“Let’s get off the beach.” She slid off him and helped him rise. Together, they went to the house. Max nodded at them as they went inside, and Jasmine grabbed his hand, towing him behind her.
In the master suite, Jasmine pushed Max into the chair in the corner and kissed him before returning to Paul. The older man stood awkwardly by the bed, eyeing Max, then her, rubbing his palms on his thighs. “It’s been so long…”
Jasmine kissed him. “It’s like riding a bike, love.” She pushed him back and sat on the edge of the bed. Languidly, she raised one leg, letting the gown’s long skirt slide down her thigh to reveal a glimpse of her vulva. The cool air was delightful against her slick labia, still bruised and sensitive after the pounding she’d taken from Max, and she shivered as she lifted her other leg, spreading herself wide for Paul to enjoy.
Paul stared at her for a long moment, his mouth slack and his breathing quick. He licked his lips and knelt before her like an apostle prostrating himself before his prophet. Jasmine leaned back on the bed. She moaned at the sensation of his hot breath against her most sensitive skin, his stubble brushing her thighs. And then his fingers were parting her vulva, and his tongue was pressed against her clit. Jasmine’s vision exploded with stars. Pleasure sang through her every nerve ending. She clutched at the sheets and groaned as Paul sucked her clit and used his tongue to clean every drop of her juices from her labia. The orgasm built in her, slow and deep, hardening her nipples and making every hair on her body stand on end.
Jasmine glanced in the corner to see Max stroking his magnificent cock. The sight sent her over the edge, and she climaxed hard, bucking her hips against Paul’s face until the waves of pleasure receded.
For a few long moments, she lay sated and exhausted and breathing hard. She felt Paul’s erection—not as massive as Max’s, but still an impressive specimen—probing at her slick opening. “Stop,” she said, holding up one hand. She looked at Max and gave him a beckoning gesture. “I want you both.”
She pulled Paul onto the bed and straddled him again, this time hiking up her skirt so she could slide down onto him. Hissing, she took a moment to enjoy the feel of him inside her, clenching herself around his hard cock. Then she leaned forward, sliding up and down the length of him, biting at his chest. He tasted like sweat and vanilla.
“Now, Max,” she said, nodding to the younger man as she slid down Paul, burying him in her up to the hilt.
“Are you sure?” Max asked, his cock pointed at her already-filled vagina.
“Do it,” Jasmine sighed. “I want you both in me, together, both of you touching me, both of you touching each other.”
Max bit his lower lip and, with his usual agonizing slowness, pushed his huge cock into her. She and Paul both groaned. Jasmine thought maybe this was crazy, maybe she’d finally lost her mind; there was no way she could fit two huge dicks in her simultaneously. Not even as wet and wide open as she was after two orgasms. But then she realized Max was all the way in, and she was so full she might burst, every bit of her filled to the brim, and they were all moaning, all three of them. So much skin, so much pleasure. She almost climaxed again, just from the wonderful pressure of it.
But then Paul began sliding himself out of her, and Max did too. They moved only centimeters but it felt like inches, it felt like the surf slamming into the shore, it felt like the moon crashing to earth. Then they found a rhythm, pushing into her together, pulling out together, pushing in and pulling out, and Jasmine trembled with the unbearable pleasure of it. She clutched at Paul, biting and groaning and digging her nails into his flesh. He gripped her ass with his hands, pulling her up his cock, then lowering her back down again, in and out, in and out.
“I can’t believe you’re both fucking me,” Jasmine groaned. “It’s like being fucked by a god.”
Max reached around and cupped Jasmine’s breasts, his fingers finding her nipples and squeezing them. Jasmine screamed and thrashed. This, her third orgasm of the night, was the most powerful sensation of her life. The room went black, and she lost control of her twitching limbs. Some part of her was vaguely aware that both men were groaning and hot seed was spurting inside her.
Max withdrew and collapsed onto the bed beside her. Jasmine rolled off Paul, filling the space between the two men like the grout between tiles. The three of them lay panting, limbs intertwined. Max started to snore.
Paul chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair.
Jasmine draped her arm across his belly and, to her surprise, met his cock, still hard—or perhaps, hard again?
“Oh my, are you not quite satisfied?” She propped herself up on one elbow so she could gaze into his face.
Paul blushed. “It’s been too long, I’m afraid. It might take more than once to quell the beast. But you’ve been abused more than enough for one day, I think.”
Jasmine took his erection in her hand and stroked it gently. “This is a new world, Paul. A world where everyone gets what they need.” She lowered her head to his cock and smiled as she heard him sigh.
“I like this new world.”
THE HOUSE ON ORCHARD
Melina Greenport
This would be the easiest money Emma had ever earned: stop by the grand three-story Tudor house on Orchard Avenue, open a can of tuna, make sure neither cat ate more than the other, scoop some kitty litter, repeat, repeat, repeat, and collect two hundred dollars. As a clerk at the Austin Animal Hospital, she was accustomed to the extra cash moonlighting as a pet sitter brought in, but this gig paid double her usual rate.
She had heard rumors that the house belonged to the notorious computer expert, Drew Tierney, before he copied thousands of classified files and fled the country; yet there was no mention of this when she was hired. She had interviewed with the secretary who managed the household affairs, a tall woman named Yvonne who said simply that “the homeowner” was abroad on business indefinitely, and that it was his utmost concern that his cats were well cared for. If the first couple of days went well, there was the possibility of a long-term arrangement. Yvonne acted as if the situation were completely normal. At the end of the meeting, she ran her fingertips along her collar bone and said, “Take this phone.” It was a burner with prepaid minutes. “This is how I will reach you with any changes. If you follow instructions, I have clearance to pay a bonus.”
More than the prospect of a bonus, Emma looked forward to time alone exploring that lush residence. She couldn’t wait to walk down every hall, peer into every closet, open every cabinet and drawer. Nothing thrilled her as much as prowling unattended through other people’s private spaces. It wasn’t unusual for her to Kegel her way through a session of snooping, clenching her vagina as she walked barefoot over a client’s cool ceramic tiles, squeezing her walls tight as she bent to see what they kept under their sinks. Squeeze, release, squeeze—hold—release. It didn’t matter what she found while nosing about; cotton balls and hair dryers were no less exciting than a box of condoms or bottle of lube. A closet in disarray was as sexy as one with perfectly folded stacks of slate-gray cashmere sweaters. Regardless of her findings, Emma loved her own benign version of trespassing; she relished the act of gentle invasion. Always, with every doorknob she turned, the desire to touch herself grew. She made a ritual of these tours, puckering her vulva, wanting to slide her finger from her clit to the back rim of her vagina, keeping her knuckles tucked inside the folds of her labia. She liked to press and slide that way. But she never masturbated in her clients’ homes—not even so much as the twist of a nipple in the privacy of a bathroom. That was a line she wouldn’t cross.
Often, after her first walk-through of a property, peering and clenching, wandering and puckering, the urge to massage her clitoris was unbearable. She usually left with a wet crotch, rushing to finger herself as soon as she sat behind the wheel of her old Saab with rust blossoms sprouting on the hood and roof. She had watched herself orgasm countless times in the rearview mirror of
that car. The sight was familiar and calming to her: mouth dropped open with pleasure, eyes half-closed, dark curly hair braced against the headrest. In those moments, she liked to pretend she was Klimt’s Judith I, collared in gold, breast and navel exposed, flush with lust and power. Sore.
Her first morning at the house on Orchard, as Emma used the small shovel to scoop kitty litter, she thought of Drew Tierney and wondered if he might be her unseen employer. She recalled the headlines from a year earlier when the story broke:”U.S. Charges Tierney with Espionage”; “U.S. Revokes Leaker Drew Tierney’s Passport”; “Renegade in Exile”. She didn’t have a keen interest in geopolitical affairs, but only someone in a coma could have missed it. As groundbreaking as the news was, what made it memorable for Emma was the photo of Tierney every network flashed on the screen with the story—just a simple headshot— probably taken for a driver’s license, yet oh so handsome. No act of treason could erase that dimpled chin or sturdy jaw. No alleged betrayal could diminish those eyes, blue as Xuande porcelain. The case was fraught with polarizing controversy—he was vehemently decried a traitor and miscreant by some, hailed as a hero and pioneer by others—but the one thing everyone agreed on was this: Drew Tierney was gorgeous.
After cleaning the litter box, Emma reviewed the instructions Yvonne had left for her on the counter. Standard drill: canned food, water. She was to use the burner phone Yvonne had provided to leave a message once the cats had eaten. When she peeled the lid from the tuna, the black cat circled her ankles, while the other—a chubby orange tabby—waited next to the mat.
She completed all the business before taking off her shoes and socks and beginning her exploration of the house. Her vulva clenched, and her breath went shallow. She’d worn jeans with no underwear, hoping the knotty seam between her legs would give more friction as she walked down the halls and staircases. Squeeze. Release. She had been waiting for this ever since she’d interviewed with Yvonne. Squeeze. Release.
Unlike at other homes, this time she felt invested. She hoped to find proof that the genius computer-wizard-turned-renegade had once lived there. She wanted confirmation that she was caring for Drew Tierney’s cats.
But it was as if the house were a furniture store stocked with props. No photographs in the office, no shaving cream in any of the bathrooms, or basil or cumin in the kitchen. Squeeze. Release. Emma walked through room after room encountering nothing more personal than the bland tchotchkes of a Midwestern bed-and-breakfast. She kept her Kegels going, trying to catch a spark, wanting to rev up. Squeeze—hold—tighter—hold. Nothing. The drawers contained blankets rather than clothes. The tables were bare except for an occasional vase. Snooping with nothing to find left her hollow and frustrated.
She headed back to the kitchen to put her socks and shoes on, and as she tied the laces of her Chuck Taylors, the burner phone Yvonne had given her buzzed in her back pocket. She startled. This was the first time the phone had rung.
“Hello?”
“Emma, this is Drew Tierney.”
She had only ever heard his voice in the interview he’d given Blake Jacob on HBO, but she knew without a doubt, this was it. Baritone. Equable. Confident.
“Are you there?” he said.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Thank you for feeding my cats today.” When he spoke there was a delay, as if he was calling from Russia or Venus.
This was so strange. “Um. Sure. You’re welcome.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
Her chest and ears thudded with a quickening pulse. “Excuse me?”
“During your search of my house, did you find what you wanted?”
“I—”
“I’d like you to do something for me. Would you be willing to stay a bit longer?”
Pulse hammering, she looked up at the ceiling and around the room, wondering where the cameras were.
“Would you?” he said. “Okay.”
“I’d like you to go to the biggest bedroom.”
“Okay.”
“Now. Go now.”
Oh god, he could see her. Where were the damn cameras? She did as she was told. When she entered the master bedroom, he said, “Put the phone on speaker and set it down.”
She did.
“Now I’d like you to pull your pants down.”
Only then did her vagina wake up. Squeeze-squeeze-squeeze-squeeze. All the heat in the room and the house and Orchard Avenue concentrated between her legs. With each squeeze her skin felt hotter. She didn’t move. Her breathing accelerated.
“Emma.” So levelheaded. “This is going to be fun.”
She unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down to her ankles.
“Get comfortable in front of the mirror. I want to show you how beautiful your cunt is.”
She sat down on the carpet with her legs open, bent at the knees, crossed at the ankles, suddenly wishing she’d done a better job shaving.
“Are you wet yet?”
Squeeze-squeeze-squeeze-squeeze. She wasn’t sure. Everything shiny was inside her. She saw only her dry, purple-rose vulva inches away in the mirror.
“Emma, you don’t have to talk. But I’d like you to touch yourself. Will you open your cunt for me?”
A whimper escaped her throat. Her vagina flexed, clenching fast as a drill drilling into herself. She thought she might come. If she did as he said, if she could summon the courage to peel herself open, she would see the wet twitching skin. She would see her own shine, plum hued, flooded with life. She would see her slick, dark opening. And then she would need to be filled.
“Put your finger where you want my tongue.”
This was easier. The dance she knew. She moved her fingertip to her clitoris and circled. She heard breathing from the phone. Circle, circle; she was so hard. She curved her longest finger and stroked the distance from her clit to her vagina rim, letting her lips form a small wet tunnel for her finger. Glide, glide, harder, harder. She pressed around her rim, circled her clit. Rim, clit. Harder until her hips joined in. And her hips joined in, and her hips were fucking her finger, just one finger—”Yes,” Drew was saying—fucking her cunt harder and faster until there in the mirror was the face of Klimt’s Judith I.
From somewhere across the world, with his own private surveillance state, Drew Tierney saw what Emma saw: her hand like a paw soaking in temporary relief, her mouth dropped open with pleasure, her eyes half-closed, flush with lust and power. Sore.
TEACHER APPRECIATION
Stella Watts Kelley
I had relented and accepted the invitation against my better judgment, and now I was getting dressed. I decided on worn-out low-rise jeans, a leather belt and an orange-and-yellow tie-dyed tank with fringed beadwork around the neck and hem—no bra. I was lucky to have plump breasts that supported themselves. I pulled on my brown leather ankle boots, applied some eyeliner and blush and added a pair of thick, silver hoop earrings to the small hoops and studs already in my ears. My brown suede jacket completed the look.
I took a last glance in the mirror. My hair had no gray in it yet, just the same old brown. I looked pretty good, actually. Probably most of these kids wouldn’t realize I was over thirty-five, much less forty-two. In any case, James and Ben had agreed to some ground rules. They were to call me by my first name, Gina, and they were not to tell anyone I had been their teacher.
When I walked in, the party was an hour underway, and it was pretty small. Weezer was blaring from the stereo, and about a dozen people were sitting around in the living room talking over the music. I saw Ben approaching.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself.”
His eyes flicked over me head to toe. “You look good.”
“Thanks,” I said. He looked hot in old ripped jeans and a white T-shirt. “So do you.”
He paused. “Do you want a beer?”
“That depends. What kind?”
I followed him to the kitchen, where James was chopping vegetables
. He made a howling sound. “How could you say you’re old? Ben, doesn’t she look hot?”
“Yeah. That’s what I was saying.”
“Oh, stop,” I protested. I was used to the invisible line teachers draw with their students, and this openness caught me off guard. For cryin’ out loud, I thought, I had been their leadership advisor, had overseen their execution of Teacher Appreciation Week. Still, I dug it that these two gorgeous kids twenty years my junior found me attractive. And they weren’t teenagers anymore, so at least I didn’t have to feel guilty for thinking they were hot. Or, at least, not as guilty. I peered into the wooden salad bowl remembering how, in high school, James had always brought salad from home in a wooden bowl.
“I grew all these veggies in our backyard. And all the herbs too.” James returned to his chopping. He was a plant fiend: botany major, essential oil sniffer, marijuana advocate and dedicated salad maker.
“It looks delicious.”
“I’m also making a quiche,” he said, gesturing toward piles of cheese and spinach on the counter.
Ben handed me a local microbrew. I should have known; James wasn’t one to skimp on quality.
“That’s good beer.” James gestured toward my bottle. “They make it here in town. You can eat in their restaurant. Will one of you open one for me?”
It felt strange to drink a beer with these kids who had been underage when they’d been in my care. I had expressed misgivings about my presence at this party when I’d run into James and Ben at a lecture at the university the evening before. I was in town for a conference, and the lecture had been recommended. In the back of my mind I’d wondered if I’d run into them, but I was surprised to see them there all the same. James had become offended when I’d blurted that they were too young for me to party with, and so here I was.
Ben and I left James to his chopping and headed to the living room. Some people had gone outside to smoke. With the room a bit emptier, we sat together on a small sofa. Ben introduced me to some friends who were seated on the floor and in a couple of threadbare, overstuffed chairs. In the middle of the room sat an old-fashioned steamer trunk like the one I’d used in summer camp and later taken with me to college. Like I’d done, they were using it as a coffee table. Some things never change, I thought.
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 2 Page 7
