Merry Christmas!


Wishing you an erotic Christmas and a sensual New Year!

Many thanks for all your kind comments and likes, they mean a lot to us.

Merry Christmas!


Abigail, Gemma, Mike and Naomi

P.S. Please check out Student Days by Naomi Collister and Invisible Touch by Gemma Morgan on Amazon because on December 24th and these ebooks will be offered for free!

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.


“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.


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.



My name is Lance Knight, that’s right, as in Sir Lancelot. As you can see, my parents had a sense of humour when they named me after the Arthurian hero and while I would not claim to be as noble as my illustrious predecessor, I try to live by my own chivalric code. I’m a private detective and I’d been hired by a husband, Glen, to locate his errant wife, Amanda. Glen claimed that Amanda was sexually repressed, though she had a fantasy about being a prostitute. Glen reckoned that Amanda behaved like a nun, but deep down she wanted to be a whore. Consequently, he thought she’d be on the street, hooking, and with the aid of a photograph I found her easily enough. The trick now was to get her home.

I cruised up to Amanda in my car and wound down the window. ‘Can I give you a lift?’ I asked.

She hesitated, then stepped inside. She was wearing a short plaid skirt and red fishnets. Her legs were good, her body curvaceous, belying her thirty-eight years. Her face, attractive, though lined with tension, told me that she was uncomfortable with her street life surroundings, and maybe with the general direction of her life.

Amanda sat beside me and I placed a hand on her thigh. ‘How much?’ I asked.

‘Twenty?’ she ventured and I nodded. She’d be worth that, and more.

‘Does your underwear match your fishnets?’ I grinned, my eyes admiring her shapely legs.

Slowly, with nervous fingers, she unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a red, lacy bra. The bra gave her breasts a lift, producing a generous valley.

‘And below?’ I asked.

Amanda inched her skirt up to her hips to reveal red, lacy knickers. Her luxurious bush was just visible behind her knickers and I allowed my hand to move up, caressing her upper thigh.

‘Where do you want to do it?’ I asked, my voice a little thicker and huskier than it had been.

She hesitated. ‘Where do you suggest?’

‘I know a motel.’

She nodded and we set off for the motel. I’d booked a room in advance; it was all part of the plan.

In the room I removed my trench coat. Then I walked up to Amanda and placed my hands on her arse. I pulled her close and kissed her. I put a hand in her knickers. She was wet, but her kisses were dry. I pulled away.

‘You’re no hooker, are you?’ I said.

She shook her head, slowly.

‘I’m a private detective. Your husband hired me to find you.’ I picked up my trench coat and slipped into it. ‘Come on, let’s quit this farce and get you back home.’

Again, she hesitated, her fingers toying with the buttons on her blouse. ‘Don’t you want me?’ she asked.

I nodded. ‘You’re a very attractive woman. Sure, I want you. But that wasn’t part of the deal. Maybe next time, eh?’

Next day, Amanda was in my office. She looked bashful as she said, ‘Thank you for yesterday.’

‘For what?’ I frowned.

‘For not taking advantage of me.’

I shrugged, ‘I was hired to do a job. And yesterday that job involved you.’

She looked thoughtful, pursing her lips, inclining her head to her right. Then she said slowly, ‘You must know a lot of prostitutes.’

I laughed. ‘I know one or two.’

‘Can you introduce me to one; I would like to see her make love.’


Amanda faltered. She glanced at the historical prints on my office wall, at my desk, at my filing cabinets, anywhere to avoid eye contact. ‘Let’s just say I need to do something for myself. I’m thirty-eight, but I’m still not a woman; do you understand?’

I didn’t understand, but instead of saying that I said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

I got in touch with Tanya, a casual acquaintance. Tanya fancied me and I knew she’d do me a favour. She knew someone who liked an audience so we made the arrangements and met at her place. In Tanya’s bedroom in the semi-darkness Amanda took a seat and feeling uncomfortable I sat beside her.

Tanya was good-looking with decent-sized breasts, a round arse and a sassy walk. She walked up to her client and pushed him on to her bed. Then she stripped, nice and slow, revealing herself to her audience. She was naked, apart from a thong, when she walked over to her client, whom we’ll call John, unzipped his trousers and freed his cock. He was hard by now and Tanya soon produced the head as she worked him with her fingers and mouth. John groaned as Tanya sucked him off and I noticed that Amanda was watching them, on the edge of her seat.

Tanya slipped John’s cock between her ample breasts and massaged it for a while. To judge from John’s blissed-out expression and groans it was a delicious sensation; beside me, Amanda started to whimper. Then Tanya removed her thong to reveal her shaved pubis. She fingered herself, to get herself wet, before slipping a condom over John’s cock. His cock was throbbing by now and, I have to admit, I was getting hard too.

Tanya turned her back on John, took hold of his cock, and guided it into her wet hole. From our position, Amanda and I got a good view of Tanya’s arse as she moved up and down on John, writhing from time to time. John left the movements to Tanya; he just sat back and took the ride. Then she reversed her position and faced John. She offered him her nipples and he sucked them while she fucked him with more skilful swings of her hips. Of course, the condom inhibited John’s pleasure, but Tanya was good and soon he was on the brink of orgasm. Sensing this, Tanya dismounted. She pulled the condom off and took John in her mouth again. He was ready now. Meanwhile, I glanced over to Amanda and noticed that her skin was glowing. Then Amanda gasped as John groaned. He put his hands on Tanya’s head and, holding it in position, he pumped his come into her mouth. She devoured it without hesitation, licking her lips, savouring the last drop. As John slumped back on the bed I glanced at Amanda. She was sitting back in her chair, her eyes closed, her legs open, her hand inside her blouse. She wanted it, that was obvious to see, and even though I’d been hired to find her and strictly she was business not pleasure, I wanted her.

Outside, in the street, Amanda said, ‘Do you remember the motel?’ She paused and took hold of my arm. ‘Do you think you could book the same room?’

‘Sure,’ I said and, later that day, I made the arrangements.

I was sitting in a chair, in the bedroom at the motel. I placed my hands behind my head while Amanda stood in the middle of the room. She looked at me, licked her lips, hesitated, then said, ‘Do you still want me?’

I eyed her curves, her attractive face, her expectant look. ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I still want you.’

‘Then take me,’ she said.

I pursed my lips. ‘You sure?’

She nodded. ‘I’m sure.’

‘And what about your husband?’

Amanda laughed, a dry laugh without any humour. ‘What about him?’

‘He hired me. I can’t just take his money and then screw his wife.’

Her cheeks coloured, glowing bright red. She looked at me with daggers in her eyes. ‘Is that how you see me, as an easy screw?’

I sighed, ‘I see you as a very beautiful woman whom I’m sexually attracted to. But that doesn’t hide the fact that your husband hired me and if I did make love to you we’d both be betraying him.’

Amanda wandered around the room. The motel room was small, containing not much more than a bed, yet still she looked lost. After shaking her head and gathering her thoughts, she said, ‘My husband doesn’t love me. He just sees me as a trophy wife. I’m just a decoration to impress his business associates. He doesn’t care about me, or my feelings, or my needs.’ Her eyes met mine when she said ‘needs’ and we held our gaze when she continued, ‘It’s over between us; we’re not betraying him.’

I stood and joined Amanda in the middle of the room. I put my arms around her waist and let my fingers wander over her butt. She made no protest. I kissed her. She responded with some tongue. I cupped the cheeks of her arse tight and she moaned.

I gave her arse a gentle slap and she put her arms around my neck and groaned. After another slap I was tender with my caresses and she responded by rubbing her breasts against my chest while I fingered her pubis through her slacks. My fingers were doing their work when she grabbed my crotch. I was hard and she noticed.

‘I’d love to see your hard penis,’ she whispered. ‘I’d love to feel it inside me.’

We kissed with passion, then I took hold of her hand and ushered her to the bed.

‘Take your top off,’ I said. ‘Lie down, face down.’

She did as instructed and I sat astride her butt. I massaged her shoulders and she sighed, ‘Mmm, that feels good.’ Then I unclipped her bra.

‘Roll over,’ I said.

Amanda rolled over on to her back and I pulled her bra from her shoulders, exposing her breasts. Her breasts had lost some of the firmness of youth, but they were still beautiful and a handful. I cupped one, then the other, sucking her nipples into long points. She gasped when I sucked on her nipples. She held my head in place as I nibbled her points, her sighs suggesting that she wanted it, bad.

My tongue licked her down to her waistband. I unclipped her slacks and unzipped them. She raised her hips and soon her legs and panties were exposed. She was wearing red, silky panties and I kissed her through the silk.

‘Oh God,’ she groaned as my tongue found her button. I pulled her panties down over her hips then I kissed her around her pubis before licking her thighs, her clit and her open lower lips. She was writhing now, holding my head in place as my tongue tasted the juices of her pleasure hole. I was very hard by this point, so I paused to remove my clothes. I offered my cock to her and I was pleasantly surprised when she guided it between her lips and sucked me. With her eyes closed she licked my purple head while her fingers massaged my shaft. Occasionally I went in deep and when I did I felt her tongue on my balls.

I eased her head from my cock, held it steady, then kissed her on her lips. Her legs were wide open now, so I eased myself between her thighs. The head of my cock opened her lower lips, she raised her hips to meet my thrust and we both groaned as I plunged into her wetness.

Despite her thirty-eight years, Amanda was virgin tight. I enjoyed her tightness around my girth as I gave her my full length in easy, regular strokes. However, she was frantic in her gyrations – she really needed it – and we couldn’t find a mutual rhythm. So I cupped her arse to control her movements and contented myself with shorter lengths. We were getting used to each other, so we kept it missionary. With my hands on her arse and her arms hooked around my back and shoulders we were pleasing each other and our moans increased.

‘Fuck!’ I said.

‘Oh God,’ she groaned.

I kissed her lips, then my lips teased her earlobes. This was her spot because she was sighing now and shuddering with each sigh. I felt my desire increase so I fucked her fast, but I didn’t come, instead I held it back to increase my pleasure.

‘Oh yes!’ she sighed ‘Oh yes!’ when my pubic bone ground against her clitoris. She raised her hips and offered her clit to my pubic bone. I obliged with some circular hip movements and her arms tightened around my shoulders.

‘Mmm,’ she sighed as I kneaded her behind with my fingers. Then, ‘Oh yes!’ as I took a nipple between my teeth. I nibbled her nipple and she whimpered, her back arching, her eyes flickering with ecstasy.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ she gasped as I gave her a few slow, long lengths. Then, as I concentrated my purple head on her vaginal entrance, ‘Oh my God, that’s so good. What are you doing to me?’

I kissed her and she responded with a lot of tongue and a lot of passion. Her hands were everywhere now, clawing at me.

Then she moaned, a deep, sensual, erotic sound. Her eyes flicked open and she breathed huskily, ‘You’re making me tremble. Please make me come.’ She arched her back and her moans became louder. Between these sensual moans she repeated over and over, ‘Please make me come…’

I grunted. In truth, I was trembling too; I was on the point of release. But ladies first. I held myself back until I sensed that she was coming. And when her moment arrived it came with great intensity. She tensed, gripped me and cried out in ecstasy, her orgasm producing an incoherent stream of words while her ejaculation flooded her chamber.

‘Fuck,’ I muttered, my cock pulsing as it slipped in and out of her wetness.

‘Oh God,’ she groaned into my ear, her legs and arms locked around me, holding me as though afraid to let go.

‘Fuck,’ I muttered again, aware that I couldn’t hold it back any longer.

‘Oh God,’ she cried, ‘I’m coming…’


Somehow, I held on to allow her to ride the waves; while scratching and clawing my back she cried out, then she shuddered and sobbed as her second orgasm washed over her. With our sweat running together her hips writhed frantically, circling my cock. No doubt she was looking for a third orgasm, but her tight, wet vagina and relentless passion took me to my limit; I grunted, bucked and shot my load. As usual, I came in three long spurts and she took each spurt with a sigh of pleasure.

Later, as we lay on the bed, she circled her fingers over my chest and kissed me, ‘You’re so good,’ she smiled. ‘That was so good. I never knew it could be that good.’

I kissed her and held her close. We snuggled together and I mused, that’s the first time she’s come; that’s the first time the lady has experienced an orgasm. Then I kissed her again and thought, what a privilege to offer her that gift, what an honour.

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

Hitting the Spot – Fay Arthur Part Three

I was on the trail of an eighteen-year-old runaway, Emma McManners. Emma worked at the Bayside Sports Club as a masseuse, so I bought myself a day pass for the club and nosed around.

It was another meltingly hot day and I was working out on the treadmill. The sweat was soaking into my sports bra and running shorts. The bra and shorts gripped my firm behind and firm breasts, enhancing my lithe body. I attracted a few admiring looks from male, and female, patrons and I have to admit I was only too happy to return the compliment and allow my gaze to linger over them.

After the treadmill it was time for a quick shower and then into the pool. The pool was cool and refreshing after the rigors of the treadmill and I swam gently, enjoying the sensation of the water as it flowed over me. Whenever a chance presented itself I paused and talked, in a casual way, about Emma, trying to get an angle on where she might be, or who she might be with.

With a few nuggets of information gleaned, I returned to the shower and then the massage room. In the massage room, I placed my arms on a pillow and then my head on my arms. A towel was draped over my behind, otherwise I was naked. I felt totally relaxed, refreshed from my workout and shower. I’d lingered on my second visit to the shower, drying myself slowly, allowing my hands and towel to caress my erogenous zones. Consequently I was feeling in a sensual mood as I awaited my massage.

The door to the massage room opened and the masseuse stepped in. I turned my head and eyed a beautiful woman, in her late twenties with a curvaceous figure, sparkling green eyes and shimmering auburn hair. She smiled at me, and I smiled in turn. Sometimes, my job could be a pain in the arse, other times it could lead to inexorable pleasure. As I smiled at the masseuse I figured that this afternoon would produce nothing but pleasure.

The masseuse applied a fragrant oil, scented with lavender, to my back, and we got talking. I discovered that her name was Melissa and that she knew Emma.

“Have you seen Emma lately?” I asked.

“I think she quit the club for the street.”

I turned my head and raised an eyebrow. “She’s hooking?”



“The docks area. Emma wants to be in the movies. I think she’s following her dream.”

I made a mental note of this information, my best lead to date. Then I placed my head on the pillow and enjoyed the feeling of Melissa’s hands massaging my legs and thighs.

“Why do you ask?” Melissa frowned. “Are you a friend?”

“I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for Emma.” Sometimes I lie about my profession when seeking information, but I sensed that with Melissa it would be better to play it straight. “Thanks for the info,” I added, “I owe you.”

Melissa’s hands moved to my upper thighs. She smiled. “My pleasure.”

In truth, the pleasure was mine. Her fingers were really good and I felt myself responding with gentle sighs. Melissa’s hands moved towards my buttocks, pausing to outline the creases between buttocks and thighs. I emitted a soft groan as her hands did their work and I opened my legs slightly, inviting Melissa to move under the towel. However, she paused at my behind then moved on to rub oil into my shoulders.

“You’ve got a fantastic body,” Melissa said while pressing her thumbs into my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I sighed. “You’ve got a great figure too. And great hands.”

Melissa giggled. “If you think my hands are great at work, you should see what they get up to at home.”

I turned my head and our eyes met. There was amusement in her eyes, and something else, a hint of sensuality, of desire. Suddenly, my mouth was dry. I licked my lips. Then I eased myself on to my right elbow and allowed Melissa a view of my breasts. I’m pleased to say that her eyes feasted on my breasts and that she felt the urge to lick her lips too. I love to feel a man in my arms and his cock inside me, but there are times when I yearn for a feminine touch. Maybe that goes back to my first sexual experience with a girlfriend. That experience was at my eighteenth birthday party – I was a late developer – and she gave me the best present of all, an orgasm, her fingers teasing me to a never-to-be-forgotten climax.

I reached across to touch Melissa’s thigh, but she shook her head. “Not here.” Her voice was husky now, thick with sensuality. “It’s against club rules. I’ll give you my number. Call me anytime you like.” Then she added mischievously, “I’d love to hear more about your private detective work. I’ve never dated a P.I. before.”

I figured that Melissa and I would have a lot to talk about when we did meet up, but for now I was content to allow her hands to work their magic and rub oil into my body. And as the oil soaked into my skin I thought about Emma and a plan to locate her. I would discuss that plan with P.J. Parker, a fellow private eye, later that evening, over dinner. The afternoon had been good and I hoped the evening would be even better. But one pleasure at a time. I focused on Melissa’s hands and allowed my mind to fantasize about sex.

Melissa had turned me on and I was still feeling hot when I arrived at P.J. Parker’s house for dinner. We dined by candlelight, feasting on rump steak in oyster sauce washed down with a number of Bloody Mary oyster shots. As we feasted we talked about our search for our runaways.

“Are you making any progress with Sarah Castleton?” I asked while dabbing my lips with a napkin.

P.J. shook his head. “Last seen at the Ace of Hearts, beyond that I’ve drawn a blank.” He poured me another Bloody Mary. “What about you and Emma?”

“Progress,” I smiled while sampling my drink. “She’s streetwalking the docks. I’m going out there tomorrow night, to see if I can find her.”

P.J. gave me a thoughtful look from over the rim of his glass. “Could be dangerous; want me to tag along?”

“I’ve got a plan,” I replied calmly, “I’m sure I can handle it.”

P.J. nodded, though he still looked thoughtful. Then he smiled at me and offered up another oyster, which I accepted with relish.

After the meal we retired to P.J.’s sitting room and sat on the couch. P.J. lived out of town, in a stone cottage he’d renovated himself. We were sitting side-by-side and he was telling me about the cottage and the work he’d put into it when I felt a magnetism between us and a desire to melt into his arms. P.J. sensed that too because he took me in his arms and kissed me passionately on the lips, his right hand caressing my thigh, sliding under my skirt.

P.J. pulled me on top of him. His hand went to my rear, under my panties, caressing my arse. I arched my back and groaned. Maybe it had something to do with Melissa’s massage, or the oysters or the fact that P.J. had rescued me from an attacker in the alley outside the Ace of Hearts, but I was so hot, I was on fire; I wanted him; I had to have him inside me.

I cupped P.J.’s rugged face and kissed him with renewed passion. In turn, he fondled my buttocks, sliding my panties down to the tops of my stockings. I was open for him now, I was wet, I wanted him; yet I paused. I paused and thought about Mike Vernon. Mike and I had had fantastic sex in an elevator and a hot chat over the phone, but were we lovers? I had to remind myself that although we knew each other intimately, we didn’t really know each other at all. And what about P.J., what did I feel for him? Was it just lust? Or was I falling in love? He was a big man, hard, rugged, yet tender with his touch. I gazed into his compassionate blue eyes and realised that I was drowning in them. Meanwhile, his hand remained poised on my buttocks. He was waiting for a signal; did I want him, or not?

“Take me,” I whispered into his ear, “I want you to take me.” For me, this was more than just lust; as his lips kissed my neck and his hands cupped my breasts through my blouse and bra, I realised that I was falling in love.

P.J. picked me up and carried me into his bedroom. He placed me on his bed, gently, carefully, then he removed his clothes. He was naked, lying beside me, unbuttoning my blouse. Then he pulled me on to my side and unclipped my bra. He freed my breasts, cupped them, then sucked my nipples. Again, I arched my back and again I moaned. My panties had fallen off somewhere between the sitting room and the bedroom. P.J. reached for the zipper on my skirt and soon I was naked, except for my suspenders and stockings. P.J. smiled as he admired my curvaceous body. He was erect, his penis pressing against my midriff. He was big, wider than Tony and longer than Mike and I wondered if I’d be able to take all of him. Yet I wanted him, I wanted him so much.

I went down on him. While my left hand held the base of his shaft my tongue circled the exposed head of his penis. P.J. closed his eyes and moaned. My fingers started to massage his shaft while my tongue teased the tip of his penis. Then I took the head into my mouth and gave him some oral. I knew I’d gag if I tried to take his full length, so I concentrated on the head, my fingers now cupping his balls. P.J.’s moans and his stiffening penis told me that his pleasure was building and at one point my tongue became too much and he eased my mouth from his cock.

We were both panting now, panting with desire. Would he enter me, or would we extend our foreplay? To my delight he placed me on my back and feasted on my nipples, his tongue darting around my areolae, his lips sucking my sensitive points. Between my legs, my clit throbbed in harmony while my honey continued to flow.

I cupped my breasts, inviting P.J. to lick them further. But instead he sat astride me and slid his shaft through my valley. I haven’t got huge breasts, but they’re big enough to take a cock, and we enjoyed ourselves like that for a while, his cock pleasuring my breasts while my tongue licked his head when it came within reach.

At one point I thought P.J. was going to come over my breasts, but he surprised me again by slipping his thighs between my thighs. With his weight resting on his outstretched arms he positioned his pulsating cock over my pubis. I reached down, took hold of his shaft and guided him towards my lower lips.

“Be gentle, babe, take it slow.” I gasped in anticipation, my hips rising to meet his thrust. “You’re very big; I need time to get used to you.”

P.J. glanced down to his dangling cock. Then we both watched as I guided his head closer to my lower lips. His head started to part my lips. At that moment, P.J. grunted and I cried out, “Oh fuck!” as his head entered my vagina. I cried out again, “Oh fuck!” as he went deeper. Then I wrapped my arms around his torso and bit his shoulder as, bit-by-bit, I took his full length.

“You’re tight, Fay,” P.J. gasped in admiration.

“Vaginal exercises,” I managed to moan through the gentle waves of pleasure that were starting to wash over me. In truth, I was tight, but P.J.’s cock would have stretched any woman.

“Nice and easy,” I breathed into P.J.’s ear as he started to move in me, withdrawing to his head, then sliding his shaft deep into my honey hole.

“Oh that’s so good,” I groaned as he altered his movements, holding still inside me while his pubic bone stimulated my clit.

“You like that?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “More, don’t stop, more. Fuck me, fuck me slow.”

P.J. gave me more clitoral stimulation, alternating with full length thrusts of his cock. The combination was exquisite and I cried out in my desire; it was a good job we were miles away from anywhere because my moans were so loud they would have startled any neighbours.

I was feeling comfortable with P.J.’s size now and my hips were rotating around his cock, teasing him towards orgasm. My juices were flowing copiously, out of my honey hole and over my bum. I felt that by the time we came there’d be a danger of us drowning in the wet spot. But before that moment I wanted more of P.J. and I wanted a change of position.

“Why don’t you take me from behind,” I whispered huskily.

“Huh-huh.” P.J. nodded his assent and slipped out of me. Quickly, I eased a pillow under my breasts then offered up my rear.

P.J. kneeled behind me. I took him with greater ease this time, though we both moaned loudly as his cock parted my lower lips and slipped into my honey hole.

I was holding on to the headboard, bucking and writhing like a filly, when P.J. placed a hand on my back. At first, I wasn’t sure what he wanted, then I realised that he was asking me to crouch lower and raise my butt higher in the air. This I did and I was rewarded with P.J.’s head caressing the entrance to my vagina, my most sensitive area when it came to penetrative sex.

I sensed that P.J. would be a good lover, but he was more than good, he was exceptional. He alternated between deep thrusts and short caresses with the head of his penis. I responded by circling my hips, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickening the pace. He was groaning loudly and my moans joined in the chorus. His movements slowed, became more deliberate and I knew he was going to come. Then he hit my G-spot.


“Oh fuck!” I cried out. “Oh sweet fuck! Keep it there, keep it there!” I placed my right hand on the bed to steady myself while my left hand groped blindly for P.J.’s buttocks, to hold him in position, to keep his cock on my orgasmic trigger. “Oh God,” I groaned, “that’s so good. Keep it there, keep it there!…oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m coming…”

The first wave washed over me, a gentle one that had me sighing with pleasure. Then the second, then the third…surges of sensuality that built to the seventh wave and the flood of orgasm.

“Oh…yes!” I screamed as the seventh wave engulfed me. Then, “Oh fuck!” as my orgasm continued. Then, I gasped unable to speak as P.J. kept the head of his cock on my G-spot. This was a multiple orgasm like no other. I was crying, moaning, gasping, begging for more, yet begging for relief. Then P.J. could hold back no longer and he brought us both to a merciful release when he pumped himself into me, his spunk blending with my orgasmic juices. As he withdrew, those juices ran over my inner thighs and soaked his bedding; I’d come so hard and so often, it looked as though I’d wet his bed.

However, P.J. didn’t mind. He fell on top of me and with a sigh, we embraced each other. He kissed me on the lips and I responded by placing his head on to my breasts. He lay against my breasts using them as a pillow while I ran my hand through his hair.

One of us said, “I love you,” and the other replied with a romantic echo. Then we closed our eyes and slept, totally sated.

Story Copyright © 2014 Abigail Summer. All rights reserved.

Classic Erotica #1 – Jules Scalbert and Anais Nin


The Bathers by Jules Scalbert (1851 – 1901)

“She continued to swim and he repeated his passage over her. Then she stood up and he drove down and passed between her legs. They laughed. They both moved with ease in the water. He was deeply excited. He swam with his sex hard. Then they approached each other with a crouching motion, as if for a battle. He brought her body against his, and she felt the tautness of his penis.” – Anais Nin (1903 – 77) The Woman on the Dunes 

Good Vibrations – Fay Arthur Part Two

The heatwave continued. In fact, it was too hot for clothing, but I was driving into the city that afternoon and modesty insisted that I had to wear something. In the end I settled for a light summer dress. The dress was flower-patterned, strapless and short, very feminine and quite revealing. I decided to dispense with a bra – fortunately I’ve got very firm breasts and a bra is not a necessity. I tend to wear one because my nipples are very sensitive and I love the touch of lace or silk against them. Normally I like to wear stockings and suspenders, but today I selected a pair of flimsy panties, something to keep me cool on the journey into the steamy city.

I was on the trail of a teenage runaway, eighteen year old Emma McManners. Emma was a regular at my ex-husband’s nightclub, the Ace of Hearts. I was in no mood to meet my ex, Tony Baresi, and I was releaved to discover that he was out of town for the day. At the club I talked with members of staff who were setting the tables for the evening’s entertainment. I got chatting with a muscle-bound croupier, a man who obviously worked out on a regular basis, and he hinted that he might have some information for me. We arranged to meet up again at 10 pm that evening.

If anything, the evening was even hotter and stickier than the day. I guess the buildings in the city had retained the afternoon heat and now they radiated that heat back at you making you perspire profusely, making your clothes stick to your skin. I stood at our rendezvous point, the corner of the main street and an alley and waited for my contact to emerge from the Ace of Hearts with perspiration shimmering between my breasts.

When the bodybuilder emerged, he glanced at me and said, “Not here; too public. We’ll talk in the alley.” So I followed him into a moonlit shadow cast by the nightclub.

We were in the alley, secluded, out of sight, out of earshot, when he leaned against the wall and leered, “I saw you giving me the eye this afternoon.” He winked, “So, you and me, babe, how about it?”

“If I gave you the eye I was only trying to capture your attention. I‘m here for information about Emma McManners, nothing else.”

“Don’t give me that.” He grabbed hold of my arm and before I knew what was happening, he spun me round and pushed me against the wall. Then he leaned against me, his considerable weight pinning me to the wall, my breasts rubbing against the coarse brickwork while his groin pressed against my buttocks.

I tried to struggle free, but he was too powerful for me. While his hands gripped me, he writhed against me, his lips seeking my lips as I turned my head away.

“Stop this!” I demanded, but my struggles and moans only seemed to excite him further. I was at his mercy and I was scared.

He spun me round again, to face him. And as his right hand went under my dress, I forced myself to think coolly. I waited for him to lose himself in his lust, then I brought my knee up into his groin. He grunted but didn’t flinch, so I kneed him a second time and this time there was a satisfying ‘crack’ as my knee connected with his balls. He released me and, panting with desperation, I ran down the alley, towards the main street and safety. However, as I ran, he reached out, grabbing and tearing my dress. I stumbled, ran on, then fell into the dust and dirt.

I was crying as I clambered to my feet, my legs turning to jelly in my anxiety. Although grimacing with pain, he caught up with me. He pushed me to the ground and I went sprawling. As I glanced up, casting a fearful eye over my shoulder, he looked down and grinned.

“Bitch!” He bent over and slapped me. Then, as he straightened, a man stepped out of the shadows. My mind froze, fearing that the bodybuilder had a companion. However, the second man, equally as tall and, if anything, even more powerfully built, produced a sap and bludgeoned my assailant to the ground. The bastard was out for the count; he wouldn’t bother me anymore.

I gasped in relief, my bright, moist eyes gazing at my rescuer. “Thank you,” I managed to mutter.

“Are you okay?” The man was built like a champion prize-fighter, but he had a soft, lilting voice. And, as he stepped out of the shadow, I realised that his blue eyes were full of compassion, that his rugged face was handsome in its concern.

“Yeah,” I managed to gasp, pushing myself to my feet. “I’m okay.”

My hands went to my dress, which was stained from the dust of the alley, and I realised the tear had exposed my right breast. The fabric was beyond repair and I had to hold the material in place to preserve my decency.

“Here,” my rescuer said, noticing my predicament, “take this.” He removed his dark blue blazer and draped it over my shoulders. Then he put his hand around my shoulders and led me to his car.

In his car, a sporty Triumph Stag, he offered me a flask of whisky. I drank from it thirstily and the alcohol steadied my nerves a little. I realised that my hands were still shaking and I felt cold, despite the jacket and the heat of the evening. But the whisky, and this man’s presence, helped to restore my equilibrium and while placing my head back against the car seat I started to relax.

“What’s your name?” the man asked. He took the whisky from my outstretched hand and sipped from the flask.

“Fay Arthur. I’m a private detective.”

“I’m P.J. Parker, P.J. to my friends, Nosy to my enemies and, guess what, I’m a P.I. too!”

My eyes widened at his words. I glanced over to him and smiled, “What a coincidence!”


Then I became conscious of his jacket and the reason I was wearing it. In a small voice I mumbled, “I don’t know how I can thank you.”

P.J. waved a large, dismissive hand. He shrugged a broad shoulder. “Don’t worry about it; I’m sure we’ll think of something.” Then he rubbed a thoughtful hand across his firm, square jaw. He eyed me quizzically. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a teenage runaway, Emma McManners.”

“Snap!” P.J. clicked his fingers. “I’m looking for a teenager too, Sarah Castleton; have you heard of her?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Sarah was last seen at the Ace of Hearts.”

“Same as Emma.”

We stared at each other, then lapsed into thoughtful silence.

Eventually, P.J. said, “Maybe we should put our heads together; see what we’ve got and what we can come up with.”

“Good idea,” I smiled.

His face mirrored my smile and in his rugged features I saw a man I knew I could trust. “I cook a mean rump steak in oyster sauce washed down with a few Bloody Mary oyster shots; how do you fancy dinner at my place tomorrow night.”

“I’d love it,” I said, not needing to give the invitation a moment’s thought.

He nodded, satisfied with my reply.

I glanced at my knees; they were dirty, cut. I was in need of a bath, to wash the grime and sweat from my body and the memory of the bodybuilder from my mind.

“Eight o’clock suit you?” P.J. asked.

“Fine,” I replied.

I eased his jacket from my shoulders, revealing my naked breast. I noted that he was looking at my breast, admiring it as one admires a fine work of art. From feeling grubby and dirty and cheap in the alley, now I felt pride in my body and I allowed his gaze to linger before offering the jacket to him.

“Keep it,” P.J. said. “You need it. You can return it tomorrow.”

I wanted to thank him, but I didn’t know how. So I leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. Like his general demeanour, his cheek was rugged, covered in a day’s growth of beard. My lips lingered, maybe for longer than they needed to, then I jumped out of his car and drove home.

At home, I was in the bath, soaping myself, trying to relax. Normally when I haven’t got a date lined up I like to linger in the bath and allow my fingers to work their magic and bring me exquisite pleasure. I did caress my clit, but soon realised that I wasn’t in the mood for sex – the incident in the alley had upset me more than I first thought.

Naked, I reclined on my bed. I picked up a book, I was reading about Greek philosophers, trying to broaden my mind, but tonight I couldn’t concentrate. I felt agitated, restless. I found myself hoping that my assailant was feeling the same way and that his balls were hurting like hell.

I tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. I poured myself two fingers of whisky and sipped it while gazing at the flame red sky – tomorrow would be another scorcher.

The whisky did the trick because when I returned to my bed and placed my head on my pillow I was asleep in minutes. I tend to sleep with my arms and legs spread wide, like a starfish, and because it was so hot I slept on top of the duvet.

I’m not sure what time it was, but at some point during the night my bedside phone rang. I fumbled for the phone and mumbled, “Hello” then swept my hair from my still closed eyes.

“Hello, baby; how are you?”

I was still half-asleep and I didn’t recognise the voice. “Who is this?”

“So soon,” he laughed, “and you’ve already forgotten.”

I sat up in bed, blinking myself awake. “Mike?” I frowned. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I hope you don’t mind me calling you.”

“Mind, no not at all.” I was fully awake now recalling that twenty-four hours ago I’d met Mike in an elevator and he’d given me the most intense orgasm I’d ever experienced. My clit pulsed at the memory. I felt my nipples harden. Yet I knew nothing about this man. Indeed, our sex had been spontaneous and in time spent together we’d only known each other for a matter of minutes. But his handsome looks came through in his educated voice and the memory of our loving banished the nightmare of the early evening and made me hot. “How did you get my number?” I asked.

“Ah-ha, that would be telling!” he said jovially. Then, more seriously, “You didn’t tell me you’re a private eye.”

“Yeah, I am,” I smiled into my phone. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m in business,” he said vaguely.

I thought about his reply for few seconds then asked, “Where are you, do you want to meet up?”

“I’m two hundred miles away. Away, on business.”

I sighed with disappointment. It would have been good to have felt Mike in my arms tonight. I needed him tonight. I needed him to show me that not all men are bastards.

We were silent, gathering our thoughts. Then Mike asked, “What are you doing now?”

“Talking to you.”

“Funny girl,” he chided. Then, “Where are you?”

“On my bed.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Nothing, I always sleep naked.”

“Mmm,” he sighed. “I wish I was with you.”

“Yeah,” I sighed in turn. “Me too, babe.”

“Running my fingers through your hair.”

I closed my eyes and leaned into my pillow. “Yeah.”

“Kissing your sweet lips.”

“Mmm, yeah.”

“Running my tongue along the nape of your neck and down to the valley of your breasts.” He paused, then added, “I’ve made love to you, but I haven’t seen your breasts.”

“Next time we meet, darling, you’ll see them.”

“Describe them.”

“They’re round and firm. My areolae are dark and my nipples are very sensitive. They’re erect now, thinking of you.”

He grunted and I sensed that he was naked too.

“Are you still there?” I asked when the line went quiet.

“Yeah, still here.” The line went quiet again, then he sighed, “I’m horny, babe. I’d like to come.”

I sighed and felt my clit tingle at his words. “Can I help you come?”



“Have you got a vibrator?”


“I’d like to hear you masturbate. No words, just put your phone on speaker and pleasure yourself; I want to hear your sighs and moans.”

I flicked a switch and set my phone to speaker. Then I leaned over my bed and removed my vibrator from a bedside drawer. I placed the vibrator to my lips and frowned, my expression thoughtful. “I’d love to help you, Mike, but someone has got to turn me on before I masturbate.”

“Don’t I turn you on?”

“Yeah,” I admitted, “you do.”

“Well, think about me; think about us and what we’ll do when we next meet up.”

I smiled at the phone. Then I eased my head back on to my pillow. I set the vibrator on ‘low’ – I wanted to take my time and enjoy our long-distance lovemaking – closed my eyes and thought of Mike and the way he’d held me and made love to me in the elevator. God, had I really thrown myself at him in such a wonton fashion? Had I really offered myself to a total stranger? Yes, I had. I suppose the combination of his stunning looks and an evening spent watching my ex fuck his current lover had taken me to the point of sexual abandon. And when Mike then caressed me and entered me I discovered a paradise I thought I knew so well simply to realise that I’d only glimpsed it before. I moaned softly at the memory then ran the tip of the vibrator around my areolae.

As I mentioned before, my nipples are very sensitive. In fact, they are hot-wired to my clit and any stimulation around my nipples tends to transfer itself to my clit and make me very wet. I love a man who takes his time with my nipples, who sucks them and licks them, who nibbles them gently with his teeth. I thought of Mike sucking my nipples and my back arched gently on the bed, as though offering my tits to him. I moaned into the phone and he grunted his approval.

My nipples were standing proud now, like two dark thimbles. As I trailed the vibrator down to my pubis my left hand teased those thimbles and in my mind’s eye I could see Mike erect, his penis standing proud against the taut muscles of his abdomen. My thighs parted at the image, as though inviting him into my pleasure hole.

The vibrator traced a line around the neatly shaved hairs of my pubis. Then it caressed my inner-thighs before resting against my labia. I ran the vibrator over my labia while glancing down, noting that my lower lips were opening and that my clitoris was now descended and longing to be touched. I whimpered into the phone, a cry that begged Mike to lick me, to finger me, but he was so far away and we could only take pleasure from each other’s moans as our desire built and our bodies moved with lust.

The vibrator touched my clitoris and I broke my vow of silence. I cried, “Oh, Mike, oh fuck!”

Mike replied with a deeper groan and I sensed that he was moving towards climax. Slow down, baby, let’s make this last, wait for me, let’s come together.

I would have lingered over my clit for much longer, until my juices were soaking into my duvet, but I wanted to come with Mike, I wanted us to come together. So I eased the tip of my vibrator into my honey hole then shuddered and gasped as I took its full length. I turned the dial up to maximum and my hips started to rotate as my vaginal walls gripped my replica penis.


Mike’s grunts were getting louder and more frequent. He was about to come. I wasn’t ready. I needed more time. Then an image of P.J. entered my mind. Then Mike, his hard cock thrusting into my wet vagina, then P.J., then the two of them taking me at the same time. The images became crazy, a blur of sensuality, I was gasping, crying with lust, moaning loudly into the phone. I felt P.J.’s large hands all over me. I felt him inside me. Mike was caressing my breasts. He was sucking my nipples. I sat astride one of them while the other prepared to take me from behind. Then I came, I’m not sure which one of them produced the orgasm, but it was intense. My vaginal walls contracted and I feared that I was going to shatter the vibrator. Then the vibrator hit my g-spot and my love juice squirted on to my duvet. I cried out at that point, a cry both plaintive and joyous, plaintive because I wanted to make the moment last forever, joyous because the orgasm was so intense, so powerful, so strong. My left hand gripped the duvet as wave after wave swept over me. I was so caught up in the intensity of my orgasm that I was only dimly aware of Mike groaning into his own climax. I felt a little guilty about that. Then I fell back on to my pillow, my duvet soaked in my sweat and my juices, my breasts glistening with perspiration, my gasps gradually subsiding as my breathing returned to normal and reality reasserted itself.

“Fuck,” Mike groaned, “that was good.”

“Yeah,” I gasped. “We’ve got to get it on again, for real.”

“Soon, babe,” he promised me, “soon.”

Story Copyright © 2014 Abigail Summer. All rights reserved.


The One That Got Away

Her name was Beth and she was a relationship adviser. I’d been seeing her for three months in an attempt to repair my relationship with Gema, my twenty-seven-year-old girlfriend. Relations had become strained with Gema – I’m not really sure why – and after intensive discussions, Beth and I concluded that the best way to win Gema back would be to make her jealous. The route to her jealousy though had yet to be decided. I felt that the sessions had been productive and was happy to leave it at that. However, Beth asked me back for one more – gratis –session, just to discuss ‘this and that’ and, because I liked her, I agreed.

I arrived at Beth’s office to find her sitting behind her desk. She was forty-two, ten years older than me, with short fair hair, deep blue eyes and high cheek-bones. As usual, she was smartly dressed in a cream, short-sleeved top and a navy blue skirt. Beth’s tops always clung to her shapely breasts. They were never provocative, but they were sensual. Likewise, her skirts were of a modest length, but they hugged the graceful curves of her hips and thighs. She stood as I entered, smiled, and welcomed me to her client’s chair. I sat and we chatted about ‘this and that’ and the conversation moved around to philosophers. I was big on Peter Abelard at the time and it seemed that Beth had a deep interest in him as well. We discussed Abelard’s relationship with Heloise then my hour was up and it was time to leave her office. I had my hand on the office door and was about to exit when she wrapped her arms around me and held me tight. She murmured into my ear, ‘I love you.’ Then she broke the embrace, opened the door and watched as, stunned, I staggered from her office.

That night, I mulled over Beth’s words and actions. What was she playing at? Was she sincere? I liked her, a lot, but I loved Gema. Indeed, on arriving home I phoned Gema at her workplace – she was a hotel receptionist – and, in keeping with the past few months, she refused to take my call. Maybe it was time to give up on Gema. However, I knew from her wedding ring that Beth was married, though casual comments revealed that she was not happy in her marriage.

The following morning Beth phoned me. She wanted to meet up. I was still torn by the idea of getting back to Gema, but I decided to agree to the meeting, my usual time-slot at her office.

I arrived to find Beth looking as smart as always, though today wearing a front-buttoned blouse and a fresh layer of lipstick.

We chatted, about ‘this and that’ with no mention of ‘I love you’; it was as though the embrace had never occurred. We moved on to Voltaire and the Enlightenment and then it was time to leave. At the door we hesitated and Beth looked up into my light blue eyes. She moaned, threw her arms around me and again murmured, ‘I love you.’

I was prepared for her kiss on this occasion and I responded with passion, placing one hand on the back of her head, the other on the small of her back. I leaned against her, tilting her head away from me, so that her neck was exposed. I ran my tongue along her exposed neck and again she moaned, closing her eyes, fluttering her eyelashes. While kissing her neck, I whispered, ‘I love you too.’ And she took my head in her hands, brought my lips to her lips and gave me a deep, French kiss.


We were leaning against the office wall, our heavy breathing betraying our desire. We writhed against each other, our hands exploring our bodies, our lips tasting and offering sensual delight. Beth tilted her head back, closed her eyes and thrust her breasts forward. While kissing her cleavage, I cupped her left breast through her clothes.

‘Oh, yes,’ she sighed, and I started to unbutton her blouse. As each button popped open I kissed her skin. Her blouse was padded – she wore no bra – and so each kiss exposed the valley of her breasts. I kissed her down to her navel and on the return journey to her neck I pulled her blouse open, revealing her breasts. Beth had full, generous breasts and she placed my head between them and we stayed in that position for a while, hugging each other.

After another round of passionate kissing and caressing, I ran my tongue around Beth’s areolae and she groaned. Her nipples were erect now and I sucked them. At first Beth gasped, then she sighed, ‘Oh, yes. I like that.’

I was fully aroused by now. I did allow myself a guilty thought about Gema, but she had walked out on me, she had no time for me, so she was history. Beth was the present and inflaming my desire. I moved my hands over her buttocks, then started to unzip her skirt.

At first, she kissed me, offering a passionate response. Then she pulled away, adjusted her clothing and said, ‘Not now. I have to go. I’ll phone you when I can.’

I groaned. What was she playing at? Before I could utter a word, she ushered me out of her office and I walked down the corridor, trying to hide my embarrassment.

The next day, Beth phoned me again. ‘I loved our meeting yesterday,’ she breathed, ‘will you meet me again?’

To be honest, I was in two minds. I wanted her, badly, but did she really want me?

‘We’ll be alone all afternoon,’ she encouraged. ‘Come early. I have a surprise for you.’

A surprise…that clinched it. ‘I’ll see you at one,’ I said.

I arrived at Beth’s office to find her sitting on her desk. As soon as I entered she ran towards me and embraced me. I picked up from where I left off yesterday and unzipped her skirt. This time she nuzzled her cheek against mine and breathed into my ear. ‘I want you,’ she sighed.

‘I want you too.’

I unbuttoned her skirt and the garment fell to the floor. Beth was wearing tights and blue, lacy knickers. I placed my hands in her knickers, cupping her rear, and pulled her close. She responded with more French kissing and a hand on my groin. Her fingers were outlining my erection while my right hand moved around to her front. I caressed her through her tights and knickers, then my fingers explored her flat belly and the tiny bow at the top of her knickers. I eased the lace away from her skin then ran my fingers through the luxurious curls of her pubic hair. As my fingers touched her curls, Beth shuddered and moaned. She placed her head on my shoulders, her arms around my neck, and opened her legs. My fingers went deeper into her knickers, searching for her pearl.

‘Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes,’ she sighed as my fingers circled her pearl. I kept my movements slow and sensual and, with her head still resting on my shoulders, she moaned softly into my ear. ‘Oh, that’s so good.’

My middle finger teased her lower lips. In response, she thrust her hips forward and my finger was in. My finger moved easily through her sensual honey, then I held steady for a while as she writhed on my finger, her husky, erotic moans filling my ear.

Beth was ready. I was ready. I unzipped my trousers. Then, she placed her hands on my shoulders and eased herself away from me.

‘Not now,’ she said, ‘not here.’ She gathered up her clothes. ‘I’ll phone you when I can.’

‘Beth!’ I groaned in frustration. ‘Wait a minute!’ I put my hand on her shoulder as she stooped to pull up her knickers. ‘I’m getting tired of this game. I want you. I thought you wanted me. Why can’t we get it on?’

Beth sighed. She wiggled her hips into her knickers, then sat behind her desk. ‘I’m sorry. I do want you. But when it comes to the crunch, I can’t be unfaithful to Darren.’

I rolled my eyes, trying to understand her definition of ‘unfaithful’. Then I had an idea. ‘Remember in one of our early sessions you talked to me about roll play and suggested it might help me and Gema.’

Beth leaned forward. She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘And you remember one time when we were discussing sex you said you had a fantasy of being a whore and being picked up by a client.’

Beth smiled. Then she laughed. ‘That was a joke. People always say I behave like a nun, but I’ve got a whore’s mind and body.’

‘Well,’ I went on, ‘why don’t we use roll play to help us. You can become another person for the night – let’s call you Ruth – and I’ll pick you up as a client. I’ll arrange a hotel. Then we can spend the night together and share our desire.’

Beth paused. She was thinking and the suggestion of a smile on her face revealed that she liked the idea. ‘I’d have to think of an excuse to be away for the night…’

‘A conference…meeting up with old girlfriends…anything.’

The suggestion of a smile became a grin. Beth nodded. ‘Okay. You make the arrangements and we’ll do it.’

The next day, I made the arrangements. I would pick Beth-Ruth up on the fringe of the red-light district. She was to dress appropriately and I would pay for her service. I booked a hotel, Gema’s hotel. I knew from a mutual friend that she would be on duty that evening and I intended to show her that I had moved on.

I drove to the rendezvous point and found Beth-Ruth standing by the kerbside. She was dressed in a short coat, a plaid skirt – predominantly red – and red fishnet stockings. The skirt was short and she raised its hem to reveal the top of her stockings.

‘Can I give you a lift?’ I asked.

She nodded and climbed into my car. ‘My name’s Ruth. What’s yours?’

I thought for a moment. If we were going to play the game, then I had to invent a name. I said, ‘I’m Ruben.’

Ruth smiled. ‘Nice name.’

I glanced at her thighs. ‘Nice legs.’

She inched up her skirt to the top of her thighs, revealing her suspenders. ‘You want to see more?’

‘How much?’ I held out my wallet and Ruth removed a handful of notes. ‘I want everything,’ I added, and she removed a few more.

We drove to the hotel. At the desk, I made a point of attracting Gema’s attention. And, as I picked up the key for our bedroom, I patted Ruth on her behind, to leave Gema in no doubt – I was moving on.

I opened the bedroom door and we fell on to the bed, rolling around in our desire.

‘I want you!’ Ruth moaned as we tore each other’s clothes off. We were naked and I was sitting with my erect penis between Ruth’s cupped breasts. I was enjoying the sensation of our position when Ruth drew my attention to the bedframe. There were scratches on the frame, possibly caused through friction.

Ruth grinned. ‘Why don’t you tie me?’

I groaned. She was going to be worth every penny. I took hold of two pillowcases and lightly bound Ruth’s wrists to the bedframe. She was secure, my captive. She could not escape. Nothing could stop me now.

‘I want you,’ Ruth pleaded. ‘I need you.’ Her hips were gyrating and clearly, she was lost in the throes of passion. I wanted her, but I also wanted to enjoy the moment, so I kissed her neck and ears, her shoulders and her lips. Then I licked and sucked her nipples. She cried out with desire as I sucked her nipples, teasing their erection between my teeth. Then my lips traced a line down to her navel and, avoiding her pubic mound, on to her thighs. Her legs were free and she raised her hips to meet my touch as my lips softly caressed her inner thighs.

I was tempted to go lower, to kiss her calves, but my eye was drawn to her pubis. Invitingly, the folds of her labia glistened with her honey. I kissed her labia and tasted her salty-sweetness, then my tongue licked her pearl and she arched her back, pulled against her bonds, and let out a deep groan.

‘More, more, more!’ Ruth insisted, when I came up for air.

I was about to give her more, a whole lot more. I was about to give her my manhood when the hotel bedroom door opened and Gema appeared. She opened her mouth, then covered it with her hand. She gave me a green-eyed, desirous, envious look. She was jealous, I could tell from her frown and the two spots of red, burning on her cheeks.

Gema ran to the bed. She grabbed hold of my arm and scooped up my clothes. Then she pulled me from the hotel room into a cupboard where we made ardent, passionate love.

I felt a little guilty about leaving Ruth tied to the bed in that way, on the brink of orgasm and unable to satisfy herself. But I reflected that she’d left me in that position on at least two occasions.

After our cupboard copulation, Gema and I resumed our relationship. I tried to phone Beth-Ruth, but she wouldn’t accept my calls. I often wonder what might have happened, had we consummated our affair. And, sweet irony, Beth was right about Gema – jealousy did win her back. Did I owe the manner of the victory to Beth, did she set a trap? I don’t think so. I believe she had genuine feelings for me, but a twisted sense of loyalty to her estranged husband held her back. Maybe she should have talked with a relationship adviser…

All website content Copyright © 2014 M.J. Stewart. All rights reserved.


A Hot Summer Night – Fay Arthur Part One

A Hot Summer Night – Fay Arthur Part One

My name is Fay Arthur and I’m a private detective. A female private detective. Some of my male colleagues have a problem with that but, as I say to them, ‘get over it’. Okay, I can be pushy and ballsy, but I’m soft inside with a heart of gold.

I was on a case, which always got my juices flowing. I’d been hired to find Emma McManners, an eighteen-year-old runaway. Emma’s parents were loaded and they told me to spare no expense. They wanted their daughter back, whatever the cost.

Emma’s father had supplied me with a lead – she had last been seen in a nightclub, the Ace of Hearts. This was the good news. The bad news was that the Ace of Hearts was owned by Antonio Baresi, my ex, a man with Italian ancestry and a taste for the shadier side of life. I had no wish to visit Tony, but a lead is a lead and I had to follow it up. So on a sultry summer’s evening I drove into the centre of the city and parked my vintage Alfa Romeo – a car acquired from Tony as part of our divorce settlement – outside the nightclub.

The nightclub was buzzing when I arrived, jumping with alcohol-fuelled bonhomie. Couples were dancing, smooching, groping and one businessman made a drunken fumble for my rear, but I side-stepped him with ease. From the sweaty, gyrating dance floor I made my way passed the gaming tables and on to the stairs. The stairs led to the upper storeys of the building and I was heading for the second floor and Tony’s private room.

I paused outside Tony’s office and listened to his deep, dark voice. Tony was a handsome man – tall, dark, with even features. But for all his good looks, his voice seduced me when we first met. I could still recall the days and nights when he would hold me and whisper sensual words into my ear. His words made me melt, and when I melted he could do anything with me, anything he liked. Tony was a fantastic lover and that almost made up for his shortcomings in other areas. I married him for love and we were together for two tempestuous years. I have to admit that when things started to fall apart I only stuck around because of the sex.

From inside the office, a female laughed; it was a dirty laugh, a laugh that told me she was in his arms. Maybe I still felt something for Tony, maybe not, but it still hurt to think of him screwing another woman. Well, one thing was for sure – I wasn’t going to listen in; I opened the door and barged into the room.

I was right, they were kissing, passionately. He was sitting in his high-backed leather chair and she was sitting in his lap. He had a hand on her thigh, under her light summer dress while her arms were wrapped around his neck. Her nipples were straining against the flimsy material of her dress and it was clear that she wasn’t wearing a bra. When the door opened, they turned and stared at me. The woman, attractive with collar-length blonde hair and a curvaceous figure, looked startled, while Tony looked amused. She was in her early twenties, ten years younger than me, and maybe I felt a pang of jealousy because she was so good looking and because she was sitting in Tony’s lap. But I feigned an air of indifference, took a confident stride into the room and kicked the door closed behind me.

“Here, Celeste,” Tony said to his paramour, “take this. Play the tables.” He dipped his fingers into his waistcoat and pulled out a wad of notes. Then he ran the notes over Celeste’s thigh before sliding them under the elastic waistband of her skimpy knickers.

Celeste rose from Tony’s lap. He patted her firm buttocks. Then she walked towards the door with a sexy swing of her hips, pausing to glare at me. I glared back, rival to rival.

Tony waited for the door to close. Then he stood, straightened his waistcoat and walked over to greet me. “Well,” he grinned, “look what the cat’s dragged in.” He made a move to place a hand on my behind, but I moved away from him. “Still playing hard to get, eh?” he smiled. “But I can see it in your eyes, see it in the pout on your lips, see it in the way you stand, you still want me.”

He spoke the truth, I did want him. As husband and wife we were no good for each other, but as lovers we were terrific. But after the sex, then what? He’d become a bastard, I’d become a bitch and it would all fall apart. But at that moment I did want him. I wasn’t in a relationship, I wasn’t getting regular sex and I longed to feel a man inside me. My mind flicked through the days and nights of passion Tony and I had shared and I felt a tingle in my breasts and my clitoris. He must have sensed this because he reached for me again and I had to summon up all my willpower to resist.

“I’ve missed you,” he moaned plaintively, “I need you.”

I scoffed, “And what about Celeste?”

Tony grinned, “Maybe I can take the two of you together.”

I laughed, “In your dreams, sunshine, in your dreams; you shot your last load into me three years ago.”

Tony examined his neatly manicured fingernails. He adjusted his waistcoat. Then he glanced over to me and smiled. No matter what I said, my words always seemed to amuse him. “We were so good together. I made you scream with delight. I took you to heights no man has taken you to before or since.”

“Are you sure of that?” I mocked, my hand on my hip.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a lover.” He sounded shocked, hurt, though I knew from experience that this was Tony putting on an act.

In turn, I smiled enigmatically. Keep the bastard guessing was my motto.

“So,” he shrugged, returning to his desk, conceding that he wasn’t going to lay me across the polished oak of that desk and have his way with me today, “if you didn’t come here for sex, what did you come here for?”

“I’m looking for a teenage girl, eighteen-year-old Emma McManners; she was a regular at your club.”

While rolling a gold pen between his fingers, it was Tony’s turn to offer up an enigmatic smile.

“Do you know her?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he replied defensively, “maybe not.”

“Come on!” I said, leaning forward, placing a hand on his desk. “This girl might be in danger; I need to find her.”

“Come across for me,” Tony grinned, his fingers caressing the pen while his eyes feasted on the deep scoop of my blouse and the deep valley of my breasts, “and I might be able to help.”

“We’ve just been there,” I sighed, standing upright, straightening my blouse, “and I told you, you had me for the last time three years ago.”

Tony put his feet up on his desk, flashing his highly polished black leather shoes. He placed his hands behind his head and appraised me with a sensual look in his dark, smouldering eyes. “If I can’t have you, I guess I’ll have to make do with the film version.”

I frowned. “What film version?”

He grinned, revealing his even, white teeth. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

I had forgotten, though now it was all coming back to me. About a year into our marriage Tony had suggested that he should film us, having sex. I was up for it and agreed; after all, the film was just for us. He set up the cameras and we rolled into action. Occasionally, we’d watch the film to get us in the mood, but with arguments replacing sex the film had been consigned to history, or so I thought.

“Tony, I thought you destroyed the film when we divorced.”

“The film captured us at our best, making love. How could I destroy something so beautiful?”

His tone was reasonable, his expression equitable – as though he was doing me a favour by keeping the film. Like heck he was. Tony liked to show big and flash the cash, but I knew that he was in debt to some big players. I wouldn’t put it past him to offer the film as part of a repayment and I had no wish for that to happen. I had to get hold of that film and destroy it.

I left the Ace of Hearts feeling frustrated and annoyed, frustrated because I was no nearer to locating Emma McManners and annoyed because Tony still had a film that could cause me embarrassment. I returned to the Alfa Romeo, tapped the steering wheel and lapsed into deep thought. After five minutes I came up with a plan of action: I would return to the nightclub tomorrow, during the day when Tony wasn’t around; hopefully, a member of staff could offer me a lead on Emma. In the meantime I’d nose around Tony’s apartment – I still had a key; he allowed me to keep it in the hope that I might roll up and roll into his bed one day. If the film of us having sex was there, I’d find it.

Tony lived on the eighth floor of a plush apartment overlooking the bay. I parked a few streets away and on my way up in the lift I thought about a likely hiding place for the film and decided that the bedroom would be my best bet. I let myself in, produced a small torch from my shoulder bag and set foot across the deep shag pile of the bedroom carpet. I flashed the torch around and noticed a king-sized bed, neatly made, a wide-screen television pinned to the wall and a mahogany chest of drawers. I walked over to the drawers.

In the top drawer I found a stash of erotic magazines displaying models, handsome men and women, in various acts of sexual congress. The pictures were explicit and I found my torch lingering over them. Then I reminded myself why I was there, to find the film, and moved on to the second drawer.

Under Tony’s boxer shorts in the second drawer I found two films, DVDs encased in plastic. They were untitled, so I removed film number one from its case and slipped it into the DVD player. My torch highlighted the television remote control and I switched the TV on.

The DVD whirled and an image flashed on the screen. It was Tony, naked, with an equally naked woman in his arms – Emma. I recognised her from a photograph supplied by her father. So, Tony not only knew Emma, he knew her intimately. I removed the DVD from the machine and dropped it in my shoulder bag. Then I inserted the second DVD.

In glorious HD a hunk of a man and a finely-boned twenty-something woman appeared on the TV. They were naked and they were making love. The image held me spellbound for a moment and I found my hands cupping my breasts and, through the cotton of my blouse and the lace of my bra, teasing my nipples. It’s a simple fact of nature that I need to come every day and with no man to warm my bed I’d gotten used to using my dildo and my fingers. Now, reclining on Tony’s bed I found my right hand loosening my skirt and sliding into my knickers. With my eyes fixed on the television screen I ran a finger over my clitoris. The light, sensual touch made me moan with desire and soon my fingers were moving faster, responding to the couple on the screen. He was taking her from behind while she stood with her back arched, her hands resting against the wall. I felt my back arch as I responded to the delight offered by my fingers. After three barren years, I was about to come in Tony’s bed and that thought heightened my pleasure. I slipped a finger into my vagina and groaned.

“Fuck me! Fuck me!” the woman on the screen moaned and the hunk responded with erotic, athletic movements. I wasn’t sure which one of us was gonna come first, though I sensed it would be the woman.

As she sighed into climax I felt a wave of pleasure. I was close, close to my own orgasm. I inserted a second finger into my vagina. I was so wet now, so hot, gasping with each finger movement, groaning as the waves rolled in, but not yet over me.

“I’m coming!” the man on the screen groaned.

Me too, I thought. He grunted and shot his load into the smiling woman while I reached my apex. I was about to enjoy the release, drown in the rolling waves of an intense orgasm when I heard the front door of the apartment open.

Fuck, I thought, I’m nearly there, I’ve gotta come. But if Tony should see me like this…

I reached for the remote and switched off the TV. My knickers were around my ankles, so I pulled them off and stuffed them into my shoulder bag. The DVD would have to stay in the machine; I had no time to remove it. Then I dived into a cupboard, gasping through my exertions and the fact that I was still on the verge of orgasm.

Tony’s dark voice and the sound of Celeste’s giggling entered the room before they did. I’d anticipated that he’d have stayed in the nightclub until the early hours, but obviously his desire had got the better of him. Through the slats of the louvered doors I could see Tony and Celeste kissing. He had his hands under her dress, caressing the cheeks of her arse, while she had her arms around his neck. They fell on to the bed with a groan. In the cupboard I held my breath while my clit throbbed furiously. He was going to take her in front of me and there was nothing I could do about it. Of course, I was tempted to make it into a threesome, but Tony’s involvement with Emma compromised my position; at some point, I was going to have to ask him some awkward questions. Tony and I had to keep our sexual distance, maybe forever, and whatever happened I could not let him discover me hiding in his apartment. While he removed Celeste’s panties there was nothing I could do but remain silent and that meant I couldn’t touch my clit because when I came I made a lot of noise.

Tony and Celeste were on the bed. They were both naked. The hot passion of their kisses and the warmth of Celeste’s body soon had Tony erect. In truth, Tony didn’t have a large penis, but what he lacked in length he made up for in girth; I’m petite down there and whenever he entered me I feared that I’d be too tight. But he opened me every time and as Celeste writhed against his hirsute body I sensed that he was about to open her.

And then he surprised me and Celeste. He rolled off her slim body and reached under a pillow, producing a DVD case.

“I’ve got something for you,” he informed Celeste with a huge grin on his face.

As Tony walked over to the DVD player I noticed that Celeste was keeping her pleasure going by circling her nipples with her left hand while her right hand caressed her clit. In the wardrobe I closed my eyes and imagined Celeste’s fingers on my clitoris. I buckled at the knees at the thought and had to hang on to one of Tony’s suits to prevent myself from tumbling out of the cupboard.

Tony switched the DVD player on. He frowned as he noticed the disc I’d left in the machine. Would he become suspicious? Would he sense that I was there, hiding in his bedroom? With a shrug, he removed the disc and replaced it with the DVD taken from under his pillow. Then he returned to the bed and Celeste’s eager arms.

“Look at this,” Tony said, pointing the remote control at the DVD and wall-mounted TV screen.

Celeste followed Tony’s gaze. She placed a hand to her mouth and giggled when a naked, slightly younger version of Tony appeared on the screen. “It’s you!” she exclaimed. Then, “And Fay!” when I appeared in shot. I was naked too, looking four years younger. In those days my hair was longer, curling beyond my shoulders, while my bush was thicker – now I like to keep it neat and trim. On the screen Tony embraced me and we fell on to the bed. He kissed me on my lips and behind my ears, then his tongue ran down my neck to my breasts. On the bed, Tony offered Celeste the same delights and she moaned, presenting her erect nipples to Tony’s tongue. On the screen I moaned too as Tony sucked then gently bit my nipples. In the cupboard I bit my bottom lip as my clit continued to pulse.

Tony went down between Celeste’s open thighs. She had her head on the pillow, though her eyes were open and she was watching the screen. I noted that Tony was watching the screen too and, indeed, he was taking his cue from the way he pleasured me.

“I want you inside me,” Celeste moaned. In the cupboard, I could have echoed her words but, again, I bit my lip.

I glanced at the screen; I was in no hurry, I wanted more of Tony’s tongue and, as I whimpered with each lick, he readily obliged. Only when I lifted Tony’s head away from my clit, turned him on to his back and straddled him, did he yield to Celeste’s demands. We were both riding Tony now, my behind filling the screen while Celeste’s behind filled my view. Tony’s skilful editing moved the camera on to my face and my eyes, which were half-closed, enjoying the bliss of the moment, then on to my breasts, which, then as now, were very firm, my large nipples standing proud of my dark areolae. Tony cupped my breasts on the screen and I moaned. Then he cupped Celeste’s breasts – smaller than mine, but beautifully formed – and she shuddered with pleasure.

On the screen Tony patted my behind and we changed position. I kneeled on the bed, placed a pillow under my breasts and offered up my behind. This is my favourite position because I like to feel my partner’s pubic bone slap against my behind. Also, this position allows my partner to get a little deeper into my vagina and offer me that extra tingle of pleasure as a result.

On the screen Tony entered me and we both moaned. On the bed Celeste had taken up a similar position, though without the pillow for support. As Tony gripped Celeste’s behind the pair of them stared at the screen, still taking their cue from my movements. I suppose I should have been flattered because I was obviously contributing to their pleasure, but in the cupboard my throbbing clit was starting to ache and I felt in danger of passing out.

While my fingers gripped the duvet, my red fingernails digging into the fabric, my arse wriggled for all it was worth. I could tell from the blissed-out look on my face, the crimson spreading across my breasts and neck and my deep, throaty groans that I was gonna come. Celeste had reached her release point too. On the bed, she collapsed into the duvet so that Tony was now horizontal on top of her. She reached for his behind, to pull him even closer, even tighter into her, then she cried out in orgasm, her pretty face reaching even greater levels of beauty as wave after wave washed over her.

“I’m coming!” I cried on the screen, my arms gripping the pillow as Tony maintained a regular rhythm, taking me over the edge. I was still in the throes of climax when Tony slowed his movements. He grunted, tensed, then, simultaneously, he shot his load into me on the screen and Celeste on the bed.

Fuck! I thought in the cupboard, I’ve gotta come. I was so hot, so wet that my honey was running over my inner thighs.

On the screen and on the bed we kissed and caressed and drifted into a post-orgasmic longueur. Eventually the screen went dark and the bedroom became quiet in the grey light of night. I sensed that Tony and Celeste were asleep and my thoughts turned to escape and the prospect of emotional and sexual relief.

When I was certain that they were asleep, I eased myself out of the cupboard and tip-toed across the soft, shag pile carpet. I released the DVD from the machine, glancing over my shoulder when the device screeched and Tony stirred, only to return to his sleep. Silently, I dropped the DVD into my shoulder bag, on top of my knickers, then I eased myself out of Tony’s apartment, breathing a huge sigh of relief. I had the DVD and I knew that Tony and Emma were involved in some way; all I needed now was sexual release and I could consider it a good night’s work.

I was swinging my shoulder bag playfully as I stood in the corridor outside Tony’s apartment, waiting for the lift to arrive. If the lift was empty I resolved to bring myself to climax before I reached the ground floor – I was so horny, I couldn’t wait any longer. However, the lift was not empty. Instead, I saw the most handsome man I’d ever seen in my life. He had a firm, square jaw, an easy smile and dark, sensual eyes. His hair was also dark and neatly trimmed, though ever so slightly dishevelled. His body was firm and muscular. He was wearing a suit and bow-tie, though the tie was open and hung casually around his neck while his jacket was hooked on the index finger of his left hand and slung over his shoulder.

The man stepped out of the lift, smiled at me, and I stepped in. I turned and we gazed at each other. What happened next was totally crazy, insane, an act of wonton abandon. Maybe he sensed that I was hot and horny – my nipples were erect and poking through my bra and blouse – or maybe the pheromones from my sex were so strong that they attracted him. Whatever the reason, when the lift was about to close he placed his foot between the door frame and door. Then he re-entered the lift. We offered each other a tentative smile. Then our lips moved closer together. Then we kissed. Our tongues danced while our hands explored each other’s bodies. I had no idea who this man was, where he came from, what he did for a living, all I knew was I wanted him. I wanted him so badly.


His hands moved to my rear and he murmured with delight as he discovered that I wasn’t wearing any knickers. My skilful fingers soon had him erect and out of his trousers and underwear. His large hands cupped my arse firmly, pulling me on to him. I gasped as I felt his erection press into my midriff. Then he lifted me into the air and I wrapped my legs around his body. He eased me down on to his erect penis and entered me. I was so wet he slipped into me with ease. I whimpered, I clawed at his hair, I kissed him passionately. I writhed against his firm body and as he thrust his hard cock deep into my soaking wet vagina, I came, releasing the tension, the frustration, the sexual desire of the evening in a tidal wave of passion. I lost sense of time, I lost sense of everything except the intense feeling of joy that emanated from my vagina and clitoris and spread to every fibre of my body. The lift had stopped – I guess he must have pressed a button at some point during our descent – and he was still holding my behind and thrusting his manhood into me.

“Come for me, baby,” I whispered into his ear. I increased the speed of my hip movements, moving in fast, tight circles. He grunted, once, twice, three times, then we both sighed as he reached his release and emptied himself into me.

We stayed like that for a while, my arms around his neck, my head on his shoulder, his hands on my behind, supporting my weight, his penis, slowly becoming flaccid still inside me. Then we kissed and giggled before separating and adjusting our clothing.

The lift stopped and I stepped into the lobby, my clit still throbbing, but this time with contentment.

“Hey,” he called out as the lift threatened to close, “what’s your name?”

“Fay, Fay Arthur. And yours?”

“Mike, Mike Vernon.” He grinned, his foot wedged between door and frame. “We must do this again sometime.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. Then the lift door did close and I stepped out into the sultry warmth of a hot summer night with the thought ‘we must do this again’.

Story Copyright © 2014 Gemma Morgan and Abigail Summer. All rights reserved.