Lindsay was the events co-ordinator at the hotel, me a lowly chair rustler and carpet cleaner. But one day, when she was decked out in my favourite pair of shiny, snow-white stockings with lacy tops, flowing like sensuous icicles out of a short, cotton-candy-pink leather skirt, she and I somehow managed to end up alone in her office. She was bending over the round table next to her desk, me next to her, showing me the table set-up plan for a big dinner that night. But my eyes weren’t on the plan, they were fixed on the uber-professional’s slender, stockinged limbs, her skirt riding up to reveal the firm, rounded bottoms of her butt cheeks.
‘Are you paying attention to what I’m saying, Kevin?’ she asked, turning her head and looking me over with her ice-blue eyes.
My cock was a frozen rope in my pants, and she couldn’t help but notice. So I dropped the business pretences and boldly answered, ‘Nope,’ staring and staring at the woman’s glossy legs.
She turned to face me, her legs swishing silkily together as she did so. She gave me and my tented trousers a stern look, then surprised and delighted me by strolling over to the office window and shuttering the blinds, pushing in the lock on the door. ‘I’ve noticed, Kevin, that you seem rather taken with my legs,’ she commented.
I didn’t even look up to meet her haughty eyes, my fevered mind already replaying her sensuous stroll over to the door, how her legs flashed seductively under the fluorescent lights, how they were winking at me now, blinding me with lust.
‘Worship my legs with your cock!’ Lindsay ordered.
That jarred me out of my reverie. I glanced up at my boss, observed the thin, brittle smile on her crimson lips, knew we were meant for each other. I nodded, fumbling my pants open and pulling my straining cock out. I dropped to my knees, power-crawled over to the lady’s planted silken stems. She turned her back on me just before I reached her, hiking her skirt up and spreading her legs even further apart.
‘I don’t want to have to look at you, you disgusting little pervert!’ she snapped, her voice quavering slightly.
I gazed up the shimmering, previously insurmountable slopes of her twin-seamed legs, all the way up to her ripe bottom sticking out from under her skirt. I licked desert-dry lips and stroked my rigid cock, running my eyes up and down the dizzying lengths of those wicked limbs over and over again. Then I swallowed hard, knelt even closer, and pushed my strangled purple hood up against the slick, ultra-sexy material clothing Lindsay’s stunning legs.
I shuddered when I touched her blazingly white limbs with my cock, and I fought to control myself. I wanted this to last, for as long as she wanted it to last. So I sucked heated air into my billowing lungs and gently rubbed her clenched calf with the head of my cock. She moaned, and I rubbed harder.
Trembling with excitement, I squatted in front of those cascading limbs, clutching the left in my free hand while I traced the seam on the right one with my swollen cockhead. I stroked those luscious legs from slender, tendon-cleaved ankles to shapely calves, from soft, vulnerable backs of the knees to firm, smooth thighs. I squeezed my throbbing cock at the base to prolong the magnificent agony, painting pre-cum up and down the woman’s heavenly limbs.
I stroked and stroked the lady’s exquisite legs with my cock and my hand. Then, with the tension, the velvet sensation of cock on leg, building to boiling point, I stumbled to my feet and grabbed one of her butt cheeks, shoved my leaking cap into the lacy white panties that bridged the erotic crevice in her peach-bottom bum.
‘My legs, worship my legs!’ she hissed, sliding a hand into her panties and rubbing.
I mumbled my apologies, cursing myself for taking my eyes off the prize, hand and cock-stroked her sculpted legs back down again. And then, perhaps as a reward for my humble obedience, she brought her limbs together, trapping my cock between her muscled calves. I groaned, began moving my hips, pumping in between her calves.
I gripped her thighs and leg-fucked the beautiful woman, the awesome friction from her ultra-sexy stockings and legs heating me up to the blasting point. I frantically pistoned my cock in between her gripping calves, my body bouncing off her legs, knocking her slightly off-balance. She moaned, desperately rubbed her pussy, twisting her head around to see just how much I leg-loved her.
‘Fuck, yeah!’ I grunted, suddenly shooting sperm. I jerked my cock out from between Lindsay’s calves and sprayed her legs, her virgin-white stockings, with my steaming semen. Her legs vibrated with her own orgasm as I streaked them repeatedly with my lust.
Lindsay left the hotel just one week later, unfortunately, walking out on me before I could truly show her how much I appreciated her lithesome beauty.
Mail Order Bride
by Kitti Bernetti
The thing about mail order brides is that, if you do your research, they have exactly the woman you need.
Henry Sampson lifted up the calf leather bin and flicked a minute speck of dust off the glass desk. He placed the bin back on his eucalyptus floor, adjusting it slightly to make sure it was streamlined. There. That was better.
He sat palms down on the arms of the chair, brain ticking faster than his Breitling watch. He was thinking. He did a lot of thinking. He thought for other people as well as himself. That’s why he was so successful.
As he eased back into the chair the leather upholstery squeaked in the silence. He stretched out legs lean from winning at squash and tanned after a weekend away. Sun, sea and a villa in the Maldives. It was such a shame she hadn’t been able to make it. She hated him to leave her. It was very touching.
Henry pictured his new bride sleeping naked in the bedroom next door. He’d seen her curled up like that a thousand times and it always thrilled him. Her hair followed the contours of the pillow like feathers on a black swan. The thought of her perfection sent ripples of desire deep into his stomach. But not just desire. For the first time in his thirty years this once confirmed bachelor was in love.
He got up and leant a hand against the floor to ceiling window to look out over London below. His eyes were dazzled by the winter sun on the Thames. As he thought of his sexy bride, a cleft appeared between his granite eyes. He did not like the term ‘mail order’. It was down-market, downright cruel to girls like her. Just because she was the quiet sort – demure, foreign and uncomplaining – didn’t give people the right to downgrade her.
It was just that men like him with a successful career, phenomenally successful some might say, simply didn’t have the time to shop around in the way ordinary men did. Henry’s friends were high flyers too, but they weren’t quite as stratospheric achievers as Henry. They had a bit more time to search. Brokers, bankers, they all had their ways of finding partners. Speed dating for professionals, top-drawer agencies.
Henry did his stretching exercises, confident that his penthouse apartment was too high up for the plebs below to see as he did his standard fifty press-ups.
When it came to women, his needs were very physical. He’d wanted something exotic to gaze on, to caress. He’d always been taught to expect something alternative from life, to seek out the extraordinary. When he found it, he had to make it his.
Their apartment wasn’t full of collectors’ cabinets for nothing. He got up and gazed once again at his collection of Swarovski crystal. They always looked best this time in the morning. And the bookcase full of mint first editions of his favourite works.
He pulled open a drawer and ran a hand across his collection of fine watches. His and hers Rolex’s from this century and last. He selected one for today for himself and one for her: matching, as usual.
As Henry strolled across the apartment delighting in the sensuality of the hand-woven cashmere carpet squeezing between his toes, he pondered which part of the world his bride had come from. The agency wouldn’t tell him the truth, of course. They were in the business of marketing exquisiteness in the form of female beauty and Henry was a collector of beauty. He was a collector and it was in a collector’s nature not to ask questions. She was physically astoun
ding, and that was all that mattered.
Her eyes were dark, far-eastern but her skin was translucent white. Before he’d met her, he’d studied the photos that had come through the post and was immediately smitten. Then he’d asked for more intimate ones and he wasn’t disappointed. Thinking back, he remembered how he could hardly contain himself whilst waiting for her to arrive. The agency had flown her over immediately. They knew he would pay. Henry didn’t have to wait for anything or anyone in his life. His level of wealth purchased immediate access.
When she arrived she hadn’t disappointed him. She was, in a word, perfection. There was no point in her saying anything. No point her thinking. He did all her thinking for her. Her role was to pleasure him in the bedroom and he knew without her saying that she liked to be viewed, displayed and marvelled at just like any other coveted collectors’ item. Her thoughts were obvious. She knew she was on to a good thing and like a good little girl was compliance personified.
Henry was like Croesus, but with him business deals didn’t just lead to gold. Platinum was more his league. Henry was a dotcom phenomenon with a string of mould-breaking companies earning him a fortune even while he slept. A thousand while he brushed his teeth, three thousand in the time it took him to drive to the office. You don’t achieve that by wasting valuable trading time looking for a partner.
As he walked towards the bedroom, Henry’s boxers contained him tightly. He passed his hand over the front of them, proud of his masculinity, proud of its power and delighted with the effect it had on Serena. He knew that wasn’t her real name. She’d made it up of course. All those foreign girls who offered themselves as mail order brides adopted western-style names. He admired her immensely for it. Admired her ingenuity in recognising her own jaw-dropping beauty; understood her recognition that beauty was a commodity she could trade, and was impressed by her ability to market herself to a man with all the things he had to offer. Henry allowed himself a secret smile. He and his new wife were on the same wavelength.
Henry in turn had given her all a girl could desire. His devotion was total. His was the exquisite torture of the ruler enslaved. Daily he went out to buy her millionaire-wife trinkets. Diamonds to wear against that dazzling skin. Silk to wrap around that body whose legs entwined him like ivy when they fucked. The thought of it caused him to swell. He yearned to make love to her now, to burst into the bedroom and rip the thin cotton sheet off her limbs. He imagined giving way to his passion, roughly opening her legs and thrusting himself into her pinioned body, waking her with an erection ready to shoot inside her. They’d spent days here doing just that. He knew such obsession wasn’t right. They must go out, amongst normal people, amongst people who weren’t drowning in their own lovemaking. Besides, he was proud of his prize. He wanted to show her off. She hadn’t been here long and it occurred to him that she was nervous of going out. But he was running the show. He would make her.
He stepped into the marble shower and felt hot water jet over his dying erection. It was good. It would save for later. When they got back, refreshed by the chill morning air, then he would let it happen. He would make love like a man possessed.
Scented with Italian eau de cologne, Henry dressed himself. His suit was from Milan, tie and shirt from Jermyn Street and shoes from Madrid.
He watched her emerging from beneath the cotton sheet, giving him that steadfast good-morning smile he was now so familiar with. She was new in this country, he reasoned. She wasn’t used to winter. A sweet naive thing she would just as likely venture out in chiffon and lace when she should be choosing lambswool. But he would look after her. He selected everything she would wear today, white v-neck jumper and slim black trousers. He even laid out coffee-coloured underwear for her.
Henry kissed her on the neck as he placed a ruby necklace around it. ‘There my darling. You look spectacular in this.’ Once she was dressed, he helped her into her leather coat and downstairs in the private lift, straight into the garage. Serena always had trouble with seat belts, so feeling like a gallant knight attending to his lady, he clipped her in, satisfied his prize was safe before they set off.
As Serena gazed out of the window, he rested a hand on her thigh. He thought how very appropriate the name, Serena, was. Whether she’d chosen it herself or whether someone from the marriage agency had conjured it up didn’t matter. It encapsulated her essence so well. She was serene, quiet, never wasting words when they weren’t needed. Like now when the two of them, gliding across Westminster Bridge and down Whitehall, sat in companionable silence while he massaged her leg, both enjoying being propelled through the city. As the Jaguar purred down the Embankment to return to their apartment, Henry’s heart quickened. He knew, and she knew, that the main purpose for getting dressed and going out was so they could indulge in the sheer joy of returning, undressing, and making love anew.
His hand moved up her thigh, lingered at the top and hesitated between her legs. She sat motionless and he admired her self-control. This was a sort of game they played together, where he would circle his finger round the inside of her thigh and up, till it was gently circling her crotch. With each completed circle he increased the pressure ever so slightly until he noticed her eyelids flicker with pent-up desire. There, there it was, that almost imperceptible flicker that said more than any larger gesture ever could. As they stopped at the lights, she stared ahead, feigning indifference when he knew she was boiling up like potion in a witch’s cauldron.
She was bewitching. That quiet control, that motionless pretence that his touch wasn’t driving her over the edge was rubbish and he knew it. Still, it excited him as his fingers became ever insistent. He prayed for the lights to stay red as he eased down the zip of her trousers, parted the material and pushed the tip of his finger against the silken panties covering her sex. How warm and swollen it felt to him. He could hear his own breath become shallow in the quiet, mimicking the turning over of the engine. Then the lights changed, his foot hit the accelerator and they were back on the road. The one annoyance of his perfect morning was that they needed petrol. Still, a little waiting wouldn’t do either of them any harm. The more you had to wait for your pleasures the more enjoyable they were.
Henry turned off the ignition, squeezed Serena’s hand and got out to fill the tank. He looked at the other men at the pumps and felt sorry for them. In every way they were inferior to him with their working men’s vans and family cars. In a few, wives and girlfriends waited. Henry studied them as the petrol oozed into the tank, its pungent smell making him dizzy. Not one of them had an iota of the finesse and sensuality of Serena as she sat waiting for him. He was so proud he felt his heart would burst.
Two men walked past his car. Henry put back the petrol cap, closed the flap and clicked the petrol gun back into the nozzle. The two men couldn’t take their eyes off Serena. Packaged in the bright red sporty Jag she was everything men fantasised about. And she was his. Henry stood impatiently in the queue, paying in cash as always, and desperate to get back to his amour. ‘Okay darling?’ he asked as the Jag moved off. As Henry waited to pull on to the Embankment, he smiled to see the two men in their van, their eyes full of envy. Yes, Henry was a lucky, lucky man.
As soon as the car was off again, Henry couldn’t resist resuming their little game. He headed for the underpass and winked at Serena. As the car went over a bump, she shifted in her seat inviting him again to explore between her legs. It was dark in the underpass and at this time in the morning all but deserted. They both loved this bit. It was risky as they had cctv cameras in the underpass and occasionally the police patrolled it. Henry didn’t care though. He was too worked up to give a damn as he stopped the car, turned to Serena and said, ‘I need to taste you darling, I hope you’re ready.’
He knelt down in the car, the dim lights of the underpass murky as he pulled her panties aside and sank his tongue into her opening. She seemed tense at first so he reached up and brought her arms down on the back of his head, encouraging her to enjoy his
attentions. Hungrily, he lapped at her, working her, warming her up while her hands pressed heavily on the back of his head in encouragement. He knew she was enjoying it as much as he. She tasted gorgeous. Sweet and sour. Then, hearing a car rev behind him, he ran the back of his hand across his lips, slid back into the driving seat, fired the ignition and they set off like two naughty school kids caught in the act. Henry threw back his head and laughed out loud.
They were ready to make love properly now, and were not far from the flat. He pulled the Jag into the garage of their apartment block. An urgency to possess her had fired up inside him. With fumbling fingers he pulled the key out of the ignition and hurried her laughing out of the car and back into the lift, up to the penthouse suite.
Although he could have torn the clothes off her, Henry breathed deeply telling himself to take it slowly. The slower he took it the longer he could pleasure her. She loved it. She was insatiable, almost too much even for him. It didn’t matter how often or how long they were locked together, she always stretched her arms for more.
He ushered her into the apartment and walked over to her on the sofa. Kneeling in front of her, he stared like a supplicant preparing to worship at the altar. She fixed him with her uncompromising gaze, challenging him to satisfy her.
Bending down, he kissed her foot. Lifting it in his hand, he caressed the red painted toes, pushing each one in turn into his mouth. Sucking them like an animal hungrily lapping milk, Henry stroked her ankle and eased his hands up her calves. Her legs were the perfect shape, long and slightly curved. Her trousers bothered him, stopped him from feeling the skin at her thighs. But that was all part of the delaying tactic. He wanted to be prevented from early gratification by the restriction of her clothing.
Five Minute Fantasies 1 Page 7
