Random Acts of Lust

by Primula Bond

  Chloe flapped about setting up her portable light boxes and umbrellas. As she bent to unzip the carry bags her little skirt flipped over her bottom and she regretted going commando again. But that’s what the Manhattan heat did to her. She liked to feel it pounding off the sidewalks, off the skyscrapers, off the honking yellow taxis, and up her legs to a place that was even hotter.

  ‘Madonna’s book? You mean the English roses?’ She turned, tugging her skirt down. But they weren’t staring up it. Mrs Weinmeyer had hooked one leg over Mr Weinmeyer’s muscular thigh, and they were kissing. Slowly, with their tongues visible poking in and out of each other’s mouths, stiff and hard, like they were licking ice cream.

  Chloe stared for a moment, then started shooting.

  Mr Weinmeyer’s hand slid up his wife’s leg and under her negligee, peeling it back over her bottom, showing Chloe her beautiful thighs and buttock and the brief shadow of her pussy. Then he reclined against the huge pillows, lifting her easily on top of him.

  Mrs Weinmeyer stopped kissing him for a moment and sat up to glance coquettishly over her shoulder at Chloe. Her lips were painted dark red today, but were wet with saliva. ‘The photographic book Madonna did with Meisel, the one acting out her fantasies? It was called Sex. Oh God, maybe Chloe’s too young to remember all that, Ernst?’

  He didn’t answer. Just smiled up at her. He fanned his hands over her bottom and started to rock her gently, lovingly, but very, very sexily. Chloe could see Mrs Weinmeyer’s white bottom opening slightly as she let him move her over his groin, the dark dividing sliver of violet showing as her body opened and closed.

  Chloe hands shook, and she lowered her camera for a moment.

  ‘No, no, keep shooting, Chloe.’ Mrs Weinmeyer was breathless. But she kept her blue eyes on Chloe. Her thighs softened, opening a little wider. ‘You know, I wanted to audition to be in that book? For one of the girl-on-girl scenarios? That would have been my fantasy. Touching Madonna. Oh, yes, there were pictures of her being licked by girls, pictures of her licking girls, pictures of her crouched over a big mirror, watching her touch herself – you shocked at me, Chloe?’

  Chloe swallowed, but couldn’t speak. Mr Weinmeyer lifted his wife off him for a moment and in one clean movement she whipped his shorts off and landed lightly down again, sliding straight onto his cock.

  ‘But maybe I was too white, you see, Chloe. Too blonde. Too like her, in fact. Because in the end, they used a beautiful black girl.’

  Weird shocked laughter caught in Chloe’s throat as her camera caught the white shorts flying through the air, Mrs Weinmeyer’s long pale arm flinging them away as she arched herself at her husband’s cock. Mrs Weinmeyer laughed, too. She was like one of those riders on a bucking bronco, waving her cowboy hat, but what the pair were doing was so quiet, so graceful, like a dance in slow motion, you still couldn’t call it dirty.

  Could you? She still thanked God for hiding behind her camera. Because what was going on through the lens was red hot. All the hotter for being framed. Her legs were buckling with lust as Mrs Weinmeyer lay on top of Mr Weinmeyer, her body sliding over his cock as it went up into her. Chloe stepped round them as quietly as she could, her camera seeing, catching, blinking, shooting, her body tightening at the sight of this elegant, white-limbed couple entwining in front of her, frozen for all those moments, then slowly starting to fuck each other on the white opium bed floating in its glass room above New York Burning out there with all those lights. All those eyes.

  She realised they had stopped moving. They were posed, like a marble statue, Mrs Weinmeyer welded to Mr Weinmeyer’s cock.

  ‘Hey, Chloe,’ cooed Mrs Weinmeyer, beckoning with her white fingers. ‘Come over here. All this lovin’ making you horny?’

  ‘Honey,’ growled Mr Weinmeyer, his eyes closed, ‘you’re coming on all southern belle –’

  She laughed softly. ‘And I prefer it when you come on all silent Aryan beefcake. And I like Chloe all shy and bespectacled. So, going to come round this side of the camera, Chloe?’

  ‘Just for a break, maybe.’

  Chloe perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed and took a glug of Krug but the cushions were so soft that she fell into it, spilling champagne on her blouse. Mr Weinmeyer rolled away, leaving Mrs Weinmeyer lying where he had been and Chloe falling on top of her.

  Mrs Weinmeyer reached up and removed Chloe’s spectacles, pulling her closer before she could wriggle away, and now she was on her hands and knees, crouching over her supine, sultry client, her hot, bare pussy clenching furiously, threatening to drip its sticky honey over Mrs Weinmeyer’s flat, white stomach. Chloe hovered there for a moment, looking down at her. Mrs Weinmeyer was so beautiful and pale in the cool lighting, Manhattan piercing the skies all around.

  ‘Oh, spilled some did you?’ Then Mrs Weinmeyer yanked off Chloe’s little blouse, pulled her down towards her and brushed her bare breasts across her closed eyelids.

  ‘Mrs Weinmeyer, what are you – what do you want me to –?’

  ‘Just relax, honey. Just indulge us. Indulge yourself. We do this all the time. Always looking for lovely young women to join us. You ever done this before, honey, with two people? A husband and wife?’ She smiled, lips red and wet. ‘Been paid for it?’

  ‘No, not for this. You’re not paying me for sex. You’re paying me for my work –’

  ‘Absolutely, and marvellous work it is, too, darling. We’ll want all the shots. But right now? We want you.’

  Chloe was losing. Mrs Weinmeyer caressed the rounded flesh of her soft young breasts with the merest touch of a butterfly, tickling with her fingertips, her eyelashes, even her hair. Chloe realised she was holding her breath. She was also arching her back, thrusting her tits towards Mrs Weinmeyer’s mouth, and thrusting her bottom into the air where Mr Weinmeyer must be getting a good, silent eyeful.

  Her nipples, exposed in the pinprick lighting, exposed for God’s sake to anyone either side of the park who happened to be looking out of a penthouse level window, were sharp and burning as she waited for the other woman’s lips, a woman’s lips, to fold round them.

  So this was the magic of Manhattan. She could never go back to London again.

  Mrs Weinmeyer studied her for a while, all of her, like she was a tasty morsel, and then her red lips parted and her tongue flickered out, just touching one burning nipple before flickering in again. Chloe moaned out loud, embarrassed, frustrated. And so incredibly turned on.

  From behind her, Mr Weinmeyer planted his hands on her bottom and stroked it, and now he was spreading open her cheeks. Chloe squealed, blushing red with humiliation, but she couldn’t get away because now Mrs Weinmeyer was sucking her nipple into her lovely red mouth. Mr Weinmeyer parted her cheeks roughly with strong, eager fingers, making the dividing flesh sting, and then he paused, as if for permission.

  Mrs Weinmeyer, her mouth full of Chloe’s nipple, gave one sharp nod.

  He prodded his knob into the warm, dark crevice inside Chloe’s cheeks. He let it rest there for a moment. Chloe couldn’t permit or refuse. She was already far away on a sea of ecstasy as Mrs Weinmeyer massaged her breasts and gently sucked first one aching nipple, then the other. Chloe hung on the intense moment of waiting between the two of them. She knew that each would take whichever part of her they wanted the most.

  So Mr Weinmeyer felt his way further in. He shoved a finger roughly inside her tight hole, sliding it from side to side as it puckered and resisted until her arse went loose and let it in, opening softly and wetly and making her gasp with the embarrassment and novelty and filthiness of it. Then he obviously couldn’t help himself, because he followed his finger with another, and then with the tip of his prick, knocking Chloe forwards with shock and with the force of it as her body tried to repel him but in he went, pressing her harder against Mrs Weinmeyer’s mouth.

  He grunted with triumph and started, very slowly, as with everything else he and his wife did, to fuck her bottom.

  As he p
ushed himself inch by inch inside her, Mrs Weinmeyer now trailed her fingers down to Chloe’s pussy, which was fighting the spasms of pleasure already overpowering her, and gently slid inside, opening up that part of her, too, and pushing her long fingers inside.

  Chloe moaned loudly, rocking between the two Weinmeyers, and urgently she wanted to touch Mrs Weinmeyer, discover what another woman felt like. Bizarrely she imagined her to be cool and dry, like she was on the outside, but as soon as her fingertips brushed over the soft, wet crack of her nude pussy, it reacted like a second mouth, sucking greedily at her fingers.

  ‘Yes, honey, yes,’ Mrs Weinmeyer breathed, lifting herself slightly, still licking Chloe’s nipples, so that Chloe’s fingers slipped easily inside. Oh, yes. Far from being cool and dry she was hot and wet in there, fever-ready. Chloe felt the new, kinky power, so different, so subtle, of making another female want her.

  As fingers and cocks went in and out of sighing, writhing bodies, Chloe was no longer torn between the Weinmeyers. They both wanted her, and she wanted both of them. She made them content just by climbing onto the bed with them, and they were both going to satisfy her, too. She plunged three fingers roughly inside Mrs Weinmeyer, letting her thumb trail behind until it caught the little nub of her clitoris, and then, as if she’d been doing this all her life, she rubbed brutally hard, making Mrs Weinmeyer fall back, biting her lips with pleasure and rubbing equally brutally at Chloe’s clit, plunging her long fingers rapidly in and out of her photographer’s cunt.

  Mr Weinmeyer, strong and silent behind her, fucked her arse, making it clench round his cock, gripping him in there as it hurt and yet felt fantastic and made sparks of evil pleasure dash through her.

  She felt a demonic grin stretching her face as Mrs Weinmeyer started to writhe and buck frantically on her fingers, just as she was writhing and bucking on her fingers. They were like mirror images, the older woman on the girl, eat your heart out Madonna, and the girl still opening herself to Mr Weinmeyer’s forcing, thrusting cock.

  ‘Ah, Christ, I’m ready, honey,’ Mrs Weinmeyer breathed suddenly into the jazz-sweetened air. ‘Ah can’t hold it, wanna come –’

  ‘So do it,’ Chloe gasped, shocked at the coarseness in her voice. ‘Fucking do me!’

  The wave was there, ready to crash inside her, and her moaning seemed to trigger the other two, so that all three rocked and writhed and pushed and groaned, until one by one they came, hands gripping, cock thrusting, pussies weeping, panting loudly, saying nothing, and then when they’d had more champagne they did it again, and again, until they were a sweating, panting heap on the tangled sheets as the first pink finger of dawn edged between the high buildings outside and stroked the glass walls.

  And Chloe felt another layer of innocence falling away into the shadowy mansion below.

  Skylar

  ALL THE LIGHTS AND bridges and gables are starting to merge and blur. It’s dusk. I haven’t got my glasses. I can hardly breathe after hurrying over endless cobbles. I wouldn’t normally dress like this, or wear these ridiculous shag-me shoes, but I have a rendezvous with my lover, and now I’m late.

  When I came out of the Centraal station nearly two hours ago I was supposed to get a taxi or a tram but something made me hesitate. Within minutes I was allowing myself to be pushed with the human tide into a maze of enticing streets, some so narrow you could touch the sides. There were bright lights and the kind of heart-rate heavy music that beats in time with humping.

  Somewhere in the city beyond was the Rijksmuseum. Van Gogh’s working boots. The hotel. I had to get there. But right here in front of me were shops crammed with toys, books, videos and posters catering for every appetite. Dazzling, blinding lights and signs clamouring for me to come see a live show, watch the girls, sex sex sex, try, see, do, buy.

  My eyes flickered, trying to avoid at first but then staring openly at the occasional flash of a pink cunt in a magazine, an over-sized cock arrowing into a pair of plump splayed buttocks. Soon I was stepping right inside one or two of the shops, picking things up and fondling them. The whips, handcuffs, great curved dildoes. They were stark and plastic, garishly artificial, brutally anatomical – and the more I looked the more I wanted to lift up my new, elegant, frilled skirt and push one of those false cocks, maybe the over-sized black one with the bulbous knob, up between my legs, maybe stand there in the shop, legs splayed, and show everyone how well it fitted, how high up it went, how wildly it made me shake.

  Then I remembered the real cock that was, is, waiting for me at the hotel, zipped up for the moment behind the tailored pinstripes. He is on business, after all. It should have turned me on, standing in a sex shop and thinking about the moment when Ernst would acknowledge my arrival in his usual silent way, then walk ahead of me into the lift, silently. Silently unlock the bedroom door. And only when we were inside – he would have chosen the raspberry and elephant grey room with the curtained four-poster and the elegant canal sliding past outside – would he slam me against the wall for our first fuck of the weekend.

  But thinking about that, the unzipping of his trousers, the glint of his wedding ring – Christ, my wedding ring – all the complications, only made me want these false toys even more, thick and hard, rubber, who cared, so long as they pleasured me. I wanted one pumping up me, hurting me, to clear my head.

  But of course I didn’t do any of it. Even in the middle of the red light district I behaved like the lady everyone thinks I am, my husband, my sons, I kept all that dark longing to myself. OK. I admit I did handle some of those dildos and vibrators far more enthusiastically than most uptight female customers might have done. And one or two people started to watch me. Men, mostly. Maybe they could smell the slut under the silk.

  And they could see my hips moving very slightly, as I stood in front of the displays, to that deep, sexy, primeval, upmarket stripper music. There was a pulse beating inside me, responding to all that stimulation, pumping out my arousal, and God, I was so restless.

  That’s when I got lost. I told myself I was excited at the thought of our assignation, but I was distracted. There was a quiet parade down beside a pretty canal and I darted down there. Purple and orange migraine-inducing neon gave way to scented muted window boxes, autumnal flowers releasing their evening perfume, and then I was walking along another, wider canal, with barges parked up, full of tulips, my favourite flower.

  Elegant buildings stretched skywards, all different pastel colours and gables, some with doors at roof level for loading something mysterious in or out of a barge below.

  But the hotel wasn’t here. These were all private town houses. Each painted door was bolted against strangers. They all had big square windows, though, mostly shuttered, very clean, some showing kitchens or ornate wooden living rooms, the domestic side of the city, politely shutting out visitors.

  One window invited me to stop, though. Really stop, linger, and look. In the window was a riotous display of sumptuous underwear.

  Creamy satin knickers, midnight-blue camisoles, uplifting wine-red bras with spaghetti-thin straps, mean black basques, sheer pink stockings and see-through negligees were all heaped abundantly in mounds or drifted artfully from slender chrome shelving, urging me to reach in and feel the expensive silk, satin, lace, slither between my stroking fingers.

  Not an iota of brutal phallic painted plastic, or rubber. No instrument of torture in sight.

  In the centre of the window, lit by one spot, a voluptuous, pale mannequin reclined on a jade green velvet chaise longue, one shapely long leg raised like a ballerina’s to show the sheen of its black silk stocking. Above a flat stomach and tiny waist, making me suck mine in, large breasts billowed out of a froth of black lace. One strap fell off one shoulder. I thought I saw it shrug suggestively.

  I blinked. The movement drew my gaze up over the mannequin’s pale throat to a pair of wide, pouting lips, glistening blood-red as if they’d just been licked. Green eyes, like mine but round not almond-shaped, glittered under
the baby spotlight. Auburn hair, just like mine, was cut short in a kind of flapper’s bob, and gleamed against the sharp cheekbones.

  As I stared, the mannequin’s luscious breasts started heaving as if she, it, was breathing. More enticingly, the nipples grew hard, poking through the lace work of her bra. The green eyes closed, and opened again. And one arm lifted. I swear the figure in the window was beckoning to me.

  I glanced around, thinking this display was meant for someone else. My heart was pounding. But the only other people moving in the lamp-lit street were a group of rangy boys with blond surfer hair, free-wheeling their whirring bikes over the nearest bridge and into the shadows.

  When I turned round, the mannequin’s arm was no longer beckoning. The green eyes were surely made of glass. But my reflection in the polished window was wild-eyed. I could taste blood from my bitten lower lip. And the pulse in my pussy was still going.

  So my feet are killing me, I’m seeing things, and also I’m panicking. It’s not like he’s a monster or anything, but I’m two hours late.

  My hip bumps the handlebar of a bicycle as I stumble up on to the bridge where the boys went, and for a moment I stop and look down into the canal. There’s a boat, full of tourists and harsh striplight, cruising right under me.

  Like royalty we’ve travelled separately. Well, we’re meeting halfway. He’s coming from Cairo, where he’s left his wife to continue the holiday. I’ve dashed like a fugitive from London, where I’ve left Martin to, what, find another willing pussy to fuck probably. But Ernst will be pacing around the hotel room now, or more likely the plush lobby, still pale even though he’s been down the Nile for the last ten days. Always tweaking his snow-white cuffs to check the time.

  I should have known I would be useless at this infidelity lark. A quick shag from time to time with a delicious man is one thing, but this is dangerously close to a full-blown affair. It’s gone on too long, got too complicated, and now I’m lost and late and that’s my punishment.