by Violet Blue
“You think the most dee-light-ful things.” She jiggled and her breasts brushed against my back. “Tell me what you’re thinkin’.”
I smiled. This could be interesting.
“I’m thinkin’ that after a while you and Greg are going to go back to my place and have a little party in the bedroom. I got a new camera set up in there. I’ll join you later.”
Camille could see Greg over my shoulder across the room. He sold T-1 phone lines and they’d had more than referrals between them since I’d introduced them. She smiled and tilted her head at me. “Okay. It’s been awhile and his new goatee looks so wicked.”
I gave her a key card with a code on it. She kissed me on the cheek. “See you.”
I made the rounds after that, keeping an eye on Frances. She met mine across the room and for a moment I could see the hunger, the yearning there. I wanted to read it, gather every bit of meaning I could, and lay it over my curiosity about Jean like a blanket so I would see her true shape. I nodded to Frances. Sometime later, she tapped me on the shoulder.
“Good evening, Frances,” I said as I shook her hand. The light-green silk was attractive on her tan and contrasted nicely with her silver hair. It wasn’t just the candlelight. She had a high color and was more animated—coming less from afar like my stepmom, Jean, and more warmly immediate now. Maybe it was a couple of glasses of wine, maybe it was her awakening.
“I wanted to say thanks to you before I left,” she said. “The last two leads you gave me were very good.” She was standing close to me. I let her, turning slightly so that I was more in her space. Then I said, “You’re leaving?”
I caught Camille’s eye and nodded to her. Camille smiled and waved bye-bye.
I turned back to Frances. “Damn, I’ve been meaning to catch you, Frances,” I said, smiling at her. “My aunt died and she left me a piece of art that’s supposed to be Beatrice Wood’s work. A bowl. I’d like to see what you think of it.”
“Wonderful. I’d be delighted. Give me a call this week.”
“Well, I only live down the street a block or so. I thought maybe that you’d come up tonight and see it.”
From the way she paused I could tell that she wondered if I was beginning a seduction. Funny, she’d always acted like she disapproved of my wild bachelor ways before.
She kept it safe, ladylike, from habit and inexperience. “You live in this part of town?”
“Yeah, it’s handy and good advertising to live in your own developments.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“Give me a minute to say goodbye to a couple of people.”
Ten or so minutes later, Frances and I walked out the door together. The moon was nearly full, and its light made her hair shine argent and turned her tan the gleaming buttery color of electrum. The air was still warm, and a light breeze made her nipples rise up under the now silver-frosted silk.
All the walk home to my loft, I could tell she could feel my presence, was tasting it as she wondered what would happen when I got her there. I let it build, sliding into her space, brushing her arm occasionally as we walked.
I opened the door for her, and she was watching me when I turned around from closing it. Her eyes shone in moonlight, filled with a need she couldn’t name but she thought I was going to tear out of her soul. I was, but not the way she thought.
The bowl was in the study. I motioned for her to follow. The TV’s writhing colors lit the room. Frances turned to the source of the light. Camille was sucking Greg’s dick dead center on the big plasma screen. It wasn’t deep throat, but he was sure diggin’ it. Frances sucked in her breath and I shrugged my shoulders.
“What can I say? She likes to be watched. She says there’s something sexy about it, but I know she likes the camera more. It’s always watching, but is someone watching it? She can only wonder…”
Frances dragged her eyes away from the screen and tried to look at me. Her hand caught halfway to her breasts again, the dove caught at the door. What had he given her there? Her eyes crept back to watch as Greg moved behind Camille to put his finger between those tender, swollen lips.
Her back dipped, that creamy ass went up in the air, and I swear Camille’s hips spread so wide I could see up her swollen cunt. I have never seen any woman so eager for whatever a man wanted to do. He gave her two fingers and played her clit with his thumb. The squishy noises set a brisk rhythm.
Frances said, “I think I should go.”
This was not what she expected, and she really wanted me to make her stay but was too much the lady to say it. Well, this once, I would make it easy. I picked up the remote and zoomed in. Greg slapped Camille’s ass lightly and she moaned. She settled lower as she offered herself up to him.
“No,” I said, pinning Frances with a stern gaze. “She wants us to watch. It’s her gift and her deepest desire. You see, Frances, how he touches her in the most intimate ways, taking the gifts of her flesh, her pleasure?”
Greg continued to spank Camille, and Camille began to make noises deep in her throat after each smack.
“He’ll spank her until her flesh is hot and then he’ll fuck her, pressing up against that smarting ass. Every time he touches her will be a shock, a little zap straight to her clit.”
“He’ll come inside her, or maybe he’ll pull out and come on her breasts. And she’ll do all this on the off chance somebody might wanna watch.”
I waited, as each of Greg’s perfectly placed strokes heated Camille’s bottom. He swore there was no one more fun to spank. Frances was transfixed, so I zoomed in on Camille’s ass.
“See how artfully he works her? He knows what he’s doing. Each stroke is a judicious application of pain with exactly the right amount of sexual stimulation to push her pleasure where he wants it.”
“You’re the audience she craves, Frances. She doesn’t know it’s you. It could be anyone, but it’s you. He creates the art, you fulfill her fantasy.”
Frances never looked at me. She stared, mouth slack, while Greg made Camille ready. Did she see herself writhing under the ministrations of her artist lover? Her hand hovered, just out from her breasts, and I wondered again what the dove had found there.
I could imagine that district attorney husband of hers fucking her coldly, frozen in moonlight. Her lover had been the sun, glowing hot after a few glasses of wine, a heady French kiss.
“He’ll make her come now and you’ll witness it.” I accepted her paralysis as complicity and zoomed out as Greg mounted Camille.
He slid in slowly, pulling on her hips at the top of the stroke to seat himself. She flattened her chest on the bed, offering everything to his long, thick dick.
The camera allows me to watch from any angle, any position in the room, and I watched Frances as I panned the camera around so that we had a side view of Greg fucking Camille. She cried out every time he stroked. Camille likes to make a lot of noise.
Frances’s face was shiny with sweat. Her eyes were big and her pupils were dilated. She was breathing shallowly. Galatea pressing against the ragged edges of her shell. Every time Greg slid in I imagined all that desire straining to get out of Frances.
“Please, Greg, get it. Get it. What can I do so that you can get it better?” Camille’s face was flushed, her mouth red and swollen.
“Lift, baby, lift, I’m almost there,” Greg moaned. “Can you feel me knocking at that door? You’re so wet. Yeah, that’s it, here I go. Oh, Camille, baby, I’m fucking you good.”
Frances was swaying a little on those high heels. I stepped in behind her. “Do you see how she likes it? She can hear the camera pan. It’s not just that Greg is pleasuring her, it’s that she knows we are watching her in her extremity.”
Camille was weeping. “Yes, you’re in all the way, you’re getting it all. Fuck it, fuck it.”
Greg reached around her hip and I knew he was playing her clit. “I’m coming,” she moaned, and Greg began to fuck her hard, grunting with each stroke. “Ah, take it, babe, take it, here it c
omes.” The final throes of his orgasm drove him into her and he stayed in freeze-frame for a long moment.
He finally patted her on the ass and she sank down with him on top. When he rolled off, she turned over. Her blonde hair was in disarray; her breasts scratched and chewed, her snatch moist and shiny. She laid a finger across it idly and dipped between her lips to come up with a glistening finger. She brought it to her lips and sniffed delicately before licking it.
Frances sighed and turned. “I really need to go.” Galatea breached, confused, yearning for complete release.
“Well, thanks for coming over,” I said. “I know Camille appreciated it. I hope you enjoyed it.”
Frances practically ran toward the door in her haste to get out. I closed it. I realized that she never saw the bowl. That’s okay. I’ll ask her back.
I know a Pygmalion, Pygmalion Jones. He’s an artist who’s been after me to find someone to look at his etchings; real business coupled with a real come on. I’ll give him the referral to Frances in a few days, after she’s had time to think. Back when Frances was new to the club, Jones and I had a drunken discussion about her, about my stepmother, Jean, and the possibilities for more earthy behaviors from their hard-shelled ilk.
When he sees Frances’s name, he’ll remember more than the mammoth hangover the next day. When he meets her, he’ll recognize Galatea and he’ll take her into the hot light of his sun. And I’ll be watching from the loft above his studio to see why the dove does not nest, Galatea extricated completely from her shell, and Jean’s earthier womanly aspects revealed for the benefit of my teenaged curiosity—vicariously after all these years—a fair deal all around, I’d say.
In the meantime, there was Camille, just now warmed up. I picked up the remote and panned to the table next to the bed. Yes, the bag of tiny clothespins was still there. I put several CDs in the player and went to join them.
Because, you know what I love about networking? Givers gain.
CALL ME
Kristina Wright
Claire dialed the number before she lost her nerve. The phone rang and she switched hands to wipe her damp palm across the sheet.
“Hello?” It sounded as it he’d just woken up.
“Hi,” she said, trying for a sultry voice. “It’s me.”
“Bad connection,” he mumbled. Static crackled across the line.
She frowned. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. She tried again. “I’ve missed you.”
“You have?”
“Yes. And this is an obscene phone call.”
“Really?” he sounded more awake now, but not quite himself. “Sounds intriguing.”
“Mmm…I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“Well, sweetheart, where do we start?”
Something wasn’t right. The static on the line made it impossible to hear him clearly. “Sam, let me call you back. This is a lousy connection.”
“Who’s Sam?”
“Oh my God—” It wasn’t Sam. She had just propositioned a stranger.
“Hey, no, it’s okay,” he said quickly. “Don’t hang up.”
She hung up.
Claire stared at the phone, waiting for it to ring. She shook her head and picked up the receiver, carefully dialing the number Sam had given her. The phone rang twice.
“Change your mind?” There was humor in his voice. Humor and a warm familiarity that reminded her of late-night radio deejays.
“I’m sorry,” she managed to say. “I’m trying to call someone else.”
“So I gathered.”
“My boyfriend, actually.”
“Lucky guy.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, feeling like an idiot. A horny idiot.
“I’m not.” He chuckled. “So tell me, do you make a lot of obscene phone calls?”
She laughed. “Hardly. This is my first.”
“You mean we’re still on?”
“What? Oh, no, I meant I was trying to make my first one. I botched it, huh?” She absently rubbed her fingertip across her nipple. It was puckered, rising up from her breast. She stroked the opposite nipple until she had a matching set.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m willing to give it a go.”
“Really? Do you get many obscene phone calls?” She smiled, wondering what he looked like. She decided it didn’t matter. She liked his voice.
“Actually, I’m hoping this will be my first one.”
“Please tell me you don’t have a sleeping wife or girlfriend lying next to you.”
“Well, I do have a girl next to me, but she’s a ten-pound ball of fur.”
“Cat or dog?”
“Cat. Please, no jokes about men with cats.”
“No, no,” she said quickly. “I think it’s sweet.”
“What can I say? I like a little pussy.”
She laughed at his lame joke. “You’re cute.”
“You don’t know that. You haven’t even seen me.”
“True,” she agreed. “But you sound cute. You sound…”
“Sexy?”
“Yeah, you do. Very sexy.”
“Mmm…you sound pretty sexy yourself,” he said. “What are you wearing?”
She laughed. “Is that a standard question with men? ‘What are you wearing?’ Why does it matter?”
“I don’t know. I want the visual, I guess.” She could almost see him shrug.
“Would you be shocked if I told you I’m naked?”
“I’d be aroused.”
She kicked her legs out from under the sheet. “Well, I’m naked.”
He groaned. “Well, I’m aroused.”
“But are you naked?”
There was some rustling and then finally, “I am now.”
“Are you touching yourself?” she asked, shocked at her own boldness.
“Oh hell. I wasn’t, but now I want to.”
She stretched out on the bed, phone cradled between the pillow and her head. She closed her eyes and imagined she could see this stranger with the sexy voice in front of her. He stroked himself up and down while he watched her. She slid her hands over her body, tugging gently at her nipples, caressing her breasts and stomach for him. She spread her legs a bit and felt the cool air glide over her fevered crotch. She gasped.
“What is it, hon?”
“I spread my legs. The air feels good.”
“Are you wet already?”
“I haven’t touched myself yet,” she confessed.
“Are you playing with your breasts?”
“Mmm, yeah.” She rubbed her fingertips lightly over her nipples again. “They’re so sensitive.”
“Pinch your nipples for me,” he said. “Tell me how it feels.”
She grasped her nipples between her fingers, as he requested, and pulled on them. She felt a corresponding tingle in her clit. “Oh god, that felt nice. I could feel it right between my legs.”
“I bet you’re soaked. I wish I could see you.”
“Tell me what you’re doing.”
He laughed, a breathy sort of laugh that let her know he was aroused. “I’m running my hand up and down the shaft, slowly. Up over the head, then back down. Real slow.”
“You like it slow,” Claire said. “I like that.”
“Yeah? I’d love to touch you like this, this slow. Run my hands over your body, so slowly until you begged me to be inside you.”
“Mmm…” she breathed into the phone, hearing an echo of herself. Instead of being embarrassed, she was decidedly more aroused. “I’d like that.”
“Touch yourself for me,” he murmured.
She slid a fingertip over her engorged clit and gasped. “Oh, I’m so wet.”
“Beautiful. Show me how you get yourself off.”
Claire slid two fingers inside herself. She was so wet she was sure he could hear her. “Oh,” she whimpered, using her thumb to rub her clit.
“That’s it, hon.” His husky voice urged her on. “Fuck yourself.”
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She could see him, see his cock. She whimpered. “I wish you were here. I wish you were inside me.”
“Me, too. I’d slide into you slowly so you could feel every inch of me.” His words teased her, driving her higher. “I want to feel your wetness around me. So tight and warm.”
“Oh god. I want you to fuck me hard.” She arched her back off the bed and raised her hips as if to meet his thrusts.
He groaned. “I’d fuck you hard. I’d bury myself so deep inside you.”
She slid a third finger inside herself, wanting to feel it just as he described it. She moaned, pumping her fingers into slick wetness while she rubbed her clit faster. It wasn’t her fingers she felt as the pressure built, it was him.
His breath quickened and she knew he was close. Her cunt clenched her fingers. She wanted to come with him.
“Oh! Yes, now, please! Come inside me,” she moaned, thrashing around on the bed, fucking herself the way she wanted him to fuck her.
“Oh god,” he gasped. “That’s it, yes.”
She could almost feel him throbbing inside her. She bucked against her palm, coming hard, riding the wave of her orgasm while his deep moans filled her head.
Her fingers slowed as her orgasm faded. Her cries became soft coos of pleasure as she teased her sensitive clit.
“That was nice,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
His quiet chuckle tickled her ear. “I should thank you. What a great way to be woken up.”
She felt the postcoital pull of sleep and yawned.
“Tired?”
“Mm-hmm.” She yawned again. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll take it as a compliment.”
She smiled in the quiet darkness of her room. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I can tell you that. It seems so…personal.” They laughed together, then he said, “Michael Rossetti.”
“Hello, Michael.” She hesitated. Did she dare give him her real name? It hardly seemed to matter. “I’m Claire.”
“Sweet dreams, Claire.”
“You, too. Good night.” She hung up and untangled herself from the sheets and hung up the phone. As tired as she was, sleep was a long time coming.
