Nervously she glanced at the second man. He was still staring at her pussy. She knew she was swollen and wet but even so, no man had ever looked at her quite so reverently and she felt a growing buzz of excitement.
It was the heat, she told herself. She also told herself she should get out of the sun but she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to move. Jaguar man’s cock was now at full attention. Long and thick, the head was darkly purpled and aimed at her mouth. She made up her mind. Leaning forward she opened wide and wrapped her lips around him. He tasted salty, smelled of musk and man and something else, some jungle herb that filled her head and her nostrils, making her even giddier.
Even relaxing her jaw she could get little more than the tip of his cock in her mouth but she felt him shudder. Looking up she saw he had closed his eyes, saw his jaw was tensed in pleasure, the veins on his neck, corded. Huge or not, a cock was a cock and men just liked getting them sucked. Relaxing into the task. Arya wrapped her hands around his shaft. She could barely close her fingers at the base it was so thick. And even holding him hand over hand there was still plenty left over.
Sucking on a cock this big would be bliss anywhere; but here in the steamy jungle heat she knew it was an experience she would never forget.
The other man had crept forward, his dark head moving between her thighs. When his tongue found her slick opening and darted inside, Arya jerked in shock almost letting the cock slip from her lips. Almost. As a finger joined the tongue in her pussy she moaned and began to suck again with renewed vigour.
Grabbing Jaguar man’s buttocks, she tried to take him deeper but he at least had enough common sense to know her limitations. But she wanted him, God how she wanted to make him come in her mouth. Another finger slid into her pussy and another, stretching her wide and she squirmed, whimpering helplessly as his tongue expertly lashed her clit. She needed both her hands for balance now and she placed them on the hot rock behind her, lifting her hips, offering her pussy to his willing mouth. Jaguar man replaced her hand on his cock with his own, working it hard, jerking himself off into her mouth Arya could see his balls drawing up, hard and tight, swollen with come. His entire body tensed, she could feel his excitement building. But so was hers … so was hers …
Her cunt tightened around the thrusting fingers just as Jaguar man wrenched free of her mouth, and she cried out in protest. Next moment though she was crying out again in pleasure as her orgasm ripped through her. Jaguar man was looking down at her, his fist tangled in her hair, his expression avid as he watched her lose control. Their eyes locked again and her entire body was juddering, her face contorted in a pleasure she had no hope of hiding.
She sank back utterly wasted by the best orgasm she’d had in a long time. Both men were on their feet now, looking down at her. Both now sported impressive erections. Arya wished she had the energy to do something about them both. And she would, too. All she needed was a few minutes. Just a few minutes rest then she’d make them feel as good as she felt now
She wasn’t getting a few minutes. Gentle but insistent hands drew her to her feet. Her legs felt rubbery, but that was OK, she had two men supporting her. In fact she could see the powerful muscles on their biceps shift and flex as they lifted her.
One of them stepped behind and wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling into her neck. Jaguar man was in front of her. Behind him she could see the pyramid shimmering through the heat haze and her mind jumped back to yesterday, the Jaguar King statue with the huge cock.
Casting had done a hell of a job with this guy if he was playing the King.
Completely intent on what he was doing, he lifted her and realising what he wanted, she wrapped her legs around his waist, gripping him tightly. He was going to fuck her while his friend supported her, a position that was far more appealing than losing a layer of skin off her backside on the bare rock.
Excitement and trepidation shot through her in equal measures. She could take Big Dick but only after a lot of foreplay. On the other hand, her pussy was wetter than it had ever been. Could she take all of him? She had no idea. Did she want to try? Hell yes. She looked down at the cock rising up between them, its dark glory resting on her damp curls and all the way up her belly. Despite her eagerness she felt herself tense. He really was huge.
Nervously she looked at his face. He looked back, as though awaiting permission. Still not a word.
Breathlessly, she nodded.
He slid his fingers into her pussy and released a flood of moisture, slicking his cock with her juices, before pushing against the entrance to her body. There was resistance and Arya wriggled, panicking slightly. But next minute the smooth, satiny head slipped in. Pleasure burst through her and they both watched as inch by inch, his cock disappeared inside her.
Her panic receding, Arya began to relax. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she shifted her balance to him and he supported her easily. Slowly, unbelievably slowly she began to take even more of his cock. Only her bodyweight and gravity controlled the delicious slide as he stretched and plundered her. Down, and down she slid, biting her bottom lip against a pleasure that was almost painful in its intensity.
He felt huge inside her; she had never been so stretched. Her head lolled on his shoulder and she was panting hard but she had done it. She had taken him all!
Left to her own devices, Arya would have stayed right there. In fact she could have stayed there for the rest off her life but she had forgotten all about the other man. Or she had until she felt something pressing against her bottom. Her head whipped up but Jaguar man held her gaze. He nodded soothingly, as though telling her it was OK to let his friend explore her backside.
Slowly Arya begun to relax again, to enjoy the new sensation as a finger gathered her own juice from her pussy and stroked it over her puckered opening. And then she felt his cock press against her …
Excitement spiralled through her as she realised what he was going to do. And then there was nothing but sensation, as the second cock pushed past her resistance and eased inside her.
Arya had felt stretched before, but that was nothing to what it felt like to have two cocks invade her. As Jaguar man thrust forward, he pushed her back onto the second cock. As the second man drove forward in turn, he impaled her on the first cock. Gently at first they rocked her between them, back and forth. As her moans grew louder they thrust harder and faster, always in rhythm, keeping the beat until the only sounds were Arya’s increasingly loud cries.
It was beyond anything she had ever imagined. Two cocks, two men fucking her, their movements no longer gentle but out of control, frenzied and primal while the jungle birds drowned out her cries. And then she was coming, her body splintering apart, coming back together and dissolving again instantly as they fucked her and she was screaming, crying like an animal, writhing uncontrollably on the twin cocks that hammered her.
Jaguar man gasped, his mouth opened and his cries joined hers as she felt his huge cock pulse deep inside her, filling her with his come, jet after jet of hot liquid filling her cunt. And then the second man was coming too and his cries joined theirs. The parrots in the trees above rose in one protesting flock, adding their squawking complaints.
Arya must have slept. Or maybe she lost consciousness. But when she next opened her eyes she was alone on the rock. The pyramid still towered over everything: the animals and birds had returned to their chatter, voices shrill and agitated at the disturbance. Slowly she sat up but there was no sign of the two men.
Her skin was pink and she knew she had been in the sun too long but she didn’t regret a moment. Sliding off the rock she eased into the water, swimming naked, cooling her skin, washing away the signs of sex. Hearing a splash she turned quickly. Under the overhang of the rock the cenote was black and deep but ripples disturbed the surface of the water. Arya waited, staring at the black depths for a long time but saw nothing that could have caused the disturbance. Finally she waded to the edge and climbed out.
The minibus was ju
st arriving as she reached the hotel and she waited to greet her friends.
‘How was the film set? See anybody famous?’
‘No. It was crap. It was all a decoy. The filming was at another ruin near Mexico City. They wanted to keep the crowds away so they let on it was here.’
Arya felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. ‘So, no actors?’
‘No actors, no extras, nobody. Just a lot of disgruntled press and tourists. What about you? You obviously weren’t sunbathing. In fact you look like you’ve seen a ghost …’
The Liberation Of Paris by Sylvia Lowry
Paris is freedom, I imagined as I tossed John’s final correspondence into the Seine. I expected that it wasn’t the first breakup letter to be discarded into the waters off the Île Saint-Louis, and as the envelope vanished beneath the Pont Louis-Philippe, I thought of the graves of star-crossed Abelard and Heloise in the Père Lachaise cemetery, a mile away from where I stood. Of course, Abelard had been castrated – if only John had met such a dishonourable fate.
Now I proclaimed my emancipation, striding along the Quai d’Orléans as my liberation became absolute. I had left John behind in Minneapolis, and had been living in a tiny apartment on the Rue Orlotan in a state of world-weary boredom for three months, desperately attempting to write, and now a new and delectable phase of my life had begun; I imagined blissful fireworks detonating over the Eiffel tower as I navigated the grand Boulevard Saint-Michel before finally crossing from the Luxembourg Gardens to the Place Odéon. The windows of the alleyways seemed to tremble with excitement, poised to release an uncontainable secret realm, a subterranean current of yearning and subversion.
I decided to seat myself by the Théâtre de l’Odéon to rest, and I noticed that a performance of Moliere’s “Tartuffe” had ended. The audience dispersed and the entire plaza descended into calm as I lit a Gauloise, taking an exhilarating drag.
‘You should light a strong cigarette with confidence!’ I heard a man’s capricious voice, accented in French, followed by a slowly emerging silhouette.
‘Bonsoir!’ I awkwardly exhaled, briefly coughing. ‘But you’re speaking English – how could you tell I’m American?’ He wore a light gray jacket over an open shirt and I could view his face as it emerged from shadow, finely lined but young; I estimated that he was in his early thirties, but I always questioned my ability to draw firm truths from fleeting details.
‘You have a certain aura – the North American in Paris with artistic aspirations. I can’t really explain it. Possiblement it’s your beret?’ His voice registered a note of hilarity and concern.
‘I love to embrace clichés …’ I smiled as I removed the hat, defiantly tossing it to the ground. ‘And believe it or not, I am trying to be a writer – you’ve read me well. I’m a newly single woman in pursuit of a timeless formula.’ I idly kicked the discarded hat. ‘But I have a little problem.’
‘Un problème?’
‘My work is going nowhere – I have writer’s block.’
The man placed his hands in his pockets. ‘I understand. I’m also an artist. Perhaps I can assist you.’
‘Assist?’ I laughed inwardly, instinctively skeptical.
‘Assist with your writer’s block, of course. I have a suggestion. We exchange our arts. You tell me the story you are trying to tell and I sketch you at the same time.’ He smiled. ‘Consider it an exchange of … aesthetic gratification.’
‘How charming …’ I smiled, contemplating the situation with mischievous irony. ‘I should warn you, the story is maybe a little … indecent.’
He laughed. ‘Well, as Picasso says, where it is chaste, it is not art.’
‘Why the hell not?’ I smiled and stood readily. ‘Lead on, ami.’ I smiled and stood, intrigued by this sudden and enigmatic request, my hands trembling as we walked across the plaza. The bell on the clock tower in the Luxembourg Gardens rang, startling me as my cell phone vibrated in tandem; glancing furtively, I noticed a text from my roommate, Maggie: “Amelia, will you be late”. Smiling, I turned off the device.
He opened an ornate door and we ascended an iron stairway, progressing further down a hall and into a small apartment, the space dominated by two large chairs, one positioned before a bed. On a table, a series of drawings lay arranged in a scattered pattern, surrounded by paper, pens and brushes. One caught my eye as I admired the contours of a female nude, sketched in a vaporous style, reclining suggestively.
‘Voilà – le studio.’ We remained silent for a moment; the austerity of the space invoked the stasis of a dream.
He gestured to the chair. ‘Perhaps we can begin.’ I seated myself as he reached for a blank sheet of paper and began to sketch, executing an outline composed of ethereal lines. ‘Now tell me the story you are trying to write.’
I cleared my throat, summoning my courage. ‘The story is about a woman who is lonely and is seeking new lovers.’ I paused. ‘I’m alone …’ I coughed inelegantly. ‘Excuse me, I mean she is alone for the first time in years and wants new experiences. She imagines embracing life in a new city. Paris, of course. And she wants to, if I may be so indecent …’
‘Yes, go on.’ He continued to sketch diffidently.
‘She wants to … fuck new men.’ I spoke in a soft decrescendo, my voice trembling. ‘And she finds herself on an evening like this … with a promising conquest … She imagines teasing a cock, licking it, salivating on it, slowly embracing its contours before fucking …’ I swallowed nervously. ‘She becomes so excited by the thought that she compulsively begins to …’ I inhaled deeply. ‘She begins touch her clit gently, then …’
‘Please demonstrate.’
I became more aroused as I focused my eyes on the drawing suspended near the door, its volatile contours exploding from the wall in ecstatic release. I moved my panties downward, releasing the garment from my waist and pulling it to my knees and started to finger my pussy in a circular motion; I stroked harder and my cunt contracted reflexively around my finger. ‘Shit … it feels fucking amazing. God, I love … I mean she loves playing with her pussy.’ I raised my dress further, extending my finger more deeply into my snatch, sensing my clit and labia swelling, consumed by a blush that spread into my inner thighs.
‘Continue. Tell me more.’ He continued to sketch with startling discipline and concentration, looking downward.
‘God, her finger almost feels like a nice hard cock. Not that she can remember what it’s like to have a cock inside her.’ I closed my eyes, imagining my creative impasse vanishing. A new emboldened sensibility had emerged, a potent artistic impulse materializing as my pussy shuddered, an unendurable craving forming itself in my nipples; I felt the shadow of an orgasm emerge and retreat and I grasped my neck impulsively, tendons rising.
‘And next?’
‘Hmm …’ Glancing at my neckline, sunburned and covered with a patina of sweat, I contemplated my breasts, still clothed, nipples plump and erect; I felt a distant regret for my vulnerability and legacy of unconsummated efforts. But as I turned my eyes to the artist, I became further emboldened.
I beckoned insistently. ‘She summons her consort … she wants to fuck and needs immediate attention.’ I extended my lips, first striking tentatively at the intersection of his cheek and neck line, then greeting his mouth in a more confident assault, first absorbing the lower lip as I inserted my tongue, then compulsively licked his neck, biting gently, tracing light stubble as I raised my dress and cast it to the floor, my tongue plumbing his ear in a circular motion.
‘Let’s accelerate this little tale, shall we?’ I had become impatient with the leisurely intellectual pretence of our game and unceremoniously unzipped his trousers, voraciously grabbing his pulsing erection. ‘Let’s release your French cock. Lovely, ami.’ I insistently grasped the base of his shaft, stroking its length, relishing its palpitations as I guided him to the edge of the bed, where I leaned onto my shoulders and removed my bra.
‘I have a confession
– I’ve never had a Frenchman suck on my nipples.’ He paused, briefly uncomprehending. ‘Let’s see if you can do it.’ I could feel the night air cross my tits, imagining a release from a rigid containment as he bent and sucked on them, licking my swollen aureoles, I could imagine a classical symmetry emerge, an image of ancient beauty honored by the intensity of his tribute, envisioning myself as the emboldened statue of Nike of Samothrace at the Louvre, brazenly propelling my tits into his face.
‘Suck harder on those ripe American tits – don’t be afraid.’ He responded, lightly compressing my left nipple between his teeth, a sensation of uncontainable energy rising from the back of my throat as I grasped his hair insistently, pulling him towards me as he extended his attention to my thighs, flicking his tongue in rapid horizontal motions, slowly rising towards my pussy as I anticipated his entry.
‘Don’t tease me. Fuck me with your tongue. Stick it inside me.’ I leaned back and whispered inarticulately as his tongue, rigid and extended, fully entered my snatch, gyrating as it probed the wet opening, then retreating as he licked slowly from bottom to top, pausing to encircle my entire vulva in a whispering caress. ‘Fuck, that feels good. Spit on that fucking pussy.’ He generously salivated on command, drenching my clit as he deposited a delectable stream of moisture onto my pussy before licking feverishly in a repeated, vertical assault.
‘Goddamn … I’m coming all over your fucking tongue.’ As he fellated me, I could feel the beginning of an orgasm rising from the depths of my pussy, my lower body trembling ardently before the sensation faded as it neared its apex; in the following moment, newly inspired, I grasped his cock again.
‘I have a little request. Une petite service …’
‘Quoi? What is it?’
‘May I please …’ I winked, trembling. ‘S’il vous plaît …wrap my lips around that nice French cock?’ Rather than wait for an answer, I impishly inhaled his shaft into my mouth, relishing his erection as it slid gracefully across my lips and tongue. He appeared to be lost in a state of diverted concentration and as he clenched his eyes in determined pleasure, I saw an intense, communicative sympathy emerge, a sensation expressible only in a filthy tête-à-tête of the flesh.
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