by Lynn Lake
A young woman entered the cloakroom and headed for the first cubicle, seemingly not noticing Danielle and her finger-puppet at the other end of the room. The sound of her stiletto heels on the tiled floor awoke me from my hypnosis. I had forgotten where we were. When I realised, fear filled me and I struggled for the first time. Danielle seemed unperturbed, held me tight, content to continue with her seduction. She kissed my neck again took both nipples between thumb and forefinger, rolled them, tugged them – deliberately hard, I felt. I bit my bottom lip. I wanted my torment to end. I didn’t want it to end. Oh God, it was inevitable that someone would catch us. I was a nice girl, a good girl. Mother often warned me of the evils of the world. Yet she never prepared me for this! I quickly scanned the room, spotted the CCTV camera, groaned inwardly as its red light winked at me knowingly. Part of me didn’t care. Part of me wanted to be caught, wanted to rebel. Most of all, I didn’t want my suffering to stop!
I turned back to the mirror, my focus back on the slender red-tipped fingers tugging at my nipples, on the fierce blue of Danielle’s eyes. It was hard to believe I let this woman – a virtual stranger – use my body in this way. Suddenly, a noise caught my attention. I watched in horror as the door of the cubicle directly behind opened and a slim, redheaded girl stepped out. Sandi of all people! Danielle smiled as if she had been waiting for this moment, as if everything that had passed between us had led to this. As Sandi approached Danielle released me, exposing my breasts to the girl now standing at the sink beside us. Sandi’s mouth fell open in surprise, and then before she could recover, Danielle reached up and once more took hold of my enraged nipples, squeezing them, stretching them. I wanted the ground to open and swallow me. The shame. The humiliation. Lord, the exquisite pleasure!
I felt liberated, alive for the first time. I forced myself to look directly at Barry’s stunned girlfriend, challenging her to comment – to judge. For a moment our eyes locked and all I could focus on were her dark pupils, wide and accusing. For some reason her reproachful glare stoked the fire burning between my legs. I needed Sandi to say something – anything to affirm that this was real, to let me know I wasn’t dreaming. She remained silent, her wide mouth slightly agape, but her accusing eyes spoke volumes. I know she blamed me. I was the tart with my tits out. I was the dirty slut. Danielle’s bitch!
Suddenly, Danielle broke our silent battle of wills, turned me towards Sandi. “Want a feel, love?” It was too much, the humiliation too great. I felt my pussy implode, the shock waves radiating down my thighs, up across my abdomen. My stomach tightened. I clenched the edge of the sink, needing to hold on to what little reality remained. Through blurred vision, I caught sight of my contorted face in the mirror. I didn’t recognise the girl staring back, face flushed, eyes glazed. It wasn’t an orgasm of earth-shattering proportions, even for me. Yet, it was frighteningly real, horrifically obvious to us all. Sandi hurried from the room blushing, muttering moral indignation all the while. Tears welled to my eyes as I watched her leave. I felt ashamed, sick to my stomach.
Danielle still had hold of me. “Please…” Even I wasn’t certain if I was begging for more of the same or pleading for Danielle to release her hold over me. Our eyes met in the reflection of the mirror. “Don’t let me fall,” I pleaded.
“I won’t, baby, I won’t.”
Another cubicle door opened. Danielle released my breasts, patted my bottom affectionately. “Come on, Dorothy, let’s get out of here!” So saying, she marched smartly out of the powder room, leaving me transfixed to the image in the mirror – an image of a dishevelled, innocent girl – lost and far from home.
I knew all I had to do was click my heels three times and I could escape. It was already too late. I had fallen for the wicked witch, had discovered something I was good at, had found somewhere I belonged. I didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Not yet! Perhaps Dorothy got it wrong after all. All I know is that sometimes there is no happy ending. Sometimes – just sometimes – there’s no place like Oz.
Italian Island Liaison
by Mark Farley
“You smell of sex...” my husband challenged me. He guided me into my seat in the restaurant and kissed the top of my head, which I suspect is how he sensed the presence of the 19-year-old I had fucked on the beach, a few hours earlier.
“That would be because I had sex, darling.” I offered. I pondered over the entrées on the menu.
“Enjoy?” he countered, flicking through the wine list.
“Very much...” I inform him. “The sea bass sounds delicious.”
We have been married for twenty years. We were at college together. No kids to speak of, we both had our careers in the city. The usual story, not that either of us have ever taken exception to it. In fact, we love the freedom to be able to jump on a plane and go and see foreign lands.
The reason why he wasn’t either screaming at me and making a scene or walking off like most rational partners would do at this sort of admission is because we had come to a mutual agreement some time ago.
The sex had died down after the first ten years, we became more like flatmates in one room and we came to an understanding that we were both attracted to others. The turning point was when I found some illicit texts on his phone illuminating certain attributes down below and alluding to certain desires my husband has, from someone called Tia.
When he expected the slap around the face I hit him with something better.
“Okay then, you wanna play it like that... I’ll fuck who I want to, then.”
He laughed nervously and called my bluff. Two nights later, I went to Paper with some friends from work and brought a guy home with me.
“Oh, this is my husband...” I introduced the rather surprised 25-year-old Foxton’s agent with a flick of my wrist. Well, I was wearing my wedding ring. Where did he think I was taking him when I grabbed him by the crotch on the dance-floor and whispered up into his ear that I was dying to take him home? If he doesn’t do the ring check like 90 per cent of other guys do, that’s not my fault, is it?
To my husband’s credit, the first thing he did was offer him a beer and point him towards the Durex, to the utter bemusement of the tanned (if slightly portly) notch on my about-to-be-liberated bedpost. I took him into our marital bed and let him screw me rather vigorously, much to what I am sure was a little secret envy and frustration from downstairs.
Otherwise I hadn’t really cashed in the open relationship card since I caught him, and that was two years ago, so I think my actions on the beach were entirely justified that evening, especially as he has two girls on the go back home who he sees most weeks. When I heard he’d had his first threesome with one of them and her husband, I figured that it was high time to start cashing cheques and have some fun myself.
I could have easily joined them.
In fact, he asked me. Twice.
They wanted a swap with us but I explained that I was ready to sow my wild oats a little further, and it was something I was intending to do entirely on my own. Plus, the whole idea of wife-swapping seemed so passé, something people did in the Seventies, not to mention the threat of disease and the rest of it.
Our summer holiday this year gave me the perfect opportunity to catch him completely unawares. When he told me that we were going to Sardinia, I made a special effort to search out the nudist beaches and, after one false start when we stripped off and a young German family camped out next to us fully-clothed, we sauntered away in full naked glory and found our spot to make love under the hot Mediterranean sun.
This was in full view of a group of people, something he had always wanted to do, he happily said as he grunted away in my ear and pounded my splayed torso with his hips. It was after a heady day of sunbathing and we were both glad of the release. A nude swim and further shagging followed in the clear, shingled waters.
On the day of my misdemeanour, though, we had a wonderful lunch and attempted to get a tan. After a while, he was itching to get back to the hotel and boo
k a tour to a nearby historical walled city for the following day. I told him that I was nicely settled and had every intention of getting through some more of the latest issue of Vanity Fair,specifically the interview with Angelina Jolie, that I had been enjoying.
“I’ll be fine here. I’ll meet you back in the room in a couple of hours.”
He collected himself and made the mutterings of someone who was going to miss an opportunity if he didn’t go. I both humoured and nurtured his idea, until he felt satisfied leaving me. In fact, I had to insist.
“I’ll follow you up soon, don’t worry.”
I had absolutely no intention of doing that at all. There was no way that I was just going to lay around in the nude with all this opportunity on offer. Actually, there was a rather suspicious look on his face when he realised that he was about to wander away from his naked wife and that I perhaps had intentions of my own. What he didn’t know was that I was definitely going out to find some young stud and have him take me over one of the rocks.
As soon as he was out of sight and heading up the sand back towards the hotel, I put the marker back in my novel and organised myself straight away. I rubbed coconut lotion on my shoulders and the globes of my chest and tied my sarong around my exposed, bottom half. I put my book in my holdall and draped the towel over it. With that, I went in search of sex.
More than anything, actually, I thought it would be a nice chance to explore alone. To collect my thoughts and have a nice topless stroll, something I hadn’t done by myself for a long time. Earlier, I had noticed a nice little cove divided from the main stretch of the beach by some secluded rocks, so I decided to take a walk over to see what I could find.
I found more secluded spots, quiet hidden nooks, and by means of climbing a little, one where a young man lay in his Speedos. He had a smooth, taut body and curly brown hair and looked a little like a young Charles Dance.
Instantly, I felt a pang inside me. I had found my suitor.
As I stepped down from the rocks and onto the sand near where he was sunbathing, I caught him looking up at me and admiring my exposed boobs. I noticed that the book he was reading was in French, so I struck up a conversation.
“Bonjour, Monsieur. Ça va bien ici?”
“Oui, merci...” he replied.
I continued in French (and will spare you the translation) much to his surprise. He could clearly tell by my boldness, lack of tan and accent that I wasn’t French.
A good education in a top school in Montreal has suddenly paid off, I thought.
He seemed quite happy to continue talking to me in his native tongue. We momentarily ran short of conversation (my ignorance, I’m sure), so I turned towards the sea and walked to the water’s edge. I kicked the water playfully and waded in up to my ankles.
I stretched and looked back up the shore where I had come from. I untied the sarong and stuffed it into my bag, turning round to ensure the young guy got a good eyeful of what was on offer. I took a look back towards him from behind my shades and noticed a nice growth in his Speedos.
I waded out of the water and back onto the sand. I stopped beside him, about twenty feet away and threw down my towel. I sat upon it and dried my toes with one of the corners. I brushed off the droplets of water and excess sand and, out of the corner of my eye, saw him slip a hand into his pants to adjust himself. I asked him very cheekily if it wouldn’t be easier if he just took them off.
“Il serait plus facile si vous les enlevez?”
“Je pourrais faire, si vous n’avez pas d’objection?”
He said he would if I didn’t mind.
“Come on,” I thought. “Why are you shy, I’m already naked here.”
I got to my feet and skipped over the gap between the towels and knelt next to him. Oh Jesus, let me just offer to do it myself and kick the elephant off the beach and get on with it.
“Peux-je les prendre pour vous?”
He grinned and went crimson. I looked around to spare his blushes a little and peeled his Speedos down over his bum to reveal a waxed, tanned groin. It certainly looked as if he wasn’t averse to some naked sun-worshipping himself, so I guessed he was just being modest with me.
I ran my index finger up his length and tickled his balls. I didn’t want to dive straight in so I lay to his side. He rubbed one of my breasts and tweaked my nipples, which I just love. I urged him to tweak them harder. He obliged and I let out a little moan. The fresh sea air and growing desire were doing wonders for my sinuses and already I could sense a crescendo building up inside me. I grabbed his shaft with both hands and immediately sank my mouth down as he gasped something I shouldn’t translate.
Sitting on his elbows and leaning back on the towel, I pushed him back flat with my hand and brought my rear end round to straddle his face. He tasted lovely and I’ve never sucked a man off with so little hair. I made full use of this and licked around the whole area, which I was used to being covered in thick curls. He was sea-fresh from a swim and his balls were musky with a hint of some sort of deodorant. I actually found it quite pleasant, licking the shaft and his groin. I licked further between his legs and around his arsehole, just like my husband likes. He grunted with his tongue in my hole and I heard him laugh.
He certainly knew his way around a pussy with his mouth. He nibbled and sucked on my labia and darted his tongue in and out like a seasoned veteran and soon had me bucking wildly. He even played with my arsehole!
Honestly girls, he hadn’t even told me his name. The cheek of it!
I wasn’t complaining though. He pushed back the soft brown hair getting in his way and pushed his tongue into my hole. His ferocity at times showed a lack of timing, but I was quite happy regardless. Especially pumping his erection in my fist and pushing him down with the palm of my hand on his chest.
I didn’t want to give this boy a heart attack or overwhelm him with excitement so I quickly got off, reached in my purse and tore a condom from its wrapper. I popped it into my mouth and went down on him, slipping it on with my teeth.
The sun was going down and turning a lovely orange colour and dipping behind the rocks as I pulled up my friend by the hand and led him over to the ridge and a collection of rocks.
I wondered whether I should ask his name at this point. Surely, it was far too salacious of me to have him take me without knowing who he was. Fuck it, I thought. This is my moment of sin. My hour of liberated fun. I don’t need to know.
I bent over one of the rocks at waist height. I was offering it to him and he started to fumble and play with his cock. The condom had killed him. I turned around and dropped to my knees, getting him hard once again.
Take two, and he was away; he eased in and grabbed the extra flesh on my hips and ground away nicely. He kept going for a good fifteen minutes until I moved back and prompted him towards the towel. He placed me on my back and climbed on top.
We momentarily stopped and he pulled a towel over us as we heard the rustling of footsteps above us. I sensed that he was attempting to protect my modesty. I urged him to carry on. I wasn’t concerned who saw us at this point and neither I guessed was he, kneeling on his calves and taking a heel in each hand, exposing my front to those who might be having a little peek.
When we had finished he tossed the soiled rubber behind him, looking like the cat that had got the cream, and I tutted at him. He got up obediently and retrieved it. He crumpled the soiled, sandy material in his fist and rolled back to me. We looked up at the trees and sensed the movement of people nearby.
I actually really felt like staying and having a hug but I didn’t want to send out the wrong signals, so I collected my things and put my shades on.
I said goodbye and headed back up the beach, leaving my conquest satisfied and curled up with his book on the sand we had warmed. No doubt hoping that someone else would soon join him.
Hitch-hiking
by Izzy French
It was late. I was cold. I needed to get home. I held out my thumb. Were peop
le more reluctant to stop for hitchhikers these days? I shivered, stepping into the road when the pavement ended. And the shiver was for more than just the cold. I was taking a risk, wasn’t I?
Expecting a complete stranger to pick me up and take me towards home. Cars flew past, the drivers staring straight ahead. Pretending they couldn’t see me, no doubt, not wishing to inconvenience themselves. I was a stranger to them, too, I could be anyone, after all. They might think I posed a danger. I kept walking, comforted by the fact that Jake would be waiting for me at home. He’d be cross I was late, annoyed I let the battery on my mobile die. We would row and make up by having sex, angry, urgent sex. The best kind in my opinion. Just thinking of it made me horny. And, anticipating sex tonight, I’d prepared a couple of surprises for Jake that would bring a smile to his face. I was beginning to enjoy my daydream.
“Hey, can I give you a lift?” I jumped. I hadn’t heard the car draw up. I leant down and peered in to see a man’s face. He was hard to make out in the dark.
I hesitated, but just for a moment. I’d stuck my thumb out, after all, what else had I expected to happen? Though I did feel a frisson of something – excitement, trepidation, fear, maybe?
“Could you drop me off in town? I could walk from there, it’s only five minutes.” I was taking a huge risk. But it’d be something to include in my sex talk with Jake later. If I dared. I opened the passenger door and stepped in. The seats were leather, the dashboard looked like real wood, walnut I thought. Impressive. I knew nothing about cars, but guessed this guy had money. I glanced over. I could see him more clearly now we were closer together. His hair was dark, wavy, longish, his lips full. I thought his eyes were blue, but it was impossible to tell for sure. He wore a cream shirt, dark blue jeans, both looked casual but I thought the effect was contrived. This man was immaculate. His aftershave was expensive, delicious. I wondered if a beautifully groomed girlfriend had bought it for him. I looked down at my own clothes. An old leather jacket of Jake’s, a light cotton top and a knee-length denim skirt that had risen up my thighs as I sat down. Only my high suede boots kept my legs warm. I wondered what he thought of me. I must look under-dressed for the weather. Perhaps he took me for a prostitute rather than the more prosaic office manager that I was.
