Risqué Abstracts #40

You made me laugh. A long, drawn-out evil cackle.

~Ah, yes. The one that goes with your cloak and pointy hat.

Exactly, my pretty.

~I must confess, I rather like the image of you naked except for said hat and robe. And knee-high boots, of course. I think I’d be easily bewitched by you in such an outfit. You wouldn’t have to exert yourself, magic-wise, to have me as your willing slave, that’s for certain. Would you like to be dressed in such garb, and to have me on my knees in front of you, waiting for your next command?

Oh my. I wasn’t expecting that.

~Isn’t that one of the reasons I still have appeal for you? Because I can still catch you off guard once in a while?

There are quite a few reasons you still have appeal. Your ability to make me purr, as you did just now, would be one of them.

~You know that I prefer to make you purr in the flesh.

I know. And I have a confession of my own. Sometimes, I think about you fucking your wife when I masturbate. Either that or a multitude of women pleasuring you at once, while I get to sit back and watch.

~It’s exciting to know that you’ve been thinking of me when you pleasure yourself. A multitude of women pleasuring me? How interesting. Am I bound and at their tender (or not so tender) mercies, or am I pleasuring them by return?

When I think about it, it’s all about your pleasure. But yes, you pleasure them back. It’s just one huge fucking orgy, really.

~You spoil me.

I’d like to spoil myself, right now. I’d love to be sliding myself down your shaft ever so slowly, until I’m wriggling and writhing in your lap with you embedded within me.

~And I’d love to offer myself up to your sweet, wet, succulent cunt, so that you could pleasure yourself on my hard flesh.

I can imagine fucking like that for hours, actually.

~Only hours?


~Days would be a good place to start. We wouldn’t want to push ourselves too hard, or be too greedy.

Is your cock hard now?

~It might be.

God, thinking about you with your cock out touching yourself is making me want to touch myself.

~Indulge yourself, then.

What are you thinking about?

~About how wonderful it would be to lick tiny beads of perspiration from your breasts as you slowly rose and fell over my cock.

That sounds delicious. Having my nipples licked sometimes pushes me over the edge.

~You know that I adore your nipples. I want to kiss them chastely, and run the tip of my tongue around them until your areolae glisten, and then draw them into my mouth, suckling on them greedily and insistently.

You’re being wicked, now.

~You think? I didn’t think I was being that bad. I was planning to tell you how I’d shaved myself the other day, and then liberally coated my flesh with Boss body lotion, leaving my balls and my cock soft and smooth. I was going to ask if you would like to smell its scent on my flesh. I thought that might be being wicked. Perhaps I was wrong.

What I would give to be close enough to inhale your scent. The thought is electrifying. To be on my knees in front of you, inhaling you, paying homage to that beautiful cock … that imagery is very much alive in my head right now.

~I want to make long, exquisitely slow love to you.

I think about you doing that more times than I should admit. That’s when I become greedy. I think about you coming … and I want your come everywhere.


On my face, on my back, in my cunt, on my thighs, on my arse, in my arse, in my mouth… Everywhere.

~You always know just what to say to make me burn…



dressNot for the first time that evening, he opens the brown envelope and draws out the photograph that she’s mailed to him. He lets his eyes flow across the curves of her body, sheathed in clinging scarlet silk.

The accompanying note tells him that the gown was purchased for a ball she’s due to attend the following weekend. She’ll be on her husband’s arm, at least as far as the end of the reception line. He strokes a fingertip across the glossy surface, wondering if her husband will truly see the woman beside him, even when she’s dressed to devastate.

He studies her, and as he does so, he imagines himself amongst the party-goers, anonymous in black tuxedo and bow tie. He imagines the other men watching her, unable to drag their gazes away from her. He knows what they’ll be thinking. They’ll be wondering what it would be like to slip their hand inside the long slit on her dress and onto the warmth of her thigh. They’ll be wondering what it would be like to be alone with her, to take hold of the gown’s zip and draw it slowly downwards until the dress slides down her body and pools at her feet.

He holds the photograph at arm’s length. She’s naked under the silk, and he’s certain she’ll be dressed the same come the night of the ball. She’ll want to achieve that same seamless blending of silk and skin. He can picture the men watching her rear whenever she glides by, trying to discern whether – if they were fortunate enough to be allowed to undress her – they would see her utterly naked except for her stockings when her gown reached the floor.

And what would he be thinking if he were there? He’d be wondering what she was thinking when their eyes locked across the room, whether she was impatiently waiting for the opportunity to slip away somewhere private, so that he could undress her, so that she could release his hard cock from his trousers and guide it inside the soft, wet folds of her greedy-to-be-pleasured cunt.

He pictures himself escorting her to the hotel lift, knowing with absolute certainty that before the doors slide open on her floor, he will have kissed her and slipped his hand through that alluring slit to stroke her thigh – and maybe higher. He also knows that he will have guided her hand to his loins, so that she can experience how hard she’s made him.

He closes his eyes, experiencing the thrill of locking the door to her suite, knowing that a few floors below them, her husband and the rest of the partygoers were still drinking and carousing, completely unaware that he was undressing her, making her naked, making her wet, making her come with his lips and his tongue and his fingers, and then sliding his thick cock inside her.

He draws a sheet of rich cream paper towards him, undoes the cap of his Mont Blanc Starwalker fountain pen, thinks for a few seconds with the rhodium-plated nib paused above the paper, and then he begins to write.

Will the thought of making me hard bring a smile to your lips? Smile then, because I’m as hard as steel right now, thinking of you at your ball, striding past all those hungry eyes. You’re too astute not to see them. Will their hunger make you moist, or will they merely make you conceited?

How’s that smile of yours? Wanton? Desirous? Lustful? Carnal? I find myself hoping that it is all of those things, and more.

What if I were to come to your precious ball? How would you feel if you saw me across the room, talking to another woman, perhaps to one of your friends? Would you feel a ripple of jealousy? Would you quickly find an excuse to interrupt, to somehow lead me away from the throng towards the lift upstairs?

What if we were inside the lift, the vibration of distant machinery raising us towards the stars? Would you be content to see my erection pressing against the front of my trousers, or would you be too eager to feel it in your hand? Would you grasp me through the material, measure my thickness, my firmness? How long would you be able to resist unzipping me? And then what would you do? Simply slip your hand inside my trousers and grip me through my shorts? Or would you be too greedy, too frantic to settle for that? Would you want to feel my naked cock against your palm, to wrap your fingers around my bare, aroused flesh?

And once you’d led me to your room and locked the door … what then? You told me once that you wanted me to take you firmly over a bed or a chair … to thrust into you while I held you about your waist, holding you where I wanted you, fucking you hard. Would you want that? To slowly undress yourself while I watched, and then lean over the end of the bed, your palms against the counterpane and your buttocks offered towards me? Would you cup and caress your own breasts while you waited for me to enter you, while you waited to feel my cock pressing against the cheeks of your arse, thrusting slowly against your taut skin? Would you reach down between your parted thighs and finger yourself slowly, strumming your clitoris as your teeth bit down into your lip? Would you hold the lips of your sex open for me as you looked back over your shoulders into my eyes, as you quietly asked me to fuck you long and hard? Would you tell me what you were feeling, what you wanted to feel? Would you guide my hands onto your breasts so that I could hold you, cup you, squeeze you, pinching your hard nipples between my fingers and thumbs? Would you press my hand against your mound, show my fingers the way to your clitoris so that I could pleasure you as I fucked you? Would you show me how you like to be stroked and caressed, how to make you come so that your body trembles uncontrollably, so that you can’t contain your cries of pleasure? Would you press your own fingers against the underside of my shaft as I climaxed inside you, so that you could feel every pulse, every throb? And after I’d withdrawn … would you press your fingers inside yourself so that you could feel my warm seed, so that you could rub it over your clitoris and the lips of your sex, bringing yourself to another orgasm as I watched, panting?

He scans his words and, satisfied, signs his name. He addresses a matching envelope to her workplace and slips the folded letter inside. As he moistens the envelope’s seal with his tongue, his eyes settle upon the engraved ball ticket that sits upon his desk…


VistasHe holds the apartment door open for her, and she steps inside without a hint of hesitation. The floor-to-ceiling windows are always a drawer to visitors, and she is no exception. Her eyes are locked to the view of the city as she walks across the room. He pours two fingers of whisky into a pair of heavy crystal tumblers while she stands before the vista like a mesmerised child.

“It’s beautiful,” she half-whispers.

“I know.”

She turns and smiles at him. “You’re a confident bastard, aren’t you?”

“I can’t afford not to be.”

She sashays back towards him, slipping out of her long coat and draping it across the leather sofa with a casual grace. Her dark blue dress fastens along its front, and the first two buttons are already undone, inviting passing gazes towards her flawless cleavage. She sees that his attention is focused where she wants it, and she smiles. Her fingers toy with the next button.

“And what do you think of the view inside?”

“It’s getting better all the time.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls you pick up in expensive bars and bring back to your penthouse.”

“Only the really beautiful ones.”

Her smile deepens involuntarily. “How do you know that I’m really beautiful?”

He puts her drink down on the smoked glass coffee table and takes a sip of his own. “You’re going to show me.”

She slowly unbuttons her dress, her eyes never leaving his. The fact that the world could be watching as well doesn’t seem to trouble her. She opens the dress wide and lets it fall down her arms to the floor. The cups of her black brassiere are diaphanous lace, her rising nipples plainly visible through the material. The design matches her suspender belt, and the thin black lines descending her thighs whip at his senses. She wears no panties, and her freshly waxed pubis gleams in the half-light.

“How’s the view now?”


She laughs. “Are you ever lost for words?”

“Not yet.”

She steps closer, so that he can feel her heat, so that he can inhale her perfume again. The tips of his fingers tingle with his eagerness to stroke the subtle curves of her body.

Her lips are millimetres from his.

“I’d like to be there when it finally happens,” she breathes.

“I wouldn’t.”

Their first kiss is intense, searing. He cups one of her breasts with his free hand and forces the thickness of his erection against the nakedness of her mound. Her tongue surges over his and she gasps into his mouth. She reaches down to fumble with his zipper and one of her hands snakes inside his trousers, grasping him through his Equmen shorts.

“Fuck me,” she gasps. “Now.”

He grabs her hand, intending to lead her to the bedroom.

“No. Here.”

She turns away from him and lies face down on the deep pile carpet. Her thighs splay invitingly as she looks out across the world.

He doesn’t bother even trying to undress. There’ll be time for that later. Maybe. He undoes his belt and pushes his trousers and his shorts down to the middle of his thighs. He kneels between her open legs and then stretches himself over her, taking his weight on his hands and his knees. The head of his cock nestles into the heat of her sex and he presses forward without hesitation. He enters her like hot steel passing through soft butter.

“Oh fuck!” she gasps as she takes his full length.

He fucks her hard and fast from the very first stroke, knowing that it won’t last, can’t last, that it isn’t meant to. She doesn’t look back at him once. The whole time, her gaze is locked to the view across the city. He’s sure that she comes, and as she does so, she slaps her palm against the window closest to her face. The sound of flesh against glass reverberates briefly. Then he feels the sap rising through his own loins, and he grunts bestially as the tremors radiate through his belly and his viscous lust erupts deep inside her. She cries out as she feels him spurting against her velvet flesh, and her fingers convulse against the cool glass as she climaxes again.

They breathe heavily in unison for a few minutes, watching the world, not caring if the world watches them.

“My name’s Maria,” she says after a while.


“It’s quite a view you have, Nathan.”

He smiles wryly. “Maria, I was about to tell you the very same thing.”

Bonne Année

For those who think I’ve been rather inactive on the writing front for a while … you’re absolutely right. I’ve been sat on my duff, eating and drinking heartily, singling merrily, and dancing like a man with legs of uneven length and pants full of ants. Writing of any sort has been the last thing on my mind. In fact, I’ve gone out of my way not to be left alone with a keyboard. I even considered selling my house just so I wouldn’t have to go in my study this month.

Alas, my reticence where writing was concerned was bound to dry up eventually. A little while ago, a fellow blogger mentioned that she was about to celebrate her blogiversary, and she asked if I would consider writing something to mark the occasion. And being a man who doesn’t like disappointing women, I said I’d try and come up with a suitable piece.

So if you’d like to read it, you’ll need to take a little trip over to From There To Here, where you can read my new tale of Eros, The Falls.

In the meantime … a happy, successful and – most importantly of all – peaceful New Year to you all.



AvariceThe husband stares blankly at the open newspaper in his lap. He’s already tried reading the main article in front of him a dozen times, and each time he’s stuttered to a halt after little more than a couple of lines. The article may as well be written in Lithuanian.

He glances up at his wife. She’s sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, looking out at the snow-blanketed world through the window on her left. He regards her profile. She looks calm, almost serene. She is a vision of absolute composure.

Is that how she’s really feeling? he wonders. Composed? Serene?

The creatures deep inside the husband’s abdomen flutter and scurry, and he knows there’s no way that his nervousness isn’t being translated and transmitted by his face. Perhaps that’s why she hasn’t looked at him in so many minutes: she’s offended by his fear.

Of course, she has every reason to feel assured. She’s the one with prior knowledge, the one with experience. It gives her the power and leaves him feeling as if he’s only along for the ride, even though he fully endorsed this trip.

The husband checks his wristwatch.

“It’s three minutes later than the last time you checked,” his wife says in a voice half an octave above being utterly flat. He looks up guiltily, and sees that her attention is still fixed to the brilliantly white view through the window.

He can’t maintenance his silence. “Aren’t you nervous at all?” he asks.

“Of course I am.”

“You don’t seem it.”

“I’ve had more practice at masking my apprehension.”

Whether she intended it or not, it’s a reminder to him. Normally, he remains behind when she goes off in search of adventure. The thought sends twin ripples of conflicting emotion through him: arousal at having such an extremely sexual woman for his wife, and jealousy that her appetites often compel her to find satisfaction at the hands of others.

For once, though, the husband will be there to see her satisfaction for himself. It’s a prospect that both thickens his cock and leaves his armpits damp in spite of his antiperspirant.

There’s a solid knock at the door. His wife gets up and crosses the room swiftly. In her white blouse and her black pencil skirt, she might be dressed for a business conference, or a new exhibition at one of the local galleries. Her husband doubts that anyone one who saw her right now would imagine she is about to be sexually pleasured by two men.

The door swings inwards, and the man filling the doorway steps inside the room. She closes the door just as swiftly, locks it and then slips the security chain into place. The ‘do not disturb’ card is already hanging from the handle in the corridor. It should be enough to guarantee them the privacy they need.

The husband folds his newspaper and stands up to greet their guest. The visitor’s handshake is firm, and no more. There’s a light dusting of snow on the shoulders of his heavy coat. He takes it off and hangs it from the hook on the back of the door.

The two men appraise one another. They’ve met only once before, in altogether more platonic circumstances. Neither of them had the slightest idea of where that encounter was destined to lead them. Since then, though, the visitor has fucked the woman half a dozen times that her husband knows of, each of them with his acquiescence. He’s imagined their couplings more times than he can readily count; today, he won’t need to rely on his mind’s eye to see their flesh join.

He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets before their trembling can shame him.

Are we really going to do this?

Fortunately, there isn’t time to draw out the pleasantries. The husband is relieved: any delay might allow his doubts to ambush and overwhelm him. Instead, he sits back down as he wife steps up to their guest and kisses him full on the mouth. The sight of her passionately kissing this pseudo-stranger as she begins unbuttoning his shirt makes her husband’s senses lurch, as though he’s standing on the deck of a wildly pitching boat. Watching the visitor’s hands move familiarly to the buttons on his wife’s blouse only increases the strength of his bewilderment.

How is it possible to be aroused and dismayed all at once?

The husband watches as his wife finishes with the last of her lover’s shirt buttons and sets about unfastening his belt. Can she feel her husband’s eyes upon her, burning into her? What would she make of his expression if she could see it? What would he make of it himself? Which emotion would be sketched most obviously upon his visage? Lust or dismay?

As though she has plucked the thought from his mind, she turns to face him, her eyes half-closed with delight as the stranger kisses his way down the side of her slender neck. Her blouse is fully undone now, and the visitor pulls the two halves apart and then cradles her breasts through her black brassiere. With the practiced skill of the consummate philanderer, he eases the cups down until he’s exposed her hard, dark nipples. He plays with them adroitly, strumming them lightly with his thumbs, squeezing them until they stand even prouder. The woman gasps, and she grinds her arse back against the visitor’s loins; he responds by slipping his large hand over her mound.

The visitor looks up, straight into the husband’s eyes. “Your wife is a very sexy woman.”

The husband nods. A part of him wants to say Don’t you think I already know that, you fuck? But he doesn’t say that. What he says is, “Yes, she is.” He sounds almost out of breath. “Very.” He looks at his wife, and their eyes meet and lock. He can see the lust gleaming in her gaze. Can she see the same in his? She smiles wantonly, wickedly.

Perhaps she can.

The loins of his jeans feel uncomfortably full. He reaches down and unbuttons the waistband, and draws the zip part of the way down. The urge to touch himself is great, but he resists, uncertain of the etiquette, content to take his lead from the others.

There’s not even a hint of nervousness about their visitor. If the man feels any sort of apprehension, it’s buried beneath layers of assuredness and naked lust. His fingers peel the wife’s blouse from her shoulders and her arms, and then release the fastenings of her skirt and then her brassiere. She’s pantieless, and the visitor plunders her gleaming mound for a few seconds before he steps back from her. He swiftly strips off his shirt and then sets about removing his trousers.

The husband gets back to his feet, eager not to be left behind. He’s enjoying the voyeuristic aspects of the encounter, but the stranger has brought a scent of threat into the room with him, one that is rousing the husband’s competitiveness, his need to assert himself as this woman’s chosen mate. He quickly strips off his own clothes, not hesitating until he’s about to remove his shorts. The possibility that the visitor will be bigger than he is, that – no matter what his wife might say or do to convince him otherwise – her preference will be for her lover’s cock and not his, makes him want to call an end to proceedings right now.

He looks at his wife – on her knees, dressed in nothing but the black suspender belt, her stockings and her black patent stilettos – and sees the hunger, the naked desire as she looks back and forth between the two men, and he knows that he cannot possibly say stop now; he does not dare disappoint her.

He strips off his shorts and stands waiting.

His wife looks at both men, and beckons them towards her with a crook of an elegant finger.

Without looking at one another, the two men advance as one.

They stand a foot away from her, eagerly awaiting her inspection, their cocks jutting out proudly, arrogantly, from beneath their bellies. Both are desperate to be the first to garner her attention. The husband glances down and to his right, and he sees that the other man is no better or worse endowed than he is himself; if anything, the husband’s cock is a little straighter, his glans more swollen than his rival’s.

She’s going to feel you more, his mind whispers conspiratorially.

The wife licks her lips, and reaches out with both hands, grasping the men at the same time. Her fingers look tiny against the thickness of the shafts they encircle. The husband shudders when he realises that her wedding and engagement rings are pressed against the stranger’s cock.

She strokes them slowly, lasciviously, still licking her lips. Both men sigh with the pleasure of her touch.

“Do you like that, gentlemen?” she asks, the tenor of her voice dancing mischievously.

The visitor grunts his assent; the husband merely nods enthusiastically.

She smiles. “I guarantee that you’ll like this more.”

She leans forward from the waist, guiding her husband’s cock into her mouth. It’s so familiar a moment and sensation, and yet completely different to any other time she’s sucked him, given that there’s a spectator standing next to him, scrutinising everything, waiting for his turn, that soon the husband will watch his wife pleasuring the visitor’s cock in just the same way.

Slowly, her mouth withdraws from her husband’s hard flesh. He watches breathlessly as she guides the stranger’s cock between her glistening lips, as she takes the majority of his shaft into her mouth. Again, he feels the duality of conflicting emotions: bright red jealousy and jet black excitement. He shudders again, and his wife’s eyes look up and hold his once more as she moves her lips back and forth along the stranger’s prick.

Her husband quickly loses count of how many times she switches her mouth between them. As she sucks one, she strokes the other. Occasionally, she will lean back from both of them, a cock still in each hand, and she looks up at them lasciviously. The pauses never last for long. Her husband wonders if she wants to bring forth their come, to experience their thick semen spurting across her tongue in unison, running down her chin and spilling over her heaving breasts.

She stops again, but this time she gets to her feet.

“I think it’s time for me to have some cock,” she blithely announces.

She sits down on the edge of the bed. She smiles at both men, her fingertips lightly strumming her hard nipples as she waits for one of them to make a move.

Her husband regards their guest. “After you,” he says magnanimously, scarcely able to believe how casual his voice sounds. As if to underline the offer, he walks to the side of the bed and lies down on his wife’s left. He wants to run the sole of his foot across the small of her back, but he doesn’t: that’s too intimate a gesture for this act of congress. This is about lust, about physical pleasure. Emotion must be reserved for another time, another place.

Their visitor doesn’t need inviting twice. He moves forward quickly, as though he’s been waiting for a word of assent or encouragement to release his coiled muscles and nerves. It’s as though a switch has been clicked. The husband watches his rival’s expression, wondering if it would be possible to click the switch back now. He doubts it.

His wife immediately turns around, onto all fours, presenting her rear to her lover. At the same time, she bends her mouth over her husband’s loins, and as his cock slips back into her mouth, the stranger’s cock thrusts deep inside her cunt.

Her breath rushes out around her husband’s hard flesh.

The husband stares, aroused and aghast all at once. She’s fucked other men with his consent before, but actually seeing it… His emotions are a whirlwind, the images in his head a flesh-toned kaleidoscope. He grasps his own shaft with one hand, stroking himself into his wife’s mouth as he lightly grips her hair with the other. He can’t take his eyes from the thick shaft plundering his wife.

The stranger grips her about the waist, and his long, even strokes begin to increase in pace and potency. The wife moans with pleasure, over and over and over. Soon, it’s all she can do to keep her husband in her mouth. He can’t help but wonder if that is part of the reason for the stranger’s vigour.

If it is, then it works. She slips her husband’s cock from her mouth, rubbing the side of her face against his shaft as she cries out, “I’m coming! Yes, fuck, yes!”

The orgasm passes through her. The stranger withdraws from her gasping body. His erect cock gleams with her wetness.

“Your turn,” he says to the husband, with just a hint of arrogance.

Now it’s the husband’s turn to fly out of the blocks. He swings his legs off the bed and walks behind his wife. He strokes the taut cheeks of her behind as he regards the parted, pouting lips of her sex. Well fucked, he thinks, and his cock twitches excitedly. He won’t deny himself any longer. He can’t. He kneels on the bed behind her and thrusts his full length inside her still spasming cunt, a cunt still carrying the imprint of another man’s cock. It’s something he’s fantasised about for years.

“Oh fuck!” she gasps; it’s a sound that brings a smile to her husband’s lips.

Now she’s sucking the stranger again. Her husband can’t see what’s going on, but he can tell that she’s enjoying herself, that she’s fellating her lover with gusto. He knows how much she enjoys tasting herself on hard, male flesh, how she relishes the blending of cunt juice and precum.

He has to slow himself. His excitement at being inside her fucked cunt is carrying him dangerously close to peaking. He buries himself inside her and then pauses, the tip of his glans against her cervix as he reaches beneath her to tease and stroke her clit. After a short time, he feels his control returning. He begins thrusting again, but after a dozen strokes, the stimulation of being inside her is close to overwhelming his resistance once more. He tries pausing again, but the result is the same.

He looks up at the stranger’s face. Is that the suggestion of a smirk on his face? The husband mentally shrugs the breath of paranoia away. It’s irrelevant anyway; the bottom line is, he doesn’t want to come yet. Reluctantly, he withdraws from his wife’s velvet flesh.

She waits a few seconds, and then, when she realises that her husband isn’t coming back inside her for the moment, she moves up over her lover’s body and lowers herself onto his waiting, greedy cock. She doesn’t even glance back as she begins to rise and fall over his length.

Her husband walks to the nearest chair and sits down, watching his wife lose herself within her consuming desire for flesh and fulfilment. He strokes himself at a tempo that matches the leisurely pace she is setting for herself, staring at the thick shaft – slick with her lust – each time it emerges from her body. He suspects that her deliberateness is in no small part for his benefit, that she is pandering to the voyeur within him. It touches him that she still thinks of feeding his hunger in the midst of satiating her own.

Soon, her pace begins to quicken, and her husband sees how hard she is pressing herself down against her lover’s pubis. He looks at her face, sees her eyes screwed tightly shut, sees her teeth gnawing on her bottom lip, and knows that her senses are climbing towards yet another crescendo.

Without warning, her lover reaches up and grips the back of her neck; he tips her over onto her side, then onto her back. He doesn’t wait for her to ready herself; he pushes her thighs wide and thrusts forward, piercing her cunt to her cry of ecstasy. He fucks her hard, savagely, and her husband realises that the stranger is close to reaching his own climax. His laden balls smack against the cheeks of her arse each time he penetrates her, and her breasts bounce wildly in accompaniment.

“Oh, yes! Fuck me hard!” she cries.

The knowledge that the stranger’s semen will soon spurt against his wife’s most intimate flesh, that she wants to feel it erupting inside her, and that he himself can do nothing to stop it, excites her husband more blackly than anything he can ever remember.

He gets to his feet, pumping his cock with a fury he has never felt before. He can feel the pressure building in his face, can feel the sinews standing out along the sides of his neck. He watches his wife’s contorted expression, and then she sees him, sees his pleasure, sees his furious strokes.

“Oh fuck!” she gasps. “Don’t come yet!”

The stranger trembles and emits a drawn-out growl as he spills himself inside her. He withdraws quickly, and her husband looks down at his wife’s dark red, swollen cunt, sees the thick, milky semen already oozing out of her.

Another man’s come in my wife, he thinks.

The sight tips him over the edge. He staggers towards the edge of the bed, almost throwing himself towards her as he explodes, anointing her belly and her pubis with thick streams of his own come. Then, spent, he collapses at her side, gasping for breath as his wife runs her fingers through the seed of two men, blending it against her sex as she uses it to lubricate one final, frantic orgasm.

Slowly, the husband comes to his senses. The stranger is gone, but only as far as the en-suite bathroom. The husband listens to the sound of water flowing into the washbasin. He wonders how long the man will linger. He wants him gone, wants his wife to himself, to fuck her alone and reclaim her as his. But when he looks at her face, he sees that she is still hungry, that the lust within her is yet to be satiated, and he knows that the stranger will be here for some time yet.

The bathroom door opens and the stranger emerges. He smiles at the woman as he walks back to the bed and stretches out on the other side of her.

“Isn’t this a wonderful way to spend a December morning,” he says confidently.

“It certainly is,” the wife answers.

Her husband nods, but he says nothing.

“So would the two of you like me to be on my way now?” the stranger asks. They all know that he’s really only asking the woman.

Just say ‘yes’, the husband thinks.

The woman smiles. “I think I’ve still got some excess energy that needs using up first,” she says, reaching out on either side of her to fondle their flaccid cocks. She turns to look at her husband. “Wouldn’t you say so, darling?”

The look in her eyes, the feel of her hand on his cock and the sight of her hand on the stranger’s are combining to excite him again, almost in spite of himself.

“Oh, absolutely,” he says. “Absolutely.”

e[lust] #3

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♦ This Week’s Top Three Posts ♦

PresenceI wish that you would look at me now. I am willing you to look at me now, over her body, rocking with the motion of her mouth. But you do not.

Restraint“Do you like what you see?” the blonde asks. “Are you excited by what’s before you?” the redhead enquires. He nods.

What Not to FetishwearDON’T wear a PVC sleeveless vest if you fall into the rotund category. You will look like a bowling ball. With chubby arms.

e[lust] Editress

Fucking for ArtThe proximity of their nakedness and my scrutiny resulted in this beautiful agony of arousal for them both. I asked if they would feel comfortable doing some poses of vaginal penetration for me, and they readily agreed.

♦ Featured Post ♦

The Naked TruthHe didn’t just write a pretty story we could act out, he worked hard to delicately lay us out on the page together, as we are.

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He sits in darkness, listening to the steady thud of the pump within his chest. He’s completely naked, and the base of the leather seat is finally warming against his buttocks. He tests himself against the bonds lashing him to the chair, but the knots at his wrists and his ankles have been tied with great care and precision. There are a few millimetres of slack, but only enough to frustrate him. After a while, he surrenders to his captivity.

He hears footsteps approaching the bedroom door. It swings open, but the light on the landing has been switched off, so he sees nothing. He hears someone step inside the room, and the door clicks shut.

“Ready?” says a woman’s voice.

He knows that she’s not speaking to him. There’s a piece of duct tape sealing his mouth shut.

“Yes,” another female voice answers.

A table lamp clicks on, instantly illuminating the room in warm light. The two women stand before him; one of them is blonde, the other is auburn. They’re both attired in corsets that caress and enhance the sensuous curves of their bodies. The blonde’s corset is jet black, with pleated edging along the top and bottom of the bodice. The redhead’s corset is a rich burgundy, with heavy black lacing across her full bust and the tops of her thighs. Both are wearing suspenders and black nylon stockings, and stiletto-heeled shoes. Neither of them is wearing panties.

The women are also both wearing masks. The blonde’s is an ornate masquerade mask, held in place by a piece of ivory ribbon tied behind her head. The redhead’s is a simpler affair, a plain black domino mask, secured with black silk.

“Do you like what you see?” the blonde asks.

“Are you excited by what’s before you?” the redhead enquires.

He nods.

“Then we’ll begin,” they say in perfect unison.

The blonde steps forward. She draws her perfectly manicured nails across his skin – down his back and his arms, across the tops of his shoulders and over his chest. She drags them along his belly and the tops of his thighs, never pressing too hard, never causing pain. He can barely see where she’s been, but he can feel. By the time she stops, his skin is afire with the sensation.

His cock is very hard now, the glans vivid in its fierce redness. He wants the women to marvel at his length, his girth. He wants them to become wet at the sight of him, to yearn to feel its weight in their hands, to feel its thickness filling them.

The blonde, however, pays his manhood no attention. Her nails deliberately avoided it, and now she turns away from him to where her companion stands watching and kisses her slowly, thoroughly.

The sight of their mouths waxing and waning together only makes him harder, needier.

The blonde returns, leading the redhead by the hand. With his ankles secured to the chair legs, his thighs are already spread wide. They kneel between his open legs, their gazes alternating between his face and his loins.

“He has a beautiful cock,” the blonde says. “I’ll give him that.”

“I’ve always enjoyed it,” the redhead responds.

The blonde draws a single fingernail along the underside of his shaft. His cock twitches, and he shudders uncontrollably.

“He likes that,” the redhead sighs.

“He’ll like our mouths even more.” The blonde leans forward and runs her tongue along the very same path her fingernail charted. He shudders again at the sensation of wet velvet against his shaft. The redhead leans into him as well, her tongue caressing the skin between his balls as the blonde’s tongue swirls across his glans.

Oh fuck, he thinks. He tries saying it as well, but the tape sealing his mouth shut prevents him from doing anything beyond muttering incomprehensibly.

Now they lick his shaft in unison, the blonde on one side, the redhead on the other, alternating their strokes, one going up as the other comes down. Occasionally, they break off to kiss one another in the same languid fashion as their tongues collide upon him. Then they begin the pleasuring again, painting his hard flesh with their warm saliva.

He can scarcely believe what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling.

The blonde withdraws and stands up. The redhead remains where she is, sucking gently upon his balls in turn, as her dainty hand works up and down his length. The blonde stands next to his right thigh, facing away from him. She looks down at the redhead.

“Do you mind?” she asks.

“Not at all.”

The blonde straddles his thighs, still facing away from him. She squats slightly, lowering herself until her sex is just above the head of his cock. The redhead smiles lasciviously. Still holding him by the shaft, she uses him to tease the blonde, working his cockhead back and forth along the blonde’s cleft. She feels very, very wet to him. He can feel her flesh parting, opening, as he’s drawn towards the portal to her cunt. The desire to thrust forward, to embed himself within her, is immense, but he can’t move at all. Those knots were tied carefully for a good reason.

The redhead begins to use his cockhead against the blonde’s clitoris; she moves it lightly, quickly, across the sensitive nub. He can barely feel the contact, but he knows that it exists. He can tell from the way the blonde is writhing over him, little sighs of pleasure escaping from between her pursed lips.

“I can’t stand this anymore,” she whimpers.

“Then don’t,” the redhead says.

He feels his cockhead being positioned before the entrance to the blonde’s sex once more. This time, she doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease. She lowers herself slowly, taking him inside her. She doesn’t stop until her thighs rest against his, and his cock is fully immersed in the heat and the wetness of her silken flesh.

“Oh, yes,” she cries out softly. “Oh, yes.”

She begins to rise and fall over his length, slowly at first, her pace quickening more swiftly than he had expected. The teasing has evidently affected her as much as it has him. She grips one of his thighs with one hand, whilst she presses the other against her clit. He can feel the tips of her fingers against the underside of his shaft as she frantically pleasures herself.

“Fuck, I’m coming already,” she cries out, and her body convulses as her orgasm passes through her.

She climbs off him, stepping to one side on legs that look distinctly unsteady. She looks down at the redhead, who has done nothing but watch since the blonde mounted him.

“I know why you’ve always enjoyed his cock,” the blonde says in a voice that is close to trembling.

The redhead smiles, but says nothing. Instead, she leans forward again, and his cock is suddenly engulfed by her mouth. She greedily laps and sucks at his hard flesh, and he knows that she is relishing the taste of the other woman’s lust.

His head falls back on his shoulders as he surrenders himself to the pleasures of her insistent mouth. Then he hears the noise of a drawer sliding open, and he looks to see the blonde withdrawing something from the bedside cabinet. She steps into the harness and eases it up her legs. The harness is fashioned from leather; at the centre of the pad that sits over her loins is a long, smooth phallus. Both the harness and the phallus are as jet black as her corset.

She secures the harness in place, then walks back towards him. The phallus bobs hypnotically as she walks. She stops next to him and takes hold of the tape across his mouth. She yanks suddenly, tearing it away from his skin, setting fire to the nerve endings in his face.

She grips his chin and lifts his face towards hers. Her eyes are fiercely slitted.

“She’s sucking you,” she says. “Now you suck me.”

She presses the phallus towards his mouth. He tries to turn his face away, but the grip on his chin is strong.

“Do it,” she says. “Or the pleasure ends right now.”

He flirts with the idea of telling her to keep her pleasure, but when he glances down at the redhead, she is watching him intently, waiting for his reaction. As their eyes meet, she nods, almost imperceptibly.

The blonde presses the phallus to his lips. It’s cold against his mouth, the taste and the aroma both unappetizingly synthetic. He lets her penetrate him, the smooth silicone slipping over his tongue. He feels compromised, sordid, but he can see how much it excites the blonde to see him sucking her cock whilst the redhead is sucking his.

After a while, she withdraws and walks around behind the redhead. She kneels down, her hands running over the redhead’s full buttocks. The blonde watches his face as she slips her hands between the redhead’s thighs, and the redhead’s mouth stiffens around his shaft as the blonde penetrates her with her fingers. The blonde makes a show of lifting her glistening fingers to her own mouth and savouring the redhead’s juices.

“Delicious,” she says, and the man’s mouth waters at the memory of the exquisite taste.

The blonde shuffles closer behind the redhead, holding the gleaming black phallus in one hand, easing it forward. Again, the redhead’s mouth stiffens around his shaft as the blonde penetrates her. The blonde grips the redhead about the waist, pulling her back onto her long strokes.

The redhead moans softly against his flesh, over and over and over as the blonde fucks her sensually, savagely. Eventually, her mouth has to relinquish its hold upon him. She continues to hold his shaft in one hand, her free hand snaking between her thighs so that she can plunder her clitoris; the blonde smiles triumphantly as the redhead presses herself back to meet each powerful thrust.

The redhead rests the side of her damp face against one of his thighs. “Fuck yes!” she cries. “Yes, yes, yes!” Her hand works his flesh absently, sporadically, as she loses herself in her own gratification, as her consciousness is consumed by the fires of her flesh.

Gradually, the blonde stops, withdraws, gets back to her feet. She rubs her hand along the length of her glistening shaft, parodying every man she’s ever witnessed performing the same act. He thinks it looks bizarre, and yet it’s still strangely erotic.

“It’s good,” she says in a low voice. “But it’s a poor substitute for the sensation of real, hard flesh.”

And as though she’s been commanded, the redhead gets unsteadily to her feet and straddles his thighs without a word. Unlike the blonde, she chooses to face him, and as she slowly lowers herself onto him, she kisses him lingeringly, passionately, her tongue teasing and provoking his own. She tastes faintly of cock.

He opens his eyes and looks past her shoulder. The blonde has stripped off her harness and is lying on the bed, her fingers caressing the rich lips of her smoothly waxed sex as she watches the redhead rising and falling over his flesh. He looks deep into her liquid eyes, trying to divine what other sensual adventures she is already feverishly fermenting.