Darlene’s hand flew to her clit and she started masturbating as my thrusts gained speed. Soon she was moaning, begging me to fuck her harder, and my balls were about to explode with come. We erupted together, and with great agility she pulled off me, flipped over, and caught my come on her breasts, which she had pushed together. I unleashed torrents of come on her pretty red nipples before collapsing beside her.
After a breather and a long, playful shower, we went out onto the balcony for a repeat performance in the soft Memphis night. If other hotel guests were watching, they got a fabulous exhibition of my naked wife first sucking my cock and then getting fucked while bending over the patio table. It was definitely a night to remember, and one that will endear Memphis to us in memory for a long time to come.
—M.C., Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
LOVE, ITALIAN STYLE—MUSCULAR FARMHAND INSPIRES RAW LUST IN BEAUTIFUL AMERICAN
Since I had been in Milan to cover the fashion shows, I decided to take a holiday in Tuscany, renting a farmhouse from a friend of one of the models I had gotten to know over the years. Erika is a typical Teutonic beauty, and every time we were together we ended up sharing champagne, succulent fruit, and the secrets of each other’s body. It was she who teasingly suggested that I try an Italian lover, since she had a marked taste for Latin men. Since my juices were still fragrant on her lips, I laughed, but she cupped my sex with her long fingers and said, “You know what they call this in Italian? La fica—the fig. And Italians love to eat figs.”
We rose from her tangled satin sheets and moved to the bathroom, a luxurious room with its centerpiece a warm, bubbling spa. Erika drew me into the water with her and tipped up my face for a kiss. Her hands caressed me lazily, squeezing, rubbing while her tongue played with mine. Slim fingers toyed with the soft, wet flesh between my legs, marveling at how I always seemed to be juicy and ripe as the fruit she loved.
“You see why they call it la fica,” she said, grasping my labia between her fingers and showing me how their fleshy pout resembled the classical fruit. We sank down into the crystal water and it streamed and bubbled around us as Erika languidly offered me her full, creamy breasts. I was happy to take them in both hands and suck the pale nipples that stiffened at my touch. I could feel my vaginal walls tighten around her finger as it searched my depths.
The hot, steaming water mingled with the heat of my own juices as she slid her finger in and out, stroking my clitoris as she passed. Her lips and tongue worked softly and surely at my nipples, and I grew weak, almost sinking below the bubbling water. Erika’s deceptively slender arms enfolded me and raised me up to lie back over the edge of the sunken spa. Her fingers parted my labia and she proceeded to demonstrate once more that the Germans were also fond of the fig. Wrapped up in the miracle of each other’s body, we talked hardly at all until I had to leave the next morning.
Agreeably heavy with sated lust, I emerged from the train into the hustle of Florence and hailed a cab to the bus station. I followed my instructions, and after a scenic ride, I alighted at my host’s door. The old stone house stood flush with the street, with the winery buildings farther back, overlooked by cypress trees. A handsome man with silvered temples came toward me, bowed, and kissed my hand. It was Francesco, my host, who arranged for his servant, Carlo, to take me to my house farther down the valley.
When we arrived the place was bigger than I’d imagined, cool with its tiled roof and floors. Carlo took me up to the second floor and waited for me to choose my bedroom. The largest and sunniest was perfect, and he carried in my bags. We stood by the bed, electricity running between us. The raw power of his biceps inspired a primitive lust in me. He was staring back at me intently, his eyes running possessively over my body. I wanted him intensely, but I lowered my eyes and said grazie, thinking he would leave. Instead, he just stood there, smiling at me.
I held out my hand to shake his dismissively, but he simply grasped it and didn’t let go. I was caught in an elemental spell. He spoke, his soft accent apparently pouring forth compliments, but the only words I caught were, “Ti voglio mangiare la fica.” Remembrance of Erika’s lips and lust weakened my knees and I sank to the edge of the bed. Abruptly the tension shattered as the maid bustled in with clean towels and so forth, but I knew he would return.
After supper I was alone and Carlo came in to light a fire in the great hearth. I was mesmerized by his capable hands and the strong line of his back as it joined his slender hips. As he rose and looked at me I shivered, and he asked shrewdly if I was cold. I stammered, “Sì,” I was. I longed to be back in Milan in Erika’s hot tub, or to fall into Carlo’s arms. I couldn’t move. He set a match to the kindling and the fire blazed up.
He chuckled and came over to me, folding me into an embrace that warmed me more than the fire. He sat, pulling me down on his lap, kissing my eyes, my cheeks, my lips before reaching under my sweater and caressing my breasts. I could hardly breathe, feeling my cunt lips unfurl like petals, triggered by the arousal of my nipples and Carlo’s slow, sweet touch. He lifted my skirt and ran his hand along the inside of my thigh as I shivered with desire.
His fingers touched my clitoris, wet and swollen. Not the fire but Carlo had lighted an inferno in my sex. He alternately pinched and stroked my labia, opening the way to my clit, peeling me as he whispered, “La fica.” His fingers penetrated my vagina and my anus at the same time, and in a few seconds a delicious warmth, like well-aged brandy, spread from my loins and my body shook with orgasm.
Carlo lifted me up and lay me back on the long table. My orgasm still echoed through me as he pulled out his cock—long, thick, fully erect—and guided it into my aching pussy. The hard wood of the table was forgotten in an instant. It was dark when he carried me back up to the bedroom. We stood at the window, looking out over the vineyards, fireflies flickering below us.
We kissed lingeringly before he positioned me on my knees at the edge of the bed, my legs far apart, my pussy as wide open as possible, my face buried in the coverlet. He knelt behind me, licking my fica, driving his tongue into every fold of my cunt. As I began to come, he stood and drove his cock deep inside me again, pumping me for as long as my orgasm continued before letting go with a potent gush that filled my channel. He withdrew, basting my ass with thick strands of semen.
We threw ourselves across the bed and I fell asleep with his strong dark arm heavy across my chest. When we awoke he asked if I was warm enough. Teasingly, I tried my first bit of humor in Italian, saying that one can always be warmer and asking if he would like a breakfast of warm figs. He kissed me, his black stubble coarse against my face and breasts, his lips soft and gentle.
Carlo was a masterful lover, relentless but disarming in his gentle approach. He drew my thighs apart and slid them around his shoulders, delicately opening my nether lips with his callused thumbs. His tongue traced the map of my folds, my wetness springing up as he explored me. Equally slowly he teased at the head of my clit, coaxing it out of its folds just as I, sometime in that heated night, had coaxed his glans from the sheath of his foreskin, a small delight I had never had before.
Flames blazed up inside me again as his tongue touched my core and pursued that ravaged and tender pearl as it tried to shrink away from too much pleasure. I stood no chance; he had no mercy. Not merely warm but incandescent beneath his questing tongue, I lost all sense of anything except the glowing coal of my sex. Its red heat grew and spread through my belly, melting me until I turned to liquid fire and an orgasm rolled through me so forcefully that I was unaware that his face was now above me and his cock was searing a new pathway to my depths.
Each crest seemed the ultimate; each peak revealed another, higher one beyond. Consciousness fled, whether for a second or longer I never knew. Dimly I was aware of his body arching over mine and the torrent of his come washing through my cunt. Then his head nestled into my shoulder and his rough voice whispered, “Sì, signorina, e bella ti mangiare la fica.” Beautiful indeed, I thought, falling
asleep once more in the arms of my Italian lover.
—L.A., San Francisco, California
DIARY OF A MODERN-DAY “HAREM GIRL” IN ANCIENT CAIRO
We spent the first couple days in Cairo satisfying Oliver’s desires to see the sights, including the Great Pyramid, the Sphinx, and the Mosque of Ibn Tulun. Always on the go, we usually grabbed quick meals and fresh fruit juices at the city’s many sandwich bars, then headed to the next sight. We would arrive home exhausted late in the evening and fall into bed, shielded with netting from the ubiquitous mosquitoes that plague Cairo. Aroused by the sights and smells of that ancient city, we would make slow, passionate love until we climaxed and fell into a deep sleep, the sheets twisted under our sweaty bodies as the ceiling fan circled lazily above us.
On our third day in Cairo I finally convinced Oliver to skip the pyramids and accompany me to the Khan al-Khalili souk, a large bazaar built in the fourteenth century. Meandering through the narrow alleyways of the marketplace, we stopped at the tiny stalls to price carpets, leather work, and perfume. By the end of the day I was an expert, if exhausted, haggler, and was looking forward to sitting down to a meal at the famous El-Fishawi Café, which was once a meeting place for local artists.
There we enjoyed a meal of kufta, a meatball-like dish made of ground lamb, served with aysh, the Egyptian version of pita bread. We finished with a rice pudding called mahallabiyya and steaming mugs of ahwa, the thick, strong Turkish coffee that is served with every meal. Eating at an outdoor table, we watched the crowds of the market rush by, both of us caught up in the life of the Egyptian city streets.
Paying our bill, Oliver and I noticed that the market had begun to close, its merchants packing up their wares to head home after a long day. As we wound our way back through the alleyways, heady with heat, excitement, and the local Stella lager we had drunk with dinner, I grabbed Oliver’s hand and pulled him into one of the abandoned stalls. The heavy carpets falling shut behind us, I pulled him to me in a tight embrace and kissed him with a fervor that surprised us both. The flavor of the exotic Egyptian spices lingering on Oliver’s lips only served to excite me even further, and before I knew it I was groping for his belt buckle.
Deftly unfastening his pants, I let them drop to the ground as Oliver’s searching hands found the buttons of my blouse. Leaning forward to lap at the nape of my neck, he inhaled deeply, drawing in the spicy scent of the Egyptian perfume I had sampled at the bazaar that afternoon. “Your scent is intoxicating,” he whispered, nibbling on my earlobe. “Here in this dark stall, you could be a harem girl and I, your sultan.”
Kneeling before him, I kissed Oliver’s feet through the leather of his sandals and in a sultry whisper responded, “Your wish is my command, Master. How may I serve you?” Not waiting for an answer, I reached up and pulled down his boxers, then helped him as he stepped out of them. By then my eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the tent, and I could see Oliver’s cock standing beautifully erect in the dim light, a drop of pre-come glistening on the tip. Resting my knees on our discarded clothes, I grasped my husband’s hips and covered the head of his cock with my lips, running my tongue around its circumference. Almost imperceptibly Oliver began to thrust forward, his usual indication that he was ready for more.
Since he was my master, at least for that night, I fulfilled his wishes and quickly covered his entire cock with my mouth, swallowing him until I could feel the prodding at the back of my throat. As I sucked hungrily at his throbbing member, Oliver entwined his fingers in my hair, holding on to my head and guiding the pace of my actions. As he pumped his penis in and out of my busy mouth, I could feel the veins of his shaft running over my tongue.
A slight pulsing in his cock told me that Oliver was about to come. I tickled his balls with my fingernails, knowing that would definitely send him over the edge. In mere seconds he was grunting out my name, tightening his hands in my hair as he shot a stream of hot semen down my throat.
Pulling me back up, Oliver drew me to his chest, kissing me hard as his tongue searched for mine. He had always been ardent in his lovemaking, but the day’s activities and the strangeness of our surroundings had brought him to a whole new level of passion. He seemed to be swallowing me whole as his searching hands roamed over my body. It was as though he were discovering a new delight rather than the familiar figure of his wife of twelve years.
Oliver hiked my skirt up around my waist, then pulled down my panties. I kicked them off, adding them to our pile of clothes as he felt along the perimeter of the stall, stopping when he found a rolled-up carpet that had been left behind by the shop’s owner. Spreading it on the dusty floor, he pulled me down beside him, then created a pillow out of our clothing.
Soon we were kissing again, our hands exploring one another’s body. When Oliver’s fingers made their way between the lips of my pussy, I gasped, surprised because it usually takes much longer for me to get that turned on. His fingers ran lightly over my clit and I arched my hips, guiding him to my waiting cunt. He inserted first one, then two fingers, and began to thrust, fucking me slowly.
Keeping his fingers firmly inside me, Oliver scooted back on his knees as he kissed and licked his way down my belly. He tenderly pressed his lips to my quivering mound, sending shivers up and down my spine. As he sucked my tender flesh between his lips, he continued fucking me with his fingers, causing my moans to grow even louder. I was glad that there was enough bustle outside that no one would hear my utterances, because at that moment Oliver took my clit between his teeth and nibbled gently and teasingly. He then resumed his lapping, periodically flicking my hard nub with the tip of his tongue.
I grabbed his hair as my body began to quake uncontrollably, my climax almost at the breaking point. Then, with his free hand, Oliver reached up and began fondling one of my nipples, rolling it between his fingertips and pinching it lightly. The added attention to my breast sent my arousal into overdrive and I immediately exploded, my body bucking against Oliver’s face as I came.
As the spasms of my climax subsided, Oliver shimmied back up, covering my body with his weight. Cradling my face in his hands he kissed me deeply, and I could taste the tang of my honey on his lips and tongue. A slight pressure at my groin told me that he was hard again, so I opened my legs wide, wrapping them around my husband’s waist. Wet with my juices, Oliver positioned his cockhead at my opening and I tightened my legs around him and pulled him toward me. As he slid in slowly, we both savored the feeling of his cockhead skimming along my canal, a sensation that has always given us both great pleasure. When he was fully embedded in my pussy, Oliver pulled most of the way back out, then thrust back in, this time more quickly.
Oliver began to fuck me in earnest now, his thrusting cock filling me again and again. Repositioning my legs so that they rested on his shoulders, he drove into me with great force, his balls slapping against the backs of my thighs. Knowing from experience that this signaled his oncoming orgasm, I reached between my legs to finger my clit so that we could come at the same time.
Drops of sweat from his face spattered on my breasts as our temperatures rose even higher in the hot Egyptian night. Feeling my orgasm start to wash over my body, I moved my hand away from my clitoris and grasped Oliver’s balls. My husband’s body tensed. Drawing in a short breath, he muffled a cry as with a few more strokes he emptied his load into my pussy. I quivered below him, overcome by my own powerful orgasm.
Our energy returned a little while later and we quickly put our clothes back on and sneaked out of the stall, hoping no one would see us. We grabbed a taxi and returned to the hotel. When we got to our room, Oliver lay on the bed while I bathed him with a cool, wet washcloth, still in my harem girl mode. Sighing contentedly, Oliver murmured, “Mmm, I like this. You can be my slave all the time.” As I ran the washcloth over his flaccid member, watching it once again begin to rise, I laughed.
“I may be your slave this time,” I said, “but for our next vacation we’re going to the Amazon, and y
ou’re going to have to answer to me!”
—L.E., Portland, Maine
NAKED IN THE JUNGLE—BOLD TRAVELERS HEED CALL OF THE WILD
You might remember me from a letter my wife wrote a while back, about a vacation we took to Cairo. Well, we had so much fun on that trip, especially finding all sorts of exotic locations in which to fuck each other silly, that we were well and truly bitten by the traveling bug. Lucky for us, it wasn’t long before we embarked on another sexual adventure. As you may also recall, Lauren had threatened to release her wild Amazonian side on our next trip, payback for playing my subservient harem girl in Cairo. Well, that was fine by me, so I did some research and planned a week’s stay deep in the Brazilian rain forest.
After the long flight, we took a three-hour boat ride from Manaus, a small city on the Negro River, to our hotel. We stood on the top level of the double-decker boat, so we had a great view of the scenery along the Negro, which flows right into the mighty Amazon. The river was beautiful, but what really amazed me was our hotel. It was built on stilts high in the treetops, so it felt as though we were living right in the trees. Comprised of a number of buildings joined by long, meandering catwalks, it even has two swimming pools and a heliport up there! That first night we joined all the other guests of the hotel for a delicious buffet dinner in the dining room, then followed a catwalk to a ninety-foot-high observation tower to meet some of our jungle friends. The hotel provides local fruits to entice monkeys and parrots from the trees to come and eat out of your hand, which, as Lauren and I soon learned, is not at all difficult to do.
Afterward we retired to our room, which was built of native wood and was, in effect, our very own tree house. I was standing by the window, feeling the warm, damp air on my face, when Lauren came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist. “Hey, Tarzan,” she whispered, “wanna come swing on my vine?” Spinning around, I swept my five-foot-eight, 130-pound wife off her feet and threw her over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She giggled and squirmed as I brought her over to the bed and threw her down on the mattress, then proceeded to rip off my clothes.
Letters to Penthouse XXVI Page 8
