by Violet Blue
Maybe you say something at this point. “Don’t squeeze so hard,” perhaps. Maybe you even say “Please.” Or maybe you don’t. Your voice might be helpless and desperate, pleading, whining, or it might be dominant, as if you’re telling me, not asking me.
I respond by pulling harder, and you lose it, groaning and arching your back on the couch—but not pushing me away. Yet. I swallow your cock in deep thrusts, coming up to suck and lick on the head now and then. You’re done protesting for the moment; when I squeeze your balls you just thrash, your fingertips on the top of my head, ready to push me away the instant the pain and the pleasure reach the wrong combination. But when I look up at your face, you’re lost in conflicting impulses—you don’t know what to do. Maybe you like having your balls squeezed, just a little. Or maybe a lot. The important thing is that you don’t even know yourself, or can’t admit it to yourself. With my mouth and my hand, I’ve blown your fucking mind.
Which is why I take it to the next level.
Maybe I’ve stashed some lube next to the couch. Then again, maybe not; maybe I just lick my finger a little and get it barely wet, barely at all, with my spit. Just to ease the passage a little. My hand goes down behind your balls, and you breathe a sigh of relief; no longer will you have to wrestle with that intense pleasure and that powerful ache.
But I’m not done with you yet—of course. Because you haven’t said “No.” You protested, sure. But I need to hear that word, spoken in horrified abandon, spoken at the moment of your orgasm, when you come in my mouth.
I slide my finger down behind your balls, touching your asshole.
“Hey,” you say, your voice hoarse now from moaning. You twist and squirm back and forth, your hands coming down to the top of my head, to push me off you or pull me on—I don’t know, and you don’t know. I feel your asshole, tiny and tight, puckered and vulnerable. Your eyes go wide as I apply pressure. Your fingers tangle in my hair but you can’t bring yourself to push me away. Maybe you even edge down in the sofa a little, getting yourself closer to me.
You’re very close, now, ready to come in my mouth. Your balls are tight again against the back of my hand, up close to your cock. That makes it easier to get the proper angle.
I penetrate you with my finger—in quickly, before you even realize what’s happening. Your ass is tight around my finger, not wanting to give itself up. I press in harder, until I’m buried up to the hilt, my middle finger deep inside you. I’m sucking you hungrily as I do it, your cock in my mouth and my eyes turned up to watch you. Your eyes roll back in your head. You moan wildly. I know you’re going to come harder than you’ve ever come before, and that turns me on so much that I start to come myself—since, when I’m having this fantasy, I’m always rubbing myself crazily, dreaming of the word you say as you start to climax.
“No!” you gasp, and then you can’t say anything, because you’re too busy moaning, a great shuddering mix of pleasure and protest, and the come that you’re shooting into my mouth is as sweet as can be. I can feel the spasms of your ass as I violate it. I wriggle my finger around and your orgasm heightens, the contractions become stronger as you come harder with each movement of my finger. You tremble all over, your moans becoming whimpers as you finish coming in my mouth.
I savor every drop—the succulent milk of my sexual malfeasance. When you’re finished coming, and your cock is shrinking in my mouth, I slide my finger out and climb back onto the couch, alongside you.
I can see the shock, even the shame, in your face. My mouth is still filled with your come. You realize it as I move in to kiss you. You recoil slightly. I grab you, my fingers firmly grasping you under the jawline, and you open your mouth obediently to receive my come-filled kiss. You even swallow as I let your own come trickle into your mouth. I know, because I can feel your muscles moving against my hand. You swallow your own come, maybe because I’ve shown you who’s boss. Or maybe because this is what you’ve wanted all along.
Sometimes, when I’m having this fantasy, I come a second time as your throat muscles work under my imaginary hand, as I make you swallow your own come. But it’s that moment, when you say that tender, terrified word—at the moment you’re coming in my mouth—that is always the peak of the fantasy. You’re my bitch, and you know it.
I have plenty of fantasies of what I do to you after that. But you never say “No.” After I’ve done you like that, you never, ever, ever say no to me. But I say it plenty of times to you—and every single time, it’s magic.
CRAZY FROM THE HEAT
Zoe Bishop
My roommate and I were sunbathing at Baker Beach in San Francisco when it happened. Vanessa is my roommate and best friend. And…I’m not sure what else. But after what happened at Baker Beach, I’m starting to get a pretty good idea.
Baker is an interesting place. If you’ve ever lived in the Bay Area, you’ve probably heard of it—even though it’s technically not a nude beach, nudity is “tolerated,” which means some people get naked and others don’t. Of course, most of the time in San Francisco you don’t want to be nude, because it’s foggy and cold as often as not.
But this was one of those rare summer days when the mercury hits a hundred degrees in the city, and everybody in town, so unaccustomed to that kind of heat, goes crazy and strips down to their skivvies. My friend Vanessa and I decided to hit the beach, and found a crowded strip of sand with pasty-white, oiled-up bodies sprawled everywhere. I guess because of Baker’s reputation as a gay beach, there wasn’t a kid in sight—no screeching brats howling about sand in their swimsuits, no daddies throwing beach balls; just the other kind of daddy, the fortyish guy who brings another guy my age. And even they looked at us.
Vanessa and I weren’t pasty-white at all. We had been planning a trip to Southern Cal, so we had already been visiting the tanning booth. For the first time in my life I had a rich, sexy, golden-brown tan, and as Vanessa and I laid out our beach blanket and stripped out of our shorts and tank tops, I felt a glow of pride at my firm and tanned body. I also felt a little embarrassed; this was the first time I’d worn my new string bikini in public, and I could feel the eyes of all the male beachgoers roving over me. It was amazing to me how blatantly the guys on the beach looked at us, not even trying to disguise their admiration, their attraction, their hunger. It felt good to be looked at like that. Even though it made me a little nervous, I liked it.
But what was strange was that there was a line of guys up on the cliffs overlooking the beach, peering down at the beach with binoculars, camcorders, and digital cameras. They were far enough away that I couldn’t be absolutely sure, but I felt confident that Vanessa and I were the focus of many of those instruments and the rapt attention of the dirty old men up there looking at us.
The back of Vanessa’s bikini was nothing more than a string, but that wasn’t enough for her. As soon as she sat on the blanket, she started unfastening her bikini top.
I looked at her with my eyes wide. “Van-nessa!” I said, shocked.
“What?” she answered, shrugging as she slipped off her bikini top and tucked it in her beach bag. Her breasts glistened, sweaty and tawny, in the sun. “It’s a nude beach.”
Vanessa has great tits. Like me, she didn’t have the faintest hint of tan lines. Thank God for technology. “But all those guys are watching.”
She smiled. “Let ’em look. It’s not like they’d dare touch. I’ve got my pepper spray.” That made me laugh.
“They’ve got cameras,” I said. “You’ll probably be on the Web by tonight.”
“Guess I’ll have to give up my career in public office.” Vanessa upended the bottle of sunscreen and smeared a handful over her breasts, paying special attention to the nipples. I tried not to watch too closely, but something kind of intrigued me about the way she rubbed the oil all over her nipples, making them swell until they were glistening and hard. How the hell did a girl get so shameless? Vanessa had always been like this, much more daring than me. I glanced up towa
rd the ridge; many of those cameras and binoculars were now quite clearly focused on Vanessa.
I loved that Vanessa was so edgy, but I didn’t follow her lead. I brushed suntan lotion over my body, smearing my belly, my legs, my cleavage. Vanessa looked at me and smirked.
“Tit for tat,” she said. “Come on, let’s see ’em.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not taking off my top.”
“You take off your top or I’m going to take off my bottom.”
I laughed. “Go ahead.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Vanessa slipped her thumbs under the waist of her bikini bottom and began to tug it down, squirming as she lifted her ass off the blanket.
“Stop!” I said, glancing toward the ridge. “Everyone’s watching.”
“Your tits or my bush,” laughed Vanessa. “Flash or gash, Zoe.”
Vanessa loves to push me like this; she kids me about being too conservative. She’d even talked me into “practicing” our makeout skills with each other, which had quickly turned into something I wasn’t quite sure if I should like as much as I did. I knew I definitely wasn’t bisexual, but Vanessa and I did things it still made me wet to think about. And whenever I saw her body revealed like this, I remembered them vividly, wondering if we were going to try them again.
“This hot weather has made you crazy,” I said nastily.
“It always does. All right, Zoe, I’m taking it off on three,” smiled Vanessa. “It’s snatch and patch, or tits and nips. One, two—”
“All right, all right!” I snapped. I unhitched my top and peeled it away from my tanned breasts, trying to hide the fact that my hands were shaking. I felt a weird rush of adrenaline as I exposed my tits, and I couldn’t keep myself from crossing my arms across my chest, hiding them from the shameless onlookers.
Vanessa made a “no-no-no” gesture with her index finger. “That’s cheating.”
“All right,” I said, putting down my arms. The second I revealed my tits to the guys on the ridge, the guys playing Frisbee on the beach, the guys doing nothing but lying there on their beach towels looking at us, I felt a flush of excitement. I couldn’t believe I was doing this.
“Here,” said Vanessa, tipping the bottle of lotion. “We don’t want those pretty things getting sunburned.”
I blushed deeper than my tan as Vanessa poured sunscreen onto my tits and began to rub it in. I felt her palms stroking my nipples and got even more embarrassed. I remembered how it felt when she’d done that with her mouth plastered to mine, her tongue exploring, and her thigh tucked between my legs, rubbing against my clit through my jeans. I remembered what it had felt like when I’d come, moaning against Vanessa’s parted lips.
I don’t know why I did it. As Vanessa stroked sunscreen onto my tits—plainly taking more time and care with them than she needed to—I bent forward and kissed her. On the lips. Not a quick one, either. It was the first time I’d kissed her; she’d always kissed me. I made up for lost time, though; my tongue eased into Vanessa’s mouth and teased hers as she caressed my tits more firmly, the sunscreen forming a slick, greasy lubricant that made my nipples tingle.
When my mouth left hers, I was breathing hard. My thighs were pressed tightly together, because I was afraid the guys on the ridge could somehow see the heat building between them. Did they have infrared cameras? I was sure my pussy would show up as a blazing-hot sun, ignited by the feel of Vanessa’s fingers on my breasts.
Vanessa smiled. “Now they’re really watching.”
And they were. Guys all over the beach were pausing to look at us. When I glanced up toward the ridge, I was damn sure that every lens was focused on us. We would be all over the “beachfront lezzies” website by tomorrow.
“Maybe I don’t care,” I said.
“Oh, you do,” smiled Vanessa, leaning closer to me. “That’s what makes it so hot.”
She squirted more sunscreen onto her breasts and kissed me. “Rub it in,” she said, even though she’d already done an admirable job of oiling herself up. I hesitated, blushing even hotter than the merciless sun was making me, but when our lips touched and her tongue grazed mine, I couldn’t say no to her. I pressed my legs together very, very tightly, instinctively thinking I could hide the blazing heat from the imaginary infrared cameras studying us and recording our every move. I put my hands gingerly on Vanessa’s tits and began to smear lotion everywhere as we kissed.
My clit felt like it was throbbing. I wanted Vanessa down there, the way she’d been when we were “practicing,” when she showed me how it felt to get finger-fucked. I had come so hard I was afraid someone would call the campus cops. No amount of biting my pillow could muffle the moans as I climaxed on Vanessa’s fingers. That had been right after Christmas break, and she hadn’t done it since; now we just cuddled occasionally. It had been our last practice session, and I only now was realizing how much I longed for a replay.
“You’re a great kisser,” said Vanessa, breathing hard when our lips parted. “You’re going to make some very lucky guy a wonderful girlfriend.”
I kissed her again as I pinched her nipples. I had all but forgotten that we were in public, our kiss being recorded on a dozen sleazoids’ webcams. I wanted her and I felt bad about it; this was supposed to be practice, wasn’t it? But practice for what?
I glanced around and saw a bunch of guys trying hard not to look like they were looking. The guys on the ridge had no such compunctions.
“Why do guys like to watch girls make out?” I asked nervously.
“They like to watch them do more, too,” said Vanessa, her hand forcing its way between my firmly closed thighs.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I squeaked, aware even as I was saying it that I didn’t sound very convincing.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “Just a little practice? Some day your boyfriend is going to want to finger-fuck you on a nude beach.” Her smile looked wicked, vicious, as if she was in total control of me and she loved it. I let her push my thighs open and felt her fingers trailing up the inside of my sunscreen-greased thigh. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I just couldn’t believe it. Her hand slid down the front of my string bikini bottom and I felt her fingers pushing into my Brazilian-waxed crotch. She entered me with two fingers, her hand stretching my bikini as her thumb worked my clit. I opened my mouth to beg her to stop, but I couldn’t. I was too close to coming.
All that came out of my mouth were little squeaks and tiny moans of pleasure, as I felt the cameras clicking and whirring away, capturing my ordeal forever. I wanted to tell her “Don’t.” I wanted to tell her “Stop.” But I didn’t, because I couldn’t, because stopping was the very last thing in the world I wanted her to do. I wanted her to keep fucking me until I came.
I finally managed to whimper out a sentence, though I have no idea why I picked this one to say. “This isn’t practice,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” Vanessa said. “No guy’ll ever fuck you like this.”
I would have thought I could never come in public—the stress and discomfort of it all would prevent me from reaching the peak. But nothing could stop me now. Knowing they were watching turned me on. But what really did it was knowing that the private little games I had shared in my dorm room with Vanessa were now public for everyone to see. I was eternally branding myself as a lezzie.
I buried my face between Vanessa’s breasts and moaned wildly as I came. I tried to keep it quiet because all those guys were watching—many of them within earshot—but there wasn’t a chance of that. I pressed my mouth, open wide, against Vanessa’s tits and tasted sunscreen as my orgasm exploded through me. Vanessa kept fucking me and rubbing my clit until I started to twitch and squirm, too sensitive to receive any more pleasure. And still I lay there spread, letting her do whatever she wanted to me, content to let her use me until she was done.
“Oh, god,” I whimpered when she finally eased her fingers out of my pussy. “They’re all watching.”
“Yes, the
y are,” she said. “We’d better get going, or we’re going to have an awful lot of guys coming over wanting to give us their phone numbers.”
Vanessa had to help me back into my clothes. I didn’t bother with the bikini top, instead slipping my tank top on with nothing underneath, the sticky sunscreen making it mold to every contour of my skin. I put on my flip-flops and followed Vanessa up the beach, painfully aware of every guy looking at me. More than a few of them were smiling.
When we got back to the car, Vanessa grabbed me by the back of my head and kissed me, hard, tenderly. This wasn’t practice, either.
“Take me home,” I told her.
That night was the first time we spent the whole night in one bed. We didn’t get much sleep, though. I still don’t know if I should like it as much as I do, but I don’t care, because I do. I like it more than anything else in the world. Vanessa and I are going to be roommates next year, too, in an off-campus apartment. And even with one bedroom, we’ll have plenty of places where we can “practice,” and no one but Vanessa and me can watch.
TEDDY
J. Sinclaire
