Invisible Touch Part Two of Two

Invisible Touch Part Two of Two

Angel didn’t sleep that night. She never did after a clandestine meeting with Darren. She stared into the depths of her wine glass and wondered what Eliza knew about her. She wondered what Eliza thought about her. She wondered what she would do if she were in Eliza’s position. Sighing, Angel got up from her chair and poured herself another drink.

Eliza and Darren had met at university, Angel knew that. The marriage had been a mundane one, until Eliza turned to a cocktail of drugs and drink. Angel wondered what had driven Eliza to drugs and drink. She could guess, but she didn’t want to dwell on the answer; despite his faults, Angel liked to cling on to an idealistic view of Darren.

In the early hours of the morning, her phone rang. Angel was grateful for the distraction, anything to lift her mind out of the pit of gloom and despondency into which it had sunk.

“Angel?” It was the voice.

“I’m here.”

“I’ve missed you.”

Angel paused, then she replied truthfully, “I’ve missed you to.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” Angel frowned.

“Have sex with him.”

Angel blushed. She felt agitated, confused. “Sex? With whom? What are you talking about…?”

“I’ll forgive you this time, but it’s got to stop. Do you understand?”

Angel stared at the phone. Who was this? How did he know about her and Darren? Had he watched them make love? Her body offered an involuntary shiver. There was something warm and appealing about the voice, something she was attracted to. However, the thought of him spying on her and prying into her private life appalled her; he seemed to know everything about her yet she knew nothing about him, and that unnerved her. Of course, he was right – the affair with Darren had to stop. But she didn’t want to be alone; she needed a man in a her life; she needed someone to love.

“I have your next task ready for you,” the voice continued. “I want you to drive the Aston Martin to the Lover’s Knot. Do it this evening at eleven o’clock. I want you to leave the keys in the car and the car open. Then I want you to return home.” The voice paused and Angel could sense that he was smiling. “From home drive your own car to Devil’s Point. You know where Devil’s Point is, don’t you, Angel?”

In the darkness, Angel nodded. Despite its name, Devil’s Point was a beauty spot, a place where she and Darren went for summer picnics.

“What happens when I get to Devil’s Point?” Angel asked.

“I’ll tell you when you get there.” There was a long pause and Angel sensed that the voice was reluctant to break the connection. To her consternation, Angel found herself unwilling to break the connection too. Eventually, the voice said, “Take care of yourself, Angel; I’ll be thinking about you.”

And I’ll be thinking about you too, Angel admitted to herself.

* * *

Angel couldn’t concentrate on her work that day. She tried to contact the voice, dialling his phone number several times, but there was no answer. Her shift at Lifeline was coming to a close when she received an unexpected phone call. It was Darren. He said, “Angelica, listen to me. I’m at the farmhouse.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No, just listen. I’ve been doing some checking on the history of this place. The previous owner was someone called Ben, Ben Moss.”

Angel frowned, “What has that got to do with me?”

“Ben Moss died a year ago, to this day.”

Realisation dawned and Angel felt her stomach muscles tighten. Fighting the nausea, she asked, “How did he die?”

“He was killed in a road accident, hit and run.”

Angel felt that she didn’t want to ask the next question, but she did so anyway, “Where did the accident take place?”

“Devil’s Point,” Darren replied.

* * *

Angel drove the Aston Martin to the Lover’s Knot. She had to admit to herself that she no longer knew what she was doing; the voice had taken over, assumed total control.

Angel stared out through the car windscreen to the pub. A face stared back. A man’s face. He had greasy black hair, dark beady eyes and a rat’s tail of a moustache. Angel shivered. The man had a satanic face, a face that spoke of evil. The more Angel stared at the pub the more the beady eyes stared back. It was like a game, a competition to see who would turn away first.

It was a relief to Angel when eleven o’clock came and she could abandon the car. Then she did as instructed by the voice – she returned home and drove her own car to Devil’s Point.

Devil’s Point was shrouded in mist when she arrived there. Squalls of cold rain blew in from the sea. Angel climbed out of her car and stood in the rain. Soon, that rain had soaked through to her skin, hugging her cotton dress to her petite body. She shuddered and looked around for cover. She spotted a phone booth across the road and decided to shelter there.

Angel was halfway across the road when the headlights hit her. She turned and stared at the headlights, feeling unable to move. Fear gripped her. Then that fear abated and she found that she could stare at the headlights with equanimity. Like the game outside the pub, it became a challenge to see who would look away first. Angel felt up to that challenge. The demon that had tormented her soul was fading by the second. Resolutely, she stood her ground.

The car was getting closer now, weaving over the white lines in the centre of the road. Angel smiled. She felt her body soften and relax. She knew that the solution to her problem was near.

There was a squeal of brakes and the air was filled with the stench of burnt rubber and blue language. Angel had closed her eyes as the car approached. Now she opened her eyes and saw the satanic man climbing out of the Aston Martin.

Angel blinked as the man glared at her, his face angry, enraged. He grabbed hold of Angel’s dress, below the neckline, and snarled, “What the hell have you been playing at?”

“What are you talking about?” Angel asked innocently.

“Someone’s been leaving phone messages, upsetting my wife. My wife thinks that I’m having an affair.” He waved his hands menacingly in front of Angel’s face and she turned away, not so much from the threat of his hands, but more from the stench of stale beer.

Submissively, Angel said, “I’m sorry if that’s what your wife thinks.”

The satanic man grabbed hold of Angel’s dress, tearing the bodice before pushing her up against the bonnet of her car. He leaned against her, his weight pinning her to the car. “It’s got to stop, you understand? It’s got to stop!”

“Is that what she told you?” Angel asked calmly, surprised at her level of composure. “Your drinking…is that what she told you, your drinking has got to stop.”

The man frowned. He leaned forward, pinning Angel’s hands to the windscreen of the car. “Did that bitch put you up to this?”

Despite her predicament, despite the fact that the man was clearly both angry and aroused, Angel felt her old confidence returning, and more. She said, “You’d been drinking on that night too, hadn’t you, a year ago.”

“It was an accident,” the man yelled. “He just stepped out into the road, how was I supposed to see him?”

“You killed him,” Angel said.

“It was an accident,” the man insisted.

“You killed him,” Angel repeated sadly, “you murdered Ben Moss.”

The man was shaking now. The rain had given his skin a translucent appearance. He drew his hand across his face, wiping the moisture away. Then he ground his groin between Angel’s legs. He was lost in rage and lust and despite her best efforts, she felt powerless to resist him. She moaned as his hands went under her dress, pulling at her panties. Her fists pounded his back, but he ignored her blows. He was reaching for his belt, about to unbuckle his trousers, when the phone rang across the road.

Angel didn’t understand exactly why, but she knew that he’d run across the road to answer the phone. After pushing her to the ground, he did just that. She also knew that he wouldn’t get there. She couldn’t see it, she couldn’t even hear it, but she knew that something was lurking in the mist. Angel guessed that the man hadn’t seen it either – he never heard the truck that killed him.

As the truck driver got out of his cab and stared blankly into the road, Angel started to cry. Her tears were partly for the man, for a life taken, despite its inherent evil, and partly for herself, for she knew what she had to do next.

The following morning Angel phoned the Lifeline offices. She told Darren that she was handing in her notice and that she didn’t want to see him anymore. Darren tried desperately to change her mind on both counts, but Angel remained resolute. This was the decision she should have reached months ago, a decision that was better for Darren, Eliza and herself. She was free, yet she felt sad for she sensed that the voice remained trapped and in need of her help.

* * *

Angel was lying on her bed, reading, the light from her bedside lamp casting spectral shadows on her bedroom wall. Leaning over, she was about to close her book and switch off her light when her phone rang. It was the voice.

“Hello, Angel.”

“You used me,” she said accusingly, “you used me to get revenge.”

“I had to,” he apologised. “I couldn’t do it on my own.”

There was silence while she digested his words and accepted that fact.

“I still need you,” he said plaintively.

“To claim more life?”

“To restore life.”

Angel frowned, mystified. “How?”

“I needed revenge; I needed someone to take my place. He’s here now and so I can be with you. But it has to be tonight, a year since he killed me. Do you understand?”

Perplexed, Angel shook her head. “No.”

“You have the power to give life. Don’t you feel the mutual attraction between us?”

Angel nodded as she recalled her moments of intense desire while driving to the funfair and while soaping herself in the shower, and she realised that those moments had occurred after talking to the voice.

“Do you feel that attraction now?” the voice asked.

Again, Angel nodded, because she could feel her desire rising; through her nightdress she could see her nipples as they hardened and, in her panties, she could feel her clitoris as it pulsed sensually, insisting that she should part her legs.

“Take your nightdress off,” the voice said huskily.

Angel did as instructed, exposing her breasts.

“Lie back on the bed. Feel my lips on yours.”

Angel moaned softly as he kissed her.

“I’m kissing your ears.”

“Yes.”

“Your neck.”

“Oh yes.”

“The valley between your beautiful breasts.”

“Mmmmm.”

“I’m licking your nipples.”

Angel arched her back. “Lick them!”

“I’m sucking your nipples.”

“Suck them!”

“Now I’m kissing your lips again.”

“Kiss me!” Angel insisted. “Kiss me between my legs!”

“I’m kissing your inner-thighs.”

Angel cupped her breasts; she teased her nipples. “Oh yes! Kiss me! Lick me!”

“You want me, don’t you, Angel.”

“I want you!” she gasped.

“I’m kissing your labia.”

“Mmmmmmm. More!”

“You taste so sweet.”

“More!”

“Shall I lick your clit?”

“Lick it!”

“I’m licking your clit.”

“Oh, fuck!” Angel was writhing now, her body responding to his words; he was licking her, his tongue circling her pearl, then entering deep into her vagina; his invisible touch was driving her mad with desire; she had never felt so horny, so in need of an orgasm. “Fuck me!” Angel cried. “Fuck me!”

“I’m lying between your legs. My hard shaft is parting your lower lips.”

“Mmmmmmmmm.”

“I’m slipping myself inside you.”

“Mmmmmmmmmmm. Oh, yeah!”

“I’m moving inside you.”

“Oh, fuck!”

“Can you feel me inside you?”

“Fuck me!” Angel gasped. “Make me come!”

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you, Angel…you’re going to give me new life.”

“Make me come!”

“Throw your arms back on your pillow. Open your legs wider.”

Lost in her desire, Angel did as instructed.

“I’m deep inside you now, moving inside you.”

“Mmmm, yeah.”

“I’m moving faster now.”

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

“Your clit is pulsing against my pubic bone.”

“Oh, god, yes…oh, god.”

“You’re nearly there, aren’t you, Angel.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving faster now, harder, deeper.”

“Yeah.”

“Now slower with just the tip of my head barely inside you.”

“Oh, god.”

“You’re so wet for me.”

“Yeah.”

“And I’m so hard for you.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Feel my hardness filling you.”

“Oh yeah.”

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“Feel my fingers circling your clit.”

“Oh sweet fuck! Keep your fingers there!”

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you, Angel.”

“I’m coming,” Angel gasped.

“Come for me, Angel.”

“I’m coming…”

“My hands are on your arse. I’m teasing your arse. I’m slipping a finger inside you…The head of my cock is caressing your lower lips, then inside you, stimulating your G-spot…you like it there, don’t you, Angel…”

“More!”

“You look so beautiful when you make love, do you know that.”

“More. Give me more!”

“God, I love you.”

“I love you too.” Then she cried, “Oh, oh fuck…oh, oh, fuck…oh, oh fuck…I’m…I’m…I’m coming! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

The orgasm was intense. It swept over Angel in a tidal wave that seemed to go on forever. She moaned and sighed and groaned and whimpered as each wave washed over her, flooding her chamber, scrambling her senses until she had nothing left, apart from a sense of satisfaction and the intense enjoyment of sexual release.

In a haze, as though drunk, Angel opened her eyes. She gazed into the darkness of her bedroom and there, moving through the curtains, she could see him, his hand outstretched as he approached her. Sitting up, she extended her arm too, her fingers feeling for him, longing for his touch…

Story Copyright © 2014 Gemma Morgan. All rights reserved.

Invisible Touch – Part One of Two

Invisible Touch

“Hello, Newtown Lifeline, how can I help you?”

“Miss Angelotti?”

“Speaking.”

“Your controller said you would help me.”

“Dr Vine?”

“Will you help me?”

Angel paused. The use of her surname had taken her by surprise; the voices on the telephone were largely anonymous, first name terms only. The mention of Darren Vine’s name had jolted her even more. But that’s the least you can expect when you’re having an affair with a married man, she thought bitterly.

Ever the professional, Angel forced herself to concentrate on the needs of the caller. She prided herself in being able to form swift mental images of her clients. This man sounded cool and composed, calm and collected, outwardly in control. What Angel would have given for just an ounce of that control.

Angel spoke into the phone. “What is your problem?” she asked.

“I want you to go to the funfair on Pavilion Road; do you know it?”

“I’m sorry,” Angel said, “we’re a helpline; we’re not allowed to make home visits.”

“Dr Vine said you would help me!” Suddenly, the voice had cracked, its composure gone. The educated, gentlemanly tone had given way to desperation and aggression. Angel could picture the caller’s face, knotted with tension, his nostrils flaring, his eyes full of hostility. “He said you would understand!”

Angel tried to sound reassuring, “I do understand, please, believe me.”

The aggression on the other end of the telephone evaporated and the calm, urbane voice reasserted itself. “I’m sorry,” the voice said, “it’s just that…”

“It’s all right,” Angel said, “take your time.”

“Dr Vine said you would help me,” the voice repeated.

Angel was puzzled by this. Darren didn’t usually pass on his clients to her. “Are you a friend of Dr Vine’s?” she asked.

The urbane voice groaned into a snarl. “I know all about you and Dr Vine.”

Angel’s fingers strangled the telephone, her knuckles shining white. “Who is this?” she demanded.

“There’s an ice-cream kiosk outside the funfair on Pavilion Road. Take your mobile phone. Be there in an hour.”

“Who is…?” Angel stopped. The educated gentleman had broken the connection; the phone had gone dead.

Angel sat back in her chair. A wave of guilt washed over her. Why did she always have to feel like this at the mention of Darren’s name?

Hurriedly, Angel checked her wristwatch – 7.50 pm. Her shift finished in ten minutes; it was a twenty-minute drive from the Lifeline offices to the funfair; she should make it in plenty of time.

As Angel drove to the funfair a strange sensation started to overwhelm her; she felt an incredible urge to unbutton her jeans and slip her fingers into her panties. She frowned at herself in the driving mirror; she wasn’t even thinking about sex; what was going on? The urge became stronger and she found herself clenching her buttocks and moving her hips, slowly, gently, as though responding to a lover’s light touch. Her breasts started to tingle and her clitoris started to pulse. She moaned softly and, taking her left hand from the steering wheel, she fingered herself through her jeans. I have to pull over, she thought, anymore of this and I’m going to come.

Angel pulled into a lay-by. She leaned back in her driver’s seat and closed her eyes. The sensation was getting stronger now, as though a lover were licking her between her legs. She opened her legs to offer him greater access. Through her woollen sweater and bra, she cupped her breasts. Her hips were responding, oscillating, writhing, submitting to a sensuous rhythm. Her intense moans were becoming more frequent and louder. Gasping, she couldn’t resist the sensation any longer; she unbuttoned her jeans and plunged her fingers into her panties. Then, reality dawned; she realised where she was and what she was doing; she had never done anything like this before, never felt a sensation like this before. What had possessed her to play with herself in such a public place? Where had this feeling come from? And, mysteriously, why had it suddenly disappeared? Angel shook her head, as if to clear it. Maybe she needed sex more than she realised. Despite her pangs of guilt, maybe she needed Darren.

Angel glanced down to the little bow on her knickers. She slipped a finger into her knickers, caressed her lower lips and her pearl, but discovered that she was dry. Sex could wait for when she met up with Darren. Now, she buttoned her jeans and drove on to the funfair.

By the time she arrived at the funfair her mind was in turmoil. Guilt, confusion, anger, resentment, and lust, jostled for her attention. Despite her need for Darren, her resentment was directed at him; she seemed to blame him for everything these days. Her anger was directed at herself because it wasn’t fair to blame him, was it?

Angel’s thoughts went back to the first time she met Darren. Initially, when she began to realise that she was attracted to her boss, her instincts had told her to hand in her resignation. The warning signs were clear – Darren spelt trouble. It was a hard decision to make because Angel loved her job and prided herself on being good at it. But to her, there seemed to be no other solution. Consequently, she started to resent Darren and her feelings for him.

Then Darren turned everything on its head. He refused to accept her resignation. He insisted that she should reveal her reasons first. Angel told him. She was a firm believer in honesty being the best policy. Typically, Darren had been very sympathetic and supportive. He told her to reconsider. He begged her to stay. He pleaded with her to trust him. His words were all Angel wanted to hear. She fell even deeper into the spell cast by his dark, intelligent eyes, became even more captivated by his carefree, boyish manner. It was a short step to spending more time together and a shorter step to becoming lovers.

Angel stared into the fairground and the chalk-white face of a painted ghoul. “You’re a bloody fool,” she swore at herself. Then her mobile phone rang.

“Hello, Miss Angelotti?” It was the voice.

“I’m here,” said Angel.

“Go to the Lover’s Knot on the coast road,” the dignified voice instructed, “the barman there is holding a parcel in your name. Collect the parcel and await further instructions.”

“What is this all about?” Angel demanded.

After a moment of silence, she stared at her phone and realised that the voice had broken the connection.

Angel jumped into her rusty old Triumph Herald and, still fuming, made her way to the Lover’s Knot, the most popular pub in town.

When Angel arrived at the Lover’s Knot, she found the bar crowded. The alcohol-induced bonhomie was so at odds with her mood that she became depressed. She felt a sense of relief when she collected the parcel, which the barman handed over without any questions, and returned to her car. There, Angel ran an unvarnished fingernail over the parcel and a length of string. What did the parcel contain? Curiosity gnawed away at her like an aching tooth. She pulled at the string.

Then her phone rang.

Startled, Angel fumbled the parcel. Like confetti, a series of twenty-pound notes slipped out and fluttered their way to her feet. In her confusion, Angel forgot about the phone. She grabbed the parcel, the notes, and stuffed them into her shoulder bag. She had never seen so much money before.

Her phone stopped ringing.

Angel stared at the money with some confusion. Now what was she supposed to do? She calculated that she must have over £20,000 in her possession. How could she possibly explain away all that money?

Her phone rang again.

Relieved, Angel gasped, “Hello?”

“Miss Angelotti?”

“I’m here; where are you?”

“I want you to go to the car showrooms on Gower Street. Take the money with you. I want you to buy a car, an Aston Martin; do you understand?”

Angel glanced at her shoulder bag. The sight of all that money made her feel light-headed. Grinning, she asked, “Any particular colour?”

“Red,” the voice said sternly. “It has to be a red car. Do you understand?”

No, Angel thought. “Yes,” she said.

That evening, Angel arrived home and decided to take a shower. As she lathered herself she thought about the strange events of the day – the voice, the strong sexual urge when driving to the funfair, the money and the instruction to buy a car. She tried to make sense of these events, but found herself travelling in circles. So she craned her neck back and allowed the water to run over her hair, her face and her breasts. The water was soothing and refreshing. She washed her thighs, then leaned forward as her hands soaped her buttocks. She thought of Darren’s hands on her buttocks, of his fingers running up and down the crack of her behind. She sighed at the thought and decided to give herself a little pleasure – she circled her pearl lightly before directing the shower nozzle at the neatly trimmed hairs covering her mound. Maybe it was the thought of Darren, but she found her nipples hardening. Her clit was pulsing steadily now and her juices were starting to flow. Then, as though someone had flicked a switch, she found her desire increasing. Gasping, she placed a hand on the wet tiles of the bathroom wall, spread her legs and gyrated against the shower nozzle. The nozzle head was too wide to enter her, but she felt a strong desire to be penetrated. Moaning softly, Angel dropped the shower nozzle and ran a finger over her labia. She parted her lower lips and, with a groan, she inserted a finger into her moist vagina. She circled the finger and sighed repeatedly as it offered a measure of succour, a degree of pleasure. God, I’m feeling so horny, she thought; I must be missing Darren more than I realised.

Angel continued to pleasure herself with her finger. Then, without coming, she withdrew. Although Angel owned a vibrator and masturbated occasionally, she liked to save herself for partnersex and enjoy the intensity of coming with a partner. She would save herself for Darren and have sex the next time they met up. At least, that was her intention. However, no sooner had she withdrawn her finger than she felt the grip of an even stronger desire. With her hand still resting on the bathroom wall she sobbed as she felt someone suck on her nipples. Then he was between her legs, licking her labia, licking her pearl, his tongue tasting her salty-sweetness as it went deeper, deeper, impossibly deep. Angel was writhing now, rotating her hips, thrusting her hips as though riding a firm, long, wide penis. “I’m coming!” she cried. “I’m coming! Make me come!” Then the wave subsided; wet from the shower, and still gasping with desire, she realised that the promised orgasm had eluded her. Her demon lover had withdrawn from her and she was left with her nipples hard and tender, her labia open and her pearl pulsing, crying out for another’s touch.

Angel climbed out of the shower. She dried herself. Then she went into her bedroom and stared at her bedside drawers. She was going to remove her vibrator and bring herself to orgasm, but she realised that the moment had faded. Like morning dew under the summer sun, her juices had evaporated. She was dry again. She felt tired, so she fell into bed and slept.

The next morning, Angel bought the car, a red Aston Martin. She was at home enjoying a belated breakfast of honey, eggs and toast, trying to rationalise her behaviour, when the phone rang.

“Miss Angelotti?”

Angrily, Angel stared at the phone. “How do you know my home number?” she asked.

The voice ignored her. “Have you bought the car?”

Angel continued to stare at the phone. What was this? How much did he really know? He knew where Angel worked, he knew where Angel lived; he even knew about Darren Vine. Angel wondered how many other people knew about her and Darren. Not many, she guessed, for they had been very discreet.

“Have you bought the car?” The voice was insistent, demanding an answer.

“I’ve bought the car,” Angel said, “but I refuse to carry out any more of your instructions until you tell me more about yourself.” Angel paused. She wondered where her assertiveness had suddenly come from. From somewhere deep in her past, she concluded. “Have I made myself clear?” she continued. “What is your name?”

“My name is not important.”

“Where do you live?”

No answer.

“How did you find out about me?”

Silence.

Angel sighed. She’d had enough. She would return the car, collect the money and return the money to the barman. She started to place the phone on its stand.

“Miss Angelotti!…Angel…Wait!” The voice had cracked again. Angel could picture his face – desperate, tense, frozen in agony. The image made her feel guilty. She placed the phone to her ear.

“What is it?” Angel asked.

“Don’t hang up on me,” the voice pleaded. “I need your help. I can’t do this on my own.” He sniffed. He sounded close to tears. Angel had heard many people crying on the phone; this man didn’t sound used to tears. “Will you help me?” he pleaded.

Angel was known as a soft touch, always had been. Her instincts told her to break the connection and walk away. But she couldn’t. It was like meeting Darren all over again. Despite herself, she felt as though some inner-force was getting the better of her.

With a resigned sigh, Angel said, “Before I help you, I need to know something about you. I need to know how I can contact you. Give me your phone number, at least.”

The voice gave Angel his number.

Satisfied, Angel returned to her breakfast and polished off her honey, eggs and toast.

* * *

“Angelica! What kept you?”

Angel climbed out of the Aston Martin and melted into Darren Vine’s arms. She stared into his smiling dark eyes and smiled too. No one called her by her given name anymore, not even her parents. Darren seemed to have made it his sole property and when they were like this, together, sharing each other, Angel didn’t mind. Happily, she would sell her soul to be with Darren. He made her feel brave and strong, he made her feel sexy. He convinced her that what she was doing was right. He made her feel alive.

Darren Vine kissed the top of Angel’s curly hair. Then he took her by the hand and led her up the garden path, towards a run-down old farmhouse. Smiling at the building, he asked, “What do you think of it?”

Angel ran her eyes over the tangle of ivy, the missing slates and the cracks in the walls. She shivered. “It’s a bit dilapidated, isn’t it?”

“Nothing that an artistic pair of hands can’t put right.” Darren held up Angel’s hands. His strong fingers traced her fate line, his lips brushed against her love line while his moustache tickled her life line. “I’ve always thought that you have artistic hands, Angelica.”

Angel knew what Darren was thinking. They would renovate this house and it would become their love nest. Like one of the toy soldiers Darren was so fond of collecting, Angel would be billeted in this house, waiting on his beck and call. Yet, for all her guilt, for all her revulsion, she felt powerless to resist him. Her desire to be with him, to make love to him, overwhelmed her. And today her desire for him was stronger than ever; before they parted, she had to have him, she had to hold him in her arms, she had to feel him inside her, she had to make love.

Darren opened the front door of the farmhouse. It creaked and as they entered the building, they were covered with cobwebs and showered with small particles of dust. Darren wiped the dust from Angel’s shoulders and picked the cobwebs from her hair. “I got this place at a knock-down price,” he informed her. “The estate agent couldn’t sell it; she reckons it’s haunted.”

Angel shivered again. There was something about this place, something spooky. However, she became aware that Darren was watching her, so she forced up a smile. “Aren’t you going to show me around?”

Darren took hold of her hand. “I thought you’d never ask. Let’s start with the bedroom…”

The bedroom was bare, except for an old four-poster bed, neatly made with crisp, fresh sheet. Darren guided Angel to the bed where she lay back on the sheets. He lay beside her then they kissed and caressed, sighing and moaning as their busy fingers removed each other’s clothes. Darren was naked while Angel was down to her bra and panties. He reached around and unclipped her bra, freeing her pert breasts. Then he cupped her breasts and sucked on her nipples, stretching them into long points. As he sucked, Angel arched her back and moaned. Her legs were open and she could feel the honey flowing in her private chamber. She was wet for him, she needed him. She kissed him with passion, feeling his erection as it pressed against her midriff.

“I want you,” Darren moaned.

“I want you too,” Angel sighed.

His hands were in her panties, caressing the cheeks of her behind. She raised her hips and he rolled her panties over her thighs, exposing her neatly trimmed pubis. Darren kissed the hairs around her pubis before his tongue sought Angel’s lower lips. He found them and kissed them and Angel groaned. With her hands on his head, she felt his tongue move inside her, tasting her salty-sweetness. Then he moved up to her pearl and licked it tenderly. Again, Angel groaned, her desire for Darren growing stronger; she had to feel him inside her, soon. First, she rolled on top of him, reversed her position and took his erect penis into her mouth. Her gentle fingers caressed his shaft while her tongue licked his purple head. Now it was Darren’s turn to groan as Angel’s skilful caresses heightened his desire. Angel’s glistening lower lips were above Darren’s head and, with his hands on her behind, he kissed them. Angel paused as a wave of pleasure gently washed over her. Then she returned to Darren’s erection, taking his full length into her mouth now as his index-finger teased her lower lips and entered her.

“Oh yes!” Angel sighed as Darren’s finger circled inside her, stirring her honey, caressing her vaginal walls. “Oh yes!” she groaned as a second finger entered her, enticing another wave of pleasure. Angel was moving her hips now, circling around Darren’s fingers while her hand and mouth worked his shaft. Then, sensing that the moment was right, they changed position and he entered her.

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With his hands taking his weight, Darren slipped his erect penis into Angel’s wet vagina. He entered her with ease and they both groaned as they absorbed the pleasure. Angel was on her back, her arms wrapped around Darren’s torso while her legs rested on his thighs. As he thrust steadily in and out of her, she began to move her hips in slow, sensual circles. The pleasure made Darren shudder and Angel whimper.

“Oh yeah!” they cried in unison, between passionate kisses and sensual moans.

Darren cupped Angel’s behind, regulating her movements. His fingers teased the crevice between her arse cheeks and she whimpered again. She could feel her honey running between her crevice and he used her juices as a lubricant while he stimulated her. The sensation, the pleasure, was too much and she dug her fingernails into his shoulders. In response, Darren kissed her. His movements quickened and Angel knew that he was building towards his climax.

“I’m coming!” he groaned.

Not yet, Angel thought, let me come too. But Darren groaned again, louder this time; he arched his back and shuddered before flooding Angel’s chamber with his spunk.

As Angel felt Darren’s cock leap inside her she sighed. She tried to rub her clitoris against his pubic bone, but her orgasm eluded her. Spent, Darren rolled off her and Angel was left with a feeling of frustration as her clitoris pulsed and her nipples tingled. The moment had passed. Darren never thought to finger her when he came first and Angel was left to reflect that she would have to wait until the next time to enjoy her orgasm.

They were lying on the bed, admiring the patterns the damp had made on the walls when Darren said, “You haven’t told me what you think of the house.”

“Does it matter what I think?” Angel frowned.

“Of course it matters. I care about you. Your opinion means the world to me.”

“And what about Eliza’s opinion?” Angel asked. “Does she still mean the world to you?”

“She’s my wife.” Darren placed his arms around Angel. He pulled her close, snuggling her naked body against his. He kissed her. “She’s my wife,” he repeated, “but you’re special to me; you’re my Angelica.”

“I’m not your anything,” Angel said angrily, pulling away. Annoyed and frustrated, she rolled off the bed and went in search of her clothes. As she dressed, she recognised that they were having one of their post-coital moments, fuelled by her sense of guilt and sense of self-loathing.

Aware that Angel was troubled, Darren walked over to her, his face a mask of concern. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?” he asked, placing an arm around her shoulders.

“Nothing,” Angel mumbled. She shrugged her shoulders, freeing herself from his embrace then continued to get dressed.

Darren made a tentative move towards her. “You know that I can’t leave Eliza. She couldn’t cope without me.”

“I don’t want you to leave her,” Angel lied. Or was it the truth? Her emotions were starting to overwhelm her, tangle her thoughts in knots. She placed her right hand to her forehead, as though seeking to clear the confusion.

Darren slipped into his suit. He walked over to the bedroom door where he stared at his watch. Angel knew what that meant – it was time to go back to Eliza, to visit her at the drug dependency clinic.

“I’ve got to go,” Darren said.

Silently, Angel nodded.

“I’ll ring you when I can; is that all right?”

Angel shrugged. A cloud of resentment had settled over her head. For him, the sex had been good; he’d taken what he wanted, what he needed from Angel. But now Angel felt dirty, as though she was being used. She felt like shouting, ‘Clear off! Stop screwing me and stop screwing up my life!’ Instead, she said, “Ring me when you can.”

“I love you, Angelica.”

Angel ignored his words. She walked out of the farmhouse, towards her car. She was about to drive away when Darren ran up to her. While panting, he said, “I nearly forgot…I haven’t given you the telephone number for the farmhouse.”

Angel wasn’t sure if she wanted the number. She glanced over her shoulder, to the stone building. “What is it?” she asked, half-heartedly.

Darren read out the phone number. Angel had heard it before. It was the same number as the one offered by the voice.

Story Copyright © 2014 Gemma Morgan. All rights reserved.

Masturbation

Masturbation

I was at college enjoying my studies on psychology, learning more about the subject and myself. My first sexual experience with a man had been less than sensational i.e. he came, but I didn’t, and I guess that knocked my sexual confidence. So, for the best part of a year I abstained from partnersex. Of course, I masturbated frequently, at least once a day, maybe twice or more on occasions. I discovered that my year off from partnersex, far from being a wasteland, actually helped me to understand my sexual needs; during that year, I discovered how I could best achieve sexual fulfilment.

My friend, Abigail, had given me my first orgasm. Add that to my first indifferent sexual experience with a man and you can see why I went through a phase thinking that I was attracted to women. It took me months of internalising to realise that I was attracted to men and women. And it took a longer period for me to feel comfortable with that idea. But when the penny dropped I felt at peace with myself and, probably for the first time in my life, came to understand myself as an adult.

While coming to terms with my sexuality and my desires I would fantasize and masturbate. Even though I’m in a relationship now and I have regular, rewarding partnersex, I still masturbate frequently. I find that the orgasms I give myself are different from those experienced with my partner. These orgasms are not better or more intense, as such, but they do give me a different kind of pleasure. They also add variety to our sex life and at times when we are apart it is good to masturbate, solo, or when talking over the phone. I know my partner loves to hear me come over the phone and, likewise, he turns me on when I hear him pleasuring himself.

At college, I read a lot of erotic literature, including Fanny Hill, the Story of O and the Emmanuelle Arsan novels. Of all the literature I read, Emmanuelle 2 probably gave me the most pleasure. I would lie on my bed, face down, the book on my pillow, my fingers between my legs. As I turned the pages and absorbed the sensual images, I would play with myself, caressing my breasts, my behind and, of course, my clitoris. I would give myself multiple orgasms while reading and while fantasizing about having sex with a lover.

During this period of sexual self-discovery I had the urge to insert anything phallic-shaped into my orifices. I would usually insert them in a condom, supplied by Abigail – I was too shy to buy condoms myself – and experiment. I came to love the sensation of a candle in my vagina and a pencil in my rear. I would lie naked on my bed and move my hips slowly, clenching my vaginal muscles and sphincter around the candle and pencil. The slow, sensual movements, the images in my mind and the feel of the candle and pencil would give me intense multiple orgasms, orgasms that would leave me gasping with pleasure.

For variety, I would dispense with my books and fantasize. A favourite fantasy involved a partner and me walking through the countryside. We would stop by a stream and bathe then roll on the grass and make love. Later, I would lean against a tree and he would take me again, bringing me to a second orgasm. Sated, I would kiss him and take his hand, to walk home. Then he would point to a small branch protruding from the tree, the size and shape of a phallus.

“Why don’t you make love to the tree?” he asked.

“I couldn’t,” I replied shyly.

My lover would place a condom over the phallus and guide me to the tree. “Make love to the tree while I make love to you,” he whispered in my ear.

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I was so turned on by the idea, I couldn’t resist. So I embraced the tree, wrapping my arms around its massive trunk while my naked breasts rubbed against the moss-covered bark. I’d part my legs and feel the phallus as it entered me, slipping bit-by-bit into my vagina, a vagina still wet from previous orgasms. I’d groan and moan as I’d move against the tree, rotating my hips, caressing the trunk with sensual movements. The pleasure would be intense and I’d be on the brink of orgasm when my lover would stand behind me. He was erect and ready to enter me. Using my vaginal juices as lubricant, he’d stimulate my back passage until my sphincter relaxed. Then he’d ease his considerable manhood into a condom and enter me. I would gasp and groan, crying out with a mixture of pain and pleasure. He would hold my hips and allow me to regulate our movements, forward and back, feeling the inner caresses of the phallus and his large cock. As I felt more comfortable with the phallus and his cock, I would start to move faster and rotate my hips with more passion. Our desire would build to bursting point and then with a groan that could be heard throughout the forest we’d come together. Totally spent, I would fall on to the soft grass while my lover removed the condoms from himself and the tree. Smiling, he’d hold up the condoms and say, “Look how much you’ve made me come.” Then he’d glance at the condom removed from the phallus. “And look how much you made the tree come!” Glancing up, I’d notice that the condom was full of sap and amuse myself with the idea that the three of us had come together.

Story Copyright © 2015 Naomi Collister. All rights reserved.

One Night Stand

My search for Emma McManners, while pleasurable on a personal level, was proving frustrating on a professional level, so I decided to seek out P.J. Parker with the hope of putting our heads (and maybe one or two other things!) together. I drove to P.J.’s office, but he wasn’t there. So I made my way to his cottage.

P.J.’s Triumph Stag was in his drive along with a vintage Morgan. I parked my Alfa Romeo and made my way up P.J.’s drive. I was about to knock on his door when instinct told me to glance through his living room window. As usual, my instincts were correct because I saw him, fully clothed, with a curvaceous blonde in his arms. Her golden hair appeared to be natural and even through her clothes you could see that her figure was stunning. She looked up at P.J., sensuality sparkling in her deep blue eyes, then she went down and kneeled in front of him.

I knew what she was going to do next, and I wanted to look away, but something held me, transfixed. First, she kissed him through his trousers, then she eased his trouser zip open. She kissed him through his boxers and with my nose pressed to the window, I could see his erection. Then she freed his huge cock and took it in her hands. P.J. groaned as she massaged his shaft. His purple head was exposed and I noted the look of pleasure on his face as she took that head into her mouth. With his fingers in her golden hair, he slipped his cock deep into her mouth. By the window, I recalled taking P.J. into my mouth and the pleasure we had shared. Even though I wanted to turn away and run, the memory of fucking P.J. made me wet and I could feel my nipples harden. Even though I felt betrayed, I had to admit that the sight of P.J. receiving head from this beautiful woman turned me on.

But what could I do about it? Nothing. I couldn’t pleasure myself while staring through the window, I couldn’t barge in on them, although I was tempted to do so. Instead, I turned away and returned to my car. And, with a tear in my eye, I drove into town.

As I drove I reflected that I’d seen a number of men and women betraying their partners, such betrayals were a part of my job, but I never thought I’d see my lover in someone else’s arms. Maybe I’d misread the situation with P.J. – I though we had more going for us than ‘just’ terrific sex, but apparently he didn’t see it that way. Okay, if that’s the way he wanted to play it, two could play at that game…

It was difficult, but I forced my mind back on to my job. I needed a lead on Emma, so I decided to return to the source of my investigation and the Ace of Hearts nightclub. I found Tony, my ex, in his office, sitting behind his desk, looking business-like in a sharp pinstriped suit, open-necked shirt and red braces. He smiled as I entered, then he got out of his chair and walked over to greet me.

“Can’t keep away from me, huh?” he grinned, his right hand caressing the smooth curve of my arse.

I pushed his hand away, then walked over to his desk and sat in his high-backed leather chair. “I’m here for information,” I replied tersely, “that and nothing else.”

Tony’s fixed grin suggested that he didn’t believe me. But he let it pass and while examining his neatly manicured fingernails he asked, “What information?”

“I’ve seen the film of the two of you together; I know you know more about Emma than your letting on.”

Tony nodded. He ran his right hand over the stubble on his chin before perching on the edge of his desk. “So that’s where the DVD went; you took it, along with the DVD of the two of us as well?”

“Yeah,” I said and nodded.

Tony leaned forward, his hand was on my thigh and the grin was back on his face. “You’re not getting any, eh? And you needed our DVD to bring you off?”

“I’m getting plenty,” I replied truthfully, “I don’t need a DVD of you to get me off.”

“But maybe you still need the real thing; is that why you’re here?” As he spoke, Tony’s hand slipped over my naked thigh. He caressed my thigh, his right hand moving under my skirt. His touch was light and pleasurable and, involuntarily, I parted my legs.

“I’m here because I need information on Emma McManners, nothing else.” There was a thickness to my tone, a huskiness that betrayed my words.

“Sure,” Tony said, his hand caressing the top of my thigh, his fingers outlining the lace of my knickers, “sure.”

“You know where Emma is,” I said, my words coming slowly, my voice faltering, “so tell me.”

“And if I do tell you,” Tony said, his lips moving closer to my lips, “will you come across for me?”

“Tell me first,” I said.

“Emma wants to be in the movies. She’s linked up with a film maker. I can give you his details.”

“Give me the details,” I said huskily, and Tony did. His hand was covering my pubis now and he could tell that I was wet for him. He leaned forward and kissed me passionately and I took him into my arms. We moaned as we kissed.

I wanted him. In fact, I had to have him, partly because his touch turned me on so much, partly because I felt there was unfinished business between us and we needed to make love, and partly to show P.J., in my mind at least, that two could play at the deception game. Through our passionate kisses, I said, “This is a one off, babe, just to set the record straight; think of it as a one night stand.”  

“Sure,” Tony mumbled, his lips moving down to the valley of my breasts, “whatever you say.”

I doubt that Tony heard my words or took in their full meaning, but I felt it was important to say them, because to me this was a one night stand and there would be no more sex with Tony after we’d made love.

He kissed me, unbuttoned my blouse, then cupped my left breast through my black, lacy bra. “God, you’ve still got great tips,” he said approvingly, his fingers squeezing my breast through my bra. I moaned softly while arching my back and thrusting my tits out. Meanwhile, my thighs slid over the leather of the chair, pushing my skirt up, exposing my knickers.

Tony knew what I wanted, he knew how to push my buttons; first he freed my left breast from my bra and sucked on my nipple, then he eased my panties to one side so that his fingers could gain direct access to my clitoris. As the firm middle finger of his right hand caressed my clitoral hood my moans became louder.

“You like that, don’t you, babe,” Tony grinned.

“Yeah,” I gasped, “more, give me more.”

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, babe.”

“Yeah,’ I moaned, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to put me across your desk and fuck me hard.”

Tony pulled me out of his chair. He pushed me across his desk and I gasped in anticipation. Then I felt his fingers on my knickers as he pulled them to one side, exposing the wet lips of my labia.

“Like this, across my desk,” Tony said while unzipping his trousers.

“Yeah,” I said while gripping the edge of his desk. “Do it to me, give it to me, fuck me across your desk.”

Tony eased himself out of his trousers and from the corner of my eye I could see him teasing his penis to its full hardness. He gave himself the pleasure of his palm until his head was exposed, then he offered that head to my moist lower lips.

With a thrust and a mutual grunt, Tony entered me. He placed his hands on my hips and started to fuck me hard and fast. In my desire, my hand slipped off the edge of the desk and I found myself spreadeagled across the desk, my breasts resting on its polished mahogany.

“Fuck,” Tony groaned as he went in deep, “I’ve missed you.”

I turned my head and gave him a sensual smile. “You shouldn’t have been such a bastard to me; if you’d been good to me, you could have had me all the time.”

He flashed his milk-white teeth. “Am I being a bastard to you now?” he asked.

“No,” I moaned, ducking my head. “You’re being good to me, so good.”

Tony eased me up from the desk, so that we could kiss. He was still inside me, but his movements were more controlled now, less frantic; we had stopped fucking and now we were making love.

While we kissed and made love Tony removed my blouse, unclipped my bra, and freed my breasts. My breasts were tingling with desire and that desire increased as he fingered my nipples teasing them into hard points. Tony squeezed my nipples and I moaned. I rotated my hips as he continued to shaft me, the head of his cock focusing on the opening of my vagina.

“I love it there, baby, I love it,” I moaned.

“Yeah,” Tony grunted, his fingers pulling my knickers over the cheeks of my behind, exposing my rear hole. Then his fingers caressed my hole and my moans became deeper and more sensual.

“Yes,” I whimpered as the tip of his finger slipped inside me, “Oh, yes! Oh, yes!”

My sphincter relaxed as his finger went in deeper, filling me. Then I had to grip the edge of the desk tight as his finger and cock, simultaneously, caressed my G-spot.

“Oh, god,” I cried as the pleasure threatened to overwhelm me. “Oh that’s so good; you’re so good, baby, you’ve so good…”

My pleasure was building now and I was on the brink of orgasm. Tony had great staying power and his cock and finger were relentless, edging me closer, closer, closer…

Then, with a cry of “Oh fuck!” I came. With his left hand Tony steadied me, while his cock and right hand continued to work me, prolonging my orgasm; one wave rolled over another and another and another until I felt totally spent.

“Enough,” I sighed, “enough.”

“Enough?” I could sense Tony’s smile. “You’re slipping, Fay, time was when you could have come all day.”

I guess now wasn’t the time to tell him that I had been coming a lot lately and that my orgasms had been particularly intense. Now, I could add another to the list and, at that moment, I’d had enough – I was all fucked out.

“Why don’t you finish me,” Tony said, easing himself out of me, offering his cock to my lips.

Tony loved my tongue on his cock and throughout our marriage I liked to give him head, so we adjusted our position and while he sat in his leather chair I knelt in front of him and took his throbbing penis into my mouth.

I ran my tongue over his head, tasting his pre-come and the salty sweetness of my own ejaculation. Then I took his full length into my mouth while his hands went to my head, to guide my movements. I sucked him until he groaned loudly and deeply, then I moved back to his head and, lightly, licked him until he cried out with pleasure and his milky fluid started to shoot from his cock. At that point he forced my mouth over his full length and I felt his cock leap on my tongue as he came copiously, his semen filling my mouth and oozing over my lips. I swallowed his nectar before standing in front of him. Blindly, still lost in his climax, he reached for me and we embraced.

Later, I left Tony’s office, sated by the sex and satisfied that I had a lead that would help me to crack this case.

The Seventh Wave

“Fuck me,” I said. I placed my head on his shoulder and wrapped my arms around his muscular torso. “Make love to me,” I sighed. “Make me come.”

He responded with a grunt, then with his hands moving over my behind. He caressed my behind, squeezing my firm bum cheeks before running his fingers between the crack in my bum. I responded with another sigh and by opening my legs to offer him greater access. We had not been lovers for long, but already he knew what I liked and he knew how to please me. What’s more, he knew that I was desperate for him and that I needed to come; I needed him so badly.

He kissed me, passionately, then he undid the button on my jeans. Slowly, he unzipped me, his fingers teasing me as they moved down to my pubis. As one hand caressed my buttocks and the other teased the silky hairs of my pubis, I leaned against him and rotated my hips, seeking some friction, seeking some action on my clitoris.

With my jeans now open, he eased the denim over my thighs, exposing my black, lacy knickers. I was wet for him and my knickers were damp; he must have sensed this as his fingers moved over the lace.

He kissed me behind my left ear, drawing a gasp of desire from my lips, then he eased his fingers into my knickers, seeking my pearl. I rotated my hips to encourage his fingers, then groaned when those fingers found my clitoral hood. Gently, he massaged my clit, his loving touch turning the insides of my vagina to liquid honey. I was gasping and groaning in equal measure, fully turned on, desperate to come.

With my head resting on his shoulder, he kissed my long auburn hair. Then he slipped a finger into my vagina.

“Fuck,” I sighed as he entered me. I moved my hips frantically, trying to produce that much needed orgasm, but he withdrew, applying my honey to my clit instead. My clit was throbbing now, fully discended, sensitive to the slightest touch. He knew how sensitive my clit was and that I enjoyed stimulation through the hood, not on the tip itself, which was far too sensitive. So he kept his fingers on my hood, circling them, making me weak with pleasure.

My jeans and knickers had slipped down to my ankles. I stepped out of them. Easing his hands away from my arse and clit, he caressed my inner thighs. Glancing down I noticed that his trousers were bulging and that he had a hard on. He would enter me later, take me and give us both further satisfaction, but first he would finish me with his fingers, he would masturbate me to orgasm.

The waves were building now, getting stronger. I gripped his back as the first wave washed over me. Then the second wave, followed by a deep groan. He knew I was coming, but he kept his pace steady; he knew how to bring me off, to give me the greatest pleasure.

“Fuck, oh yeah,” I moaned as waves three and for washed over me. Then, “Oh fuck, yes, more!” as the fifth wave threatened to drown me. I was on the brink now and he knew it. His fingers slowed. He was starting to tease me, but I was in no mood for teasing. I ground my hips against his thighs and groaned, “Harder, faster, fuck me, fuck me…!”

But, if anything, he movements slowed. The sixth wave washed over me and I cried out in anticipation. Then he kissed me and we looked into each other’s eyes.

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“Oh yes, darling, oh yes, I love you,” I whispered and he kissed me on the lips. His touch was gossamer light now, my labia wet with my passion juices. “Oh yes,” I moaned, “oh fuck!” As his skilful fingers continued to pleasure me. “Oh fuck…oh yes…oh fuck… “

We were still looking into each other’s eyes when my body jerked in a pre-orgasmic spasm. I dipped my head then cried out, “Coming…I’m coming…I’m gonna…oh fuck…I’m…don’t stop…I’m….more…more….more…I’m…oh fuck….I’m…gonna…oh fuck…come!”

As the seventh wave overwhelmed me, I fell into his arms and sobbed with delight. His magic fingers worked me into an orgasmic frenzy. I clawed at him, bit him, cried out as my body dissolved in desire. The multiple orgasm left me weak, unable to stand and, eventually, he took pity on me. Placing his strong arms under my thighs, he carried me to his bed. Then he undressed, revealing his erection. Soon, he would enter me and the waves would wash over me again…

Story Copyright © 2015 Abigail Summer. All rights reserved.

The Firework Display

The Firework Display

On the spur of the moment my girlfriend, Melissa, and I decided to attend the city fireworks display. It was a mild evening, cloudy, but dry. The display was very popular and hundreds of people attended, most of them circled around the large bonfire. Preferring a more distant view, we hung back and watched the display while leaning against the perimeter wall that ran around the park. Needless to say, the fireworks lit up the sky with bright colours while the air was full of acrid smoke and the occasional bang.

   We’d brought along some sparklers and Melissa had fun waving them around, making patterns out of the flying sparks. We were both nineteen, old enough to know what we were about, yet young enough to take pleasure from innocent delights.

   As the last sparkler fizzled away, I leant over and kissed Melissa. I sensed that the display had put her in a playful mood and that thought was confirmed when she responded with some tongue. Melissa gave dry kisses when being affectionate and wet kisses when she was in the mood. This evening she was clearly in the mood, so I decided to push my luck. I slipped a hand under her skirt and caressed her thigh.

   “What are you doing?” Melissa complained, while still kissing me, her arms wrapped around my neck, “people will see us.”

   “No they won’t; they’re too busy watching the display.”

   “But…” Melissa offered a half-hearted protest, a protest cut short when my fingers started to caress her through her knickers. “But…”

   “But nothing,” I said, kissing her with passion.

   Melissa moaned. She thrust her hips forward, then rubbed her pubis against my accommodating hand.

   “You’re nice and wet,” I whispered into her ear.

   “Yeah,” she moaned again, her fingers reaching for my cock.

   Melissa massaged my cock through my jeans and within seconds, I was hard.

   “Why don’t we do it here,” I mumbled into her ear, my words barely audible above the sound of the exploding fireworks.

   “We can’t.” Melissa glanced over her shoulder. “All these people…”

   “They won’t see us.”

   “They will,” Melissa complained, though her voice was getting huskier by the second while her juices moistened her panties.

   “Around the corner,” I suggested, “it’s quiet there, no one will see us.”

   Before Melissa could protest, I took hold of her hand and escorted her out of the park. We rounded a corner into an alley where our passionate embrace continued.

   “I want you,” I said, grinding my hard cock into Melissa’s midriff.

   “I want you too,” she whispered. Then she glanced into the darkness of the alley and added, “Are you sure no one will see us?”

   “Sure,” I said as a firework exploded overhead.

   I slipped my hands under Melissa’s coat and skirt and fondled her neat, firm behind through her panties. She responded with a passionate kiss and I sensed that we were going to make out this time. Easing her panties to one side, I caressed her pubis. Her fine hairs tickled my fingers while I tickled her clit. In no time, she was wet and ready, so I unzipped my trousers.

   With my hands on her behind, Melissa hooked her legs around my hips. Then we leaned back against the park wall and after a grunt of pleasure I started to move inside her.

   “You feel so good,” I said as another firework exploded above us.

   “Yeah,” Melissa moaned while rotating her hips. Melissa was a good lover, she moved sensually and sexily, without any inhibition. While I thrust in and out, she circled my cock and our constant moans and groans told us that we were enjoying each other. Indeed, I even forgot about the fireworks.

   Then, just as I was approaching orgasm, Melissa stopped and her moans ceased. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

   “Me,” I groaned, “I’m coming.”

   “No.” She turned her head to the right and stared into the dark alley. “Down there. Someone’s coming.”

   Melissa planted her feet on the ground and straightened her clothing while I tried to force my erection back into my trousers, which proved an impossible task. Embarrassed, Melissa ran into the park and disappeared into the throng of firework watchers. Meanwhile, I was left to confront a very attractive thirtysomething lady with my cock hanging out.

   “Lovely evening for it,” I said somewhat desperately.

   “Isn’t it,” the lady said, apparently paying my predicament no attention. “I was going to watch the fireworks; would you care to join me?”

   “Sure,” I said, “just give me a second.” And, with a sigh of relief I managed to cram everything back into my trousers and fasten the zip.

   I was still nursing an erection when I entered the park, so the walk was not entirely comfortable. However, if she noticed, my companion kept her thoughts to herself and chatted instead about the fireworks display.

   We watched the display together and, despite searching, I could see no sign of Melissa. Through chit-chat I discovered that my companion’s name was Rachel and that she was recently divorced.

   The bonfire was burning low, the fireworks had all been let off and the crowd was dispersing. I thanked Rachel for a pleasant evening then walked out of the park, in search of Melissa. However, by the park gate, Rachel caught up with me and put a hand on my arm.

   “I wonder…” she said haltingly. “I have to walk home through the alley and it’s very dark now; would you accompany me?”

   “Sure,” I said, and we retraced our steps to the spot where she’d caught us in flagrante delicto.

   At the spot, near the wall, Rachel paused and I saw a smile play around her sensual lips. She laughed, “I’m sorry I disturbed you earlier this evening.”

   “Er…hum…” I mumbled and she laughed again, a pleasant, joyous sound.

   “Do you know,” she said, her voice suddenly serious. “I have a fantasy about making love in this lane.” She placed a hand on my cheek and I swallowed, hard. “Would you like to…” She left the question hanging.

   “Would I like to…” I eyed her shapely figure, which revealed itself through her short sheepskin coat and tight navy blue jeans. “I’d love to…”

   She smiled, somewhat shyly, then beckoned me towards the wall. There, we kissed and I felt her long, elegant fingers massaging my manhood through my trousers. She kissed with a lot of tongue and a lot of passion and her loving fingers told me that she wasn’t going to pull back, that she was in this for the long haul.

   “God, I want you,” she gasped, pushing my head between the valley of her breasts.

   “Yeah,” I mumbled as her fingers freed my cock.

   Reaching up, I caressed her breasts through her woollen jumper, then I slipped my hand between her thighs and pleasured her through her tight jeans. Then I recognised a potential problem.

   “Your jeans,” I said, “it will be hard to make love to you with your jeans on.”

   Rachel merely smiled. She turned, placed her hands against the wall, and thrust out her shapely arse. “Not if you take me from behind.”

   Without hesitation, I reached around and unbuttoned her jeans. Then I rolled her jeans and lacy knickers over her thighs.

   I was very hard and I rubbed my erection against her behind. Rachel moaned softly then she took hold of my erection and guided it towards her pink lower lips.

   “Remember,” she whispered while glancing at me from over her shoulder, “ladies first, so don’t get over-excited.”

   In truth, I was trembling with excitement and I felt my knees buckle as I entered her. However, I soon regained my composure; I started to move inside her, delighting in her soft moans and groans.

   Rachel allowed me to set the pace. I tried to keep it slow and steady, but she felt so good, so wet and warm, that I had to quicken the pace and go harder and deeper. Plus, the sight of her curvaceous behind, glowing in the moonlight, was nearly enough on its own to make me come.

   I paused to hold myself back, my hands cupping Rachel’s ample breasts through her clothing. Her sweater and bra dimmed some of the sensation; nevertheless, her sighs of approval and the firmness of her nipples told me that my hands were pleasing her. In response, she moved her arse in silky, sensual circles, circles that had me gasping with pleasure while my cock pulsed with delight.

   Sensing that I was about to come, Rachel decided to take control. With her left hand resting on the wall, she reached around with her right hand and pulled me in close. Then she started to rotate her hips again, in those exquisite, slow, sensual circles. I groaned and nearly shot my load as a firework exploded overhead. After pausing to maintain our mutual pleasure, Rachel then rotated her hips in the opposite direction. She was teasing me and pleasing me, giving me more pleasure than I would have thought possible.

   “Kiss me,” she ordered and with her head turned towards me, our lips met. “Finger me; I like to come when someone is fingering my clit; finger my clit.”

   I reached down between her legs, ran my fingers over the silky hairs of her mound then searched for her clit. When I found her clit, she moaned loudly and I kept my fingers there, caressing her with rhythmic movements of my wrist.

   “Oh yes!” Rachel gasped, placing two hands on the wall to steady herself. “That’s so good. Don’t stop…so good…”

   The more Rachel leaned against the wall the further she thrust out her behind towards me. I was setting the pace again now, going deep while my fingers continued to tease her clit.

   “Oh, fuck!” Rachel groaned. “Keep your fingers there! Keep them there!” She dipped her head, her eyes gazing at the ground while her fingers slipped inexorably down the wall. “Oh fuck…”

   “Feels good…”

   “Yeah,” she moaned, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me with your fingers and hard cock…”

   “Like that…” I withdrew to the tip, then went in deep.

   “Oh, you bastard!” Rachel cried as a firework exploded overhead in a rainbow of colours. “You know I like to feel your hard cock deep inside me. Keep it there! Keep it there! Deeper! Fuck me deep you bastard, fuck me deep!”

   I groaned, arched my back and went in deeper.

   “Yes!” Rachel screamed in approval. “Yes!”

   “I’m coming,” I grunted.

   “Finger me!”

   Rachel was bending forward now, her arse raised, her firm bum cheeks glowing in the moonlight. Her sensual movements, her groans and the sight of that beautiful arse were too much and I released some pre-come.

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   “Finger me! Finger me!”

   As I groaned into climax, my fingers worked her clit and while my cock leapt inside her, shooting its load, she moaned blissfully and I felt the waves of her orgasm wash over my manhood. Those waves rolled over me for some time and, delighting and surprising myself, I sustained my climax for longer than usual, her orgasm triggering pulse after pulse of warm come from my highly sensitive and highly stimulated cock.

   “God, you’re good,” I sighed.

   Rachel giggled softly. She turned to face me and we kissed with passion.

   Slowly, reluctantly, we adjusted our clothing and got dressed. We kissed again, our bodies warm from our lovemaking, our skin glistening, reflecting the reds, yellows and purples of the fireworks.

   We were still together, enjoying a post-coital embrace when we heard footsteps in the alley. I turned and stared into the darkness, my eyes adjusting and recognising the angry stride of Melissa.

   “Oh, oh,” I mumbled while escaping from the alley. Needless to say, when Melissa caught up with me later that evening there were plenty of fireworks…

Story Copyright © 2014 M.J. Stewart. All rights reserved.

All Tied Up – Fay Arthur Part Five

I met up with my artist friend, Byron, in the hope that he would take me to Emma McManners. I followed his Bentley into a suburban district and then into a conventional three bed-roomed house. We were met at the door by Vee, the owner of the house. Vee was in her mid-forties with black hair, dark eyes and a sleek figure. She escorted me into a sitting room and I sat there, admiring the erotic paintings on her wall, while Byron quietly disappeared. Shortly, I was joined by four ladies, aged from late twenties to early forties. All were good looking and all carried an air of respectability. We smiled at each other, somewhat nervously, apprehensively, then sat down to wait. What we were waiting for, and where Emma fitted into this picture, I had no idea, although all became clear as the evening wore on.

When Vee rejoined us, she was wearing nothing more than a thong and a black, silky bra. And she had a companion, a man in his mid-twenties with a mischievous smile and a long pony tail. Vee and her companion took centre stage and, obviously, they were there to put on a show.

First, Vee knelt before her companion. She unbuttoned his leather trousers then kissed his semi-hard penis through his boxer shorts. From my left and right I heard sighs and moans of appreciation as the ladies in the room looked on with approval. Then Vee removed his boxer shorts and started to caress his penis. It hardened instantly and she took him into her mouth. To my left and right the sighs and moans became louder and I noticed that the twentysomething lady was unbuttoning her blouse and cupping her breasts. Fully erect, the man lay down in the centre of the room. Smiling, Vee unclipped her bra and freed her breasts. She cupped them, then rolled her tongue around her nipples. Then she removed her thong to reveal a completely shaved pubis. With her thong in her right hand, she knelt beside the man and kissed him before, deftly, draping the thong over the man’s throbbing purple head. The man groaned and he was joined by a chorus of appreciative onlookers. I noticed that at least two of the ladies had slipped their fingers into their knickers and were starting to play with themselves. And, I have to admit, my nipples were starting to tingle too.

Vee teased her partner with her thong until his groans became plaintive. Then she went down on him again, taking him into her mouth. With a skilful tongue and skilful fingers, she brought him close to orgasm. The ladies to my left and right were moaning along with him and they gasped as one when Vee craned her neck back, caressed his shaft and produced a stream of spunk from the man’s cock. He shot his load across the room and I have to admit that seeing him come turned me on. And I guessed that that was the name of the game, for impressive though it was, Vee and her partner’s performance was merely an hors d’oeuvre and the main course was yet to follow.

And a few minutes later, after the man had left the room, we got a sense of what the main course would entail. Vee produced five blindfolds and invited us into the centre of the room. There, she tied the blindfolds around our eyes. Blindfolded, I felt a sense of anticipation and trepidation. Vee’s performance had turned me on, but what was going to happen next?

While I was pondering that point, I sensed a male presence in the room, in fact more than one male, possibly one for each lady present. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. That hand took hold of my hand and guided me from the room. Someone had selected me and he was guiding me into a bedroom. I knew that because he placed me on the bed. Then, as I sank into the soft, silky sheets, I felt his hands on my blouse, undoing the buttons. Later I discovered that the men had been watching the performance through a two-way mirror. However, now my mind was in a whirl. Should I remove the blindfold, protest and blow my cover, or should I submit to this man’s desires? I decided on the former and I was about to protest when I felt a strong finger on my lips. The finger insisted on silence and, for some reason, I obeyed. Then his hands, firm and strong, were on my breasts, cupping me through my bra. Then he removed my blouse and bra and I sensed that I had no option now, other than to play the game.

His teeth nibbled my nipples. Then he bit them and I gasped and complained. In response, he licked my nipples soothingly and I moaned. I sensed that he was a big man, powerful, and he used that power to pin me to the bed and kiss me, ardently, on the lips. After a moment’s hesitation, I responded, and then his fingers were on my behind, fondling me, caressing me, producing a passionate response. He was between my thighs and I was writhing against him, enjoying the sensation of his hands on my arse and my clit rubbing against his erection.

Then he stood and I sensed that he was getting undressed. Then I felt his fingers circle my wrists. This was followed by a length of silk tied around my wrists. And before I could respond further I realised that he had tied me to the frame of the bed. I gulped and moistened my lips. I was at his mercy now, semi-naked and his for the taking.

He unzipped my skirt and pulled it over my thighs. Then I felt his weight on the bed as he kissed my inner-thighs. His kisses ran up my thighs towards my panties. He kissed me through my panties and I moaned. He continued to kiss me and I sensed his lips broaden into a smile. He knew I was wet and enjoying his kisses. He knew that I was ready for him and that I wanted him to enter me.

Slowly, kissing every inch of skin as it was exposed, he removed my panties. I was naked, except for my stockings and suspenders. I heard an intake of breath as he breathed in the musk from my panties. Then I felt his lips on my labia and I groaned.

As he kissed my labia and licked my clit, my hands gripped the silk tie binding me to the bed. I arched my back and pulled against the tie, my hips writhing to the left and the right as his tongue licked me towards orgasm. I was soaking now and he could taste this. The licking stopped and I sensed that he was ready. With a sigh of anticipation, I parted my legs and invited him inside.

He needed no second invitation. He entered me with one powerful thrust. My body convulsed as I took his full length. Indeed, he filled me to capacity, and his length and girth reminded me of my lover, P.J. Parker.

His strong, muscular body was moving on top of me now. His hands were still caressing my behind, pulling me close. I was sighing and moaning, my legs hooked around his thighs. He was grunting, loud. Then he started to move fast and hard. He took me like that for awhile and I cried out in my desire. Clearly, the idea of taking me while I was tied to the bed, helpless, turned him on. He moved faster and harder, and my head moved from side to side as my fingers gripped the silk ties.

Then his movements slowed, he groaned and I sensed that he was coming. He gripped my arse tight, shuddered and shot his load. We moaned in unison, then he kissed me. Spent, he rolled off me on to the silk sheets.

My legs were apart, my lower lips wide open, my clit throbbing. I felt his hand on my thigh, his fingers moving towards my clitoris.

“Yes!” I gasped, and he started to circle my clit. “Yes!” I begged. “More!” He kissed me again as his fingers worked their magic. Sometimes, I like a man to be slow and sensual, to tease me towards orgasm, other times I like to feel the power in his fingers, I like him to bring me off without a pause. Today, I was in need of the latter, so I cried out, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop! More! More!”

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Skilfully, his fingers obeyed my command and they raced me towards orgasm. My hands were pulling at the ties now, threatening to tear them from the bed. I arched my back, opened my legs wide and yelled, “Fuck!” as the first wave washed over me, then, “Oh, fuck, yes!” as another wave consumed me, then, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop! More, more, more!” as my orgasm held me in its all-embracing, exquisite grip. My lover continued to finger me until I was totally spent. I cried out, “Enough.” Then he kissed me and wrapped his powerful arms around me and, sighing with contentment, I smiled and lay back on the bed.

When I’d recaptured my senses, my lover eased the blindfold from my eyes and I gazed up, at P.J. Parker’s grinning face. “What are you doing here?” I asked, my question sounding close to an accusation.

“Same as you,” he continued to grin, “looking for a teenage runaway.” He explained, “I discovered that Emma McManners and my runaway, Sarah Castleton, had been seen at one of Vee’s parties, so I came along to investigate. They were here, but it seems we’re one step behind them. Then I noticed that you were here and so I decided to step in to save your honour. You knew it was me, I take it, from the first touch?”

“I knew it was you,” I admitted, “when you entered me; no man fills me like you do.”

He kissed me, then he caressed my cheek. “I suppose I’d better untie you,” he said with a regretful sigh.

“We can always try this again,” I replied with a cheeky smile, “the next time we meet up.”

“We will,” he said, his right hand cupping my left breast, his lips kissing its nipple. “We will.”

Story Copyright © 2014 Abigail Summer. All rights reserved.

Naomi’s Diary # 2 – A Virgin No More

A Virgin No More

I was nineteen, at college studying psychology when my friend, Abigail, suggested that we should join the college drama society. Abigail’s motivation for joining the society, and her motivation for life in general, was to get laid. Abigail fancied the student who’d been cast as the leading man in The Perfect Murder, a comedy-detective drama written, produced and performed by the student members of the college. At the time, I fancied the director of the play, Adrian, a history student in his early twenties. So, with sex on our minds as well as acting, we auditioned for The Perfect Murder.

The great thing about Abigail is that she takes nothing seriously. I am far more introverted and like to understand my motivations and those of the people around me. I suppose that is why I was attracted to psychology. Returning to Abigail –because she finds it difficult to take life seriously she found it difficult to take the audition seriously and even though she has stunning good looks and acting talent, she only landed a minor part in the play. Somehow, my audition convinced Adrian that he should cast me as second female lead, which was a boost to my ego and self-esteem. However, the part of second male lead, my lover in the play, fell to Simon, who fancied me. Simon was twenty, good-looking, modest and shy. I knew that Abigail would spend her time rehearsing the play to get close to the male lead, while I took the project more seriously and wanted to do my best. Also, I thought that if I did well in the play I might impress the director, Adrian, and maybe convince him to spend some ‘intimate’ time with me. I was still a virgin at this time, though I felt that I was ready for penetrative sex.

Despite Abigail pulling faces and trying to put me off, the rehearsals went well. I learned my lines and Adrian was pleased with my interpretation of Susannah, my character in the play. However, one line continued to trip me up. It was a simple line, ‘if you hadn’t have seen him on the platform, who knows what would have happened’. But every time I said them, I tripped over my words. I think this was because the line followed a moment in the play where Simon’s character and my character kissed, a make up kiss after an argument. I suppose my mind was more on the kiss, rather than the dialogue. Certainly, Simon put a lot of feeling into the kiss and with each rehearsal, I found his lips becoming more and more passionate.

With performance day approaching, Simon suggested that we should meet up in his room in an effort to get the line right. We rehearsed the scene, then got to the kiss. Rehearsals had boosted Simon’s confidence and when it came to the kiss, he took me in his arms and held me tight. His lips met mine and instead of parting and moving on to the dialogue, his hands moved over my buttocks, and he started to caress me through my jeans.

“Simon,” I murmured in his ear, my hands pressing against his shoulders as I tried to extricate myself. “This isn’t in the play.”

“I want you,” he mumbled, “I love you.”

I sighed, partly because I feared this would happen and partly because Simon’s hands were turning me on. Taking my sighs and my half-hearted attempts to free myself as signs of approval, Simon pressed his body against mine and we fell on to his bed. We rolled together, his hips between my thighs and I could feel his erection pressing against my pubis. His hands were under my jumper and he was fondling my breasts through my bra. We were panting now and I was sorely tempted to undo my jeans and let him take me. I rolled on top of him and he pulled my jumper over my head. I leant forward and kissed him while he fumbled with my bra clasp. Maybe if Simon had been more experienced and had unclipped my bra in one smooth movement I would have made love to him and lost my virginity. But the pause made me think and I was reminded of a romantic notion I held that the first time had to be ‘special’, though I had no real idea what that meant. I suppose it meant I had to feel love for my partner and in all honesty all I felt for Simon was lust. So I pulled away, replaced my jumper, made my excuses and left the room. Needless to say, Simon wasn’t very pleased and our rehearsal scenes together were very frosty after that. And when it came to the kissing scene, well his kiss came out of the freezer. I’d hurt Simon’s feelings and I felt guilty about that. But I knew that I’d done the right thing for myself and, I hoped, in the long run for Simon as well.

On the eve of performing The Perfect Murder Adrian asked to see me. We met in my room and discussed the play and my role as Susannah. It was a formal, business-like chat. Then I suggested that we should run through the kiss scene because that was still my weak spot in the play. Also, I have to admit, it gave me an excuse to kiss Adrian.

We said our lines then I placed my arms around Adrian and pulled him close. I kissed him and, taking a leaf from Simon’s book, I let the kiss linger. Adrian responded with a hand on my outer-thigh and with a groan as I parted my legs slightly and pulled his pelvis on to mine. I started to writhe against him, gently, suggestively, and I could feel his penis harden. I sighed into his ear, placed my head on his shoulder and went limp in his arms. I was his for the taking. I wanted him. Surely, he could sense that. I felt that this was the moment to lose my virginity.

Then, just as I had done with Simon, Adrian pulled away and left me frustrated. He mumbled an excuse about getting an early night and being at his best for the play tomorrow. He left my room and I flopped on to my bed, thinking that maybe I should have said something like ‘fuck me’ and wishing that I’d been more assertive.

Adrian’s play was a great success and he was very pleased with the reception offered by the college staff and students. I managed to get my awkward line right and Simon’s kiss hinted at forgiveness. Even Abigail was on her best behaviour and she played her part to perfection. After the play, Adrian threw a party. I attended, but when I saw him flirting with the leading lady my enthusiasm wavered and I left early to retire to my room.

I was in my room, lying on my bed, reading, when someone knocked on my door. It was Adrian. He had a big grin on his face and a bottle of champagne in his right hand.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

I nodded. “Sure.”

Adrian glanced around my room and I sensed that he was looking for a champagne glass.

“Sorry,” I said, “I’ve only got some coffee mugs and they’re in the sink, dirty.”

“Never mind,” he grinned, “we’ll drink from the bottle.” So we sat on the edge of my bed while Adrian popped the cork and we gulped champagne. The bubbles went up my nose and made me cough. I laughed in my embarrassment, while Adrian patted my back, to relieve my spluttering.

“You were sensational tonight,” he asserted, “the star of the whole performance.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but I mumbled a coy, “Thanks.”

I was no longer coughing and spluttering, but Adrian was still massaging my back. He took a gulp of champagne, as though to summon up courage, then looked me in the eye.

“About last night…” He took a deep breath and continued, “you caught me unawares, I wasn’t prepared.” He set the champagne bottle down on my bedside table, then delved into his trouser pocket. “But I am prepared tonight.”

I gazed at his hand, and a condom. I swallowed, gulping down the implication of his words, rather than more champagne.

“That is,” he mumbled, “if you want to.”

“I want to,” I blurted. Maybe I sounded too keen, but I did have the hots for him and I was longing to experience penetrative sex. So I leaned across the bed and took him in my arms. We rolled on the bed, tearing at our clothing. I was wearing a baggy jumper and jeans and soon they were on the floor. While Adrian undid his trousers I pulled his jumper over his head, then we returned to the bed, writhing in our underwear, moaning in our need for each other.

Then Adrian paused to remove his socks and pants. His erection told me that he was ready and the moisture between my legs told me that I was ready too.

Adrian smiled at me. I guess he wanted me to remove my bra and panties. But, suddenly, I felt self-conscious. Did he know, should I tell him that this was my first time?

“Are you…?” He hesitated, sensing my predicament.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Don’t worry,” he assured me, “I’ll be gentle.”

Adrian lay beside me. He unclipped my bra and rolled down my panties. Then I watched in fascination as he rolled the condom over his erect shaft.

I was on my back, my legs open. Adrian slipped between my thighs, his sheathed penis in his right hand. He rubbed his glands against my clitoris and lower lips and I moaned, arching my back and cupping my breasts. Then, he tried to enter me. For all my desire, I was still tense and he couldn’t gain access. He sighed in frustration and muttered, “Relax, come on, relax.”

I thought of the relaxation exercises we’d been working on as part of our psychology course and I tried to apply them. I took a deep breath and before I could exhale, Adrian was inside me, his hard penis parting my lower lips, filling my vagina. I groaned in pleasure and pain as he started to move inside me. I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around his torso, holding him close.

To be honest, the condom felt alien and uncomfortable, and the sensations, although extremely pleasurable, were also bewildering. I soon discovered that Adrian had forgotten his promise to ‘be gentle’ and that he was fucking me for all he was worth. I sensed that our encounter would consist of one position, missionary, and that I’d better get a move on because he was coming.

So I raised my hips and tried to stimulate my clitoris against his pubic bone. I was trying to race him to climax, but my hip movements, my sighs, my groans only served to enflame him further and soon he was tensing, slowing, and moaning as he emptied himself into the condom.

I groaned when he came, and I remember thinking that this was not the romantic deflowering I had dreamt of.

Adrian kissed me. Then he rolled on to his back and removed the condom. We lay together in the darkness, his penis becoming flaccid. I suppose I should have been assertive and instructed him to lick me, or finger me, at least, but I was too unsure of my sexual self then.

We drank more champagne, Adrian dressed, kissed me again and left me with an empty bottle and mixed memories. I was a virgin no more, yet sex was still a great mystery to me.

Naked, I went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. I was still in a state of arousal, my clitoris pulsing gently. I slipped a finger between my legs and started to play with myself. Then I placed a pillow between my legs and started to gyrate against it. I lay on top of the pillow and thought about making love to Adrian, but the pillow was too soft to bring satisfaction. I had to come, so I looked around the room, seeking a suitable phallus. I spied a candle and brought it to my bed. Then, I rubbed the candle over my clitoris. I parted my labia and spread my legs. I was still wet from Adrian and the candle felt smooth and warm as it entered my vagina. I fucked myself slowly, enjoying the sensation as I moved towards climax. Then the moment came with a rush. I groaned. I cupped my left breast, thrust the candle into my honey hole and felt my vagina flood with my climactic juices. I sobbed at the sensation, the intensity of the pleasure and longed to experience that pleasure with a man in my arms, with his manhood in my vagina. I was twenty-one when I did experience that pleasure, with an older man, but that’s another story…

Diary Extract Copyright © 2014 Naomi Collister. All rights reserved.

Coming Second – Fay Arthur Part Four

Coming Second – Fay Arthur Part Four

The trail to Emma McManners, while not as hot as the noonday sun, was certainly getting warmer. I’d discovered that Emma was streetwalking at night around the quay area of the city, a notorious pick-up point for women looking to earn some jam for their tea. The weather was still sultry. In fact, the evening was humid, inducing a languid feel, a lassitude that slowed the mind and body. Rhythms were measured; you could see it in the women as they walked the street, swinging their hips lazily. They wanted a John, they needed the money, but their body language said that they hoped he was the kind who jerked off while they masturbated, rather than the type who wanted it up close and personal. It was too hot for one on one sex, too sultry, too sticky. It was an evening for making love in the shower or for lazing back on cool, crisp sheets and going solo.

I was walking the streets searching for Emma. My clothing matched the women around me – fishnet stockings, a short leather skirt and a see-though top. I was bra-less, so my nipples were just about visible through the top and they attracted a number of admiring glances. As I walked, I talked with the women and discovered that Emma was indeed a regular in the area, so I was getting closer. Occasionally, a punter would pull up and make me an offer, but I had a plan, namely I’d eye his car, figure out how much he could afford, then name a price well out of his range. I guess the other women put my lack of ‘success’ down to inexperience because they offered no comment. They were more concerned with their own good, or bad, fortune than that of a newcomer.

It was 2 a.m. My feet were aching and I felt in need of a long, cool drink and a long, cool bath. I was about to wander quietly out of the area when a car pulled up beside me. The car was a Bentley, chauffeur driven.

The window on the back door slid down and a man looked up at me. He was in his early sixties with sharp blue eyes, a pencil-thin moustache and a grey corona, circling his suntanned bald head. His suit was smart and well-cut, his gold cufflinks glinted in the moonlight and a small diamond, set in a gold ring on his right little finger, sparkled at me.

“Can I offer you a lift?” the man asked urbanely.

“It will cost you a four-figure sum,” I replied, trying to put him off.

“No problem,” the man said, and the door to the Bentley swung open.

I was aware of the other women eyeing me as I wondered what to do next. I could walk away, but that would risk blowing my cover; I was close to locating Emma, but I needed more time on the street, I needed these women to trust me. So I shrugged and climbed into the car.

As I sat on the backseat, my skirt rode up to the top of my thighs, revealing my suspenders. My punter admired my legs and thighs, smiled and nodded approvingly.

“Perfect,” he sighed. “More Renoir than Rubens; perfect.”

I was still trying to figure out what he meant by that remark when the Bentley arrived at a beach house. The house had two-storeys, a flat roof and plenty of glass. The chauffeur parked the car then offered his hand to help me on to the concourse. I glanced around, at the gently rippling ocean, the neat gardens and the impressive house. Then the man took my hand and we entered the building.

We walked into an artist’s studio. The walls were covered in pictures: landscapes, still-lives, portraits, abstracts. All contained an element of beauty, but the pictures that caught my eye were those of attractive women in various stages of undress. What all these women had in common was a look of lassitude on their faces, a look of post-coital bliss. And then it dawned on me: my punter was an artist who liked to capture women in that afterglow moment, that moment when you’d come for all you were worth and felt unable to move a single muscle.

“Do you like them?” he asked with a smile of anticipation.

“They’re beautiful,” I nodded.

His smile broadened. Then he invited me to sit on a soft leather armchair.

As I sat in the chair, my mind flicked through a likely scenario. Either he, and-or his chauffeur, who had entered the studio with us, wanted to take me, or he wanted to paint me in my post-coital moment. Of the two, I preferred the idea of the latter, though how I reached that moment escaped my languid mind.

“Would you like the money up front, or after the session?” the artist asked.

I hesitated. I figured that I’d pushed my luck and that now was the time to come clean, make my excuses and leave. “I’m not a prostitute,” I admitted sheepishly. “I’m a private eye looking for an eighteen-year-old runaway called Emma McManners.”

The artist raised an eyebrow, but apart from this gesture, he didn’t stir. “Describe Emma.”

“Slim build, pretty, with shoulder-length dark brown hair, brown eyes and a distinctive birthmark above her right eyelid.”

“Much like the woman in that picture?”

The artist gazed at the far wall. I followed his gaze and stared at an image of Emma. There was no doubt that his portrait matched my picture of Emma. In my picture, Emma was smiling, albeit coyly, while in the portrait she was lying across a couch, wearing only a pair of skimpy panties. Her right hand was resting in her panties and the blissful look on her face told me that she’d recently come. How the artist managed to capture such a moment, I didn’t know; I suppose that was his gift, his particular talent.

“That’s Emma,” I said. “When did you paint that picture?”

“A week ago.”

“Do you have any idea where she is now?”

The artist steepled his fingers together. He placed them against his chin. He offered me an enigmatic grimace. “I might be able to point you in her direction. But first, you must fulfil your part of the deal.”

I swallowed, then nodded slowly. “Do you want to fuck me?”

He shook his head and offered me a sad smile. “You are not my type.” He glanced over to the chauffeur as he said this, and the two of them exchanged a secret smile.

Okay, so the picture was becoming clear. The artist – I noticed from the portraits that he sighed himself ‘Byron’ – and the chauffeur were lovers. This meant that I was the model and he wanted to paint me. The only unanswered question was, how did I get in the mood? Indeed, did I want to get in the mood? I loved making love, I loved coming, but I preferred to share sex with a partner, not with an audience; I wasn’t sure that I could perform in front of Byron and provide him with what he wanted.

“If I pose for you, you’ll take me to Emma?”

Byron nodded.

“When?”

“Return here tomorrow afternoon. I will paint your portrait and in the evening I will take you to a house where you are likely to find Emma McManners.”

I nodded. It was a deal, of sorts, and probably my best bet of locating Emma. I climbed to my feet, ready to leave.

“One thing,” Byron said. “Be sure to wear black, lacy panties. We need the dark panties to contrast with your legs. The panties are integral to the composition.”

“I will,” I said slowly, wondering what I was getting myself into.

“It will be a beautiful portrait,” Byron smiled. “Of that, I am sure.”

I returned to the beach house the following afternoon with my skimpy, black, lacy panties in my shoulder bag. I was still wondering how I was going to perform; Byron seemed nice enough, but the idea of getting off in front of him didn’t appeal, somehow. He would have to turn me on. And I was wondering, how?

As I entered his artist’s studio he asked, “You’ve brought the panties?”

I nodded and fished them out of my bag.

“Excellent,” he smiled approvingly. “You may retire to the lounge and change in there.”

In Byron’s lounge, I removed my blouse and skirt. I was still bra-less – needless to say, it was another hot day – and so I was down to my knickers. As I slipped out of my knickers and pulled my fresh, lacy panties over my thighs I found myself wondering again – what was I doing here? I guess I was keen to do a good job and find Emma. Also, I have to admit that I was flattered that an artist of considerable talent would want to paint my portrait. I was comfortable with my body so had no problem with the nudity, but masturbating and coming in front of him was an issue. Maybe I could fake it.

I returned to Byron’s studio and he waved a paintbrush towards a leather couch. I reclined on the couch and he smiled his approval.

“Lift your legs, part them,” he instructed, “place your hand above your pubis, but don’t touch yourself, yet.”

I reclined on the couch and spread my legs. My hand hovered over my pubis and as Byron painted I felt the urge to caress myself, though I resisted. The hardest part of the exercise was keeping still, and Byron reprimanded me on a number of occasions. However, as the afternoon wore on I was getting used to my role as model, and was looking forward to seeing the finished picture.

“Now,” Byron said, “slip your hand into your panties.”

Tentatively, I eased my fingers under the waistband.

“Caress yourself.”

I closed my eyes, cupped my left breast with my left hand and imagined I was alone on my bed. My right hand slipped further into my panties, but I was dry and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get off.

“I’m sorry,” I said, apologising to Byron, “this isn’t for me.”

He merely smiled and continued painting. Then he tapped his brush against his easel and a woman entered the studio. She was tall, elegant, in her mid-forties with brown, highlighted hair, a slender waist and long, sensuous legs.

“This is Renee,” Byron informed me. “She too is an artist and she is kind enough to help me out on certain occasions. Now, kindly resume your pose and follow Renee’s artistic movements.” He smiled somewhat mischievously. “I’m sure that by the end of the session we will all achieve a certain satisfaction.”

I resumed my position on the couch and watched in fascination as Renee slipped out of her blouse and jeans. She unclipped her bra without any hint of self-consciousness and revealed her neat, pear-shaped breasts. Then she sat opposite me, where she raised her legs over the arms of a chair, offering a generous view of her black, lacy panties and soft, sensual tufts of pubic hair.

Renee smiled at me. She caressed her breasts, teasing her nipples into points. She offered her nipples to her lightly painted lips and kissed them. Then she licked them with long lengths of her tongue. Simultaneously, we groaned and I noticed that my nipples too were now erect.

Renee wriggled her slim hips and eased her panties over her thighs. On the couch, I mirrored her actions. Her bush was more luxurious than mine and she spent some time there, parting her outer lips, displaying her pink inner-lips before sliding a finger into her pleasure hole. On the couch, I felt my hips responding with gentle rotations, as though she were fingering me. I moaned at the thought, then slipped a finger into my honey hole.

We were watching each other closely and Renee mouthed ‘so good’. I smiled and nodded in affirmation; it was so good, it felt so good; indeed, I’d completely forgotten that Byron was in the studio.

As the session unfolded, I discovered that Renee was indeed an artist, an artist who knew how to use her fingers to the greatest effect. I mimicked her actions as she ran a finger over her clitoral hood, touching herself a little to the right and left of the head. Then she went through a variety of movements, rubbing her clit from side-to-side, before circling it and teasing it with a figure-of-eight sweep of her fingers. For variety, she would use the tips of her fingers, then pat her clit with the palm of her hand before holding her lower lips open with one hand and inserting two fingers with the other. Occasionally, she would squeeze her clit between her forefinger and thumb, then reach deep between her legs and stimulate her anus. She spent a lot of time there and I could see that it was offering her intense pleasure. Indeed, she went hands free for awhile, sitting back, closing her eyes, absorbing the erotic sensations.

I realised that this was a race, a slow race – the woman who came second was the winner. So I eased back and gave myself soft, slow caresses, concentrating on my outer lips, avoiding my clit and vagina, though there were moments when the temptation was too strong and I had to finger myself there.

We kept up a slow, steady rhythm for some time. Then Renee’s fingers began to move faster, her hips oscillated and her back arched. She was approaching orgasm and I had to admit I was also close.

We moaned and sighed together, though we were on opposite sides of the room. Renee patted her clitoris, groaned deeply and I thought she was going to come. I closed my eyes, focused on the exquisite sensation as I moved towards climax and circled my pearl. Then I opened my eyes and noticed that Renee had eased back on her caresses. She was teasing me; she wanted me to come first.

Of course, this was all part of the game, a part of the pleasure but also a device to buy time for Byron. From the corner of my eye, I noticed his brush as it flashed away, but my main focus was on Renee and her skilful fingers, on the honey that was dripping from her lower lips.

Renee gasped and I realised that she was struggling to hold back her orgasm. I opened my legs wide, to entice her, to push her over the edge. Her groans became louder and I found that my fingers were moving faster. I was going to come; I couldn’t resist the sweet sensation any longer.

Renee responded by opening her legs wide. I feasted my eyes on her pink inner lips, bright and moist from her juices. I felt the urge to lick her lips, to slip a finger into her wet vagina and taste her juices. I moaned at the thought and slipped a finger into my own honey pot.

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With a shudder, Renee moved closer to orgasm. However, she was determined to see me come first so she removed her fingers from her clit. For me, the game had moved beyond reason; even if it meant ‘losing’, I had to come first. So I slipped two fingers and a third into my wet slit and fucked myself, my fingers moving with speed. Ironically, the sight of my fucking and the sound of my groans were too much for Renee and she melted into her orgasm, her fingers returning to her clit despite her best efforts to abstain. I managed a smile as she took her pleasure, then my features became a mirror of her ecstasy as I leaned back, raised my hips and succumbed to an overwhelming climax.

Later, I’m not sure when, I pulled my panties up, dressed and joined Byron at his easel. Somehow, he’d managed to capture my moment of joy and from the satisfied look on his face he was pleased with his efforts.

Renee left the studio without a word, which disappointed me because I was hoping we’d exchange a kiss, at least. However, Byron lifted my mood when he said, “You’re a fantastic model; no one has outlasted Renee in this studio.” Then, he added with a twinkle in his eye, “Return here this evening and claim your reward; I will take you to Emma McManners.”

Story Copyright © 2014 Abigail Summer. All rights reserved.

My First Orgasm

My First Orgasm

I experienced my first orgasm aged nineteen. I was a late developer, partly because of a repressive upbringing and partly because of ignorance. I had been sexually aware for some time and played with myself on a regular basis, but I had no idea what an orgasm felt like, or how far I had to pleasure myself to achieve one. Consequently, I regarded sex as pleasant, but not extraordinary; I could take it or leave it as the mood took me. Then everything changed when I went on holiday with Abigail Summer.

Abigail and I were psychology students. We decided to enjoy a two-week summer break in France, exploring the countryside around Normandy and Brittany. We set ourselves three goals: to visit Mont St Michel, to drink as much wine as possible and to get laid (at this point, I was still a virgin). In fact, we never made it to Mont St Michel, though we did drink a lot of wine. As to the third goal, read on…

Being students we had little money, so we hitchhiked and camped our way around Normandy and Brittany, sometimes sleeping in our one-woman tents, other times beneath the stars. The weather was gorgeous, the food delicious and because Abigail was extremely pretty, we were never short of company.

On a campsite in Brittany, we met up with two handsome Frenchmen. These men were working on the farm where the campsite was situated. One night, they invited us to a party and, feeling flirtatious, we accepted their invitation. At the party, we drank yet more wine and smoked a little pot. As the evening wore on the Frenchmen became more randy and the thought of having sex with one of them turned me on. Abigail disappeared with her man into a backroom while I kissed and fondled my man in the garden. He had his hand under my dress, caressing me through my knickers and I could feel myself getting wet.

Even though I was not sexually sure of myself at that time, I would probably have let the Frenchman make love to me against the garden wall. However, there was a disturbance in the house – some of the partygoers had started a fight over something, to this day, I don’t know what, and Abigail emerged with her clothing dishevelled and a look of frustration on her face.

“Fucking men,” she complained, “they prefer thumping each other to getting laid.” From that comment, I assumed that her man had become embroiled in the brawl and that she was on her own. But not for long, because she took hold of my hand and announced that, “we’re leaving” and left my bemused French lover with an erection and a look of bewilderment on his face.

From the party, Abigail and I walked hand-in-hand, giggling our way through the country lanes until we returned to our campsite. At the campsite, Abigail surprised me by kissing me on my lips, then she said “goodnight” and disappeared into her tent. I retired to my tent where I undressed, replacing my halter-neck dress with a loose-fitting tee-shirt. The tee-shirt had a dolphin on the front, which looked rather cheeky because he appeared to be sucking on my right nipple. Still feeling high after the pot, the wine and the garden grope, I unzipped my sleeping bag and climbed in.

However, sleep wouldn’t come. I felt restless and I realised that I was sexually tense. Back at college, I’d ease that tension by retiring to my room and lying on my bed, where I’d caress myself. I’d bring myself to a high point of pleasure, sigh and assume that that was it; sex was good, but nothing to write home about. Even though the tents were thin and the campsite was densely populated, I decided that I needed a little pleasure now, so I opened my legs and caressed the hood of my clitoris. Quicker than normal, I reached the point where I’d sigh and I assumed that I’d had an orgasm. Maybe it was the placebo effect, but the thought that I’d had an orgasm actually helped me to drift off to sleep.

Then, at some point in the night, I heard the zipper on my tent open. I woke up, startled, only to relax when I saw Abigail’s head poking into my tent.

“They’re here,” she whispered. “I’m sure I heard them. They’ve come after us!”

“Who are here?” I blinked in confusion, still half-asleep, “Who are after us?”

“The Frenchmen! At the party!”

I scrambled out of my sleeping bag, placed my hand on a torch then joined Abigail outside the tent. Thankfully, it was a balmy summer night, starlit and warm. I felt comfortable in my over-sized tee-shirt while Abigail looked sexy in a shorter tee-shirt with ‘lick me’ emblazoned across the front.

I flashed the torch around, being careful not to disturb the other campers, then concluded, “There’s no one here; they’re gone.”

“Are you sure?” Abigail placed a thumb to her lips, looking both dubious and coquettish. “I don’t want them to barge into my tent and fuck me in my sleeping bag.”

I flashed my torch around one more time and saw no one. “They’re gone,” I said. “Let’s get back to bed.”

Abigail hesitated. She looked at my tent. Then she smiled winningly. “I don’t want to sleep on my own, in case they return; can I sleep with you?”

“Very well.” I opened the tent and we squeezed into my sleeping bag.

The gentle country sounds of the night lulled me towards sleep. I could feel Abigail beside me, her body soft and warm. At some point, her hand went to my hair and she caressed me.

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” she whispered.

“Huh-huh,” I mumbled, half-awake.

Then her hands reached down and cupped my breasts. “And you’ve got great tits.”

“Abby!” I spun around in the sleeping bag and gazed at the mischievous look on her face. In those days, Abigail always pushed things further than I did; she always drank more wine or smoked more pot. And she was ahead of me when it came to sex.

“It’s true,” she murmured, “you have got great tits.”

Her lips moved down to my breasts and, through my tee-shirt, she sucked on my nipples. I tried to push her away. “Abby…” I protested, but my objection was half-hearted and feeble and soon I was sighing softly as her lips teased my nipples into points.

“Why don’t you lick me,” Abigail said thickly. Her voice was husky, a blend of desire, wine and pot. She sat up and removed her tee-shirt, revealing her svelte body and pert breasts. Inwardly, I groaned at the sight of her breasts. They looked so beautiful, so inviting. Abigail placed her hands behind my head and pulled my mouth on to her right nipple. I sucked and she groaned, arching her back. I had a suspicion that the moonlight was casting a shadow and that the other campers could see what we were doing, if they had a mind to. Certainly, they could hear us because Abigail made a lot of noise, when aroused.

I spend some time, sucking her nipples. Then Abigail wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close.

“It feels so good,” she whispered into my ear, “you feel so good.”

“Huh-huh,” I moaned softly in response.

Her hands were on my buttocks now, pulling my hips on to her hips, while her lips were busy planting soft, sensual kisses, all over my neck and face.

Abigail parted her legs and I slipped a thigh between them. We started to writhe against each other, seeking stimulation for our clits. Then Abigail reached down and cupped my pubis with her right hand. I groaned and she responded by taking hold of my right hand and guiding it to her mons.

“Finger me,” Abigail moaned, “make me come.”

Of course, I was familiar with the phrase ‘make me come’, but I was hesitant, unsure what to do. So, I took my lead from Abigail and repeated her actions as her skilful fingers danced over my labia, opening my lower lips, dipping into my juices, then lightly rubbing those juices over the hooded shaft of my clitoris, which was engorged now and fully aroused.

“Oh, Naomi,” Abigail sighed, “you’re making me so hot; you’re making me so wet. Can you feel how wet I am?”

“Huh-huh,” I mumbled as her lips met mine and her tongue danced in my mouth.

“Finger-fuck me!” Abigail demanded. “Make me come!”

I slipped a finger into Abigail’s moist vagina while her fingers continued to trace figure-of-eight shapes around my pubis and clitoris. We were both groaning now, writhing with desire. This was a feeling I had not experienced before, a level of intensity and lust that was way off my usual scale.

Then Abigail tensed and cried, “I’m coming!”

While the middle finger of my right hand caressed the moist walls of Abigail’s vagina, my left arm encircled her and held her close.

“Oh, fuck,” she groaned into my shoulder, “oh fuck, oh fuck.” Then, “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” as her body convulsed.

 At first, I had no idea what was happening. Had I pushed her beyond the brink, was she having some sort of fit? Then, as she melted into my arms, it all made sense…this was what it felt like to have an orgasm; my experiences to now had been merely foreplay; this was the real thing.

“Now you,” Abigail smiled, when the waves of her climax had subsided.

I have to admit, I was caught between apprehension and desire. However, Abigail had turned me on so much I knew that I had to surrender to the feeling; I knew that I had to submit to my first orgasm.

And so, I lay back on my sleeping bag and opened my legs wide. With Abigail kissing my lips, face and neck, I surrendered to the wonderful feeling. With Abigail’s fingers dancing over my clitoris I surrendered to my first orgasm. I arched my back, I cried out, my fingers gripped my sleeping bag, tearing the fabric. My body convulsed with one orgasmic spasm after another. Then, totally spent and sated, I closed my eyes, lay back on the sleeping bag and embraced Abigail. So that’s what it feels like, I remember thinking. Then together, entwined, we slept until morning.

Years later, Abigail admitted that the whole story about the Frenchmen returning had been a ruse; her plan had been to make love with me from the moment we went on holiday together. Of course, I suspected as much and laughed when she made the admission.

The experience of making love with Abigail changed my life forever. Now I knew how to experience orgasms, I knew how to pleasure myself and other women. Until that night with Abigail all my fantasies had been about men. But making love with Abigail removed the blinkers from my eyes, the barriers from my thinking, and that experience proved a vital one – it’s a lesson I have carried into my professional and personal life and I believe it has made me a better psychologist and lover.

Diary Entry Copyright © 2014 Naomi Collister. All rights reserved.