It’s an old trunk sitting on the sidewalk that catches my eye. It sits beside a set of concrete stairs that go down to a basement level store, an old metal trunk, dark blue with brass trim, and a lock that hangs a little askew, with a cardboard sign taped to it, an arrow pointing down. I slow down for a second to look closer. The concrete steps descend a bit farther, then pause at a landing where other items beckon in a group: an old wooden telephone table, a vase, a milk pitcher painted bright orange. The lower-level store has been empty for some time, so of course I glance in the window, which is a half circle that rests about street level, curving up to just under my chin. Half Moon Antiques & Curiosities crawls in spindly lettering around the curve.

And it’s one of those things, just circumstance; I look down just at the right moment as he’s looking up, cell phone in his hand, in mid conversation. But I can see him hesitate as he sees my pink shoes, and while I keep moving, pushing my legs forward, the lean angles of his face, the dark eyes, the platinum-tipped hair that springs in so many different directions from his head, are etched into my mind, where they brew all day at work as I make phone calls and fiddle with papers at my desk.

The next morning I try to assure myself that my interest is purely in antiques, try to stop my pace from quickening as I reach the row of shops and spot the trunk sitting there on the sidewalk again. He’s setting small glass pieces in the windowsill: blue and green, orange and yellow, birds and flowers and butterflies. They catch the sunlight prettily, but I find my gaze wandering away from them. From under unruly brows, his eyes rise up to my leather boots, then higher still to my tailored leather jacket, three-quarter length. Jet black, those eyes meet mine for a split second, but then drop down again just as quickly; down and down to the lower edge of my jacket, looking for the hem of my skirt. Without thinking I move a little closer to the window as my legs open in stride. I see his tongue, licking his lips. I turn my head again, just in time to see it again, just to be sure and feel a shiver just as if that tongue had snaked higher still, up between my thighs.

I’m at work, trying to answer phones and sift through papers with a warm glow between my legs. He’s invaded me that easily, from behind a glass and in a basement store. It’s animal and anti-intellectual, something that pulls at me from the inside and makes me wet just to think of it.

There are forms to print out here; the beige walls of my cubicle stare passively as I make my way to the end of the day, occupying myself with trivialities so most of my brain is free to run over his dark eyes, his pale face, and his tongue, over and over and over. The heat between my legs grows unbearable, and I run to the ladies’ room to stroke myself, oh so quietly, to a gushing orgasm, and still I can’t get his face out of my head.

The next morning, he’s not there. It stops me in my tracks. I look down into the store and there’s a blonde woman and what I imagine to be a teenage son, they unpack boxes and arrange shelves. I hesitate a second and she sees me, smiles and I smile back, pausing as if looking over the glass pieces. Disappointment seeps in, at first in the background and I try to contain it there. I straighten, I look around, suddenly aware this very first time that there are others on the street, people on their way to work, maybe even people who live above the stores; people who glance out their windows in the morning and see me looking in here, hesitating here like a fool. I’m stung and it follows me to work, the thought hovers like smoke curling around the corners of the room.

I hardly even slow down the next day, just barely, only long enough to see the back of her head – blonde – and hurry on. The day goes by in slow motion, excruciating, the minutes creeping by as they laugh at me, left feeling bereft at this, all those minutes yawning empty, sapped of any music.

And what do I want, exactly? What was I hoping for -some silly movie ending, with him, a dark-eyed man -angel, standing shyly one morning, offering a bouquet of flowers? But no. That’s not what I wanted at all.

After a weekend of mundane chores, I set out for work with a curious mixture of apprehension and excitement roiling in my middle. I try to walk casually by, just stroll down the street looking in the shops, but have to stifle the disappointment when he’s still not there, no sign of him at all as the blonde woman greets customers and stocks shelves, not as Monday bleeds into Tuesday and the sweet flurry of hopeful excitement dissipates. Wednesday, it rains, gathering in cold grey puddles on the sidewalk. I’m looking down at my basic black shoes dodging the puddles, honestly not looking for him any more, but there, out of the corner of my eye, it’s unmistakable – his blond spikes, the back of his head. I stop abruptly, breathless in an instant, but he doesn’t see me. I’m jolted but try to reason my way out of it. I force myself to keep going. Just because he’s there… I don’t have to look or react… But all day at work, it buzzes in the background noise inside my head, the sight of those platinum spikes, the memory of his dark eyes and red tongue, no matter how much I reason against it.

Coming home I start to feel my pulse quicken and my steps slow down as I turn the corner – that corner, that block – and I don’t fight it this time. He’s there. Is he looking for me, too? He comes to the window as I pass, slower, slower, he’s watching as my long jacket flies open in the damp wind. His eyes are hungry, my skirt is short. His tongue, just the end of it, wet and red, runs over his lower lip again and again, back and forth, as I walk by, slowing down. I take a long stride for a good look. His lips purse, he stares intently, then kisses his palm and blows it up to me, and it follows me all the way back home, licking its way up between my legs. I have to rush to the bathroom, leave my cat yowling for dinner, stroke myself to orgasm as bath water runs, thinking of the rosy red tip of his tongue.

There’s no rain in the morning, though the sidewalk is splotchy, still mostly damp. A stiff wind separates the gloomy clouds and whips the surface of the puddles into urgent patterns. We have a meeting early at work, it’s still half dark as I scurry along and none of the shops are open. During the meeting – boring, but the pastries are good, coffee decent – I’m looking out of the window as the darker clouds thin out, finally pull apart altogether to reveal satiny blue high above. And why shouldn’t there be magic present? A ghost has entered the machine, an email virus that cripples our server just as the meeting ends, leaving the office in confusion. The system down, we can take some of our ‘personal time’ and leave the office early if we like. Not gratis, understand, especially when I have only one personal day left. But I take it as an omen. And there’s magic of an older, earthier kind – fertility goddesses and phallic symbols. I feel that too. The weather cooperates, it’s dry but still cool, so I walk home with my coat on, but open, flipping here and there in the breeze.

The elevator takes for ever, then the blocks seem unbearably long as I make my way back towards home, my shoes pinching in the conspiracy to slow me down. Finally, I reach the last block, covered by a thin sheen of sweat from the exertion that I only now acknowledge, huffing slightly, and approach from the opposite side of the street and yes, it’s to throw him off a bit, but more so to look into the store and, yes, it’s empty, except for him. I can’t contain the smile that tugs eagerly at the corners of my mouth as I step off the sidewalk. He’s all in black today, his face almost ghostly, hair glowing, he comes into full view as I reach about three-quarters of the way across the street. His eyes take their usual trajectory, flitting up to my face, then quickly much lower down, and as they watch, as I draw closer, my fingers reach for the hem of my skirt and pull it up slowly, using my nails to crawl it up little by little and reveal the laced edges of my stockings as I continue to walk. His eyes widen.

I glance around – there are a few people about a block away, and only two cars even farther away – then back to him. He fingers an orange glass butterfly, fiddling with it absently, his mouth slightly open. I pull a small notepad from the pocket of my coat, I pull it out as he watches intently, and as I reach the sidewalk on his side, I toss it on to the pavement.

He looks at the notepad. I look at him. I get closer, kneel to the ground to pick it up, there right in front of the window, I kneel at the same time my fingernails reach the bottom edge of my hem, pulling it up under my coat. His eyes are wide and unblinking, the notebook has landed just in front of the glass and we’re only inches apart now as I reach for it, I look like I ‘m reaching for it, but drop my hand between my legs, his eyes following, pulling my panties aside so he can really see me, spreading my pink pussy lips so he can see them shiny wet inside. Wet for him. Wet for you, I whisper it to him through the glass, fucking myself with two fingers as he smiles a thin, tight smile and the rosy tongue appears, runs over his lips, back and forth. He raises his eyes to mine after a few moments. I close my legs, begin to rise again. Thank you, he mouths the words back, reaches up to touch the window with his hand. I kiss my own fingers and touch him from the other side, leaving a slight smear of my vagina juice on the glass. Just like a movie ending, after all. Just like a goddamn movie.

‘This is the beginning of Lord Harestone’s land Miss. It’ll be another five minutes till we reach the Manor.’

Exhausted though I was by this interminable journey, I studied the land. It was bleak with lumpy hills reminiscent of an old hag’s face with the odd tuft of sedge grass. The hillocks were cropped by sheep who stared as we rattled past, then went back to pulling at what nourishment the impoverished earth afforded them. Heavy drips of rainwater spilled off the sheep’s grey wool, and off the edges of the carriage window, splashing on to my cloak. Hunger, the aching cold in my bones and hours of journeying all sapped my strength.

Joy entered my heart as the driver announced, ‘Here we are, Miss. Harestone Manor.’ I stepped out in front of the imposing stone house and pressed precious pennies into the driver’s hand, he’d earned them. He closed his wet glove over them and pulled at his cap. “Thank you, Miss. You’ll be staying here a while then, as Governess to Lord Harestone’s heir?’

‘That’s right, at least a year, to complete the young master’s education.’

‘Well, good luck to ‘ee.’ The driver handed down my one small bag and I watched as he clambered up and whipped the horses into action. I stood alone. All around me, for miles in the evening half-light brooded the empty sodden heath. Behind me, Harestone Manor. Having come this far, twelve hours ride from home, I would not get away easily, should the position not work out. I shuddered at the thought of being caught in the situation if it did not suit me, but lifted my chin, determined to see it through. After nursing a husband now dead from the coughing sickness and with only few pennies in my purse after paying off his debts, I had no choice. Here was my destiny.

I curled freezing fingers around the bell-pull and heard it clang inside the house, summoning a middle-aged woman. ‘You must be Miss Canning. Welcome. I am Mrs Alderly. My daughter and I keep house for Lord Harestone and the young master. Come and take off that wet cloak or you shall catch your death.’ We walked through a hallway lit by a central chandelier of candles which threw a ruddy light. Mrs Alderly showed me into a warm kitchen. ‘Come now, we’ll place your cloak across the chair to dry. You’ll be hungry after your j ourney. In future you will dine with his Lordship and the young master but tonight we have for you some hot soup and bread.

Then I will show you your room and after that introduce you to your Masters.’

Feeling considerably revived after the steaming meal, I followed Mrs Alderly’s candle up a wide staircase decorated with green wallpaper of an ivy-leafed design. My bedroom was grander than any I had experienced, with a high four-poster bed in the centre. It felt a little odd when Mrs Alderly showed me a connecting door and opening it explained that the young master’s bedroom was attached to mine allowing for constant observation by myself of his movements. For a young child this would be the norm, but my young charge, Master Tom, would be nineteen years old this summer and surely able to look after himself. I thought I had been taken on to refine his education in respect of French and Latin before he entered the Church, not to nursemaid him.

Mrs Alderly left me, saying that I was expected in the front room at eight o’clock to meet Lord Harestone and Master Tom. After checking my grey woollen dress was not much affected by splashes from my journey, and neatening the hair piled on my head, I ventured downstairs. The front parlour was a comfortable room with a roaring fire in front of which stood the two gentlemen. Lord Harestone, the father, immediately struck me, so much did his presence fill the room. Over six foot tall and wide-shouldered, he blocked the heat from the fire. Pale breeches clung tightly to thighs powerful from country pursuits and I registered that he was well endowed in every way. There was a stern darkness about him. He scrutinised me appraisingly before beckoning me to him.

Next to him stood Master Tom, a long-nosed pale youth utterly lacking the force and presence of his father. The callow youth smiled weakly at me whilst glancing at his father, as if fearful of his reaction.

I curtsied. On my rising, his lordship traced a finger along my jaw line and raised my face to the firelight. ‘What do you think, then, boy? A good choice or not?’ Both men studied me as though I were a prize brood mare.

‘Turn around, Miss Canning and let us observe you better.’ My cheeks burnt red with embarrassment. This intrusive appraisal made me acutely conscious of my figure which was a little too rounded for a woman my age and my rough dress which was all I could afford.

‘She’ll do extremely well, father,’ said the boy, eyes lighting up as if he were choosing buns in the baker’s shop. I swear I even saw him lick his lips.

‘Miss Canning, you will be pleased to hear you have my son’s approval.’

I curtsied, feeling as though I had passed some sort of test.

‘Thank you, sir. I would be pleased if you would outline my duties. You explained in your letter that I am to complete Master Tom’s education. I assumed this was in the classics and languages but perhaps you could elaborate.’

Lord Harestone laughed gently as if I had made some kind of joke. ‘Ah now, Miss Canning, permit me to offer you a seat, and perhaps a small glass of Madeira?’

Lord Harestone’s delay in getting to the point troubled me. I gratefully accepted the Madeira to calm my nerves. I was acutely aware of Master Tom’s eyes constantly upon me, as if he had never seen a woman before. I was also aware as I took the seat and kept my back straight and my legs together, as befits a lady, that Lord Harestone too never took his eyes off me. They roamed from the hem of my skirt, up my legs, over my waist and bosom and down again in far too direct a manner for comfort. His gaze gave me the sensation of being uncovered; so much so that I raised my hand to my chest to ensure my buttons were securely fastened and felt there the rise and fall of my bosom.

I jumped as Lord Harestone spoke again. ‘We discussed a wage in our correspondence, did we not?’

‘Yes sir, my Lord.’
‘I should like to treble it’
‘But my Lord, why?’ I gasped. I was torn between my delight at this extraordinary news and concern that my duties might be too onerous to complete. Never had I been offered such riches.

‘Miss Canning, I will come to the point. I have a direct nature. My ward,’ he looked over at Master Tom who sat opposite me in silence, ‘has had an expensive education. He is exceptionally bright and is in all ways ready to enter the Church. He needs no more coaching in normal subjects.’

‘Then why -?’ I stopped, aware that I must not interrupt my employer even though I burned with curiosity.

‘Your role, Miss Canning, and one I am sure you are eminently able to fulfil, is to teach Master Tom the ways of adults. We are so isolated here that Tom has become shy, particularly around women. He knows nothing of their.. .more intimate ways but he wishes to learn in this, his last year of freedom. He needs to partake of the pleasures of the flesh with one whom he finds irresistible before he enters the church and is denied that pleasure for ever. Tom, I can see, is very taken with you. He admires womanly curves and soft plump skin. In fact I think I can go so far as to speak for him and say that he yearns nightly for feminine charms like yours,’ Lord Harestone looked over at his ward who nodded eagerly. ‘We will treat you extremely well, you have seen your room. Your only duties will be at night time. In the day you will be fiee to partake of my extensive hbrary and live the life of a woman of leisure on an extremely good wage. Your only duty will be in educating and pleasuring this young boy. And being pleasured by him.’ I saw a glint in Lord Harestone’s eyes that made me swallow hard.

Hearing his words, my eyes became rounder and rounder. I had been a married woman so was well able to fulfil this task but never had I been asked to perform such extraordinary duties nor offered such wealth. My life of late had been unbearable, living in near poverty, and an escape from it was most appealing. But having the hands of this callow, pale youth upon me, could I cope with that? I looked at the father. So much more commanding than the son, a man any woman would be pleased to take into her bed, with his knowing eyes and masculine figure. Now if only he were the subject of my nightly task I would not hesitate.

Lord Harestone twirled the neck of his glass in sensuous fingers, lifted it to full lips and drained the glass. ‘I can see you are thinking it over; one more thing which may sway you. My son admires fine clothes and likes to see women in them. There is a wardrobe upstairs full of outfits purchased for his ‘governess’ from the seamstresses of Paris. I think you may like to take those into account when you think over our offer. We will leave you now, Miss Canning. If in the morning you have dressed yourself in one of the fine outfits upstairs we will take that as a signal that you accept your duties. If however you are still in the grey woollen garment you stand in now, I will arrange for a coach to be called to take you back home and we will assume you do not want the post. Goodnight.’

Thus dismissed, I retired to my room shocked at the offer made to me. I collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling, my thoughts in turmoil. In the next room, only a thin door separating us, I could hear Tom about his night time ritual. I heard him undress and the creak of the bed as he got into it. I wondered if he thought of me in my bed. I shuddered. Could I possibly allow that boy to make love to me, show him, guide him when I found him to be utterly repulsive. Like a greyhound, he was all skin and bones and angular features. And yet the money I had been offered would solve all my difficulties and allow me to start afresh. Pondering, I rose and went to the wardrobe. Inside were delectable dresses in silks and taffetas. Reds and golds sat alongside deep aquamarine and purple, the skirts a cloud of colour. I buried my face in their finery and rubbed the cool softness of the materials over my poor skin, chapped with cold, neglect and poverty. Opening a drawer, I beheld half a dozen beautifully stitched corsets. I ran my hands over the boning and the laces of one which was a glorious shade of turquoise. I lifted it up and held it against myself in the mirror. It was a work of art and I knew that if I were to wear it I too would feel like the most precious object. The fact that I would be pawed by that creature next door, who gave me a feeling of sickness every time I thought of him, was something I could possibly learn to block out.

I released the pins in my chestnut hair, felt it tumble heavily down my shoulders and lay myself down on the crisp cotton sheets. My mind was made up. However disagreeable I found Master Tom, I would accept my fate.
At dawn, after washing myself in the bowl provided, I opened the wardrobe again. The glare of the colours was even greater in the morning light. As I again fingered the turquoise corset there was a gentle knock on my door. I gathered my nightdress about me suspicious it might be Master Tom come to gain his prize early. But it was a young girl who announced herself as Sarah, Mrs Alderly’s daughter, and offered me help as a lady’s maid in dressing. Never had I had the luxury of a lady’s maid. As she assisted me into a fine muslin shift which fell over my breasts and would protect the fine silk of the corset from the oils of my skin I began to warm to my part. I did not have to like Master Tom to teach him, but I did enjoy the feel of the corset as Sarah laced me in. A pleasant sensation of constriction, like a frighteningly tight embrace overcame me as Sarah pulled harder and harder. My breasts overflowed like velvet-skinned apricots over the tight boning and my buttocks appeared lush and full underneath the tight silk. ‘These are the latest corsets from France, ma’am, with little suspenders to hold up your stockings. Here let me help you on with these silk stockings.’

The feel of the material against my ankles, then my knees and finally halfway up my thighs, delicately rolled and pushed up my legs by Sarah, made my legs tingle. I watched the girl kneeling as she clipped the stockings into their holdings after which she laced up my boots and helped me into a white muslin day dress. Never had my waist appeared so pinched and tiny and never had I been so acutely aware of my breasts pushing and straining over the top of my dress. As the corset: pressed against the pubis at the bottom of my stomach I felt a sensation of desire for animal satisfaction which had never affected me before.

I went down to breakfast and witnessed Master Tom’s evident admiration at my hourglass figure and delight that I was staying. I almost expected him to salivate at the mouth in anticipation of his coming night’s education. I was given the freedom of the house and, as I moved about, became aware of eyes upon me. Looking around, I caught not Master Tom, but Lord Harestone, staring blatantly at my form. I stood examining a book in his library at the time. Whether some devilment had entered me in my fine new clothes I cannot say. But, aware of his Lordship’s eyes burning into me, I reached as high as my constricting undergarments would allow, and purposefully revealed a well turned ankle in black silk. Lord Harestone stared, smiled and walked away.

The evening came, dinner was done with, and feeling as though I were jumping into a pool of cold water, I announced to Master Tom that he and I should now go upstairs and begin his education. I felt very ill-disposed towards him, as if I wanted to tell the poor naive creature off for his lack of knowledge. At the top of the stairs I ordered him into his bedroom and commanded he kneel by the side of his bed and wait for me. Going into my room, I breathed deeply, feeling nauseous at the thought of his hands upon me, and trying desperately to summon up the courage for my task. My beautiful skirt swished as I walked across the room and just as I was about to enter through the open connecting door, I noticed a door at the other end of Master Tom’s room. Through the narrow slit I could just make out Lord Harestone, seated, his eyes directed at his young ward.

Of a sudden, a warmth spread through me and a pleasurable sensation shot up between my stockinged legs, moistness creaming my maidenhood. I had to squeeze my legs together as I walked, to stop the liquid dripping down my legs, as I imagined Lord Harestone’s eyes following me across the room. Acutely aware of his gaze, I did not give away that I knew his secret but looked down only at the kneeling Master Tom. Tom’s eyes looked up at me like a spaniel’s and I watched a flickering nerve tick at his temple.

I moved around him, holding him with my gaze until I was sure I was in the best position for Lord Harestone to view our antics.

‘Lift up my skirts.’ I commanded in a harsh voice. Tom’s hands fumbled at the layers in his eagerness. My heart quickened, not at Tom’s inept touch, but at the knowledge that as my legs were being uncovered, Lord Harestone leant forward in his secret place, in order to see me better.

‘Stay kneeling. Don’t you dare do anything until I tell you,’ I barked. Tom nodded his head, petrified and bewitched as he stared at my ankles, my knees and finally the ivory whiteness of my thighs bulging out of the stockings. ‘You may kiss my thighs,’ I said. The boy held my leg as if it were a soft feathered bird and pressed his hot lips against it. Like a starving man, he slavered and sucked. I watched the top of his head as he got carried away and saw him breathe deeply, enjoying my scent. I spread my legs a little wider, tempting him in but when he moved his mouth over my labia I slapped him hard on the cheek.

‘How dare you presume to do anything before I tell you.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lord Harestone smile wickedly, enjoying my harshness. I directed my gaze at Tom but kept Lord Harestone in my sights as I leant down and kissed poor Tom, the pink marks of my hand on his cheek. ‘There, there, don’t be upset. Tell me what you’d like to do.’

His voice came so quiet I could barely hear although I knew what he said. ‘Louder,’ I demanded. ‘Speak louder boy, tell me what you want to do.’

‘Lick you,’ came his voice.

‘Go on then.’ I ordered.

Still kneeling, he moved around until his head was under my cunny and pressed his face upwards. As his pink tongue came out and the tip dipped into my juices I let out a moan of satisfaction, loud enough for Lord Harestone to hear and saw, with satisfaction, Lord Harestone’s hand move to rub the front of his britches. I held the back of Tom’s head, forcing him rhythmically up and down, pressing him into me. He slurped and pawed at my thighs, his tongue darting in and out. I used him to work around my sex again and again, riding on his face and savouring the pleasure of watching Lord Harestone’s brooding stare as his Lordship continued to rub himself.

‘Give me your finger.’ I commanded to Tom.

Still sucking at me, the boy put his finger slowly towards me and gasped, as I used it to mop up the trickle down my thigh and then buried his finger deep into my waiting redness as high as it would go. I had to congratulate the boy here. Instinct made him push his finger in and out without instruction and when he felt me get comfortable on it, he pushed a second finger in, stretching me most agreeably. Still laced up tightly, I felt as if my breasts would burst out of their confines:  they were becoming so swollen, the nipples painful against the edge of my corset and straining against the thin muslin.

I now felt uncontrollable with desire. I knew I needed a real man inside me. This simpering youth was acceptable for starters but I was so heated I felt I would go mad without proper fulfilment. The time for subtlety was over. I turned blatantly to Lord Harestone. His secret was a secret no more. I watched petrified as, still seated, he kicked the door open with his foot. Tom barely flinched so intent was he on drinking my nectar. Lord Harestone ripped open the panel on the front of his britches and displayed a jutting, magnificently veined erection. Getting up, he strode over to where I stood, and Tom knelt. Standing next to me, he pulled my hair back, and prised open my lips with his tongue, thrusting it viciously into my mouth. I kissed him back, wild with desire. With Tom still pleasuring me with his tongue, Lord Harestone moved his fingers over the muslin at my breasts and tore it away exposing my jutting bosoms topped with hard sensitive nipples. He took one feverishly in his mouth and nipped it in his teeth making me cry out with ecstasy. Once it was moist he took it between thumb and forefinger and rolled it like a cigar. Taking my other nipple, he sucked it mercilessly till it reddened and peaked. Once my breasts were fully sensitised, Lord Harestone moved around behind me, and pressed himself against me. His huge throbbing member forced up against my buttocks. He pushed me over the bed till I was bent double and commanded me to hold on to the bed rail, which I did to steady myself. His knee between my legs prised me open, spread-eagling me still wider. Tom stopped for a moment to wipe his mouth and take his fingers out of my aching pussy. Then, taking the initiative, while Lord Harestone positioned himself behind me, Tom gently fingered my fanny and gazed lasciviously at the swollen red sex lips.

Poking out his tongue he licked me with the whole length of it, flicking it mercilessly over my point of ecstasy. Driven to distraction, I clung on to the bedpost, my buttocks jutting upwards, the tight corset cutting into my flesh, waiting for Lord Harestone to fuck me. Shockingly I felt his almighty prick drive into me as he gripped my shoulders, his fingers digging in. He pummelled me back and forth, panting like a demon possessed. Tom’s licking became more urgent as Lord Harestone drove his cock deeper. Lord Harestone moved his hands to grip my breasts, pinching the nipples between his fingers, giving me the most mind-numbing sensation of being totally and utterly dominated.

With the two men gasping and pushing, sucking and thrusting, I felt my eyes flicker and my swollen sex peak into a shuddering, bursting hardcore orgasm. Just after I came, Lord Harestone gripped my hair and yelled as he pumped his load into me, his sperm running down my legs.

Thus began the best year of my life. Each night was a journey. Each one longer than the last. Tom proved an apt pupil, and an interested observer when my Lord and I allowed him the privilege of watching us sate our passions on each other. Tom is now a pastor at a small parish many miles fiom here. And me? I stayed on, for why would I not? The educator became the educated at Lord Harestone’s fine hand. And yes, dear Reader… I married him.

A single flickering tallow illuminated our sparsely furnished parlour, as a savage wind howled at the rotted eaves of our humble abode and twisted tree limbs clawed at the shutters as if seeking entry. ‘Her beauty is the stuff of the great artists Grigorescu and Luchian,’ my father intoned. ‘Men cannot resist her, and women detest her. It is legend that on a night many, many centuries ago, when the evening star Venus was at its zenith, the lust-crazed Countess succeeded in seducing one of her stable hands, a virginal boy of eighteen who had only that morning become betrothed to a poor peasant girl whom he had courted for years. And just as the Countess was teetering on the very edge of ecstasy, the young man’s fiance rushed into the room, saw what was happening, and in a fit of jealous rage seized a sabre from the wall and plunged it deep into the Countess, piercing her wicked heart, killing the beautiful temptress before she could attain sexual release.

‘And from that night onward, whenever the planet Venus is in its ascension, the Countess walks the earth, stalks this province’s virginal sons recently turned eighteen, seeking the ecstasy in death she was denied in life. And by taking her fiendish vengeance, temporarily satiating her unquenchable, ages-old lust, she also takes the life of the young man whom she violates. He becomes a part of her army of the damned, to be used and abused by her for all of eternity.’

I stared into my father’s watery blue eyes, at his trembling blue lips, and a cold shiver travelled the length of my spine. ‘How can I avoid such a fate, father?’ I queried, my voice breaking, my hands shaking.

‘By remaining safely indoors when Venus is the brightest star in the sky; by never setting foot outside when the Countess is on the prowl,’ he replied, grasping my hands with his bony claws. ‘Promise me this, my son!’

I earnestly promised to abide by the old man’s superstitious wishes, seeking to reassure him. ‘And where is Venus now, Father?’ I inquired.

‘In its ascension!’ he cried, staring out the dusty window at the darkening sky.

I would have been wise to have heeded my father’s warning, but I was young and foolish and daring, and dubious of my father’s many tall tales and handed-down myths. More importantly, my gorgeous girlfriend, Daria, had promised me a special treat for my birthday, and what come-of-age man can resist such a titillating promise as that? So, once my father had retired to bed, was deep in his slumber, out into the windswept night I ventured.

Daria and I rendezvoused at our usual spot, on the mossy green banks of a thin trickle of a cold, clear stream that flowed past an abandoned mill. The long shadows of dusk had been usurped by the inky blackness of night, and I kindled a small fire, admiring my Daria in its glow.

‘You are truly beautiful,’ I told her truthfully, my eyes roaming all over her voluptuous body, which had only recently ripened into full womanhood. She was scantily covered by a thin white summer dress and her chestnut-coloured hair cascaded long and thick over her bare, buff shoulders. Her large brown eyes reflected the dancing flames from the fire, and her pretty face shone like a princess’s.

‘Thank you, Gregor,’ she responded in a soft, shy voice, gazing bashfully into the fire for a moment, and then back up at me. ‘I told you I had a special treat for your birthday.. .and here it is.’ She slowly unfastened the buttons on the front of her dress, her sparkling eyes never leaving mine, and the almost-sheer garment slid down her body with barely a whisper and puddled at her feet, leaving her breathtakingly, stunningly naked!

‘Daria!’ I breathed, staring in awe at her lush, creamy-white body.

Her breasts were huge and heavy-looking, round and ivory, capped by twin kitten-pink nipples that jutted out from her dewy tit-flesh fairly half an inch or more (and were growing still longer and harder in the cooling night air). Between her smooth, slim legs lay a neatly-trimmed triangle of downy, brown fur, and when she shifted her lithe legs even wider apart, I could see her pink pussy lips, glistening with moisture, anticipation

‘Dana!’ I repeated, overwhelmed, rushing around the fire and into her open arms. I mashed my lips against her soft, pouty lips, her enormous tits pressing hotly against my chest, my nimble hands gripping and squeezing her plump, rounded butt cheeks.

She responded with equal passion, sliding her slippery tongue into my mouth and swirling it around, the two of us fiercely trenching for what seemed for ever. When I at last broke mouth and tongue contact with the pretty peasant girl, whom I had lusted after for so many years, I began kissing and licking and biting my way down her long, slender neck, all the way down to the awesome chest that was the spectacular heritage of all of the women in her blessed family.

I cupped her immense jugs in my covetous hands, revelling in the solid weight and silky, superheated texture of her burgeoning boobs, and then I bent my head down and licked at one of her rigid nipples, teasing the pebbled underside of it with my flicking tongue. She cried out with pleasure, clutched at my straw-coloured hair with her long, sharp-tipped fingers, and I took the fully-flowered nipple into my mouth and sucked on it, tugged hungrily on it.

‘God, yes, Gregor, suck my tits!’ she groaned, her amber eyes closed, her head lolling back on her shoulders, her mountainous tits and rubbery nubs quite obviously supersensitive to the touch.

I suckled her swollen tit-cap like a hungry baby, and then mouthed as much of her tremendous right breast as I could. I pulled on her fleshy, fiery tit with my mouth, scoured the firm underside of it with my whipping tongue, before eventually disgorging its dripping, snowy-white mass and attacking Daria’s other breast. I licked and sucked on it as I had her other tit, and then pushed her wicked knockers together and flailed my tongue back and forth across both of her stiffened buds at once, tongue-lashing her rock-hard nipples.

‘Make me come, Gregor!’ she hissed. ‘Make me come!’

I took it by this that the writhing girl with the spit-slickened jugs wanted me to make love to her pussy as I’d made love to her tits, and my thoughts were confirmed when she anxiously pushed my head down. I fell to my knees and grasped her plump, trembling butt cheeks, stared at her glistening sex momentarily, breathing in the damp, musky scent of her want. Then I held my breath and plunged my nose into her springy pubes, my tongue into her slit.

‘Yes!’ she screamed, clutching her mammoth mams and savagely kneading them, twisting and pulling her rosy nipples in a frenzy.

My head spun with the intoxicating smell of her sex, but I resolutely tongued her twat, dragging my rough tongue over her sticky lips from butt-hole to clitoris, over and over again, lapping at her labes with an earnestness I was sure would be rewarded and reciprocated. Then I formed my thick tongue into a hardened spear and drove it deep into my girl’s cunt.

‘I’m coming!’ Daria squealed, her flame-licked, undulating body misty with perspiration, her giant jugs jouncing up and down in her small hands as she was rocked repeatedly by orgasm, as I vigorously stabbed her gash with my tongue.

And when the darling girl with the lust-inducing body finally calmed down again, I withdrew my tongue from her dripping twat, licked my slimy lips, and climbed to my feet. I quickly shrugged off my suspenders and pulled down my pants, and my swollen cock sprang out into the cool evening air, twitching for attention. ‘Don’t forget to blow out my birthday candle, Daria,’ I quipped, grinning wolfishly at the lovely, nude young woman.

She looked down at my straining manhood, as it billowed out to its full seven inch glory, then up into my face, then over my shoulder, and suddenly her brown eyes flooded with a terror more than that of a nervous, barely legal babe about to devour her very first cock. ‘Ohmigod! Run, Gregor, run!’ she wailed, twirling around and rushing off into the bushes, leaving her clothes and my raging hard-on behind.

I stood there, confused and frustrated, and then I heard a soft, rustling sound behind me, like that of a bat landing and folding its wings, and I spun around – and beheld an exquisitely beautiful woman who I instinctively knew was the Countess Sabrina Coinaneci, the evil, erotic blood and soul-sucker my father had warned me about.

She was small in stature, vertically, but so much, much larger horizontally, where it counted, and she was completely and utterly naked save for a black satin cape with blood-red lining that hung about her shoulders, tied at the neck. Her breasts were absolutely gargantuan, translucent, blue-veined spheres that hung heavily from her chest like ivory melons. Her face was a perfect, porcelain oval, her hair long and black, and both her face and her hair shone and shimmered in the light shed by the crackling fire, by the giant, glowing orb in the sky known as the planet Venus.

The Countess spread her arms, her cape, and hissed at me, baring a pair of long, lethal-looking fangs. ‘You are ready forme, mortal!’ she shrilled, in a voice as sweet as the honeysuckle and deep as the grave, her black eyes glittering as they ogled my penis.

I looked where she was looking, and was astounded to see that I was still steel-hard, in fact, amazingly, longer and harder and thicker than any time previously. The wicked lady’s uninhibited, almost tangible, lust engulfed my ready and willing body, and I felt compelled by some unknown, primal force to grip the instrument of her desire (and my release), and urgently stroke it.

‘You will satisfy me tonight, and I will satisfy you for all time!’ the Countess shrieked, grasping her massive mammaries and fondling them, her demon eyes rolling back in her head and her crimson mouth falling open.

And then, before I could even react, she swooped down upon me, pushed me to the ground with the strength often women, and mounted my upthrust stake, impaling herself on my wood. She let out a primeval scream that shattered the night for miles around, started bouncing up and down on my cock, pumping her ass, her moist, musty pussy easily swallowing up my entire granite length. She leaned forward, and her colossal tits bounced rhythmically across my face, her spike-like nipples slapping my hips as she rocked back and forth on my prong.

The unearthly eroticism of that sexy she-beast rendered my mind incapable of thought, my muscles incapable of action. Some sort of resistance may have been possible, I suppose, but after the agonizing frustration with Daria, both this night and many nights before, I only too eagerly embraced the prospect of all-out relief that the Countess provided me with. An eternity of damnation be damned, I was going to get laid that night.

‘Beelzebub, yes!’ the Countess cried, as I stuck out my tongue and licked at her blood-red nipples flicking across my hps, as she plunged my super-hardened cock in and out of her gripping pussy.

She kissed me on the mouth with a pair of cold, scarlet lips, but her chill breath did nothing to bank the raging fire in my loins. She savagely bit into my erect nipples, then sealed her lips around first one punctured protuberance and then the other, sucking long and hard and deeply, before finally lifting her head and smacking her plasma-smeared lips.

She bucked up and down on my calcified cock, faster and faster, fienziedly riding my tool, building and building her towering pleasure to a cataclysmic conclusion, whereupon her tombstone-white body rippled with orgasmic fulfilment. Her pale twin globes shimmied with ecstasy, and her jutting nubs spouted curdled milk, as she was jolted again and again by brutal orgasm. The satanic siren gushed slime out of her crimson gash, slathering my rock-hard member with her ferocious joy, and I could only lie there, dreamy-eyed and defenceless, and take it, unwilling and unable to stop the hellish carnality.

The Countess tilted her face up to the heavens and howled at the planet Venus, before collapsing on top of me and whimpering like a wounded animal. The Earth literally had moved, getting ready to swallow me up. The sexy lady vampire licked her pap off my face in long, slow, satisfied tongue-strokes, then snaked her tongue into my mouth and down my throat, almost choking me with her gratitude. She gorged herself on my mouth, kissing and trenching me, licking my lips, before finally setting her sights a little lower and sliding down my sweat-slick chest to get face-to-phallus with my stiffened dong.

She slithered in between my legs and grasped my glistening cock in one of her talons, began licking up and down my swollen shaft with a forked, velvet-sandpaper tongue. She slobbered all over my painfully-erect dick, swirling her wanton tongue all around my mushroomed, purple cock-top, my yawning slit, eagerly lapping up and swallowing down my oozing pre-cum. She greedily sucked my bloated hood into her slavering mouth, tugged on it for awhile, her cheeks billowing in and out,  and then she dropped her beautiful head down and easily inhaled the entire length of my pulsing dong.

‘Jesus!’ I groaned ironically, my body weak with her witchery, my cock strong. The whole of my meat was lodged in her devilish mouth and throat, packed hot and tight and wet.

She stared up at me as I stared down at her, her ebony eyes glittering, depthless pools reflecting my own uncontrollable desire. Her tongue, incredibly, glided out of her crammed-full mouth and licked at my furry pouch, juggled my balls around, cool, damp breath steaming out of her flared nostrils and onto my rippling abdomen. Then, just as the semen in my sack was about to go to full-boil, blow up my shaft and into her mouth, she reared her head back and disgorged my slathered, supercharged cock.

The Countess grinned evilly at me, her razor-sharp fangs gleaming, growing, getting ready to…

Well, suffice it to say that I sprayed more than sperm that glorious night – although I did spray plenty of that. My ecstasy went on and on and on, she insatiably milking my dick with her mouth and throat, me plaintively, pushing my hips off the ground to feed my mistress’s eternal hunger, till, finally, the cold light of dawn broke, sending us scuttling for shelter. Down into a dark, dusty, centuries-old crypt we journeyed, home of the Countess Sabrina Comaneci and her many manly followers; my home.

A breath of air tickles my slightly parted fanny. I open my legs a little more. I grope about in the sand to find my oil, but I can’t find it. My hand flops back onto my sexy bare stomach and the touch electrifies me. I move my fingertips down to the hairless groove running along the top of my thigh and that makes me jump, too. The skin is the largest organ of the human body, and boy is it the most sensitive.
There’s another place, though. So sensitive it could make me come with a butterfly kiss. My hand wanders back up to my breast, just brushes the top, avoiding the nipples. They swell out luxuriantly. My stomach flutters.

I drop my hands. Is it possible to tease yourself? The sun rests on my eyelids while my hand drags back to my stomach. I move it in circles, frantic messages puckering up my nipples. My stomach tightens. My thighs fidget on the towel, open up wider. I fan my fingers, catching at a hardening nipple, and sidle the other hand downwards to the warm nest of hair. My fingers tangle in the wet curls, pulling strands, feeling each hair tug on the tender skin.

My middle finger extends down the crack and I half gasp, half giggle at the moist blood-heat warmth just inside the lips. That’s not just damp from the sea although I wonder what it would taste like now. I wiggle my finger, feeling the sliver of sensitive flesh. I shock it into tingling response. I moan softly, sure that the sound is only in my ears.

A shadow crosses my face and I swear, thinking a cloud is obscuring the sun. But it’s too solid for that. There’s a tall shape a couple of feet away. Surely not the others, come to spy on me from the cottage? I raise myself up on my elbow, ready to give them hell. My breast bounces against my arm. I raise one knee to get myself upright and a droplet of juice runs out of my pussy and across my thigh.

It’s not my fiiends. It’s one of the surfers. His short wetsuit is rolled down his torso and he has his back to the sea. He can see me clearly, but I’m half blinded by the glare. I raise one hand to shield my eyes and take a good look at him. Sex on legs. Like something out of a beer advert. He’s lithe and tanned. His face is young. So young. Tiny gold prickles of barely shaved stubble speckle his brown cheeks. Hectic flushes of blood are just visible under the skin. Is he blushing?

I try to remember myself at his age. It wasn’t so long ago, for God’s sake. He’s eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Definitely a boy and yet his sexy body has been worked on. Hard. No ounce of puppy fat. His arms are big with muscle.

I let my eyes flutter back to his face. I open my mouth to speak, but he’s not about to make small talk. His bright blue eyes are fixed on my big breasts, hanging there in the sunshine. I must look like some kind of nude sculpture there on the towel. I suppose I could always pretend I’m one of those naturists.
But the nudists always claim there’s nothing sexual about nakedness, don’t they? What bollocks. I reckon this boy’s nakedness would be a blatant invitation to a shag-fest. His eyes are burning on me and my nipples harden as if agreeing with my assessment. They shrink into tight little arrowheads. Pointing directly at my young stranger.

The young man/boy swallows, getting the message. He scuffles his bare feet in the sand. Shit. He’s trying to get away. I want to stretch out and stop him. But no. He’s just planting them more firmly in that kind of swaggering stance young men have. Through his tight wet suit I can see his groin bulging against the black cloth. I want to rip it off here and now. I want to know what’s going on underneath.

‘Surf up today?’ I suddenly ask into the sizzling silence. I can imagine my mates up at the cottage giggling at my lousy attempt at surf-speak. ‘I thought there were two of you out there.’ He nods, and tosses his head back towards the waves. His hair is beginning to dry into bleached strands.

‘My brother’s still out there. I got a cramp.’
‘I can see that.’

The fluttering in my stomach is back with a vengeance. No, forget fluttering. Nothing lady-like about this sensation. It’s twisting and tightening with total lust. I can’t believe I’m still sprawled here like some kind of centrefold. Usually I would have lifted the towel by now to cover myself up. I’d have made some shy, dismissive remark to send him on his way, but right now his glowing stare and his unmistakable hard-on and erected penis are just too good to waste. I’m not letting this opportunity pass. Apart from anything else, I intend to dine out on it tonight. The others will never believe me.

‘Want some lemonade?’ God, I sound like his aunt.

‘My dad says you should never accept drinks from strangers,’ he croaks with a lopsided grin, and I laugh. How sexy is that grin? How sexy is it that we’re strangers? I take the bottle from the cool bag and wave it at him.

‘I say you’re big enough to look after yourself I’m still laughing. I pat the towel beside me. He steps closer. I’m making him feel safe. He leans across me, and swigs from the bottle. ‘So,’ I go on, my voice husky with laughter and desire. ‘Do you know this part of Devon?’
‘No. It’s my first time.’
Colour floods his cheeks even more as he says it, and this time I rein in my dirty chuckle. I quietly take the lemonade from him, keeping my green eyes calmly on his burning blue ones, and without wiping his spittle off the neck of the bottle I flick my tongue round the wet rim before tilting my head back to take a deep swallow. Now his eyes are on my throat as the cold liquid swishes down. This is like something out of a movie.

‘I mean, it’s the first time we’ve been down to this coast,’ he stammers. ‘Dad’s rented a place for the summer. He insisted we come here this year. Normally we go to Constantine Bay, in Cornwall. The surfs miles better over there. So’s the surfing crowd. I mean, it’s just dead round here, isn’t it?’

‘That depends what you’re after,’ I remark lazily. The bottle is still hovering above my open mouth as if I’m about to give it head. I lick it again, turning myself on with the suggestive swipe of my tongue. Then I wrap my lips round the long cool shape and swallow a little more. His Adam’s apple jumps. I screw the top back on. On an impulse I put the bottle not back in the cool bag but between my legs, resting it up against my pussy. I can’t stifle a gasp as the cold plastic meets the sensitive, warm flesh. I lean back, letting it rest there, restraining myself from grabbing it and rubbing it up and down my hot slit like a sex toy. The urge won’t go away. But then, nor will the boy. My voice comes out in a low moan. ‘There’s plenty to entertain you if you know where to look.’

‘I’m beginning to realise that’

Without the bottle the boy doesn’t know what to do with his hands. So he starts rolling the wetsuit back up his stomach.

‘It’s too nice out here today to cover yourself up. It may not be the Med, but this lovely weather has got to be a record for Devon. Sit down for a moment. Like you said, there’s nothing to do round here. So there’s no rush, is there?’

‘No rush,’ he echoes, and his young voice dips violently into a deep manly timbre, at odds with his adolescent face. My wet cunt gives a couple of uncontrollably cheeky twitches, practically nudging the bottle away as I watch him wrestle with the twin urges to come and sit near me or to stand there and remain cool.

Time to be a little less obvious. I relent and draw my legs up, so that my pussy is temporarily hidden from his confused, hungry gaze, but the movement brings the bottle harder against me, its long shape pushing between my sex lips and nudging the tiny bud of my clit. I grip it with my legs and feel the droplets of condensation mingling with my own sweat and moisture.

I’m getting breathless again, as if I was still swimming. I want to show the boy what I can do with the bottle, but it’s too soon. I hitch myself up the towel, pulling my shoulders back in an effort to look more sophisticated, but that just thrusts my breasts out so that his baby-blue eyes, which are still struggling to remain politely focused on my face, swivel back to watch the tightening of my red nipples.

‘It may be a bit quiet, but where else can you get quite so close to nature, after the city smoke? I expect that’s what your dad was after,’ I whisper, trying not to giggle out loud with delight. Something is still warning me to act very calm, sit very still so as not to alarm him. ‘That’s why I’m stretched out here, starkers. Never do that in London, do you? Hope you don’t mind me being topless like this?’

He shakes his head violently, like a little boy trying not to tell a lie, and at last, like an animal tempted in from the wild, he squats down, just by my feet. He rubs the salty strands of yellow hair off his hot face.
‘So. You here on holiday, or what?’

He’s giving in. He can’t take his eyes off my tits, even though he’s attempting to make conversation. I know my nipples are harder and darker now and impossible to ignore. Neither of us really wants to talk, do we? It’s as if he’s in a sweet shop with no pocket money. His tongue slides across his white teeth and he gulps. I keep my smile faint but encouraging.

‘It’s a mixture,’ I answer. ‘Work, and play.’
‘So which is this bit? Work, or play?’

A soft wind comes off the sea and ruffles his hair. He swipes it impatiently out of his eyes. My own hair tickles my face, and the wind caresses my bare skin like delicate fingers.

‘Oh, that’s easy. Play,’ I whisper, not sure if he can hear. ‘This bit is definitely play.’

I tilt forwards on to my knees, the bottle still clamped there. I pause for a moment as he blinks, focusing on the big tits bouncing right there in front of him as if they were ice creams on offer. Then I pick up one of his large hands from where it’s digging frantically about in the sand. I lift it like it’s a warm animal and place it on one swollen breast. My nipple spikes against his palm. His mouth drops open. My head falls back as his fingers close harder, making it ache. I spread my knees a little to balance more comfortably in front of him, dislodging the bottle. I lean back on the towel so that my spine is arched and my breasts are pushing at him, jumping up with each heartbeat.

The dry grass rustles in the slight breeze, and far away the waves curl with a collective sigh onto the beach. Both the boy and me are panting. My tits disappear into his hesitant fingers. His blue eyes blaze with a crazy request. Christ, it’s enough to make me melt. Of course you have permission, my precious. I’m practically begging you’

My head feels heavy. The only energy is fizzing between my legs. I’m ready to let him take and thrust and pummel. I want to make him into a man. I have privacy, sunshine, a boy with the body of a god waiting for me to show him the way. And all the time in the world.

Lust is eating me up. His fingers dig into my breasts, wander across them and squeeze them, push them together, letting them fall, playing with them, staring at the rigid raspberry nipples. Then I kneel up and place my hands on his shoulders and push my tits into his eager face. I want him to nuzzle in, I want him to lick, suck, bite. Yes. I can tell he’s never seen anyone as luscious as me. A real woman. I want this to be what he’ll write home about, remember for ever. I want to smother him. He buries his face between my breasts, pressing them into his cheeks. Then he draws back. I cup one breast and offer it. I rub its taut dark nipple across his mouth. His tongue flicks out tentatively. My knees wobble and I clutch more firmly to his shoulders. My tit is angled right into his mouth.

He licks the nipple again, and his hands squeeze my breasts until they sing with dehcious pain. Hands that a few minutes ago had been wrestling with a surfboard. Then his soft lips nibble up the little nub of the nipple, the tongue laps round it. He draws the burning bud into his mouth, pulling hard on it, and begins to suck. I cradle his bleached blond head, the salt water dried in granules and flecked white across his cheek bones. I could stay like this forever. His sucking makes my whole body ripple with desire.
I look away over his head, across the dunes and over the ocean, distancing myself, seeing us like a movie or a photograph, but his mouth, his teeth, keep pulling at the aching nipple and pulling me back. Electrical currents streak from my nipples to my empty, waiting cunt.

He has the other breast up by his face now. He’s turning from one to the other, lapping and sucking, snuffling through his nose to breathe, groaning, biting and kneading harder and harder as if he owns my breasts. It’s never enough to suck just one. They both have to be stimulated, and, boy, is he getting the hang of it. God, it’s going to be earth-shattering when I get him inside me.

He’s rougher, more ferocious, already more confident. I grind against him, daring him, searching for more pain to communicate more pleasure. I plant my knees on either side of his so that I’m straddling him, and still have his head crushed between my tits. I push him backwards so that, still sucking on my nipples, he’s lowered onto the sand. Now I’m on top of him, my tits dangling down like heavy fruit dented by his brown fingers. I tilt my pussy towards his groin and rub against his wet suit. The rough material is glorious, grating on my skin.

And I can feel the length of his dick. Still pushing my tits in his face, don’t ever want him to stop, I grab at the wet suit and start to roll it off him like a second skin. He raises his hips obligingly. So sweet. He does that so eagerly and readily. Does he realise how big his fucking gorgeous erection is? I yank everything down and his cock thumps, juddering out from the rough tangle of blond curls, pulsating golden brown like the rest of him. God, it’s a work of art. Its surface is smooth like velvet, the mauve plum emerging from the soft foreskin which wrinkles back to show itself all gleaming. This gorgeous cock thumps into my hand. Now it’s my turn to fold my fingers round something, and as I do it he bites my nipple so hard that I scream out with delight. I lean over him.

‘Just take a little break. Try something new,’ I whisper, both to myself and to him. I start to wriggle back down his body so that his head follows for a moment, still attached to my nipples. Then he falls back as I slither down towards his groin and he can only grab at my wet hair. I reach his dick, standing up like a beacon. The tip is already beading in anticipation. A fresh stick of rock.

I open my mouth and draw his cock into it, using my teeth as well as my tongue, draw it all in until the boy’s knob knocks at the back of my throat.

He makes a sound, exquisitely shocked, because he never got a blowjob before. His buttocks clench as I suck on him, nibbling down to the base of his shaft and licking and sucking the sweet length of it. He starts to buck about, groaning in amazement. I wonder if any of his pert little girlfriends give head like this. I doubt it. After all, I didn’t have much of a clue at this age. I want him to think he’s died and gone to heaven. Any minute now I’m going to heaven, too.

As I suck, I rub my tits and pussy up and down his legs. He pulls at my hair. I have to slow myself down, because we’ll both come too soon. I don’t want to waste this golden moment by coming all over his shinbone. My pussy is clenching frantically now. I’m leaving slicks of juice all over him.

I give his dick one last, long suck, pulling it towards my throat and nipping it with my teeth, then I let it slide along my tongue, out through my nipping teeth. Greedily I clamber back on top of him as he struggles up, seeking out my tits. I press him down on his back, tilting myself over him. We’ve moved some way from the towel now.

‘See how beautiful it is,’ I croon at him, showing him the length of his shaft encircled by my fingers. ‘See how well it’s going to fit.’

I smile as I raise myself on my knees and aim the tip of his cock towards the warm hole hidden in my soft bush. I let it rest there, at the opening, just like I did with the lemonade bottle, just nudging it past my wet sex lips. I wait. I smile again, lowering myself a little more, gasping as each inch goes in. I reach under him to cup his balls in one hand and he groans again.

This tension is ecstasy, but I can’t hold on to it for much longer, and slowly, luxuriously, I let the boy’s knob slide up inside, all the way to the hilt. It’s so tempting to ram it, let our hips start jerking, but once it’s right in I force myself to pull away again. He frowns, perhaps thinking I’m rejecting him, but I just ease myself down again, moaning and tossing my head back, and the next time I do that he’s with me, learning fast, pulling his own hips back, waiting when I wait.

I sigh out with the joy of being fucked by something so big and hard after months of sitting on the sidelines. As I bend over to let my tits swing across his mouth again, his eyes flip sideways and his face freezes. His hands jam onto my hips and hold me still. I don’t move. I don’t want to. But I see another shadow falling across his face.

‘Oh, piss off, guys!’ I shout, without looking round. ‘Go back to your poker game!’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it! This looks like a hell of a lot more fun than poker!’

A male voice, very similar to my boy’s, speaks from somewhere above and behind us. I go hot and cold. I try to read the boy’s expression. Then there’s the unzipping sound of another wet suit, and the boy’s eyes widen. First he shakes his head furiously, and then a filthy grin spreads across his face. Not a grin I’ve seen before. He looks at me in a different way. Kind of domineering. I’m thrown off balance. Already he’s learning. Glancing at the newcomer, the boy knocks my breasts from side to side.

‘My older brother,’ he croaks. ‘Back from the surf

He pulls me forwards, jamming my tits into his mouth again, and now my backside is up in the air. I want to protest but I can’t move. My butt is all exposed, bouncing in front of his brother, but so gorgeous is the feel of my boy’s almost aggressive mouth sucking on my sore nipples that I can’t stop him. As first one nipple then the other grinds into his mouth I automatically start up the rhythm again. I’m acutely aware of my new audience. It’s unutterably sexy to be watched.

I slide up and down his cock, showing off now. My muscles tighten each time to grab hold and keep him inside, and his cock is hardening even more with each thrust. I’m just poised to ram down onto him harder than ever when my butt cheeks are pulled apart and another male body presses up against my back.

‘Can’t let you have all the fun, bruv,’ says the voice. ‘Reckon I wantage’
‘You’ve got some catching up to do, mate. Bloody well wait your turn.’
The first boy pulls me harder down on top of him, ramming me right up inside.
‘You don’t mind me watching, do you?’ his brother murmurs in my ear, still fondling my buttocks.
‘No,’ I puff, barely able to speak. ‘Don’t mind.’

There’s something else going on here, too. I can recognize sibling rivalry when I see it, or rather sense it. It’s not that different from the ‘friendly’ rivalry between me and my mates up at the cottage. Our parlour games are never going to be the same after this.

I’m dizzy now, knowing I’m being watched. Who knows? Maybe the crowd up at the cottage will be down any minute, join the audience. See me in a whole new light. I gyrate as if dancing on the boy’s pole, flinging myself wildly about. The urge for satisfaction and the loss of control starts to overwhelm me.

The invisible brother is right behind me, touching me everywhere. I fall onto the rigid cock inside me and the orgasm is gathering. My moans are snatched into the sea air as I rock frantically. My boy can’t hold back and it’s spurting out of him and I’m bucking in my own orgasm.

‘Can’t let you corrupt my little brother and get away with it,’ the older brother says, pulling us apart. ‘Reckon you need teaching, too.’

He parts my legs, gets his own cock out. I try not to smile too greedily as we all lie on the sand while the tide encroaches up the beach and the seagulls wonder what the fuck these tourists are up to.

Anyway, I digress. Not too much as it turns out. It all began with Ben. Gorgeous, virile, can go at it all night, Ben Brannigan. Or rather he would go at it all night when we finally got the chance. His family were religious, you see, and he believed in saving himself for marriage. Trouble is, he somehow got the impression that I was too. No, I didn’t lie. Not really. I just mumbled something when he asked if I was still a virgin and he took it for demure embarrassment.

I got my chance to try his wares when his family invited us for the weekend. We were to go to his uncle’s house in the country.

‘What does your uncle do?’ I asked Ben, as we drove to Oxfordshire. ‘He’s in the Church.’

My heart sank. No way would we be allowed to share a bedroom in a priest’s house. ‘I hope we get a chance to be alone, darling,’ I said, stroking Ben’s thigh. He nearly crashed when I squeezed his crotch.
‘Charity! Stop that. Do you want us both to go to hell?’
‘No, but a nice little hotel in Woodstock would be lovely.’
‘I see what you’re doing. You’re testing me to see if I can keep my hands off you. Stop it, you little minx.’
God, I wanted him there and then, but something about his expression told me that he wasn’t very pleased with me. I sulked for the rest of the journey.
We arrived just before dinner. The house was wonderful. The sort of Georgian pile I’d always dreamed of living in.
‘Charity, this is my mother, my father, and this is my uncle Jack. Everyone, this is Charity.’ I could tell from his mother’s shocked glance at me in my short skirt that things were not going to go according to plan.
Uncle Jack, who stood in front of the mantelpiece of his magnificent drawing room, wasn’t what I was expecting. For a start he was dressed in black chinos and a black turtle-neck sweater. He was also quite young. Not our age (Ben and I were both twenty-eight) but not much older than forty. He also eyed my mini-skirt but I couldn’t work out what he was thinking. He had one of those inscrutable faces. The type men have when they’re hanging from a big tap thingy in an upturned ship, willing to sacrifice themselves so that c-list actors can go on to star in soap operas. For some reason my panties felt abit moist.
Ben’s friend, Vince, arrived just before dinner. They’d been at university together. He was a beautiful young man and I would have introduced him to one of my friends had he not been so moody. He didn’t seem to like me at all, only giving me a cursory nod.
Dinner was excruciating and I didn’t help. I blurted out ‘So, Uncle Jack, do you think Jesus and Mary Magdalene really got it on?’ He smiled and I almost melted. Ben glared at me and his mother looked like she was going to faint. His dad merely squeezed my knee under the table. Or he might have been trying to pat the dog. He was so drunk on Uncle Jack’s vintage wine, I wasn’t entirely sure.
‘So you’ve read The Da Vinci Code, Charity?’ asked Uncle Jack. His expression suggested he knew I only ever read Heat magazine.
‘Er…no, but everyone knows what it’s about. It’s like one of those cultural thingies… icons… that transcends boundaries. Like everyone knows that The Poseidon Adventure is about an upside down ship.’ I don’t know why I kept coming back to that!
‘Is it really, Charity?’ asked Uncle Jack.
‘Yes. For goodness’ sake, don’t you know? Gene Hackman…the tortured priest…that girl from Dynasty who fancied him…the one before Emma Samms…not that Emma Samms fancied Hackman…well she might have. I don’t really know her. I mean the one who played Fallon before Emma…’ My voice faded to nothing when I realised he was taking the piss and also changing the subject.
‘Oh I did like Dynasty,’ Mrs Brannigan said. ‘All those shoulder pads.’
‘Yes, me too, well the re-runs on digital telly,’ I nodded eagerly. Our eyes met and we smiled. For the rest of dinner, Ben’s mother and I chatted about our favourite Alexis Colby schemes. By dessert we were the best of friends.
‘I need to speak to you about something, Ben,’ said Vince. They went to the library. Uncle Jack and Mr Brannigan disappeared, and Mrs Brannigan went to powder her nose. I was left alone, the pleasure of chatting to Mrs Brannigan fading as I realised I’d been abandoned.
I wandered around the drawing room, imagining myself as some Jane Austen heroine, ‘taking a turn’. When that got boring, I slipped out into the hallway and went in search of the library, sure that Ben and Vince would be finished. As I grew nearer I could hear raised voices. One raised voice actually. Uncle Jack’s.
‘You can’t possibly marry that girl, Ben! It’s time to face up to facts. She won’t make you happy.’
Feeling like I’d been slapped, I ran out into the garden. How dare he decide what was best for Ben? The sanctimonious git! I sat outside for half an hour, not wanting to return to the house.
‘Charity?’ It was Mrs Brannigan. She found me sitting in an arbour at the bottom of the garden, looking back up towards the house. It really was beautiful. ‘Are you alright, dear?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. I think I’d like to go to bed now if that’s okay with you. It’s been a long day.’
‘Of course, I’ll show you to your room.’ She took my arm, seeming to realise I was upset. ‘I’m sorry we all left you to your own devices. Ben and his uncle had things to discuss.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said tightly.
‘You were a bit of a surprise to us, actually.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘But you’re a nice girl, I can tell.’ I didn’t know about that, but didn’t want to disillusion her. We carried on into the house and up the stairs.
‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’ And she was. So much so that I felt like crying. ‘Erm, Mrs Brannigan. Which is Ben’s bedroom? Just out of interest.’
She pointed to the door next to mine, smiling, but quite sadly.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything,’ I said. ‘I respect your house rules.’
‘Actually, Charity, it was Ben’s idea for you to have separate rooms. We’re not that stuffy, honestly.’
She left me at my door and went off to find her husband, whom we could hear singing sea shanties in the kitchen. I liked them. And what she’d said was true. They weren’t nearly as stuffy as I thought when I first arrived. But Uncle Jack. He was another matter.
Drastic action was called for. I had to convince Ben that he and I were meant for each other, but to be honest, as I took the pair of fluffy handcuffs out of my suitcase, I was beginning to wonder. He’d practically ignored me all night, huddled away with Vince. His uncle had swayed him far too easily for my liking. I decided I’d just show him what he’d be missing, then dump him.
I waited till I heard everyone come to bed, then I went downstairs to the kitchen and found a Muller Fruit Corner in the fridge. Cherry. My favourite. I crept back upstairs -yoghurt and handcuffs all ready – and went into Ben’s room.
He was lying with his back to the door, but he’d kicked off his blankets, wearing just apair of boxers. The body I’d been longing to see and touch was mine for the taking. I slipped out of my clothes and tiptoed to the bed. Taking one of his hands, I clipped a handcuff around his wrist. He didn’t even wake up, so I rolled him gently onto his back and, throwing the yoghurt onto the bedside table, set about attaching the other cuff to the bedpost. My bare breast brushed his mouth as I stretched over him, sending a spasm of pleasure through my body. I heard him mumble ‘Oh, dear God.’
I closed my eyes, then found his mouth, thrusting my tongue between his lips. He kissed me back, bringing his own tongue up to meet mine. I trailed kisses down his chest, gently biting into one of his nipples, then downwards, to where his erection burst out of his boxers. I slid them down and took his penis in my mouth, completely forgetting I’d brought the yoghurt. I preferred natural, lapping up the salt taste. He groaned again, pushing my head against his cock with his free hand. My own centre throbbed and it was all I could do not to thrust straight down onto him. I wanted him – and me – to savour the moment.
I stopped and whispered, ‘You’re in my power. You have to do whatever I say.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice husky. ‘Yes. Whatever you say.’
Moving back up the bed, I sat with my knees either side of his face, the bristles on his cheek tingling my inner thigh.
‘Lick my pussy.’ His tongue darted upwards, finding my clit, swirling, probing. His hand, straining from the handcuff grasped my breast, pinching my nipples between his fingers, while his tongue drove me to madness. It was all I could do not to scream out as my groin pulsated to an early orgasm. He lapped that up hungrily, his tongue pressing against my throbbing clit, prolonging the pleasure beyond all reasonable bounds.
I needed to kiss him, to taste myself on his mouth. ‘Tell me you want me,’ I demanded, my lips pressed against his.
‘I want you.’
I slid my body down his torso, leaving a damp trail on his chest and belly, and eased myself down onto his prick. We rocked together, slowly at first, building the intensity until our bodies crashed together in a beautiful porn action. I cried out as he filled me to completion, bucking against his thrusting hips. I came again, but he didn’t.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Give it to me.’ He was holding back, I could tell. I rucked him harder, forcing him to submission, finally feeling him cumming into me.
That was when I opened my eyes, because I wanted to see the pleasure on his face. He was barely visible by the light from the moon, shining through the window, but it most certainly wasn’t Ben.
‘Jack!’ I jumped off him as though I’d been stung. He groaned, more in pain than ecstasy, clearly not expecting sudden movement. I couldn’t bring myself to call him Uncle Jack. Not then. ‘Oh my God! Why didn’t you say anything? You…you rapist!’
‘Excuse me, Charity, but you’re the one who came into my bedroom and handcuffed me to the bed, then gave me a blowjob. At least that’s how the pohce would see it.’ There was amusement in his voice, alongside the happy exhaustion of his orgasm.
‘You can’t go the pohce. Oh God, I’m in such trouble.’ I threw on my nightie. ‘But you’re not Ben and you let me think you were.’ I remembered my earlier anger. ‘Oh I get it. I’m all right for a quick fuck for you, to ease your celibacy for a while, but not good enough for your nephew. The Pope will probably send a hit squad to kill me for defrocking one of their priests. I’d better go quickly. Tonight.’
‘Do you think you could undo the handcuffs first?’
I blushed. I was also off my guard, because I didn’t see what was coming next. As soon as I’d detached the cuffs from the bedpost he snatched the key from my hand and clipped one cuff around my wrist, leaving us bound together.
‘What are you doing? Let me go or I’ll scream.’ It was an empty threat. I’d have been too embarrassed for anyone to find us.
‘Let’s talk,’ he said. I must admit to being disappointed. I thought he was going to pin me to the bed and ravish me. I’d have said no, of course. Except the memory of his probing tongue wouldn’t go away, so maybe I wouldn’t have.
He pulled the blankets up over us. He lay on his side, I sat up until I realised that was too uncomfortable, with the handcuffs. So I reluctantly lay next to him.
‘About what?’
‘About you and Ben.’
‘Yes, I know. You don’t think I’m good enough. I heard you.’
‘No, I said you weren’t right for him.’
‘It’s the same thing. And now, well, you probably think I’mevenmore of aslut.’
‘What I think about you is not up for discussion at the moment. Though I do believe that you’re a good girl who only tries very hard to be bad. You want marriage, kids, the whole kit and caboodle.’ I hated him for understanding me so well. Hated him, but desperately wanted him to kiss me again. ‘But Ben is never going to give that to you.’
‘No, because you won’t let him.’
‘I have my reasons. Actually, now I have different reasons, but we’ll discuss those later. Ben is gay, Charity. He and Vince are in love.’
I was going to argue with him, but what he said made sense in too many ways.
‘So now what are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘Me? I’m going to open that yoghurt, smear it all over your body then lick it off.’
‘Well if you insist,’ I said.
The following morning we watched Ben and Vince ride off into the sunset together. Well, it was raining and they were in Ben’s car, but you get the idea. Ben’s parents had left some time earlier, so it was just Jack and me.
‘What about us?’ I asked. He stood behind me, with his arms around my waist, making me feel very safe and protected. ‘You’ll be unfrocked and the Pope will send out a hit squad forme.’
‘The word is defrocked. The Pope doesn’t care what I do.’ I felt his mouth on my neck. ‘I’m Church of England. Now, let’s go and see if we can find any more yoghurt in the fridge.’

I can see him out there, working. In his T-shirt and tight jeans, laying bricks, one on top of the other, on the wall of that new house being built right next to ours. His hair is flopping over his forehead. His short-sleeved T-shirt is as tight as his blue jeans, emphasizing the rippling of his muscles every time he moves. So graceful, yet so masculine; occasionally looking in this direction, expecting to see me looking out, as I’m doing right now. I’m shameless, I suppose, though also absolutely helpless. Having visions of him finally getting the message and coming over here to open the back door, slip inside, and then…

Oh, dear, what am I thinking?

God, yes, it’s so hot. My clothes are sticking to my skin. I can feel my blouse clinging to my breasts, exciting the nipples. My husband, John, is out front, inspecting his garden, a Sunday-morning ritual, whiling away a few minutes until it’s time to leave. But I’m not looking at John. I’m looking at that other man, the real man. The sweat trickles between my breasts, my nipples harden and tingle, when he moves and I see his muscles rippling. That shortsleeved T-shirt, those tight blue jeans, the impressive bulge at the crotch…

No, this is ridiculous. It’s pathetic and disgusting. A woman like me shouldn’t be thinking of such things. Particularly since that young man’s half my age. Though almost certainly more experienced. Looking like that, he would have to be. He’s probably had more women than I’ve had hot breakfasts. He probably knows things that I can’t even imagine, given John’s vocation and sexual inhibitions, our lack of electricity in bed.

Am I just frustrated at the thought of what I might be missing? Is that why I’ve been watching that young man for the past two weeks, ever since that construction team turned up on the plot next door? Is that why I’ve found myself pondering what it would be like if he sensed what I was thinking and decided to take his chances, walk over here, open the kitchen door and march in, to…?

No. It’s perfectly ridiculous. I’m standing here, slightly stunned by the heat, feeling languorous, dreamily sensual, having all sorts of crazy thoughts, these perverted sexual fantasies. I should be ashamed of myself. A woman in my position. And the thought that he might look over, see me looking at him, and decide to do something about it, is clearly preposterous. It’s just not going to happen.

Oh, God, I’m wrong! He’s obviously seen me standing here, looking at him, as I’ve been doing every day for the past fortnight. But this time, having seen me, he’s smiling and putting down his trowel. Yes, he’s definitely seen me. Now he’s hitching up his jeans, emphasizing his bulging manhood, letting his hand slide across it, drawing attention to it, grinning crookedly as he stares directly at me, letting me know that he knows what I want.

Or am I simply imagining this?

No, I’m not He’s left the building site and is strolling casually towards me, grinning, heading deliberately, at a leisurely pace, for the door of my kitchen, at the rear of the house.

Oh, God, what have I done?

John’s still out front, still tending to his stupid garden, but he could walk in any moment… Walk in just as that young man opens the unlocked back door to…

Lord, what am I thinking? It must be the summer heat, this almost foreign humidity, making me feel all sensual and dreamy, encouraging these licentious, dirty thoughts, this debased wishful thinking.

Yes, that explains it. I’m a middle-aged, childless housewife, a decent, Christian woman, not particularly attractive, but I often find myself wanting to be someone else, a woman who has wild sexual experiences and suffers no guilt. Then I see that young man, so physical, so handsome, like the young Marlon Brando in his T-shirt and jeans, confident in his amoral, animalistic sexuality, and I imagine what it would be like to do it with him: to briefly feel like a younger, more desirable woman. So, yes, there’s a lot of wishful thinking. That’s what we have here.

But, oh God, it’s more than that. It must be more than wishful thinking. Because that young man’s actually opening the back door. I’m frightened that he will, but equally frightened that he won’t, concerned that he might change his mind and go back to the laying of bricks, leaving me here, still frustrated. Yet mostly, I’ll admit, I’m frightened…surely with good cause.

My husband is outside, at the front of the house, tending his garden, and this young man is about to come in and… Oh, God, I can’t bear this. I should stop him, but I can’t. The heat has rendered me helpless. I’m drowsy. Too hot. My clothes are sticking to my breasts, exciting my stiffening nipples as he steps inside. Suddenly, there he is, silhouetted in the doorway, tall and broad, long legs outspread, sweat trickling over the muscles in his arms – pure maleness rampant. He stares steadily at me, looking me up and down, not saying a word, then, satisfied that he’s doing the right thing, he grins and steps all the way in, closing the door quietly behind him, shutting out the bright sunlight.

So there he stands, in my neat country kitchen, surrounded by pots and pans, looking out of place in his working man’s clothing. With his short-sleeved white Tshirt and tight blue jeans, muscles rippling, crotch emphasised, he looks just like the young Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. Like free porn incarnate.

My heart starts racing. I can hardly breathe. When I open my lips to say something, perhaps ask him to leave, he places his index finger to his lips – those thick, slightly brutal, sensual lips that I’ve thought about, dreamt about, for the past two weeks.

‘Don’t say a word, lady,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I know just what you want.’ I don’t say a word.

He walks across the kitchen and then stops right in front of me. He has a crooked grin, like the young Marlon Brando’s grin, and his lips, like Marlon’s lips, are full, almost feminine, making me wet between the legs at the very thought of what they might do to me. He doesn’t say a word. He just holds that challenging grin. Then he slowly slides his hand around the back of my neck, takes hold of my hair, jerks my head back, looks me straight in the eyes, grinning, calmly taking my measure, then mashes his lips down on mine.

I feel his tongue in my mouth, licking my teeth and gums, filling my mouth with saliva, as he kisses me, passionately, almost brutally. Then I helplessly, shamelessly, respond in kind, kissing him back, pressing myself into him, writhing in his embrace, rubbing my burning belly against his groin, his hot, masculine hardness. His hand leaves my head, moving down to my spine, the fingers outspread, his strong arm locked around me. His other hand, his free hand, is cupping my rear, squeezing my buttocks, fingering the asshole crack. And as my legs start to tremble, threatening to give way beneath me, he pulls me tighter to him, grinding his hips, deliberately letting me feel his hard…thing…pressing into my belly.

‘Do you like that?’ he whispers, removing his lips from mine, leaning his head back to look at me, his gaze steady and mocking. ‘No,’ he adds before I can answer. ‘You don’t have to reply. I can see by the look on your face that it’s what you’ve been wanting.’ He grins as he says it, pulling me even tighter to him, then he slowly moves his hips from left to right, rubbing his belly against mine, letting me feel his heat and hardness, as he strokes and squeezes my buttocks, still fingering the crack, where, in truth, to my eternal shame, I’ve never been touched before.

I’m so excited, I can hardly breathe. My heart’s racing and I’m trembling all over, too weak to resist, filled with a desire that’s only increased by my dread of being caught. John is out front, still tending his stupid garden, but he could walk in any moment and see us like this. The very thought of it, though terrifying, is also exciting. Yes, come in, I find myself thinking. Catch me in the act, John, darling. It might do you some good. But I automatically push the young man away from me, offering token resistance despite what I’m feeling.

‘Get out of here,’ I say without conviction.

‘You want me to leave?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘right now.’

‘No,’ he says, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I think so.’

‘No, you don’t.’

Grinning, he slides his hand around my neck, gently stroking and pressing, then lets his fingers trail down the front of my throat, to the swelling of my bosom, then under the open collar of my blouse. He cups my breast in his hand, squeezes it, kneads the nipple, sending waves of excitement quivering through me. Then he unbuttons the blouse with his other hand, slides it down my arms as if peeling a banana, and lets it fall to the floor. ‘Nice tits,’ he says. Then he lowers his head to kiss each breast in turn, while I tremble, eyes closing, becoming senseless with desire, aware only of his lips on my skin, his hands sliding down my spine, the heat and hardness of his…thing…as he presses his belly against mine, his hips moving languorously. ‘Mmmm,’ he murmurs. ‘Nice.’

‘Yes,’ I gasp. ‘Oh, yes!’ Encouraged, he unclips my bra, lets it fall to the floor, to join the discarded blouse, then bends down to kiss and lick my naked breasts, sucking on one nipple, then the other, as if preparing to eat them. My breasts come alive, the nipples almost on fire, waves of heat radiating out from them, to travel up to my bone-dry throat and then down to my belly.

That fire spreads below, making my pussy wet and receptive, excited beyond control, with everything inside me crying out to be penetrated and filled, ravished and consumed. I want to feel his throbbing hardness, his – Oh, say it…his dick – inside me. Nothing else matters. With a shock of disbelief, I slide my hands around him, fingers outspread, to stroke his sweat-slicked spine, dig my nails into his skin, squeeze his firm, though quivering, buttocks, pulling him into me with greedy desperation, wanting to feel the rapid growth of his cock beneath his zipped-up blue jeans.

Now his cock feels as hard as a steel rod and I’m helplessly groaning. ‘Yeah, baby,’ he whispers. Just like Marlon in A Streetcar Named Desire. God help me, I’m dying here. Lord, yes…desire. I’m consumed by desire. I’m reaching down to feel his cock, wanting to cup it in my hand, to squeeze it and feel it pulsating. And when I do, when I feel it, a real cock in my real hand, even though it’s still covered with the coarse material of the blue jeans, it feels like a small, hot-blooded animal.

‘Try this for size,’ he says. Before I can unzip him, he pushes me backwards, down onto the kitchen table, causing cups and plates to rattle, then he tugs my dress up over my hips and gropes between my spreading, slippery thighs. He strokes and squeezes me there, pressing down on my pubes with the palm of his hand, rubbing his hand to and fro, massaging me, driving me crazy, then he slips a finger under my knickers and dips it into my wet pussy. That’s one of those words that John would never let me utter. Another word like ‘cock’. He’d never let me use words that might have made us excited. Crude words. Sexy words. Words deemed to be erotic or pornographic. So I could never say… Fuck! I could never say fuck. And of course I could never use the word… Cunt!

Lord Almighty, I’ve finally done it – described my cunt as a ‘cunt’. And, even sweeter, young Marlon, my nameless stud who looks like Brando, is moving his finger in and out of my wet cunt, first a finger, then a thumb, to make me writhe and moan, a slave to whatever he might desire. Then he takes hold of my clit and plays with it while I gasp and groan helplessly.

‘God, yes, fuck me!’ I cry out. ‘In my cunt! Fill my cunt with your cock!’ He rips my knickers off, unzips himself, takes out his cock, hard, engorged and pulsing, then puts the tip of it to me – down there, where I’m wet, warm and soft – making me open out like one of John’s flowers, offering honey to the bee. Then I feel his cock moving up inside me, in my cunt, and he’s fucking me. Yes, he’s fucking me. I can use that word at last. And just using it excites me all the more, encouraging me to raise my hips up off the table, opening my legs farther, my feet meeting on the blade of his curved spine, locking him to me. ‘Don’t stop, Marlon,’ I moan, forgetting who he is, imagining for a moment that he’s actually the real item. ‘God, just do it to me. Do what you want to me. Anything!

Any way! Just do it and do it really quick, before my husband comes in. Do anything you want, show me everything you know, and don’t stop until you hear the front door opening. Oh, Christ, oh my Lord, oh my master, I’m all yours for the taking. Fuck me blind. Fuck me rigid. God, I want you, I need you, I love you. Anything you want.

Anything!’

He’s thrusting in and out, first violently, then more slowly, in deep, languid motions, moving this way, then that, touching me here and there, filling up my insides in a way that I haven’t known before…because John is so useless. Ah, God, that’s beautiful. Ah, Jesus, give me more. Belly slapping on belly, groin to groin, as he squeezes my tits, bites my neck and puts his tongue in my mouth. Just keep doing it, don’t stop, keep going for now and all time, till death do us part.

What…?

God, no! He’s pulling out. Straightening up to look down at me. He’s grinning and letting me see what he’s got and it’s something to see. I’ve never seen a real cock close up like this before. I mean, I’ve never looked at John’s. When we do it, we’re always under the blankets and John does it furtively. Him and his damned religion. His puritan thinking. Pretending he’s not really doing it, even when he’s hard at it, though in his inexperienced, woefully inept way, held back by his many inhibitions.

No such inhibitions with Marlon. He’s looking down at me, grinning, as he curls his fingers around his cock, pumps it gently, teasing me, then leans forward to put his hand

behind my head and tug me upright. I slide off the table, onto my knees, and there it is right in front of me. He’s still holding it, thrusting it at my lips, letting me know what he wants. I’ve never done blowjob (it would shock John if I tried) but right now I want to make a meal of it and so I open my lips. I’m taking it in, sucking it, licking it, trying to swallow it, and he’s holding my head with his free hand to ease it backwards and forwards. It’s so thick and smooth, so hot and hard. I feel its tip at the back of my throat and almost swoon from the feeling.

‘Yes, baby,’ he drawls, withdrawing, ‘that was nice. Now let’s try it this way.’

He slides his hands over my shoulders and down to my breasts. After squeezing my tits, he cups his hands under my armpits and raises me off my knees. When I’m standing upright, breathing heavily, feeling dizzy, wet as a swamp down below, he flips me over to press me face down on the table.

I spread my hands out to grip the sides of the table, my feet on the floor, my ass in the air. I think he wants to enter me from the rear, but he needs to prepare me. ‘Where’s the butter?’ he asks.

Instantly, I think of Marlon Brando again. This time the mature Brando of Last Tango in Paris. The infamous butter scene. Marlon and Maria, one on top of the other, him slipping his buttery finger in before penetrating her with the real thing, though still wearing his pants. God, no, I can’t! It’s too awful to contemplate! On the other hand…

How will one learn if one doesn’t experiment? I mean, John would never attempt it. He might secretly think about it, licking his puritan lips, but I doubt that he’d have the nerve to try it. Poor John, so religious, so inhibited, that neither of us has ever had a good time between the sheets, never mind stretched out on the kitchen table, as I am right now.

‘The butter’s in the jar behind my head,’ I hear myself whispering. ‘But I don’t think…’

‘Be quiet,’ he says. As he stretches out over my spine, trying to reach the butter-jar, the tip of his cock slides along my ass cheeks as if trying to get in before its time. It’s hot. It’s hard. My buttocks twitch in response. I hear the butter-jar rattling, feel his chest on my shoulder-blades, then he straightens up again, breathing heavily, until he’s standing behind me. I close my eyes and clench my teeth and hear a groaning that can only come from me. He pushes into me, slow and hard, and at first it feels too tight, but then, as I shiver with pain and pleasure, he pushes in all the way.

My thoughts scatter and spin. Oh, God, this can’t be true. I can’t really be doing this. I’ve often thought about it, wondering what it would be like, but it’s not the kind of thing that a decent, Christian woman dwells upon. I think I’m going to die. Now I’m nothing but sensation. I turn my face to the side and look out through the front window to see John bending over some flowers, sniffing them lovingly. He loves those flowers, I’m convinced, even more than he loves me. He loves me in his own way, but doesn’t know how to please me, because he wouldn’t want to believe what it is that I truly need. He’s a Christian, a puritan, and that makes him strictly limited. I’m deprived because he thinks it would be depraved to do what I dream about.

God, he’s just turned to look back at the front door. He can’t come in now! Yet the fear of that thought only makes me more excited so I clutch the sides of the table even tighter, groaning with delight.

‘Don’t stop now!’ I cry out.

Thank God, he doesn’t stop. He just moves ever faster, thrusting ever more violently, breathing harshly and grunting like an ape having a romp in the jungle. I’m feeling really horny now. Like an animal in heat. I couldn’t stop him now if I tried, but I’ve no intention of trying. He’s standing right behind me, thrusting in and out, a stallion. Leaning forward, he runs his fingers through my hair, then slips his thumb between my lips and starts moving it in and out, just like his cock in my cunt, making me feel that I’m sucking a cock. Instantly, I have visions of two men at me at the same time, one behind me, the other in front, and as his thumb moves in and out, as I hungrily lick and suck, imagining the thumb to be bigger and harder than it actually is, he continues to attack my rear passage with the real thing. He’s reducing me to a pulp, protoplasm, pure sensation, turning me into an animal that knows nothing but physical need, wanting only to satisfy its base instincts, wallowing in the mud.

‘Yes!’ I beg. ‘Yes!’

Then I see John again. He’s wiping dirt from his hands as he glances at the house. That means he’s about to come back in and tell me it’s time for us to leave. The very thought of it fills me with panic and the panic excites me more.

‘Don’t stop!’ I cry out in desperation. ‘Oh, God, don’t stop now!’

He doesn’t stop. Instead, he pulls out of my rear passage and flips me onto my back, preparing to slip into me that way. But he doesn’t get the chance. I’m now awash in my own juices. When I see him standing there, his huge cock thrusting arrogantly out of his unzipped jeans, I simply have to taste it again. So I slide off the table and fall onto my knees to slip my lips over his rigid tool and start gobbling frantically.

‘Oh, boy,’ he says, ‘that’s your husband out there. And I think he’s about to come back in. Christ, I’ve got to get out of here!’

‘Not yet!’ I cry, releasing his cock from my mouth, then I stand up and fall back onto the table, spreading my legs. ‘Oh, please God, just finish it!’ As I frantically reach up to pull him down upon me, the fear of being caught by my husband lances through me, making it all the more exciting. Young Marlon falls upon me, all muscle and bone. He’s biting my neck and his tongue is in my mouth and then I’m licking his ears, nose and throat as my legs lock around his rocking hips and my feet drum frantically on his buttocks. His belly smacks on my belly, his cock fills me up again. We move together, one on top of the other, my groin rising to meet his groin as he presses down upon me and pushes brutally into me. I’m sobbing and groaning, whispering, ‘Fuck me! Don’t stop!’ as my husband, that dear man, that innocent buffoon, commences the short walk to the front door, about to enter the house

‘Now!’ I shriek. ‘Come now!

Marlon comes like Niagara Falls, like a dam breaking loose, and I come at the same time, spasm piling on spasm, everything pouring out as it’s never done before, satisfying me for the first time in my life. A sexual Nirvana, heavensent, a dream come true. And we both shudder convulsively and collapse into each other. And I’m just returning to earth, getting my senses back, when I hear the front door opening and realise that John, my dear husband, is entering the house.

Luckily, he’s entering through the front door, two rooms away from here. Marlon pulls out on the instant, tucks his wilting cock back in, whispers, ‘You’re terrific,’ zips himself up as he hurries to the back door. I roll off the table, sexually satisfied, feeling terrific, depraved on account of being deprived throughout the long years of marriage. Marlon leaves by the back door. I adjust my rumpled clothing. I quickly comb my hair and touch up my lipstick (always modestly, respectably, applied), then rearrange the crockery on the table, until everything looks normal again. Which, of course, it is. Because none of that happened. It’s only what I wanted to happen. What I often desperately wish and dream might happen. I’m looking through the back window and can see that young man out there, a vision of pure masculinity in his Tshirt and blue jeans. He’s certainly not Marlon Brando. In fact, he looks quite ordinary as he lazily lays the bricks of that new house. He looks common, a bit of rough trade, but that’s what makes him sexy.

John has just made his way from the living room, through the dining room, and is now standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling lovingly at me. He has a kind face, but he’s prematurely bald, has a burgeoning pot belly, and wears a black suit and clerical collar. He’s the one who’ll be giving the sermon and it’s rarely exciting.

‘Time for church, dear,’ he says. ‘I’ll just fix my hair and put on my hat,’ I reply. ‘I’ll meet you outside, darling.’

‘Excellent,’ he says.

When he leaves the kitchen, I look through the back window and see young Marlon Brando out there, laying brick upon brick in the rising heat. He knows I’m watching him. He sometimes smiles in my direction. Some day, if I get up the nerve, I just might invite him in for a drink – a glass of lemonade or a cup of tea, maybe something stronger. And if I ever get up the nerve to do that, who knows what might happen?

But right now, alas, I have to pin up my hair, cover it with my broad, respectable hat, then put my arm through the arm of my dear husband, so loving, so boring, and let him

walk me to church, this sunny Sunday morning. I’m a decent, Christian woman, after all, and we’re the kind who have to keep up appearances. All the rest is a daydream.

I’d like to blame it on the wine but I’m not much of a liar. I will chalk it up to a really good sweaty romp and then a rather erotic porn thriller. The movie got me going all over again but by the time the good parts were over, it was time for Steven to go to bed.

‘Good night, love.’ He ruffled my short blonde hair and gave me a long lingering kiss. ‘We need to do that again tomorrow but for now I’m off to bed. Early morning.’

And he was gone and I was horny. Again. I finished my wine, flipped through a magazine, and read a sex survey. That didn’t help. Basically, I stewed in my own juices, so to speak.

I was just about to give up. Throw in the towel. When it hit me. Again, maybe the wine, maybe the thriller, maybe the fuck. I really don’t know what did it. I didn’t care. I grabbed the pad of sticky notes from the desk and began writing furiously. When I went to bed, it was stuck to the coffee pot. My little love note for Steven. What do you want? Your wildest fantasy (or fantasies). Anything you want. Spill!

Love,

Loren

I had forgotten the note in the morning. It was Saturday so I lingered in bed. I was sad, I’ll admit, that Steven had to go to work. His side of the bed, cold and unoccupied was enough to make me want to call him and tell him to come home. Come home and fuck your woman. In my mind’s eye I could see myself dialing my cell. I could hear myself making this giggling but authoritative command. He had to work, though, and I was fine with that. I was just lonely. I ran my hands over my soft negligee. Felt my nipples turn to hard pink pearls under my fingers. My pussy went soft and wet and I let out a sigh. Somehow, as horny as I was, the thought of rubbing one off alone in bed was disappointing. I would go downstairs and make some coffee and wait until Steve got home. Then I would attack him like a horny mountain lion.

I was still laughing at the thought of a hormone-induced attack on my studly guy when I wandered into the kitchen. There it was. Hot pink. Innocent to look at. A sticky note for me.

TO SEE YOU WITH ANOTHER WOMAN. NO TOUCHING FOR ME. JUST WATCHING.

LOVE,

STEVE

Somehow the sight of his answer, boldly printed all in caps, did me in. I did it right there. Clutching at the pantry door, fingers working furiously and wetly under my nighty. It only took a few minutes. My fingers diving greedily into my humid wet cunt, my thumb rubbing roughly but expertly over my clit. I stared at the words as I came in one long, delicious spasm. Little animal sounds rushed out of my throat and I collapsed on the cold linoleum in a glowing, warm heap. I needed to leave him notes more often. My fingers still tacky and shaking, my knees still knocking, I claimed the hot pink square and stuck it firmly in my day planner. I made my coffee, enjoyed my afterglow and mentally calculated how many hours I had to wait for him to get home.

‘I’m home!’ Steven’s face lit with a tired but happy grin.

‘Thank God! Oooph’

The last part was my fault. I launched myself at him like a lusty groupie and kissed him long and hard. I pushed my tongue past his soft lips and tangled it with his. I plundered that hot sensuous mouth and pushed my wet pussy against his belt buckle, my legs tightly clamped around his lean middle.

‘Did you miss me?’ he laughed as I slid my tongue down his neck, nuzzling him at the base where his cologne seems to settle. A nice warm, manly scent that hovers in the hollow of his throat.

His big hands palmed my sexy ass and he groaned. Shifting me a little lower so my crotch was level with his, I could feel the growing bulge of his awakening big cock.

‘I liked your note,’ I sighed and pushed myself against his hard-on. Shameless hussy. That’s me.

‘I can tell.’

‘Come on, come on, come on,’ I was practically barking as I set my feet on the cold floor and pulled him toward the sofa. ‘Off with the jeans! Off with the shirt!’ I directed, stripping my leggings and sweatshirt off. ‘As long as you don’t say, ‘Off with his head!’,’ he chuckled. But he obeyed. He soon stood before me completely naked, his beautiful cock a blushing purple and standing straight up toward his flat belly.

‘On the sofa!’ I could hear my demanding tone but couldn’t seem to control it. I was in a fog. A thick fog of lust and need. I always wanted Steven, but right now I needed him. My body thumped with a pulse of arousal and craving. I need him. Hard dick. Hot cunt. His. In mine. Now. I straddled him, the soft green sofa cushions engulfing my knees. Without preamble I sank down onto his dick, sighing with what sounded like relief to my own ears. Within three desperate strokes, my thighs were soaked from my own juices from my pussy.

‘Correspondence is inspiring,’ Steven muttered as his eyes rolled back in his head. He looked like he was in pain. ‘Am I hurting you?’ I grunted. It was all I could manage.

I admit, though, I didn’t slow my frenzied pace for even a moment.

‘Fuck no!’ He grabbed my hips as if for emphasis. Big fingers digging into my soft, flushed skin and propelling me faster with his strong hands. His hips pumped up as he drove into me.

‘Best note ever…’ I mumbled as my cunt seized up, gripped him greedily and then fluttered around him as my orgasm roared through all of me. Even the roots of my hair tingled and I swore I heard myself cry out, ‘Evvvvvver…!’ Steven yanked me against him and I felt him pump into me. Hot wet come. Filling me. For the first time ever I really felt it, the incredibly warm emptying of his body into mine.

I collapsed, exhausted and panting onto his chest; our breathing creating a nice little cha-cha number. ‘Sorry about the ninja attack,’ I giggled but my wet insides still fluttered and pulsed around his deflating cock. It would work for every last flicker of pleasure, it seemed. ‘Loren, you can go ninja on my ass any day of the week.’ And then he kissed me.

Steven went to bed early that night. I think I wore him out. I weighed the pros and cons and then my mind flashed to that first seductive moment of my body engulfing his and

my mind was made up. Before I locked up for the night, I grabbed my faithful sticky notes and wrote another. I was humming merrily as I shut off the kitchen light. I could see its little square shadow as I left. I smiled, knowing what it said.

What else! I’m begging. Hands and knees. Tell me.

Love,

Loren

I climbed into bed, snuggled up against a loudly snoring hunk of man and drifted off to sleep. Somehow I couldn’t wipe the goofy grin off my face even as I slipped into dreamland. Sunday morning didn’t so much break in as creep in. Gray, murky light filled the bedroom. Another overcast February morning. I stretched and yawned loudly. My hands found the cool empty spot on the sheets where Steven should be. A momentary blip of sadness skittered across my internal radar screen and I sighed. Then I remembered the sticky note I had left and I tore down to the kitchen. I didn’t even bother to put on slippers or a robe. I didn’t care if I froze. I wanted to see my note. My bare feet slapped the cold linoleum as I ran to the coffee pot. There it was! I was so excited. My belly did a flip and my nipples grew hard. I claimed my hot pink prize and read.

I WANT TO FUCK YOU IN PUBLIC. MAYBE THE DARK SMOKY CORNER OF THE CLUB. UP AGAINST THE WALL. HANDS UNDER YOUR DRESS. YOUR LEG WRAPPED AROUND MY WAIST…

LOVE,

STEVE

Oooooh. I caught my breath, sank into a kitchen chair and once again settled in for some self-abuse. My fingers made quick work of my swollen clit. Two fingers plunged into my flooded pussy as an accompanying finger played a rousing number of God-I-am-turned-on on my clit. I stared at the words, read the sentence over and over until my insides were so tight it was nearly painful. Then I focused on my favorite sentence: MY HANDS UNDER YOUR DRESS.

These were his hands under my nightgown. Steven’s hands. Under there. For all to see…

The orgasm left me bedraggled and flushed. A stupid smile on my face. I drank my coffee, puttered and counted the minutes. When he came through the door I was waiting for him. Only this time he was prepared. I wasn’t very creative, I’ll admit. I once again did my animalistic pounce the moment he shut the front door. Only this time, he promptly dropped his briefcase and held his hands out. At least I wasn’t afraid I’d hurt him this time. ‘You’re wearing a dress!’ he exclaimed around my wandering, plundering tongue. He kissed me back and laughed against my lips. ‘Yes, yes!’ I hissed, ‘Now put your hands under it.’ ‘Ah, our missives have done a number on you again.’ His tone was teasing but his hands were big and warm as they slid under my short dress. Goosebumps and baby hairs along my spine sprang to attention and my pussy did that persistent little thump, thump, thump! that signals impending orgasm. Dear Lord! He hadn’t even touched me yet.

I didn’t stop to ask what a missive was. I simply wrapped my legs around his waist and shoved my pelvis against his. I ground against the erection I found there, refraining from whooping in joy. Barely. ‘Sofa, sofa, sofa!’ I took up the chant as my brain seemed to short- circuit. There it was again. An overwhelming need. Urge. Compulsion. I had to have him in me and it had to be now. Steven complied. Smart man. This time there was no upper hand for me. The moment we hit the sofa, Steven flipped me on my back and pinned my arms above my head. His other hand slid and groped and pushed its way greedily under my dress. His breath beat warmly against my throat as he practically panted.

‘Good Lord, what has gotten into us?’ he growled. Steven didn’t stop for an answer. My two thin wrists held tightly in his strong hand, he slid down my body and buried his face in my pussy. Like a crazy man he snuffled and licked and ate at me until I was making little whoop, whoop sounds. What the hell was that? Didn’t know, didn’t care. I let my thighs fall open and he burrowed deeper, shoving the rigid tip of his tongue into my tight, wet entrance. I clamped my knees around his head as his perfect lips worked their way back up to my clitoris. I came so hard, I feared I’d given him a head injury. But he was fine, forcing his way between my legs roughly. His cock was hard and already leaking a steady stream of pre-come. I licked my lips and he allowed me one good swallow and one good stroke of my tongue over his slit before he whipped it away. He got between my thighs.

‘Fuck.’ That was it. That’s all he said as he slid into me. My cunt, still echoing from my orgasm, latched on and clenched him tightly. Little aftershocks of pleasure lit up my insides.

It felt so good. Unbearably good. I clamped down. I made my pussy as tight as I could until the friction of his thrusts nearly drove me insane. ‘Fuck,’ he said again. A few more frantic pounds and his body went rigid in my arms. I felt his cock swell even larger for just a moment before he jerked against me and came with a long low moan. I joined him. Just watching his face and the power in his body as he came was enough to shove me right over the edge into another orgasm.

After a sweaty moment of tangled laughing, he stared up into my eyes. ‘You’re not drugging me, are you?’ I giggled until I thought I would cry. ‘Nope. No drugs.’ Steven kissed me on the lips, the nose, the forehead. He climbed from me, steadied himself and ran a hand through his thick black hair. ‘Beer? You want a beer? I need a beer. I’ll get us some beers.’ I could only grin as he wandered into the kitchen buck naked and chuckling.

Now I was preoccupied. All I could think about was what might be going on in that handsome head of his. As usual, he went to bed long before me. I sipped a glass of Cabernet and watched a little TV and tried not to think of crisp square pieces of paper that could be stuck to virtually any smooth surface. I cracked. I knew I would. Before bed, I wrote my now normal love note and affixed it in its usual place. My notes had become as intense as my sexual urges.

And!? What else? I need more!

Your slut,

Loren

Monday morning dawned just as bleak. It was even more depressing because my alarm went off at 6:30. A work day. Yippee! I turned it off and stretched, taking a moment to sniff at Steven’s pillow. The warm, familiar scent of him clung to the pillowcase and I felt a stirring of my now everpresent arousal. Then I remembered my note. I barely noticed that it was snowing outside my kitchen window as I yanked my pink prize from the coffee pot.

I WANT TO SHOVE YOU UNDER A VERY ELEGANT TABLE IN A VERY ELEGANT RESTAURANT. PUT MY COCK BETWEEN THOSE PERFECT PINK LIPS AND HAVE YOU BLOW ME UNTIL I BREAK MY WATER GLASS.

YOUR SEX MONKEY,

STEVE

Ah! Just the thought. The wonderful porn taboo thought of doing that in one of the very nice, very posh restaurants we frequented was enough to bring a warm sluice of fluids between my thighs. This was too much. This was not a masturbate in the kitchen note. This called for the big guns. I eyed the clock, calculated my allotted time to get to work. I nearly broke my neck getting up the steps to the bedroom. I opened my middle dresser drawer and rummaged until I found it. Ahhhh. My vibrator. All pretty and pink and smooth and jelly filled and vibrating; at my mercy and very talented. I clutched the note, flipped the ON button and dove onto the bed. No lube needed, I was soaked, I worked it inside myself and let out a blissful sigh as it danced inside of me. I closed my eyes and saw myself in my most elegant black dress, strappy black heels, under the table. Dark and warm. Steven’s naked cock. His hand on the back of my head. Pushing me. Urging me.

Not always gentle. Fucking my mouth. Me under there. In the dark. Warm and cosy and cave-like. Licking up his shaft. His spasm in my mouth. Drinking in his warm milky sperm.

I gave the vibrator a run for its money as I came with a bellow and a long lusty laugh. My heart was beating so hard my eardrums vibrated. I climbed from bed, my body like taffy. Warm and happy. Completely loose. I’ve never been so happy to get ready for work.

The day at work was a treat. I was so content I just didn’t care. I didn’t care that they screwed up my pay-check. I didn’t care that the voice recognition system had made a grievous error in a legal report. It should have read: ‘The client was injured at work while dragging a trash can’. What the system entered was: ‘The client was injured at work by a dragon with a tin can’. This should have been enough to send me into a tailspin. Oddly enough, I found it extremely humorous. The sigh of relief from my assistant was audible.

Even rush hour traffic didn’t bother me. Sitting and inching my way home didn’t set me off like it normally would. Every time I had to sit and wait, I pulled Steven’s sticky note out of my day planner and read it. And got hotter. Hornier. Crazed.

This time he was waiting for me. He grabbed me the moment I shut the door, took my bag and pushed me to my knees. Then, never taking his eyes from mine, he unzipped his khakis, freed his big hard penis and pushed the already engorged head against my lips. I opened for him compliantly and played my tongue over the weeping slit. Then I fell on him as if I were starved. And I was. The taste of his salty warm skin on my tongue was heaven. The hot hard length of his erection, like suede covered marble. So hard and yet so pliant. He tasted like sex and love and man.

I licked my palm several times, plunged his cock back in my mouth and moved my slick fist in tandem. Steven buried his hands in my hair and rocked against me. Moving back on his heels, head tilted back, eyes closed. All harsh breath and rumbling growls deep in his throat. The urgency in his sounds sent a thrilling shiver down my spine and I sucked his dick harder and deeper than ever before. I couldn’t settle for anything less than making him lose control. I loosened my throat and burrowed my nose against his pubic bone. Let him slide all the way home in my throat and I palmed his balls and let my middle finger skim his perineum. That did it.

Steven roared, ‘Loren!’ as he came and just the sound of my name tearing out of him like that soaked my panties. Steven scooped me up and collapsed in the overstuffed arm chair with me on his lap. He kissed me, opening my mouth with his tongue. He kissed me deeply until we both tasted like him and warm wet kisses.

‘Think we’ll ever do any of them?’ I asked, squirming just a little in my wet panties. Steven shifted under me. My squirming had done wonders. I could feel him getting hard already. He acknowledged my observation by pushing his cock against my ass. ‘Well, I’d say just talking about them is keeping us busy at the moment,’ he said with a grin. He pumped his hips up again and I noticed that hardening had turned to hard.

‘I’d like to try them all some day,’ I laughed, squirming just to be evil. ‘But you’re right. Just talking about it is making me a sex addict.’

‘Well, if you’re curious,’ he said, sliding his hand up under my skirt and hooking a finger in my panties, ‘ I have a few more.’ Then he plunged two blunt fingers into my cunt and I shuddered around him. ‘For instance’

I shoved my palm against his lips and pushed my pussy against his hand. Forcing him to probe and push deep inside of me. ‘Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me!’ I sighed, squirming some more. ‘Leave me a note.’