gaudy remnants of their chosen era.
This had proved a little more difficult than they had first imagined, however, especially as they now had to find choice morsels at a price that would allow them to resell at a profit, and Barbara was just about at the point of despair when Vivian called late one Friday evening to say that she had got wind of a house clearance in Derby that was stuffed to the rafters in old paper and magazines from the post-war era.
“We can make an
absolute killing, I’m sure of it,” she’d said ecstatically to her friend. “It’s some old girl that’s popped her clogs and her grasping brats of a family can’t wait to clear her house and get it on the market. My mate Barney’s already made an offer for the furniture, and they’ll probably just bin all the paper to be rid of it, so my guess is they’ll accept any offer that we care to make them, greedy buggers!”
“But, Derby, that’s miles away,” Barbara had wailed with the typical Southerner’s conviction that the civilised world ended at Watford, “how will we ever get up there and back in a day?”
Viv laughed. “We’ll stay over at Travelodge, silly. It won’t cost much if we share a room, plus we can put the cost down as expenses, so the tax man will eventually foot the bill. Come on, it’ll be a lark, and what have you got to keep you at home all weekend, anyway?”
And what indeed, Barb had thought with a slight feeling of bitterness. Twenty years of unhappy marriage had left her with the sum total of two sulky grown-up children whom she rarely saw; and Victor, her brooding ex-husband who by now had installed a new child bride at his side, but who still became violent in her presence, especially when pressed about his non-existent alimony payments.
“Oh, what the hell, pick me up at nine,” she’d said to her friend in a rush of unfamiliar spontaneity, her heart suddenly soaring at the thought of the adventure ahead of them.
***
The house they were seeking slumped in a small cramped back-to-back red-brick terrace, gloomy and sad, its once neat garden overgrown and the back porch redolent with the acrid stench of cat pee, but its dark interior was a treasure trove of paper goodies beyond all imagination for Barb and her partner, and they had barley been able to control their excitement going through the stacks of yellowed old periodicals and magazines that lined the halls and upper rooms like an archive of the nation’s printed history.
“I still can’t believe this,” Vivian had whispered to her friend in a brief moment when the deceased owner’s sullen grandson left them alone, her breath hot and excitable in Barb’s ear, “she’s kept every magazine she’s ever bought, and practically every paper too. Look, the knitting patterns are even still intact in this one, and there’s a whole pack of embroidery transfers, unopened, in this Woman and Home from 1952.”
“I know, it’s incredible,” Barb had agreed, her face very close to her friend’s as they whispered together like conspiring Enid Blyton characters at a midnight feast, their voices low with suppressed excitement lest the young man downstairs should hear, “and it’s all so perfect, too. I think we’re finally in business, Viv!”
***
They sat together on the big bed of their impersonal white box of a hotel room that night, the remains of a pizza incongruous in its grease-stained carton on the shiny melamine surface of the wobbly Ikea table, the floor littered with the choicest gems of their afternoon’s adventure. Lusciously coloured Festival of Britain programmes gleamed glossy and proud; an immaculate Coronation souvenir issue of the Radio Times glowed regally in its tarnished foil-block print; while Dig for Victory posters and boxes and boxes of old chocolate wrappers from long forgotten confections, all neatly flattened out and preserved by their original owner, spilled like gemstones in a panto-set Aladdin’s cave across the carpet and pristine white counterpane.
“Would you just look at all these beauties,” Viv had enthused, almost sensually, holding the thin slivers of glossy paper to her nose and inhaling, “Fry’s Five Boys, Caley Fortune, Cadbury’s Lucky Numbers, Kunzel Art Desserts, and they even still smell of chocolate after all these years. Aren’t they fantastic?”
Barbara made a non-committal noise, moving away and picking up a pile of beautifully-coloured women’s magazines and fanning through them, their scent reassuringly female and domestic, like her grandmother’s house in spring or the faint aroma of pressed flowers from an old scrapbook. “These are more my thing. I’m not too comfortable with the scent of chocolate anymore,” she confessed.
Viv eyed her speculatively as she stretched backwards like a cat on the big bed, letting the glossy old wrappers and foils rain down on herself like coloured snowflakes. She was a buxom woman of forty-seven, with long dark hair that curled into tight gypsy ringlets, still black as midnight and marred only by the faintest threads of grey. She had showered quickly when they had come in and waited for their meal to be delivered, and now, having discarded her tight jeans and voluminous Shetland wool sweater, she sprawled on the snowy divan dressed only in an antique red silk kimono and no underwear.
“You don’t like the smell of chocolate?” she laughed, half amused, half mocking. “I sense a story here, best friend of mine, do tell!”
Barbara blushed. “Oh, some other time. There’s so much to do here tonight, cataloguing all this stuff and...”
“Ah ha, evasion,” Viv laughed, verbally pouncing, “so there’s very definitely a story here and I want to hear it. Tonight. Come on,” she commanded, brushing all the gossamer leaves of vintage paper from the bed in a flurry of fragrant confetti, “come and sit by me and tell all. I promise that this room will be as sealed as the confessional, and not a word of what you tell me will be breathed to a living soul.”
They had opened a bottle of red wine with their meal and there was a about a third of it left, and, taking a gulping deep breath, Barbara hurriedly downed what remained of the rich pomegranate-coloured liquid in one as she settled nervously at the edge of the bed, uncomfortable by the way the delicate scents of Viv’s shampoo and body lotion were appealing to her, making her think of sunny days by riverbanks with the scent of meadowsweet heavy in the hot summer air.
“I had a very strict up-bringing,” she began hesitantly, “and my parents were career-driven workaholics who didn’t have much time for me. There was just a succession of horrible nannies and then they packed me off to boarding school as soon as I was old enough, and kept me there until I was eighteen.”
“Lovely people, you must introduce me sometime,” Vivian muttered sarcastically but Barb didn’t appear to hear.
“The school was a terrible establishment,” she went on as if no-one had interrupted, “gloomy and joyless. And with so many rules that it made the place in Jane Eyre look like a holiday camp. No singing other than hymns at chapel, no laughing, no music, and no sweets or chocolate. Oh yes, sugar was really the devil’s food as far as my teachers were concerned. They even used to come in and search our rooms in the middle of the night, like prison guards.”
“And that’s why you don’t like chocolate?”
“Oh no, it’s far worse than that,” Barbara blushed, “in fact, I can’t believe I’m even thinking about telling you this. I certainly never told my husband in twenty years of marriage...”
“Ah, good old Vauxhall Victor, everybody’s favourite car dealer,” Viv interjected dryly.
“Anyway, the girls there were a snobby and unfriendly lot, with their own personal grading tables of who they’d speak to and who they wouldn’t, based mainly on who your parents were and what professions they followed. I was alright, of course, being a consultant surgeon’s brat, but there was this one girl, who was dreadfully rich, but her parents owned a chain of sweetshops and she was terribly common, and none of them would condescend to speak to her at all.”
“Ah, now this is getting interesting, I sense intrigue,” Vivian purred, rolling over onto her stomach like a fire-warmed tabby cat, her heady perfume mixing with her own scent and making Barb feel quite light-headed.
“But this girl, Edna she was called, poor soul, knew how to curry favour, and she was particularly adept at smuggling tins of Cadbury’s Roses into the dorms. She had this big hat box thing with a false bottom that none of the teachers ever thought of checking properly, and she used to dish out sweets at night after lights out, all of us sucking toffees together in the dark. It was the closest to happy that I ever came
in all those miserable years.”
“So then what happened?”
“Well, nothing much, until the sixth form and our eighteenth birthdays. That was when we got our own rooms instead of sleeping in the dorm and Edna finally wised-up to the power that she was wielding over everyone. We were all dependent on her for our fixes by then - I guess you could say that she was our sole dealer in the forbidden delights of montelimar - and she was certainly the only person that brought us as much as a whiff of solace in those dreary days. Oh, and did I mention that boys were definitely not on the menu either? No, our sole pleasure in that place came purely from the cocoa bean, I can tell you.”
“And?”
“And Edna decided one morning that it was time that she got some sex, so she cut off our supply and started charging. If we still wanted our honeyed nectar we had to go to her room and ask for it, and she had a table of rates all neatly memorised. You could get the little Neapolitan bar of Diary Milk for a feel of your boob over your bra, or a Golden Whirl if you let her slip her hand inside. Kisses were good; they bought you a Strawberry Dream or Tangy Orange Fondant... Oh, I can still taste that clawing delicious sweetness and feel her sticky lips on mine, her fat fingers groping my tits between unwrapping those glittering chocolate foils like sugar condoms and popping them into my mouth.”
“Quite a girl,” Vivian murmured, a bit of a sugar baby herself, moving closer, “go on...”
“Well, that was it, at first, we were too scared and too ignorant to do anything else. But it wasn’t long before Edna worked out that there was more fun to be had lower down, and she started offering Caramel Velvets to anyone who would let her stroke them, you know, down there, through our knickers.”
“But that wasn’t enough, was it?”
“No, we’d all get quite heady with all that sugar and the chocolate and, of course, the kisses and all the groping that was going on, so it wasn’t long before we were capitulating and letting her put her hands inside our pants for a Cherry Heaven, her chubby little fingers quickly learning what to do with our sticky clits, all wet and swollen up like Caramel Hazelnuts.”
Smut for Chocoholics Page 16
