by Violet Blue
“Open your eyes and look at yourself,” he said softly.
Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, heavily, as if even her eye muscles were too relaxed to work properly. She raised her head slightly, tucking her arm behind her head so that she could see. The overhead light glinted sharply off the golden hairs of his arm. His strong, muscular forearm flexed, and she felt it deep inside her cunt. She moaned.
“Look,” he demanded.
She saw the way his arm angled toward her, the wetness of oil and her own juices slick on his wrist, matting the hair on his arm. And then, her body began. Her cunt, red and engorged, around his hand. From this angle she couldn’t see the way he entered her, but she could imagine it. She could imagine the way the lips must be stretched obscenely around his fist, cradling him deep inside her body. She felt her cunt contract on his hand, saw the flicker of pain in his eyes, and felt a surge of need so strong that she moaned.
“Fuck me. God, fuck me,” she gasped, rocking her body on his hand.
He fucked her slowly, his hand pumping her cunt with a steady, hard motion that sent tremors through her body . She’d been so close for so long, her orgasm overtook her like his fist had—so slowly she wasn’t sure where it began. Suddenly, she was there, one hand clenched around his wrist, the other gripping the table so that she wouldn’t fall off. She rocked on his fist, hard, fucking herself on the hand impaling her body, screaming his name over and over as he made her come.
She opened her eyes, watched his expression of lust and pain as her cunt gripped him, tightening on him as she came. She smiled, a feral grin of power and desire, wanting to squeeze his fist inside of her until he became a part of her, until she absorbed everything he could give her.
Slowly, even slower than he went into her, his hand slipped from her cunt. She felt empty when his fingers pulled free. Empty and stretched. He helped her pull her legs back up on the table, every muscle in her body relaxed, numb. She lay there, beneath the single light, limp and wet. Satiated.
Her eyes closed. She wanted to sleep. He stood over her for several minutes, caressing her warm, damp body lightly while she recovered from her orgasm. She felt him press a gentle kiss to her forehead, and she opened her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered, trying to convey everything she was feeling in those two words. It wasn’t enough.
“I hope you’ll schedule another appointment with me.”
She smiled. “Absolutely.”
He glanced at his watch. “Your staff will be here in less than half an hour, and I need to get to work.”
“Go,” she said. “I’ll clean up.”
“You sure?”
She sat up and groaned at the feeling in her muscles. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Can I do anything else for you before I go?” he asked as he offered her the robe from the chair.
“Only one thing…” she said. “I might want one of those special facial treatments at home tonight.”
He executed a sharp bow. “Yes, Mrs. Vittorio. My pleasure, ma’am.”
“You bet it will be, Mr. Vittorio.”
Cast of Three
EMILIE PARIS
My husband and I work at home. Jonathan is a webmaster and I’m a freelance writer. Some of our friends tease us, winking as they wonder aloud if we lounge all day in silk pajamas and satin robes. If they only knew….
On a recent Friday morning, while I was speaking on the phone with one of my editors, Jonathan came into my office. His faded khakis were open at the fly, and his unbuttoned denim work shirt revealed his broad chest, muscular from many hours of nightly workouts. I met his gaze and instantly understood the yearning, hungry look in his eyes. As I continued talking to Fiona, I watched Jonathan take out his cock and begin stroking it slowly, deliberately.
My editor, oblivious on the other end of the line, spoke to me of dashes and commas, of new paragraphs and run-on sentences. All the while, Jon’s hand worked faster on his cock, the ridge of his palm slamming against his body as skin moved on skin. That clapping sound was undeniably erotic, and I could feel a rush of heat color my cheeks. I love watching my husband jerk off. His brow furrows. His sea-green eyes squeeze shut. Near the end, his head goes back, revealing the seductive line of his long neck. I can see him swallow hard, steel himself as he tries not to let loose. Then, as he approaches his peak, he talks. Murmurs, really. Nonsense words, or unfinished words. Sometimes he says my name, whispers it.
Fiona was saying it now. “Gina, are you listening?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I mean, I’m here. Could I—?” I was starting to say, “Could I call you back?” but Jonathan stopped me, shaking his head quickly as he took a step in my direction. He didn’t want me to get off the phone.
“Could you repeat that last bit?” I asked, shooting him a questioning glance.
He answered with actions rather than words. Moving closer, he placed the head of his throbbing cock against my glossed lips, butting forward. I sucked him easily, the phone still cradled in my hand, his cockhead cradled between my parted lips. The tip of my pink tongue flicked out, up and down his shaft. While I worked him, I tried not to make any noise, moved away from him when I had to give a response to Fiona.
With my focus shifted from Fiona to fucking, I could no longer comprehend what my editor was saying, but I was still able to make those mm-hmmm comfort sounds that tend to appease her. She continued speaking to me about a recent project, one that she’d liked but that needed minor changes. Changes like the shift and pull of Jon’s cock in my mouth, minor edits like the way he dragged the head of his cock along the roof of my mouth, reveling in the ridged texture against his smooth skin.
Finally, Fiona said, “That’s about it, Gina. Call me when you have a fresh draft.”
“Mm-hmmm,” I said again, pulling back from Jon and adding a “good-bye” before hanging up the phone. I thought my husband would ravish me then and there. I was sure he’d turn me around in the leather office chair, lower my well-worn jeans, place the slick, wet head of his cock between my slender thighs, and enter my dripping pussy. A good, satisfying fuck is one of my all-time favorite ways to start the day. But Jon had other ideas. Leaning across my desk, he asked, “What’s Victoria’s number?”
“Why?” I asked. Already, I had one hand between my legs, cupping my cunt through the crotch of my jeans, rocking on the seam that pressed perfectly against my clit. I could already sense how good this climax was going to be.
“Just tell me.”
His cock pointed forward, like a divining rod. I blinked, thought of my ex-roommate’s number, and rattled it off from memory before realizing what he was doing. Yet, somewhere in my head, I knew. Of course I knew. This was one of Jonathan’s four-star fantasies in motion. And all I had to do was play along.
While I watched, he dialed the number quickly and then handed me the phone. “Victoria Morris, please,” I said when the receptionist answered. As I talked my way through Vicky’s personal assistant, Jon moved me around, so that my ass was toward him. Swiftly, he lowered my jeans down my thighs, leaving them on but out of his way.
“I liked the way you handled Fiona,” he said, as I waited for Vicky to answer the phone. “See if you can keep it up.”
Vicky is a high-level attorney, but I knew she wouldn’t mind a call at work. Still, I couldn’t immediately think of anything to say as Jon’s cock worked its powerful way into my tight cunt. He had one hand around my waist, and his fingers lingered lightly between the lips of my pussy. Luckily, when Vicky came on the line, I had a sudden brain wave.
“Hey, Vick,” I said. “I was wondering if we could have lunch together Friday.”
“Let me check my schedule.” I could hear the beeping from her electronic date book. As she scrolled through the week, she said, “How’s life at home? You guys getting any work done, or are you just fucking around?”
“I’m getting a lot taken care of,” I said, grinning, feeling those wondrous inner muscles
of my pussy begin to helplessly contract on the head of Jon’s cock. At this move, his breathing grew more ragged. I looked into the window above my desk and could see a ghostly reflection of the two of us. My long, auburn hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, and as I watched, Jon pulled the ribbon free, letting my curls fall loose around my shoulders. He gripped into my hair with one hand, pulling my head back hard. Feeling the power behind that move, I wondered how long I’d be able to keep up a normal-sounding conversation.
Vicky had found Friday at last. “I’ve got a mid-morning meeting that might go late. How’s one o-clock?”
“One’s great,” I managed to answer. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Got another call, Gina. Be good,” she said, and she was gone.
Be good? As good as I could possibly be, as good as anyone could be in that situation. I was rocked with the motions of Jon’s body against mine. His cock slammed forward and then withdrew, leaving just the mushroom head inside me. The scent of my arousal was light in the air. Jonathan always says my pussy smells like perfume, like flower petals, but I don’t agree. I think I have a richer scent—slightly spicy—just before I come. And right now, I was about to come. Jon sensed it. Grabbing my waist, he pulled me back against him. My office chair has wheels at the bottom, and the whole piece of furniture moved with me, rocking us both. Jon seemed to like that, and he gripped the arms of the chair and fucked me using the motion of the wheels. Then, his breathing harsh, he said, “Call Sarah.”
“Come on, Jon.” I was dying, caught in the moment of not wanting to come because it felt so good but almost coming anyway because I couldn’t fucking help it. If he would just keep up the rhythm, I’d climax in no time.
“Call her, Gina.”
“Please,” I said. “I’m almost there.”
“Just call her up.”
Jon knew I was stalling for time, just playing with him. He brought his hand down on my rear, giving me a playful love-spank to make me obey. I hesitated for one more moment, winning myself another spank before caving in to his desires. My ass smarted from the open-handed smack, and I reached back to rub the sore spot before lifting the phone.
Sarah’s our next-door neighbor. I have her number on our speed dial and, staring into Jon’s reflection, I picked up the handset and pressed one button. She’s an artist and works at home, too. I could hear her phone ringing through the connecting wall of our townhouses.
“Talk dirty this time,” Jon said, grabbing my asscheeks with both hands, pawing me hard enough to leave marks.
“Dirty?”
“You know, baby.”
He was right. I knew. As I said, this was Jon’s favorite fantasy in motion, an X-rated sex play with a cast of three. Who was I to knock it off course? I held the phone to my ear and waited, impatiently, for Sarah to answer. She picked up on the fifth ring.
“Hey, it’s Gina,” I managed to squeak out as Jon pulled his cock, wet and sticky, from my cunt and began making thrusting moves with the head between the cheeks of my ass. I trembled, knowing exactly what he was going to do and wondering how I was going to talk through it.
“What’s up, girl?”
My heart rate, I thought. “Nothing,” I said, “just procrastinating.”
“Still in your pajamas?”
Jon moved back and forth, rubbing the length of his rock-hard cock along the split of my ass before oiling it up with his spit and thrusting the first inch inside me. I would have moaned aloud if I hadn’t been talking to Sarah. Instead, I said, “PJs? You think I wear pajamas?”
“You’re right, Gina,” she said apologetically. “You’re much more of a T-shirt and panties kind of girl.”
“How about you?” I asked, envisioning her thick black hair falling over her shoulders, her slender body draped in something long and sheer and silky. “What are you wearing?”
“Nothing,” Sarah said, and her voice sounded as raw as Jon’s. I could tell that my kinky husband liked the way this conversation was going, because he suddenly slipped in another inch of his bone. I bit my lip to stifle the sound of a moan as he whispered, “Invite her over.”
“How can you paint when you’re not wearing anything?” I asked, my voice trembling. Jon had stopped moving, his cock now tucked deep in my ass, his hands resting lightly on my waist. I squeezed him rhythmically with my muscles, but still managed to reach forward and press the speaker button on our phone.
“I’m not painting, silly,” Sarah said to the captive audience of two. “I’m listening to you guys do it.”
“How’d you know…?” I asked, as Jon started moving again inside me.
“The squeak of your wheels against the wood floor. It’s got a very familiar sound to it. And he’s making you call people again, isn’t he?”
“Get over here, kid,” Jon said, continuing his throbbing pace in my ass, grabbing the arms of the chair again and letting Sarah hear the squeak of the wheels.
“On my way.”
Jon leaned over me to hang up the phone, pressing his cock all the way to the hilt as he did. I sighed and then moaned aloud, no longer playing the role of the hard-working freelancer.
Sarah has a key to our apartment. For emergencies. Or times when we’re out of town and she brings in the mail. Or mornings when the three of us decide that what we really need to get done is not our work but each other. The door opened only moments later, and we heard her padding in bare feet down the hall. Quickly, I turned to see my best friend standing in the doorway.
“Now isn’t this a pretty picture,” she said, smiling. “I should have brought my easel.”
Jon motioned for her to join us.
“Where do you want me, Jonny?” Sarah asked. “On the table so I can kiss your pretty wife, or on my knees behind you so I can lick your asshole until you shoot?”
Sarah can talk like a trucker. It’s one of her best features, and it was obvious from his expression that Jon didn’t know what he wanted. Both scenarios were equally arousing. But after brief consideration, he took a breath and said, “Start with Gina. She needs you.”
Did I ever. I needed her perched on my polished wood desk so that I could run my hands up and down her supple body. Needed her pouting lips parted against my own so that I could meet her tongue with mine. She had slipped on a robe, and I nearly tore it in my haste to see her naked. As soon as I did, I realized that she hadn’t lied to me. She’d been listening to us fuck, and the sounds had turned her on. I could tell from the way her shaved pussy lips were already glistening with her personal lubrication.
“I want to taste you,” I said.
Sarah didn’t seem to have a problem with this idea. But she did have a problem with the location. There was no comfortable place for her to sit. Jon took care of the situation swiftly, picking me up while still inside of me and moving me onto the floor. Sarah took up her position in front of me immediately, parting her toned thighs and then staring to see if I would follow through with my offer. I could hardly wait. With Jon slipping back and forth in my ass, I bent and brought my tongue to Sarah’s carefully shaved cunt, French-kissing her throbbing clit and making her moan loudly. Luckily, we’re the only freelancers in our line of townhouses. There was nobody else to be disturbed by the sounds of us getting together.
“Lick her clit,” Jon told me, in the directing mode. “Make her come hard.”
That was my plan, exactly. Taking over from where her fingers had obviously left off, I got her up to our speed in no time. My tongue made tricks and spirals and figure-eights around her hot little button. I slid it into her hole and pressed in deep, tongue-fucking her until she was moaning. Then I brought my hands into the action, parting the petal lips of her pussy as wide as they’d go, then slurping and sucking at her with my mouth. Jon couldn’t get any harder than he already was, but the scene he was watching had to have some effect on him. So, finally, with a guttural moan, he came, shooting deep into my ass and then staying there, his hands holding me tight, f
ingers slipping beneath my waist to play a magical melody on my clit.
His knowing rhythm brought me up to the ridge of climax, and as Sarah sealed her pussy to my mouth, I found myself coming. Coming between my husband and my friend in the sweetest, stickiest climax of all time. My body was shaking as I worked to keep licking Sarah. I didn’t want her to be left out, now that both Jon and I had reached our limits. In no time, Sarah was gripping my shoulders and bucking against my face. She came long and hard, just as Jon had hoped she would, and the way she tasted was so sweet it was almost unreal.
When we were finished, I was dripping from both ends, my mouth slicked up with Sarah’s honeyed nectar, my cunt throbbing, Jon’s cream dripping out of me. We lay there all together, entwined on the floor of our office, trying to regain our sense of balance, our memory of how to breathe without panting and speak without moaning.
As I stared up at the ceiling, I thought about what Jon must have done. While I was working like a good girl in my office, he’d undoubtedly called Sarah, reminding her that as it was the third Friday of the month, it was his turn to change fantasy into reality. Sarah had taken up her position in the room closest to my office, listening as she waited for the phone call that would beckon her to our house. Listening and stroking herself as the anticipation built inside her.
This meant that next time, Sarah was up. As if reading my mind, Jon leaned forward on one arm and looked over at our sultry neighbor. “Sarah, it’s your turn next week. Do you want to play out the rescue fantasy again, or the one where I burst in on you two dirty, naughty coeds?”
“Let’s play free-loving freelancers,” Sarah said with a smile. “We’ll do all the sexy things people think we’re doing when we tell them we work at home.”
“If they only knew…” Jon and I said together.
But with Onions
R. GAY
Andrew enjoys chopping onions, and I enjoy watching. He has a ritual—fetching a well-rounded yellow onion from the vegetable drawer, slowly removing the dry husk of peel, holding the onion under cool water to lessen the sting before placing it on a wooden cutting board. There are his hands, thick, veined, pale, and strong, the knife in his hand as if it were simply another finger. He holds the onion between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and carefully makes almost translucent slices of the onion. He is methodical, gently piercing the onion’s flesh with the tip of the knife before bringing down the entire blade, working it through the onion, hitting the cutting board with a satisfying thunk, then sliding the fresh slice aside. Occasionally he eats a slice of onion, because Andrew also likes the taste.
