The white ball gag had a smudge of red lipstick on the front. Bent over the back of the sofa, hands tied behind her back, she looked almost sleepy, her eyes unfocused. The glistening middle fingers of his right hand were buried in her pussy.
I took a photo with their camera just before he pushed his tongue into her ass. She squirmed, helpless with pleasure.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
50 Words - Watch (3)
She stroked herself, leaning back on the red leather sofa, legs spread to give us a good view of her fingers.
When she stood up we saw the glistening wet patch. "We can't have that," I told hubby. "Lick it clean, please."
He bent over. She fingered herself and smiled.
When she stood up we saw the glistening wet patch. "We can't have that," I told hubby. "Lick it clean, please."
He bent over. She fingered herself and smiled.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
50 Words - Watch (2)
"I feel like you both want to eat me," she giggled.
Swaying on high heels, she stood in front of us, her curves accentuated by a black satin thong, a tight silky corset and a leather collar.
I looked at her husband, still clothed. "When I say so, he will."
Swaying on high heels, she stood in front of us, her curves accentuated by a black satin thong, a tight silky corset and a leather collar.
I looked at her husband, still clothed. "When I say so, he will."
Sunday, May 25, 2008
50 Words - Watching
Sitting on the bedside wicker chair I watched her remove her underwear. Her husband, rock-hard, stroked himself.
"Are you nervous?" I asked when she got on top of him, facing me.
"Yes..."
When she spread her legs and slid down on his cock, I saw only lust in her eyes.
"Are you nervous?" I asked when she got on top of him, facing me.
"Yes..."
When she spread her legs and slid down on his cock, I saw only lust in her eyes.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Jeans
She nearly bit my tongue off, which was a good sign. Standing up against the clammy cold wall of the train station, I pulled her closer and slid my hand under her shirt, my fingernails grazing across her belly.
We were saying goodbye. Or waiting to. She was getting on the last train to her quiet suburb; I was going to look for a cab.
"Fuck, I'm horny," she purred into my ear. "I can't wait three days."
"Sure you can." My finger teased her bellybutton. "Just think of butterflies, little fairies..." With my other hand I pinched her nipple through her shirt. "Flowers. Songbirds..."
She straddled my leg, and I slid my knee up into her crotch - a move that a friend of mine calls "gentleman's rude knee," which sounds like one of those obscure aristocratic ailments that results from drinking too much fine port in badly heated mansions.
I couldn't resist. Noticing that we didn't have much time, I slid my fingers into the waistband of her jeans, down the front in between jeans and knickers, enjoying the smooth fabric under my fingers and the plump softness of her sex beneath. She pressed into me and wiggled down on to my hand.
The wet openness of her pussy was a pleasure to discover when I pushed the material aside and stuck two fingers inside her. No resistance, just the grasping lust, and her mouth pressed on to mine, her tongue hunting, pushing into me while my fingers were buried in her.
"Someone could see you like this..." I whispered when we came up for air. "Someone heading your way on the same train."
She ground down, fucking my fingers, her eyes shut. "Yes..."
"He'll see you like this, and while you're on the train he'll stare at you, thinking what a slut you are..."
"Mmm hmm."
"...having some guy finger you on the platform, in front of strangers, and then you just leave by yourself. When you've come."
"Fuck..."
My hand was moving fast now. She was close. "Any second now, someone's going to see what you're doing. How nasty you are..."
She pressed against me.
"You're so wet. Someone's going to smell you on the train. You're going to stink up the carriage and make the boys want to fuck you..."
Her pussy clenched around my fingers, and she moaned into my chest, riding the warm swell of orgasm, pushing me against the wall.
Three days later when we had the chance to take our clothes off properly, she asked me to blindfold her. "Tell me about the men on the train again." Which I did, with pleasure.
We were saying goodbye. Or waiting to. She was getting on the last train to her quiet suburb; I was going to look for a cab.
"Fuck, I'm horny," she purred into my ear. "I can't wait three days."
"Sure you can." My finger teased her bellybutton. "Just think of butterflies, little fairies..." With my other hand I pinched her nipple through her shirt. "Flowers. Songbirds..."
She straddled my leg, and I slid my knee up into her crotch - a move that a friend of mine calls "gentleman's rude knee," which sounds like one of those obscure aristocratic ailments that results from drinking too much fine port in badly heated mansions.
I couldn't resist. Noticing that we didn't have much time, I slid my fingers into the waistband of her jeans, down the front in between jeans and knickers, enjoying the smooth fabric under my fingers and the plump softness of her sex beneath. She pressed into me and wiggled down on to my hand.
The wet openness of her pussy was a pleasure to discover when I pushed the material aside and stuck two fingers inside her. No resistance, just the grasping lust, and her mouth pressed on to mine, her tongue hunting, pushing into me while my fingers were buried in her.
"Someone could see you like this..." I whispered when we came up for air. "Someone heading your way on the same train."
She ground down, fucking my fingers, her eyes shut. "Yes..."
"He'll see you like this, and while you're on the train he'll stare at you, thinking what a slut you are..."
"Mmm hmm."
"...having some guy finger you on the platform, in front of strangers, and then you just leave by yourself. When you've come."
"Fuck..."
My hand was moving fast now. She was close. "Any second now, someone's going to see what you're doing. How nasty you are..."
She pressed against me.
"You're so wet. Someone's going to smell you on the train. You're going to stink up the carriage and make the boys want to fuck you..."
Her pussy clenched around my fingers, and she moaned into my chest, riding the warm swell of orgasm, pushing me against the wall.
Three days later when we had the chance to take our clothes off properly, she asked me to blindfold her. "Tell me about the men on the train again." Which I did, with pleasure.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Untouchable
The thing about Reine was that she was much cooler than me. Probably still is. She was 23, a year older than I was, all her friends were into theatre, and she had a way of looking at me with big eyes and arched eyebrows over small, square glasses that gave me the tingles.
To this day, I have a thing for arty chicks with spex.
The courtship was long and complicated. We were into each other, turned on by each other, enjoyed each others' company, and all our trusted friends agreed that it would be a good arrangement. But the sex always seemed to stop at the heavy petting and snogging stage. Every time we seemed to be getting to the point of removing some clothes and shaking off some inhibitions, things would grind to a halt and someone would go home.
We both wanted to, that much was clear. Kissing her, I knew she was as turned on by the whole thing as I was. And she loved making out, but the problem was that making out always led to something else.
Like the first time I touched her breasts. No sooner did my fingers brush across the tip of her nipple through a thick sweater and a lot of underwear than she took hold of my wrist and held me off.
"Ummm, I don't know if you should go there."
"Why?"
She crossed her arms protectively, gave me the big eyes and the arched eyebrows, and said:
"I'm wearing a push-up bra."
"So?"
"I mean, it's not just a bit of a push," she cupped the air in front of her nipples. "It's a full-on breast replacement."
I gaped.
"There's nothing there but the bra. My tits are tiny. It's like my boob-genes never kicked in at puberty."
At this point, I could have tried for sensitive and caring. That didn't work. I burst into uncontrollable giggles. Reine's was usually pretty dry, but this time there was no joke, no punchline. She was as serious as a migraine, and I was pissing myself laughing.
I'm not sure how I recovered from that one, but it involved a bit more kissing and my mock-disbelief at the volume of the breast-replacement brassiere, some feeling up, and solemn promises that if she were to take off some of this clothing, I would not laugh at whatever she was hiding underneath.
It worked, but not the same evening. We retreated to the erotic entente we'd been getting used to, and once again I went home swollen with frustration.
When it finally happened, it was almost by accident. She'd arrived an hour early to pick me up to go see some band, I was fresh out of the shower, and there simply seemed no reason not to take the opportunity to stumble into bed. Which we did. Kissing, stroking, fondling, as we'd so often done, but this time my hand got all the way under her jumper. I was cupping one of her breasts when things ground to a halt. Or seemed to. With a deep intake of breath, Reine pushed me away from her on the bed to get some elbow-room and bravely pulled off her thick jumper, which was a bit of a struggle because it was pretty snug. The halter-top underneath went quickly, and then we were down to the lacy, white bra.
Probably there was a bit more explicit lust in my eyes than I intended to show. Reine reached for the clasp, and looked at me with an arched eyebrow, daring me to show the slightest hint of disapproval at what was coming. Then she shrugged the bra into her lap, and straightened up.
Her breasts were indeed small. Not absent, definitely a handful, tipped with dainty nipples surrounded by pink aureoles that I knew would plump up beautifully if I ever got so lucky to run my tongue in lazy circles around them.
You're staring, I thought. Look her in the eye or she's never going to talk to you again.
But I didn't really have much control over my eyeballs. The magnetic pull of her nipples was too much - I leaned forward for a closer look, and managed a quick glance up past the neck.
She was smiling defensively. Now's the time to say something...
I opened my mouth, and with magnificent timing she swooped down and kissed me before I managed to get out a single ill-advised word. It seemed we'd established that she had small breasts, and that I liked them along with the rest of her.
This was going well, all of a sudden - we were going to miss the concert and I was very happy about it. I nibbled at her ear, left a trail of soft kisses down the side of her neck, and took one of her nipples in my mouth with a delicious shiver of victory. I circled it with my tongue, feeling it firm up under the touch, her back arching to push against me for a few delicious moments of slowly circling...
...and then a firm shove on the shoulders, pushing me away.
"I don't think we can do this," she said, grabbing my pillow to shield herself.
"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" I was beside myself with lust - this had felt right, and I knew she was turned on.
"No," she sighed in a way that said, put your mouth back please. "It's just... do you mind if I leave my jeans on?"
"Well... I don't know. We can stop if you're feeling weird..."
"No. That felt really good..." She kissed me for emphasis, her strong tongue circling around mine with unmistakable enthusiasm. "It's just that I don't want you to look at my ass."
Now, Reine was pear-shaped, with wide hips, small breasts, and an ass that would probably never qualify as small. And this was all perfectly fine. The first time we went out she wore thick black tights and a very short glittery skirt, and when we made out in a corner of the crowded dancefloor I fondled her plump derriere with great relish.
"So you want to have sex with me..."
"Yes!" she nibbled my ear.
"...but with your jeans on?"
She giggled. "Trust me, it's for your own protection."
"Your ass is sexy with your clothes on. How bad can it be with your clothes off?"
Reine gave me the full force of both arched eyebrows, her big eyes, and the impression she was speaking to a deluded maniac:
"I have cellulite, OK? I have cellulite like you wouldn't believe." She paused for emphasis. "It's a problem."
"Are you serious?" There may have been a hint of a smile lounging about my face.
"Of course I'm fucking serious!" She wasn't joking. "My ass got pockmarks on it - it's looks like lumpy pancake dough. You have any idea how embarrassing this is?"
She hugged the pillow tighter to herself.
We eventually had sex, but not that night. It was at her house, in near-darkness. She sat on top of me, straight-backed, with her hands on my chest - I remember this in black and white, looking at her in the pale streetlight coming through the white curtains of her bedroom window. When I stroked her hips and thighs and cupped her bottom in my hands, she didn't swat them away. It felt like a little victory.
Still, it took weeks to convince her to have sex with the lights on.
To this day, I have a thing for arty chicks with spex.
The courtship was long and complicated. We were into each other, turned on by each other, enjoyed each others' company, and all our trusted friends agreed that it would be a good arrangement. But the sex always seemed to stop at the heavy petting and snogging stage. Every time we seemed to be getting to the point of removing some clothes and shaking off some inhibitions, things would grind to a halt and someone would go home.
We both wanted to, that much was clear. Kissing her, I knew she was as turned on by the whole thing as I was. And she loved making out, but the problem was that making out always led to something else.
Like the first time I touched her breasts. No sooner did my fingers brush across the tip of her nipple through a thick sweater and a lot of underwear than she took hold of my wrist and held me off.
"Ummm, I don't know if you should go there."
"Why?"
She crossed her arms protectively, gave me the big eyes and the arched eyebrows, and said:
"I'm wearing a push-up bra."
"So?"
"I mean, it's not just a bit of a push," she cupped the air in front of her nipples. "It's a full-on breast replacement."
I gaped.
"There's nothing there but the bra. My tits are tiny. It's like my boob-genes never kicked in at puberty."
At this point, I could have tried for sensitive and caring. That didn't work. I burst into uncontrollable giggles. Reine's was usually pretty dry, but this time there was no joke, no punchline. She was as serious as a migraine, and I was pissing myself laughing.
I'm not sure how I recovered from that one, but it involved a bit more kissing and my mock-disbelief at the volume of the breast-replacement brassiere, some feeling up, and solemn promises that if she were to take off some of this clothing, I would not laugh at whatever she was hiding underneath.
It worked, but not the same evening. We retreated to the erotic entente we'd been getting used to, and once again I went home swollen with frustration.
When it finally happened, it was almost by accident. She'd arrived an hour early to pick me up to go see some band, I was fresh out of the shower, and there simply seemed no reason not to take the opportunity to stumble into bed. Which we did. Kissing, stroking, fondling, as we'd so often done, but this time my hand got all the way under her jumper. I was cupping one of her breasts when things ground to a halt. Or seemed to. With a deep intake of breath, Reine pushed me away from her on the bed to get some elbow-room and bravely pulled off her thick jumper, which was a bit of a struggle because it was pretty snug. The halter-top underneath went quickly, and then we were down to the lacy, white bra.
Probably there was a bit more explicit lust in my eyes than I intended to show. Reine reached for the clasp, and looked at me with an arched eyebrow, daring me to show the slightest hint of disapproval at what was coming. Then she shrugged the bra into her lap, and straightened up.
Her breasts were indeed small. Not absent, definitely a handful, tipped with dainty nipples surrounded by pink aureoles that I knew would plump up beautifully if I ever got so lucky to run my tongue in lazy circles around them.
You're staring, I thought. Look her in the eye or she's never going to talk to you again.
But I didn't really have much control over my eyeballs. The magnetic pull of her nipples was too much - I leaned forward for a closer look, and managed a quick glance up past the neck.
She was smiling defensively. Now's the time to say something...
I opened my mouth, and with magnificent timing she swooped down and kissed me before I managed to get out a single ill-advised word. It seemed we'd established that she had small breasts, and that I liked them along with the rest of her.
This was going well, all of a sudden - we were going to miss the concert and I was very happy about it. I nibbled at her ear, left a trail of soft kisses down the side of her neck, and took one of her nipples in my mouth with a delicious shiver of victory. I circled it with my tongue, feeling it firm up under the touch, her back arching to push against me for a few delicious moments of slowly circling...
...and then a firm shove on the shoulders, pushing me away.
"I don't think we can do this," she said, grabbing my pillow to shield herself.
"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" I was beside myself with lust - this had felt right, and I knew she was turned on.
"No," she sighed in a way that said, put your mouth back please. "It's just... do you mind if I leave my jeans on?"
"Well... I don't know. We can stop if you're feeling weird..."
"No. That felt really good..." She kissed me for emphasis, her strong tongue circling around mine with unmistakable enthusiasm. "It's just that I don't want you to look at my ass."
Now, Reine was pear-shaped, with wide hips, small breasts, and an ass that would probably never qualify as small. And this was all perfectly fine. The first time we went out she wore thick black tights and a very short glittery skirt, and when we made out in a corner of the crowded dancefloor I fondled her plump derriere with great relish.
"So you want to have sex with me..."
"Yes!" she nibbled my ear.
"...but with your jeans on?"
She giggled. "Trust me, it's for your own protection."
"Your ass is sexy with your clothes on. How bad can it be with your clothes off?"
Reine gave me the full force of both arched eyebrows, her big eyes, and the impression she was speaking to a deluded maniac:
"I have cellulite, OK? I have cellulite like you wouldn't believe." She paused for emphasis. "It's a problem."
"Are you serious?" There may have been a hint of a smile lounging about my face.
"Of course I'm fucking serious!" She wasn't joking. "My ass got pockmarks on it - it's looks like lumpy pancake dough. You have any idea how embarrassing this is?"
She hugged the pillow tighter to herself.
We eventually had sex, but not that night. It was at her house, in near-darkness. She sat on top of me, straight-backed, with her hands on my chest - I remember this in black and white, looking at her in the pale streetlight coming through the white curtains of her bedroom window. When I stroked her hips and thighs and cupped her bottom in my hands, she didn't swat them away. It felt like a little victory.
Still, it took weeks to convince her to have sex with the lights on.
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