by Violet Blue
“My pussy’s so wet…I’m dripping on your favorite chair. You know it smells like you?”
“Is that a fact?”
“Now it’s going to smell like me. Like my pussy. I’m incredibly wet. I think I could put this big black dick inside me without any lube. Would that be hot?”
Aaron always found it incredibly exciting when I was able to get a dildo inside me without lube. Didn’t happen often, but I was plenty wet enough now.
“Want to take a guess about what I’m wearing?”
“No,” said Aaron.
“All right…after I was done licking the pre-cum off your cock, then I’d take you in my mouth, all the way down. I’d pump your cock into my mouth, down my throat. And start sucking you off. I’d suck your cock until you shot in my mouth.”
“Really. Is that right?”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“You most certainly are,” Aaron said.
I smiled. Maybe I was a bit of a sadist but, knowing how uncomfortable this made him, I responded, “You could always hang up, then.”
“No,” he said. “I couldn’t.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “You’re so hooked you can’t hang up.”
“Something like that.”
“Is your dick nice and hard?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What I’m wearing,” I told him as I reached out for the big black rubber dildo—my favorite cock to fuck myself with, after Aaron’s—“is that new garter belt I wore the other night.”
“The white one?”
“That’s right, the white one. With white seamed stockings, and my white robe.”
“The little one.”
“Yes, the little one,” I said, sliding the dick up between my legs. I spread my thighs wide and nuzzled the head into my pussy. Normally I would have needed a few good spurts of lubricant, but I knew I was so wet from talking to Aaron—not to mention thinking about this scene all day long—that the dick would slide right in. “The tiny one that’s practically see-through. And I’m not wearing a bra; you know how I am about my tits. The robe’s rubbing my nipples. As if I wasn’t horny enough. I’m going to fuck myself now.”
With a loud groan, I pushed the head of the dildo into my pussy, feeling its snug fit, stretching me. I shuddered—I knew I was going to come any moment. I began rubbing my clit with one hand while I pumped the dildo in with the other.
“I just shoved it inside me,” I said breathlessly. “All the way, as deep as it would go. God, it feels so good. Almost as good as having your cock inside me. Would that feel good?”
“I’m sure it would,” said Aaron.
“God, it feels good on this end. I love having your cock inside me. But this’ll have to do.”
“I’ll be home in a few minutes,” said Aaron.
“I can’t wait a few minutes!” I whined, fucking myself. “I’m going to come now! I’m fucking this big cock into my pussy…rubbing my clit….” I was having trouble speaking, my breath coming short. I lifted my ass off the chair so that I could fuck myself better. I pumped myself with one hand and rubbed my clit with the other—and then I reached that point where I knew it was coming, I knew it was going to happen….
“Oh, God,” I moaned softly. “I’m coming! I’m coming right now!”
“Oh, yeah,” said Aaron, unexpectedly, his voice low and husky. “That’s so good. Fuck your pussy. Fuck it hard. Fuck yourself silly!”
Hearing him talk like that, knowing he was on the bus, knowing people could hear him talking dirty to me, see his big hard-on, drove me over the top. My orgasm washed over me and I spasmed, arched my back, screamed into the phone, hearing it crackle with static as my cries of pleasure rose. I was moaning and screaming so loud that I didn’t realize until after I’d settled down into the chair, utterly spent and basking in the afterglow of my pleasure, that Aaron was standing in the doorway grinning at me, the front door open behind him.
“Wouldn’t you know it?” he said. “The one day the bus is on time.”
“Close that door,” I rasped, my voice shot from screaming so loud. “Some of us are naked.”
He slammed the apartment door. A shudder went through my body as he dropped his briefcase and came toward me, smiling and unfastening his pants.
I smiled back at him and hung up the phone. We were going to be late to the theater again.
Panties
BILL VICKERS
I’m getting out of the shower and Marie is drying me with the large, thick maroon towel. She’s naked, too, but I tell her I’m late for work already, she’ll have to wait until tonight, but she says she knows I have to go, she won’t delay me again—although she’s on her knees before me now and drying my legs and I’m getting excited again just looking at her, her mouth so close—but she says, “I just want you to think about me all day.”
I will, I say.
“I want to be sure you think about me all day.”
Believe me, I say, I can’t forget this morning, or last night, or yesterday morning….
“You might.”
Impossible, I assure her.
“But you’ll be in meetings, you’ll have to pay attention to what people are saying, phone calls will come in, you’ll be figuring estimates, you’ll be drawing blueprints—”
I say I do need to finish the plans for the LeFarge house, that’s true, but, I assure her, I will have her in my mind, at least in the back of my mind.
“I need to be sure,” she says, “you’ll be thinking of me.”
Well, I say, suppose I call you every hour or so?
“And the other fifty-nine minutes?”
Really, I say, I think about you all the—
“I want you to wear my panties.”
I’m looking down at her. She’s still on her knees in front of me. You want me to—
“The emerald green high-cuts, with the lace. The ones you gave me for my birthday.”
But, Marie—
“You’ll be aware of them all day. It’ll be as if I’m holding you down there”—she stands, cupping me down there—“and I’ll feel as if I’m with you every moment. You won’t forget me.”
I say I could never forget her. But wear her panties? I’m a guy, I say. Guys don’t wear women’s underwear. Not normal guys. Do you want me to be one of those guys who likes to pretend he’s a woman?
“It’s only my panties,” she says. “No one will know. No one but you. And me.”
Well, I discover it’s tricky taking a leak—no opening, you know, in her emerald green high-cuts with the lace. So I have to go into the stall and sit every time I have to pee, like a woman. Bob, my partner, notices after a while and asks if I have diarrhea. All I can do is say, Yes.
But the truth is, I think about Marie all day. I feel that silk hugging my balls and pressing my pecker, and I have to admit, it’s exciting. I can’t wait to get home.
When I get home, she’s playing a little game. She’s never done this sort of thing before, but I think, what the heck, she’s adding more spice to our life, because as I walk in the door, she says, innocent as can be, “Ron, I can’t find my high-cut emerald green panties with the lace. Are you wearing them?” And before I can answer—I don’t know what to answer, in fact—she unbuckles my belt and unzips my pants and my pants drop to my ankles, and she says, “Oh, Ron, you are wearing my panties, you naughty boy.” Then she pulls off my tie and unbuttons my shirt, and then she lifts her dress over her head, and she stands there, on her firm trim legs, her pink lips smiling, her pert breasts jutting, wearing only my blue cotton bikini shorts. “I thought of you all day, too.”
She kisses me, her tongue probing my mouth. She squeezes my chest, as if I have breasts. She pinches my nipples. She sucks my nipples. “Ron,” she says sadly, “your breasts aren’t very big.”
I don’t know why it turns me on.
“That’s OK,” she says. “I like small-breasted girls.”
I feel her breasts, squeeze t
heir plumpness, pull at her pink nipples. I bend down to suck her nipple, but she raises my head. “I have something else in mind,” she says. She leads me into the bedroom. She tells me to lie down.
“What’s gotten into you?” I ask, smiling, still standing.
She smiles back, coquettish. Her palm pats my buttock. “It’s what’s going to get into you,” she coos, and pushes me onto the bed.
I lie there, looking up at her. Her auburn hair is tousled, a little wild. Her face is flushed with excitement. She says, “Turn over.”
I roll onto my stomach. Suddenly I feel strangely vulnerable.
“Don’t move,” she says.
I wait.
“I’m taking your shorts off,” she says.
That’s a start, I think. I hear a drawer open. Other sounds I can’t identify. I peek over my shoulder. A nervous thrill shivers my body. She’s strapping on a penis—black straps, pink penis, erect but pliable, about the size of mine, an average size.
She sees me watching.
“You peeked.”
I watch her.
“You’re a bad boy.”
She reaches into the drawer. She pulls out a riding crop. I’m sure she’s merely teasing.
The crop stings my buttock.
I don’t say anything. This is a new sensation.
She smacks me again. Then nothing. Finally she says, “You look so defenseless like that, on your stomach. So exposed.”
I don’t say anything.
“Get on your knees, your ass in the air.”
I do.
Something oozes into my crack. It must be the K-Y.
Her finger slips into my anus. She slides it in and out slowly, working it in circles. I keep my head down, look at the sheet. I like not seeing. I like being passive like this. It’s a new sensation. How did she know I would like this? Or does she care? Maybe this is only for her. No, she knew I’d like it. Everything she does is for both of us—putting her hand in my pants at the movies, calling me at work and telling me how she’s playing with herself, thinking of things I’d like even before I think of them, like the time she made a video of her friend Wanda masturbating and showed it to me.
I feel my anus stretching. She must have two fingers in. They circle, expanding me more. I feel strangely humbled, obedient.
“You have a tight ass, Ron,” she says.
Make it bigger, I say.
She pushes in. She makes it bigger. Three fingers?
My cock lengthens and thickens.
“You’re bad, Ron.”
Her other hand smacks my ass.
“What’s happening to your cock?”
She smacks again, harder.
“Are you playing with yourself?”
I shake my head.
“Go ahead,” she says. “Feel your cock getting hard.”
I lean on an elbow, stroke myself.
“Oh, Ron,” she says. She smacks me again. I let go.
Her fingers leave. My anus feels suddenly abandoned. Yet I seem to still feel her fingers, a pressure remaining.
“You know, Ron, I have a cock, too.”
My cock gets harder.
“My cock’s getting hard, too,” she says, her voice soft and enticing. I imagine her with a real cock. I imagine it getting hard, standing up.
I feel her hands on my buttocks.
“It’s the size of your cock.”
Her thumbs pull my cheeks apart.
“You’ll feel what I feel when you fuck me.”
I feel something nuzzle at my anus.
“You’ll be me.”
Something pushes in.
“I’ll be you.”
It slides in a couple of inches, easily, then stops. It’s a good feeling, but it’s not enough.
“That’s as far as my fingers went,” she says.
I feel her cock poised, stretching my anus.
“Do you want more?”
I want more, I say.
She slaps my buttocks. “Ron, you’re so bad.”
You make me bad, I say.
She plunges in. It hurts for a second, then it feels fine. It fills me. It doesn’t move.
“Ron, your cock is hard.”
Without thinking I wrap my hand around my cock.
She spanks me hard. “Naughty.”
I let go.
Her cock slides slowly out. Will she leave me? I wait. Her hands are on my buttocks, still spreading my cheeks. Marie? I say.
“What do you want, Ron?”
Put it in, Marie.
I feel it slide slowly in.
In farther, I beg.
She slides it in farther. Slowly, teasingly.
She nuzzles it around. She pulls part way out. She slides in. Out. In.
Marie is fucking me in the ass.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
Yes.
She fucks me harder.
Fuck me, Marie.
“I’m fucking you, Ron.” She slaps my buttocks. “Is your cock hard?”
It’s hard, Marie.
“Play with it, Ron.”
But I don’t.
“Jerk yourself off,” Marie orders.
You do it, I say.
“You bitch,” she says. “You know I like that, don’t you?” And her hand slides over my hip, her fingers curl around my cock, her hand pumps my cock as her cock pumps in my ass. She goes faster, then slows down. She stops.
Don’t stop, I say.
She starts again, slowly.
Faster, I say.
But she doesn’t speed up. She tortures me. She hangs me on the brink.
“Are you going to come?” she asks. But she can tell, her hand slippery.
She pulls out of my ass. Is she quitting? No. She kneels beside me on the bed, her ass in the air. “Fuck me, Ron. Fuck my ass.”
I stand behind her. Her ass is already lubricated. I spread her sweet, soft cheeks, so round, so plump. I tease her pink bumhole, so enticing, so inviting.
“Don’t tease me, Ron.”
Play with your cock, I say.
She grabs her cock.
I slide in easily.
She says, “Oh, God, that feels good.”
I pump in and out. It feels good to me, too.
She says, “I wish I had a real cock, like yours.”
So do I, I say.
“Really?”
Really, I say. I pump slowly.
“I wish you had a pussy,” she says.
So do I, I say. I wish I had a pussy like yours.
“Fuck me harder, Ron. Fuck my ass.”
I fuck her harder. She moans. I say, I can still feel you in my ass. It’s like your cock is still there, still fucking me, while I’m fucking you.
She whimpers.
I reach around her hip. I grab her cock. I pump her cock the way she pumped mine.
“Yes, yes!” she whimpers. “It hits my clit when you do that.”
I pump my cock into her ass as my hand jerks her cock into her clit. I slide out as my hand slides out.
“Faster!” she says.
I slow down.
“Bitch!” she says.
I go slow.
“Please, Ron, please.”
I go slower.
She shoves her ass at me, moves it faster. I hardly have to move. Her ass is fucking my cock. She moans in relief.
I’m rock-hard. I can’t tease any longer. I speed up. I’m ready to come.
“Yes! Yes!” she cries.
I slip my finger under her cock. I feel her clit, hard and wet.
She presses her fingers on mine. We rub her clit together.
“Fuck me,” she moans.
I’m fucking you, I gasp.
My whole body seems to orgasm, heels to cock to head.
I come in her ass.
“I feel it,” she says.
I squirt and squirt. It seems as if it will never end.
“You’re filling me up,” she says.
Her fingers
press mine, hold them to her throbbing clit. She stiffens. She cries out. She moans as if in exquisite pain.
We stay like that for several moments, as if frozen, my chest to her back, my cock in her ass, both our fingers on her pussy. Her juices drip into our hands.
I grab her breasts, hanging free, and squeeze. I smear her juices on them.
She licks my hands.
Finally I slide out of her ass. I pull her cheeks apart. I see my semen oozing from her hole. It drips down into her pussy.
I kneel behind her. I lick her asshole.
I fall on the bed beside her. She leans over me, her breasts rubbing my chest. She puts her lips on mine. I open my mouth. She sticks in her tongue.
“I taste you,” she says. “I taste me.”
We lie on our backs beside each other, catching our breaths, dripping with sweat, juices dripping between our legs.
The next morning I’m getting ready to dress for work. I open her lingerie drawer. I pull on her powder-blue bikinis. I reach for my trousers.
“There’s something else today,” she says.
Don’t worry, I say. I’ll think about you.
She hands me her white garter belt and her white stockings. “I know you will,” she says. I look at her. She’s put on a pants suit. There’s a bulge in the crotch.
Please
ERIN PIPES
The fantasy has been brewing in the back of my good-girl mind since puberty—rolling through my brain like a movie, while I whimpered behind closed doors, one hand clamped firmly between my wet thighs. Since I left the clutches of my parents’ home, and their spare-the-rod, spoil-the-child sensibilities, it has grown more demanding, nagging at me. I pushed and pushed and pushed at you to help me realize this, until finally you relented. Your timid slaps on my ass weren’t enough to punish a wayward toddler. Nary a rosy-hued handprint in sight! Not to mention your tendency to cringe and ask if I’m all right after each blow, compassion I appreciate in every other circumstance. It was disastrous.
