She put the toy down against him then positioned herself so it buzzed right against her clit. Then Tara resumed her massage, this time focusing on Ian’s lower back, pressing her thumbs upward as she rocked forward and back. She soon reached his ass, as glorious in its own way as his back. She took each cheek in one hand and massaged, then held them apart. His grunts were quieter, but still audible. Tara edged her thumbs closer to the center, her pussy tingling from the toy and the rush of exposing him like this.
Soon Ian was rocking back against her, matching her motions, their bodies a circuit board of excitement. She lifted her left hand, swept her tongue up her index finger and pressed it lightly against his hole. He shuddered again, so she pressed harder, her right hand holding the vibrator hard against her clit. “That’s it, that’s it,” she whispered, to him, and herself. She made her own unintelligible orgasmic noise before moving aside to turn him over and finally taste what she’d been craving. She held his cock tightly as she drank his come.
THE PARK
Elise Hepner
Favorite time. Closed for the night.”
Libby ambled down the gravel path, watching the lights of the amusement park flare out. Her nipples went hard against the lick of the harsh, cooling wind. End of summer. End of sticky fingers, muggy heat and shrill screams—not the lusty kind. But not quite empty—there were still bystanders winding somewhere throughout the park.
“Perfect.” She threw off her apron with GAMES emblazoned on it and tucked her strawberry-blonde hair in a tight, purple scrunchie.
The shiver took her breath. Not time yet. No palming her silky wetness through her panties until darkness.
One. Two. Three.
“Gotcha.”
Plunged into heady blackness.
Boss was here among the rides. Her step fumbled and righted toward the Tilt-A-Whirl. A jerk of the heavy lever. A hop over the fence. Silver wire pressed tight against her clit. Her stomach bottomed out racing up the steps into the violently spinning car.
Back against the squishy plastic. Square iron bar snug over her lap, wrapping her long legs along either side, until her thighs were spread wide to the world.
A hand down her pants. Fresh air kissing her cheek. Beneath her khakis, finger pulsing against her clit. A whip of pleasure with each thrust in the twirling car. Flying. Hips tilted, thrusting, a swirl of the car.
Her low moan calling him out.
A squeeze of her pebbled, pierced nipples. On display. Spine bowed with ecstasy.
“What the fu—” he cried out.
“Oh, Christ!”
Orgasm.
COMING TOGETHER: THE ELUSIVE SIMULTANEOUS ORGASM
Jade Melisande
As she usually did, Amy woke well before the others. She lay still for a moment in the gray morning light, letting the sense of their presences fill her, the sound of their rhythmic breathing soothe her. She wondered if, as women’s cycles often do when they live together, breathing patterns also synched up when one slept with others. Martin, lying farthest from her, snuffled a little in his sleep. Nora, to Amy’s immediate right but cuddled against Martin’s back, sighed and stretched one bare leg, lacing it between Amy’s. On Amy’s left, Roger breathed evenly and deeply, his arm slung loosely over Amy’s waist.
Amy marveled for a moment that they were all there, together, and all managed to sleep comfortably in one bed. A year ago she would not have thought such a thing was possible, even in a king-sized bed.
She chuckled inwardly at that thought. Ever the practical one of their little group, of course she would ponder such mundane details as the logistics of their sleeping arrangements rather than the logistics of their emotions. And yet, aside from a few bumps here and there, natural to any relationship, it really seemed that the logistics of their emotions were not something she needed to worry about.
Neither was their sex life.
Amy felt a familiar ache between her legs at the thought of the spectacular sex she shared with her partners, and she stirred restlessly. She considered waking her bedmates to assuage that ache, but took pity on them. Yes, they would certainly respond favorably, but it seemed a bit unfair to wake them at dawn to satisfy her lustful urges. Instead she carefully disentangled herself from their arms and legs, climbed out of bed and made her way downstairs to make a pot of coffee, pour herself a cup, and retrieve her book.
Having procured them, Amy returned upstairs, but not to the bedroom, instead heading into a small sitting room connected to it, and settled herself into the large papasan chair that resided in the corner of the room. She was soon engrossed in her book.
An hour later she was pulled from complete immersion in the novel by a sound—a sigh, a creak of the bedsprings, a low rumble of laughter. Her earlier lustful thoughts returned with a vengeance.
By leaning over the side of the chair and tipping her head back, Amy could peek around the doorframe and into the bedroom. What she saw there made her catch her breath. Nora lay stretched out languorously between Roger and Martin. Her naked body with its deep-bronzed tan was a striking contrast to their paler skin. Martin held both of her wrists above her head in one of his hands; the other cupped, kneaded and squeezed her breasts. Roger lay between Nora’s legs, his face nestled in the V between her thighs, his hands under her hips as though serving himself from a bowl. The bowl of her sex, from which he was eagerly feeding.
As Amy watched, Nora thrust her hips upward against Roger’s mouth. Nora’s eyes were closed and her mouth parted, the sounds of her panting filling the room.
All thoughts of reading fled, and Amy lay back and closed her eyes. She knew she could easily join them in bed, but she settled back into the chair instead. The sounds of her lovers making love aroused her almost as much as being part of it; they were not something she got to enjoy from a distance very often. She slid her hand down the length of her silky nightgown. In her mind’s eye she saw her lovers again, saw Nora’s head tipped back in pleasure and Martin’s hands on her full, round breasts. She could almost taste Nora’s musky morning flavor, could feel Nora’s legs around her head, squeezing as she always did when she got excited. As Amy’s fingers began to dance over her clit, she heard Nora moan again, and a moan of her own slipped from her.
She knew both of the men’s touches. She could feel Martin’s hands on her own, smaller breasts, could feel the way he always grabbed, pinched and pulled her nipples just the way she liked. She could feel Roger’s mouth between her legs, the way he sucked in her clit, extending it, pulling on it until the sensation was almost unbearable, before releasing her to lap at her cunt, filling his mouth and nose with the scent and taste of her arousal.
Amy brought her fingers to her lips and tasted herself. Dropping her hand down between her legs again, she began to stroke her clit harder, in circular motions, the way Roger’s tongue was surely circling Nora’s clit, because she knew that was the way Nora liked it. She heard Roger lapping at Nora’s juices, heard the suckling, slurping sound he made, heard Nora moan and then whimper, and knew that Martin had increased his pressure on her breasts just the right amount to put her over the edge.
They knew each other so well now.
She felt her own orgasm building as she heard the funny little whining pants that Nora always made as she approached orgasm. Her belly tightened and her breath matched Nora’s. She stroked her clit faster and felt the curious feeling of her hips widening and spreading, splaying herself open, and open, and open, her body’s private language communicating its need to be filled, to be fucked, and she was going to come, she was going to come…
In the other room Nora gave a high, keening cry. At the same moment Amy felt her climax explode inside her as well, and she too cried out, an inarticulate babble of nonsense words and sounds as the orgasm rolled over and over and over her.
When she came back to earth and opened her eyes, she realized she had turned herself completely around and lay with her head over the side of the chair, facing into the bedroom. Th
ree smiling faces stared at her from the bed.
“Good morning,” she said. “I think we just managed a simultaneous orgasm.”
MEETING MYSELF
Anya Levin
I place the mirror carefully, prop it on a pillow, adjust the angle, squint a little—old eyes—to make sure that I can see what I want to see.
I think I’ve got it.
Now to get to it.
My blood’s suddenly run cold, that burning curiosity that had propelled me this far having died an unnoticed death.
But I’m determined.
Taking a deep breath, I unbutton my pants, the pull and give of the motion taking forever, seemingly brand new and fully attention grabbing. I pull them down slowly, taking care not to catch my underwear. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that step yet.
“You’re beautiful,” he used to say. He’d stare at me down there, eyes locked on that secret part of me that I’d never seen.
Despite his assurances, I’d never considered that part of me particularly interesting, or impressive, let alone beautiful. We’d had an active sex life; it had been beaten and stretched more than it probably should have been—two children, and my younger son wasn’t a lightweight when he passed that way.
He’d loved to touch me, to caress me, to give me pleasure and watch how I moved as orgasm swept through me.
I’d loved him but life moved on, and now I was alone and I found myself curious…
I lifted my shirt, pulled it off. Reached around to detach my white cotton bra. The garment fell heavily in my hand, the underwire weighting it down. I let it tumble to the carpeting beside the rest of my discarded clothes. The big one, my underwear, was a little more of a hurdle to overcome.
It felt wrong, or at least very odd, to strip down to nothing for sex. By myself.
It felt like a betrayal, though it really wasn’t.
The air was cold, pulling goose bumps to the surface of my skin. I climbed into the bed, with a small grunt of effort as I slid across to where I’d left the mirror propped on its pillow. Of course, just getting on the bed had knocked it flat. I grabbed it and started to replace it, and was startled by the flashes of skin that I saw as it moved.
My skin.
It didn’t really look like my skin. It was pink and peach and freckled but the mirror blurred it, took out the blemishes that I was all too aware of when I looked at myself.
I could barely look at my skin in the mirror. Was it going to be impossible for me to look at those parts of myself?
Now it came down to how brave I was.
I found myself settling my hips into the bed, settling the mirror into place almost without realizing what I was doing.
I saw a flash of darkness—pubic hair. Through it peeked the rosy flush of flesh, mostly obscured. I reached a finger, stirred the hair aside to reveal the hidden inner planes, felt the dampness there.
Dampness.
When had I last been wet? Hot? When had I last come?
Before Andrew had passed, but even some time before that.
My fingers felt odd, foreign almost. I had to tilt my hand at an angle in order to see past them. I slid my fingertips deeper, felt heat, and parted my fingers in order to see more clearly.
The colors were odd, dark pinky-blue purple. And browns. I hadn’t expected browns.
My heart thudded in my chest. I felt like I was doing something dirty. Maybe I was.
I could just see glimpses of my clitoris. The skin was tight around it; my body had tucked it away and out of sight. Just brushing my finger over it made me jump.
My fingers weren’t like Andrew’s. I slid them over my flesh again, let them linger. Pleasure shivered through me.
The mirror showed the moisture inside me, when I angled it properly.
I wondered—did it look old, like my face? What had it looked like when I was younger? Did it have fewer wrinkles, all those years ago? Less folds, firmer lips? Was I looking at an old-age vagina?
I brushed my fingers against the hooded button of flesh and started. It still felt good; that was unexpected, and delightful.
I hadn’t expected to want.
I’d wanted my desire to die with Andrew, and I’d thought it had, but those words had haunted me. “I want you to see yourself…”
So I was, and I was finding more than just another way to see myself.
I slid a finger in, then pulled it out, and watched it all in the reflective surface I held so carefully. It still seemed foreign, like I was watching a movie. But I could smell sex in the air, feel the blood pulsing in my body. I knew it was myself I was watching.
My finger moved and was joined with another. When I pulled them out they were slick. Inside was hot, nearly burning. I shifted my attention, dropped the mirror showing the hills and valleys of my sensitive flesh, focused on the pleasure that one finger inside gave me. I thrust, closing my eyes and picturing Andrew in my mind. My thumb brushed my clitoris, settled on it, pressed like Andrew had occasionally.
I rocked into the motion. In my head, behind my closed eyelids, the world changed. I was younger, the air was younger, and beside me, inside me, was Andrew.
“Do you see yourself?” I heard him ask in that gravelly drawl. “Do you see yourself as I see you?”
I saw myself, hips rocking on the bed, head tossed back. My nipples were drawn into tight peaks.
The orgasm that moved through me wasn’t one of those that shot through you like a rocket, pulling your muscles tight across your entire skeleton, so tight that sometimes afterward you wondered if you’d pulled something.
No, it was a slow wave of sheer, unbridled pleasure. Starting at that heated place and moving out, from my hips to my feet and up my torso to my breasts and shoulders and then my face. I groaned, let the feeling move through me, let it shiver and shake me.
When it finally faded, my cheeks were wet with tears and my breath heaved in my chest. I sobbed, but the emotion that filled me was a good emotion. It lifted and supported me.
I curled on myself, let the feelings work their way through me, acknowledged that I missed what we had been and realized that I had become something— someone—new in the catalyst of my own pleasure.
The mirror’s edge pressed against my buttock, reminding me of the goal I’d had at first. In my mind I saw the colors and contours of my sex, for myself, through my own eyes. And for the first time, I wondered where I was going to go next…and knew there was going to be a next.
I AM NOT CRUEL
J. Sinclaire
I am not cruel.
No. My intention is not to cause discomfort, unease or torment.
Well…perhaps a bit of the latter but only the sweet torment of anticipation, of what is to come, of what has been and what has subsided for the time being. Only to be renewed, reawoken in a flurry of sensation that elicits gasps and shudders and moans of encouragement. The long pause between strokes, the lingering of my lips around your adamantine, silken cock.
Oh, your cock. It is a velvet-wrapped, turgid mast of arousal, a beacon for my hands and mouth, an incitement to action, to pleasure, to torment.
I am content to oblige but more so, I am content to fulfill and exceed these expectations.
I am the image of subservience, on my knees before you, at your beck and call. My mouth engulfing you, lips encircling your shaft, it seems you determine the next steps.
And yet, my movements still and you are the voice of frustration. My tongue traces the curve of your head at a snail’s pace, and your cock twitches inside me. Your hips arch, an attempt to restart the motion, but I do not comply. My hand rests against your abdomen, firm and resolute. Almost imperceptibly, I glide you farther inside me until you reach the back of my throat.
I take a moment to consider the possibilities.
Make broad, sweeping motions with my tongue across your head, swirling with constant pressure? Pepper your cock with kisses, lips pursing and butterfly soft against your rigidity? Trace the juncture of your
shaft and head with the tip of my tongue lightly, occasionally lifting upward to your slit, already dripping with precome? Keep you firmly pressed against the back of my throat, muscles clenching around you as I moan from the ministrations of my free hand on my clit? Grip you firmly, hand at the base of your shaft, sucking you between my lips and dragging my tongue past your head as you slip inside me? Dance my pussy-juice-soaked fingertips across your dick, palm curved around your head as you fuck my hands?
Oh, these are only a few of many options at my disposal. I decide to peruse the list at my leisure, adding in new sensations as I see fit. Building you up repeatedly to the edge, to where it seems the next step is inevitable, before coaxing you back down to a more muted level of pleasure.
Until.
Until I am sated. Until I have filled myself with your flesh and fluids and moans. Until I can bear no more without your hot release spilling into, onto or over me.
You see, I am not cruel.
Just thorough.
COOLING AGENTS
Marina Saint
I knew the moment I said the words, “I just can’t take this heat anymore,” that my husband, Clyde, was going to be pissed. We were in the middle of a heat wave, stuck without air-conditioning until we could afford to get ours fixed. Money was tight, and it was nobody’s fault. I wasn’t mad at him about that—I’ve never been the type of woman who expects to be supported—I was just hot and sticky, wanting some relief. Well, be careful what you wish for!
“Oh, really, Lara? You think I’m handling it well? It’s summer, it’s a heat wave. Complaining isn’t going to make it any better. But I know what will. Go upstairs and get out the cuffs,” he said in a huff. “Now.” The last word let me know he was dead serious. In the bedroom, he likes to tell me what to do—and, lucky for me, the act of being ordered around sets me off like nothing else.
The Big Book of Orgasms Page 18
