Wild Licks

by Cecilia Tan

  When he opened his mouth to let me go, his lips glistened and the tip of my finger was slick with his saliva.

  “Now use that finger on your clit.” His voice was never raised louder than a suggestion, yet it felt like a command.

  I lifted the waistband of both the panties and the fishnets and did as he asked, sucking in a breath as my wet finger slid easily over my swollen clit. Far more swollen than I would have guessed it would be from merely what had gone on.

  “Naughty girl,” he breathed. “Nasty girl. Touching yourself like that.”

  “Yessss,” I said through clenched teeth. That was exactly it. I was the wild child who touched herself instead of doing her homework or practicing her violin.

  “Let me see it,” he said next.

  “See what?”

  “Your slick, swollen clit.” His tongue darted out to touch his lips. “Unless you’re faking it?”

  My heart hammered as again I wondered if he’d figured out I was only playacting—why else would he say that? But my arousal was real. I suppose he said it as a kind of dare. I put one boot onto the armrest of the couch and yanked my panties aside. One strand of the wide fishnets dragged across my clit and I hissed, but there was plenty of space between strands for him to see my aroused flesh.

  His tongue came forth again, this time making a slow, sinuous pass across his lower lip. He beckoned with one finger, crooking it back in a “come closer” motion.

  I pulled the panties a little harder to make sure my clit was completely uncovered, and I bent my knee as I leaned toward him.

  He lifted his head from the couch at last to meet my throbbing pussy with his mouth, to put that tongue exactly where I had imagined it earlier. God, he was good. Every touch felt good, every slide of the velvety body, every tweak of the wicked tip. After a few minutes it was becoming difficult to stay upright and he reached a hand under my rump to support me. Between saliva and my own juices, wetness was soon running down his wrist.

  My arousal went up and up and I forgot where I was, forgot who I was supposed to be; the only thing in my universe that mattered was how close I was to orgasm. Very close but not quite there. Damn it. I needed something to get me over the hump. That was true even when I used my vibrator at home. It often took a pinch or something to send me over the edge. I had thought maybe that was because the vibrator desensitized me and it took something painful to get through to the nerves, but this? This was every nerve ending on fire, electric, fully charged.

  I wanted him to bite my clit, to trap it between his teeth while torturing me mercilessly with his tongue tip, or to jam all his fingers inside, but he didn’t do either of those things, just kept on pleasuring me, which was a different kind of torture.

  My voice came out a whine. “Put your fingers in me. Please, God, I need something.”

  “If you want something in you, I’ll give you two choices,” he said, licking my juices from his face while he talked. “Neck of an ice-cold beer bottle or my cock.”

  “Oh, fuck!”

  “Does that mean cock? You’re not being clear.”

  Oh fuck, indeed. I wasn’t ready to go there, mentally I mean; I wasn’t ready to go all the way with this rock star sex god. And the thought of cold glass on my superheated flesh sounded ridiculously good. Does anyone really think rationally that close to orgasm? I definitely wasn’t at that point. I grunted and threw my head back. “Where’s that beer bottle? That sounded like a dare.”

  His laugh had an edge of delight in it. “Daring, indeed.” He set me on my feet and got up, retrieving a bottle from a cooler and popping the top off. He took a swig of the beer and then set it on the coffee table.

  “You might want to take your bottoms off,” he suggested. “Much as I hate to see your fishnets go.”

  I toed off the lambskin boots and stripped the fishnets and panties off my legs. Then I put the boots back on, not to be sexy but because I thought I might need the traction.

  He thought it was sexy, though. I looked up to find him lying back on the couch again—he’d stripped off his own pants while I’d been wrestling with mine and was running one finger up and down his rigid, gorgeous erection. Entirely naked, he somehow looked less ridiculous than some men. His legs were well muscled, his chest lean, his neck strong and graceful, and his cock even more so. I began to rethink my choice of the beer bottle.

  But a dare’s a dare. I turned around so I was facing away from him and put one foot on either side of the coffee table.

  I held the bottle in one hand and gradually lowered myself until I could feel the glass rim touching me. The glass was cold and dewy with condensation.

  I lowered myself still more, the slick hardness sliding into me easily. I made a sound of surprise. It felt good. I rose up and pushed myself down again. Very good.

  “Naughty girl,” he rasped, voice rough with lust. “Nasty girl.”

  “Very,” I whispered. “Oh fuck, it feels good.”

  “Go farther, all the way down, fuck yourself.”

  There was no thought in my mind but to do as he directed, the bottle widening me and sending waves of pleasure through my core.

  “Now, lift,” he said, “all the way off, all the way up.”

  I whimpered at how empty I felt and looked over my shoulder at him.

  He took the beer bottle, licked the glass rim, and then drank deeply from it as he lay back on the couch. “There, now it’s cold again.”

  This time he held the bottle on his stomach, mere inches from his cock, daring me again.

  I climbed onto the bottle, facing him this time, bracing myself with my hands on either side of his head. The bottle was unforgiving and I had to move myself up and down slowly. He positioned his thumb so that as I raised and lowered myself I was brushing my clit against his finger, too. That tempted me to go faster but I just couldn’t—anytime I went too quickly the hard glass reminded me to keep it slow. I whimpered and moaned. I don’t think I’d ever wanted to come more than I did at that moment.

  “May I…,” I heard myself panting. “May I have that choice again?”

  “Do nasty girls get a second chance?”

  My brain was in overdrive. We’d reached a point where it was no longer even a question whether I could go all the way with him. It had become a moral imperative. “They do if…their masters are pleased with them.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, this master is very pleased with his girl’s performance so far. What would his girl like as a reward?”

  “His cock? May this girl have it? Please? Oh fuck, please…”

  “If she puts a condom on it, perhaps. They’re in the case behind my head. Up.”

  I scrambled off him to open the black case, a combination toolbox, first aid kit, and sewing supplies. Half a dozen foil condom packages sat between the Band-Aids and the Phillips-head screwdrivers. I pulled one free and tore open the package.

  He sat up. “Put it on with your mouth.”

  I gave him a saucy look. Little did he know Madison had taught me this trick just the other day. We’d practiced on bananas.

  This was no banana in front of me, though. Whatever word you used for it—cock, prick, dick, pecker, penis—it was a beautifully engorged staff of manliness. The condom was unlubricated. Like Maddie had taught me, I got the convex side good and spitty before sucking the tip into my mouth and then positioning it over the head.

  I used the force of my lips to unroll it over the spongy bulge and he groaned low in his chest. I worked my way down another inch or two before I had to give up and take a breath. He was longer than the banana I’d practiced on, too, and deep throating wasn’t in my skill set. I nibbled my way down the side of the shaft then and used my lips and jaw to unroll it a little farther.

  He took over then, using his fingers to make sure he was sheathed all the way to the base. “Come and get it, girl.”

  I straddled his legs and rubbed my wet pussy back and forth on his shaft, getting the condom completely slick.


  “Sit up. Let me see it,” he said. “Let me see.”

  I thrust my hips forward, giving him a good look at my glistening opening. He ran his thumbs along the edges of my labia, admiring.

  Then he saw my real tattoos: black letters where my thigh met my labia. On one side the letters spelled out the words LOVE PAIN, on the other EXCRUCIA—the name of the heroine of a fantasy book series I loved, Pain of the Sword, about a concubine who rose to be empress. I wondered if he could see them well enough to read them. He let his thumb drift across my clit almost casually, his voice carefully neutral. “That was the name of my first band.” Apparently he could read them.

  Oh no, he thinks I’m a stalker. “It’s from a book,” I blurted defensively.

  “I know. About a painslut.” He drove a finger into me, and I gasped as he wiggled it. “A woman who craved it.”

  “A woman who thrived on challenges,” I said. I’d never heard the word painslut before, but hearing him say it made things inside me clench with need.

  “Mmm-hmm. Challenge yourself to make me come with that hungry cockhole of yours,” he murmured.

  The dirtier he talked, the hornier I felt. “Challenge accepted.” I straightened my legs to lift me higher, and then I took him inside me, lowering myself a few inches and then letting him admire the sight. He felt incredible, far better than the beer bottle.

  He jiggled his thumb against my clit, making my legs give way, and I sank down farther with a groan.

  “Holy fuck, you’re tight,” he said, his hands gripping my hips as he pushed upward into me. He held me still while he ground his hips in a circle.

  He was coring me from the inside with a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. I wasn’t about to explain that the dildo that was my usual “inside” toy was smaller than him. Instead I simply said, “Oh fuck,” in agreement.

  He let me move at my own pace, sliding his hands under my shirt to my breasts. I barely noticed when he pulled the shirt over my head while his thumbs and fingers played with my nipples.

  He hummed appreciatively when he discovered that pinching my nipples produced a ripple of tightened muscles in my pussy. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Milk my cock with your body. You’re going to suck the come right out of me.”

  Speaking of coming, I wanted to. I really really wanted to. But I’d reached a high plateau where everything felt fantastic but nothing moved me any closer to the release that was just out of reach. My movements became more frantic and so did the little cries in my throat. He pushed one of my hands between my legs, encouraging me to get myself off, but even that wasn’t enough. Sweat was streaming down my skin. I was taking so long, too long; I was never going to get there…

  “What do you need, sweet girl?” came his voice, low and insistent. “Tell me.”

  “Bite me,” I said, and for one horrified second I thought he might take it the wrong way, but no, he knew what I was asking for. He didn’t stop pumping his cock inside me, moving me up and down with his hands, and I didn’t stop fingering myself desperately. With one hand behind my back and one clamped onto my ass, he latched his mouth on to one of my nipples and bit.

  I screamed. I screamed and came with a spasm of shudders so intense my teeth chattered.

  He flipped me onto my back on the couch, driving two fingers into me while his tongue attacked my clit again with its sensuous onslaught. Another orgasm followed quickly on the heels of the first, or maybe it never even quite ended, rolling right into an even bigger one like a peal of thunder.

  And then I was blinking up at the ceiling, breathing hard, shivering with aftershocks but very definitely on the downward side of the peak. Wow.

  I looked up. He had rocked back onto his knees. His hair was a sweaty mess plastered to his forehead and shoulders. He rested his hands on his thighs and caught his breath. His cock was still half hard, the now-full condom still clinging to it. Apparently he had come sometime during all that. I felt slightly guilty for having been so overwhelmed by my own release I’d somehow missed his.

  He caught my eye. “A good girl would help her master with this.”

  I bared my teeth. “I’m not a good girl, but I’ll be good for you.” I sat up and cupped his balls gently in one hand while I palmed the condom. He groaned and shuddered, pumping one more gout of seed into my hand as I pulled the rubber free.

  He nodded toward a doorway. “That’s the bathroom.”

  I went and disposed of the condom, used the toilet, and gave myself a bit of a wash. Wow. My tender bits felt extra tender. Then I washed my hands, folded up some paper towels, and wetted them with warm water.

  I came out and wiped him down, all around his balls and pubic hair, and then lovingly washed his now-shriveled cock. He lay still, watching me, saying nothing.

  Clearly we were done and he was the very definition of “spent.” I pulled my shorts back on, leaving the fishnets as a lost cause. I found my shirt behind the first aid kit. I pulled on my jacket.

  “What did you say your name was?” he asked as I picked up my purse.

  “I didn’t,” I said, blowing him a kiss and then quickly going out the door.

  * * *

  MAL

  “Good party, huh?” Axel said as he bounded past me in the hall toward the catering area, not waiting for a reply. Axel is a whirling dervish, an Energizer Bunny of charisma and charm. Some performers get tired of being “on.” Axel, on the other hand, has no off switch.

  He doubled back before he got far. “Good show tonight, too,” he added. “Great way to end the tour, don’t you think?”

  I stretched, every part of me feeling whole for the first time in weeks. Truly excellent sex always had a good effect on me, but this was beyond even that. “Yes. Definitely.”

  He looked me up and down. Axel is my oldest and best friend and he knew me well. “You got laid already, didn’t you?”

  I merely nodded. I’d had a shower and pulled my hair back into a long wet tail, and when I’d been unable to find a clean shirt, I’d opted to shrug my leather jacket on anyway. “You can tell?”

  “You look more relaxed than I’ve seen you in months,” he said. “Good. Maybe you won’t bite anyone’s head off at this party.” It being the last night of the tour, our record company was treating us to an epic after-party.

  “I shall try to be on my best behavior,” I assured him. I am not a fan of small talk, especially with small people, but I realize it comes with the job. No doubt Marcus, our record company rep, was here, as were various other staffers from Basic Records on whom I should be endeavoring to make a good impression. Some of them no doubt thought of me as difficult, especially after what happened during the last recording sessions.

  Perhaps they considered anyone who put artistic concerns in front of monetary ones “difficult.” If so, please, label me difficult. I wondered if Larkin Johns, the producer I’d thrown out of the recording studio, would dare show his face backstage tonight.

  I was following Axel toward the noise of the party when my phone vibrated inside my jacket pocket. I let him get ahead of me as I paused to check it. A text had come through.

  Mal, this is Layla, long time no see! I’m so sorry to bother you but I need your help.

  I stared at the words. That was all she had written. No doubt expecting me to reply. I’m so sorry to bother you. I let out a bitter laugh. So sorry to have had to ferret out your private mobile number in order to send this passive-aggressive message, she meant. I had not seen her for years and she had been told not to contact me. Did she think anything had changed? I wondered how she had gotten my number and whether I was going to have to change it again.

  Layla had once been a fan, a groupie, and then I had made the mistake of trying to make her into something more. The breakup had been ugly and damaging for both of us, but that was years ago. For a moment I considered replying to her for old time’s sake. But no, what had she gone through to get this number? I added her number to my contacts list so if she calle
d I would see her name and know not to answer. That was all I could do at that moment.

  I caught our head of security in the hallway, heading toward the designated catering area. “What’s up?” he asked the moment he saw me make eye contact.

  “Nick. I just received a message from Layla. She shouldn’t have this number.”

  He dragged his hand through his shorn black hair. “You worried it could turn into a stalker situation again?”

  “Hopefully not. I didn’t reply. I don’t even know where she is these days, but I thought I should inform you.”

  “She was the blonde, right?” Nick had been working for us for a couple of years and had a very good memory.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out. Lotta people here tonight.” He glanced toward the catering area. “Bunch of fan club people, the folks from Basic, VIPs, everyone and their brother seems like. Speaking of fans, hope everything went all right?”

  Nick was the man we’d put in charge of vetting groupies who wanted to have a much more up close and personal experience than a mere selfie and autograph. “Perfectly,” I said. So perfectly that I considered asking him to let me know if he saw that woman again. But no. It was better not to confuse the issue, and if anything I should have taken the text from Layla as a sign not to get involved. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime,” he said with a little salute, and moved off to his next errand.

  I continued on to the catering area that had been set up in one of the large sports team locker rooms. I waded through the mingling crowd and shook hands with a few people. Thanked the members of Breakwater for doing a good job as the opening band. Posed for a selfie or two with some of our superfans. Allowed one of the promoter’s staff to prattle on at me for a while about something—I’m not sure what since I tuned out what he was saying. I let my eyes roam the room, desperate to find someone decent to talk to. After six weeks on the road, I had nothing left to say to anyone in the band or crew. Axel was with his girlfriend, the heiress Ricki Hamilton. They were more or less glued together, side by side, having not seen each other since we left. Ford, our bass player, was introducing his father to Killian, the lead singer of Breakwater. I wouldn’t have minded talking to Mr. Cutler about his guitar collection, but I wasn’t about to elbow my way across the room and interrupt them.