Climax: Volume 2

by Ella Ford

  It was my turn to sigh, thrilled by the sight of her perfect tits. I felt my nipples flush with hardness and a surge of pleasure rage out from my pussy, but I held myself back.

  “Am I… am I okay?” she whimpered, her gaze lowered to the bed.

  “You’re perfect honey,” I said with genuine sincerity. “Lie back,” I said, pointing at the bed behind her.

  She lowered herself down onto her back and stretched her legs out before her. I reached down and touched her feet once more, then slowly began to caress my way up her legs, never once breaking eye contact with her. I stopped at her waist and gripped the elasticated band of her skirt. Then I waited for her to grant me this final permission, the last checkpoint that led to her new life.

  She hesitated, looking slightly pained. But she relented eventually and nodded with as much enthusiasm as I’d yet seen from her.

  Without waiting, I gripped her skirt, pantyhose and panties and pulled the bundle of garments down her legs and threw them to one side in a single motion. She gasped at the ferocity of my advance and the shock of suddenly being totally naked. Her body instinctively curled up, pulling her knees towards her chest and covering herself up, but the time for restraint and modesty was at an end.

  I grabbed her ankle and turned her over, pulling her leg until she stretched out before me. Then I slowly crawled up her body, stalking her like a hungry tigress. I lifted my leg and straddled her stomach, pinning her to the bed and feeling her skin brush against my aching, wet pussy. She looked up at me, wide-eyed and apprehensive, simultaneously begging me to let her free and urging me onwards.

  I didn’t wait. Bending down I held my face above hers, inches between us. I could feel her hot breath on my mouth, fast and urgent. I could feel the heat rising from her glowing cheeks, could smell the fear and desire in her sweat. I breathed in, hungry to consume this reluctant virgin, needing to bring her into my world, to show her what she’d been missing.

  Then I kissed her, pressing my lips against hers, relishing the soft capitulation of her mouth as she surrendered to me. I wondered distantly if this was the first time she’d been kissed, but didn’t care. She was mine now… every sordid act claimed her for me.

  I opened my mouth and flicked my tongue over her wet lips, testing her, probing her. She gasped in surprise and tried to turn her head, but I held her in place with a hand on her cheek. I continued my assault, lapping at her, until finally, she parted her lips and allowed me entry. I found her tongue and stabbed at it with mine, feeling her relax into the kiss as our hot mouths danced together. Ruth began to moan, then her hands rose from the bed beside her and found my back, pulling me towards her with an urgency that made me gasp. The tide of battle turned and I felt her tongue come alive, dueling with mine in the space between our lips, soaking me in her saliva and the wetness of her desire.

  Then her hands rose to my shoulders and I felt her push me away. I wondered if she was panicking, if I had pushed her too far, but then her intent became clear. From somewhere far away, I sensed her legs fall apart and I realized what it was she wanted.

  She nodded quickly, urgently, her eyes wide and wanting.

  I hopped back and positioned myself between her parted knees, gazing down at her pristine pussy. Her bush was full and fair, an unkempt garden of rough, blonde hair. It was very different to the trimmed thatches that I usually encountered, and the sight of it drove me wild with desire. I swept my hair back and reached down, gingerly touching my fingertips to her labia, studying her eyes for a reaction.

  My touch was like electricity and she jumped backwards away from me. I flashed her a reassuring glance, then gripped her thigh so that she couldn’t flee. Once again, I reached down, plunging my fingers into her virgin pussy.

  Oh god, she was so wet. Her sex was dripping with desire, a wetness that simply demanded attention. I lowered my head quickly, greedy for her taste, allowing myself to be driven by my own desires. I flicked my tongue upwards, brushing against her moist folds. She moaned and shuddered.

  “Lord, forgive me,” she uttered, the conviction of her sentiment lost in the moan of desire that followed it.

  I licked again, plunging deeper into her lips, sucking her into my mouth, locking my face between her legs. She moaned and writhed, one leg kicking out to the side. I began to tease upwards, exploring every inch of this new geography, so novel but yet so familiar. As I reached her clit, I paused, pulling away for a second.

  “No, no, no, don’t stop,” she pleaded, reaching down and touching her hands to my head. I started again, repeating my slow tease, drawing out this moment for as long as I dared, always stopping short of her clitoris and the fire that burned there. I sensed a tension build in her, a need for something that she couldn’t internally articulate. Her head thrashed from side to side, she lifted her foot and placed it on my back, rubbing back and forth in a confused quest for fulfillment.

  Then I relented and completed my probing exploration with a long, slow lick of her clitoris. She screamed out as I touched her there. Her head pushed back into my pillow and the small tendons in her neck stood out in sharp relief.

  “Oh Jesus please!” she cried, and I set to work. My tongue began to move in tight spirals, swirling around that throbbing nub in fast circles. I alternated soft touches with hard pressure, pushing down on her with the flat of my tongue. Every motion provoked a response - a sigh, a gasp, a moan, a curse. Ruth began to dance like a puppet under my control.

  Meanwhile, I rode the wave of my own ecstasy, allowing the fireball inside me to rise and fill my body. As I devoured the naked Christian girl on the bed before me, I dropped my own hand down between my legs and began to massage my own sex. I slowly dragged my fingers through my dripping pussy, manipulating myself with practised ease.

  Our bodies fell into a sordid synchronization, every touch of my tongue to her clit was matched with a corresponding squeeze of my own sensitive bud between two fingers. I began to move faster, with more confidence, moving my mouth and hand without even thinking.

  I glanced upwards. Ruth seemed to be lost, her skin glistening with perspiration, her mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut. Her fingers were plunged into my hair, gripping me with a frantic urgency, while her hips rolled against my face, driven by an instinctual urge for release. Her transformation thrilled me - from virginal innocent to filthy, pussy hungry lesbian in less than an hour. I felt the first blossoming approach of my orgasm and quickened my motions, guiding Ruth to her own release as I quickly as I dared.

  At once, something changed in Ruth’s body. Her moaning stopped, replaced by quick, sharp pants. I felt her muscles become tense, her thigh becoming taut against my head. Her grip tightened on my hair.

  “Oh no!” she screamed. “What’s happening?” Her question was frantic and demanding, a panicked plea of genuine confusion.

  I plunged into her pussy one final time, pressing down on her clit to push her over the edge. Her body lifted from the bed, back arching upwards. Her chest and neck erupted with an angry red flush and she screamed out loud as the orgasm took her. Her arms and legs began to tremble violently, releasing their grip on me, freeing me to find my own release.

  I rested my forehead on her thigh and thrashed my fingers back and forth between my legs, allowing myself the escape I so desired.

  Seconds after Ruth’s climax had begun, my own pussy exploded. Hot waves of utter pleasure roared out from my aching sex, flooding my body with electric jolts. I felt my arm coil around Ruth’s leg, felt her pussy rise one final time to smear her wetness on my face.

  Our two bodies thrashed and writhed on the bed together, a mutual dance of individual pleasure, a shared climax that locked us together as a single entity, merging together to form a being of pure lust.

  The sensation rose to crescendo in me, igniting every nerve ending and firing every synapse. The weight of ecstasy became too much to bear and I feared I would black out. I struggled to remain grounded, struggled to concentrate on the hot girl b
eneath me, her slick skin sliding against me as our bodies thrashed about.

  Then, as one, our mutual energy departed, leaving only an echo of its previous intensity. I collapsed to the bed, my limbs tangled in Ruth’s, gasping for breath, struggling to control my thoughts. I could feel Ruth’s muscles twitching beneath me, could hear her labored breath.

  I lifted my head and forced my body into motion, expending the last of my energy to slither serpent-like up her body, coming to rest beside her. I touched my lips to her cheek, nuzzling in her warmth. She turned to face me, meeting my mouth with lazy kisses. My arm snaked around her, hand cupping her breast. She sighed and flinched as my palm brushed her tender nipple and she smiled.

  “What on earth will the pastor say?” she said, half seriously, half mockingly. I laughed quietly, then kissed her deeply and we both drifted off into a satisfied slumber.

  Epilogue

  They say that college teaches you far more than what you learn in class, and I can testify that this is the truth. College taught me that I am not alone, that there are others out there like me. I learned to embrace my desires, to cherish my needs and to pursue pleasure wherever I find it. I learned to love the guidance of an older woman, a woman like Professor Cole and her almost casual use of my mouth. I learned to love being in control, the way that I had controlled Maria and Jane, the hungry coeds who had worshipped my feet. Finally, I learned to love awakening the passions of the innocent. Girls like Ruth, who struggled through their lives, experiencing strange urges and passions, but never daring to face them.

  Finally, I learned that everyone likes feet. Well, not everyone, but enough women, and more than you might think.

  But as my final year passed in a flurry of pussy and tongues, I found myself fearing being ejected into the real world. Maybe the mutual desires that I had found with my college sisters had been a product of the permissive college society? Maybe the working world would be different, less free, less daring?

  As graduation day approached, I sensed that I was about to stop being a big fish in a small pond - in charge of my needs, able to find pleasure wherever I looked - and become a small fish in a big pond, with very different rules and very different expectations.

  ---

  The day of my first interview approached. I was aiming for an intern position at a prestigious downtown PR firm. I knew next to nothing about the company and was due to meet up with a Ms. Sarah Black, who was head of HR for the client services department. It all sounded so scary and grown up.

  On the night before the interview, I received an email. It was addressed from Sarah Black, and had an ambiguous subject line. My heart sank and I feared that the interview had been cancelled, that they’d found someone more suitable. But I clicked through anyway and read the message.

  Rebecca,

  Just a quick note before your interview tomorrow. I’d like you to turn up at 10am on the dot. Punctuality is very important to us here at Drake and Chesterton. As is appearance. We like all of our interns to dress according to the company policy - for girls, that is business suit, high heels and sheer pantyhose. See that you are properly attired.

  Sarah Black

  Who knows, maybe I would come to like the working world after all?

  THE END

  Pantyhose Professionals

  by Ella Ford

  Prologue

  There’s something special about college life. Something uniquely free and different. College students go through a time of their lives where nothing is off limits, where things that are taboo elsewhere become invitations to explore, to discover, to experiment. And so it was for me during my years as an undergraduate. I found new sides to myself, allowed my inner nature to be expressed in whatever way I saw fit, discovered depths to my needs that I had previously not dared imagine possible.

  Basically, I sucked a lot of girls’ toes.

  Wait, who am I you ask? Oh, I’m Becky - or Rebecca, if you’re my mom or a strict, dominatrix (are you??). I’m what society politely refers to as a foot fetishist. Really, I’m an equal opportunity lesbian, I like every part of the female form, but I have a particular weakness for a pair of pretty feet. And I am particularly particularly weak for feet in soft, nylon pantyhose.

  I guess some people would call me a pervert, an outlier, a deviant. But if my college experience taught me anything, it’s that everyone likes feet. Or most people at least. I lost track of the number of times I’d catch a pretty young coed gazing longingly across a crowded bar at my nylon-covered toes, hypnotized by the slow bounce of my stiletto heel. And I can’t even begin to tell you how many times a sweaty, three girl orgy descended into a sensual ring of frantic foot worship.

  No. I don’t care what society tells you - there’s something about feet. Or, at least, in the permissive, anything-goes college bubble this was true. At college, girls weren’t afraid to experiment, to give in to their inner fantasies and hidden desires.

  After graduation though, I began to fear that such open displays of experimental self-expression were unique to the college atmosphere, that these primitive desires were forgotten as soon as the grim reality of adult life became apparent. And the realization terrified me.

  ---

  Soon after leaving college I scored an interview for my dream job - intern at Drake and Chesterton, a prestigious downtown PR firm. I was initially very hopeful that this environment would allow me to continue my sordid explorations: it was a mostly female workplace, had a very particular dress code that insisted on sheer pantyhose as standard, and my new boss, Ms. Sarah Black, had a sultry, sensual phone-voice that very heavily implied that I would be subjected to the most intense level of workplace sexual harassment. I couldn’t wait!

  But Ms. Black wasn’t even present for my interview. Instead, I was questioned by Trevor Lord, Ms. Black’s deputy, a grey, beaten looking man who barely even looked up from his stack of crumpled papers. He never even noticed the expensive, sheer-to-toe pantyhose I was wearing, and the exquisitely painted toenails poking out from the tempting peep-hole shoes. In a company of beautiful, vivacious people, Trevor Lord stood out as a curious outlier, a wizened company man who seemingly had no place in the glam world of PR.

  Regardless, without having had to suck a single toe, I nailed the job. They didn’t even call me back for a second interview, they just offered me the position before I left the building.

  I was elated! My first ever proper job! Think of all the money! Think of all the clandestine adventures in the copy room, pressed up against the whirring photocopier by a hungry, sex-mad executive, feeling her warm breath on my skin, her hand slipping under my skirt and beneath my dripping hose! Think of the after-work drinks, long cocktails and sultry glances, unspoken communications passed between interns, before excusing ourselves to head home for a steamy threeway!

  It was nothing like that.

  Work is dull. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, or so I thought after my first six months on the job. Where I’d expected to find a tangled web of lesbian intrigue, I found only the grim recounting of weekend trips to the town dump, or long tales of childbirth or infertility or swollen ankles. And endless hilarious anecdotes about the excruciatingly mundane antics of spoiled children. Everyone seemed far too stressed and tired by the rigors of home and work to think about the kind of encounters that I craved. The pantyhose component of our dress code was seen as utilitarian and annoying rather than alluring and sensual. High heels were swapped for low heels, anything to ease the pain of a day on your tired feet; and sharp, sexy business suits were often a patchwork of faded stains, the battle scars of a working mom.

  There were beacons of hope though, the secretarial pool down on the fourth floor was a writhing harem of sexual beings; hot, young twenty-somethings with perfect hair and nails and long, long legs, more concerned with the latest shoes than the rearing of children. But these girls were all focused on cock, constantly wittering about the newest executive salesman up on the seventh floor, how shiny his car was
, how perfect his groomed hair. In the early days, I tried to ingratiate myself into this horny herd, but found no responses to my overt signals of lesbian sexuality, found no-one glancing at my feet or legs. All of the weapons in my formidable arsenal seemed to have no effect and mostly went unnoticed. The kind of ordinance that would have had college girls dripping wet and begging for a taste of my toes - ludicrously unfashionable strappy sandals with nylon hose; dangling my shoe off the end of my toes until it fell to the floor, inviting some horny young girl to come and offer to pick it up - all frantic shots in the dark that fell wide of the mark by so far it wasn’t even funny. So I gave up.

  For the first six months of my employment at Drake and Chesterton, I immersed myself in my work, trying not to think about my needs and desires while at the office. Outside of work hours, I dipped into the local lesbian bar scene, making fleeting acquaintances with lonely girls in the same position as me, never really connecting on a level deeper than the need to taste pussy or feel the hot warmth of female flesh beside you as you slept. And I never once found a single girl who loved feet as much as I did.

  I began to fear that college was a mirage, a misleading notion of what life really was. Maybe everyone didn’t like feet?

  Or maybe I was just looking in the wrong places…?

  Performance Review

  March, 2015

  “So, Rebecca - Becky - how are you settling in at Drake and Chesterton?” the older woman said with a warm smile. Jamie Danvers was director of HR at D&C, a powerful, intimidating woman who I’d barely seen anything of in my time at the company. And now she was giving me my six month performance review. I was terrified!