by Violet Blue
THE POWER OF IMAGINATION
BJ Franklin
This need cannot be denied. My hormones are racing, my clit aches, and pressing my thighs together has made it worse. I would risk much for that first brush of a thumb across my clit, that first squeeze of an aching nipple, those first stirrings of excitement when warm lips hover teasingly over mine. But there are some things I will not risk, so today I have denied it to the limit of my endurance. I sat through lectures and studied dry textbooks in the library, and no one suspected a thing. I even went to a friend’s house for dinner. Watched a man slide a furtive hand between his girlfriend’s thighs under the table. It was almost my undoing—but still I fought.
Now, at last, I am home, and relishing the moment of surrender. The girl next door has her boyfriend visiting, and the walls are thin. I can hear soft giggles and murmurs of delight; she has told me that he has good hands. It’s amazing how much girls tell each other, and men would shudder to know what their girlfriends have let slip. We know what they know.
But more than words reveals a man’s prowess in bed. One blush, one secret smile, can speak for itself, and is vividly remembered. Being friends with a man doesn’t stop your fantasizing about him.
Like now, for instance. I’m lying face down on the bed, grinding my hips against the firm mattress, the seam in my crotch slowly working inward. Undressing would take far too long. Besides, my hands are already busy elsewhere, one at each breast, playing with my nipples through the soft cotton of my V-neck top. Delicious thrills are already shooting through me.
Of course, they’re no longer my hands. They’re large, with beautiful long fingers and a smattering of dark hair. My friend Brian’s, in fact. He has a girlfriend, a gorgeous brunette with pouty lips, size eight at the most; but this is about fantasy, not reality.
I close my eyes, but can still see clearly. Wavy hair, strong cheekbones, stubborn chin: the boy who sat near me in this morning’s lecture. I’ve no idea what his name is. He’s kissing my neck, softly, lovingly, so different from those squeezing fingers on my tits. But both feel so damn good.
Blue eyes are dancing at me, the deep blue of Richard’s, my ex. Laughter lines around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, but only for a real smile. I loved those lines, loved knowing that he really did enjoy my quirky sense of humor. They still turn me on, even after two years.
I’m so wet. Moisture is trickling between my thighs, and that seam is now right inside my pussy, rubbing against the swollen nub. But I can’t quite get it close enough.
The frustration is unbearable. I have to get these jeans off. I’m on my back, fumbling with the button, yanking the zipper down, just far enough so that my hand can slip inside. Oh god, yes, finally.
Martin’s voice echoes in my ears, caressing me with seductive tones. I don’t know him well, he’s a friend of a friend, but I’ve often overheard his banter with the boys. He likes girls to kneel when giving head, and he likes to fuck from behind. Both suit me perfectly—but not yet. I need more encouragement first. “Such a greedy cunt you have, princess, so hot and slippery. And I’ve only used my fingers. Imagine how much better my mouth would be, locked around your clit, sucking and licking until all thought stops. Yes, that excites you, doesn’t it? I felt your shudder, can still feel your juices dripping onto my hand. Go on, princess, ask properly. Beg me to ease your craving.”
I’m begging, of course I’m begging, the pleading words coming so easily to my silent lips. I’ll do anything to feel his long tongue probing inside me, moving closer and closer to its goal. My fingers are working hard and my hips instinctively follow their rhythm. That tongue feels incredible, and my legs are spread wide as I moan and cry out for more.
Martin’s deep voice again. “You’re so responsive, princess, and so eager to please. But you still haven’t earned your orgasm. Show me what a good girl you can be, prove yourself worthy of such a prize.”
I know what he wants. It’s my fantasy, after all.
I drop to my knees in front of him. With a thought, his clothes are gone, and he spills hard and ready into my waiting hands. His body is that of the gorgeous naked man on my wall poster: broad shoulders, firm thighs, muscles rippling across his chest and down his arms. I drink in the sight while sucking frantically on the swollen head. One hand is wrapped around the shaft, and my other strokes the sensitive area behind his balls. His head falls back and sighs of pleasure fill the room. It’s almost time.
He orders me onto all fours, and I shift so that my quivering bottom is pointed directly at him. He loves my bottom. It’s one of the rules.
The tip of his penis nestles inside my aching pussy, and I gasp in delight. He circles it around and around, and only when I’m whimpering does he plunge the full length inside me, hard and fast.
“I told you good girls would get rewarded, princess. A few more thrusts and you’ll be there. I can feel it—the way you’re poised on the brink of ecstasy, just needing that last nudge to push you over. I could come right now, leaving you panting and aching. How frustrating that would be—and how wickedly exciting. You’d go crazy, wouldn’t you? You’d do anything I wanted, anything at all, as long as I gave you release from your torment.”
I would, but that’s not going to happen. It’s the words themselves, the feeling of surrender while knowing I’m in total control, that combine to produce that extra push to force me over the shining edge.
Those first spasms drive a moan from his lips, and his rhythm picks up speed. The friction is perfect, and suddenly gets even better as his erection brushes that elusive place. The G-spot, or A-spot, or whatever those magazines call it now. My whole body reacts helplessly, inner muscles tightening around his throbbing cock.
“Aha, what’s this? You’re a naughty girl to gain so much pleasure from such an indecent act. I can feel the climax building inside you. Let it come, princess, let it come!”
The orgasm roars through me and I collapse on the bed. At last. I am filled with content—soft, sleepy content—and my body is completely relaxed.
For the moment.
AIRPORT SECURITY
Dara Prisamt Murray
“Next,” he barked, raised his head, and looked at me, his unsmiling, intense blue-eyed stare making me feel very nervous and uneasy.
“I only have this with me.” I put my slim leather purse on the counter between us.
“What? No other carry-ons?” He frowned in disbelief as he looked at the meager contents: wallet, lipstick, cell phone. “You’ll have to come with me.”
He strode to a door marked SECURITY and beckoned for me to follow. Once we passed through the heavy door that automatically slammed and locked behind us, the din of the bustling airport disappeared and the sharp, clicking sound of my spiked heels resounded through the antiseptic hallway, making me feel uncomfortably conspicuous. All else was silence. His rubber-soled shoes didn’t make a sound.
“Right in here, Miss,” he directed as he opened an unmarked metal door and brusquely ushered me inside. “You have to be searched.”
“But I told you, all I have is this purse.” I held it out to him with a hopeful smile and a shaky hand.
“All the more reason for my suspicion,” he lectured. “After all, these are dangerous times and this is an international airport. We frequently do random checks and searches, as a matter of course. Considering what you’ve exhibited so far, I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t probe further into this rather questionable situation.”
I felt my customary confidence and self-assurance withering under his severe gaze.
“You don’t have a problem with being searched, do you?” He gave me a moment to consider and when I said nothing, he went on, “If you have any objections, I can contact my supervisor, or perhaps you’d like me to call in a guard or two?”
“No. No. Please, you don’t have to call in anyone. I don’t want to cause any trouble,” I assured him.
“You realize, Miss, I’m just trying to do my job.”<
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“I understand.” I lowered my gaze and could feel his eyes running appraisingly up and down my body.
“Nice shoes.” He murmured appreciatively as he stared down at my exposed toes. “Very scanty, aren’t they? Not much to them. Of course, I’ll have to check them anyway. Can’t take any chances these days.”
“I can take them off now,” I offered. “They’re rather hard on the feet.”
“But you don’t wear shoes like that for comfort, anyway, do you? We both know what those kind of shoes are called,” he drawled. “Leave them on for now. I like the way they look on you.”
I felt a twinge of fear as I watched him close and lock the door.
“Shall we begin?” He grinned and rubbed his hands together.
“Just you and me? In here?”
“Would you like a stage and an audience?”
“No, but I just….”
“So, what seems to be the problem?” He stepped slowly toward me until he was so close that I could see his black pupils dilating. He rested his hands on my shoulders and I jumped.
“You’re very tense,” he observed sympathetically as his big hands kneaded my tight muscles, causing my shoulders to drop considerably. “That’s it, relax. Nothing to be afraid of. I do this all the time for the ladies.”
He was good. My body was definitely relaxing. The massage was so soothing, so calming—that is, until I felt him sliding his fingers under my arms.
“No. Stop. I’m ticklish,” I giggled, nervously.
“This is no laughing matter,” he warned, tightening his grasp. “Do I have to get one of the matrons to hold you still?”
“No. No matron. I’ll cooperate. Please, just give me a moment,” I cried as I adjusted to the feeling of his hands firmly gripping me about the ribs.
“That’s better,” he soothed as he ran his probing hands down to my waist. “I much prefer this one-on-one, don’t you?”
“I guess so,” I agreed tremulously as I struggled to regain my composure and keep my growing apprehension in check.
As the halting words left my mouth, he stepped even closer to me, so close that I could no longer focus on his face. He glided his hands around me till they came together and then he ran them slowly up and down my back, with each stroke pulling me closer to him, until I could feel him hard up against my stomach.
Nervously, I tried to pull away. I couldn’t help myself.
“You haven’t anything to hide, have you?” he questioned, as he tugged me back against his crotch. “I’m asking you a question, girl.”
“No, sir,” I answered. “It’s just that I was getting a bit dizzy.”
“Well, you won’t have to stand up for much longer,” he reassured me. “Besides, I wouldn’t let a pretty little thing like you fall.”
With that, he pulled me even tighter against his bulge, while at the same time he leaned back from the waist.
“Put your arms around me and hang on tight,” he ordered.
I looked at him quizzically and then quickly decided to obey. The commanding look in his eyes was all the persuasion I needed.
“Now lean back.”
As I followed his order, he straightened up and I clung onto him for dear life as he reached out with splayed fingers to encompass my breasts.
“You wouldn’t believe what some women try to smuggle in their bras,” he confided, slightly pressing my breasts together.
“Ooh.”
“Umm. Nice generous size. They seem to be all you,” he observed as he methodically poked and prodded my flesh. “But of course, we can’t take any chances. Take your shirt off!”
I looked down and fumbled ineptly with my buttons.
“Now! Stop stalling or you’ll really get me angry.”
Fingers trembling, I continued to fumble.
“I haven’t got all day,” he complained, impatiently whisking the unopened blouse over my head and tossing it onto a bare metal chair in the corner of the room.
He palmed the twin mounds of my lace-covered breasts and his slow, sly smile told me that we both could feel my nipples stiffening.
“Very nice,” he complimented. “There’s nothing in the world like ripe, luscious, natural tits with proud, hard nipples. Umm. Yes, very, very nice, indeed.”
“Thank you,” I mouthed softly, for I felt he expected me to say something in reply.
“No need to thank me. I thank you, Miss.” He ran his caressing hands appreciatively and thoroughly around the expanse of ample white flesh overflowing the cups of my demibra, from cleavage to outer curves, then back over the lace-encased portion of my feminine charms.
“Call me old-fashioned, but I like something to hold onto. None of those skinny waif-types for me. Give me a woman with meat on her bones, especially right here.” He gave my tender breasts a hard squeeze.
“Ow!”
He frowned at my outburst.
“We have to take this off, too.” He delicately pulled on the peaky tips of the bra cups, tugging my tight nipples teasingly through the thin fabric.
“You’re in charge,” I breathed in resignation. “Whatever you say.”
“Stand up straight, let go of my waist, and step back.”
I obeyed.
“I knew you’d wind up being cooperative,” he said with a broadening smile. “Something about those shoes.”
We both looked down, over my rapidly rising and falling bosom, at my strappy stilettos.
“Should I take them off now?” I offered, nervously wiggling my pedicured toes as he watched in rapt attention.
“No. Not now. I already told you what comes off next.” He looked at me meaningfully and paused. “Well?”
I must have appeared confused, for suddenly a look of annoyance crossed his features.
“Your bra, and be quick about it. I don’t have time to play games.” He tweaked my nipples hard for emphasis.
“Oh yes. I’m sorry, sir,” I sighed as I reached back to unhook the fasteners.
“Allow me,” he offered gallantly as he let go of my throbbing nipples, reached around me, and expertly undid my bra with one competent hand, in a smooth, suave move obviously perfected with plenty of practice.
He began slowly slipping the satin straps down my shoulders. Instinctively, I pressed my arms against my sides to trap my bra and delay the inevitable baring of my breasts.
“Now you’re behaving foolishly again,” he chided. “This has got to come off. A visual inspection of the naked breasts is a must.”
“A must?” I asked meekly.
“Absolutely!” he declared as he whipped the bra away from me and tossed it on top of the discarded blouse, all the while staring at my vulnerable mounds of pink-peaked, white flesh.
“You do have beautiful breasts, Miss. This is a real pleasure.” He cupped them reverently in his hands for a few solemn moments, weighed them thoughtfully, and then gave them a few playful bounces.
Without warning, his demeanor radically changed. It unnerved me completely. Suddenly, he was back to strictly business, and got very severe.
“Hands behind your head,” he ordered sternly and let go of my breasts.
Startled, I jumped and colored in embarrassment as my big, unsupported tits jiggled and shook.
“I said, hands behind your head!” he barked.
This time, I obeyed his order.
He reached out and traced my exposed undercurves with slow, deliberate strokes of his fingers, gliding his digits back and forth several times over the same delicate route.
“Surely you can tell that I’m not hiding anything there,” I tried to assure him.
“You’d be surprised by some of the things I’ve seen here,” he confided.
“Yes, sir. I’m sure I would,” I stammered. “But may I please put my hands down now? I’m a bit uncomfortable.”
He raised his eyebrows, gave me a quirky smile, and delivered one more lingering caress, followed by a series of quick squeezes. “No. That’s absolutely out of
the question. This procedure is not designed with your comfort in mind.”
I hung my head, duly chastised.
“I’m employed by the federal government and I’m responsible for the safety of the flying public. I’m an officer of the law.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he scolded as he expertly massaged my breasts. “Imagine, a grown woman like yourself…”
“Ooh,” I moaned involuntarily as he continued deeply kneading my swelling flesh.
“…acting like a modest little schoolgirl,” he continued, giving my nipples a reproving twist, “like a silly little virgin.”
He was silent for the longest time, staring into my eyes and pulling alternately on my hard, dark nubs till I couldn’t suppress my panting. I just stood there, dazed and trembling, waiting for him to stop, while secretly praying that he wouldn’t.
“Well, you’re OK. A lot more than OK.” He smiled and casually made himself more comfortable in his trousers. “From the waist up, that is. But of course, that’s only the first part of the security procedure.”
I shivered as I felt his hot breath trail down my body till his mouth was at my crotch. He knelt at my feet and ran his hands searchingly up and down my left leg, then up and down my right, not neglecting my barely covered feet.
“You’re wearing stockings. I like that. You’re just an old-fashioned girl, aren’t you?” He slid a finger into the band of each stocking and teased around my thighs.
“So, that’s it then?” I abruptly asked, getting ready to grab my bra and blouse and put them back on. “I can get dressed now, right?”
“Wrong.” He smiled broadly up at me, leaning back so as not to be obscured by my outthrust boobs, and suddenly removed his fingers from my stocking elastic, with a shocking, sharp snap to my tender skin.
I winced and shifted awkwardly from one high-heeled foot to the other.
“Now spread!” he ordered as he inserted the flat of his hand under my short skirt, between my thighs, and sawed it back and forth as if to clarify his order.
