The pain was exquisite.
John picked up his tempo, lifting my knees to rest against his hairy chest, while he gave me a playful slap on the arse. Holding me tight, he rolled us over so I now straddled him. Hungry for him, I began to hump him wildly. He grabbed my breasts dragging me forward while he pulled a nipple into his mouth.
Hands were at my cheeks, pulling them apart. Then a tongue was rimming me before I felt something firm but soft probing my hole. I looked over my shoulder to see the black woman, wearing a black dildo, crouched over me trying to insert it.
I was bursting with desire. My biggest fantasies was to be fucked by two men at the same time – one up the arse, the other in my pussy. I’d always visualized John watching, sauntering over to me to drop his massive cock into my mouth while the two guys had their way with me.
I came immediately, just thinking about it, shuddering against John. He would have probably guessed what I was thinking and he began to pump me harder as the dildo hit its mark.
Now Melissa was kissing John right in front of me. I can’t tell you what a turn on it was to be naked with these two women and my husband. To watch them kiss and fondle him was one thing, but I wanted to watch him fuck them. Spurred on, I pushed back into the dildo, grinding my pussy into John’s pelvis, coming like never before.
I collapsed on to John’s chest, pushing Melissa away while the dildo disengaged itself from me. I kissed him hard on the mouth, my tongue exploring his mouth, my passion animalistic.
“Fuck one of them,” I demanded.
“All in good time, my dear,” John said, smoothing my wet hair away from my face.
“Fuck one now before I go insane,” I screamed.
“Your wish is my command,” he said, and the black woman jumped right on.
You can’t imagine how wonderful it was to lie there next to him humping this gorgeous woman. I opened my legs, found my clit and rubbed madly coming over and over again.
I felt like a fucking nymphomaniac.
Melissa threw herself between my open thighs, taking over, rubbing my clit and fingering me with her other hand. I turned my head towards John and he to me and whispered how much I loved him.
We kissed while the two women were attacking our bodies in unashamedly wanton sex. Our bodies slick with perspiration, we fucked, sucked and licked each other all afternoon.
After paying off the black woman, John settled down between Melissa and I, the three of us sipping a bottle of expensive Champagne.
“How . . .?” I asked.
“Easy,” Melissa said.
“What?” I asked, dumbfounded but pleased to have had this experience.
“It was easy,” she said. “John had approached me in the same way as you had. He wanted to surprise you with a threesome so when I told him what you had planned we decided to use this to our advantage.”
“And what a surprise it turned out to be, wouldn’t you say?” he asked me.
“I can’t believe you managed to do all this. When did you organize it with the black woman?” I asked.
“I didn’t,” he laughed.
“What? What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“She wasn’t part of the surprise, although I must say she certainly made the fantasy a mind-blowing one,” he said.
“What . . .” I looked from one to the other.
“None of that was supposed to happen. We’d planned that I’d ply you with alcohol, just for you to drop your inhibitions, and after she left I’d make a move on you. We were counting on your responding and then John, who was already here in the bedroom, would come in and join the party,” she explained.
“You were here the whole time?” I asked, shocked.
“Yep. I was watching you and the other girls. I must say the redhead certainly had me going with that baton. Took all my willpower to stay quiet in here,” he laughed.
“And you really had no idea about the black girl?” I asked, still not knowing her name.
“None. That was a bonus. She was sensational, wasn’t she?” he asked
An arm shaking my shoulder and a voice pulled at my subconscious. I opened my eyes; my head pounding as I looked up into Melissa’s worried face.
“I . . . you . . .” I mumbled, wondering what on earth was going on.
A black woman was standing beside her, wearing a skin tight leather dress. Her lips were painted in a bright red gloss and she had stilettos on.
“You okay?” Melissa asked.
“What?” I muttered.
“The third girl’s here. Been here for ten minutes. I’ve been trying to wake you the whole time,” she said; concern had wrinkled up her brow.
“Tried to wake me? What are you talking about?” I asked, looking down at my clothed body. The only thing I could see missing were my shoes.
I looked from one to the other.
“Where’s John?” I asked.
“John? I don’t know. Probably at work. Are you okay? You’ve been sleeping restlessly for over an hour.”
“Asleep? You mean John’s not here . . . that . . . you . . . and . . .”
“Do you want me to begin?” the black woman interrupted. “I get paid by the hour, you know.”
“Oh, sorry . . . yeah . . . sure,” I said, sitting up, smoothing out the creases in my clothes.
“Were you dreaming or something?” Melissa asked.
“Or something’s right. Phew, you wouldn’t believe it,” I whispered.
As I crossed my legs trying to regain my composure I noticed my panties were missing. I wiggled on the couch, pretending I couldn’t get comfortable, the satin lining of my skirt cold on my bare arse and hot pussy. My panties were definitely missing. What had happened while I was sleeping?
With the black girl stripping to her raunchy music, I stared at Melissa from the corner of my eye. She caught my stare and winked, causing me to blush with not only embarrassment but also longing. Had she done something while I had been sleeping?
Focusing my attention back on the stripper I decided that whoever said turning fifty was depressing and unexciting, certainly didn’t have a friend like her.
Toothin’ It
Robin (New Haven, USA)
The Brits have it down pat. Cruising, that is. First they were out doggin’ it in the countryside and now they’re toothin’ it on trains everywhere. Damn, but they’ve thrown caution to the wind and, living here in today’s America with its reawakened Puritanism, I long for a revolt that would get us wild in the streets. Or at least in back alleys. If only we’d motivate ourselves to upgrade our PDAs and cell phones so we can ply each other with requests for anonymous sex!
Sitting here on a Metro North train, nursing my chai tea, I wonder who I’d pick “to tooth”. I spy a lot of Gold Coast wealth – women coming home from city shopping, weighed down by Bloomie bags and designer purses, and Wall Street stiffs, their faces drawn serious by five o’clock shadow and by the strangle of red neckties (power ties, they call them). It’s not the delightfully democratic mix that you get on AmTrak, but there’s a scattering of interesting individuals who liven up the surroundings with their body art and alt-whatever wardrobes.
So who would I pick? Who would I aim my lust at? My gaze wanders until I spot a certain young woman. She’s reading Bertolt Brecht so she’s likely college-aged. Given the fact that her short spiked hair, conch-embellished earlobes, and tattoos shout “suicide girl”, I bet her parents were relieved to see her off to college. I imagine texting her.
“Toothin’?”
“Yes.”
“Restroom.”
“M or W?”
“W.”
“Wow.”
There, in the restroom, I kiss her hurriedly, hungrily, and I hike up her shirt to get at her young breasts. I’m not surprised to find them pierced and I get my hands on them before she pulls away from my mouth and mumbles something about me being a lot older than her.
To which I answer, “Don’t look a gift horse in the m
outh.”
She doesn’t get it – it’s too old a saying for her generation to recognize – but her “huh?” doesn’t stop me from caressing her. I dip down to a luscious nipple made tight by my touch and take it in my mouth. As I tongue it, it gets even harder and flicking its little barbell makes her moan.
I push her legs apart, eager to get my hand under that little pleated skirt of hers. It takes seconds to caress my way up to her cleft and – silly me! – I gasp when I find she’s wearing a thong. Yes, I gather that most young women do, but I’m old enough to be among the old lady cotton undies crowd. Still, that doesn’t keep me from pushing it aside.
Touching her cunt sends a shiver through me. Such sweet lips, so petite. I stroke, I probe, I feel my way about her labia. I find her hole and discover her clit. My touch is light and, as I search, she grows wet.
I pull away from her breast, kiss her again, then remark, “You like this.”
“Oh, yes!”
Her voice is breathy, heated by arousal. As I work a finger into her, I ask, “You ever do this before? Anonymously?” Her hole is soft and fleshy and it gives way to my finger. She wraps her arms around me in an embrace so tight, it’s like she’s hanging on for dear life. “No,” she half-whispers. “Never. Especially not on the train.”
A cryptic answer, but I’m far more interested in the mystery between her legs than in her words and when I get my thumb anchored over her clit, I forget entirely about what she said. Her cunt clutches my finger when she feels my thumb hit its mark. “Oh!” she gasps, “I like that.”
“Then ride my hand, baby,” I encourage. “Hard. Make yourself come.”
She undulates. Where the clutching is a response to my thumb, this motion is a whole body response to my invitation. She launches into an exquisitely uninhibited lap dance on my hand.
“That’s it,” I coach. “Bring yourself off. Do it, baby.”
As she rides me, that tight little cunt of hers affords a second finger and it starts to slurp busily. She’s really fucking my hand and I press my thumb as hard I can into her clit. I wish I could stroke it and I ache to grope her tits while she’s riding me, but the compartment is too small and she’s hanging onto me too much. One false move and we’d fall down.
But we don’t fall and sweet girlish squeals escape her as she comes. As her cunt squeezes my fingers, I talk dirty to her. “Yeah, that’s it. Give it up. Give it to me. Come all over me.” And she does, enough to leave my hand sopping wet. When I take it from her, I notice the train’s slowing for one of its local stops.
“Wow, thanks,” she says as she straightens her skirt and hair.
“I’ll leave first,” I devise. “Count to ten before you follow me.”
I make my way back to my seat, aware that no one has apparently seen the trick we’ve shared. The train takes on its Stamford passengers and, as people shuffle to their seats, I see her make her way down the aisle among the throng. To my complete surprise, she exclaims, “Dad! You made it!” Girlishly, she plops down in the seat next to an older gentleman. He gives her a hug and she plants a kiss on his cheek.
“Yes,” he answers. “And I was almost beginning to think you hadn’t left the city yet.”
She giggles, letting out an exasperated yet very feminine, “Oh, Daddy!” It was the kind of exclamation girls use to wrap their fathers around their little fingers.
“So how’s your semestre going?” he asks.
“Great! You can’t imagine all the new people I’m meeting and all the adventures I’m having.”
Amazing, but she sees me then, sitting further down train. She lets loose a huge, beaming smile and I realize that, if not for anonymity, I could become just as tangled around her finger as her father, but in a completely different way.
They chat for a time, father and daughter reunited, before he turns to his Wall Street daily and she takes to listening to mp3s. I realized that, mystery solved, doing it on the train was taboo-breaking for her because she’s on Daddy’s territory. I smile, sit back, and think about the juice that’s dried on my hand.
Then it happens to me. I get a message.
“Toothin’?”
“Yeah.”
“Figured. Saw you.”
“Huh?”
“With the girl.”
I pause. Another send comes my way.
“Two cars back, between.”
I get up, gathering up my stuff, and make my way through the next two cars, trying to balance myself as the train rumbles and sways. I don’t have the sea legs for this, but if getting this much sex is always this easy, I sure could be tempted to commute by train more often.
When I reach the designated area, I find it’s too noisy for my solitary ways despite being enclosed. If not for the intriguing invitation, I wouldn’t have stopped there. And I find myself alone with a guy, someone I’d consider a “suit”, another boring businessman. His button-down appearance, I don’t like but his audacious inquiry? That, I find attractive.
“Rough week?” I yell his way. “Want relief?”
He nods. I make my way into his pants and grasp the growing cock that waits me there. I don’t take it out; that would put us on the indecent side of the law and, besides, there’s something wildly clandestine and covert about doing a hand job inside a guy’s pants. I can feel that he’s uncut and as I pull back his foreskin and start to stroke him, I sidle up to his ear.
“This is what I did with her.”
He shudders slightly.
“Except I had her wet hole.”
He moans. Good – he likes dirty chat.
“She rode me hard. She was a whelp of a whore.”
Getting into it, he thrusts into my hand. I like that; it tells me what rhythm he needs to get off.
“You wouldn’t believe the tits on that girl.”
I tease him with my knowledge of her.
“Pierced, pink nipples.”
He groans.
“A hole so tight, it could only take two of my fingers.”
His cock surges in my hand. He’s close. This, I realize, is going to be a quickie.
“And when she came, she left my hand sopping wet.”
“Oh, God,” he mutters. I don’t hear the words distinctly, but I know their intonation well enough to grasp what he said.
“Her juice is still all over my hand – the hand I’m beating you off with.”
I don’t have to exhort him any further to get my hand wet with his come. The very idea that the hand which touched her is now jerking him off is enough to make him lose it. He turns beet red, utters a quick groan, and starts shooting in his pants, two, three, four squirts of come. I catch some of it on my hand. Pervert that I am, I want both him and her on my hand. I can’t imagine two better mementoes to take from these unexpected, unplanned quickies.
When his orgasm fades, I take my hand from his pants, careful to keep his runny come on me.
“I’m taking this with me,” I tell him.
He straightens his clothing and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish you could take me with you, too.” He tells me this is the first time toothing’s ever worked for him. I don’t tell him that I’m a novice as well. Instead, I ask him which stop he gets off on, ludicrous pun and all. “Westport,” he divulges.
I dig out my PDA and tooth him my email address – as best I can one handed, that is.
“Maybe we’ll meet again someday.”
It’s a promise predicated on a word: maybe. Who knows if he’ll have the courage to meet me again. Where we’re all brave sexual explorers online, we’re just as often absolute cowards in real life. And pressing the flesh successfully once in person doesn’t mean you won’t chicken out if given repeated opportunities.
Ah, you see? Even in fantasy, reality bleeds in! Still, I imagine what it would be like to have my hand caked with his come and her dried juices. Would both draw tight on my skin? Would the smell of their sexes combine and give a lasting, musky fragrance to my hand? Would I beg o
ff washing it “ever again” and thus promote their bodily fluids to celebrity status? Or would I keep them with me only as long as memories of our meetings stay fresh in my mind?
Yes, it’s a lovely fantasy, “toothing” a series of sexual adventures, cruising my way home in more ways than one. I finish my tea and lean back in my seat. I close my eyes and again my imagination wanders.
I imagine I’m home, perhaps reading, perhaps on the laptop, lost in thought and enjoying the peace and quiet I’ve carved out for myself. But my cell phone lies close and when the opening theme from Dvorak’s New World Symphony sounds, I know my lover is calling. To my surprise, it’s a brief text message, in shorthand no less: LUVST. No polite, tentative introduction, no hopeful inquiry, but a very clear message, one which means he’ll unceremoniously fuck me upon arrival. I set aside what I’m doing, undress, and make myself ready for him. I bend forward over the back of my love seat and spread my legs just enough to await his cock.
I suppose most women would find this scenario terribly sexist or, at the very least, thoroughly unromantic, but I find it absolutely thrilling. Waiting to get fucked is far more delicious than people are willing to admit.
I stand there, anticipating. The exposed nature of this position and its readiness make me wet. I wonder how long it will be before I hear him enter my apartment, before I hear his steps approach my willing body. Then, those most exquisite sounds of all: that of his zipper in motion and his gasp of delight when he enters me.
Jump forward: he’s there, entering me. When he seats himself fully in me, he hikes me further over the edge of the sofa. My feet are off the floor now, dangling, and he pulls my hands behind my back and tells me to “keep them there”. It’s a helpless position, but it’s one that’s highly attractive to him. In this state, I’m totally available to him. I cannot escape what he wants.
He begins to fuck me and he works me as perfectly in this fantasy as I did the others on the train. He plunders me with an utterly single-minded focus, and that’s what I find thrilling – that he’s willing to use me to achieve just one simple goal, to come.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 28
