Sexy Just Walked Into Town

by Lucy Felthouse

  He slipped his arms around her, pulling her closer. She took the hint and went eagerly into his embrace, putting her own arms around his neck and leaning down just a little to kiss him. By the time their lips met, his were already parted, and, after a couple of seconds of relatively chaste kissing, they quickly moved into something altogether more needy, more passionate. They continued until they were breathless, pulling away to suck in some necessary air.

  “Fuck, Bonnie,” Owen said, “I want you. Bad.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she replied, pulling away and kicking off her own shoes, then bending to tug off her socks. Then she met Owen’s eyes. He was studying her carefully, his eyelids hooded, his gaze laden with intent.

  “Take off your clothes, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Oh, um... can we do it with the lights off?” She hated herself for saying it, but she was pretty sure that even if she was skinny, she’d find it difficult to strip off with confidence.

  Owen sighed. “Yes, if you want. But I’m only agreeing to make you happy. I think you’re beautiful and I want to see you naked. I’ll just have to use my hands to explore your body instead of my eyes, won’t I?”

  Bonnie gulped. She desperately wanted his hands on her—the growing warmth between her legs was a testament to that. Moving to flick off the light, she started tugging off her clothes as soon as the room was plunged into darkness. She could hear rustling from the direction of her bed, so she knew Owen was doing the same.

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she scurried over to the bed and slipped underneath the covers—then came to the unfortunate realisation that because she’d turned out the lights, she would have to try and find the condoms in the dark. Damn. She set about that particular task immediately, wanting to get the protection ready for when she and Owen were, rather than interrupting their foreplay and potentially ruining the moment.

  The mattress dipped as Owen clambered onto the bed beside her. Tentative hands reached out to find her in the darkness, then, realising she was under the covers, he joined her. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for the condoms. So we don’t have to... you know... stop.”

  “An ingenious idea. Do carry on.”

  It was difficult to search when Owen was pressing kisses to her naked back and shoulders, but she forced herself to carry on. Eventually, she had the box in her hand, had torn off the cellophane, retrieved a foil packet and placed it within easy reach on her bedside table.

  “Okay,” she said, turning to face him. “It’s ready when we need it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied, the heat of his breath on her face telling her just how close he was, “because I don’t think it’s going to be long before we do.” He took her hand and guided it down to his shaft.

  She gasped as she curled her fingers around his girth—and what a girth he had. Not so large as to be uncomfortable, but it would most definitely do the job. She stroked him gently, gratified when sounds of pleasure tumbled from his lips. They spurred her on to grip him a little tighter, tug him a little harder, and after a few seconds, he clasped his hand around hers.

  “As amazing as that feels, babe, if you carry on it’ll all be over.”

  She couldn’t help it—she giggled. It had been a while since a man had made her feel so desirable. She wanted him too, of course, but his need for her ramped her own arousal up several notches. She felt as though she would climax with just a fingertip pressed lightly to her clit.

  “Sorry,” she said, “but I’m glad I make you feel good.”

  “Oh yes, you do. Now pass me that condom. I’m going to fuck you now. I just have to get it out of my system. Then we’ll start all over again, and we’ll take our time.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. His response was a kiss so slow, so heated, that her toes curled and a fresh trickle of juice seeped from her pussy. She did as he asked, and she heard the telltale sounds as he made short work of the condom wrapper and sheathed himself.

  “Now, come here, gorgeous.” He clambered between her legs and knelt there for a second or two, exploring her curves with his hands. Her breasts, her tummy—it took all her willpower not to suck it in—as much of her bottom as he could grasp as she was on her back, and finally, her thighs. After what felt like an age—a supremely sensual age—he pushed her legs further apart, stroking his fingers between her swollen lips. “Good God, you’re wet. That is so fucking hot.”

  He teased her a little longer, drawing her to the very edge of orgasm, then removed his fingers. She barely had time to whimper when he was on top of her, sinking his thick, rubber-clad cock inside her.

  An animalistic sound left her lips and she wrapped her arms and legs around him, pulling him harder, deeper into her. She was so wet that he met no resistance as he penetrated her and before long, his balls were pressed against her body.

  They lay, gasping, for a second or two as they grew used to the sensation. “I can barely see you, sweetheart,” Owen said, pushing his weight back onto his arms, then leaning down to drop a kiss on her lips, “but what I can see, you have no reason to be paranoid about. Everyone has different tastes. And mine happen to run to women that have something to hold on to, curves I can explore, get lost in. You, specifically, are gorgeous both inside and out, and I know we’ve gone crazy fast with this thing, but I definitely don’t regret it.”

  He shunted his hips back, then sunk into her again in one long, slow stroke. Their groans mingled in the air, as did their pleas to gods and bouts of bad language. Repeating the process, he fucked Bonnie long and slow, seeming to deliberately ignore the way she thrust her hips up at him, or clutched his bum cheeks to pull him harder into her, faster.

  Soon, it seemed, he couldn’t hold back any more, and Bonnie got her silent wish. Owen’s movements grew faster, the friction of his cock in her cunt quickly growing her pleasure to delicious proportions and causing her labia and clit to swell further.

  “Unnh... gonna come!” It was all she could manage before she tumbled into blissful oblivion, vaguely aware of Owen’s increasingly short, jerky movements and then a growl as his own climax took over. Her walls clenched and released his shaft, milking him, their respective orgasms making them fill the room with blasphemy and carnal sounds.

  The last thing Bonnie heard as she slipped into a satiated doze was: “God, you’re perfect.”

  As much as she’d hated him staring at her to begin with, now she was really glad he had, and that she’d gotten the wrong end of the stick. Fat or not, Owen liked her, and she liked him right back.

  *****

  More about Lucy Felthouse

  Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over 100 publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include several editions of Best Bondage Erotica, Best Women's Erotica 2013 and Best Erotic Romance 2014. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies, and also edits for a small publishing house. She owns Erotica For All, and is book editor for Cliterati.

  Links

  Website: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk

  Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/cw1985

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/lucyfelthousewriter

  Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/cw1985

  Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/cw1985

  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9

  Praise for Lucy Felthouse

  “I know that I can’t go wrong with a book by Lucy Felthouse: trust me, if you want sexy, steamy shorts with a dash of humanity and humor this is an author to add to your list.”

  Gaele, The Jeep Diva

  “Ms Felthouse writes sex that makes your palms sweaty and heats you up...”

  Scorching Book Reviews

  “If you enjoy erotica that is well-written, steamy and satisfying you will adore Lucy Felthouse.”

  Ashley L
ister

  Stones

  By K D Grace

  Stones would play inside her head

  And where she slept, they made her bed.

  Neil Diamond

  “A 7 a.m. start will help you avoid the worst of the heat, Mr. Danson.”

  It was difficult to focus when Magda Gardener’s voice sounded like sex itself — low for a woman, slightly gravelly, like she’d not had enough sleep for reasons other than insomnia.

  “It’s badly overgrown, I’m ashamed to say, but I’ve been away a while attending to my affairs.”

  Thoughts of her affairs made my cock twitch. Stupid really. I’d seen the wreck of a house. She was more likely a Miss Havisham than a sex goddess. She needed the grounds cleared. She didn’t want a crew. She wanted one person only. Time didn’t matter. Cost was no object.

  “I’m a bit of a recluse,” she said, apologetically. “I value my privacy.”

  Until she called I thought the old Victorian heap was derelict. The grounds were a jungle, just the type of challenge I liked. It was high summer, so all of my crews were busy, but I was the boss, and I was due an intriguing side project.

  “I want someone experienced in gardening and landscape, not a lawn boy. Some of the statuary has sentimental value.”

  “I’m your man,” I said.

  “I thought you might be, Mr. Danson.” Her voice was barely more than a honeyed whisper.

  She wasn’t wrong about the grounds. Even I wondered if I’d bitten off more than I could chew when I saw the ocean of tangled bramble and ivy and the shaggy topiary run amuck. The reflecting pools were long since evaporated and filled with who knew how many years’ accumulation of leaf mould and detritus. They were lined with marble benches smothered in moss and mould.

  I’d worked half a day in heavy heat before I uncovered the first of Magda Gardener’s statues. My gloved hand, groping through nettle and vine, came to rest on an erect stone penis. Before my brain registered what I’d grabbed, the vine I was tugging gave way, revealing the statue attached to the formidable hard-on, and I tumbled back on my ass.

  It wasn’t the Greek motif I’d expected. The man’s cock was exposed above rumpled trousers gathered and bunched just below his ass. Next to him on the bench, stiff nippled, teacup breasts forced above the low cut front of her gown, sat a young woman. Her skirt was scrunched high, her legs akimbo. Her exposed pussy was splayed thick with arousal so real that the stone looked dewed with her juices. My heart battered inside my chest. My cock raged against my fly. It was so lifelike, so arousing, and yet so eerie, unlike any garden statuary I’d ever seen.

  The hard-on threatening to unload itself in my jeans was tempered by the expressions of the lovers. Their gaze wasn’t locked on each other, as the situation dictated, but instead on some invisible point over the man’s left shoulder, over my left shoulder. The look of heat that accompanies a good fuck was caught between ecstasy and something else, something that squirmed its way up from my unconscious to coil in my belly tight and low. And when it struck, I shuttered my load in my pants, gloved hand over my mouth to hold back a cry that was too oppressive to be simple release.

  Once I’d recovered from my unexpected jizzing, I noticed the sculptor had caught his subject at a similar vulnerable moment. Heavy droplets of semen glazed the length of his cock, dropping onto the bench only inches from the woman’s begging pussy.

  Horror and ecstasy blended together in whatever it was the couple saw over the man’s shoulder. Over my shoulder.

  A thick breath of air brushed my ear. The unkempt topiary behind me rustled. The sound I uttered was girlish, I suppose, but then I’d already shot my dignity thick and sticky into my boxers. The hair on my neck rose, and I was suddenly as unable to move as the statues sprawled across the bench. My breath abraded my throat, my pulse was a drum roll. Terror, the kind that only invades nightmares and makes no sense in the light of day, washed over me. I stood staring in wide-eyed horror at the couple on the bench, unable to turn and face my tormentor.

  Then into the cocktail of fear and heat, my cell phone rang and I practically pissed myself.

  “Mr. Danson… Goodness, you sound winded. Are you all right?” The sexy voice of Magda Gardener filtered into my ear.

  “I’m fine,” I gasped.

  “You seem to be making good progress. I’ve been watching from my study.”

  I could just make out a slender figure standing half-hidden by the drapery.

  “Mr. Danson, it’s starting to rain. I’m tired. I think we should call it a day don’t you?”

  I hadn’t noticed the beginning of the drizzle that was suddenly a downpour. Thunder clapped. Lightning flashed, spotlighting Magda Gardener just before temporarily blinding me. But during that split second, I could have sworn she stood at the window naked. And Miss Havisham, she most definitely was not.

  That night I dreamed of Magda Gardener’s statues, caught mid spurt just at the tipping point. But on their faces there was never ecstasy without terror. As I pulled away ivy and bramble, they grabbed at me with stony fingers, women begging with open legs, men shooting their wads like geysers, unable to run, unable to stop their rut, unable to escape the terror that was always right behind me.

  I clawed my way into the waking world drenched in cold sweat, gasping for breath. My cock was harder than the statues in Magda’s garden, and fear dissolved into urgency. I stumbled to the bathroom holding myself, desperate for relief, but equally desperate to be free of the bed and the fetid breath of nightmare that still lingered.

  I dry humped over the toilet, squirming and writhing in spastic grunts until I could feel the slap, slap of my balls, until I could no longer breathe for the heavy need rising between my legs, climbing up over my belly and chest. I clenched my buttocks, closed my eyes and jerked like my life depended on it. Then just before I shot the toilet full, the image of Magda Gardener flashed white hot behind my eyes, an image far more detailed than I recalled seeing. Now my view was close-up and personal, her breasts were full and high, nipples jutting like cherry gumdrops, her perfect pale skin glowing brighter than the lightning flash. In that split second my eyes followed the slope of her belly down to the dark golden curls nestled against her mons. Then, eyes lowered as though she were suddenly shy, she slid her hand between her open legs and with splayed fingers exposed the hard node of her clit and the moist gouge of the valley beneath. I came. I came until the very violence of it threatened to jerk me inside out, as though all my life I’d been holding myself for a tiny glimpse of Magda Gardener.

  Not wanting to risk another dream, I settled on the sofa with my laptop. I found myself looking at the works of great sculptors, Michelangelo, Bernini, Rodin, trying to think what made Magda Gardener’s sculptures different. There was sex, there was passion, there was violence, even rape. All were themes of the great sculptors. Bernini captured the very essence of Hades dragging Persephone off to hell — her terror, his lust — and no one could look at that sculpture and doubt what would happen next. Yet the horror was once removed, as though the stone itself has rendered safe and distant what was savage and terrifying, what was a breach of human decency.

  But Magda’s sculptures practically burst from the stone into life, into whatever mute terror secretly torments them, as though the sculptor fully understood that our most hideous nightmares are the ones born from the twisting and disfiguring of our most vulnerable passions. Could there be anything more horrendous than our deepest fear realised at the very point of ecstasy? Horror films capture it perfectly. The young couple, caught mid-fuck, always see it coming, and their last battle is the battle between ecstasy and horror.

  The next day I uncovered three more sculptures. There was another couple, also caught mid rut. The woman’s jeans were dropped to her knees, the detail of the riveting and the stitching around the back pockets clear, the texture of denim almost tactile. The man mounted her from behind, the droplet of pre-cum pearled for posterity on the head of his cock, just ready to
plunge into her plumped wet gash. They both looked over their shoulder, the expressions on their faces, arousal infused with horror. The other two sculptures were solitary males, stiff and ready to fuck, their hands groping for the invisible objects of their lust, their cocks clearly at the point of no return. The same mix of horror and lust sculpted each of their faces. I wondered if their female counterparts had been destroyed or perhaps were still to be uncovered. My phone rang.

  “It’s hot, Mr. Danson. You’ve not had a break. Come, let me fix you a cool drink.”

  Magda Gardener gave me no opportunity to turn her down, which I would have. I’d been working with my cock at half-mast since I’d uncovered the first statue of the day. And the last two, the two men, made me think of her, think of what it would feel like to reach for her, to do to her what the two stone men were so obviously planning to do the their missing women.

  I walked slowly up the length of the garden trying to rein in my cock by thinking about how I would clean the reflecting pools. At the back of the house, beyond a patio flanked with an overgrown stone menagerie of dogs, cats, birds, rabbits even a rodent or two, the door stood open and I heard her call from inside. “Mr. Danson. I’m in the kitchen.”

  I wasn’t prepared for the gloom and nearly tripped over a plant stand cradling what might have been a long dead dieffenbachia. Then suddenly, startlingly, she was at my side, brightness against the gloom, in a pale clingy dress that fell to her knees. “I’m sorry for the dark. I have a medical condition. My eyes can’t tolerate bright sunlight.” Even in the gloom, she wore mirrored sunglasses that sat close against her face.