Sweet Life 1

by Violet Blue

  She slid off of his lap with a soft shimmy of her hips, smoothing her rumpled skirt back down with her hands. But for the soft, self-satisfied grin that curved her lush, red-stained lips, she might’ve been alone as she sat back down in her chair, her thumbs hooking into the flesh of the broken-open fruit to liberate more of its succulence. She ate with relish, with the unselfconscious grace of great enthusiasm, pausing periodically to suck juice from her fingers or rescue a fallen seed from the dish or tabletop, taking no notice of her bound, spattered paramour across the table or the way he watched her as she devoured the fruit.

  He was speechless—or perhaps not, he thought, as he sat in dumb silence. Perhaps it was just that there was nothing to say. He was, after all, quite weary after the long plane ride, the annoyance of the taxi to her apartment, the strange, unbalancing hot-and-cool of her reception, and there was little point in arguing. She would decide what happened next, clearly. As she always did. The thought reassured him, the knowledge that she only appeared to ignore him, that, in reality, she was probably monitoring his every move, gauging his reactions, noting the way he winced slightly as the juice dried, sticky and taut, on his skin. He could fight it or give in to it, give in to the knowledge that she thought of him as hers, as her toy to play with, her very own possession, a cross between pet and lover. He was too tired to fight it.

  Perhaps she could see it in the way he sat, in the lassitude that let his spine slump and his arms hang limper than they had before. “I imagine you thought I was going to lick that juice off of you,” she said plainly, as if speaking to no one in particular. His cock twitched at the sound of her voice, his eyelids flying open to see her studiously peeling membrane from one of the few remaining pockets of seeds. “I suppose you might well be sitting there imagining the hot, soft velvet of a tongue on your chest even now. Probably you are, thinking about feeling my breath on your skin, my lips suckling juice off you. I know it tickles when it dries.”

  She nibbled a row of pomegranate seeds from their pocket, mindfully chewing the nibs for a moment as he shifted his weight, feeling his cock straining against his briefs as he thought—as she knew he would—of her tongue, her lips, her hands on his skin. He could feel the light vapor of her breath on his belly, sense memory of the cool evaporation making tiny goose bumps ripple across his chest, shiver on his arms. Before he had gone away she had fucked him hard, pinning him ruthlessly and riding his cock to the point of delirium and past it, biting his chest in the midst of some unnumbered cry, half anguish, half delight. He looked down at the spot where the bruise had remained, trying to decide whether he could still see a faint mark or whether it was only pomegranate juice, shivering slightly deep in the core of his body at the recollection of the pleasure and pain, the remembrance of her lust and the way she used him to feed it. Drifting, he let his eyes close, the better to remember the sensations, the better to imagine them.

  “Don’t think I don’t know you well enough to know what you want,” she continued after a pause, her voice lower, slightly mocking as it rumbled with the slightest edge of a sharp-clawed purr. He shivered, unexpectedly, embarrassingly, feeling the little tugging of hairs trapped in dried juice as the skin of his belly twitched, flinched with desire and tension. And then there was pressure on his thigh, a hand, her hand. Firm, showing him where she wanted him, shifting in his seat without opening his eyes. He wanted to open them, to look at her bending over him, to see the soft inner curve of her breast, the heartbreakingly sharp Cupid’s bow of her upper lip, to see if he could divine her next move from the look in her deep-brown eyes. But his eyelids seemed heavy, reluctant to open, unwilling to know where or whether he would be touched.

  Her tongue was wide and wet and warm as she licked one slow stripe up his stomach, over his solar plexus. A moan dried into a whimper as her saliva dried on his skin, his eagerness for another touch, any other touch, transparent. He could hear his wristwatch ticking, his skin rippling with subtle sensation, phantom brushes with imaginary hands. Then teeth, real and hard, scraped down over his nipple, down the side of his belly, tongue scouring the flesh in rough circles as he yelped, then thanked her, and unthinkingly began to beg. He begged her not to stop, to please keep touching him, not to make him wait any longer—to please let him feel her, to let him please her, to let him do something for her, anything that would make her happy. As she feasted on his skin, her hands roaming beneath his shirt, her nails leaving comet-tails of icy, glittering sensation behind them, he gasped, called her name, shook as if he were having a seizure, back arched, head back, almost in orgasm, torn open by her appetite and his need for it.

  And then she was straddling his lap again, his face in her cleavage as she reached down behind him and tugged at the silk. The knot came free, his hands falling toward his sides, helpless and not wanting it otherwise as she stroked his hair, kissed him, licked the stubble on his jaw to relish the salt, the grit of him. Held against her body, he sighed a slow , long sigh, happy just to breathe her in, happy to feel her taking his measure, reacquainting herself, making pleased little noises as she found the spot just in front of his ear that she liked to kiss.

  “You’ll be here for a while now—yes?”

  He mumbled, nodding, incoherent.

  “Good,” she affirmed, tilting his head up to look at his face. His eyes opened slowly, bleary, bloodshot, searching. Her red-tinged fingernail traced a dark-pink line down his chest from collarbone to nipple, the juice licked clean but the stain still there. He followed her fingertip as it traced other paths, one then the other, down to the waist, looking up from her hand to her eyes as she slid her finger into his waistband. She beamed, slightly, strangely shy, through juice-stained lips, the dark pink of her smile matching the dark pink streaks on his skin, the single tattletale splash on the shirtfront over his heart, the ruddy finger that hooked beneath his belt and pulled him to his feet and tugged him toward her bed, both of them stained by the same fine juice, so indelible, so shocking, so sweet.

  Spa Day

  KRISTINA WRIGHT

  The little bell over the door tinkled as Marie entered the salon. The cool, refreshing scent of eucalyptus and mint assailed her senses, and she inhaled deeply. The cream-and-white interior was dim, recessed lighting placed strategically to highlight the reception area and the long hallway to the treatment rooms beyond. The reception desk was vacant, the shiny silver counter gleaming and uncluttered.

  A door closed somewhere at the back of the salon, and an attractive man in a white T-shirt and gray slacks appeared in the hall. He walked toward Marie, his chest impossibly broad beneath his shirt, his trim waist and thighs hugged by his pants. Marie felt her heart flutter in her chest when he smiled.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Vittorio. Are you ready for your massage?”

  She nodded. “I’m ready, Mr.—?”

  “Call me Robert, “ he said easily. “Follow me and I’ll get you set up.”

  Marie followed him down the quiet hall, letting her gaze drift to his ass. The gray slacks only accentuated the muscular curve of his backside. She felt her nipples harden and a tingle begin between her legs. She was going to enjoy this massage very much.

  Robert led her into an even darker room where a massage table dominated the floor space. A single light overhead highlighted the table. A white robe and two towels were laid across a nearby chair. Marie could already feel the stress leaving her body.

  “You may disrobe now. Wrap a towel around your body and climb up on the table,” Robert said. “I’ll be back momentarily.”

  Marie nodded.

  Robert started toward the door, then paused. “By the way, I believe there are some open appointments this evening if you’d like to try another of our services.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, perhaps a manicure and pedicure. Maybe one of our special facial treatments or an herbal wrap,” Robert suggested.

  Marie raised an eyebrow. “I’ll think about it.”

  With a nod, Robert l
eft the room.

  Marie quickly stripped out of her clothes, eager to relieve herself of the tension and tightness of a long work week. The room wasn’t chilly, but she shivered anyway as she removed her bra, imagining Robert’s eyes on her. The idea of paying a sexy man to touch her naked body was somewhat arousing.

  She had just climbed on the table, her hair pulled up in a loose bun and her towel demurely in place, when Robert returned. A hand towel was slung over his shoulder and he carried a bottle of massage oil. “Are you ready to begin?” he asked, the deep timbre of his voice reverberating through the room.

  Marie nodded and closed her eyes.

  Silently, he took his place by the table. She heard him open the bottle and the scent of vanilla filled the air. A moment later his warm, wet hands were gliding across her shoulders. His fingers lightly kneaded her muscles, working them with a precision found only in musicians and craftsfolk. She could feel the tightness ease from her body as his fingers coaxed the knots in her neck and shoulders to unwind. She moaned softly in her throat. Embarrassed by her animalistic response, she tucked her head against her arm.

  “Relax,” Robert soothed. “Let go.”

  He pushed her towel lower, his fingers quickly covering her skin. Across her shoulder blades, into the stiff muscles at the middle of her back, Robert worked his special brand of magic. Lower, lower, into those spots that ached when she had PMS or had been standing too long. He worked her oil-slick flesh with the hands of a master, his strong fingers driving tension from her body and leaving only a sweet pain.

  She was whimpering by the time the towel fell away and he began kneading her buttocks. She clenched the cheeks of her ass as his hands worked them, heat suffusing her face as she felt wetness gather between her legs. He applied more oil to her ass and upper thighs, working it in, making her squirm.

  “Does that feel good?” he asked, his fingers straying up her thigh, massaging the crease of her ass, so close to her pussy.

  She nodded against her arm, unable to speak.

  “Good. Relax.”

  She didn’t feel relaxed. She could feel a new kind of tension building in her body. She wanted to move against his hands. She wanted to raise her ass and spread her legs, begging him to touch her there, where she was hot and wet. Instead, she forced herself to remain still, feeling every push and tug of his hands on her damp skin.

  He continued silently, working down the backs of her legs, massaging her thighs and calves until she whimpered softly against her arm. He spent a long time on her feet, manipulating different pressure points until her feet felt as boneless as the rest of her. She thought she felt him press his lips to her instep, but she knew it was probably only her fevered imagination.

  “Turn over, Mrs. Vittorio,” he said, his voice containing an authoritative note she hadn’t heard before. It made her forget her modesty. It made her want to beg for something more than a massage.

  She turned onto her back, the towel slipping from beneath her to fall to the floor. She didn’t care. She liked being naked beneath Robert’s steely gaze, the light above the table shining on her like a spotlight. She stretched her arms above her head and spread her legs just a bit, enough to make her pussy clench as the air hit it.

  She watched Robert for a moment, saw the warm appraisal in his steady gaze. Then she closed her eyes and gave herself up to him, trusting him to make her feel good. He began with the tops of her feet, a gentle touch swirling up and around her ankle bones. His hands moved over her shins and kneecaps, then higher to massage the front of her thighs. Her pussy was so wet that she was dripping on the table, but she was beyond caring. All that mattered was this moment and the hands on her body. His hands.

  His gentle touch slid up past her pubic mound, and she wanted to cry out and ask him to touch her there, but she didn’t. He continued the massage with her tummy, his warm hands covering her skin with a soothing touch. Self-consciously, she tightened her stomach muscles, only to have him lay his hand palm-down against her navel.

  “Relax. You’re beautiful,” he murmured, dipping his finger into her navel and swirling oil into the indentation.

  She shivered, imagining his fingers dipping into her cunt and finding her own natural moisture. She took a breath and could smell her scent mingling with the vanilla. The room was starting to smell like sex. She wondered if he could smell her.

  Slowly, Robert worked his way up her body. He massaged her sides, careful not to linger on her tickle spot. Across her upper abdomen, a gentle, calming touch. Her nipples were already tightly drawn in anticipation by the time his palms covered her breasts. She couldn’t hold back a moan of pleasure as he cupped and kneaded her breasts, pushing them together and then drawing them apart. He made circles on her breasts, much like a breast exam only much more sensual. The oil allowed his fingers to glide over her fevered flesh, his touch gentle and firm. He moved up to her collarbone, then to her shoulders, but she could still feel his heat on her breasts, her nipples aching for his touch.

  He moved as if to step away and she impulsively reached for his hand. “Here,” she said, putting his hand over one breast. “I still feel some soreness.”

  He made a tsking sound low in his throat and began massaging her breast. His fingers sent waves of pleasure throughout her body and she moaned. Soon, his hands covered both breasts, and she squirmed in the mixture of sweat, oil, and pussy juice beneath her. She whimpered when his fingers plucked at her nipples. She moaned when he tugged harder, forcing them up and away from her breast. When he released them, they stood tall and stiff, aching for his touch once more.

  “Spread your legs,” he said so softly that she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.

  Slowly, she spread her legs as far as the narrow table would allow. She inhaled sharply when he moved down the table and stared up between her legs. She could feel how wet she was, but could he see? Judging by the heat in his gaze, he could.

  He touched her gently, two fingers on her mound, swirling in her curls. She whimpered when he trailed those fingers around her clit and down to her opening. She couldn’t help arching a bit as his fingers touched her pussy, wanting to pull him into her, wanting to feel something inside where she ached.

  “Do you want me to finish the massage?” His fingers teased her opening.

  She nodded. “Yes, please. I need it.”

  He eased his fingers into her, chuckling softly. “Oh yes, you do seem to be very tense here.”

  She raised her hips, taking his fingers deeper. This was what she needed, this sense of fullness. She could feel her wetness surrounding him like hot oil, drenching him in her arousal. Soon, two fingers weren’t enough. She needed more.

  As if sensing her need, he pushed a third finger into her cunt. “Relax,” he said. “Relax.”

  She tried to obey, taking a deep breath and willing the tension to flow out of her body. She focused all her attention on the fingers inside her, massaging the walls of her pussy, sliding over her G-spot and making her tingle. She closed her eyes, and her world shrank to the space between her legs and the sensations he was causing in her.

  He finger-fucked her like that for a long time, working his fingers in and out of her wetness. She could hear the squishy wetness every time he withdrew his fingers and plunged them in again. The sound aroused her even more, driving her desire higher than she could ever remember. She needed this so badly. She needed what only he could give her.

  “You can take more,” he told her. “You can. Relax.”

  When he eased a fourth finger into her cunt, she thought she would come on his hand. He went slowly, so slowly she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. She was whimpering loudly now, unashamed of her need. She squirmed on the table, urging him to go faster, harder. But he kept to his slow, methodical pace, filling her with his fingers. Slowly, he slid them out and back in again, over and over in the rhythm of a ballad, steady and sweet.

  Her cunt stretched to accommodate his fingers, and there was no
pain. There was only this driving need for more. More of him inside her. More of his hand. The image of his hand inside her flooded her cunt with even more wetness. She could feel it trickling down her ass, pooling beneath her. She wanted all of him. She wanted his hand.

  “More,” she whispered. “Please. More.”

  He hesitated and she opened her eyes. His expression was dark with lust. “Are you sure?”

  “Please.”

  He nodded.

  She closed her eyes and felt him trickle oil over her mound and the fingers inside her. She spread her legs wider, letting them slide off the table. She was spread as wide as she could be, open to his touch, his hand.

  “Take a breath. Relax. I’ll go slow,” he said. His fingers continued to glide into her, wetter and slicker because of the oil mixing with her own wetness. “Breathe. Feel me.”

  She did as he said, breathing slowly, evenly, feeling the heat of his body so close, feeling only his hand touching her. He held still, so still that she couldn’t feel his fingers except when she took a breath. She whimpered impatiently, her body as relaxed as it could be, her mind on edge, waiting, wanting.

  He shifted slightly and she began to feel the fullness of his hand. She felt stretched, impossibly so, beyond her body’s capacity. He stilled again and she breathed, her breath coming in long, deep pants punctuated by soft moans. Her voice, his hand…there was nothing else, no other stimulus. Her eyes were closed, darkness pulling her down so far inside herself that she wasn’t sure she’d ever surface.

  “Now. Take me now.”

  He pushed into her. Her body was impaled on his fist. Her thigh muscles tensed, cramped, then the pain passed and there was only fullness. Complete and utter fullness. She had taken his hand.