by Alex Algren
My harness is tight and I feel every inch, every resistance she offers with her tight cunt as my hips thrust against her.
“Fuck, fuck,” she cries, wrapping her legs around my waist, gripping me hard, pulling me in deep. I didn’t think I was this hard, this ready to burst, but I am, and she’s still pushing on the wall so I can pull her harder toward me, my arms wrapped under her, her skin still hot and red where I’d marked her up.
I can’t believe she hasn’t come yet.
“Come inside me, do it, fuck me, I want you to, please, please…” she starts begging. That little whine in her voice does it for me every time. I cry out, feel my clit pulse and shake against the harness strap, my stomach crunching, ass tight and pressing forward so I can grind against her, harder, thrust in once again, milking the last of the orgasm through my body.
My jeans are tangled over my ankles and I reach down to toss them off, then bring my hands back to her hips, bring the tip of my cock to her hole again. I move one hand to flick her clit, big and pink, with my thumb.
She moans.
“You are so being good, baby,” I murmur, sitting back on my heels, knees pushing her thighs apart, cock still just one inch inside her, knuckles against her clit. “You took that very well, and you made me come so quick. You were perfect tonight.”
“I was?” She brings her hands down to her chest and I unwrap the belt from her wrists.
“Perfect,” I say again, leaning forward so she can wrap her arms around my back, leaving just enough room that I can still rub my hand against her pussy. “Do you think that was good enough for you to come?”
Her eyes flash a little, widen. I can see her thinking, what if I don’t let her? What will she do then?
“Yes?”
“Hmm.” I move my hips a little and tease her wet hole with my cock. She’s tight, still trying not to come. Not without permission. When she is right on the edge, I want to keep her there. I want to train her well enough that she can practically come on command.
“Ohh,” she moans. She tears at my shoulders with her perfect manicure. It stings, and I remember the way it looked, so fresh and slick and bright, when she ran her hands all up and down the shaft of my cock last night as she sucked me off on the couch. She has been waiting a long time for this one.
I shove all the way in and rub her clit a little harder. “You’ve been so good, pretty girl. You waited so well this week. Go ahead, you can come now. Come for me.”
That’s all she needs, just that flash of permission, and she shakes and comes, and I don’t let up but thrust harder and keep with the small circles over her clit. She gasps and slams her arms down onto the bed, back arching, as she comes in rapid succession, two-three-four times, so I pause when I’m all the way inside her, then pull out slow, and she comes again. I almost laugh at how easy it is, at her sensitivity, and sit up again to push her legs by the backs of her knees as I fuck her a little more as she moans, arching my hips up and aiming up for her g-spot, and I only get two-three-four thrusts in before she comes again, this time squirting hard in a stream that gushes and arcs, high enough that I can see it, before her pussy squeezes so tight she pushes my cock right out.
Breathing hard, I collapse next to her. I’ve lost count. She nestles up against me and brings her hand down to grip my cock, strokes it a little, more like a comforting gesture than an attempt to turn me on. She sighs and we wrap around each other.
“When can my next one be?” she asks after a minute of quiet, as we both get our breath back.
“Perhaps Saturday,” I offer, mentally checking my schedule. She nods and gives me that little smile, pushes her hair back from her face, and adjusts her collar around her neck.
“But Tuesday’s not over yet,” I say, and turn to kiss her beautiful face.
THE BIG O
Donna George Storey
Who would have guessed that the circle would begin in the ladies’ lounge at the Claremont spa? Yet there I was, sipping cucumber-infused water and leafing through women’s magazines, when I happened upon a peppy two-page article that would change my life.
The Sexercise Prescription: A Stronger Secret You in Six Weeks.
At first the headline made me snicker, but then a deeper stirring—call it a presentiment of destiny—made me fold back the page and begin to read. Of course, I’d heard of Kegel exercises before. I’d even tried them once or twice. I never kept it up though, because it always struck me as somehow perverted to exercise my muscles down there. That was for strippers, chicks that had to pick up twenty-dollar bills with their pussies, not ordinary market research analysts like me.
Of course, my life had been anything but ordinary since I met Adam last January at a coworker’s wedding. I’d never known a man who was as unfailingly kind, funny and considerate of all my needs. The sex alone was so shatteringly transcendental, I felt like I had to glue my body parts back together afterward. Over the months I’d come to appreciate the serenity of a boyfriend who slipped out of bed at dawn to meditate for an hour every morning and relaxed after a hard day teaching high school history by drawing O shapes with a Japanese brush and glossy black ink.
There was just one drawback. Adam’s idea of the perfect summer vacation was to fly to Kyoto to sit zazen for a month. As you might guess, we didn’t exactly find common ground there.
I was still pretty mad about it the night before he left. Even when Adam tried to make love to me, I just lay there, sullen and passive. He was depriving me of pleasure for so long, why shouldn’t he get a taste of his own medicine? I should have known I’d lose my resolve to Adam’s soft tongue circling my nipples, his fingers patiently coaxing my clit to full attention. It felt so good when he was eating my pussy, I decided to come on his face to spite him, but he pulled away at the very last minute, leaving me begging him for more. He took me close to the summit, then backed away twice more before he finally let me come around his cock. The orgasm practically blew my head off.
After that, I wasn’t mad anymore, but I did wonder how I was going to survive without that transcendent pleasure.
That was one reason why the headline drew my attention. It just so happened Adam would be in Japan for six weeks, travel included. For most of that time he’d be completely out of touch—no phone, no Internet. That left a lot of time to fill with spa facials, outings with my friends, and now, perhaps a naughty new strengthening routine. The article promised if I did three simple exercises every day, I’d notice a definite improvement in my PC muscle tone and the intensity of my orgasms in forty-two days. My fortunate lover, the author added coyly, would be delighted with my new skills, too.
I bit my lip and pondered the path before me. Finding this article the day after Adam left seemed like karma, although Adam would argue that word merely meant cause-and-effect and not a sign from the Universe.
At that very moment, the other spa guest reading Glamour on the chair across from me was called away for her massage, leaving me alone in the room. I decided the Universe was definitely speaking. I quickly tore the article from the magazine and slipped it in the pocket of my robe.
If everything went as advertised, Adam might well find the path to nirvana after he got home.
I was anxious to get started with the program, but the article suggested I choose a private, comfortable place and take my time for the first sessions. Once I got the basics down, I could supposedly do my Kegels while driving or sitting in boring meetings at work. That night, after dinner out with a friend, I got ready for bed early and lit the candle on the nightstand for extra atmosphere. Adam and I liked making love by candlelight, and as I stretched out on my side of the futon, I felt a sudden pang of longing for his warmth, his knowing fingers stroking me in my tender places. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. To my surprise, the loneliness immediately dissolved into a reassuring glow in my belly.
Still breathing mindfully, I made a mental rundown of the “sexercises.” First I was supposed to tighten my PC muscle, hold
for a count of ten, then exhale slowly. On my next breath, I dutifully squeezed my secret muscles, trying my best not to tense other parts of my body. The tightness in my groin felt odd, as if I had a full bladder, but when I relaxed, the urgent feeling faded back into a soothing glow. I was still a little worried. What if I was so out of shape down there, six weeks wouldn’t be enough for Adam to notice a change?
This was no place for perfectionism, I reminded myself. As Adam always said, a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step—or maybe one squeeze?
The next exercise was a series of twenty quick contractions, like a butterfly fluttering its wings. Again I felt clumsy. There was no teacher to turn to for help like I had in my yoga class. By the end, though, the tingling between my legs told me my muscles had gotten a good workout.
But I still had the biggest hurdle ahead—“the elevator.” The article said I was supposed to contract my vagina in three stages: the outer lips first, then the middle section, and finally the deepest muscles near my cervix. After holding for a count of five, the elevator returned to home base with the release of each “floor.”
As I reread the instructions, I realized I was blushing. Lying here in bed in my nightshirt, my pelvis tilted up and my legs parted, it struck me how shamelessly sensual this “inner-strength” routine was after all. I was in fact training my pussy for sex. But I was a nice girl, and nice girls weren’t supposed to devote themselves to the study of amorous techniques so they could milk their boyfriends’ dicks like vacuum cleaners as a welcome-home present.
Of course, nice girls weren’t known for having much fun, either.
Pursing my lips in concentration, I tentatively tightened my opening. So far, so good; the elevator door was closed and ready to climb to the first floor. I squeezed higher. To my surprise, I actually did feel a band of muscle contract a few inches deeper in my pelvis. The last stop was more elusive, just a faint twinge up near my belly button. But I was so relieved I’d managed to feel something, my “elevator” plummeted to the ground floor in one quick exhalation. Still, I gamely pulled my “elevator” up and down ten times in all.
When I was done, I was not only feeling a real buzz between my legs, my panties were noticeably damp. Even my breasts felt swollen and aching to be touched. Now I understood why the author suggested practicing in a private place. The exercises definitely got you in the mood, and it would be a lot harder to finish things right in the car or a conference room.
Here in bed, though, I was free to shimmy out of my underwear and burrow my middle finger between my pussy lips without so much as a “Mind if I masturbate while you give your presentation, Boss?”
My clit felt especially hard tonight, a rigid pearl slipping around under the slick, satiny skin of my vulva. To my surprise, my pussy muscles contracted again, involuntarily, sending a wave of pleasure crashing up my spine.
What would happen if I did the exercises while I played with myself? I strummed faster and squeezed. The sensation was definitely more intense. I pumped my muscle again, thinking of Adam and his yummy dick. In fact my pussy did feel like a hungry mouth, famished for a hard cock, but grasping only air.
Form is emptiness; emptiness is form.
Adam’s deep voice filled my head, as if he were right beside me on the futon. Suddenly in my mind’s eye I did see him, sitting with his knees tucked beneath him, holding the brush he used to draw the ensō, the circle that is both nothing and everything.
Open your legs, Maddy.
His voice was kind, but commanding.
I dropped my thighs open for him.
Press your lips open, so I can see your hole.
With a sigh, I pushed out for him.
Without another word, he slipped the tip of the brush inside me. I gasped. Did he mean to push it in all the way and fuck me with it? I was horny enough to like the idea. But instead, he made a few quick back-and-forth motions, as he did when he inked his brush, then withdrew.
I groaned in disappointment.
Open as wide as you can now, Maddy.
His tone was so reassuring, I obediently pushed my “elevator door” open. Murmuring approval, Adam rested the brush just to the side of my clit and began to trace my inner lips in one smooth, practiced motion.
The way he did when he drew the circle of emptiness.
Emptiness.
In fact, I had always thought of my vagina as an empty hole, a negative space to be filled. But the sensation of his slippery brush seemed to awaken a presence, the dormant power in the flesh itself. I could feel the tender skin growing fat and full and strong beneath his touch. But then Adam paused, maddeningly, right before he reached my throbbing clit.
I cried out in frustration, but in the next instant I was coming anyway, my orgasm jerking my body on the bed like an earthquake. With all the howling and thumping, I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police.
Afterward, I smoothed the crumpled pages of the magazine and laid them carefully on my nightstand for future reference.
These next six weeks on my own might not be so bad after all.
I wouldn’t exactly call it an addiction. Let’s just say the Sexercise Prescription was one workout routine I had no trouble fitting into my busy schedule. In fact, as suggested, I did the official three-part series on my way to work and even squeezed in a few during boring meetings. But I always waited until I got home to do the fourth part of the series.
After a few weeks, I’d settled into a very pleasurable routine. First I stripped naked and knelt in the middle of the futon. After I warmed myself up with a set of exercises, I’d close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Suddenly, I’m no longer alone in my bedroom.
Instead I’m in a mirrored dance studio, with a dozen students kneeling in a circle around me, all eager to become strong inside just like me. They are all nude, too, and I take a moment to admire their beauty. Some have enviably curvy figures—lush hips and full bosoms that beg to be weighed in my hands. Others are boyish with high, tight buttocks and perky breasts. The diversity of grooming habits catches my attention, too. A few wax themselves bare, while others trim their pubic hair in fanciful heart shapes. One earth mother sports a luxuriant bush of curls I long to comb with my fingers. I know it’s unprofessional to stare, but their nipples are my weakness, lined up before me like a buffet. I imagine sucking the dainty raspberry bonbons of one student, then tonguing the generous mocha-colored demitasse saucers of her neighbor.
Discreetly swallowing down the drool, I lead the class efficiently through the warm-up exercises: slow squeezes, butterfly wings and the elevator.
Squeeze and hold, ladies, squeeze and hold.
By the end our bodies are glistening with sweat; our eyes glowing with delicious exertion. Smiling, I announce a special reward for their hard work—a guest instructor who will help them get in touch with a new level of inner strength.
Adam steps from behind the folding screen in the corner, flourishing his magic brush. He takes his place before the first student, a small woman whose pale skin flushes when she’s aroused. Now her chest is covered in telltale splotches of pink.
Gently, I instruct her to lie back and spread her legs for the new teacher.
Brow furrowed in concentration, Adam leans forward and inserts his brush delicately into her vagina. When he touches the tip to her inner labia, she moans.
“Let’s breathe with her and be one with the sensation,” I urge my other students, who stare with gaping mouths, transfixed by the intimate performance before them.
And so we all breathe together, our own pussies clenching in sympathy, as Adam traces the timeless circle of her flesh. Yet again, right before he reaches her clitoris, he stops.
Her eyes shoot open in dismay, but before she can protest, she climaxes, with a dainty, “Oh, oh, oh.”
The next student in line immediately lies back without prompting. This lusty woman bellows when she comes. Some of the students are now rubbing themselves as they wat
ch. In this manner, Adam works his way around the circle, stroking each woman to ecstasy with his artist’s touch.
Of course, he saves me for last.
All eyes are upon me as I lie back and assume the position. Only when he kneels between my legs do I realize he is using a very special brush this time: a hot, thick tube of living flesh.
Even wielding this heavier instrument, Adam paints my circle with a knowing and sensitive touch. The room fills with soft moans—some my own—and I can hear the wet, clicking sounds of the women masturbating around me.
Will Adam complete the circle at last with his final touch of perfection? He draws achingly close to my clit, but again pulls away at the last moment, plunging deep into my orifice instead. This time I’m not passive. I clutch him with all of my power. He makes a strange growl in his throat, part pleasure and part surrender.
A woman to my left makes a sound, too, one I recognize well: the sobbing cry of a female climax. As soon as her pleasure fades, the next student takes up the song. I’m coming, oh, god… Her neighbor joins in grunting like an animal. I know then we are all connected, the spasms of one woman’s climax gliding smoothly into the pulsations of the next. When the orgasm finally reaches me, at the center of it all, the deep contractions resound inside me like a rich chord on a cathedral organ.
After my sessions, I’m so spent and deliciously sore, it’s hard to believe it was all a fantasy.
Smiling, I reach over to my journal and draw another small circle, marking off another day until my lover and I really will be together.
When Adam finally called from the hotel in Kyoto, I nearly came from the sound of his voice alone. But I managed to play it cool through the inevitable “I missed you so much,” and “I can’t wait to see you.”
