“Spread them. Now,” Fiona demands, voice dripping with desire and control.
Instantly, K.C. obeys, grabbing a handful of plump ass cheeks and gingerly pulling them apart. I nearly topple off my chair, looking, desiring.
Fiona brings the brush down hard on K.C.’s right cheek. It wiggles, K.C. releases a surprised whimper, and my breath catches in my throat. Oh, yes! The sound is intoxicating, the picture mind-blowing, the sound pussy clenching.
Whack! Whack!
Both cheeks jiggle now. Fiona gives it to her again. And again. We all lean forward, observing the slow purplish red burn under K.C.’s hot cocoa skin.
“Aaaw! Damn, Fee. God forbid I really piss you off!”
Pop! Pop! Smack!
“It’s Miss Fiona to you, love.” Then she reaches for the yarn and nods to Mimi to assist her. “Tie this mouthy wench’s wrists to her ankles and leave a space in the middle so I can get back to the task at hand, please, darling.”
“Howard, don’t you agree this angel’s a mess? Am I wrong?”
Howard bobs his head, bottom lip tremulous, dick bulging purple.
“Thank you.” Fiona caresses K.C.’s succulent globes and whines, “See, baby, even your hubby thinks you deserve breakfast in bed tomorrow, on that luscious wooden breakfast tray, with flowers.”
“Yes, Miss Fiona,” K.C. moans, wrists softly bound with colorful yarn. “Whatever you say. Brunch in bed sounds delicious.”
“Perfect. Now, be quiet and moan prettily.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fiona can’t seem to get enough of caressing K.C.’s tender plumpness, so she taps that ass now, lightly, before coming down with the flat end of the brush in a shower of stinging blows. K.C.’s sighs, moans, and pleas saturate the softly muted living room air.
“Come here, Neco,” Fiona coos at me in a seductive whisper. She sucks the fuchsia butt plug into her bow-cup mouth, pushes it in and out slowly, until its silky wet.
“Here, put this in place, and make sure it doesn’t shoot out, okay?”
A wicked smile on my lips, I say Ok. Just inhaling the salacious play between two polar opposite women, gorgeous in every way, turns me on.
I shove the pretty plug into K.C.’s puckered orifice and pause and pull it out and push it in again, and she lets go with a spicy moan that contributes to the gush of cum soaking my briefs. Damn! A beautiful, bound, willing woman is hot as hell! The plug stays in, and I return to the posh beige carpet, incinerated.
Next Fiona picks up the purple paddle. She examines it first, like she can’t believe how cute it is, and when we least expect it, it rains licks on K.C.’s softness: pop, bam, slap, tap, whop, ouch, oooh!
The music of pleasure and pain, mingled, is sensational.
We draw in closer, falling deeper into the scene. “How do you feel, Boo?”
“Won . . . der . . . ful!” K.C. manages.
Down comes the paddle in a purple flash on both cheeks, softer, this time, but with equal swiftness and pressure. “They can’t hear you, my love!”
“I said, ‘Wonderful, Miss Fiona!’”
“Great! Now tell them what you want me to have someone do?”
“To me, Miss Fiona?”
Whack! “Of course to you, precious.”
“Ooooh, yes, ma’am.”
Fiona is eccentric. I’ve never seen this side of her, never knew she had it in her to exhibit dominatrix characteristics, and I’ve made love to her a thousand times.
“I . . . I . . . I.”
Splat! Ping! Sting! “What?”
“I want someone to . . . to . . . eat me, please.”
“Good, Beauty. Our thoughts run similar tracks. All your nectar is seeping onto my thighs, and we mustn’t waste it.” She cuts a passionate, half-mast gaze at Mimi, and the sepia-toned, pint-sized knockout with a single braided ponytail, thickly nappy, the pixie-sweet face smiling, crawls to Fiona and peers up through thick lashes, doll baby precious.
“Ma’am?”
Fiona pats the sofa, near K.C.’s bent knees, “Satisfy the sistah’s request. Lick her pussy, before she soaks the sofa with this juicy stickiness. Hurry! Or I’ll have your sweet tuna roll next.”
Fiona strokes Mimi’s head and allows her hand to float down to her jaw and neck and shoulders. Kisses fall on Mimi’s ear. Fee pulls her into the gap between K.C.’s parted thighs and we all stare, consumed. Greedily, Mimi begins slurping K.C.’s streaming honey, but Fiona stops her abruptly and reddens K.C.’s ass to burnished claret. Then she double-checks the butt plug, and guides Mimi’s lips to K.C.’s thighs, and pussy, and the slurping is a thrilling sound track to the tantalizing scene.
“Oh, goodness,” K.C. moans, “oooh, mmm, I’m coming.”
“No, not now.” Fiona orders, the brush meaning business.
K.C. trembles and strains to stop the tide of emotion flooding her but can’t.
“Stop!” More whacks jump both cheeks simultaneously.
“I . . . I . . . I’m tryin—”
I am drowning in wetness when K.C. releases. Everybody exhales. Breathing is the only sound. Flushed, I reach for the nearest woman. It’s Mimi, who turns to pudding in my embrace, and I strip her hurriedly and devour her whole, gobbling her teeny-tiny breasts. She tastes salty, and citrusy. I leave a trail of kisses from her navel to her lips and smother her face and neck in soft kisses. I lick her up and down, then stay down, and position her spread-eagle across floor pillows piled high in one corner. When she climaxes four or five times, I let her up for air, cuddle her, stroke her joints, and gaze around the room.
Rusty, wide-shouldered with powerful thighs, is banging Fiona, who, while taking it doggy style, is draped across Howard’s face. His eyes are closed, his moans coming around her pussy. Fiona deep breathes and grabs at the air. In the far corner of the living room, Derek has Layla up against the sofa back, in my favorite position for her, with her legs stretching east to west, him kissing and licking her enough for three men.
It’s well past one when we finally untangle ourselves and trudge upstairs to our beguilingly beautiful rooms.
* * *
True to her word, K.C. has organized a Saturday brunch for the stars. The ladies let their culinary talents do the talking while Rusty, Howard, Derek and I sleep late. Tempting aromas of sausages and pancakes and cheese eggs and cheese grits—forget the cholesterol for a moment—and diced fruit lure me to the shower. On the back porch, we’re all starved after a night of delirious play, but the view rivals even the food.
The girls are dressed to the nines in pussy pumps and matching ribbons. Lady Layla showcases sunflower yellow, the satiny ribbon a pretty choker about her graceful neck and hanging like tails above her ass. Mimi sports a sexy look with her breasts outlined in orange ribbon matching burnt-orange, stunner stilettos. Fiona offers a lengthy white ribbon around her waist and tied in a bow above her ass, the white pussy pumps with a skinny silver heel, all class.
“Where’s K.C.?” I ask.
Howard laughs. “In the bed. With an ice pack on her ass.”
On cue, K.C. tips downstairs, in pink pumps and a tiny pink bowtie, pink cuff links, and, get this, one Velcro-ed to her bush, with coordinating ties around her ankles. Too cute.
After brunch and a sexy fashion show, K.C. announces we have a half hour to be dressed and standing on the porch, ready to hop the cab she’d called an hour ago.
“Folks, the evening’s surprise promises to be better than Fiona’s little charade that astonished even her.”
K.C. laughs and kisses Fiona. And everybody bum-rushes the stairs.
Later, we are back at the Toronto Harbour, but this time, we board The Wayward Princess, a 92-foot cruiser with the capacity to accommodate 325 passengers. Fresh Canadian breezes kiss our faces and play in our hair as we congregate on the top, enclosed deck, admiring the shimmering water and amazing skyline. Then at Layla’s suggestions, we boogie down on an open-air dance floor and ride the waves big time. Eventually, we s
ettle down to a fully catered dinner, listening to a sexy female DJ spin one romantic cut after another.
“K.C., you’ve outdone yourself, lover! Shucks, this warrants you a play session with me tonight,” Howard said from his 6’2” height back at the B&B. “I enjoyed that, though I’m dog tired.”
“Getting old, Big Daddy?” K.C. snuggles under his arm. “The evening’s young.”
Then she spins around, addresses everyone, and begins spilling out of her clothes to topple onto a soft recliner. “Listen up! Get showered for the next part. I want you back here within the hour. And no peeking downstairs until I rap on each door.”
I love her pirouettes. She does one and faces Howard. “Hell, no, sweetie. You and no one else will whip this gorgeous ass any time soon. If another ass gets whipped this weekend, I’ll do it. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Howard agrees. “Everybody, to your rooms!”
I break up laughing. That K.C. knows how to make him feel powerful.
* * *
K.C.’s soft rap comes about 7:15 p.m., and when I hear it, I grab Layla’s hand and hurry her downstairs, or else we’ll be another twenty minutes, easily.
In the living room, we stand in a wonderland of hanging stars, golden tinsel, bright boas, floral arrangements and varied mirrors. When did the woman have the time and inclination to organize this, and she’s supposed to be on vacation like the rest of us?
There are trays of fruits and crackers and cheese and slivers of desserts. Silver wine canisters chill bottles of champagne and wine and wine coolers. Delicate goblets tinkle from hooks around the canisters.
Like Layla and me, as the others enter the enchanted space, laughter and conversation dry up instantly.
Music, a big-band number reminiscent of Porgy and Bess, vibrates the room, and confetti rides the air. Everything tinkles. Then, in slinks a sexy, masked vixen; arrayed in glitter from her russet gown to her fabulous blood-red feathery headdress. I am in awe and watch the tanned curves of the burlesque star’s hips as she bends and bows and pouts, Mariah Carey sexy. Yeah, I can get with this!
Her dance leaves me intoxicated and wanting more; especially when the Vixen begins a mesmerizing strip tease that reduces her to crimson pasties on her nipples and a dazzling scarlet g-string.
“Yeah, yeah!” Rusty shouts, sitting low in his seat and stroking Mimi’s back.
“Bring it, baby! I said bring the damn thang!” This time Derek hollers. “Wow! Great show, baby girl!” Then to his wife, “Fiona Honey, where’s my tip?”
K.C. rises, smoothing her gossamer gown. “No, Rusty Lusty, not now. Mommy’s going to give everybody a small gift for being such an astonishing audience.”
She gives us a beauty-queen smile and adds, “Starting with Dr. Neco Young. That okay, doctor?”
“Believe it,” I say, grinning and unbuckling my belt.
In a flash, the burlesque star floats to me, slips to her knees, and makes short business of getting me out of my pants. I scoot down and widen my thighs, giving her full access. Blue eyes regale mine. Burgundy lips swallow my clit. Soft white hands flutter up my hips to my waist. A wet tongue trails moisture from my thighs to my fingertips.
At this point, the vixen lifts her mask, and I stare into a passion-drenched face. How could this be? I nearly snap my legs shut, but clutching me, she has me. And she’s got skills. Damn it! My vision clouds. But I refuse to moan so I grunt, push her head backward, and sigh.
It’s Deni Epps, and the heifer is phenomenal.
After an eternity of giving exquisite head, she gets up and walks Layla to me; has Layla to straddle my lap, her back to my chest, so she can devour us both. Savor a mixing of the nectar.
That woman might have eaten us all night if the others hadn’t begun playfully complaining and threatening to snap pictures for our faculty meeting for the coming Wednesday. I grasp Layla’s waist, her back to my chest, thighs atop mine, to keep me from losing my natural mind. That slut is good!
Later, I ask K.C. how the hell she knew Deni Epps. Of course she gives me that sultry “I’ll never tell” K.C. smile. But the world is really rather small. Though she clocks me constantly, I never imagined Deni in the lifestyle.
“It’s Neco and Layla’s turn to plan our next weekend!” K.C. announces at the end of the evening, as Layla and I trudge upstairs with Deni between us.
“Hope ya’ll like our basement,” I tease, and Howard tackles me from behind.
Upstairs in our boudoir, Deni is lying naked across our bed, showing off those long sexy legs, parting them spread-eagle wide, her pussy pumps prancing on air. The wife and I can hardly wait to have her to ourselves.
“I brought those pictures of Las Vegas, but I’ll narrate them in the morning. Oh, and I want to share a business opportunity with unlimited, residual income when we get back to D.C., okay?” she asks. Layla and I look at one another and nod, agreeing simultaneously. “It involves wellness and referral marketing.”
“Wait,” Layla says, “I don’t do that anymore.”
“I guarantee you’ve never done this, sweetheart. Just give me two hours when we get back. Okay?”
“Okay,” Layla agrees, reaching for our feathers and silver bullets.
“Okay,” I concur. “This may just be the answer I’m seeking.”
“Yes, my love, but right now I’d much rather we give Layla another stellar performance.”
Deni straps on a double-headed strap-on. Laughing, I nestle in pillows and wait.
Then Deni goes to work . . . and the hair on Layla’s kitty kat stands up stick straight.
Dez Moinez
By Alicia Night Orchid
There she was, my wife of four years, Mary Beth, on her hands and knees and naked. A man named Wayne hunkered over her, his cock plying the tight pucker of her sweet ass. Another man, Noah, stood beside her. She lifted her pretty face to his erection as he thrust between her lips. Beneath her, I could make out the long, lean legs of Noah’s wife, Brianna. She fingered herself, squirmed, and busied her mouth on Mary Beth’s clit. Wayne’s wife, Katie, knelt behind Noah. She spread his cheeks and licked his drooping balls from behind.
Mary Beth glimpsed me out of the corner of her eye. She ceased sucking long enough to nod at Katie’s glistening vulva. Her desire was clear.
She wanted me to fuck the other woman, while she serviced both men.
* * *
We met on the leafy campus of a sprawling Midwestern University. A journalism major, Mary Beth lived on the honors floor of the last remaining all-woman’s dormitory. I lived off-campus in a run-down apartment and doggedly pursued a law degree. Mary Beth was seated at a table in the undergraduate library. She wore a neatly pressed blouse and jeans. Her blonde hair fell like a curtain on delicate shoulders. Her blue eyes shined with an intense curiosity. I wore chinos I should have tossed out a year earlier and a faded polo shirt with a stain. I could have used a shave and a haircut.
I spent an hour trying to figure out a masterpiece of an opening line. Finally, I shouldered my backpack and crossed the space between us. “Excuse me,” I said.
She looked up, eyes wide, a smile playing on full lips that covered teeth so white they seemed to glow. It struck me that a thousand guys a day probably asked her out, and I forgot my line.
“Yes.”
“Hi, I’m Billy Wisniewski.”
“Billy, who?” That smile never left her lips.
“Wisniewski. Anyway, I’m a law student and I’ve been studying for like twenty-four hours straight and if I don’t get a cup of coffee, I’m going to pass out. I thought maybe . . .”
“What’s that stain on your shirt?”
“Ketchup. Or maybe pizza.”
“Why do you want to buy me coffee?”
“Because you’re beautiful and I’m too distracted to study, and if I can’t get past this, I’ll never graduate and pass the bar exam.”
She closed her book. “I don’t drink coffee, but a Chai Tea Latte will work.”
* * *
We had no business being together. Her parents traced their heritage to the Pilgrims, while I was descended from a long line of hard-headed Poles. She grew up on Chicago’s genteel north shore, her father a banking executive, her mother an English teacher at an elite private high school. I hailed from Bridgeport, a stone’s throw from Comiskey Park. My old man ran a beer distributorship and a numbers racket. My mother consumed soap operas and romance novels at the same pace she demolished quarts of ice cream and bags of Cheetos.
Even so, for all her beauty and smarts, Mary Beth didn’t get asked out as much as I’d thought. Pretty was one thing. Smart was another. But the combination of Mary Beth’s pretty and smart scared off most guys
I was either too ignorant or arrogant to take the hint.
My plan was to bring her along slowly, convince her I was interested in her mind, her heart, her soul, before turning my attention to those firm breasts and what I imagined to be a moist, tight pussy.
Our first date, I took her to a movie then returned her to her dorm with no more than a polite peck on the cheek. Our second date, I pushed my credit card to the limit with dinner at a nice restaurant. Our lips briefly touched at the evening’s end, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Our third date, we returned to the library, then went out for coffee and Chai Tea. Later, when we kissed, I ran my tongue over her lips.
To my surprise, her tongue greeted mine. Mouth to mouth, we dueled like pirates. She pressed her breasts into my chest and sharp nipples speared me. My hands slid down her back and grasped her round little butt. Her pelvis ground against my thigh and I went hard as a tire iron.
Someone walked past and growled, “Get a room.”
Mary Beth giggled. When I tried to step away, she held on. “What do you want with me, Billy Wisniewski?”
SWING! Adventures in Swinging by Today's Top Erotica Writers Page 31
