Friday, April 29, 2011
He had refilled my wine glass so many times that I’d given up counting, let alone saying no. There’s only so many times you can nurse the same day dream before finally giving in when it is pushed into your face... and tonight, after an eternity spent touching, caressing and teasing my flesh, we had finally crossed that final frontier.
He was mine, and I didn’t care whether it was the wine talking. I was going to take him.
I needed to taste him, to set my tongue and lips where my fingers were. Breaking his grip, I slipped down to nuzzle his belly, my tongue flicking out to sample each fresh part of his flesh. For a moment, my mouth hung poised over his cock; I could see it straining upwards to meet my lips, and I planted a light, lingering kiss on the tip – and then moved away and started, instead, to nibble his balls. By the time I turned my attention back to his prick, my jaws stretching wide to engulf the solid monster that stood before me, his breathing alone told me how close he was to orgasm.
I sat up. His cock was glistening with my saliva, and a bright droplet of pre-cum nudged its way out of the wide eye of his helmet. I licked it off, then squeezed the glans gently. Another droplet, another gentle lick and I felt the gossamer-thin thread of moisture that stretched from his cock to my mouth.
Reaching for the wine glass on the table, I took a deep draught, and sloshed it around my mouth, bathing my gums and tongue. Then my mouth plunged over him again, and the sensation was indescribable, the deep heat of the wine mingling with the sharp tang of his flesh to send every nerve-end in my mouth into delicious paroxysm. I can only imagine how it felt for him, but I’d swear I could feel his cock actually swelling in my mouth, growing longer, thicker, heavier.
I withdrew. “Again?” he whispered and I smiled, took another mouthful of wine, then another of him. Once more, the cocktail left my entire body tingling – and this time, there was no wondering how he felt. His balls tightened in my hand; any moment now… I pulled away and, in one deft movement, I was astride him, my pussy sucking as greedily as my lips had, sliding up and down that massive cock, willing it deeper and deeper inside me.
He hammered himself back against me, faster and harder, as he sped closer to the edge, and then he erupted inside me, grinding himself against my body as he pumped every last drop deep inside my snatch. His eyes were closed, and slowly, his thrusting became less urgent. I lifted myself off him, heard the thick, moist “plop” as our flesh disengaged, and I shuffled myself around, to face his softening, sticky prick.
It was soaked with our juices, and just inhaling the aroma unleashed a tsunami of sensations that set my every nerve a-jangle. I closed my lips around him, drawing taste and tingle into my throat. I licked him, I sucked him; how I sucked, drawing our warm, mingled spendings… the thickly perfumed taste of our loving … into my mouth.
It was salty, it was sweet, it was good. I swallowed, then searched for more as he moved beneath me, rubbing himself against my face, faster and faster. His thighs were clamped against my ears, his hands held my head in place.
I held his softness in my mouth, and there was no question that he was soft. But suddenly he gave a cry, a moan and one final, massive thrust, and my mouth was flooding with fresh cum, drawn from who-knows-which reservoir deep inside him. And then he was kneeling, stroking my pussy as he began leaning closer.... Then he buried his face in my dripping pussy, licking first, but then plunging his tongue inside me, sucking and slurping at my flesh, and swallowing hard as his own cum dribbled back into his mouth.
I wished I had a mirror handy, I wished I had a camera; in my mind’s eye I could see his face smeared with white, and the thought set my hips bucking furiously, grinding my cunt into his mouth, pushing his mess back down his throat. And as one final, keening orgasm threatened to rip my entire body to ribbons, I knew one thing for sure.
I would never refuse a refill again.
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 3:25 AM
Thursday, April 28, 2011
I didn’t know whether I felt incredibly excited, or ridiculously stupid. But I lay on my back and spread my legs anyway, while he slipped a grape inside me, then knelt at my feet with his mouth wide open. “Come on Jenny, give it a go.”
Sinking into my vagina, the grape felt cold and hard, a bit like a pebble in your sock, and only slowly did it warm up and soften. But no matter how hard I tried, which muscles I flexed, I couldn’t expel it – and I certainly couldn’t send it shooting across the room. “You’ve been watching too much Asian porn,” I chided him gently. “They probably do it with mirrors, anyway.”
He knelt forward and pressed his lips to my labia. “I’ll just have to get it out myself, then.” His tongue eased in and, for a moment, chased the slippery fruit through my folds; he made contact and I felt the tight suction as he pulled it out, took it into his mouth and chewed, the motion of his jaws electric against my soft flesh. “Hey, that’s good,” he breathed. “Mind if I have another?”
I sat forward and stroked his head. “Go ahead. Just take a little longer looking for it, this time.” My eyes closed, I braced myself for the alien entry, then relaxed back into its removal, twice, three times, four… until finally he decided to share his bounty, and slipped a juice-drenched grape into my mouth from his, at the same time as he pushed his prick into my puss.
“I’ve never fucked a fruit basket,” he whispered as his rocking hips began to push him in deeper, but any smart retort I might have conjured was lost as the most incredible orgasm began building in my gut. My legs wrapped round his waist, my nails raking the flesh of his back, my own hips grinding against his, I cried out in joy, just as he, too, groaned his own climax, but my own sensations were so intense that I barely felt his excitement. Instead, all I could muster was a weak hiss, “well, people always say fruit is good for you.”
That was the first and only time we slept together. It was the last week of college, the last chance to do all those things you’d forgotten to accomplish over the past three or four years. For me, that meant bedding the cute guy who’d been hovering at the back of Sociology all term; for him… well, I think that’s obvious. And I wouldn’t even get to spread the word around the campus on the sexual telegraph that all the girls subscribed to. I was flying out first thing tomorrow, halfway across the country to Chicago, to the new job… the new life… that was awaiting me.
I never forgot the grapes, though, and when I asked my friend Lisa… to whom, of course, I confided all my secrets… if she was going to join me at our year’s 10th anniversary reunion, it turned out that she hadn’t, either. In fact, that was the first thing she said – “hey, maybe you’ll see the grape-boy again. You’d better get some practice in.”
I laughed. “No, I’m too old for learning new tricks.” Besides, since that night, I’d actually seen the kind of films that obviously inspired grape-boy’s imagination, the showgirls whose quims could send a ping-pong ball ricocheting against the far wall, and I really didn’t find it that attractive a trick. “I’ll just stick with what I know I’m good at.” It was only in the back of my mind that a little voice was wondering whether Lisa had a point….
I saw him as soon as I walked into the gymnasium. Lisa had cried off from coming along … too many old ghosts attended her years of Higher Education… so I flew in alone, only to hook up with a gaggle of old acquaintances at the airport luggage claim. We shared a couple of cabs to our hotels downtown, dutifully filling one another in on everything we’d done in the last ten years, and slipping in the gossip we’d heard about other people.
There was some juicy stuff there as well – the prim and proper Little Miss who wore her virginity like an Easter bonnet, was now onto her third husband. The know-it-all weasel that dropped out in our second year was now a rising star in mid-western politics. And that guy I saw on a VH-1 oldies show a few years ago, who I thought looked vaguely familiar, was indeed the same one who once dyed his hair three colors and insisted he was the new Boy George. He never quite got that far, but he did form a band, make a video, have a hit – and now he’s a DJ in the Pacific Northwest. Good for him.
There was more rumor to relish once we got to the college, one reason why I didn’t zero in on grape-boy… I have to stop calling him that; Michael, his name’s Michael… immediately. But I felt his hand on my shoulder within five minutes, anyway.
I turned. “Hi….”
He was in computers now… isn’t everyone?… still living in Florida, still single, still cute. And that latter feeling was obviously mutual; we’d not seen one another for a decade, but the spark that blazed between us during our last days at school, which we’d only ever confronted that once, was still afire. A few other guys I’d once dated passed by; we smiled, nodded, exchanged the necessary pleasantries, but I always turned back to Michael at the first opportunity, and it was obvious that he was doing the same thing.
Finally, he popped the question. “Look, rather than stand here all night blanking everybody else, how about we split? This thing’s going on all weekend, after all.”
“Okay. What hotel are you staying at?”
“I’m out by the airport. You?”
“Downtown. It’s a lot closer. Come on.” I took his hand and led him through the crowd; then he took the lead and drew me to his hired car. “You navigate, I’ll drive. What with all the new building going on, I scarcely recognize the town any longer.”
We arrived at my hotel, handed the valet the car keys, and I was glad I’d put out the extra few bucks and booked into one of the best. Crisp sheets on the bed, instantaneous room service, a well-stocked mini bar and… I have to admit, this detail took me completely by surprise… a complimentary bowl of fruit in my room. An apple and an orange, two fleshy bananas and, yes, a healthy bunch of grapes. You cannot argue with Fate, I smiled to myself. Some things are simply meant to be.
We kissed – tentatively at first, a little nervous, a little shy. But my tongue had a will of its own, wrapping itself around his, rediscovering the taste of his mouth, the strength of his lips, the sharpness of his teeth. His hands were on my breasts, pressing them against my body and slowly grinding the flesh against my rib cage, my rock-hard nipples compressed against the firmness of his palms, as he backed me towards the wall. He stepped back a little once we reached it, and his fingers deftly undid the buttons of my blouse, his mouth still welded to mine.
I reached behind me, unclasping my bra. Sliding under the material, his hands returned to my breasts, caressing their bareness, kneading the flesh while his thumb idly flicked at my nipples, sending sudden jolts of pleasure whispering down my spine. I wrestled to get at his shirt buttons, felt his wiry chest hair against my fingertips, and I broke his grip, broke his kiss, and took one of his lead-pellet nipples between my lips.
His hands were on my ass now; mine was tracing a sharp fingernail above the waistband of his pants, dipping occasionally beneath the fabric to scratch a vertical path from his belly-button down; it was a bit of a squeeze, but my hand forced its way down the front of his trousers, my fingers reaching… his cock was hard and pointing straight up; I curved my hand and two fingers and my thumb grasped its head and squeezed lightly. Roughly, his hands had hitched my skirt up, were making their own way down the back of my tights, his fingers tracing a blunt path down the crease of my ass. They paused at my anus, lingered for a moment and then continued on their journey, to the very edge of my vagina.
I could feel how wet I was, and shivered as one probing finger began smearing my juices back round towards my ass, rubbing them into the soft skin and poking, tentatively again, at my ass-hole. “Okay, where is this going?” I wondered. “Because he’s not going to start shoving fruit up there… I don’t think.”
Releasing my light grip on the greasy head of his penis, I unbuttoned his waistband and slowly unzipped his pants, pulling down his underpants as I did so. A breath of musk touched my nostrils and a tremor of fresh excitement washed through my pussy as I took his surprisingly thick shaft in my hand. Michael half-sighed, half groaned, and his free hand shifted from my back to the top of my head, gently but firmly trying to push me down.
I stood my ground. I don’t know why guys always do that – if a girl wants to suck him, she’s going to. She doesn’t need encouragement, and she certainly doesn’t need force. Instead, I kissed his chest; let my lower lip bruise his nipple before baring my teeth and biting it lightly. Now both of his hands were on my head, and I broke away from him altogether. “I think I need to lie down,” I whispered and walked to the bed, pulling my tights and panties off, shrugging away my blouse and bra.
I crouched on the comforter, watching as he undressed, gasping as I saw how far and straight his cock stood out from his body, eight throbbing, fat inches, with the pre-cum forming a thick, viscous drip from the tip. He joined me on the bed and I kissed him hard, tracing my fingers across his belly, through his groin, around the tops of his thighs. His hips were shifting with my movements, trying to direct his cock into my hand, but I was faster than him, running my fingertips behind his knees, then up and across his buttocks.
“Touch me again,” he breathed, and I let my hand move to his scrotum, pushing my thumb into the tight skin that stretched across his hard balls. I massaged them with my palm, while I worked my way up to squeeze the very base of his dick between my index and middle finger. His hand was on my mound now, palm flat against my pubes while the very tip of his middle finger forced itself between the lips. I ground myself against it, the motion rippling against my clit as I forced his finger in deeper; then rewarded him by taking him fully in my hand, slowly jerking him.
His juice pooled thick on my fingers, his smell was heavy in my nose. Without letting go of his penis, I pushed him backwards, his legs dangling off the end of the bed, and held his cock straight up in the air. Then, moving to kneel on the floor between his legs, I lowered my head and ran a questing tongue across him; my tongue tingling as it swept through the sticky coating that seemed to be flooding out of him. I worked up a blob of saliva and let it drip down, swirling it into his own juice with my tongue, then took him into my mouth.
“Oh Jenny, yeah!” He half-growled, half-groaned his approval, as I gave his helmet a firm suck. “Eat me, eat me all up.” I opened my eyes and gazed up his body; he lay completely askew, his arms and legs a jumble of angles, his own eyes tightly shut. Every movement I made, though, brought another exhortation, a series of increasingly explicit orders and instructions that thrilled me to the core: “Bite me… yeah, like that. But deeper… I want to feel your teeth at the root… you make me so hard, baby… oh my God, that’s right, that’s it… hold me there… don’t move… now suck me like you’ve never sucked before….”
I obeyed every one, tightening my lips even more firmly around him; “oh Christ, Jenny, your mouth feels like a cunt… better than a cunt…. Don’t stop….” Don’t worry, I don’t intend to. Even when his pleas for me to suck… suck deeper… harder… gave way to a string of savage invective, grunts of “slut” and “whore” that would normally have sent me storming from the room, they merged magically into the pounding of the blood in my ears, and I continued relishing, almost worshipping, that hot, seemingly endless shaft, my lips pursed around his flesh, clinging tightly to the hot, salty skin, while one hand held him firm and upright, and the other slid wildly across his thigh.
He clutched my hair, pulled my head up roughly. “Tell me how much you love it… love sucking it.”
“I adore it… so hard, so firm”; I knew exactly what he wanted to hear me say. “You fill my mouth, I want to suck you forever. And when you cum, I want to taste every drop.” Yet, even as my words were devoted to the matter in hand, and his cock shivered with excitement at the devotions that I dedicated to it, my mind was planning the evening’s real highlight… the main event, as it were. I’d long since moved the fruit bowl off the table, to the floor by the foot of the bed. Now, ending the conversation by taking one of his balls deep into my mouth, I reached out and plucked two grapes off their stalk, and rolled them in my palm, warming them just enough that their entry into my body would not come as such a shock.
“But now you have to do something for me,” I whispered, kissing his cock, then his stomach, then slowly up his chest, while my fingers slipped the first grape into my dripping hole. His hands were at my waist, hauling me up his body; with one last heave, I was astride his face, my pussy just inches from his mouth. His tongue snaked out; I felt it at my lips and sank down, enveloping it and then clenched my muscles, seeking out the grape, forcing it to the front… of course I’d spent the last week practicing…. I pushed it onto his lips.
I saw surprise in his eyes, then shock. His hand reached up, pressed beneath my thigh to investigate the surprise intruder, looked at it and then realization dawned. He returned it to his mouth with a long, drawn out “mmmmm.” Then – “any more in there?”
I laid the other grape on his mouth. “You do it this time.”
His tongue pushed forward, carrying its little load to deposited deep within me. “Now take it out again,” I whispered, and I felt his tongue again, seeking, searching, lolling inside me, as it sought out its treasure. This time he took it straight into his mouth, bit down and then swallowed.
I rolled off him, reached for the full stalk of grapes, then changed my mind and picked up one of the bananas as well. I peeled it slowly, with that exaggerated motion that you sometimes see in super-suggestive comedy films; only Michael wasn’t laughing. Rather, his eyes were almost bulging as he watched me remove the skin, snap the fruit in half, and then very slowly slide it inside me.
He almost leaped onto me, burying his face in my crotch, his entire mouth working to extract the fleshy, disintegrating mass from my wet folds; as I felt the last morsel move out, and felt him chew and swallow, I took the other half and placed it lightly against my lips. “Fuck me with it.” I knew that my own fluids would quickly reduce it to pulp, but Michael was even quicker.
His fingers seized upon the slippery fruit, scrambling to keep their grip as he pushed it in, pulled it out… it felt strange, like being fucked by something that wasn’t, despite its shape, meant for fucking – which, of course, was exactly what was happening. Two plunges, three, and then the banana collapsed into mash, and he was fishing it out with his tongue again.
I slipped my hand between his face and my sex, pushed a finger inside me and smeared the banana around my clitoris. “There. Lick me there.”
He obeyed, but I saw an idea forming in his mind. His hand snaked down to his own loins and began pulling at his dick, returning it to its earlier rigidity. Then he rose above me and entered me hard, plunging into the banana soaked mess, soaking his cock in that fascinating cocktail. I knew what was coming; squirming out of his grip, now it was my turn to pull his loins to my face.
The scent was overpowering – pussy and prick and banana, smashed together into one cloying, heavenly brew. I clamped my mouth over his cock and began devouring it, knowing from the pulsing of his balls that, any moment now….
His cries predicted his climax by seconds; he came so hard that I had to turn my head away, simply to catch my breath and swallow the first overpowering mouthful. I felt a hot splash across my cheek and into my ear and then, true to my earlier promise, took him back into my mouth, sucking out the final spasms of sperm, as I felt my own orgasm quivering on the brink of explosion. I reached my hand down and began flicking my clit, harder and harder; I came with him still in my mouth, hot and soft and sticky; and almost choked on him when my own cry burst forth.
We lay silent, drained. Once he breathed, “that… you… were fantastic,” and I handed him a freshly picked grape. “You weren’t so bad yourself,” I smiled, and shunted myself down to rest my head on his stomach, gazing at his penis, waiting for it to rise again.
He did not disappoint me, but this time when we screwed, we did it without the fruit – not necessarily because we wanted to, but because there’s not much you can do with apples and oranges. But the mini-bar served up its own share of pleasures… I should think most girls have blown their boyfriend after taking a mouthful of brandy, but until you’ve had it dripped on your clit, then slowly lapped away while the stinging leaves you pleading for release, you’ll never know the intensity of the orgasms that have built up inside you.
We never forgot how it all started, though; we never forgot the grapes; and, if I didn’t ever master the art of shooting them across the room, I found could at least squeeze them so they dropped from my snatch to his mouth; and one, I even squashed sufficiently that you’d have thought he’d found a barrel of wine, so gratefully did he lap down the juices. And when he came one more time, in the early hours of the morning, the last of the grapes was balanced on the end of his cock, held in place by my lips, and swallowed as hungrily as all of the others, a squishy, salty, bitter-sweet concoction that I wished we’d thought of earlier. Still, there was always tomorrow night….
Three exhausting, heavenly… oh, and reunion-filled… days later, home again, I dropped round to see Lisa, to tell her how the weekend had gone. “And was grape-boy there?” she wanted to know, as I reached the end of the gossip and news.
“Oh yes,” I smiled. “And he’s still as fruity as ever.”
We chatted, as girls do… and then she said something strange. She called him Brian.
“No, it was Michael.”
“No it wasn’t… Michael was that guy from Miami, right? The one you went to…” and she rattled off a few long-forgotten concerts that had passed through town. “Brian was the grape-boy. Look, I’ll prove it.” She crossed the room, reached up for a box on the top shelf of her closet, and pulled out a dog-eared old photo album; she flicked through a few pages and then produced a postcard. “You sent me this right after you got into Chicago.” And there, as a bold PS: “and don’t forget to ask me about Brian Winder.”
Oh shit…. So Michael… Michael was a guy I’d slept with a few times, but broke up with – oh, sweet irony – because I didn’t like the way he talked to me in bed. Brian, on the other hand… again, oh shit. I read the last line of that incriminating post-script. “I’ll never look at fruit the same way again.”
“Never mind, Jenny,” Lisa patted me on the shoulder. “Neither will Michael.”
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 9:34 AM
The fact that it was named for a popular seventies disco band, thankfully, was something I was able to overlook. My dad’s record collection contains a lot of music that I would not want anywhere near my g-spot, and the idea of masturbating with Phil Collins’ Head isn’t something that any girl would go for. None that I know, anyway.
But there was always something impressionably alluring about the BeeGees, even if I was too young to have heard them in their prime...heck, I wasn’t even born when they scored their biggest records. But I’ve seen the videos, heard the hits, danced at retro seventies parties... and now there’s a Bgee humming in my hand and I wonder - will it make me feel I should be dancing? Or will I just collapse into night fever?
I sighed, slipped it back into its bag, and walked back into the living room. “It’s your mess, you should clean it up.”
It was housekeeping day and the living room was a bombsite – my room-mate Patrick’s bombsite. For a week he’d been wrestling with one particular account, a new advertising campaign for the Oedipus hair-weave: “So lifelike, even your mother wouldn’t recognise it.” Well, I thought it was funny, but the boardroom simply clucked and suggested he come up with something a little less controversial. So he’d spent the last seven days surrounded by an ever-growing heap of discarded sketches and slogans, and would I even go into the room to help him try and organise the clutter? No. It’s your mess, you should clean it up.
It wasn’t the first time we’d had this argument, and it wouldn’t be the last. When I first agreed to share an apartment with Patrick (and that’s all we were doing, sharing – he had a girlfriend and I had a social life), I knew his work would keep him from pulling his weight around the place, at least when it came to keeping things tidy. But sometimes, I totally lost my patience with him, and this was one of those occasions.
A few hours later, as he finally got the last pile sorted, I did enter the room, a conciliatory beer in one hand. He looked exhausted and I handed him the drink without a word. He’d done his best to pick up; and, though I knew I’d be doing it properly myself later on, the least I could do was show him some gratitude.
In another lifetime, Patrick and I might have made a go of things. He’d seen me at my worst, after all; coming in from work after two hours stuck on the subway; stumbling in for breakfast with my hair all tangled and my make-up still a cup of coffee away; or sitting in a darkened room, eating my way through a box of chocolate because – well, never mind because. But, even without our other attachments, it would never happen. I thought he worked too hard, he said I smoked too much, and if Cindy was any indication of the kind of girl that turned him on, chalk and cheese don’t come into it.
“How did it go?” I asked, as he sank into the armchair.
He shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t think I even care anymore.” He inclined his head towards a manila folder on the desk. “There’s half a dozen presentations in there, not one is a patch on the first one, and does it matter anyway? It’s not as if the commercial will be seen outside of a handful of mid-western test markets.”
He ran a hand up the side of his head, ruffling his hair. I liked it when he did that; he looked boyishly bemused at the best of times, and that habit just amplified it louder than ever. “What have you been doing?”
I gave him what I hoped was a stern glare. “Not much. Made two beds, vacuumed four rooms, cleaned the bathroom….” And I opened my mail, although there was no need to mention that the postman brought me a sex toy. Another old BeeGees song came to mind... the one about the Triple A batteries. “Staying Alive.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Look, how about if we just grab a few bottles of wine and some pizza tonight, and stay in and watch a movie? My treat.”
“You’re not seeing Cindy?”
“Not tonight. PTA.” Of course. Cindy taught Math at a High School on the other side of town, and had been dreading this evening for weeks. “I told her I’d catch up with her at the weekend.”
“In that case, yes, let’s. But what should I bring along?”
“You pick the movie.” He smiled. “Just don’t get anything too girly.”
“So, your lesbian porn collection’s out, then,” I shot back. His DVD collection was a standing joke between us, ever since I’d borrowed his copy of Pirates Of The Caribbean one evening, and found he’d put the wrong disc… the wrong pirates… back in the case. Instead of a few hours with Johnny Depp, I got an eyeful of Jeneveve Jolie, and I’d not let him hear the end of it – especially when I learned that Cindy knew nothing about his late night viewing habits. What other little secrets did he have, I wondered?
I would learned the answer to that one later, sometime after we opened the third bottle of wine of the evening evening. We’d managed to sit through twenty minutes of Harry Potter & A Series of Disconnected Scenes That Really Make No Sense (or whatever the last movie was called) before loudly agreeing it was one of the worst things we’d ever seen; and then spent another half an hour wondering what to watch next.
“Looks like it’s going to have to be the lesbian porn after all,” he shrugged, and if that wasn’t the clumsiest hint-disguised-as-humor I’ve ever heard, it was damned close.
“I don’t think so.” Two can play at this game. “If I’m going to have to watch porn all night, I at least want to see some stiff dicks.” I drained my glass.
“Really?” His eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them.
“What?” I did my best to sound offended. “How would you feel if I suggested we watch a bunch of naked guys getting it on?
He nodded. “Point taken. To be honest, I’m not really into the lesbian stuff either.”
I paused. So far as I could tell, there were two directions this conversation could go; either I asked him what he was into, and opened the door to all manner of flirtatious confessions, or I could abruptly change the subject and remind him that a bathroom was the most intimate thing we would ever be sharing.
Or I could sit silently for what must have seemed a painfully long time, which is what I suddenly realized I was doing. I could see Patrick watching me; I wondered what was going through his mind? After all, if anything did happen between us, it was he who had the most to lose. He was the one with the steady girlfriend, and it was my name on the apartment lease. I spoke. “What did we get from Netflix today?”
He picked up the little envelope. "Fifty First Dates.” And I blotted out the little voice in the back of my mind that echoed, “fifty first facials.” Hell, that pizza was salty.
“Let’s give it a go.”
He stood. “Shall I open another bottle while I’m up? We seem to have made short work of the last few.”
“Why not?” I watched him leave the room – he did have a nice ass. Had I noticed that before? I must have. And, as he walked back in, he had a nice bulge at the front as well. Now that I know I’d never noticed. I reached for my cigarettes, and smirked. Soft or hard pack?
He looked at me. “Care to share the joke?”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing.” He handed me the bottle and his hand lingered just a few moments more than was necessary as I took it. His loins were at eye-level. Hard pack, definitely. Or near enough. I wondered what he would do if I reached out…. Instead, I took the bottle and poured myself a full glass. “Nothing like pizza to make you drink like a fish,” I said carefully. This stuff was really going to my head.
I shifted in my seat and sent the remote control flying; Patrick stepped behind me to retrieve it, and I made my decision.
“Hey, while you’re back there, you wouldn’t give me a quick shoulder rub would you? I hate this chair, I always ping a muscle when I’m sitting here.” I scooted onto the ottoman beside the armchair.
“And I thought wine was meant to relax things,” he answered as his fingers probed around my shoulder blade, then drilled a thumb into what, presumably, he thought was the trouble spot. I stifled a yelp of pain – there was a lump in there some place, but he wasn’t anywhere near it. “Wait up a moment.” I stood and walked into the bedroom, my mind whirling around the thoughts that were ricochetting off my conscience... should we be doing this? Should I be doing this? I picked up the little cotton bag and walked back to where he was sitting, an expectant expression fixed on his face.
I opened the bag, withdrew the thin tube-like vibrator, twisted the cap... thank God I’d already inserted the batteries.
Patrick watched me curiously. “What is that thing?”
“What do you think?”
He laughed. A big pink Sharpie?
“Yes, that’s exactly what it is.” I traced it down my arm, its swollen head sending a succession of very basic, but undeniably brusque sensations through my flesh, long before it got anywhere...
“...interesting,” Patrick murmured and I broke my reveille for a moment. “What?”
“I said ‘that looks interesting’,” he repeated
I handed it to him. “Go on then...”
He stepped away and I thought, for a moment, that I’d lost him; that I’d misread the situation altogether. And then he was crouching beside me, his face close to mine, his arms encircling my shoulders. He kissed me, a searching, passionate kiss that melted us together. I pulled him even closer, my hands around his back, so tight that I could barely squeeze my fingers between us. I released him, then dropped my hand to his hip, to toy with the waistband of his pants, lightly scraping his skin with one nail.
He pushed himself against my leg, then that finger slipped inside, reaching down towards his cock, gently scratching the yielding tip. He had my blouse open – I was glad I’d gone without a bra this evening - and was gently squeezing one nipple between firm thumb and finger. My chest tightened as he lowered his mouth towards it. His breath was wine-warm, and the tingle of the alcohol gave me shivers; I was almost shaking as I unbuttoned his pants and wrapped my fist around his cock, gently squeezing it to echo the sensations he was pulsing through my nipple.
Somehow we manoeuvred backwards, and fell onto the carpet with a thump and a sudden laugh. I swear we never released our hold on one another the whole time, but suddenly we were both naked, my fist slowly, but firmly, jerking his cock, his hand hard against my pussy, sliding one… two… now three fingers in and out of me. I was so wet down there and let out an involuntary “oh” as he planted a warm, wet kiss on my thigh, just below the groin. It’s the most ticklish feeling in the world, but you never want it to end.
That did it. I picked up the bgee from where he’d laid it; seven inches of beautifully angled burgundy plastic; and, while he watched with wide-eyed fascination, I placed it at my pussy lips.
I gasped. I didn't even need to push as my flesh sucked it in; did not even need to aim as it slipped unerringly towards that spot for which it is also named. And not even blinking as it penetrated inch by inch inside me and one more BeeGees oldie muscled into my mind.
“How Deep Is Your Love?”
Deep enough, sweetie.... and as he lapped at my thighs as they dripped with my juices, he suddenly laughed aloud.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about something you said earlier,” he spluttered. “’It’s your mess, you should clean it up.’ Well, it looks like I'm cleaning yours up as well.”
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 3:55 AM
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Meanwhile... back at Second Life...
May 3, I'll be one of a dozen girls and guys being auctioned in Second Life to raise finds for the cancer charity Relay For Life... a two hour date during which your imagination is the only limit.
You can check out the entire cast of available lovelies here, but here's some suggestions if you fancy your chances with me...
I was tempted simply to say - two hours with me is like a year with any other girl. But if you already know that, then you probably already know the kind of things I like doing...
long romantic motorbike rides across the desert, taking turns on the pillion because who can resist a high speed cuddle...
bar crawling, pool, and drinking one another under the table, or any other convenient piece of furniture...
A jukebox jammed with classic rock, a dancefloor drenched in denim and leather, and
all night in which to get into trouble...
Or, maybe we could go to the zoo!
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 3:15 AM
Monday, April 25, 2011
(inspired by the loop “BRIDE COMFORTERS (Swedish Erotica #22)”
So this is married life?
A cock in my mouth, a cock in my cunt and a third one so close I can feel it dripping on my cheek. Hell, I could get used to this.
If only my husband would quit his drunken snoring.
They said it would be the happiest day of my life. Mark and I had been dating for nine months when he popped the question, in a motel room somewhere between Albuquerque and Colorado Springs, while we both came down from two of the best orgasms of our life. Of course I said yes, any guy who could make me feel like that was obviously a keeper. We bought an engagement ring the next morning, saw the Justice of the Peace the day we returned home, and had the invitations in the post by the weekend.
Mrs Rebecca T Williams, welcome to the world.
So what if it was a quick ceremony, without any of the trappings my folks had hoped I’d demand? When I woke up that morning I had three things on my mind. Get the ring on my finger, get his ass to the honeymoon suite, and get his cock down my throat. The rest… the bridesmaids and bouquets, the toasters and percolators (why do people always give you toasters and percolators for wedding presents?), even the $400 a night bridal suite… were simply icing on the cake.
But from the moment Mark started drinking, which was the moment we arrived at our wedding reception, I knew the only icing I’d get on my cake was going to be whatever the baker put on it. By the time the best man got up to toast the happy couple, Mark was already so far gone he didn’t couldn’t recognize his own brother and, by the time the party began breaking up, he wasn’t even conscious.
I looked around the room helplessly. Jerry, Mark’s brother, was in the same shape as his sibling. But a few guys were still standing, old college friends of Mark’s who I’d never met before, but who certainly seemed familiar with his predicament.
“Hey, sorry to bother you but…” I walked over and touched one of them on the arm. Damn my memory, why can I never remember people’s names, even when I was only introduced to them that same morning.
He laughed, a broad smile creasing his not-bad-looking features. “Mark’s out for the count?” His friends laughed with him.
“Yeah. I was wondering if you could help me get him up to our room.”
“No problem.” He turned, and his two buddies followed – Mark wasn’t the lightest man in the world when he was upright. In this state he was 200lbs of dead weight.
Into the elevator, with his draped across two sets of shoulders, while the third guy carried his legs. “Not much of a wedding night for you, eh?” one of them laughed.
“You can say that again.” He was right, it wasn’t. But we got to our suite, arranged Mark in a heap in one of the armchairs, and I eyed the complimentary champagne bottle. “Anyone fancy a drink after all that lifting?” I poured the two glasses that sat on the table, hunted around the minibar and found a couple more, then sat down on the edge of the bed. To my left, Mark began snoring, and we laughed at the sound.
“Is he always like this when he gets drunk?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” nodded one. “And you could have an earthquake and he wouldn’t wake up. Do you remember that time…” He turned to his friends, then his voice trailed off. “Maybe not.”
“No come on, tell,” I prompted. “If I don’t know his deepest secrets, then what sort of wife would I be?”
“Well, I’m not sure…” He looked at his friends for support, but they shrugged. “If you don’t tell her, she’s only going to imagine, and it’ll probably be even worse in her mind than it was in reality,” one said, then paused. “You’re not the jealous sort, are you?”
I shook my head. “What’s done is done, what’s past is past,” I said. Heaven knows, there were things in my past that I could have torn myself up about, things I’d done with guys I’d met… sometimes I didn’t even know their names. More than sometimes. I eyed my three new friends, and if there was a little voice in the back of my mind to remind me that those days were firmly behind me, the champagne had obviously muffled it.
“So he brought this girl back to the dorm room, he was already drunk as a skunk when they got here and he had a couple more brews while they were just sitting around. She was getting really pissed off with him, she wanted fucking and all he could do was get fucked up. So she started coming onto Tommy over there…” he indicated one of his friends, the cute blonde one… “and to cut a long story short….” Tommy ended up fucking her there on Mark’s bed, while Mark lay dead to the world alongside them.
I laughed and felt a familiar pulse in my pussy, one that echoed the sudden lurch of daring that my heart had flipped. “Served him right,” I said. “I’d have done the same.”
“Really?” Frank, the storyteller, looked at me curiously.
“Really.” I thought of telling a tale of my own, of the night I went clubbing with a girlfriend and her man, and spent a good forty minutes jerking him off with my feet under the table, without her even being aware. Or the night… oh, so many nights, so many memories. Mark gave an especially loud grunt and I felt a lurch of absolute horror. I’d had a good eight years of free and single, running around with my circle of friends, clubbing at weekends, sleeping with strangers, enjoying myself while I was still young enough to do so. And I’d given it all up for – what? Yeah, Mark was a good fuck, but only when he was sober enough to stay awake long enough. Again I eyed my companions. The old me wouldn’t have kicked one of them out of bed. I wondered whether the new one would?
“I wonder if he’d notice tonight?”
Frank laughed. “I told you, he could sleep through an earthquake. Watch!” He stood and walked over to where Mark lay unconscious, and shook him violently. All Mark did was snore eve louder.
Tommy and the other guy, whose name turned out to be Terry, joined him and suddenly the three of them were pushing and pulling the chair back and forth. Mark slumbered on. “See, you could do anything and he’d sleep right through it.”
I lay back on the bed. Still in the dress I’d been married in, I surveyed the scene. Well, it wasn’t quite how I pictured tonight unfolding, but… I shifted a little, reached out one arm and snagged Tommy’s belt; pulled him towards me and began unfastening his pants.
“Okay, let’s see,” I murmured, then smiled as my hand touched his hard cock through his flimsy briefs. I was going to do it.
The room was silent around me, three pairs of eyes fastened onto me as I sat up, and pressed my face to that fabulous bulge. I licked its length, tasting hot man through the fabric and wanting more. Using my teeth I pulled at the waistband of his briefs, jerked them down and his cock sprang to attention before me. Now I licked it, my tongue tracing the length of the thickest vein till it tapped at his helmet and drew him into my mouth. Tommy gasped and, behind me, I’d heard the sound of his buddies stripping their own clothes off, as hands began wrestling with the buttons down the back of my dress.
My breasts were bare and firm fingers began pulling at my nipples as I sucked Tommy’s prick, taking him as deep into my mouth as I could, then backing off gently, feeling every pore of his flesh as it slipped back and forth over my lips.
Hands pulled my legs open; I swiveled a little and a finger thrust itself into my pussy. Damn, I was soaking wet already – it’s amazing what a good length of cock down my throat can do to me. I felt a tongue there, lapping at my lips, fingers spreading me wide as the mouth slurped and sucked at my pink. God, I wanted this.
I broke my grip on Tommy. “Fuck me. Somebody fuck me. But not you…” I looked up at Tommy. “I want you here.” I lay back as he pulled his pants down and off, and then straddled my chest. He fucked my tits for a moment, his hard cock sliding between them as I raised my head and stretched out my tongue, licking his tip as it swept back and forth. Pre-come was pooling in my cleavage, lubricating our flesh as we moved together, and as I slipped his full length back into my mouth, I felt another one slam into my pussy, stretching me wide and penetrating me deep, two heavyweight balls slapping against my ass as his cock end pushed towards my womb. My clit was on fire, but that was only the start of it. My entire pussy was crying out in ecstasy, to be answered my throat.
Fuck me! Spear me! Impale me!
Oh my God, this was paradise. I’d had threesomes before, but I was younger, my partners were younger. Too much indecision, too much laughter. This was the real thing, this was serious business, and this was bigger. Fuck a threesome, I wanted all four! I raised a hand and gripped a third cock, longer than Tommy’s, thicker than… thicker than whoever was pounding my pussy.
“Come here,” I whispered, and its owner knelt closer to me, the tip of his dick almost touching Tommy’s as they both hovered at my lips. I knew without even trying that I’d never fit them both in my mouth. But I was going to have a go anyway, my head switching from side to side as I sucked on one and then the other, sometimes just quick gulps, other times long, loving caresses that started in the back of my throat and engulfed the entire length.
My cunt was screaming with joy; whoever was fucking me… Frank or Terry, Terry or Frank. It didn’t matter… sure knew how to fuck; one little orgasm after another pulsed through my body, all building up to the big one that I knew would leave me screaming the hotel down, no matter how many cocks I had in my mouth. And talking of orgasms… Tommy had lasted well, but not any more. He cried out, twitched and then roughly thrust himself deep into my mouth as his come poured out, thick and warm and gooey, straight down the back of my throat. I spluttered a little, swallowed the lot, and kept on sucking as he softened on my tongue.
He pulled out and his pal slipped straight in, so thick I felt like my jaw would tear, so long that, even as he banged against my throat, I was struggling to take more meat inside me. I’d never felt a cock so huge, never tasted one so hot, and never ever felt somebody fuck my mouth so hard, banging into my face as frenetically as his friend was fucking my cunt.
They slipped into the same rhythm, and that was amazing as well, the ultimate carnival ride, the waltzer and the twister and the teacups all in one, and I was spinning and twisting and flying, listening to the headboard bang against the wall as the boys picked up their pace even harder, and then….
Fuck. You know what it feels like when you and your partner come together? Multiply that by a thousand and then add some more, because that’s what it feels like when you and two partners come together, one thrusting as deep as possible up inside your pussy, the other stuffing himself as far as he can, all the way down your throat, and the both letting fly at the precise same moment. And where the two floods met somewhere around my ribcage, that’s where my orgasm started, a crashing, splashing, sense-mashing explosion that filled my entire body with absolute, unbeatable and undiluted pleasure.
Both men were slow to pull out, and that was exactly how I wanted it. I wanted to suck and suckle and squeeze them until there was nothing left; to hold them inside me until the end of time. And when they did finally, unwillingly, slip from my grasp, I raised myself and sucked at all three again, and they melted in my mouth, drained of even the ability to speak.
But not to act. A mouth closed on mine, a thick tongue deep inside, sucking out the come that caked my gums. Another was at my pussy, cleaning me out. It was as if, having borrowed me from their best college buddy, they were now determined to return me to him in the same condition they’d found me, licked clean of any trace of the night’s events, and I closed my eyes, relaxing to their magical ministrations as I felt another orgasm building deep inside me. And this time I did cry out, all the pleasure and joy that had filled me tonight flying free with a gasping, sobbing, ecstatic scream that sounded like no word I had ever uttered before, but was filled with more meaning than any I’d ever heard. I was in heaven and I wanted the whole world to know it.
And beside us, Mark snored on.
They dressed, I undressed, they left the room, I went to bed. My mind was a jumble of sensations and thoughts; I had loved harder and come more dramatically than I ever had in my life, and if I felt even the tiniest twinge of regret or embarrassment, even a hint of horror at how readily I had betrayed my husband, the memory of that final orgasm pushed it away. Besides, in the morning… assuming he’d sobered up by then… I’d more than make up for it.
Which, I’m thrilled to say, I did. And only once did I ever have cause to wonder just how deeply asleep my husband had been, as I sucked on his cock while our breakfast went cold, and I heard him tell me… thought I heard him tell me…to suck it like the slut I was, to swallow his mess like I’d swallowed his friends’, and if he didn’t flood my mouth with enough, then maybe he’d invite a few other friends over, and they could drown me with their cocks.
I raised my head and looked him in the eye. “I’d like that,” I told him. “I’d like that a lot.”
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Right now, I am reading... Bitten edited by Susie Bright... and I'll admit that it was the cover that drew me first, a glossy, scaly, almost inter-active creation that made me think, if they work this hard on the outside, then the inside is going to be amazing. And I was right.
In some ways, this multi-author collection of supernatural erotica is more supernatural than erotic, but that's not a bad thing. The themes are the draw here, and that is where the book really earns its buck. An incubus epic that flips the traditional notion of demonic possession on its head, until the incubus is the one who will probably need rescuing at some point. Another demon armed with a tiny pair of scissors, for snipping the souls of her sexual conquests. A magical formula that summons a fuck. And probably best of them all, a truly Gothic, and convincingly arousing story about the bond between undead French aristocrat and a rose - convincing, because anybody who enjoys a bit of Flower Play is suddenly going to find themselves saying "hello" to every odd-looking rose they see.
We hear a lot these days about a recession in publishing, as the publishers themselves tumble over one another to see who can sound the loudest death knell... the Intenet is killing us, Google Books are strangling us, e-books are eating our feet... and maybe sales are down as the traditional printed book struggles to compete with all the alternative forms of readable entertainment that are out there.
There are two solutions. One is for e-books to settle down into a single universal format, and end the absurd Betamax vs VHS war which we are currently in the midst of; and the other is for every publisher to start thinking down the same path as Chronicle, the publishers of Bitten. Transform a book into an event. Both Bitten and another Bright anthology, X: The Erotic Treasury, arrive in packaging that doesn't mere make you want to own them, it demands you do. Add an affordable price (my copy of Bitten came from Amazon for under $12) and you're not simply buying a book. You're picking up a little work of art as well.
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 3:14 AM
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Like most American Doctor Who fans, I got my start thanks to PBS airing (and airing and airing) the mid-late 1970s Tom Baker series, best remembered by most people for the monster scarf and the talking tin dog, but by me for the presence of Sarah Jane Smith - actress Elisabeth Sladen.
A feisty, almost tomboy-ish brunette who completely overturned the stereotype of television beauty at a time (early 1990s) when most women in TV were apparently auditioning for 90210, she also struck me as the kind of woman I would want to be if I could; strong enough to stand up to whatever threat was thrown at her, be it human, alien or asshole, but sweet enough to win those same adversaries' hearts. Watch Genesis Of The Daleks, one of the myriad 1970s adventures that are now available on DVD, and then "The Stolen Earth" from thirty years later. Even Davros, the chairbound wrinkly who wants to conquer the universe, is clearly in love with her.
Certainly she never let the Doctor walk over her, no matter how often he tried to, and when a new companion, Harry, started sniffing round the Tardis, with one eye definitely set on winning Sarah Jane's heart, she dismissed him with a disdain that was all the more withering for being unspoken. There was never any suggestion that Sarah Jane was gay... rather, like the character she is most clearly based on, Diana Brackley, the scientist heroine of John Wyndham's The Trouble With Lichen, she is portrayed as being simply far too busy to bother with romance. But a girl could dream....
Sarah Jane (and Elisabeth) left the Doctor in 1976, but thirty years later returned for a one-off appearance (School Reunion) that was so well-received that she was promptly gifted with her own show, the Sarah Jane Adventures... incredibly, the first Doctor Who spin-off series in the program's almost-fifty year history. Sightings of it have been sporadic on US TV, but the DVDs are available and excellent.
And now Elisabeth Sladen is dead, the second "major" Who-related death this year (the Brigadier fired his final round on February 22), taken by the cancer that she hid from all but her closest friends and family for ... well, who knows how long? The new series of the main show launches on Saturday, and Sarah Jane was not scheduled to appear in any of the episodes. But everyone who grew up watching her... or wanting to be her... will feel her presence hanging over them anyway.
Goodnight Sarah Jane... sweet dreams.
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 7:36 AM
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
COCKTALES - BETWEEN THE SHEETS
Cocktales is a fabulous new series from Xcite Books that offers a quality selection of erotic stories with mixed themes. If you are looking for variety and the very best erotic writing then you will love these especially selected titles
includes THERE'S A CURE FOR ALMOST EVERYTHING by Chrissie Bentley
“Poor baby. Can I get you anything at all?”
“Yeah, a cigarette.”
I smiled. “Not until you’re out of here.” Mark had been in hospital for a week now, ever since taking a tumble off his roof (don’t ask what he was doing up there!) and, no matter how many visitors he received, the only one he really wanted, ten minutes with Mr Nick O’Tine, was the one that he was forbidden. Not only did the hospital impose a strict non-smoking rule, but his room also seemed to double as a storeroom for every oxygen cylinder the ward might require.
I didn’t know how he did it. I quit smoking a couple of years back, and I can still remember the agonies I passed through – and I was doing it of my own free will. I couldn’t imagine lying there day after day, being forcibly deprived of my little fix. Still, at least they’d given him a patch. I went cold turkey. “Anything else?”
“How about a hot nurse?”
I shook my head. “You’re really striking out today, aren’t you?” I reached out, lay a hand on his as it rested in his lap, squeezed it… then squeezed it again. I hadn’t felt a boner like that in I don’t know how long.
His eyes flickered guiltily into mine. “Told you I needed a hot nurse.”
“You need a hot something.” Purposefully I left my hand where it lay, even after he eased his out from beneath mine, and clamped it instead on my wrist. It was a long time since Mark and I had been lovers… three years? Maybe four. But we’d remained friends ever since, and I think we’d both wondered “what if…” – although what if what, I could no longer remember.
I squeezed him through the thin hospital blankets, and felt an answering twitch. “At least nothing broke down there,” I whispered, casting an eye towards the door to his room. It wasn’t closed all the way, but the way the room was angled, I’d see someone walking in a few seconds before they saw me. But just to be on the safe side….
My hand slipped beneath the blankets, groped for a moment, then touched hot, hard flesh. Mark groaned as my fingertips stroked him gently, and again as I tightened my grip around his shaft and began rolling the flesh back and forth, back and forth….
I loved the feel of him in my hand, marveled at the way my mind seemed to leap back all those years to the days when I did this (and more… so much more) on a regular basis, remembering how far to pull back, how hard to push forward, when to rest and caress his balls, when to scrape a thumbnail across his helmet, and when to go hell for leather, pumping him harder as he started to come….
And come and come and come. It felt endless, a flood that I first felt flowing over my fist, as his cock spasmed in my hand and Mark let out a sigh like I’d never heard him utter before.
I reached for a Kleenex and pulled back the covers.
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 5:39 AM
Friday, April 15, 2011
Second Life opens the doors to a lot of possibilities, including a few that ... quite frankly... would otherwise be physically, not to mention psychologically, impossible. So it's nice to know that a few familiar traditions are still alive and well, including making out in the movie house.
Funny thing, though. I really didn't think "Social Network" was meant to be this raunchy.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
I leaned back in the chair, my eyes fixed to the computer screen but watching his reflection anyway as he busied himself on the shelves behind me, transferring one stack of books (Modern Classics) to one section while bring another (Erotica - although that had nothing to do with my thoughts) to another. I sighed; after all these years, he was the only man who had ever got close to me, the only man I trusted and... the only man who was so off limits that he might as well have been a Martian.
His reflection was coming closer. I refocussed on the screen, tapping in the orders that were the store’s lifeblood, but I knew he’d seen me pause for long moments and I knew he’d be over to check. It’s why I did it.
“Is everything okay, bout 'choux?” He still called me that, even though I was more or less the same height as him, and had both High School and college firmly locked away in my past. I turned and smiled, nodded. “Fine. I was just thinking....”
“Good thoughts, I hope?”
“Very good,” I answered and I went back to correct a few typos. He always made me mistype when he stood this close, and he was close... close enough that I could feel his body heat, close enough that I could smell his aftershave, close enough that I could have reached behind me and...
His hands fell on my shoulders. The familiar familiarity, gently massaging either side of my neck, softly, sweetly... sensually? I blinked the word away and concentrated on the page; then, abandoning the attempt, made light conversation. How is business today? Did Renee come in to pick up her order? Should we get pizza or sandwiches for lunch today? And will you do that just a little bit harder, a little more firmly.... a tiny bit slower... I gasped at the boldness of that thought; chased it back to whatever place it came from, then rolled my chair back against his body, stood and glanced across the store.
“I need to doublecheck....” My voice faltered and I coughed to camouflage it, while his eyebrows raised themselves curiously.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
I nodded. I’m fine.
Fine except for the fact I want to....
Want to what?
My Instant Messenger chatbox chirruped and I turned back to the computer, grateful for the distraction; he seemed relieved too, and he stepped away, allowing me the privacy to at least say hello. But moments later he was back, leaning on the back of my chair with one hand, while the other toyed with my hair... casually, almost absent-mindedly, and I wondered what was going through his mind, as we repeated this ritual day in and day out, without even a word to acknowledge that it was a ritual.
Did his mind wander like mine did? Did his thoughts rebel as his body reacted? Did his body even react? Yes... I knew that already, from the bulge I once saw as he turned back to his work once; a bulge that I blushed to even acknowledge, but which rose fresh in my dreams on many nights since then, a Biblical serpent to tempt and torment me, but not so much that I did not daydream as well. It’s length, its thickness, its shape, its texture.
He would not, I knew, be like the boys who I’d been with; the young men my own age with their arrogant enthusiasm; the belief that everything they did was all I could ask for. He would be calm and methodical, gentle and knowing, experienced and exquisite - but he would be excited as well, in the best possible way; balancing patience with the power that he knew he had over me; and never letting go until he knew that I had as well. And I would...
What? The voice in my head was drowned by the voice in my ear. He was asking a question and for a moment I panicked... “so what do you want to do,” he was saying, and his words dovetailed so perfectly with my own roaming thoughts that, for a moment that felt like a month, my face burned red and my heart pounded loud enough that it drowned the traffic outside the store.
“... for lunch?”
I answered without thinking, and he pulled on his jacket, to walk the six doors to the store. I watched as he walked, my mind’s eye mesmerized by the ease of his movements, the fluidity of his stride... he would love like that as well, said my heart, and I felt an answering pulse in my already damp pussy, a pulse that pushed its way to my throat, a lump that rose to meet the thought of what I would do if only I could... because of course I knew the answer to the question that hung there; had answered it in my fantasies so many times before; kneeling or crouching or flat in my back, holding him tight while his hands played my hair, my eyes fixed on his as I danced in his ballroom - I smiled at the pun as though I had invented it, and my tongue swept my lips as I played with the words.
I looked at my watch; he’d be back in five minutes, unless there was a queue. Boldly I walked to the door; pushed it too and turned the latch, put up the “back in a few moments” sign, then back to the bathroom at the end of the office.
Slipped out of the panties that clung wet beneath my skirt.
One foot on the ground, the other on the wall, bracing myself for what I knew would come next. The shock of my finger as it slipped to my clit; the sensation of flight, airborne and laughing; the lightheaded whirl as the butterfly took flight, the fragile glass butterfly that rose so slowly from my cunt... rising, rising, higher. higher.... until I could hold it no more and it shattered to pieces, as I cried out....
In surprise as the stall door flew open.
In shock as I watched his eyes drink in my pleasure.
In amazement as he knelt and gently moved my hand.
And in ecstasy as his tongue replaced my wet fingers.
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 8:27 AM
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
NAUGHTY MIRANDA (NOVEL) by Chrissie Bentley
Publisher Erotic Excursions
File Format PDF
File Size 921.6 kB
It is more than twenty years since Miranda Bradley first walked into our evening television viewing, the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth girl-next-door who captured our hearts in her first ever role, and has retained her hold on them ever since. Living a life without scandal or mishap, or any of the behind-the-scenes shockers that habitually shake the image of her small-screen contemporaries, Bradley was long ago dubbed the Virgin Queen by the tabloids. But the time has come to puree that purity – and who better to flick the switch than Bradley herself? In other words, butter still wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But her men always do.
You only had to look at Madeleine to know she was man-eater, in every sense of the word. She had one of those mouths that was simply made to swallow cock, and the kind of body that made every cock want to be swallowed. Just walking down the road with her, as I sometimes did after book club, every guy on the street would turn to look at her, while she kept up a running commentary, just loud enough for me to hear, on why she would, or wouldn’t, go home with each of them.
“I used to practice on bananas.”
She paused. “Really, before I ever had a guy, I used to practice on bananas. I’d peel ‘em back and see how far down my throat I could stick one. The first wet dream I ever had, I was blowing the guy next door, and when I did start dating, I almost went mad waiting for him to make the first move, just so I could get him in my mouth.
“None of the other stuff interested me. I didn’t care about losing my virginity, or having my tits felt, or my pussy licked. I just wanted to suck a cock and it was ridiculous, because you’d think every guy in the world would have been queuing up at my door, but I went through four boyfriends before I even got my hands down somebody’s trousers. And when it did finally look like happening, the idiot got so excited so quickly, he’d come all my hand before I’d even got his pants down.
“Anyway, one night I was babysitting for a family down the road. They just wanted me to stay until their older kids got home. They’d gone to a party or something, there was a boy who was about a year older than me, and his sister who was a couple of years younger. And the boy offered to walk me home. He didn’t know I only lived about five doors away, so I took him in the opposite direction entirely, and we wound up on the baseball diamond, it was pitch black, and we just started fooling around. Not kissing or anything, more like wrestling. He’d grabbed my wrap and started running off with it, and I caught him, and we were on the ground, he was sitting on my chest, pinning me down, and I was trying to get him off me, by tickling his ribs.
“He was squirming, and pushing forward, his crotch was right in my face, and that was when I noticed he was H-A-R-D., hard. Now, I should mention it was early summer, and really warm, so all he had on down there was a pair of shorts, so this was a real tent-pole sticking out, and I thought, ‘well, it’s halfway there anyway,’ so I just popped it out of his shorts, opened my mouth and in he went.
“It was nothing like I’d expected. A lot bigger, for a start. Fatter. I’d never found a banana that thick, so that surprised me. And it tasted different as well. I’d never really thought about what a cock would taste like, I just assumed it would be a lot like any other part of the body, your arm or something, so that surprised me as well, although not as much as I surprised him. I think it took him a moment or two to realize precisely what was happening, but suddenly he was ‘what are you doing?’
“Now, you all know it’s impossible to speak with something that big in your mouth, so I just made a muffled mmpphh-mmpphhh sort of sound, and held on a little tighter in case he tried to pull away – which he did, because I think he was getting a little scared now, in case I bit it off, maybe, or I didn’t know what I was doing and might freak out when I found out.
“So I let go and said, ‘what do you think I’m doing? If you’re going to go round sticking things like that in people’s faces, what do you expect to happen?’ That completely threw him, so while he was thinking about it, I just reached up and popped him back in my mouth.
“The problem was, he was so big I couldn’t do anything once it was in there. I couldn’t suck, I could barely move my tongue, I just lay there with him sticking in there. So I took hold of his hips and started swaying him back and forth, until I could feel him sliding in and out. And, of course, he figured that out very quickly. He leaned forward, with his hands on the ground, and started fucking my mouth.
“He was so gentle about it, and as my muscles began to relax, I found I could do all sorts of little tricks, little sucks and nips, and he was moving faster and faster, and it was so smooth, my eyes were closed and this really was the best thing I’d ever felt in my entire life, the happiest I’d ever been, just lying there with him moving in and out of me. My lips were tracing the little bumps and veins on his prick, and the ridge, and the smooth curve, it was everything I’d ever dreamed it could be and more.
“I didn’t ever want it to end, even when my mouth started aching, but of course it had to. He was thrusting harder and harder, until suddenly he jerked himself out and, in the same instant, I felt his come whip across my cheeks and my lips, which was great because that’s the one thing I’d never actually figured out how to handle. I know now, of course, but back then, I really wasn’t sure, I figured I’d just deal with it when it came. If you’ll pardon the pun.
“I licked a little off my lips, and I wasn’t sure about the taste, so I wiped the rest off with my hand, and smeared it on the grass, while he just collapsed in a heap beside me, panting. It was so funny, he was completely exhausted, and it was ages before he even opened his eyes again, let alone said anything.”
“So what did he say?” Laura asked.
“I really can’t remember,” Madeleine replied. “I was too busy wondering how long it would take him to get it up again.”
In an age when erotic literature is either driving hard for mainstream respectability, or following its movie cousin’s dive into ever more extreme scenarios and brutality, Chrissie Bentley’s Naughty Miranda arrives to remind us that sometimes, erotica is just that erotic. Vividly so. Presented as the autobiography of a (presumably) fictional primetime TV star, a teenaged rival to the Jump Street and 90210 hits of the early 1990s, Naughty Miranda details the behind the scenes love life of its titular star, as she chafes against her TV role’s portrayal of herself as the ultimate all-American good girl. And it is no exaggeration to say that every chapter packs in more exquisite sexuality than many erotic novels muster over the course of their full length.
“Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,” insists the book’s jacket, “but her men do,” and that should serve as ample description of Miranda’s sexual forte, as it plays out in exquisite (but never repetitive) fashion again and again. Whether hitch-hiking home after a disastrous vacation, playing Scrabble with her scriptwriter, or even attending her local book club, Naughty Miranda locates the sexual possibilities in every situation, then explores them in vivacious detail. Bentley writes from the hip, and pulls no punches. There is no fluffy romance to confuse Miranda’s motives, and no flowery analogies to disguise her intentions. She is just a girl who enjoys sex, and out of her enjoyment emerges one of the most deliciously explicit novels of the year so far.
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 5:28 AM
Monday, April 11, 2011
WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION (novella) by Chrissie Bentley
Publication date: Nov 18 2009
ISBN/EAN13: 144990081X / 9781449900816
Page Count: 74
KINDLE EDITION NOW AVAILABLE - buy here
PRINT EDITION STILL AVAILABLE - buy here
Everybody says you should never mix business with pleasure. But my vacation had already been squeezed in between a couple of work assignments, and I was a single girl in a foreign country. What did I expect might happen?
What I Did On My Summer Vacation is a non-stop whirl of sight-seeing and sex, historic England seen from angles that the tourist guides never mention. And you wouldn't believe my holiday snaps!
Breathtaking, breathless and brilliantly brazen, What I Did On My Summer Vacation is a vacation in its own right, 49 terrifically paced pages that set out their erotic agenda from the very outset (“if this is how they treat you in First Class, imagine what happens in Coach”), and are over far too quickly.
A New York businesswoman travels to the UK for two weeks of meetings, interspersed with some sightseeing around the Dickensian city of Rochester.
But it is what happens in and around those intentions that powers her story, and the sense that Dickens himself is overlooking and, in some way, approving of her activities adds a wry humor that is as captivating as it is arousing.
So we shift from the bedroom to the riverbank, from the top of an historic monument to the floor of a restaurant restroom (and let’s not forget the photographer’s studio at the end), and every encounter is presented with a vividness that is almost cinematic in delivery and execution.
It would be easy for this catalog of carnality to slip into either crudity or, even worse, repetition. But author Bentley, a veteran short story writer stepping into the longer form for the first time, maneuvers effortlessly around such pitfalls, both via the fluidity of her writing and the strength of her characterizations.
With only a few lines of description, her partners leap fully formed from the page, while their activities are detailed with both experienced expertise and the thrill of discovery. Her first encounter with a naked Englishman, for example, is laugh-out-loud priceless.
With just five chapters, What I Did On My Summer Vacation is as powerful, and certainly as incident-packed, as many books twice, three times its length. It certainly confirms Bentley’s place among today’s most exquisitely (and explicitly!) readable erotic authors, and leaves one yearning for her to turn her hand to a novel-length work.
WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION
Chrissie is a woman who is taking a summer working vacation to England.
She meets Melissa and Martin, with a few other people along the way. She is thrilled to finally get to see the places her favorite author wrote about.
Melissa works in the same office as Chrissie and is happy to finally have some off. She helps her find her way to the hotel and around town. When a night out includes them getting to know one another. Martin is a local hard working man who gives Chrissie a tour of the small scenic village she visits briefly and gives her special privileges.
Chrissie has a great time enjoying herself in Europe, not only does she get to see places she dreamed about visiting, she gets to have some fun with Melissa and Martin, what a great vacation this turned out to be. Only one problem, How to write her report on what she did on her summer vacation!
What I Did On My Summer Vacation is a wonderful erotic contemporary. It is full of scenic views that make the reader feel like they are there, experiencing it for themselves. The secondary characters add to the plot backdrop and give the story depth. The book is full of adventure, and the sex sizzles. I recommend this book to anyone who likes a good erotic/contemporary story.
COFFEE TIME ROMANCE
WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION
England – Present Day
When Chrissie Bentley gets the opportunity to head over to England on business, she decides to add a little pleasure to the mix with a mini-vacation between conferences. Work soon becomes the least of her interests though when there are so many other sights and people to enjoy. What did Chrissie do on her summer vacation? Or better yet, who did she do?
An irreverent account of an erotic vacation, WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION is a charming throwback to the first school assignments of our youth, with a decidedly adult flavor. Chrissie is an adventurous woman willing to try anything at least once. Check this out and see for yourself how her vacation went.
FOR MORE GREAT CHRISSIE BENTLEY STORIES, CLICK HERE
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 5:26 AM
Friday, April 8, 2011
Perusing Violet Erotica's site... something I seem to be doing a lot of just lately... this sequence of photos caught my eye. Partly, I must admit, for obvious reasons. But also because - well, who can resist a sexy nurse? Especially one who reminds us of the days before scrubs became the all-purpose uniform and rewired an ocean of fantasies towards some decidedly more mundane pursuits (is she a nurse? Is she the janitor? Is she a painter and decorator?).
My own partial vision of nurses as angels of super-sexual mercy appears in my short story There's A Cure For Almost Everything, but I'd love to hear if you have any horny hospital tales of your own. It's what the comment box is for, and while I'm waiting for you all to follow, I'm off to look at Violet some more.....
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Writing and researching my novel Below Blue London, paranormal historical erotica set in the heart of East London, I found myself in need of a local soccer team ... not a well-known one, but not a hopelessly obscure one. And not a made-up one either. My friend Dave came to the rescue, delivering one up that filled all those criteria - they certainly weren't (and aren't) well-known; but they played in England's Football League, so they weren't that obscure either. But they were only there for a couple of years - with the result that I still receive the occasional indignant letter from readers, telling me there is no such team as Thames FC, and that I should have done my research more thoroughly.
So, for the edification of those and, I hope, the casual interest and sympathy of everyone else, two views of Thames FC. The first comes from the website Historical Kits; the second is an excerpt from my own Below Blue London. Enjoy.
THAMES FC - THE HISTORIAN'S VIEW
Thames Association FC was formed as a speculative venture by business men who had built the enormous West Ham Stadium in the East End of London for greyhound racing. There was no connection with West Ham United, who played at Upton Park, aside from the name and their proximity. At the time dog tracks could expect to attract over 100,000 paying customers to a midweek meeting; admission charges alone could be worth a fortune and additional income could be earned by licensing bookmakers. At weekends, however, this vast stadium lay empty so the directors decided to form a professional football team to bring in additional income. After playing in the Southern League Eastern Division, Thames Association FC was elected to the Third Division (South) in 1930, replacing Merthyr Town by a single vote. On taking up its place in the Football League, the club shortened its name to Thames FC.
Faced with competition from established East End sides, Charlton Athletic, West Ham United, Clapton Orient and Millwall, Thames were bound to struggle and they attracted meagre crowds, including a mere 469 who watched Luton Town on 6 December 1930. In a stadium capable of holding 120,000, this must have been a dispiriting event. After finishing 20th (out of 22) in 1931 they were last in 1932. Rather than attempt re-election, the directors cut their losses, resigned from the League and wound up the club. The stadium continued to be used for greyhound racing and speedway until it was demolished in the early 1970s.
THAMES FC - THE NOVELIST'S DREAM
“Honest, Rose, he lives next door to my auntie. I met him on Sunday, and he said, if I ever want tickets for a match, all I had to do was ask him.”
“Pull the other one, Bertram Williams, it’s got bells on it.” I don’t know what it is about that boy, he just cannot stop himself lying. Last month, he came to work and swore he met Al Bowlly on an underground train, as though the brightest singing sensation of the year would take public transport like you or I. And the month before, he was having dinner with Enid Trevor, the star of Some More Nonsense, because I’m sure radio personalities have nothing better to do with their time than break bread with spotty butcher’s boys from the Isle of Dogs.
Now it was Moses Russell who was Bertie’s lifelong friend. Yes, the Moses Russell, one of the greatest footballers that East London had ever seen, and the captain of Thames FC, which wasn’t quite our local team--that was Millwall, of course--but near enough. The team itself was rubbish, they scarcely ever won a game, and my dad reckoned they’d be out of business by the summer. But Russell was an idol regardless and besides, Thames played at the West Ham Stadium, which everyone knew was one of the best in London. Not only for football, either. They had greyhounds and whippets, and dirt track racing, and there was even a market there on Sunday afternoons. And Bertie Williams had been offered free tickets. Of course.
It was my own fault that he kept spinning these yarns out to me. Ever since I let him kiss me on his birthday last August, he’d been hanging around like a little lost pup, his big brown eyes following me everywhere, even up the ladder when I went to stock the shelves. “You want an eyeful up my dress, young man, I’ll give you one,” I told him and, making sure that old Mr. Bannister wasn’t anywhere in sight, I took a handful of suet and flung it at him. He did look funny, his black hair streaked with white, and he went completely crazy, because he’d spent hours--so he said--combing the Brylcreem in, and now he was going to have to wash it all out.
But I suppose I liked him deep down, because who else was there to fancy round these parts? A bunch of sweaty dock workers, who couldn’t say three words without effing and blinding in the middle, and whose idea of treating a lady properly was to turn their head before they spit on the floor. Sometimes, I hated my dad for moving us here. We were living in Leyton before, right on the edge where it looks towards the forest. And then he was offered this job at Millwall docks, with a company house and everything, and the only forest I saw these days was the masts of the older ships when they came into the port.
“So, do you want to come to the match or not, Rose?” Bertie swung himself up on the counter and sat there, his heels drumming against the wooden paneling.
“Get down from there. Mr. Bannister will have your guts for garters if he catches you.”
“Answer my question, then. It’s against Queen’s Park Rangers, and they’re flying high. It should be a cracking game.”
“I’ll crack you in a minute, if you don’t shut your yap.”
“And if I do?”
“Show me the tickets and maybe I’ll come.” His eyes lit up and he scrambled down from his perch, whipped a clumsy pirouette across the shop floor, and collided into the beef flanks that hung on hooks from the ceiling. I almost fell off my ladder with laughter.
Well, I’ll never call Bertie a liar again. He not only came through with tickets for the match, but he got us a lift in Mr. Russell’s motor car afterwards, all the way back to West Ferry Road. The game itself was terrible (as if I’m a judge! It was the first I’d ever seen), but, like Bertie said, the one good thing about going to see a struggling team a few days after Christmas is, there was hardly anyone there. Not like some of the matches you see photographs of in the newspaper, where you wonder how anyone can even breathe for the crush.
So I stood on the terrace, bundled up against the cold, resplendent in the massive red and blue rosette that Bertie had made me (“a rosette for a rose,” he announced proudly, as he handed it over; and no thank you, Bertie, I don’t need your help pinning it to my breast). We chatted about this and that, and he’d thought to bring a flask along, so we had plenty of hot tea to drink. And Mr. Russell could not have been nicer, despite the fact his team had lost. “Never mind, we’ll do better next game.”
BUY BELOW BLUE LONDON HERE
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 4:59 AM