Sweet Danger

by Violet Blue

  Full Body

  SIMON TORRIO

  After a long soak in the tub, I’m ready for a hand job. I climb out of the tub, towel off, and pass from the small hot tub area into the massage room. Even though there’s a door between them, the massage room still stinks of chlorine; it also smells vaguely of male sweat and more than a hint of mildew. I stretch out on the massage table with its threadbare sheet, dark blue so the stains won’t show. I pull the second sheet over my hard-on and flip the switch next to the table.

  You come into the massage room a moment later. I look you up and down approvingly. You’re wearing skintight red hot pants, very low cut, top button unbuttoned. Your almost see-through white halter shows off the curves of your large breasts, and the slight peaks of your nipples stretch the fabric. Your long legs are perched on gold high heels. The gold doesn’t quite match your shoulder-length hair, a badly-bleached shade of yellow slightly messed up from the last client—I guess.

  “Hi, I’m April,” you tell me, smiling.

  “Hi, April,” I say, smiling at you as I let my eyes linger over your tits and the top button of your hot pants where the low waist shows off your hips. Your tattoo of stylized green and black ivy hovers around the top of the shorts, accenting the glint of your navel ring. I wonder if I’ll find anything else pierced down below.

  You purse your full, garishly red lips, making them as kissable as possible. “A rubdown is included in the price,” you tell me, businesslike. “But if you’d like me to take off my top, it’s another fifty dollars.”

  “How much for full service?” I ask.

  “We don’t do that here,” you say, as if you’ve fielded the question a thousand times. “For me to take off my shorts, it’s seventy-five, and to see me totally nude it’s a hundred.”

  “And how much is it to fuck you?” I ask.

  “That’s not allowed,” you say. “Would you like me as I am, topless, shorts off, or fully nude?”

  “That depends,” I say. “What are you wearing under those shorts?”

  “Why don’t you pay me the seventy-five, and you can decide if you want the shorts off after you see.”

  “What if I want to fuck you?”

  “I don’t do that,” you say irritably.

  I sigh in disappointment. “The money’s on the table,” I tell you. “That should be enough to let me fuck you.”

  “I told you,” you say. “We don’t do that here.”

  “Oral? I’d love to fuck that pretty mouth of yours,” I tell you, staring hungrily.

  “No, I don’t do that, either.”

  “Then at least give me a hand job,” I smile at you innocently. “That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  “That’s not allowed either,” you tell me. “But if you’d like to finish yourself, that’s all right.”

  “Take off your clothes,” I tell you.

  You prance over to the tip table, tottering in your tacky high heels. You pick up the wad of money and count the twenty-dollar bills.

  “This is way too much,” you say.

  “I figured that’d be enough if I wanted to fuck you.”

  “I told you, I don’t do that,” you say. “But this’ll get you fully nude. And full body.”

  “Full body?”

  “I’ll climb on top of you,” you say. “Only while you’re lying on your stomach.”

  “And a hand job?”

  You look down, guiltily. Your eyes flicker up and linger for a moment on the bulge under the sheet, the hard-on I’ve had since before you walked in the room.

  “Yeah,” you say. “I can give you a release at the end.”

  “Sold,” I tell you, and you roll the three hundred dollars up tight and put it in the pocket of your shorts. You come over to me and turn your back, leaning back to show me the tie of your white halter top.

  “Will you untie me?” you ask.

  I quickly curl my arm around you, move my hand up your belly and cup your breast, squeezing the nipple gently. It’s very hard.

  “I’d rather rip it off of you,” I say.

  “That’s not allowed,” you say, pulling away. You reach behind your back and untie the halter. Stretched tight, it pops forward around your tits. As I watch, you unfasten the tie at the back of your neck and let the halter slip away from your breasts. They’re big and round, gorgeous, with nipples that are much harder than when you walked in.

  “Nice,” I say. “Now the shorts.”

  You unbutton your fly and wriggle out of your shorts, sliding them down your long legs to show me perfect hips and a crotch covered only by a tiny, cheap red lace thong. You fold the halter and shorts together and place them on the table. You stand there for me to look at, and I smile.

  “What are you waiting for?” I ask you. “Lose the thong.”

  You peel the thong away from your pussy, and I discover that you’re shaved—smooth. You’ve got a ring in your clit and a heart-shaped tattoo just above your pussy, in the shaved patch. The name across it says DADDY. I can smell your cunt in the small room, musky and sweet. My cock pulses under the sheet.

  “Roll over,” you say, edging toward the table.

  “I’d rather have you climb on top of me this way,” I say, pulling down the sheet and revealing my hard-on.

  “Uh-uh.” You shake your head. “Roll over.”

  Grudgingly, I toss the top sheet on the floor and roll onto my stomach. My hard-on presses painfully against the padded massage table. You climb on my back and straddle me, your pussy wet against the small of my back. From the moment it touches me I feel the energy throbbing into my body, electric. I’ve got to fuck you if it’s the last thing I do.

  You drape your body over mine and start to brush your big tits down my back as you grind your hips against me, rubbing your pussy against the curve of my ass. I moan softly as you dry-fuck me and stroke your erect nipples over my shoulders. As you bend forward, drawing your breasts down my back, I feel your breath hot against the back of my neck. You move down and straddle the back of one thigh, your cunt rubbing against me. Your hands trace patterns down my sides, and your breasts shudder back and forth on my skin. Your pussy rubs more firmly against the back of my thigh. I can feel the hard prick of the small ring in your clit. I can also feel your pussy getting wetter, sliding juicy up the back of my leg, leaving a cool trail of moisture. The last trick’s lube leaking out of you—or a hooker getting turned on? The way your breathing changes—quicker, almost imperceptibly—could be an act, but the hardness of your nipples couldn’t be. It’s too warm in here to explain their firmness, but not warm enough to make either of us sweat, to explain the moisture between your legs. You press your lips to the back of my neck, trailing your tongue along it—but it’s practiced, businesslike. You lift yourself onto your hands and knees above me, and I can feel the trickle of wetness you left on the back of my leg, close to my ass. You start to kiss your way down my back, your tongue barely touching me.

  I do it fast—fast enough that you don’t see it’s happening until I’ve rolled almost all the way over. By that time I’ve dislodged you from above me; you’ve lost your balance and you would have fallen if my arm hadn’t shot out and curved around your waist, catching you. When I pull you onto me, I’ve rolled over and your legs are spread around my cock, your wet pussy an inch away from it.

  Your eyes are wide, your lips parted. You’re breathing quickly.

  “There’s another two hundred in my wallet,” I tell you. “Why don’t you go get it?”

  You shake your head. “It’s not allowed.” You start to squirm away, weakly.

  My hands hold your hips, and I pull you down onto me, my cockhead nudging between your lips. Your muscles tense and you try to pull off of me, but your heart’s not in it. You’re propped on your elbows, your face close to mine. “Three hundred,” I say, and kiss you on the lips. My tongue forces its way into your mouth and I feel your tongue stud. Your tongue stays limp, loose, slack, helpless as I savage it with min
e. I lift my hips a little and the head of my cock presses moist with pre-come against your clit.

  “Four hundred,” I tell you, and reach around behind you to get hold of my cock, putting it in just the right position at the entrance to your cunt.

  Your eyes go wide, looking into mine. I want you to nod, but you can’t. You just look, breathing hard, not saying no, not saying yes.

  “Go get the money,” I tell you. “It’s in my pants pocket.”

  You shake your head weakly. “After,” you say, your voice hoarse. “We’ll do it after.”

  I pull you down onto me, and you groan as my cock goes into you. Your pussy is dripping wet through, and it slides down so easily over my cock that I plunge all the way into you in an instant. I hold you there, grinding my hips up against you, feeling my pubic bone against your clit.

  Then I kiss you again, harder this time, forcing my tongue against yours, deep, taking your mouth as I use your pussy.

  Your hips start to move; you lift yourself up on my cock and slide back down, gasping as you do. You start to fuck me. I can feel the thick swelling of your pussy against the head of my cock, and you work yourself onto me more rhythmically as your pussy gets tighter, swelling with blood, filling with lust. You claw at the massage table, whimpering as you fuck yourself onto my cock. It isn’t long before I feel your body go tense.

  “I’m—going—to—”

  You’re not faking it, either—not unless you’re very, very good. Your hips pump eagerly until your cunt begins to contract around my shaft, and then your whole naked body shudders. You stop thrusting and I take up the motion, pounding up into you, pumping deep into you with every circling motion of my hips. You come hard on my cock, trying hard to stifle your moan so the other clients in the nearby rooms won’t hear—but there’s little you can do to keep yourself from crying out. You moan so loud you hurt my ears.

  When you’re finished coming, your body is limp. I lift you up and slide out from under you, repositioning you on the massage table. You let me do whatever I want, lying there like a rag doll as I prop you up on just your knees, your arms hanging useless over the sides of the table and your face and tits pressed into the dark sheet. I spread your legs wider and enter you from behind, and you gasp as I do. I start to fuck you hard, pounding into you, your beautiful ass spread out under me. I lick my thumb and slide it between your cheeks, nuzzling your asshole. I hear a quick, surprised gasp, like you’re going to say “No,” but you don’t. Instead, your gasp becomes a low moan as I work my spit-slick thumb into your ass. I slide it in deep, feeling my thumb against my cock as I fuck you faster. Your hips are lifted high, your ass thrust up toward me, and you’re barely moving at first. But as my cock slides into you more rapidly, you start to grind against me. You start to fuck me back, moaning even louder than when you came.

  Your ass is so tight around my thumb, I can’t resist it. I spy the bottle of massage oil next to the table, crusted and clouded like it’s never been used. I snatch it up with my free hand and slide my thumb out enough to drizzle a stream of oil between your cheeks. Rubbing it in, I slide my thumb into you more easily, then add more oil.

  “Wh—what are you doing?” you ask between moans.

  “I’m fucking you in the ass,” I say, easing my cock out of your pussy and moving it up to the tight bud of your rear opening.

  “G—Greek’s—” you gasp, unable to finish the sentence as I nuzzle my cockhead against the entrance to your ass. “Greek’s—um—Greek costs—” You grope after the words, like you’re desperately trying to think of an appropriate price, but you can’t find one—and I know you’ve never done it before. I push my cockhead into your ass, and it feels tighter than anything I’ve ever fucked. I go slow at first, listening to your little squeals as you feel your ass acclimating to the bulk of my cock. Slowly you relax and I slide my cock deeper, until you’re wriggling against the table, fully impaled on my cock. And moaning.

  I lean forward hard against your body, forcing your hips down and your legs wide. I start to fuck your ass and I feel the tickle of your fingers against my balls. I realize you’ve slipped your hands between your legs and you’re urgently rubbing your clit. Your moans rise in volume as I pound into your asshole. Within minutes I feel you thrashing against me, your hand quickening. I take over, reaching under you and pushing my hand over yours, forcing you to rub your clit harder as I drive into your ass with new fury. When you come, your ass clenches so tight it almost forces me out, and I have to fuck you harder, almost violently shoving it into your ass to keep it sliding in as you come in great shuddering spasms. Then I come, too, as your climax intensifies and you start to lose it, shaking back and forth under me, lifting your ass to take deeper thrusts as I shoot my come deep inside you. When I’m finished, you lie there, panting with exhaustion.

  I stretch and slide out of your ass, climbing off the table. I leave you there, ass upturned and opened wide, as I get dressed. You moan softly, eyes wide, staring at me but unseeing. Your hand is still pressed against your clit.

  Before I leave, I take out my wallet and count out four bills.

  “Four hundred dollars,” I say, and leave it on the table. “Thanks for the massage.”

  I leave the room without kissing you good-bye.

  Outside, I pass another couple and wink at them under the big sign that says NO SEXUAL ACTIVITY. The woman smiles at me; the guy looks away.

  As I walk down the long line of doors, I can hear the occasional moan in the rooms beyond. I know this place is a poorly-kept call girl’s secret; more outcalls happen here than in any hotel in town, if only because they rent by the hour and they don’t offer full-body massages—thus eliminating the chance of unexpected competition after the fact.

  That’s why you and I picked this place; a friend of ours who works as an escort tipped us off that it’s a place where you can make as much noise as you want—and no one will bother you. But today I think you pushed your luck on even that rule, with your screaming climax as I fucked your ass. Normally it wouldn’t matter, except I think we’ll be coming back here a lot.

  I leave a twenty for the towel girl and wait for you in the lobby. When you come out, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, you have that nervous glow about you that says, “I just got laid.” I wonder if I have the same look.

  You smile at me and we head for the car.

  In the Back of Raquel

  P. S. HAVEN

  It was after midnight when I arrived. I checked the name Trinh had scrawled on the napkin against the sign on the façade and then parked Raquel under a streetlight and joined the steady stream disappearing into the club. The music was loud and hypnotic, and I had to ask twice of the girl behind the ticket counter what the cover was.

  “Thirteen,” she yelled, and I peeled the bills from my money clip and stepped into the smoky neon haze, surrounded suddenly by the flash of naked skin as skirts fluttered and raised, revealing sweaty thongs and hips gyrating to the relentless electronic grind of the music. I moved quickly, hugging the wall as I avoided the dancing, surging throng, navigated the rows of tables along the outskirts of the dance floor, and finally slipped behind the railing that separated the liquor bar from the rest of the club.

  I saw Elisa, standing at the bar and sipping something blue, obviously alone despite the fact that she was surrounded. She was wearing the dress, despite her protestation that it fit better last year. It was black, of course, satin, no larger than a pillowcase, baring her entire back, her skin as pale as moths’ wings. It was short, sheer, and sleek, the hem floating about her thighs, the banded tops of her coffee-colored nylons just visible. Elisa saw me in the mirror over the bar and watched me as I made my way toward her, a slow smile creeping across her face as she smoothed the satin to her body with her palms, her hips swaying, her legs long and slender in five-inch patent spikes. Perfect. She returned to her drink as I approached.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not,” Elisa said. “Late,
that is.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long,” she lied. Elisa sipped from her drink and then leaned into me, kissing me softly, leaving behind an intoxicating scent of alcohol and perfume. She gestured with her drink toward the crowd outside the bar. “They have a table. Let’s go.”

  Elisa and I made our way around the dance floor, one of her hands tucked into my arm, the other holding her drink carefully away from stray dancers. Trinh and Trey were seated at a small table near the DJ’s booth, and Trinh spotted us and waved with a flick of her tiny wrist. Trey rose as we approached, extending his hand. “Good to see you again,” he said, a little louder than he had to.

  “You remember Trey,” Trinh told me. I nodded and smiled, and took Trey’s hand and shook it.

  “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” I said to Trey.

  “Not at all,” Trey smiled and everything about him seemed to almost shine; his blond hair, his golden skin, his silk shirt, even his fucking teeth. We sat and a girl with pink hair instantly appeared to take our drink order. Elisa showed the girl her blue drink and I ordered a beer, as did Trey. Trinh told the girl she wanted a cosmo and got only a confused look.

  “A cosmopolitan,” Trinh snarled, leaving the girl to walk away muttering “cunt” to herself, not quite loud enough for Trinh to hear her over the music’s incessant throb. Trinh lit a thin, exotic-looking cigarette and smiled, either unaware or unconcerned she had just been insulted.

  Our drinks arrived mercifully fast and after tasting hers, Trinh let out a little laugh and said to Trey and me, “Maybe you two should get to know each other.” I drank my beer and listened to him convincingly enough, nodding and responding when appropriate, and based on very little conversation, I decided that we had absolutely nothing in common except Elisa. Trey began to tell me how lucky I was to be married to such a beautiful, intelligent woman and I could see Elisa blush.

  “Let’s dance,” Elisa abruptly interjected. She was up and ready, pulling me by my wrist, tugging at me like a child, her voice insistent. I pantomimed my protest, exaggerating my reluctance as I held fast in my chair until Elisa took Trey by the hand, and said, smiling, “You, then.” Trey needed no encouragement and Elisa led him onto the floor, checking over her shoulder as the pulsing crowd absorbed them, making sure I was watching. I was.