Ultimate Sins

by Jean Roberta

  Suzanne groaned too. What she found there was far larger than she had expected.

  ‘My!’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight. ‘Now that is what I call a hard-on. I sure didn’t know I had that good an effect on you!’ At the same time as kissing his cheek, she tightened her grip.

  ‘An offering,’ Carew shouted. He escaped her grip and got out of the car. ‘Let us go forth and make an offering on the altar to the old gods!’

  He grabbed hold of Suzanne, then held the giggling girl at arm’s length, his fingers tight around her wrist. Not that she seemed to mind very much. She was laughing more loudly now, her eyes bright with expectation as they darted from him, to the ruins and to the rest of their crowd.

  ‘Look what I’ve got,’ cried one dizzy redhead whose lipstick colour differed little from her hair. ‘Fizzy,’ she shouted. ‘I’ve got fizzy.’ She held a bottle of champagne at arm’s length in each hand. A whoop of delight went up from the crowd. ‘I thought you would all approve, darlings. In fact I knew you would!’

  ‘She’s drunk. She’s bloody drunk,’ cried Carew, and wondered why he found it so funny.

  Laughing and giggling, the redhead led the merry throng among the fallen stones and through the Norman arch that had once had a door in it. Arched, glassless windows framed the dark sky outside.

  In total darkness if would have been frightening. As it was, the moon shone but did little to ease the overall eeriness of the place.

  Carew, dragging the giggling Suzanne, reached the jagged stone that had once been the altar. Once there, he grabbed a bottle of champagne from the redhead and took a mighty swig.

  ‘A libation,’ he shouted, champagne trickling down his chin.

  ‘What?’ cried Suzanne, still laughing, still dancing around as the music was still playing.

  ‘We’ll do a play,’ Carew shouted. ‘We’ll do something very old, very haunting, and we’ll start with a sacrifice!’

  Turning to Suzanne, he curled his fingers over the front of her very low-cut dress, pulling it down so that her nipples popped out in full view.

  Suzanne played her part, feigning fear. ‘Oh, sir. Take pity on a poor virgin, sir. Please!’ As she pleaded, she nimbly slipped out of her dress.

  ‘I will be a naked sacrifice,’ she cried, her hair flying and all the dizziness of drink in her eyes and her actions.

  Completely unabashed, she proceeded to take off her clothes until only her stockings and her garters remained.

  A sheen of sweat covered her body which, touched by the light of the moon, made it shine like silver. Her breasts were pretty and of average size. Her belly curved gently down to her posy of pubic curls.

  There was egging on from those gathered, saucy suggestions, and other comments that were downright lewd. Not that Suzanne seemed to mind. Exhibitionist to the end, she dropped naked to her knees before Carew. Clinging to his legs, she bent low, her bottom high. It shone before his eyes. Those who watched gasped with delight, and Suzanne giggled as couch grass and virulent weed tickled her breasts. Carew smiled disdainfully as she kissed his shoes, his knees and the hidden lump behind his flies.

  ‘Bitch!’

  One word brought the laughter to a mere trickle as the man who had accompanied Suzanne to the party lay the flat of his hand across her rump.

  Suzanne yelped.

  Silence descended on those watching. Anticipation replaced ribald laughter. Everyone was responding to the moment, holding their breath, waiting excitedly to see what would happen next.

  Her escort, a man named William, slapped her behind again. ‘Go on, you slut. Get on with it. There’s a queue forming to get into you and seeing as I lost the bet to be first here, I’m first to put my own engine into you.’

  William proceeded to undo his trouser buttons.

  Carew stepped back into the shadows, as fascinated as anyone to see what would happen next.

  For some reason, he no longer wished to be part of the crowd. He wanted to watch this as though he were alone, a voyeur paying for the privilege.

  No one noticed him drifting into the shadows. From there he watched unseen as the man lay Suzanne out on the stone altar.

  Chloe, Mary and another girl whose name Carew did not know, plus one of the men, were holding Suzanne’s hands and feet as William stabbed into his sacrifice with his very own weapon. Too much wine and too much excitement; he jolted his delivery and, when he had finished Suzanne’s body was white and exposed, her nipples staring at the stars, her crisp covering of pubic hair stirred by the breeze.

  She did not remain exposed for long. Another man took William’s place. With obvious appreciation, Suzanne arched her back as his penis thrust between her open thighs.

  The first man who had pushed himself into Suzanne was now recovered and ejaculating over her rather than in her. A third man was waiting to take his place.

  With a sense of having seen it all before, Carew retired completely from the throng, finding coolness and calm by melting further into the shadows.

  Eventually he was alone. Even the moon did not pick him out from the blackness. He liked this. It was spellbinding, almost magical.

  He felt his way along the stones, imagining other times, other people who had been here. He looked towards the moonlight, not noticing anything around him. The spell was suddenly broken. Fingers – cool, feminine fingers flat against the wall.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, sure it must be one of the others.

  He strained his ears and heard breathing.

  ‘I know someone’s there,’ he said, determined not to be panicked. ‘Stop playing around. I know it’s you.’

  The fingers touched his again. This time he grabbed them and pulled the other person towards him.

  ‘Tell me who you are,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  Her voice was soft. Her breath sweet.

  He held her waist tightly, unwilling to give her the chance to escape.

  ‘You’re not wearing any clothes,’ he said.

  She did not answer, not in words. Her hips pressed against his. She took hold of his hand and placed it upon her breast. Her flesh was cool, the nipple hard as a rock. His cock stiffened in response.

  Who was this?

  Clinging firmly to his shoulders, she rocked her body forward to meet his, inviting him to take her. He needed no other invitation. Fingers all thumbs, he tore at his flies and got out his cock.

  ‘For you,’ he said, raised her slightly from the ground and pushed it into her.

  The crispness of his pubes meshed and crackled with hers. Again and again his pelvis tapped and teased her hidden nub.

  She grabbed hold of his hair, and pushed his mouth to her breasts.

  A sudden thought occurred to him. ‘You’re not a ghost are you?’

  He did not want and did not get an answer. He wanted to hold onto this moment. Whoever this was he would aim to hold onto her for future reference. This one single night would not be enough. He would want her again.

  ‘You’re incredible,’ he breathed, his hand flat across her back, holding her close to him.

  The softness of her body and rapidity of her breathing told him she was there, that she was real.

  At least I have not pushed my penis into a dry joint in the abbey wall.

  He tried to hold himself in check, to prolong the moment, to wait, to let it droop and then harden all over again. He tried to draw back, but she held him close.

  ‘My lord,’ she whispered. ‘My lord. Spare me. No more. No more please.’

  Her words took him by surprise. Her hips were still thrusting. ‘You don’t mean that do you?’ He shook his head. Her body was still warm and inviting. Of course she didn’t mean it.

  ‘Have to say, the words work for me. Say them again. Go on. Plead with me to let you go free.’

  ‘Please, my lord!’ Her voice was a thin wail. My, but she really knew how to turn a guy on. What an actress. Far superior to Suzanne.

  The pulse of lif
e itself began rising up his stem, heating up, climbing like the liquid in a hot – a very hot – thermometer.

  ‘I’m coming,’ he shouted, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. ‘I’m coming.’

  He clung tightly to her, pressing his body against hers.

  At last it was over. He was drenched in sweat, but hell, who cared, it was worth it.

  Being a fairly considerate man, a sudden thought came to him. ‘What about you? Did you come?’

  She didn’t answer.

  He stepped back to pee and apologised for having to do so.

  ‘Look,’ he said, reaching out for her once he’d finished. ‘Do you think…’

  His fingers touched only crumbling stone. ‘Hey. Where are you?’

  He looked around him. There was no way she could have gone without him knowing.

  ‘Hey,’ he shouted again.

  The moon had shifted position. Its silvery light now fell on the wall where his phantom woman had been. In its light he saw a set of manacles hanging from the wall, the last vestige of hair clinging to a stone before the wind caught it and it blew away.

  Wreck-Her

  by Lynn Lake

  If you’ve ever driven through southwestern Manitoba in the middle of summer, you know how hot and dry it gets – a desert-like inferno that forces gophers to doff their fur coats and seek shelter in shaded burrows. And it was all that and ten degrees more one cloudless July afternoon, halfway between Minnedosa and Brandon, when the rear axle on my company-leased SUV decided to snap in half.

  I was on my way to wine and dine a client in Brandon, to try to convince him to carry some of our new lines, but when I stepped out of that broken-down vehicle, into that harsh, blazing cauldron of prairie heat, my thoughts shifted rapidly from schmoozing to survival. The temperature was a few degrees hotter than Hell, with nary a car on the shimmering horizons.

  My cellphone only works in major cities, under perfect atmospheric conditions, so it was totally useless, of course. I anxiously scanned all four points of the compass, finally spotted what appeared to be a farmhouse a long way off in the distance, in the middle of one of the endless fields of sun-bleached wheat that lined both sides of the sizzling roadway. I started walking.

  A hundred yards out, my business-casual blouse, skirt, and stockings were soaked with sweat and my high heels were off my feet and in my hands. Two hundred yards out, my butt was parked on the edge of the melting asphalt and I was rubbing my sore feet and thinking what a nicely-browned piece of roadkill I was going to make for some hungry coyote.

  But five minutes of basting later, I was overjoyed to see an actual vehicle coming towards me from the south. I ran out into the middle of the road and frantically waved my arms, like anyone would’ve had a tough time making out a big-breasted blonde wind-milling her limbs under that glaring sun. The vehicle stopped for me, and miracle of miracles, it turned out to be a tow truck.

  An oily-looking squirt with a sawed-off cigar stuck in a corner of his mouth climbed down out of the cab. “Somethin’ wrong, ma’am?” he asked, ambling up to me. The overalls he wore were only slightly less greasy than his hair, and they, or him, were named Stan, according to the stitched-on tag.

  “Yes! My SUV’s broken down!” I panted. “Can you give me a tow into Brandon?”

  Stan studied the grounded SUV through a pair of red-rimmed slits, then ogled my chassis up and down for awhile. Then he stared meaningfully into my green eyes, unplugged the midget cigar from his mouth, and stated, “Looks like a job I can handle, all right.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me off the pavement and into the neighbouring wheat field.

  It was obvious what the horny little grease monkey had in mind. And, to be frank, I was more than willing to accommodate him, if it meant a ride into a nice, cool beverage room in Brandon. So, when we’d tramped about thirty yards out into the waist-high waves of grain, and Stan had battened down a comfortable crop circle with his rather large feet, I slowly stripped off my blouse and bra, skirt, stockings, and panties. I stood before him proudly flaunting a body even riper than the surrounding wheat.

  He stared hard at my heavy breasts, my jutting, pink nipples, my downy, blonde pussy. “Cripes almighty! You’re built like a brick shithouse, lady!” he complimented, before unzipping his overalls and revealing his own wiry form.

  I cupped my low-slung tits and eyed the half-pint’s rapidly inflating cock, watching in awe as it grew and grew and grew. This roll in the wheat was going to be a lot more fun than I’d originally thought. “You’re a small man capable of big surprises, mister!” I enthused back at him. His erection topped out at the nine-inch mark, long and hard and pointing arrow-straight and accusing at my dampened slit.

  Stan stumbled over the stubble and grabbed me in his short arms, kissed me hungrily on the lips. I gripped his head and crushed my mouth against his, the hot sun beating down hard on our blistering southern exposure. And after kissing, entwining our tongues together for a good, long, heated while, Stan pushed me down onto the bed of grain and climbed aboard, his face barely coming up to my chest.

  “Mmmm!” I moaned, as he gripped my swollen breasts, tongued my engorged nipples.

  He groped my tits and licked and sucked on my nubs, biting into and pulling on them, his huge cock pressing insistently into my stomach. I ran my hands up and down his rugged body, clawing at his back as he fed on my breasts. I latched onto his rounded butt cheeks, kneaded them.

  “Fuck me,” I breathed. I was as lubricated now as the warm, rich earth after a summer rainstorm. We were both bathed in sweat, the scratchy grain stalks sticking to our heated bodies.

  Stan spat one of my ripened nipples out of his mouth and fumbled for his cock. I anxiously spread my legs in anticipation. He gripped his tremendous prick, jammed its mushroomed hood into my slit, shoving forward until he was entirely buried inside my pussy.

  “Fuckin’ A!” he growled, grabbing my saliva-slick boobs and churning his hips.

  “That’s the way!” I exclaimed, revelling in the wicked, over-full feel of his pistoning cock. I burned with a feverish, sensual heat more than sunshine-related.

  Stan vigorously pumped me, his dirty hands groping my shuddering tits, his thick tongue lashing my obscenely swollen nipples, sweat pouring off his brow and splashing down onto my heaving chest. And just when my head started swimming and my body shaking with impending orgasm, he suddenly halted his wonderful work and asked, “You ever take it up the ass before, ma’am?”

  It had actually been quite a long dry spell between anal sexings for me. So I pushed the little big guy off of me and scrambled up onto all fours. I reached back and clawed my big, plush bum cheeks apart, hissed, “Fuck me up the ass, Stan!”

  He nodded eagerly. Then he spat in his hand a couple of times and polished his already slick prick. He pointed his cock at my puckered bull’s-eye and steered it on target, pushing hard against my bumhole, until he had punched inside. I moaned, my legs trembling uncontrollably. I recklessly pushed back as he pushed forward, and his cock sank all the way into my tight chute.

  A shiver of joy arced through me, his huge cock filling my ass like nothing that had ever come before. I planted my face in the fertile ground and frantically rubbed my clit, well-knowing that the languid feeling that now consumed my ass-violated body would soon be burnt off by scorching orgasm.

  Stan moved his hips, sliding his monster cock back and forth in my anus, slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster. He held tight to my waist and pounded my bottom, the loud crack of his sweaty flesh against my rippling flesh sending crows wheeling and cawing into the blast-furnace air. He brutally plundered my ass, furiously sawing in and out of my chute. I desperately polished my tingling cum-button, a towering orgasm building within me.

  “Yes! Yes!” I screamed, jolted by orgasm.

  “I’m comin’, too!” Stan cried, digging his nails into my flesh.

  He fucked me in a frenzy, then exploded inside me, blasting white-hot cum deep
into my trembling derrière. He came hard and long, like I did, filling me with his spunk.

  When we eventually peeled ourselves apart again, brushed the seed and stalks and soil from our bodies and reclothed ourselves, Stan told me, “I’ll have to use the radio to call a garage in Brandon, get them to send out a wrecker. See, the tow assembly on my rig’s been busted for over a week now.”

  Mixed Blessings

  by Phoebe Grafton

  Horace always marked his calendar when we made love. This practice found its roots in his youth. Then, he was warned by his father, that too much sex could shorten his life span.

  I estimate that at his present rate of progress Horace should outlive three monarchs, eight prime ministers and two appearances of Haley’s Comet.

  Horace developed mastery in terms of self control. He took a great deal of pride in the only body he, or anybody else, wanted to possess.

  At such rare times when the calendar reminded and the moon was in the right quarter, Horace would prepare himself for the chosen day, normally a Saturday.

  It was always before the morning news at eight o’clock. The countdown began. Horace would leave the bedroom whistling tunelessly. This was my signal to smile becomingly, brace myself or whatever.

  Then he would return. He’d remove his bed socks, fold twice. Then arrange them neatly on the chair. This was followed by his pyjama trousers, folded along the crease, of course. Jacket next. Once he had established a neat pile, he would climb into bed – then on.

  He would offer a few grunts, which I was expected courteously to join in.

  1

  A short crescendo, then – heigh ho, it was all over.

  My reward – a quick hug followed by a peck on the cheek. I suspect he wanted to check that I was still breathing.

  Horace would climb out of bed, clear his throat and mutter, ‘That was splendid, my dear.’ Then off to the bathroom he would march, all limp and tissued.

  For my spouse then it was another milestone, another red biro mark on his calendar of life. It was all right for him. While the waves were crashing on his shore, my tide was still out.