Authors: Violet Blue
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors), #Erotica, #Romance, #Contemporary
Sweet Danger (11 page)
“You really are a deviant one, aren’t you?” He gave a deep chuckle. Richard hung his head in shame. “Oh, but there’s no need to be so embarrassed; we can both see you’ve got a stiffy, Richard.” With that he crouched down on the floor and grabbed at Richard’s belt. He opened the buckle, the button, and zipper in the blink of eye and, yes, Richard did have a stiffy—a major stiffy.
“You are a bad boy, and did you get hard when you had a taste of Suzie?” Richard nodded. “Right, I’m going to have to take care of this. No one said you were allowed to get a hard-on, did they?” He pulled Richard forward so he was kneeling straight up, his pants falling down around his knees. He wasn’t wearing underwear and my eyes roved over him in appreciation. Tom pushed Richard’s head to one side and bent down, his hand measuring the other man’s cock in a hard vigorous fist. God, what a sight! I shot two fingers inside my slit, probing myself while I watched Tom handle Richard’s cock.
With some effort, he pushed the cock harness over Richard’s erection and secured it with the stud fastener around his balls. He was almost entirely covered. I could just see his balls squeezed up inside the circles of leather and the very head of his cock pushing out of its containment. The harness was extremely tight, and I could see the effect it was having on Richard, his whole body growing more rigid by the second, as if he was being gripped in a hard heavy hand, his blood-filled cock bursting for release.
“Get back to work on Suzie, right now.” Tom pushed him back between my thighs. By then I was on the very edge of the chair, my legs spread wide to get more of him. Tom walked behind him and pulled the condom out of his pocket, turning it over in his hands. He looked at me; his green eyes glittered like gemstones. His eyebrows lifted imperceptibly and his mouth was fixed in a devilish smile. He wanted my approval. I whimpered, my head barely nodding, but I really wanted to see him doing it. Tom opened his fly and got out his rock-hard cock. He pumped it in his hands for a moment, his eyes on mine. This was one of my favorite sights; I couldn’t get enough of seeing him with his hands on his cock, and he knew it. He looked down at my chest, growling. I followed his gaze and saw that my nut-hard nipples were jutting up from the edges of my bra, my breasts oozing out of the restraining fabric.
Tom eased the condom on and then knelt down behind Richard. When Richard felt his legs being pushed apart his mouth stopped moving and clamped over my sex. His body was rigid between us, his buttocks on display to Tom, his face pushing in against my sex, his muscled arms bound tightly behind his back. If I rolled my head to one side I could see his harnessed cock.
He remained quite still, his tongue in my hole, when Tom began to probe him from behind. Tom’s face contorted and I felt Richard’s head thrust in against me as he was entered from behind. My hips were moving fast on the chair, moving my desperate sex flesh up and down against the leather mask, his mouth, and the rough edges of the zipper. I couldn’t help it, I was gone on this.
Richard’s cock looked fit to burst. Tom pulled out and ploughed in deeper, his teeth bared with effort and restraint. He must have hit the spot, because Richard’s body tensed and arched, his tongue going soft and limp against my clit. I glanced down and saw his cock riding high and tight in its harness, then it spurted up under his arched body, which was convulsing.
“You made him come,” I cried accusingly, but with delight, and a dark laugh choked in my throat. Tom grinned at me and then jammed into him hard again.
“Suck her good, Richard; I want Suzie to come next.”
Our obedient slave began to tongue me again. I gasped my pleasure aloud for Tom—Tom, my gorgeous lover, watching me. It was just like our sessions of mutual masturbation, but with Richard’s darkest secret filling the void between us; tonight he was the gap across which we watched each other’s deepest pleasures rising up and taking us over.
Tom’s lean body was taut, his hands gripping on to Richard’s hips, the sinuous muscles in his arms turning to rope. His eyes were locked on mine, urging me on as he sent Richard’s tongue lashing my clit again and again with each deep thrust. I began to buck, wildly out of control, shock waves going right through the core of my body and under the skin of my scalp as wave after wave of relief flooded over me, and then Tom threw back his head, roaring his release as his hips jerked repeatedly and he shot his load.
Tom sat across the breakfast bar from me. He sipped the rich black Colombian coffee I had made us, his fingertips running against mine as he eyed me over his cup. He smiled as he put the cup down and lifted my fingers to his lips.
“You looked incredible,” he whispered, kissing my fingertips. It was an extremely intimate moment; he was looking at me with possessiveness and something akin to awe.
“So did you,” I replied and I meant it; I was overwhelmed by my lover. Richard had long since left us, but the images he had given us of each other would be with us for a very long time.
“Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe not. Would it bother you if we did?”
I gave it some thought. I pictured us casually speaking to him in the office, the way we used to, but this time the three of us would be looking at each other and knowing what had gone on. The idea of it made my pulse quicken again.
“No, not in the least.” I liked the idea. I smiled at Tom. Not only had we seen each other anew, but Tom and I had become part of Richard’s secret, part of Richard’s darkest secret.
Performance Art
OSCAR WILLIAMS
You’re so proud of them, and I don’t blame you. They’re lovely, large on your frame but perfectly proportioned. Double-Ds, and all natural, you brag in the online profile you use to scout for potential partners. You’re only five-three, perhaps 110 pounds, so I suspect no one believes you—but I know you’re telling the truth, and calling them double-Ds is, in a way, being conservative. They strain against your bras, stretching the cups, showing curvaceous and enticing through the tight sweaters you wear. You love that men look at them. It’s like you can feel their energy, radiating from their eyes, caressing your tits, unbuttoning your top, unhitching your bra, untying your bikini top, lifting your sweater over your head, revealing them. It’s as if you can feel a man’s gaze undressing you, devouring your tits. When you know a man is checking them out it’s like he’s stroking your nipples with his eyes, whether we’re sitting in a restaurant, lounging on the beach, dancing at a club, or just walking down the street. And you invite it. You encourage it, because you love the attention. You wear revealing tops and go without a bra when you really shouldn’t, relishing the caress of the male gaze over the curves of your full breasts. Women, too; nothing makes you hotter than thinking that another woman, straight, bi, or gay, has just checked out your tits.
You’re all about showing off. You’re a total exhibitionist, and you’ve got the body to indulge yourself. But it’s your tits that really drive people crazy, and that’s why you love them so much. When you see people whispering, wondering if your tits are fake, I know it turns you on even more. People can’t seem to stop obsessing over your incredible tits. No one can believe you were born with the genes to produce such flawless orbs, but you were, and every pair of eyes that caresses them is a chance for you to brag.
And it’s not just that they’re so big and perfect to look at, that they’re so firm that you don’t need a bra, that they defy gravity as surely as if they were bought and paid for in a plastic surgeon’s office but much, much more attractive of shape. Your whole sexuality seems to revolve around your tits. Your nipples get incredibly hard when you’re turned on. Those pink circles are so sensitive that I sometimes make you come just by pinching them, growling at you to spread your legs wider so you can’t rub your thighs together. Sometimes it takes hours. Sometimes you don’t come at all, but just having your nipples played with drives you crazy. If you aren’t able to come just from having them rubbed and pinched, not being allowed to touch your clit, then invariably by the time I tire of our little game you’re tottering right on the edge. The first stroke of my cock into your sopping-wet pussy brings you off, making you moan and buck and thrust with orgasm.
Other times, you drop to your knees and take my cock in your mouth, sucking hungrily as you play with your own tits—and then eagerly sliding them around my shaft. You push them together and let me tit-fuck you, relinquishing your grip on them and letting me do the holding only when you’re soaring close to orgasm—so you can reach down and rub your clit the few strokes it takes to get you off. When I come on your tits, you go mad, coming harder, rubbing my thick jizz into your luscious globes. Licking your fingers.
I’ve always loved that you’re such a tit whore. I’ve always adored the fact that you want to show them off, that you want your tits to be looked at. I bought you a novelty shirt once that said,
Look at my chest when you’re talking to me,
as a joke. You didn’t hesitate; you wore it everywhere for a few weeks, usually without a bra. You meant it, too, and guys who talked to you didn’t know what to think. Most of them would nervously fix their eyes to yours, but I would see them glancing down, the same way they always did but this time wracked with guilt, knowing you could tell. It would make you flirt harder than ever. It would make your nipples get hard, braless in the tight T-shirt, showing through sweat-dampened cotton. It would make your pussy wet, and whenever you wore that shirt you would tear off my clothes the second we got home, would come like a waterfall the second my cockhead entered your pussy.
Look at my chest when you’re talking to me,
as a joke. You didn’t hesitate; you wore it everywhere for a few weeks, usually without a bra. You meant it, too, and guys who talked to you didn’t know what to think. Most of them would nervously fix their eyes to yours, but I would see them glancing down, the same way they always did but this time wracked with guilt, knowing you could tell. It would make you flirt harder than ever. It would make your nipples get hard, braless in the tight T-shirt, showing through sweat-dampened cotton. It would make your pussy wet, and whenever you wore that shirt you would tear off my clothes the second we got home, would come like a waterfall the second my cockhead entered your pussy.
When we went to a topless beach with some friends, you were the first of the women to doff your top, and I could see your nipples stiffening as they moistened, sweaty in the sun. The men on the ridge with their video cameras all trained their long-distance lenses on you, and I could see the effect it was having on you. As I rubbed suntan lotion into your tits, I could feel you squirming against me, and I knew if I’d managed to slip my finger into your pussy without being seen, you would have been incredibly wet. You were indulging in your favorite brand of performance art: the big tease, to anyone who would watch. By the time I got you back to the car to drive to the burger place for a beachside lunch, you couldn’t wait any longer. You sucked me off in the car, bent over with your face in my lap and your blonde hair bobbing rhythmically up and down—not caring who was watching. I pinched your nipples as you sucked me, and I let you rub your thighs together this time. You came before I did, your face pressed to my spit-slick cock, your breasts clutched tight in my hands, your nipples pulsing with each hard pinch I gave them. You finished me off with your mouth, hungry for my come.
We go to play parties occasionally—parties where S/M aficionados go to show off. You always wear something revealing over your tits—a patent-leather bra, a see-through lace top, a mesh T-shirt. You get wetter, your nipples harder, with every man that looks guiltily at them, lusting, every woman who enviously compliments your “outfit,” knowing what they’re really thinking: “My God, look at those tits.”
When we go down into the dungeon and start to play, I always know what you want. To have your top half stripped and your tits played with until you’re driven crazy. Letting everyone see just how magnificent they are in their full, naked glory. Another kind of performance art, once again focused on your favorite two things in the world: your tits.
In fact, performance art is what gave me the idea for our little scene. I once read an article about a performance artist whose form of art was to put a box around her upper body and walk around the street, encouraging passersby to put their hands through the holes cut in the front of the box and feel her tits. I know you would love to do that, letting anyone who wanted to stroke their fingers around your perfect mounds, pinching the nipples, making you come. Except that you’d never do it, because it wouldn’t be the same for you if people couldn’t see them.
But it’s still a compelling idea. And that’s where I got the brainstorm. How to finally satisfy that need you have to let every man in the world—or at least every man in the room—fuck your tits.
I take you to the play party late, so it’s already going strong and crowded by the time we get there. In the dressing room, I strip you down to your new outfit—peekaboo corset that comes up just under your breasts, leaving them bare, covering only your belly, back, and crotch. It’s nothing more than a string between your asscheeks. Wrist restraints aren’t enough for tonight; I put on a posture collar to keep your head up straight, and slide your arms into a bondage sleeve, cinching it tight so your arms are thrust behind you, forcing you to keep your back up straight too—and present your bare breasts to anyone who cares to look.
Or touch.
With a leash attached to your posture collar, I lead you into the main lounge area. I see a trio of men dressed in leather eyeing your tits admiringly. I lead you over and nudge you in the back.
“Would you like to touch them, Sir?” you ask, as I’ve instructed you to do.
“What?”
“M…my tits,” you stammer. “You can touch them if you like.”
The three men look at me for permission, and I nod. One of them reaches out and begins to caress your tits. You moan softly. I nudge you again in the back.
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