Who's a nasty bitch? Why yours truely. I am so psyched to tell my devoted fans that I am the newest staff writer at Custom Erotica Source.com. Thank you! Thank you!
Now lets see if I can do this thing. As I have said earlier it wasn't easy writing that greenhouse number, but it was fun.
Anyhow, I am stoked...truely and for sure.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Kissing Record
MANILA, Philippines - More than 6,000 couples kissed simultaneously at midnight Saturday in the Philippines with organizers of the event claiming to have set a new world record.
Organizers of the annual pre- Valentine's Day celebration said they broke the record held by
Hungary, where 5,875 couples kissed simultaneously in Budapest in 2005.
"We broke the record, it's great," said Howard Belton, a Briton who spearheaded the event.
With fireworks, confetti, a giant TV screen, and red balloons as the backdrop, couples locked lips and hugged for 10 seconds following a countdown outside a Manila mall.
An unofficial tally showed 6,124 couples kissed simultaneously, organizers said, but the number needs to be verified by an independent auditor and approved by Guinness World Record officials before it becomes a world record.
"It was our first time to join the celebration and we participated to be able to beat the record of Hungary," said Katherine Hermosa, who was with her boyfriend.
Organizers of the annual pre- Valentine's Day celebration said they broke the record held by
Hungary, where 5,875 couples kissed simultaneously in Budapest in 2005.
"We broke the record, it's great," said Howard Belton, a Briton who spearheaded the event.
With fireworks, confetti, a giant TV screen, and red balloons as the backdrop, couples locked lips and hugged for 10 seconds following a countdown outside a Manila mall.
An unofficial tally showed 6,124 couples kissed simultaneously, organizers said, but the number needs to be verified by an independent auditor and approved by Guinness World Record officials before it becomes a world record.
"It was our first time to join the celebration and we participated to be able to beat the record of Hungary," said Katherine Hermosa, who was with her boyfriend.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Quote of the Day
Anybody who believes that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach flunked geography. ~Robert Byrne, quoted in 1,911 Best Things Anybody Ever Said, 1988
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Give Your Knitting a Little Discipline!
Thought this site was cool. Jennifer Stafford is the creator of a popular websiste called www.domiknitrix.com. There you can find goth influenced, sexy patterns with no-nonsense instructions. Break away from the ho-hum with projects like the Winged Heart Bralet, the Devil Hat, the Big Bad Wolf Pullover and the Biteme/Spank Me Valentine Candy Pillows, and infuse your knitting with some renegade spirit.Tuesday, January 23, 2007
US Funds Abstinence Training for Adults
by Janice Erlbaum
Would you horndogs stop having sex already?
The US government is expected to spend close to $50 million in 2007 on state-run abstinence-only "birth-control programs" aimed at people as old as 29. These programs, which are supposed to reduce the number of unwanted pregnancies by preaching abstinence, make no mention of birth-control devices or methods or how they work; instead, they teach participants that no sex is safe sex and that people should not have sex before marriage. Previously, states were given grants to fund abstinence-only programs (which do little to reduce unwanted pregnancies, compared to comprehensive programs featuring real information about birth control) for kids age 12 though 19, but the Department of Health and Human Resources has now revised its guidlines to include adults in their 20s. Advocates of women's health are appalled at our government's intrusive, moralistic approach to adult sexuality: when 90 percent of adults aged 20-29 are having sex, you're not going to decrease the number of unwanted pregnancies by telling them to stop. And the other 10 percent are doing just fine not getting laid all on their own, without the government's help.
Would you horndogs stop having sex already?
The US government is expected to spend close to $50 million in 2007 on state-run abstinence-only "birth-control programs" aimed at people as old as 29. These programs, which are supposed to reduce the number of unwanted pregnancies by preaching abstinence, make no mention of birth-control devices or methods or how they work; instead, they teach participants that no sex is safe sex and that people should not have sex before marriage. Previously, states were given grants to fund abstinence-only programs (which do little to reduce unwanted pregnancies, compared to comprehensive programs featuring real information about birth control) for kids age 12 though 19, but the Department of Health and Human Resources has now revised its guidlines to include adults in their 20s. Advocates of women's health are appalled at our government's intrusive, moralistic approach to adult sexuality: when 90 percent of adults aged 20-29 are having sex, you're not going to decrease the number of unwanted pregnancies by telling them to stop. And the other 10 percent are doing just fine not getting laid all on their own, without the government's help.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Naughty Words
Dr. Johnson silenced two spinsters who complimented him for the omision of
"naughty words" in his dictionary with the comment: "What! my dears! then you have been looking for them." - Taken from The Literary Life and other Curiosities
"naughty words" in his dictionary with the comment: "What! my dears! then you have been looking for them." - Taken from The Literary Life and other Curiosities
Saturday, January 20, 2007
New "Source" of Inpiration
So, I am trying something new. There was a posting at the Erotic Readers & Writers Association website for writers for a customized erotica website called Custom Erotica Source. Shawn and I have often talked putting something together like this, but of course never have. I think it is an awesome idea.I e-mailed them and was given a sample assignment to show them what I can put together in a week. I love the setting and hope that I am able to give them something they want. This could be a fun way to earn some extra cash. Wish me luck!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Quote of the Day
"Fifty percent of women in this country are not having orgasms. If that were true for the male population, it would be declared a national emergency." - Margo St. James
Saturday, January 13, 2007
"Lipstick..." Update
Guess what came in the mail today? Payment for my contribution to the Lipstick on Her Collar anthology. Maybe this means my story, "Reap What you Sew," will be going into print soon. My story was chosen the summer before last, before I created my writing blog.
When writing this little number I was pictureing the showroom I used to work at in NY. Having designed bathing suits there it wasn't a long stretch to picture lingerie being created. We also had an amazing seamstress named Magdalina, but she was a very sweet older lady. She would probably be shocked by this...lol...
Let me know what you think!
Reap What You Sew [1986 words] (FF, oral)
Copyright © 2005 by Crystal Barela
This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
I looked down at the sewing machine in front of me, adjusted the silk and lace under the needle and hit the presser foot. The whiz of the sewing machine echoed in the near empty room. Machines sat to my sides, in front and behind. A rainbow of delicate fabrics and ribbons were tucked in the drawers beneath my sewing table. Loose colorful threads dangled form their holders.
The delicate scent of roses preceded Sharon, along with the click-clack of her heels.
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and glimpsed her walking past me from the corner of my eye. Her heels were high, too high to walk the paved streets of Manhattan, but she wore them everyday. No shorter than three inches in height, seamed stockings a favorite of hers.
Sharon looked the designer. One day the clean lines of Klein skimmed her curves, the next day the sumptuous fabrics of Gautier. A little flash and a lot of style could have been her motto.
It was after hours and Sharon had asked me to finish this bit of lace in front of me. A personal project. Not a difficult job, I turned out three dozen of these a day. When I was done it would be a delicate black lace demi-bra. The matching low-riding thong and garter belt were finished, also black, with contrasting cherry red stitching.
“Mags?”
I looked up from my needle. My name was Magdalina. She was the only one who called me Mags.
Sharon stood in her office doorway, white silk blouse unbuttoned and pulled from her black pencil skirt. I swallowed hard. She wasn’t wearing a bra and the gentle shadow of her cleavage winked at me when she put her hands on her hips.
“Yes, Ms. Sharon?”
She shook her head at me, smiling.
“Always so formal, Mags,” she walked toward me a natural sway to her hips. Her blonde hair skimmed her collar bones. “How long have we known each other? Four years?”
Four years, five months, two days, eight hours and a handful of minutes. But who’s counting? It had been winter and she had been late. Sharon had walked into the office unbelting an amazing white lamb’s wool trench, her calves encased in red leg-hugging leather that had looked as soft as butter; the heels topped four inches.
Underneath had been more winter white; a cashmere dress with a loosely clasped rhinestone belt floating on her hips. The hem just skimmed her knees. The only skin visible was her face, set on a pedestal of white.
“Nearly done?”
I focused on the project in front of me.
Sharon came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder, fingering the delicate material between her manicured fingers, the bright red polish setting off the lace.
The heat of her body pressed against my back. Her soft hair kissed my bare arm.
“Beautiful work.” She whispered her breath wetting my ear. I shivered, shifting the chair away from her, the screech of the legs against the floor echoed in the room.
“Thank you, Ms. Sharon.”
She stood, placing her hands on my shoulders.
“You really are the best seamstress we have, Mags.” She massaged my shoulders, thumbs brushing my neck. “Every stitch perfect.”
I trembled. “Thank you.”
“Are you a perfectionist in all that you do?”
I ignored her question and pressed my foot against the pedal. Sharon squeezed my shoulders lightly and then took the garter and panties and returned to her office. She looked over her shoulder in the doorway, letting her shirt fall down her back to her elbows.
“Bring the bra in when you finish.”
I nodded, trying to keep my eyes on my work.
Three more minutes and I would be done. Away from Sharon’s heels. Free of her perfume. Not near the lace that would be cupping her breasts and pussy as my hands ached to.
I would take the subway home to my little apartment in Brooklyn and sit in front of my air conditioner. I’d get out my Rabbit and take care of the heat Sharon created. A little time with the intense buzz of those little ears would banish this need.
I pulled the bra from under the foot of the machine. I snipped the loose threads with my scissors and held it in front of me. Sharon was right. Perfect.
I turned off my machine, straightened my sewing table and returned the thread to the shelves before heading to her office.
Sharon’s back was to me, her weight on one leg as she examined the design illustrations on the wall in front of her. She had removed her blouse and skirt. The thong and garter I had sewn licked her curves.
My mouth watered.
Her stockings were neatly in place, exposing a stretch of creamy thigh and ass.
I cleared my throat. Her shoulder blades shifted, muscles moving delicately beneath her skin.
Sharon smiled over her shoulder, adjusting the glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Mags,” her smile grew wider. She came toward me, removing her specs. “That was quick.”
My eyes focused on her breasts. No bra necessary. Round, full, succulent. Nipples, pale blushing shadows, hardening at my stare. Or from the air-conditioning. I shook my head, fighting my desire.
“Thank you,” Sharon said. She stood closer than I would have liked. My skin flushed by her nearness. She took the bra from my hand and leaned into me, her lips grazing my cheek. “You’re an artist.”
I turned my head, my lips brushing hers.
My coverall’s met her breasts and a blush traveled up her chest to her cheeks.
She hesitated.
I didn’t.
My tongue traced her glossy pout.
Sharon’s tongue answered tentatively.
That was all the permission I needed.
I pressed her back against her desk, design markers rolling onto the floor as my tongue plundered her mouth. She moaned, her arms circling my neck and pulling the rubber band from my hair. My pony-tail slipped free and my black hair fell around our shoulders.
My fingers glided beneath the flimsy bit of silk covering her pussy and slid through her smooth folds. Wetness clung to my fingers, spreading the ache in my cunt. She gasped my name. I massaged her mound, my thumb circling her clit.
Sharon’s neck tasted like talcum. I kissed my way down to her breasts. Under my tongue, her nipples were hard little buttons. I sucked her into my mouth, her moans milking my pussy.
My panties were soaked.
Sharon’s hands fumbled with the hooks on my overalls, and the denim bunched up between us. My finger inched inside, then two, pushing along her silky walls. She bucked against my calloused hands.
Papers flew from her desk.
I kicked off my sneakers and climbed up with her in nothing but my white wife beater.
“Mags?” she gasped. I took a seat on her knee, rubbing my cunt against the smooth silk stocking.
“Ms. Sharon?”
“What are you doing?” Her thigh moved under me and I began to ride, keeping time with my hand in her cunt.
“Fucking you.”
Sharon laughed and I leaned in close to her wet box. I blew against her clit. Her wet pearl grew bold, peaking out from behind its curtain. I licked and it danced, taking hold of my tongue in an unfamiliar beat. My taste buds popped.
Sweet, bitter, tart, salty.
Her fingers slid through my hair, her pretty nails skimming my scalp in a tingling caress.
I found her spot. Sharon’s fingers yanked my tresses, knotting in my hair.
My thumb met my fingers. I serviced her hot cunt, sliding deeper with each flick of my tongue. Her moans were crazy love sounds, begging me to stop, pleading with me to take her. Her pussy grabbed the widest part of my hand protesting for a moment, before sighing around my palm.
Embracing my wrist.
I froze, my lips holding her clit between them.
Our eyes met.
Sharon’s hips moved.
My fingers separated.
Her eyes closed.
I began to work, the job I had wanted since I had first seen Sharon in her Prada suit and Jimmy Choo pumps. My tongue nipped and tucked between her folds, smoothing the goose bumps that rose beneath my taste buds. Stroking, lapping. I measured the length of her slit with my hand, draping the curves and angles of her pussy. Her cunt squeezed my fingers, tested my fit, pulled me deeper, bruising my knuckles.
Wet my panties.
Sharon’s voice rang off the ceiling of the office, nearly setting me off. I pulled my hand from her and slid her wet juices through the hairs of my sex, my eyes squeezing shut.
“No!” she sat up, wrapping an arms around me. Her lips captured mine as her hand interlaced with my fingers between our bodies.
“Show me,” she whispered.
I put her hand under mine and played her fingers like I did a needle and thread, pushing and flowing together. Slipping and sliding in our juices. My abs clenched and I began to rock on our hands, our thumbs circling my clit one way then the next.
Dark red kisses were falling on my cheeks and eyelids, nibbling my chin and neck. Her tongue flicked my ear and told me how hot I was.
I was her Mags.
Sexy.
Talented.
Sharon’s artist, her little perfectionist.
My come flooded my pussy, our hands, her desk.
Sharon groaned, locking lips.
We wrapped our legs around each other, cunt meeting bush. Tongue sucking tongue.
Her hands slid up my tank, palms circling my hard knotted nipples; aching for her teeth. Sharon pushed the white cotton up around my armpits and her head dropped to my breasts. She pinched my nubbins between her pearly white teeth. My hips ground into hers, heat building again. Her hand cradled my pussy, rubbing in slow smooth circles; nails catching on the curly hairs sending pings of desire to my center.
Her blue eyes caught my brown. With a gentle hand, she pushed me back onto the desk and nibbled down my body. She nuzzled my ribs and sampled my navel. My giggles filled the office as she played, kissing her way over my belly and rubbing her cheeks against my bush.
Laughter was replaced by moans when her tongue slipped from between her lips and began to lap at my clit like a kitty at her saucer. She kept her tongue wide and flat, hitting every knit in my fabric. I could hardly breathe.
“Is this right?” she whispered, picking up tempo. “Or how about this?” Her fingers sank into me, twisting so that her hand could hit my g-spot. My eyes crossed.
The phone rang.
Like a pro, she replaced her tongue with her thumb and picked up the receiver with her free hand. She never lost the beat.
“Hello?”
My eyes focused on her face. Sharon’s lipstick was smeared across her cheeks, her lips and nose glossy with my juices.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her voice was rusty with desire.
“I won’t be able to come.”
Sex hair. A fuzzy ball at the back of her head.
“No, I’ll call you.”
She thrummed my clit.
I bit my lip.
The heat overwhelmed me.
Thighs clenched.
I cried out her name.
Sharon dropped the phone and crawled up my body, breasts meeting breasts. Our lips melded as my body arched off the desk, lifting her as I came. We collapsed against the teak, polished with our sweat.
We lay, catching our breath, her head in the crook of my arm; Sharon’s stocking clad thigh across my bare ones.
“Ms. Sharon?”
Our temples met.
“Mags?”
I reached for her hand and brought it to my lips.
“Ever take the subway to Brooklyn?”
“No.” She slid her hand along my cheek, turning my face to hers. “But I’ll take a taxi.”
When writing this little number I was pictureing the showroom I used to work at in NY. Having designed bathing suits there it wasn't a long stretch to picture lingerie being created. We also had an amazing seamstress named Magdalina, but she was a very sweet older lady. She would probably be shocked by this...lol...
Let me know what you think!
Reap What You Sew [1986 words] (FF, oral)
Copyright © 2005 by Crystal Barela
This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
I looked down at the sewing machine in front of me, adjusted the silk and lace under the needle and hit the presser foot. The whiz of the sewing machine echoed in the near empty room. Machines sat to my sides, in front and behind. A rainbow of delicate fabrics and ribbons were tucked in the drawers beneath my sewing table. Loose colorful threads dangled form their holders.
The delicate scent of roses preceded Sharon, along with the click-clack of her heels.
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and glimpsed her walking past me from the corner of my eye. Her heels were high, too high to walk the paved streets of Manhattan, but she wore them everyday. No shorter than three inches in height, seamed stockings a favorite of hers.
Sharon looked the designer. One day the clean lines of Klein skimmed her curves, the next day the sumptuous fabrics of Gautier. A little flash and a lot of style could have been her motto.
It was after hours and Sharon had asked me to finish this bit of lace in front of me. A personal project. Not a difficult job, I turned out three dozen of these a day. When I was done it would be a delicate black lace demi-bra. The matching low-riding thong and garter belt were finished, also black, with contrasting cherry red stitching.
“Mags?”
I looked up from my needle. My name was Magdalina. She was the only one who called me Mags.
Sharon stood in her office doorway, white silk blouse unbuttoned and pulled from her black pencil skirt. I swallowed hard. She wasn’t wearing a bra and the gentle shadow of her cleavage winked at me when she put her hands on her hips.
“Yes, Ms. Sharon?”
She shook her head at me, smiling.
“Always so formal, Mags,” she walked toward me a natural sway to her hips. Her blonde hair skimmed her collar bones. “How long have we known each other? Four years?”
Four years, five months, two days, eight hours and a handful of minutes. But who’s counting? It had been winter and she had been late. Sharon had walked into the office unbelting an amazing white lamb’s wool trench, her calves encased in red leg-hugging leather that had looked as soft as butter; the heels topped four inches.
Underneath had been more winter white; a cashmere dress with a loosely clasped rhinestone belt floating on her hips. The hem just skimmed her knees. The only skin visible was her face, set on a pedestal of white.
“Nearly done?”
I focused on the project in front of me.
Sharon came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder, fingering the delicate material between her manicured fingers, the bright red polish setting off the lace.
The heat of her body pressed against my back. Her soft hair kissed my bare arm.
“Beautiful work.” She whispered her breath wetting my ear. I shivered, shifting the chair away from her, the screech of the legs against the floor echoed in the room.
“Thank you, Ms. Sharon.”
She stood, placing her hands on my shoulders.
“You really are the best seamstress we have, Mags.” She massaged my shoulders, thumbs brushing my neck. “Every stitch perfect.”
I trembled. “Thank you.”
“Are you a perfectionist in all that you do?”
I ignored her question and pressed my foot against the pedal. Sharon squeezed my shoulders lightly and then took the garter and panties and returned to her office. She looked over her shoulder in the doorway, letting her shirt fall down her back to her elbows.
“Bring the bra in when you finish.”
I nodded, trying to keep my eyes on my work.
Three more minutes and I would be done. Away from Sharon’s heels. Free of her perfume. Not near the lace that would be cupping her breasts and pussy as my hands ached to.
I would take the subway home to my little apartment in Brooklyn and sit in front of my air conditioner. I’d get out my Rabbit and take care of the heat Sharon created. A little time with the intense buzz of those little ears would banish this need.
I pulled the bra from under the foot of the machine. I snipped the loose threads with my scissors and held it in front of me. Sharon was right. Perfect.
I turned off my machine, straightened my sewing table and returned the thread to the shelves before heading to her office.
Sharon’s back was to me, her weight on one leg as she examined the design illustrations on the wall in front of her. She had removed her blouse and skirt. The thong and garter I had sewn licked her curves.
My mouth watered.
Her stockings were neatly in place, exposing a stretch of creamy thigh and ass.
I cleared my throat. Her shoulder blades shifted, muscles moving delicately beneath her skin.
Sharon smiled over her shoulder, adjusting the glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Mags,” her smile grew wider. She came toward me, removing her specs. “That was quick.”
My eyes focused on her breasts. No bra necessary. Round, full, succulent. Nipples, pale blushing shadows, hardening at my stare. Or from the air-conditioning. I shook my head, fighting my desire.
“Thank you,” Sharon said. She stood closer than I would have liked. My skin flushed by her nearness. She took the bra from my hand and leaned into me, her lips grazing my cheek. “You’re an artist.”
I turned my head, my lips brushing hers.
My coverall’s met her breasts and a blush traveled up her chest to her cheeks.
She hesitated.
I didn’t.
My tongue traced her glossy pout.
Sharon’s tongue answered tentatively.
That was all the permission I needed.
I pressed her back against her desk, design markers rolling onto the floor as my tongue plundered her mouth. She moaned, her arms circling my neck and pulling the rubber band from my hair. My pony-tail slipped free and my black hair fell around our shoulders.
My fingers glided beneath the flimsy bit of silk covering her pussy and slid through her smooth folds. Wetness clung to my fingers, spreading the ache in my cunt. She gasped my name. I massaged her mound, my thumb circling her clit.
Sharon’s neck tasted like talcum. I kissed my way down to her breasts. Under my tongue, her nipples were hard little buttons. I sucked her into my mouth, her moans milking my pussy.
My panties were soaked.
Sharon’s hands fumbled with the hooks on my overalls, and the denim bunched up between us. My finger inched inside, then two, pushing along her silky walls. She bucked against my calloused hands.
Papers flew from her desk.
I kicked off my sneakers and climbed up with her in nothing but my white wife beater.
“Mags?” she gasped. I took a seat on her knee, rubbing my cunt against the smooth silk stocking.
“Ms. Sharon?”
“What are you doing?” Her thigh moved under me and I began to ride, keeping time with my hand in her cunt.
“Fucking you.”
Sharon laughed and I leaned in close to her wet box. I blew against her clit. Her wet pearl grew bold, peaking out from behind its curtain. I licked and it danced, taking hold of my tongue in an unfamiliar beat. My taste buds popped.
Sweet, bitter, tart, salty.
Her fingers slid through my hair, her pretty nails skimming my scalp in a tingling caress.
I found her spot. Sharon’s fingers yanked my tresses, knotting in my hair.
My thumb met my fingers. I serviced her hot cunt, sliding deeper with each flick of my tongue. Her moans were crazy love sounds, begging me to stop, pleading with me to take her. Her pussy grabbed the widest part of my hand protesting for a moment, before sighing around my palm.
Embracing my wrist.
I froze, my lips holding her clit between them.
Our eyes met.
Sharon’s hips moved.
My fingers separated.
Her eyes closed.
I began to work, the job I had wanted since I had first seen Sharon in her Prada suit and Jimmy Choo pumps. My tongue nipped and tucked between her folds, smoothing the goose bumps that rose beneath my taste buds. Stroking, lapping. I measured the length of her slit with my hand, draping the curves and angles of her pussy. Her cunt squeezed my fingers, tested my fit, pulled me deeper, bruising my knuckles.
Wet my panties.
Sharon’s voice rang off the ceiling of the office, nearly setting me off. I pulled my hand from her and slid her wet juices through the hairs of my sex, my eyes squeezing shut.
“No!” she sat up, wrapping an arms around me. Her lips captured mine as her hand interlaced with my fingers between our bodies.
“Show me,” she whispered.
I put her hand under mine and played her fingers like I did a needle and thread, pushing and flowing together. Slipping and sliding in our juices. My abs clenched and I began to rock on our hands, our thumbs circling my clit one way then the next.
Dark red kisses were falling on my cheeks and eyelids, nibbling my chin and neck. Her tongue flicked my ear and told me how hot I was.
I was her Mags.
Sexy.
Talented.
Sharon’s artist, her little perfectionist.
My come flooded my pussy, our hands, her desk.
Sharon groaned, locking lips.
We wrapped our legs around each other, cunt meeting bush. Tongue sucking tongue.
Her hands slid up my tank, palms circling my hard knotted nipples; aching for her teeth. Sharon pushed the white cotton up around my armpits and her head dropped to my breasts. She pinched my nubbins between her pearly white teeth. My hips ground into hers, heat building again. Her hand cradled my pussy, rubbing in slow smooth circles; nails catching on the curly hairs sending pings of desire to my center.
Her blue eyes caught my brown. With a gentle hand, she pushed me back onto the desk and nibbled down my body. She nuzzled my ribs and sampled my navel. My giggles filled the office as she played, kissing her way over my belly and rubbing her cheeks against my bush.
Laughter was replaced by moans when her tongue slipped from between her lips and began to lap at my clit like a kitty at her saucer. She kept her tongue wide and flat, hitting every knit in my fabric. I could hardly breathe.
“Is this right?” she whispered, picking up tempo. “Or how about this?” Her fingers sank into me, twisting so that her hand could hit my g-spot. My eyes crossed.
The phone rang.
Like a pro, she replaced her tongue with her thumb and picked up the receiver with her free hand. She never lost the beat.
“Hello?”
My eyes focused on her face. Sharon’s lipstick was smeared across her cheeks, her lips and nose glossy with my juices.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her voice was rusty with desire.
“I won’t be able to come.”
Sex hair. A fuzzy ball at the back of her head.
“No, I’ll call you.”
She thrummed my clit.
I bit my lip.
The heat overwhelmed me.
Thighs clenched.
I cried out her name.
Sharon dropped the phone and crawled up my body, breasts meeting breasts. Our lips melded as my body arched off the desk, lifting her as I came. We collapsed against the teak, polished with our sweat.
We lay, catching our breath, her head in the crook of my arm; Sharon’s stocking clad thigh across my bare ones.
“Ms. Sharon?”
Our temples met.
“Mags?”
I reached for her hand and brought it to my lips.
“Ever take the subway to Brooklyn?”
“No.” She slid her hand along my cheek, turning my face to hers. “But I’ll take a taxi.”
Thursday, January 11, 2007
www.rotten.com
I love this site and I stole the information and photos below on the topic of the penis cake from rotten.com. There are more pics on the site that are very intersting.
I'm Bill Kurtis. For centuries, men and women have searched for innovative ways to stuff their mouths with enormous dicks. Whether single or looking, straight or gay, happily married or fading quietly into the background of an interminable bachelorette party, never forget that Valentine's Day looms somewhere in your immediate future. This year, instead of disposable diamonds, sappy love poems or a forgettable second honeymoon, take a cue from the Rotten Library and lovingly craft for your significant other something they can really choke down good and proper.
"Erotic" cakes have an uncertain history, since a cake can only be defined abstractly: an amalgam of doughy, tactile ingredients smooshed together and solidified to some degree -- without necessarily being placed against fire or inside a wood burning stove. In ancient times, cakes were rolled or hand-pressed into patties which more closely resembled bread, optionally sweetened with raisins, nuts, or honey. Whether or not turn-of-the-century pattycakes will ever qualify as "erotic" is a source of endless rivalry among today's leading anthropologists. One point of scholarly agreement is that based on cave paintings and crude etchings, boobs and boners sure looked weird back then.
Even the English word "cake" is an unfortunate generational deritvative of the Norse word kaka, making a scholarly review of penis cakes all the more childish. The ancient Greeks called their cakes plakous, meaning flat -- but the word later evolved to evoke images of the placenta, introducing concepts which could not be any less erotic and therefore beyond the scope of this tutorial. Soap cakes and urinal cakes certainly fit the Oxford English dictionary's limited description. They're typically flat, and they have been glimpsed in or around the company of penises -- although their level of eroticism remains steadfastly relative to personal preference.
The earliest cakely prototypes -- erotic or otherwise -- first popped up in 17th century Europe, after technological advancements in ovens and tin tray molds caught up to the availability of flour and refined sugar. The erotic titty cakes and big-balled popovers we've come to know and love emerged over time from flattened cookies and shortbreads.
Eventually, sweeter icings evolved from simple fruit garnishes and glazes: sticky, boiled compositions of sugar and egg whites. Several generations of erotic chefs would live and die before refined white flour and baking powder replaced yeast, making cakes ten times more delicious and paving the way for more edible pastries truly worth knob-gobbling.
"You Design It, We'll Bake It" is the company motto of the world-famous Kopps Bakery, where all the cakes are hand-carved and never made from a mold. Kopps has been in business since 1961, and now boasts over 350 stores around the globe. Their press release claims they can create "any design you can imagine, from a couple making love to a hand-carved male organ or a female torso with edible panties and bra". The names of individual pastries in their bachelorette catalogue reads like a laundry list of rejected Hustler magazine copy: Dick Laying on Her Breasts, Ride 'Em Cowgirl on a Big Dick, Male Organ in Butt, Long Thin Johnson in Big Black Ass (made to order) -- and the enigmatic Busted-Up Dick Cake That Had Cum for the Last Time. Take at look at the artful, precision handiwork Kopps can deliver in just under an hour:
Christ on the cross, maybe they do need a mold. Somebody get these folks a muffin tin. Their online order form is similarly cluttered: just millimeters away from the link to order a Big Daddy Dick Cum Cake, one can accidentally click the Sesame Street Elmo cake. Watch those butterfingers, mom.
And watch those copyrights: a triple-tiered vanilla angel food cake fashioned after your ex-boyfriend's cock sock will be easier to market and sell than anything you've constructed with a Mickey Mouse mold or Spongecake Squarepan. Respected baking supply companies like Sugarcraft of Hamilton, Ohio specialize in the art of food decoration. They go out of their way to distance themselves from clients who sell unauthorized cakes made from molds of copyrighted characters like Winnie the Pooh, Barney, Dora the Explorer and others. In dessert factories, the mantra is still "don't mess with the mouse". Copyright police who show up to harass your small-scale bakery are happy to set you up with a $10,000 fine.
Because of zoning regulations, chef Paul Condra's Erotic Bakery in Seattle, Washington is the only full-time penis cake manufacturer in the Pacific Northwest. Working with a two-man crew, Conda serves close to 150 customers each day. "We're very streamlined and efficient. The gummy boobs and gummy penises are very popular," Condra told the University of Washington Daily. Since 1986, Condra's penis cakes have remained the Erotic Bakery's best-selling items -- so popular, in fact, that the Erotic Bakery has branched out into a line of paper goods: plates and napkins covered with penises, penis-shaped straws and dry pasta fashioned after big bent boners.
Other hazards you might encounter as a baker of erotic cakes are nuisances constructed by cranky, uptight citizenry. In 2005, a Belgian woman sued the owner of a private pastry boutique who dared to peddle erotic marzipan figures for Valentine's Day. The woman claimed the cakes depicted sexual positions, and argued that they shouldn't be publicly displayed in the baker's shop window. The chef, identified by the Het Laatste news service only as Baker Van Buggenhout (say it out loud if you wish) insisted that it was all in fun -- and that the figures didn't even show sexual organs.
"People laugh when they see them," the baker stated calmly, neither bugged out nor on the verge of bugging out. "They buy them to give to their wives or girlfriends." The elderly complainant who lived near the bakery shop window insisted that by putting the erotic morsels on display, the baker was effectively exposing children to pornography.
Meanwhile, have you seen what passes for window displays in Amsterdam? Hint: big floppy half-naked prostitutes underneath red light bulbs, none of which are made of fresh marzipan. And as for you footloose and fancy-free gay dads, Kopps Bakery more or less has you covered with treats like the Gay Bed Cake and the infamous Marzipan Men To Lick Cake. This treat features two cuddly Ken doll look-a-likes, determined dongs pointing north, cavorting in the yin-yang position. In addition to misshapen lumps of frosting, Kopps' Erotic Bakery created the world's largest chocolate cream pie for the Rosie O'Donnell show: over six feet in diameter and 800 pounds. Then in 1998, they created the world's largest Pop Tart, showcased in Madison Square Garden -- 25 feet by 35 feet, weight over 1500 pounds.
If your modeling skills are less than stellar -- or the idea of squeezing dough into crude shapes which only vaguely resemble testicles, penis cake pans might be the way to go. Suitable for shaping cookies, brownies, or Jell-O, the majority of consumer peckerware and booby molding cups are dishwasher safe and non-tarnishing. Naturally, they're available in a variety of "big boy" shapes, sizes and circumcisions -- and quite perfect for raucous bachelorette parties or nudging that long-awaited sexual harassment suit up into second gear. For those even less talented in the cooking department, curiously-shaped cake toppers are an elegant afterthought. These are miniature, edible accoutrements, typically made of marzipan or a gelatinous gummy bear substance, widely available in novelty shops. Cake toppers can be squiggled and bent to represent numerical shapes (Congrats On Your 40th) or fashioned from fine beeswax into proper candles, affectionately referred to as dicks with wicks.
I'm Bill Kurtis. For centuries, men and women have searched for innovative ways to stuff their mouths with enormous dicks. Whether single or looking, straight or gay, happily married or fading quietly into the background of an interminable bachelorette party, never forget that Valentine's Day looms somewhere in your immediate future. This year, instead of disposable diamonds, sappy love poems or a forgettable second honeymoon, take a cue from the Rotten Library and lovingly craft for your significant other something they can really choke down good and proper."Erotic" cakes have an uncertain history, since a cake can only be defined abstractly: an amalgam of doughy, tactile ingredients smooshed together and solidified to some degree -- without necessarily being placed against fire or inside a wood burning stove. In ancient times, cakes were rolled or hand-pressed into patties which more closely resembled bread, optionally sweetened with raisins, nuts, or honey. Whether or not turn-of-the-century pattycakes will ever qualify as "erotic" is a source of endless rivalry among today's leading anthropologists. One point of scholarly agreement is that based on cave paintings and crude etchings, boobs and boners sure looked weird back then.
Even the English word "cake" is an unfortunate generational deritvative of the Norse word kaka, making a scholarly review of penis cakes all the more childish. The ancient Greeks called their cakes plakous, meaning flat -- but the word later evolved to evoke images of the placenta, introducing concepts which could not be any less erotic and therefore beyond the scope of this tutorial. Soap cakes and urinal cakes certainly fit the Oxford English dictionary's limited description. They're typically flat, and they have been glimpsed in or around the company of penises -- although their level of eroticism remains steadfastly relative to personal preference.
The earliest cakely prototypes -- erotic or otherwise -- first popped up in 17th century Europe, after technological advancements in ovens and tin tray molds caught up to the availability of flour and refined sugar. The erotic titty cakes and big-balled popovers we've come to know and love emerged over time from flattened cookies and shortbreads.
Eventually, sweeter icings evolved from simple fruit garnishes and glazes: sticky, boiled compositions of sugar and egg whites. Several generations of erotic chefs would live and die before refined white flour and baking powder replaced yeast, making cakes ten times more delicious and paving the way for more edible pastries truly worth knob-gobbling.
"You Design It, We'll Bake It" is the company motto of the world-famous Kopps Bakery, where all the cakes are hand-carved and never made from a mold. Kopps has been in business since 1961, and now boasts over 350 stores around the globe. Their press release claims they can create "any design you can imagine, from a couple making love to a hand-carved male organ or a female torso with edible panties and bra". The names of individual pastries in their bachelorette catalogue reads like a laundry list of rejected Hustler magazine copy: Dick Laying on Her Breasts, Ride 'Em Cowgirl on a Big Dick, Male Organ in Butt, Long Thin Johnson in Big Black Ass (made to order) -- and the enigmatic Busted-Up Dick Cake That Had Cum for the Last Time. Take at look at the artful, precision handiwork Kopps can deliver in just under an hour:
Christ on the cross, maybe they do need a mold. Somebody get these folks a muffin tin. Their online order form is similarly cluttered: just millimeters away from the link to order a Big Daddy Dick Cum Cake, one can accidentally click the Sesame Street Elmo cake. Watch those butterfingers, mom.
And watch those copyrights: a triple-tiered vanilla angel food cake fashioned after your ex-boyfriend's cock sock will be easier to market and sell than anything you've constructed with a Mickey Mouse mold or Spongecake Squarepan. Respected baking supply companies like Sugarcraft of Hamilton, Ohio specialize in the art of food decoration. They go out of their way to distance themselves from clients who sell unauthorized cakes made from molds of copyrighted characters like Winnie the Pooh, Barney, Dora the Explorer and others. In dessert factories, the mantra is still "don't mess with the mouse". Copyright police who show up to harass your small-scale bakery are happy to set you up with a $10,000 fine.
Because of zoning regulations, chef Paul Condra's Erotic Bakery in Seattle, Washington is the only full-time penis cake manufacturer in the Pacific Northwest. Working with a two-man crew, Conda serves close to 150 customers each day. "We're very streamlined and efficient. The gummy boobs and gummy penises are very popular," Condra told the University of Washington Daily. Since 1986, Condra's penis cakes have remained the Erotic Bakery's best-selling items -- so popular, in fact, that the Erotic Bakery has branched out into a line of paper goods: plates and napkins covered with penises, penis-shaped straws and dry pasta fashioned after big bent boners.
Other hazards you might encounter as a baker of erotic cakes are nuisances constructed by cranky, uptight citizenry. In 2005, a Belgian woman sued the owner of a private pastry boutique who dared to peddle erotic marzipan figures for Valentine's Day. The woman claimed the cakes depicted sexual positions, and argued that they shouldn't be publicly displayed in the baker's shop window. The chef, identified by the Het Laatste news service only as Baker Van Buggenhout (say it out loud if you wish) insisted that it was all in fun -- and that the figures didn't even show sexual organs.
"People laugh when they see them," the baker stated calmly, neither bugged out nor on the verge of bugging out. "They buy them to give to their wives or girlfriends." The elderly complainant who lived near the bakery shop window insisted that by putting the erotic morsels on display, the baker was effectively exposing children to pornography.
Meanwhile, have you seen what passes for window displays in Amsterdam? Hint: big floppy half-naked prostitutes underneath red light bulbs, none of which are made of fresh marzipan. And as for you footloose and fancy-free gay dads, Kopps Bakery more or less has you covered with treats like the Gay Bed Cake and the infamous Marzipan Men To Lick Cake. This treat features two cuddly Ken doll look-a-likes, determined dongs pointing north, cavorting in the yin-yang position. In addition to misshapen lumps of frosting, Kopps' Erotic Bakery created the world's largest chocolate cream pie for the Rosie O'Donnell show: over six feet in diameter and 800 pounds. Then in 1998, they created the world's largest Pop Tart, showcased in Madison Square Garden -- 25 feet by 35 feet, weight over 1500 pounds.
If your modeling skills are less than stellar -- or the idea of squeezing dough into crude shapes which only vaguely resemble testicles, penis cake pans might be the way to go. Suitable for shaping cookies, brownies, or Jell-O, the majority of consumer peckerware and booby molding cups are dishwasher safe and non-tarnishing. Naturally, they're available in a variety of "big boy" shapes, sizes and circumcisions -- and quite perfect for raucous bachelorette parties or nudging that long-awaited sexual harassment suit up into second gear. For those even less talented in the cooking department, curiously-shaped cake toppers are an elegant afterthought. These are miniature, edible accoutrements, typically made of marzipan or a gelatinous gummy bear substance, widely available in novelty shops. Cake toppers can be squiggled and bent to represent numerical shapes (Congrats On Your 40th) or fashioned from fine beeswax into proper candles, affectionately referred to as dicks with wicks.The inscriptions which traditionally accompany personalized erotic cakes -- penis and otherwise -- range from lukewarm and uninspired to dull-as-an-office-party. According to Masturbakers, a custom cake and pastry manufacturer in New York, there are eight particularly popular pieces of copy which never go out of style. In no particular order, consider communicating your appreciation with clever quippery like Tits Your Birthday, Breast Wishes, Make A Wish And Blow, This Butt's For You, To Have And To Hold, The Breast Is Yet To Cum, and of course the old chestnuts A Hard Man Is Good To Find and Have Your Cake And Eat It Too.
Masturbakers' cakes are reasonably priced: an extra large John Holmes cake will run you about $100. A large Pussy cake, meanwhile, goes for $65. The Tommy Lee, with optional tuxedo, will feed anywhere from ten to twelve children for a modest $45. All the way across the country -- for $1,800 -- costume and prop supplier Tim Vittetoe Originals in Washington state can manufacture a pop-out stripper cake four feet in diameter, perfect for stage shows or special events, and capable of supporting overweight strippers weighing up to and including three hundred pounds! Gross.
When Adam Roberts of Amateur Gourmet chose to immortalize floppy, disgusting boobs in dessert form, he took a cue from the Janet Jackson Super Bowl incident. Roberts found the perfect recipe for cappuccino cupcakes with cocoa-tinted white chocolate and sour cream frosting. The hard part was making the boobs just the right shade of brown, to match Ms. Jackson's skin tone. After several experiments, he ended up sifting together powdered sugar with "a cautious amount" of cocoa. A single Hershey's Kiss served as the nipple, piping white icing in a spider web lattice to simulate the nipple jewelry. "The likeness was uncanny," Roberts reported. So delighted was Adam with his erotic accomplishment that he now sells T-shirts celebrating his Jackson cupcakes.
And let's never forget the dutiful service record of Patrick Stewart (a.k.a. Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise) who served as a guest host on Saturday Night Live in February of 1993. One of the characters he chose to portray was a baker of erotic cakes, fixated on one subject in particular. Let's ripple-dissolve to the fading sound of angels strumming on flashback harps and remember that classic sketch together.
Young Man: Yeah, my friend's having a bachelor party, and I thought it might be kind of fun if I got him an erotic cake.
Picard: Well, you've come to the right place. I have the perfect sexy cake for a bachelor party. [opens box]
Young Man: Looks like a woman going to the bathroom.
Picard: Yeah! It's very sexy.
Young Man: What else do you have?
Picard: Well, why don't we take a look at our catalogue? Here's a woman squatting behind some bushes. The leaves are made of spun sugar. And here's a lady using a little marzipan port-o-potty.
Young Man: So, all your cakes are women going to the bathroom?
Picard: Yeah. What's your point?
Young Man: Well, don't you have anything else?
Picard: Maybe you don't understand - this is an erotic bakery.
Young Man: I'm sorry, I just don't find this very erotic.
Picard: A woman going to the bathroom, you don't find it erotic?
Young Man: Not really.
Picard: Well then, what pray tell would you suggest we do put on our erotic cakes?
Young Man: I don't know. People having sex. Female and male genitalia. You know, something like that.
Picard: Well, if that's what you're after, I suggest you try Hostess or Sara Lee!
Young Man: Can't you just make a cake with a couple on it having sex?
Picard: All right, look. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make a cake with a woman and a man going to the bathroom. And that way you'll be happy and your friends will be happy.
Young Man: I don't think my friends would like that either.
Picard: Well, I would certainly like to meet these friends of yours sometime.
Young Man: Look, could we just have a cake with sex and no going to the bathroom?
Picard: May I remind you that you're going to have to eat this cake?
Today of course, dirty pictures from your computer -- even in GIF or JPEG format -- can easily be transferred photo realistically to a cake right in your own home, without the hassle of nosy third-party erotic vendors or copyright enforcement police. Feel free to do it yourself: the CopyKake company in Torrence, California sells edible inks offering outstanding color reproduction with a minimum of "head clogging," a common printing problem which sounds conspicuously like the inspiration for an erotic cake in and of itself.
Intentional or otherwise, CopyKake's groundbreaking line of computerized cake decorating products have helped bring erotic pastries into the twenty-first century. Sadly, the majority of customers who purchase edible inks have yet to adequately exploit the technology for the purposes of erotica.
Printers compatible with the Canon brand of bubble jets can be loaded with edible ink cartridges -- cyan, magenta, yellow and black. The unused inks have a shelf life of six months, if properly refrigerated. Thermal reversibility allows for an optimum ratio of colored inks to bond with the icing. Pornography can be printed with these edible inks onto frosting sheets: light, edible papers made of corn starch and sugar. The sheets, freshly inked, are peeled from their backings and laid atop a refrigerated cake flat-frosted with butter cream or non-dairy topping. In fifteen minutes, your hand-made erotic cake will be more than ready to sproing on a loved one -- just in time for Valentine's Day.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The Law and the Lady
In the past editors often arbitrarily cut "erotic" passages from novel manuscripts, even if the aurthor's contract specified that his book was to be published verbatim from his manuscript. This happened to Wilkie Collins, whose The Law and the Lady (1875) was so bowdlerized. The edited version of the passage in question read: "He caught my hand in his and covered it with kisses. In the indignition of the moment I cried out for help." The "objectionable" original version read: "He caught my hand in his and covered it with kisses. He twisted himself suddenly in the chair, and wound his arm around my waist. In the terror and indignation of the moment, seriously struggling with him, I cried out for help."
- Taken from The Literary Life and Other Curiosities by Robert Hendrickson
- Taken from The Literary Life and Other Curiosities by Robert Hendrickson
Monday, January 08, 2007
Quote of the Day
"I was really into bestiality, sadomasochism, and necrophilia, but then I realized I was just beating a dead horse."
- unkown
- unkown
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Going Straight?
Hell no! But I am a married woman. This has been lying around needing a home for publication. Any suggestions?
Heat [975 words] (MF, anal)
Copyright © 2006 by Crystal Barela.
This story contains sexually explicit scenes. If you are offended or would be upset by reading erotica, please leave this blog site. I can guarntee you, you WILL be offended.
Summer had found its way inside our upper east side apartment, despite open windows and oscillating fans.
“Did you talk to the super about the AC?” I asked. The air conditioner had been out since last night.
Knees wide, I sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the fridge. I pulled at the ribbed fabric of my white tank top, creating a breeze between the shadows of my breasts. Their weight created a wet suction against my body when I moved.
“No air until the end of the week.” Max looked over at me, his eyes alight with sympathy. “Why don’t you jump in the shower again?”
Max was lying on the kitchen floor, his chest and abdomen glistened with sweat. His legs were spread wide, boxers clinging to him in the creases of his legs and accentuating his cock. Like a cat, he was trying to flatten himself against the cool tile.
I leaned over him. Max’s hand came to rest wet and sticky on the back of my neck.
“Give me a reason to shower,” I whispered and touched my lips softly to his. They hovered close, held apart by the air’s humidity.
His tongue snuck out to mingle with mine in a slow dance. As our breathing deepened I let my hand slide across his chest. The soft hair touching the palm of my hand electrified my pussy. I found his left nipple, circled it….and he began to sit up.
“No!” Max mumbled against my mouth. This was his sensitive nipple and I thrilled at teasing it.
“No?” I asked bewitchingly. I deliberately leaned down and let my tongue trace a circle around the nipple, my eyes never leaving his. I licked, swallowing his protests, gently pushing him down against the tiles. My other hand skimmed his erection beneath his shorts. Protests turned into groans as I rubbed him through the fabric.
Max’s nipple was as hard as his dick in his boxers.
I crawled between his legs and bent close to his underwear, letting my tongue wet the thin fabric. Our skin was like cellophane, condensation building in and out of our bodies. I licked and rubbed until he squirmed on the floor. I could stand it no longer; I wanted skin.
I reached through the hole in the front of his boxers, finding his dick hard and wanting. It flopped out of the opening…sweaty ... thick with need. I licked from one end to the next, taking in as much as I could. Max groaned and his ass rose off the floor. His cock slipped into the dark wetness of my throat. I pumped my mouth, loving the salty taste. My hand joined my lips, finding the rhythm he liked until I tasted the bittersweet pre-come.
With an order to be still, I pushed the crotch of my panties to the side and knelt over his big boy. My juicy cunt pulled him into my tight walls. Max cried my name, his hips trying to move, but I held firm. I clung to his dick, loving the hardness inside me. I clenched my muscles and he cursed with pleasure. I pulled myself off of him and a loud sucking sound echoed in the kitchen.
We both laughed, and I came down again slowly.
His face was a picture of agony. Max wanted to fuck me hard. I could see it in the strained lines of his features. I wondered how long he would last before he cracked.
I worked myself on him leisurely, one of my hands coming down to play with my clit. His eyes watched my fingers as they toyed with my folds. It was too hot to move faster. I was floating on his dick. My nerve endings screaming.
“Let me,” Max insisted, replacing my hand with his. His thumb made my calves clench and my toes curl as I used him as my personal dildo. He swirled and pushed my heated clit until I couldn’t sit upright, my insides melted and everything around me went white with pleasure.
He rolled me off of him and onto my stomach. The hard tile was a cool slap of gratification to my breasts and stomach as they hit the floor. Max ripped the flimsy fabric of my panties aside and his arm snaked around my waist. He shoved his dick in me without preamble or finesse. He fucked me on the kitchen floor like a dog; hard and fast. My hands found the wall, and Max grunted in satisfaction as I pushed back against him. I was so wet that his dick sailed through me.
I felt something slick being rubbed along my ass crack. A can of Crisco rolled by my head and hit the wall. My giggle turned into a groan as he pushed the soft grease against my asshole, lubing me up as his dick continued to fuck my pussy. One hand grabbed me hair like it was a rein.
“Ready?” he asked. Not waiting for an answer Max left my cunt and forced his way into my ass. I screamed in pleasure while he pumped…yanking my hair, slamming into my receptive hole. Every pore of my skin seemed to burst with perspiration. Every hair was on end is he rammed into me harder and harder. I pressed back against him.
His free hand found my clit and tugged roughly. There was no gentleness and none wanted.
Max pulled and fucked, working a couple of fingers in my pussy. He mopped my clit with my wetness. His dick seemed to grow even larger. He was growling, cursing and calling me his whore. Max pulled out, and hot sprays of his come flew across my back, over my shoulder blades and into my hair.
His hand found my clit and I let his seed and kitchen oils toss me over the edge again.
I collapsed on the floor.
He lay on my back, his weight pressing into me. He kissed my neck, nuzzled my sensitive skin.
I shivered, smiling. “NOW, I need a shower.” I whispered.
Max chuckled against my ear. “Me too.”
Heat [975 words] (MF, anal)
Copyright © 2006 by Crystal Barela.
This story contains sexually explicit scenes. If you are offended or would be upset by reading erotica, please leave this blog site. I can guarntee you, you WILL be offended.
Summer had found its way inside our upper east side apartment, despite open windows and oscillating fans.
“Did you talk to the super about the AC?” I asked. The air conditioner had been out since last night.
Knees wide, I sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the fridge. I pulled at the ribbed fabric of my white tank top, creating a breeze between the shadows of my breasts. Their weight created a wet suction against my body when I moved.
“No air until the end of the week.” Max looked over at me, his eyes alight with sympathy. “Why don’t you jump in the shower again?”
Max was lying on the kitchen floor, his chest and abdomen glistened with sweat. His legs were spread wide, boxers clinging to him in the creases of his legs and accentuating his cock. Like a cat, he was trying to flatten himself against the cool tile.
I leaned over him. Max’s hand came to rest wet and sticky on the back of my neck.
“Give me a reason to shower,” I whispered and touched my lips softly to his. They hovered close, held apart by the air’s humidity.
His tongue snuck out to mingle with mine in a slow dance. As our breathing deepened I let my hand slide across his chest. The soft hair touching the palm of my hand electrified my pussy. I found his left nipple, circled it….and he began to sit up.
“No!” Max mumbled against my mouth. This was his sensitive nipple and I thrilled at teasing it.
“No?” I asked bewitchingly. I deliberately leaned down and let my tongue trace a circle around the nipple, my eyes never leaving his. I licked, swallowing his protests, gently pushing him down against the tiles. My other hand skimmed his erection beneath his shorts. Protests turned into groans as I rubbed him through the fabric.
Max’s nipple was as hard as his dick in his boxers.
I crawled between his legs and bent close to his underwear, letting my tongue wet the thin fabric. Our skin was like cellophane, condensation building in and out of our bodies. I licked and rubbed until he squirmed on the floor. I could stand it no longer; I wanted skin.
I reached through the hole in the front of his boxers, finding his dick hard and wanting. It flopped out of the opening…sweaty ... thick with need. I licked from one end to the next, taking in as much as I could. Max groaned and his ass rose off the floor. His cock slipped into the dark wetness of my throat. I pumped my mouth, loving the salty taste. My hand joined my lips, finding the rhythm he liked until I tasted the bittersweet pre-come.
With an order to be still, I pushed the crotch of my panties to the side and knelt over his big boy. My juicy cunt pulled him into my tight walls. Max cried my name, his hips trying to move, but I held firm. I clung to his dick, loving the hardness inside me. I clenched my muscles and he cursed with pleasure. I pulled myself off of him and a loud sucking sound echoed in the kitchen.
We both laughed, and I came down again slowly.
His face was a picture of agony. Max wanted to fuck me hard. I could see it in the strained lines of his features. I wondered how long he would last before he cracked.
I worked myself on him leisurely, one of my hands coming down to play with my clit. His eyes watched my fingers as they toyed with my folds. It was too hot to move faster. I was floating on his dick. My nerve endings screaming.
“Let me,” Max insisted, replacing my hand with his. His thumb made my calves clench and my toes curl as I used him as my personal dildo. He swirled and pushed my heated clit until I couldn’t sit upright, my insides melted and everything around me went white with pleasure.
He rolled me off of him and onto my stomach. The hard tile was a cool slap of gratification to my breasts and stomach as they hit the floor. Max ripped the flimsy fabric of my panties aside and his arm snaked around my waist. He shoved his dick in me without preamble or finesse. He fucked me on the kitchen floor like a dog; hard and fast. My hands found the wall, and Max grunted in satisfaction as I pushed back against him. I was so wet that his dick sailed through me.
I felt something slick being rubbed along my ass crack. A can of Crisco rolled by my head and hit the wall. My giggle turned into a groan as he pushed the soft grease against my asshole, lubing me up as his dick continued to fuck my pussy. One hand grabbed me hair like it was a rein.
“Ready?” he asked. Not waiting for an answer Max left my cunt and forced his way into my ass. I screamed in pleasure while he pumped…yanking my hair, slamming into my receptive hole. Every pore of my skin seemed to burst with perspiration. Every hair was on end is he rammed into me harder and harder. I pressed back against him.
His free hand found my clit and tugged roughly. There was no gentleness and none wanted.
Max pulled and fucked, working a couple of fingers in my pussy. He mopped my clit with my wetness. His dick seemed to grow even larger. He was growling, cursing and calling me his whore. Max pulled out, and hot sprays of his come flew across my back, over my shoulder blades and into my hair.
His hand found my clit and I let his seed and kitchen oils toss me over the edge again.
I collapsed on the floor.
He lay on my back, his weight pressing into me. He kissed my neck, nuzzled my sensitive skin.
I shivered, smiling. “NOW, I need a shower.” I whispered.
Max chuckled against my ear. “Me too.”
Monday, December 04, 2006
"Sipping Margarita" To be Published
This is a great story about a hot, sexy, fuller figured woman. Set in Borrego and one of my absolute favorites for imagery. Shanna, a fellow writer friend I've been published with before, is putting together a book based on bar drinks. You know how all of those drinks have sexual names. "Screaming Orgasm," "Sex on the Beach," "Fuzzy Navel," Etc. Along with the stories will be the recipes for your favorite drink...so you can sip along while you read. Cool, aye! Sorta like a novel that I have in the works that uses recipes for food in a similar way...but I won't go into that.
Let me know what you think of the story and thanks for reading!
This story contains sexually explicit scenes! If you are offended by FF sex or sex using toys, or any kind of sex, stop reading now!
Sipping Margarita
Copyright © 2006 by Crystal Barela
The Basic Margarita
1 ½ oz. (3 Tbsp.) tequila
¾ oz. (1 ½ Tbsp.) fresh lime juice
½ oz. (1 Tbsp.) Cointreau or Triple Sec
lime wedge or slice
Moisten chilled glass rim with a little lime juice, then dip the rim into salt. Shake first 3 ingredients with cracked ice; strain into glass. Garnish with lime.
Taken from The Ultimate A-to-Z Bar Guide by Sharon Tyler Herbst & Ron Herbst
***
The smooth worn wood of my guitar was soft beneath my palms. I caressed the strings in slow motion, dragging my calloused fingertips down the gentle slope of the neck in one long stroke before setting my fingers on a chord. I pulled a high pitched thrum from inside my wooden lover, as seductive as the sound of a woman coming.
I peered up from under my cowboy hat and winked at the woman in red. This was for her. I was imagining her body beneath my fingers as I strummed and picked, my pussy getting hotter as the hours passed. She’d been sitting in a nearby patch of shade from almost the moment I set up my gear─leaving every so often, but always returning to listen.
Getting noticed was this woman’s purpose. This was no pretty young thing, but a lady seasoned in turning heads. Full and round like a model in a Rubens painting. A palm tree had the pleasure of feeling the length of her back and the nudge of her ample cheeks against its smooth bark and I hoped by the end of the day I would enjoy the same.
Knees spread, her long prairie skirt draped like a hammock between them. The breeze carried the hem up ever so often, giving me a peek of rosy ripe pussy.
An embroidered white blouse hung off her round shoulders in layers of ruffles. Braless, her breasts were the size of cantaloupes and rolled under the thin fabric, teasing me with the possibility of a show, nipples just out of view.
At my feet was my open guitar case, dollar bills littering the black interior. It was just nearing sunset, bright rays of light shooting over the peeks of the San Ysidro Mountains behind me, casting a halo around the woman’s dark skin and hair. She rose to her feet as if pulled by a string, graceful like a dancer.
Skirts flew as she twirled in the golden light. Red painted toes, calves, knees and a glimpse of dimpled thigh. Arms overhead, fingers snapping in time with my playing.
She spun like a child seeking that place where your stomach turns and you collapse on the grass and watch the sky swirl round you.
The last note hung in the air. My dancer swayed drunkenly for a moment, as if she would fall to the ground. There was a moment of complete silence before the small crowd around us erupted in applause, the voluptuous beauty among them. Cat calls, clapping, and money rained into my tattered case. I waved and thanked our admirers before stowing my guitar.
Sandaled feet arrived in front of the case, a silver toe ring hugging her baby toe and a butterfly tattoo fluttering up her calf. I stood, drinking in the soft red cotton hugging her wide hips and soft belly. She was slightly out of breath, her breasts trembling against her top, dark nipples were shadows beneath the thin fabric. Perspiration gave her ample cleavage an inviting glow.
Close-up she was older than I had thought. Fine lines feathered from the corners of her eyes. Long chocolate hair camouflaged the softening of her jaw. The whites of her deep dark eyes were in stark contrast with the cinnamon of her smooth skin. They sparked in the fading light, eager as a teenager’s.
“Margarita,” she said offering me her hand.
I took her plump fingers in my own and brought them to my lips. “Melissa.”
“You are, how you say? Muy talentosa.”
Sweet ocotillo and sunshine clung to her skin. I wanted to lick it off.
“I was wondering.” I moved in close enough to feel the heat of her sun-kissed skin through my T-shirt. Close enough to break the language barrier.
Pussy-pink tongue wet her lips.
“Would you like a private performance?” My thumb grazed the back of her knuckles, rubbing in slow circles.
Margarita tossed her hair like a wild stallion, her nostrils flaring, and nodded.
Guitar in hand, I took hold of her elbow and she led me out of the park. I didn’t much care where she was taking me, as long as I got to sip her sweet pussy before the night was over.
We entered the shadows of the alley. My guitar fell to the gravel and I pulled her full ripe body against mine. I pressed her back against the rough brick and ground my pussy into hers.
“Magnifico, Margarita.”
I kissed the color from her lips and inched her skirt up. The bright red fabric wadded around her waist, so I could feel her soft slick folds. She clung to my fingers, her walls knocking against my knuckles. Margarita moaned and bounced on my hand, one leg around my waist the other firmly on the ground.
My face was buried in her breasts. With a dozen practiced swirls of my thumb her cunt applauded, squeezing my fingers. I grabbed her ass, pulling her close, licking the salt from her skin.
A door was thrown open behind us. The alleyway was lit with a stream of light and accompanying mariachi music from the bar. A man silhouetted in the doorway stood on the stoop and lit up a cigarette.
“Where? Dónde?”
Margarita reached down and took hold of my guitar, and motioned for me to continue down the alley. She giggled and covered my face in heated kisses. Her hand slipped under my waistband and I staggered around the corner. She directed me up a narrow staircase.
We fell against the stairs and the old wood creaked under our weight.
Buttons popped and lips latched onto my tits like she was starving.
We crawled up the stairs, stumbling, kissing, drunk on passion.
Inebriated with Margarita.
The back of my head hit the door on the landing and I reached behind me for the knob. With a clumsy twist we tumbled into the room laughing.
My feisty senora pulled my jeans down my legs, and I kicked them off. Her fingers were in my snatch and her lips eating cunt before I could do more than gasp her name. She threw my legs over her shoulders.
Margarita circled and tapped her way around my clit, as if it were a sombrero, her lips making clapping sounds, finding a staccato beat. Her cocoa brown eyes met mine, dark and rich like the earth. Her fingers joined her tongue, partnering in a dance of heat and passion until my thighs stretched taut and my clit vibrated like a Mexican jumping bean.
I collapsed on the floor, catching my breath and Margarita crawled up my body, her warm soft skin pressing into me.
“Mas?”
“Si!” I said laughing. “Mucho mas!” I rolled us across the floor, landing on top of her. I pressed her hands into the braided rug beneath us. “What did you have in mind?”
Neck and ears were salty and damp. I licked and kissed my way to her breasts, burying my face between the massive drums, slick with perspiration. Nipples long and hard butted my lips, and I drank from them, nursing her; parched for this woman’s candied moans. Hands sticky with my juices tangled in my short hair, urging me lower. I nuzzled her belly, and kissed the crease of her leg. Margarita’s mound was covered in thick curly hair, a wild tangle that nudged my nose and lips.
The sweet skin of her labia filled my mouth, her heels digging into the floor outside my shoulders. I slurped her up, making circles around her hole with tongue and hand. The opening pulled at my fingertips, clinging to me. Her belly rose into the air, trembling and shaking.
“No!”
I would have screamed “Yes,” but I was sipping Margarita.
My new lover was close, her clit a hot knot of need, but she pulled free. Margarita crawled away from me toward the bed, her ass moving in a teasing sway. She took out a box from under the frame and tossed a big belted rubber cock my way.
Our eyes met and we both grinned. I stood and strapped on the cock that I felt I’d had all night. Margarita’s full round ass rose off her bed like a moon in the desert sky. The thick black head of my dick bounced in the air as I took position.
I took my new cock in hand and nudged my big boy against her damp slit. Her hand was between her thick thighs pulling me closer. The massive member pressed against Margarita’s soft folds and made a home between her pussy lips, sliding easily into her needy hole with the help of her slick juices. I hit bottom and pumped.
Steady, building speed. She begged for more. My fingers dug into the flesh of her hips. I rammed her.
Coyotes howled in the distance, and I joined them, fucking my strap-on into her hungry cunt. Her hands were against the wall, pushing back against me, taking the rubber cock deeper and deeper. Cursing and begging in Spanish, she urged me on. I reached beneath her belly and slid my fingers around her clit.
Eyes caught mine over her shoulder and she shuddered. Margarita came, her muscles squeezing my rubber dick so hard I couldn’t move within her. I lay on her back, our sweat drenched skin sliding together, my thighs burning. I kissed her neck and she giggled, collapsing against the mattress.
I pulled free, the scent of sex like incense in the small room.
We crawled up onto the twin bed, but she wasn’t tired. Her hand took hold of the teetering phallus and she stroked it. I swear I could feel it. Again, her hand took hold, slipping through her come and sweat. I moaned.
“Muy grande,” she whispered, getting onto her knees.
Margarita leaned over my hard-on, taking the rubber tip between her lips. A hand slid under the harness and found my clit standing on end. She ate her wetness from my length, and rubbed my girl-dick quickly. The weight of her breasts jiggled against my thighs. I lengthened, my body arching into the air and cried out her name as her passion through me over the edge again.
She kissed her way up my torso to my lips and I pillowed myself on her chest, listening to her racing heart. It slowed beneath my ear, and my eyes began to close to the rhythm of her soft snoring.
I sat up, not sure how much time had passed, but realizing the door wasn’t shut and my guitar was still on the stairs. I pressed a kiss between her breasts before I left the bed in search of my guitar and cigarettes.
Naked, I sat in the doorframe and pulled my baby into my arms. My fingers picked up the rhythm of Margarita’s breathing. I hummed under my breath as I watched her sleep. The rainbow colored serape framed her beautiful round body. The moon shone from the window behind her, lightening her skin to the shade of birch bark. Her long hair was feathered over her breasts, one knee falling over the other, covering her sex demurely.
Homage to nature’s beauty.
I lit a cigarette and let it dangle from my lips, pulling my guitar close against my stomach.
How’s that song go?
“When the whole world fits inside of your arms…” I mumbled.
Margarita’s eyes opened and she smiled. “Mas?”
I laughed softly and put out my cigarette. “Mucho mas, Margarita.” I put down the guitar and got to my feet. “Mucho mas.”
Let me know what you think of the story and thanks for reading!
This story contains sexually explicit scenes! If you are offended by FF sex or sex using toys, or any kind of sex, stop reading now!
Sipping Margarita
Copyright © 2006 by Crystal Barela
The Basic Margarita
1 ½ oz. (3 Tbsp.) tequila
¾ oz. (1 ½ Tbsp.) fresh lime juice
½ oz. (1 Tbsp.) Cointreau or Triple Sec
lime wedge or slice
Moisten chilled glass rim with a little lime juice, then dip the rim into salt. Shake first 3 ingredients with cracked ice; strain into glass. Garnish with lime.
Taken from The Ultimate A-to-Z Bar Guide by Sharon Tyler Herbst & Ron Herbst
***
The smooth worn wood of my guitar was soft beneath my palms. I caressed the strings in slow motion, dragging my calloused fingertips down the gentle slope of the neck in one long stroke before setting my fingers on a chord. I pulled a high pitched thrum from inside my wooden lover, as seductive as the sound of a woman coming.
I peered up from under my cowboy hat and winked at the woman in red. This was for her. I was imagining her body beneath my fingers as I strummed and picked, my pussy getting hotter as the hours passed. She’d been sitting in a nearby patch of shade from almost the moment I set up my gear─leaving every so often, but always returning to listen.
Getting noticed was this woman’s purpose. This was no pretty young thing, but a lady seasoned in turning heads. Full and round like a model in a Rubens painting. A palm tree had the pleasure of feeling the length of her back and the nudge of her ample cheeks against its smooth bark and I hoped by the end of the day I would enjoy the same.
Knees spread, her long prairie skirt draped like a hammock between them. The breeze carried the hem up ever so often, giving me a peek of rosy ripe pussy.
An embroidered white blouse hung off her round shoulders in layers of ruffles. Braless, her breasts were the size of cantaloupes and rolled under the thin fabric, teasing me with the possibility of a show, nipples just out of view.
At my feet was my open guitar case, dollar bills littering the black interior. It was just nearing sunset, bright rays of light shooting over the peeks of the San Ysidro Mountains behind me, casting a halo around the woman’s dark skin and hair. She rose to her feet as if pulled by a string, graceful like a dancer.
Skirts flew as she twirled in the golden light. Red painted toes, calves, knees and a glimpse of dimpled thigh. Arms overhead, fingers snapping in time with my playing.
She spun like a child seeking that place where your stomach turns and you collapse on the grass and watch the sky swirl round you.
The last note hung in the air. My dancer swayed drunkenly for a moment, as if she would fall to the ground. There was a moment of complete silence before the small crowd around us erupted in applause, the voluptuous beauty among them. Cat calls, clapping, and money rained into my tattered case. I waved and thanked our admirers before stowing my guitar.
Sandaled feet arrived in front of the case, a silver toe ring hugging her baby toe and a butterfly tattoo fluttering up her calf. I stood, drinking in the soft red cotton hugging her wide hips and soft belly. She was slightly out of breath, her breasts trembling against her top, dark nipples were shadows beneath the thin fabric. Perspiration gave her ample cleavage an inviting glow.
Close-up she was older than I had thought. Fine lines feathered from the corners of her eyes. Long chocolate hair camouflaged the softening of her jaw. The whites of her deep dark eyes were in stark contrast with the cinnamon of her smooth skin. They sparked in the fading light, eager as a teenager’s.
“Margarita,” she said offering me her hand.
I took her plump fingers in my own and brought them to my lips. “Melissa.”
“You are, how you say? Muy talentosa.”
Sweet ocotillo and sunshine clung to her skin. I wanted to lick it off.
“I was wondering.” I moved in close enough to feel the heat of her sun-kissed skin through my T-shirt. Close enough to break the language barrier.
Pussy-pink tongue wet her lips.
“Would you like a private performance?” My thumb grazed the back of her knuckles, rubbing in slow circles.
Margarita tossed her hair like a wild stallion, her nostrils flaring, and nodded.
Guitar in hand, I took hold of her elbow and she led me out of the park. I didn’t much care where she was taking me, as long as I got to sip her sweet pussy before the night was over.
We entered the shadows of the alley. My guitar fell to the gravel and I pulled her full ripe body against mine. I pressed her back against the rough brick and ground my pussy into hers.
“Magnifico, Margarita.”
I kissed the color from her lips and inched her skirt up. The bright red fabric wadded around her waist, so I could feel her soft slick folds. She clung to my fingers, her walls knocking against my knuckles. Margarita moaned and bounced on my hand, one leg around my waist the other firmly on the ground.
My face was buried in her breasts. With a dozen practiced swirls of my thumb her cunt applauded, squeezing my fingers. I grabbed her ass, pulling her close, licking the salt from her skin.
A door was thrown open behind us. The alleyway was lit with a stream of light and accompanying mariachi music from the bar. A man silhouetted in the doorway stood on the stoop and lit up a cigarette.
“Where? Dónde?”
Margarita reached down and took hold of my guitar, and motioned for me to continue down the alley. She giggled and covered my face in heated kisses. Her hand slipped under my waistband and I staggered around the corner. She directed me up a narrow staircase.
We fell against the stairs and the old wood creaked under our weight.
Buttons popped and lips latched onto my tits like she was starving.
We crawled up the stairs, stumbling, kissing, drunk on passion.
Inebriated with Margarita.
The back of my head hit the door on the landing and I reached behind me for the knob. With a clumsy twist we tumbled into the room laughing.
My feisty senora pulled my jeans down my legs, and I kicked them off. Her fingers were in my snatch and her lips eating cunt before I could do more than gasp her name. She threw my legs over her shoulders.
Margarita circled and tapped her way around my clit, as if it were a sombrero, her lips making clapping sounds, finding a staccato beat. Her cocoa brown eyes met mine, dark and rich like the earth. Her fingers joined her tongue, partnering in a dance of heat and passion until my thighs stretched taut and my clit vibrated like a Mexican jumping bean.
I collapsed on the floor, catching my breath and Margarita crawled up my body, her warm soft skin pressing into me.
“Mas?”
“Si!” I said laughing. “Mucho mas!” I rolled us across the floor, landing on top of her. I pressed her hands into the braided rug beneath us. “What did you have in mind?”
Neck and ears were salty and damp. I licked and kissed my way to her breasts, burying my face between the massive drums, slick with perspiration. Nipples long and hard butted my lips, and I drank from them, nursing her; parched for this woman’s candied moans. Hands sticky with my juices tangled in my short hair, urging me lower. I nuzzled her belly, and kissed the crease of her leg. Margarita’s mound was covered in thick curly hair, a wild tangle that nudged my nose and lips.
The sweet skin of her labia filled my mouth, her heels digging into the floor outside my shoulders. I slurped her up, making circles around her hole with tongue and hand. The opening pulled at my fingertips, clinging to me. Her belly rose into the air, trembling and shaking.
“No!”
I would have screamed “Yes,” but I was sipping Margarita.
My new lover was close, her clit a hot knot of need, but she pulled free. Margarita crawled away from me toward the bed, her ass moving in a teasing sway. She took out a box from under the frame and tossed a big belted rubber cock my way.
Our eyes met and we both grinned. I stood and strapped on the cock that I felt I’d had all night. Margarita’s full round ass rose off her bed like a moon in the desert sky. The thick black head of my dick bounced in the air as I took position.
I took my new cock in hand and nudged my big boy against her damp slit. Her hand was between her thick thighs pulling me closer. The massive member pressed against Margarita’s soft folds and made a home between her pussy lips, sliding easily into her needy hole with the help of her slick juices. I hit bottom and pumped.
Steady, building speed. She begged for more. My fingers dug into the flesh of her hips. I rammed her.
Coyotes howled in the distance, and I joined them, fucking my strap-on into her hungry cunt. Her hands were against the wall, pushing back against me, taking the rubber cock deeper and deeper. Cursing and begging in Spanish, she urged me on. I reached beneath her belly and slid my fingers around her clit.
Eyes caught mine over her shoulder and she shuddered. Margarita came, her muscles squeezing my rubber dick so hard I couldn’t move within her. I lay on her back, our sweat drenched skin sliding together, my thighs burning. I kissed her neck and she giggled, collapsing against the mattress.
I pulled free, the scent of sex like incense in the small room.
We crawled up onto the twin bed, but she wasn’t tired. Her hand took hold of the teetering phallus and she stroked it. I swear I could feel it. Again, her hand took hold, slipping through her come and sweat. I moaned.
“Muy grande,” she whispered, getting onto her knees.
Margarita leaned over my hard-on, taking the rubber tip between her lips. A hand slid under the harness and found my clit standing on end. She ate her wetness from my length, and rubbed my girl-dick quickly. The weight of her breasts jiggled against my thighs. I lengthened, my body arching into the air and cried out her name as her passion through me over the edge again.
She kissed her way up my torso to my lips and I pillowed myself on her chest, listening to her racing heart. It slowed beneath my ear, and my eyes began to close to the rhythm of her soft snoring.
I sat up, not sure how much time had passed, but realizing the door wasn’t shut and my guitar was still on the stairs. I pressed a kiss between her breasts before I left the bed in search of my guitar and cigarettes.
Naked, I sat in the doorframe and pulled my baby into my arms. My fingers picked up the rhythm of Margarita’s breathing. I hummed under my breath as I watched her sleep. The rainbow colored serape framed her beautiful round body. The moon shone from the window behind her, lightening her skin to the shade of birch bark. Her long hair was feathered over her breasts, one knee falling over the other, covering her sex demurely.
Homage to nature’s beauty.
I lit a cigarette and let it dangle from my lips, pulling my guitar close against my stomach.
How’s that song go?
“When the whole world fits inside of your arms…” I mumbled.
Margarita’s eyes opened and she smiled. “Mas?”
I laughed softly and put out my cigarette. “Mucho mas, Margarita.” I put down the guitar and got to my feet. “Mucho mas.”
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Due out September 27th!
Next on the line up is "Locked & Loaded." This is a collection of some of my favorite kinds of stories. Hard core, touch chicks with weapons! Phew! Someone bring me some smelling salts. You can pre-order your copy from Amazon by clicking the link above.Here's whats written on the back: Girls with guns. Women defending their honor. Spies who love other girls. Lady Gamblers.That's what Locked and Loaded is all about. This anthology explores what happens when the ladies stop being ladies and start kicking butt. They're hot, they're good with a gun, and they're finding love in all the right places. From pirates on the high sea to Old West sharpshooters to modern mercenaries, Locked and Loaded explores the sensuality of a woman making her place in a man's world. Cops and space captains, sharpshooters and Girl Fridays in old Hollywood, all of them are looking for a good woman and a good fight. Breaking down stereotypes as easily as they break down doors, the women of Locked and Loaded will knock your socks right off! Featuring Torquere Press favorites like Julia Talbot and BA Tortuga, as well as new voices like Dallas Coleman, Tracy Shelito, and Crystal Barela, this anthology is sure to please. Editor SA Clements has gathered stories from some of the finest writers in lesbian fiction. These tales move across history and the modern landscape, speaking of passion, intrigue and romance. And ultimately of power and passion.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Travelrotica for Lesbians on Shelves Now!
Hey everyone who is still checking in with my writing site. Just wanted to let you know that "Tales of Travelrotica for Lesbians: Erotic Travel Adventures" is now in print for your enjoyment. Just pick on the link to pick up your copy. My story The Dusty Rose, can be found between the pages.Book Description: It's the thrill of the unexpeted: a warm kiss on a boat's ledge, a stolen moment on a train, a foot massage in a piazza. No one knows your name. There are no rules. An erotic adventure is yours for the taking. It's a vacation you won't soon forget.
Your journey begins where Sapphic love began, then continues on to all points--from Odessa to Bangkok, Mexico City to the Caribbean, Paris to the Alps, and onward toward many more lush lands. This fresh, sexy collection of erotic sotries for women who love women will take you to places you'll want to visit again...and again.
Take a look...I am sure everyone will love these little ditties.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
"Backstage" to be in Print
My story "Backstage," about the life of a magician drag king is to be published (posted here March 30th)! Very exciting!
They had me add a scene concerning the magic act. Originally I did not have a scene 'cause it was supposed to be about the drama backstage, hence the title. But inquiring minds wanted to know. So I put together a little stage scene and resubmitted the story to the editors. I haven't heard back from them yet...so I am assuming no news is good news.
But maybe you, my loyal readers, can give me some feedback on the stage show? Let me know what you think.
This story contains sexually explicit scenes! If you are offended by FF sex or sex using toys, or any kind of sex, stop reading now!
(Added magic show scene for "Backstage." Read entry for March 30th for rest of story.)
The show had worked our audience to a fever pitch and we were reaching the orgasm of the act; the moment when every woman in the audience was crossing her legs and rubbing her wet pussy lips against green vinyl. Lover’s hands shamelessly reached under or down skirts. Mouths parted, eyes wide, they waited.
The stage was dark aside from the spotlight that illuminated my upper body. In the darkness behind, I could hear the whisper of the stage hands move the sofa center stage.
“Ladies…” My top hat flew to a lucky woman in the second row and I began to undo my bow tie. “…I promise that I have nothing up my sleeves.” I removed my jacket with a practiced twirl and tossed it stage left where Dawn caught it. Twist of fingers and my shirt sleeves were rolled to my elbows. I held my hands out, palms up for the audience. “And I guarantee the luscious Bambi has nothing up her skirt!”
On cue, Bambi sashayed out to me and I took her hand in mine. Heat arced to my loins from the casual touch.
I took my wand from my back pocket and slipped it under the length of lace that was Bambi’s skirt and lifted the fabric to her waist to reveal her shaved bare pussy. I raised a brow and said, “Nothing up front.” With an elegant twirl, Bambi’s arms rose over her head and she moved beneath the white tip, graceful, like a ballerina in a music box. Her proud breasts lifted high, rouged nipples peeking over the top of her bodice and short gold skirt rose slightly to give us a tantalizing glimpse of her upper thighs.
My wand paused with Bambi’s back to the audience and the spotlight widened to reveal the elegant back of a sofa behind us. The plush red velvet was exactly the length of Bambi’s outstretched arms. At the center was fifteen inches of soft cushion met by ornately carved wood on either side that widened into loops the size of bracelets.
I lifted the back hem of Bambi’s skirt with my wand so we could see the skin beneath. “Nothing under here but a rather exceptional derrière.”
Bambi bent slightly to give the crowd a better view and waved at the audience from between her legs. Their laughter turned to gasps as she ran her fingertips across her skin from her pink rosebud forward.
I lay Bambi over the back of the sofa and I let the skirt cover her ass, falling back down to her knees. Her treasures were now hidden from the audience’s hungry eyes. I walked from stage left to right, a casual hand running from one of her hips to the next, while I undid the rest of my shirt buttons.
“Bambi!” I said in mock indignation.
“Yes, Lady Lee?”
“What is that beneath your skirt?”
“Nothing!”
“I made a promise to these beautiful ladies!” I said gesturing to the audience with a sweep of my arm.
My wand waved in a slow circle over her rear and Bambi’s ass rose toward the magic stick as if a string were attached to the end of each.
The crowd roared.
I slid the white tip under her skirt and pumped a few times. Bambi moaned dramatically.
With a flick of my wrist the wand came free and sex beads flew into the air in a practiced arc. I caught them with my free hand. Our fans cheered.
“Well it ain’t a rabbit,” I said and scratched my head confused, placing the beads in my pocket.
I inserted the wand again and this time with a swift tug a ben-wa ball came free and then another. Bambi gasped. The balls floated from between her legs and rose above our heads before landing in the palm of my hand. I gave the ball a sniff and began to twirl them together in spinning circles.
“If I had known you were so excited to be on stage with me, my dear, I would have canceled the─”
A loud buzzing sound interrupted me.
“What is that?”
“Nothing, Lady Lee,” Bambi answered, but the buzzing started up again.
The center portion of the stage began to move in a circle so that the audience caught an eyeful of Bambi’s breasts and the wireless remote in her hands. An expression of wanton delight was on Bambi’s face. The stage paused.
“What is this?” I said, snatching the remote from her hands and turning it off. I stuffed the control in my waistband and searched my pockets. “Aha!” I cried, pulling two scarves from their depths. I slipped the silky ends through the carved wood rings on each side of the sofa back, and secured Bambi’s wrists.
The stage continued to rotate and I aimed the remote.
Off. On. Off. On. Each hit of the remote’s button caused Bambi’s backside to bounce until her ass faced the audience again.
Bambi swiveled her hips in slow motion as I gave another magical tug. She protested as her toy slipped free with a loud plop and floated out from under her skirt.
The silicone rabbit was two inches in diameter and sopping wet from her pretty pink hole. My body was on fire as it was every night and I had to fight to maintain composure. I could almost feel my rubber dick thickening.
I nodded with satisfaction, tossed my hair with a rakish smile and said, “That’s my kind of rabbit.”
Beneath the dark fabric of Bambi’s skirt I pulled one thing after another. The sex toys led to larger objects: a rolling pin (“Baking me a surprise, Love?”), an English cucumber (“Ridged for her pleasure.”), a plunger (“Things are a little stopped up, Sweetings?”), my car keys (“I’ve been looking for those everywhere!”).
The stage was completely dark aside from the spotlight focused on the end of my wand. I slipped its length beneath the fabric covering her rear and the stage was lit with a sudden blast of light from under Bambi’s skirt. “What the?” I yanked again and all was dark. The audience whispered excitedly. I aimed my wand at her ass. Both hands held the wand like it was a fishing line and pulled, the narrow stick bent as if what was on the other end of the line were too heavy to be pulled free. I wiped the sweat from my brow and tossed my wand over my shoulder before reaching under her skirt with both hands.
Another swift pull and I landed ungracefully on my ass, a Tiffany lamp held in my arms. I sat the light beside me and stood. “Let’s just put this back, shall we?” I said lifting the lamp in my hands and aiming the colorful glass shade at Bambi’s rear.
They had me add a scene concerning the magic act. Originally I did not have a scene 'cause it was supposed to be about the drama backstage, hence the title. But inquiring minds wanted to know. So I put together a little stage scene and resubmitted the story to the editors. I haven't heard back from them yet...so I am assuming no news is good news.
But maybe you, my loyal readers, can give me some feedback on the stage show? Let me know what you think.
This story contains sexually explicit scenes! If you are offended by FF sex or sex using toys, or any kind of sex, stop reading now!
(Added magic show scene for "Backstage." Read entry for March 30th for rest of story.)
The show had worked our audience to a fever pitch and we were reaching the orgasm of the act; the moment when every woman in the audience was crossing her legs and rubbing her wet pussy lips against green vinyl. Lover’s hands shamelessly reached under or down skirts. Mouths parted, eyes wide, they waited.
The stage was dark aside from the spotlight that illuminated my upper body. In the darkness behind, I could hear the whisper of the stage hands move the sofa center stage.
“Ladies…” My top hat flew to a lucky woman in the second row and I began to undo my bow tie. “…I promise that I have nothing up my sleeves.” I removed my jacket with a practiced twirl and tossed it stage left where Dawn caught it. Twist of fingers and my shirt sleeves were rolled to my elbows. I held my hands out, palms up for the audience. “And I guarantee the luscious Bambi has nothing up her skirt!”
On cue, Bambi sashayed out to me and I took her hand in mine. Heat arced to my loins from the casual touch.
I took my wand from my back pocket and slipped it under the length of lace that was Bambi’s skirt and lifted the fabric to her waist to reveal her shaved bare pussy. I raised a brow and said, “Nothing up front.” With an elegant twirl, Bambi’s arms rose over her head and she moved beneath the white tip, graceful, like a ballerina in a music box. Her proud breasts lifted high, rouged nipples peeking over the top of her bodice and short gold skirt rose slightly to give us a tantalizing glimpse of her upper thighs.
My wand paused with Bambi’s back to the audience and the spotlight widened to reveal the elegant back of a sofa behind us. The plush red velvet was exactly the length of Bambi’s outstretched arms. At the center was fifteen inches of soft cushion met by ornately carved wood on either side that widened into loops the size of bracelets.
I lifted the back hem of Bambi’s skirt with my wand so we could see the skin beneath. “Nothing under here but a rather exceptional derrière.”
Bambi bent slightly to give the crowd a better view and waved at the audience from between her legs. Their laughter turned to gasps as she ran her fingertips across her skin from her pink rosebud forward.
I lay Bambi over the back of the sofa and I let the skirt cover her ass, falling back down to her knees. Her treasures were now hidden from the audience’s hungry eyes. I walked from stage left to right, a casual hand running from one of her hips to the next, while I undid the rest of my shirt buttons.
“Bambi!” I said in mock indignation.
“Yes, Lady Lee?”
“What is that beneath your skirt?”
“Nothing!”
“I made a promise to these beautiful ladies!” I said gesturing to the audience with a sweep of my arm.
My wand waved in a slow circle over her rear and Bambi’s ass rose toward the magic stick as if a string were attached to the end of each.
The crowd roared.
I slid the white tip under her skirt and pumped a few times. Bambi moaned dramatically.
With a flick of my wrist the wand came free and sex beads flew into the air in a practiced arc. I caught them with my free hand. Our fans cheered.
“Well it ain’t a rabbit,” I said and scratched my head confused, placing the beads in my pocket.
I inserted the wand again and this time with a swift tug a ben-wa ball came free and then another. Bambi gasped. The balls floated from between her legs and rose above our heads before landing in the palm of my hand. I gave the ball a sniff and began to twirl them together in spinning circles.
“If I had known you were so excited to be on stage with me, my dear, I would have canceled the─”
A loud buzzing sound interrupted me.
“What is that?”
“Nothing, Lady Lee,” Bambi answered, but the buzzing started up again.
The center portion of the stage began to move in a circle so that the audience caught an eyeful of Bambi’s breasts and the wireless remote in her hands. An expression of wanton delight was on Bambi’s face. The stage paused.
“What is this?” I said, snatching the remote from her hands and turning it off. I stuffed the control in my waistband and searched my pockets. “Aha!” I cried, pulling two scarves from their depths. I slipped the silky ends through the carved wood rings on each side of the sofa back, and secured Bambi’s wrists.
The stage continued to rotate and I aimed the remote.
Off. On. Off. On. Each hit of the remote’s button caused Bambi’s backside to bounce until her ass faced the audience again.
Bambi swiveled her hips in slow motion as I gave another magical tug. She protested as her toy slipped free with a loud plop and floated out from under her skirt.
The silicone rabbit was two inches in diameter and sopping wet from her pretty pink hole. My body was on fire as it was every night and I had to fight to maintain composure. I could almost feel my rubber dick thickening.
I nodded with satisfaction, tossed my hair with a rakish smile and said, “That’s my kind of rabbit.”
Beneath the dark fabric of Bambi’s skirt I pulled one thing after another. The sex toys led to larger objects: a rolling pin (“Baking me a surprise, Love?”), an English cucumber (“Ridged for her pleasure.”), a plunger (“Things are a little stopped up, Sweetings?”), my car keys (“I’ve been looking for those everywhere!”).
The stage was completely dark aside from the spotlight focused on the end of my wand. I slipped its length beneath the fabric covering her rear and the stage was lit with a sudden blast of light from under Bambi’s skirt. “What the?” I yanked again and all was dark. The audience whispered excitedly. I aimed my wand at her ass. Both hands held the wand like it was a fishing line and pulled, the narrow stick bent as if what was on the other end of the line were too heavy to be pulled free. I wiped the sweat from my brow and tossed my wand over my shoulder before reaching under her skirt with both hands.
Another swift pull and I landed ungracefully on my ass, a Tiffany lamp held in my arms. I sat the light beside me and stood. “Let’s just put this back, shall we?” I said lifting the lamp in my hands and aiming the colorful glass shade at Bambi’s rear.
"Kiss of Steel" to be Published!
Torque Press has taken on my baby, "Kiss of Steel" for publication in their locked and loaded anthology! This is to be both an on-line and print anthology. Too Cool, huh? I just love tough chicks and this is sure to be an awesome collection.
Got the edit back today from Torque and there are no major changes...just some typo stuff. I am attaching the rest of the story here...forgot to put it in dare to share. OOPS! Hope you like it and thanks for reading!
This story contains sexually explicit scenes! If you are offended by FF sex or sex using toys, stop reading now!
(Continued from previous post)
Jane’s tongue swept across her plump lower lip, and left the bit of flesh glistening. I cursed her for knowing how fucking wet that made me.
One of her gloved hands lifted toward my breasts.
“Behave,” I said slapping her hand away.
This certainly wasn’t a time to be fucking around, but Jane was all too tempting, and she knew it. She had a hold on me like no other woman ever had. Looks weren’t the only thing about her that kept me at her side. She’d saved my life on more than one occasion. And now she’d found me.
Why fight instinct? It’s what brought her to me. The leather glove made contact with my nipple and I leaned into her palm. The feel of the supple hide tightened my areola and sent jolts of electricity straight to my cunt.
“You want me,” Jane said with a sniff and a satisfied smile on her lips. It wasn’t a secret. “We could bottle that fragrance.” My desire was thick in the air, mingling with her more subtle flavors.
I’d been on the run for more than two months with nothing but my hope for a life outside The Order to keep me company. I had taken flight after flight, from one country to the next, and was called by names other than my own more times than beared remembering.
I had no friends but the woman who had been sent to kill me.
I drew my blade gently along a layer of air above Jane’s throat, careful not break her delicate skin and let the knife catch on the collar of the black turtleneck she wore. The steel took hold in the soft fabric, unraveling the expensive threads one by one.
Jane gasped, her black eyes narrowing into angry slits as I dragged the belly of my knife down her chest, between her breasts and across her stomach until I reached her belly button.
“You bitch,” she whispered huskily. “This top is a Michael Coors.”
“Was.”
I smiled and peeled back the thin fabric. Jane’s skin was golden caramel except for the flush that had spread from her nipples to her neck. A sure sign that she wanted to fuck as much as I did. I drew my blade across the pinkened skin in figure-eights, leaving a pale trail that flushed to red.
Her breath trembled.
I hooked my knife under the center of her bra. Jane glared.
“You wouldn’t!”
I tugged.
“La Perla!”
The fabric snapped and the lace fell away, her breasts swaying to the sides of her body. They were round and firm. The best breast job I had ever seen.
“You always had expensive tastes,” I said.
“They might cost me my life,” Jane whispered.
The tip of my knife circled one nipple and she moaned. The look in her eyes told me she wanted to move beneath me, but she knew my blade well. The steel was honed to a deadly point and lethal in my hands. Only my skill with the stiletto kept her skin from being torn.
Jane gasped when I pulled the blade from her and tossed it to the floor. I leaned forward until our tits touched. Heat spread through my torso and centered in my pussy.
My face was inches from hers, so close I could taste the mint of her breath on my lips. Her tongue slipped from between her lips and found my mouth. She traced my lower lip slowly and traveled to the dent in my upper. Jane then brought her tongue back into her mouth, licked her lips and moaned.
“You found me,” I said softly. When I had left I had told no one. Not even Jane. Her death would not be on my conscience.
“And I always will.”
I closed the distance between us in a quick swoop. Our tongues fought, teeth clashed, the coppery tinge of blood flavored our kisses.
“How long?” I gasped.
I took Jane’s face between my palms.
“Fourteen hours, maybe fifteen,” she said.
I slid my fingers across her scalp, pulling at the pins that held her thick black hair tight to her head. Her femininity wouldn’t allow her to cut it as I had mine—it was one of the things I admired about her. Jane was all woman, but tough as her manicured nails.
She sat up so I was in her lap and her hair slipped free. The silky strands fell around our shoulders, the floral scent of her shampoo invading my nostrils. A life on the road didn’t leave much time for fancy perfumes and spa appointments, but she still smelled of baby pink.
My palms traveled along her spine until they found her ass and I pulled her tight against me.
Jane nibbled her way over to my ear, her teeth tugging my lobe. “You’re not topping me,” she said, leaning back to meet my eyes. “Not tonight.”
“Is that a challenge?” I asked grabbing a fist full of her hair. Tears welled. This is how she liked it.
Hard.
Fast.
Rough.
“A promise,” she hissed. Her eyes narrowed and tears welled.
My fingers were already working her fly, but she had an advantage. I was buck naked and her hands were quick.
Jane pressed her leather-clad fingers against my pussy, slipped between my wet lips and tweaked my clit. I gasped as she circled my hard nubbin, but pulled free, although every instinct
I had told me to let her fuck me.
I used my hold on her hair to pull Jane back until she was nearly flat to the mattress again. “You should cut this,” I said giving her hair a yank. “Might not be me you’re in bed with next time.”
I slithered from atop my lover, my fingers tangled in her thick mane, and inched my way off the bed until my feet were firmly on the floor. Using her hair as a rein, I led her to the edge of the bed. Tears trembled on her lashes and her teeth sank into her lower lip. Perfect white pearls on a cushion of─
The air was knocked from me as her foot made contact with my mid-section. I dropped to my knees on the stained carpet. The pain nearly overwhelmed my desire, but not quite.
Jane’s index finger took hold of my chin and she lifted my face until our eyes met. I smiled slowly, as the air returned to my lungs. God, I loved her.
“Think you’re more of a man than me, Mc Clane?”
She was stunning, her hair a wild disarray, nipples peeking between the lustrous strands, breasts heaving as she caught her breath.
I winked and said, “I know I am.”
I shot up from the floor and grabbed Jane’s right arm. She’d injured her elbow eight months ago and I knew the joint was still weak. It was a dirty blow, but that’s how I fought and Jane should have expected it.
Holding her arm behind her back, I twisted Jane around and pushed her stomach onto the bed.
“Not fair Mc Clane!”
“Who’s fighting fair, Sugar?”
With a swift tug I had Jane’s pants and panties around her knees. I slid my fingers along her ass crack and into her wet hole.
“Missed me did you?” She was wet, her petals soaking my palm.
Easily, three fingers returned home, swimming in her musky depths.
Jane moaned.
My thumb found her fat round clit and the button pulsed against me. I moved my hand in a steady, hard, rhythm. With the sound of every juicy movement my pussy creamed.
“Why are you here, Jane?” I put my weight into the motion and she cried out.
Sweat stung my eyes and dripped onto her back.
“For you,” she gasped. Elation raced through my veins.
My hand found heaven between her scented folds. I twisted my wrist and fell onto the bed next to her, pressing the length of my body to her torso. I humped her hip while my fingers fucked her cunt. The bed told our secrets as its squeaks found our heartbeats. For a minute we were flying free.
Free of danger. Free of guilt. Free of The Order.
We lay quiet, hearts pounding. Jane’s legs were wrapped with mine. Her damp breath began to slow against my shoulder. I stared at the ceiling.
Love was a gamble in our line of work.
I wasn’t sure how we were going to get out of this one. The Order was not an organization to be trifled with. Cliché it may be, but they were one of the most lethal organizations in the world. Neither of us had chosen to be one of its members, but fate had put us there. Everything we knew about survival had been imprinted on our brains through The Order’s skillful training.
That was the problem.
We had to be smarter and quicker than our teacher if we wanted to survive.
“We have to go,” Jane said beside me. She was right; they would be on our trail soon. But my arms tightened around her.
This moment. Skin glistening and the air heavy with our feelings.
“They’re only hours behind me.”
How had this become my life? Bad choices. I couldn’t turn back the clock. Wouldn’t. Not if it meant not knowing Jane.
“You’re with me then?” I asked her. A life on the run was not one many would choose. And it would be forever or until we were dead. She sat up and looked down at me, her face soft from pleasure and eyes moist with dreams.
How could Jane be what I knew she was? A killer and a damned good one. The Order certainly wasn’t going to be happy if their two best agents jumped ship. If they had been determined in find me, they would be twice as diligent in locating the two of us.
“I have more than three million put away,” Jane said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
“I didn’t expect you to come. You don’t have to do this.”
Jane looked over her shoulder at me and ran a hand through my short red hair, and then smoothed it down again. The familiar intimate gesture squeezed my heart.
“Marcus has someone waiting for us at the airport for a flight to Singapore.”
I didn’t ask if she could trust Marcus. She wouldn’t have asked for his help if she couldn’t.
Jane stood and stretched her long arms over her head, the muscles in her back and buttocks flexing in the light from the bathroom. She walked over to the TV stand where she had a small satchel. She tossed the bag to me and then picked up her pants from the floor and shimmied into them. Inside the pack were passports, I.D.s from several countries and a wad of cash as big as my fist.
I had left with a similar stash of my own, but the months had taken a big chunk out of it.
“Singapore it is,” I said.
***
“You two are a porn movie come true,” Marcus said, pulling Jane into a hard hug.
Although I found this to be insulting and glared to emphasize my disapproval, Jane smiled wide and said, “Thanks, baby.” She always did love ‘compliments’, especially when they came to her looks.
Seven hours from Los Angeles after a sleepless night and we were at a private runway in the desert somewhere outside of Vegas. Jane looked as fresh as a daisy and I felt like hammered shit. Marcus didn’t help the feeling with his greasy smile and unsightly comb-over.
“Do you two wanna?” He raised an inquiring brow and pumped his arms. Marcus then twirled a lock of Jane’s hair around his finger and brought it to his nose for a sniff.
“Fuck you,” I said pulling Jane to my side. I wasn’t usually so possessive, but Marcus’s high school theatrics made my skin crawl. Not so Jane. She giggled slipping her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder.
“Mc Clane doesn’t do men,” Jane said, with a pretty pout. “She’s all about hot pussy.”
Damn straight. I hadn’t been felt up by a guy since junior high, and even then I knew I was touching the wrong body parts. I was the anti-dick poster child.
“So sad,” Marcus said. “You could make some hefty coin.”
I hadn’t asked Jane where she knew Marcus from, and I was now wondering if he was as trustworthy as Jane originally thought. He led us out of his cluttered office, and into the empty hanger. The building was crowded with crates from floor to ceiling. I was careful not to notice what was inside them as we hurried past. The dark of pre-sunrise greeted us outside the large doors on the other side. The pinks and oranges muted to purple by the clouds stretching across the sky.
“Your chariot,” Marcus said, extending his hand with a bow.
A private jet was parked on the tarmac.
“Thanks Marcus,” Jane said, throwing herself into his arms again.
“Anything for you doll,” he said. “I won’t forget what you did for my brother.” Marcus brought Jane’s hand to his lips and then left us, the wind whipping around our bodies.
“Come on,” Jane said clinging to my elbow as a gust of wind hit us. She led me up the stairs into the plane. The interior was sparsely decorated, but comfortable. There was seating for a dozen people. Out-of-date wood paneling curved along the walls.
I threw my knapsack in a corner and took a seat, leaning my head back against the cool grey leather. I was exhausted.
Jane returned from galley in the back of the plane with a bottle of wine and package of saltines. “You need to eat something,” she said, and handed me the wine opener and bottle then buckled herself into the seat beside me. “I’ve never been able to count your ribs.”
“And saltines are gonna fix that?” I twisted the screw into the cork and tugged. It wouldn’t budge.
“Just eat the crackers,” Jane said. She took the bottle from me and gave the corkscrew a swift twist, pulling the cork free. I must be more tired than I thought. “When we stop in Seattle to switch planes we’ll work on getting some real food.”
She took a swig of wine while I opened the crackers. They were stale but I ate a couple to make her happy.
“What’s up with Marcus’s brother?”
“New York last Spring.”
“Tommy Cocapelli.”
“Yeah. Hal is Marcus’s brother,” Jane said.
“Our Hal?”
Hal was an older agent and an ammunitions genius. Taught us everything we knew about firearms and weapons. My skill with the knife was his doing. But his reflexes were becoming slower and I knew they thought him a risk. Expendable.
Jane pulled her foot up onto the seat and rested her chin on her knee. “Intel said the Cocapellis knew Hal wasn’t one of them and were gonna take him out.” She ate a cracker. “The Order had decided Hal wasn’t worth the risk of compromising the lives of other agents. They were going to do nothing. I thought differently.”
There was no retiring from our calling, just death; by The Order’s hands or their enemies.
“That was the solo mission,” I gritted out between clenched teeth. Anger flushed my system.
The one she wouldn’t tell me about. Unsanctioned.
“He’s been with The Order more than twenty years. They wouldn’t watch his back, so I did.”
I took her hand in mine and swallowed hard. Anger twisted my gut. Jane had barely come back alive from that mission and it hadn’t been the mob that had gotten hold of her.
The Order was not our family. The people we worked with were not there to take care of us, but to keep us alive to further their goals. Where we lived, what we ate, who we fucked—that was with their permission.
Step out of line and there was a price. And knowing that, Jane was still with me.
“You’ve got some balls, Sugar.” The plane picked up speed.
“Nearly as big as yours.” We lifted off the runway, sunrise lighting the cabin.
I saluted her with the wine bottle and knocked back another swallow.
***
We touched down on a dirt runway just outside Olympia, in the small town of Yelm, Washington. Not much there but beautiful scenery and the beat-up Lincoln continental waiting for us in the overgrown grass.
“It’s pretty here,” Jane said, opening the passenger door. “It smells so clean.”
“But there’s no shopping,” I said.
Jane stuck her tongue out at me before she slid into the car.
I breathed in the pine treed earth and took in Mt. Rainier’s white cap in the distance over the hood of the car. A mountain cabin and fireplace to keep us warm in the winter sounded nice. It was easy to imagine Jane out of her four inch heels and designer labels. A nice warm flannel would be an inviting contrast.
We were still in the states. Not far enough away. Not yet.
The keys were behind the sun visor. The car started with a sputter, kicking up gravel along the dirt road. Two hours and we would be at Sea-Tac airport.
When I’d first met Jane I didn’t think she had it in her to do the job we did. I’d seen many, stronger, tougher broads fall under the weight of guilt our “profession” brought. Trainee qualifications had never been beauty school know-how and an ability to give hard-ons at twenty paces. Oh, don’t get me wrong, looks were an asset in our line of work. Many a man had been brought down by a nice pair of tits and a pretty smile. But taking life was not a woman’s specialty.
Jane’s husband was six feet under because he had fallen for a beauty that would not take his possessive jealousy. He had started locking doors and telling her what she could and could not wear Jane felt trapped. A month went by, then two and he no longer wanted her talk to her friends or leave the house without him. She no longer was allowed access to money. Nothing could be done without his approval. A year later she had been found guilty of poisoning him.
As I took the ramp onto the highway I looked over at Jane. She was already asleep beside me, her body drifting toward mine across the cracked vinyl seat. I extended my arm and slipped it behind her neck, pulling her to my side. I’d always envied her ability to fall asleep quickly.
The Order had me in its fold for close to two years when Jane arrived, and I had hated every minute of my time there. It was worse than the year I spent in prison. Incarcerated, I had a release date and an option for parole in two years. The Order was a life sentence with no chance of making it to the outside again.
I had worked my way up in the ranks by keeping my eye on the prize. Learn fast, train hard and find a way out. All it would take was money and an opportunity.
Before the Order I had been a martial arts instructor. A hobby I had picked up after my uncle
Charlie had decided his niece was a perfect target to flash his sagging balls at. Mom had worked two, sometimes three, jobs to keep us fed and she couldn’t be a watchdog to his advances. So, I learned to protect myself and Callie, my little sister. Callie was knocked up when at fifteen, not by my uncle, but a boy from school. My niece was a beauty and my uncle thought so too. That was how I wound up in the pen and that was where The Order found me.
They looked for recruits that had skills they could use to their advantage. Mine had been an ability to kill someone with one swift move. Jane’s had been her talent of fucking coldly while stabbing the target in the back.
It had been hard to accept, Jane’s position within the organization. She shifted against me and I tightened my arm around her.
We hadn’t been lovers that first time they sent her out to fuck a stranger and steal his secrets. That mission had been kept from me. The Order knew I had a soft spot for Jane. Knew that I wanted her for myself. They wouldn’t let me have her. Not then.
Jane had come to me, tears streaming from her dark eyes and her lips bruised from another’s kisses. She’d sobbed into my neck, her mascara running down her formerly perfectly made-up face. Those calculated come-hither looks were a shield around her heart.
That first night together we had clung to each other and found our humanity. It wasn’t until weeks later that we took each other and found hope in one another’s eyes.
***
“Love your connections,” I said to Jane, buckling myself into the co-pilot seat of the Boeing 747 on its way to Singapore. Jane straightened her conservative navy blue pencil skirt made jaw-dropping by the curve of her ass. She fluffed the out-dated eighties style tie on the neck of her cream-colored stewardess blouse.
“And they love me,” she said holding up the mirror of her compact. I still couldn’t get used to Jane as a blonde. She was too sharp for the golds that framed her high cheekbones. She brought one finger to her mouth and wet it, then smoothed it along her narrow eyebrows. The make-up was a new acquisition from the airport drugstore. “But not like you.” My shoulder was given a quick squeeze and Jane left the cabin.
We had parked the car in twelve hour parking and then Jane had led me to the locker rooms for United Airlines. She knew exactly what locker to visit. Uniforms had been waiting for us, along with I.D. badges. I’d never had an easier time boarding a plane.
My training as a pilot was The Order’s doing, and I am sure they were regretting it now.
“Attention passengers,” I said into the intercom, flipping switches as I spoke. “This is your co-pilot, Patricia Anderson. If you would please take your seats, Captain Friedman and I will have you on your way.” This was the best way of skipping country. The Order wouldn’t be expecting us to fly a commercial airplane. They would be keeping all solo flights and small aircraft grounded.
We had been in the air two hours when Jane came back into the cabin and spoke into the pilot’s ear. Friedman smiled and I watched out of the corner of my eye as Jane’s finger ran down the side of his ear. A blush spread down his neck. He flipped his eyes over at me and shifted in his seat. I knew he wished I wasn’t here. Tough luck asshole.
“I’m already taking some pretty big risks,” he said, getting up from his seat. Jane smiled and tongued her lips. She set her palm on the back of his neck and twisted the curls against his nape. He needed a haircut. His glare softened. “Ten minutes.” Marcus left the cabin and Jane made herself comfortable in his vacated chair.
“Remember that flight to Belize?” She asked, setting her hand on my knee.
“You kidding?” How could I forget? The memory was made stronger by Jane’s traveling fingers climbing higher. Jane’s hand came to rest on the crease where my thigh met my hip. Last time she hadn’t stopped there. Her fingers had journeyed beneath my waistband and we had finger fucked at ten thousand feet. But then, I hadn’t been flying the plane, but had been sitting comfortably in first class.
“When we get to Singapore we’re gonna join a commercial fishing freighter to Australia.”
“Fuck!”
“They won’t be expecting you to travel by boat,” Jane said.
“’Cause last time nearly killed me.” I get violently ill traveling by water.
“You won’t be alone this time.”
And that was the only way I would get on a boat this time.
***
We were tall and unfortunately stood out quite a bit, but hopefully were perceived as we presented ourselves. Jane, although still striking, was playing down her looks. I am sure it was a hardship for her to wear the looser clothing and sans the make-up. I was in drag. My red hair was slick with pomade, making it appear brown. The narrow tuft of artificial hair on my lip was itchy. I had to force myself not to play with it. In a suit, I made a passable man, if a pretty one.
My queasy stomach wasn’t going to make this easy. I had scored some Dramamine, but was still nervous. I hated it when I lost control and stepping onto a boat was a sure way of giving up my power. I wasn’t sure if this journey was going to keep us safe or make us more vulnerable to our enemies. If they found our vessel there was nowhere to run and I wouldn’t be able to protect us. I would have to rely completely on Jane. Not easy for me.
Our cabin was lacking in the amenities. The space was eight by eight foot, with a bunk bed, a trunk, and a small port hole. Claustrophobia was setting in already. My stomach began to roll. I took a seat on the lower bunk and lowered my head between my knees. I was a trained assassin, not this weak-kneed pussy .
“Already?” Jane said coming into the room. She shut the door behind her and tossed her pack onto the top bunk. “We haven’t even left the dock.” She sat down beside me and ran a soothing hand over my back.
“I told you this was a bad idea.”
“You took your pills?”
I nodded.
“Well, don’t throw-up, it’s gross.” Jane said and moved the waist basket closer to the bed.
I glared up at her. A loud bell sounded and the boat began to move, my stomach with it.
“You need a distraction,” Jane said.
Did praying to God count? I squeezed my eyes shut tightly committing myself to my newfound calling.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
Food was the last thing on my mind. “You’re not helping, Jane.” I gritted my teeth and stared at my feet, concentrating on the toes of my black leather boots.
“You really should eat,” Jane said standing.
“Look woman, anything I eat will end up painting the floor.”
The ship rolled and I felt myself turn green.
“But you haven’t eaten any pussy today,” she said pouting.
I lifted my head to see that Jane had taken off her pants and panties.
“Sugar, I don’t think─”
Jane took my head between her palms. “Don’t think Mc Clane.” She brought my head close to her mound and the familiar bouquet invaded my senses. “Eat.”
My face was so close I could see the stubble growing on her soft skin. Normally, she was smooth as silk, but our present situation didn’t allow for waxing. There was a small tuft of curly hair curving around the hood of her clit, the wet pearl just hidden.
I rubbed my cheek across her pubs, feeling the gentle scratch. Hands full of Jane’s ass; I turned my head so my nose bumped her heated nubbin. The treat poked free of its shelter.
My stomach pitched, but lower, my gut tightening as desire replaced sickness.
“Take your medicine, Mc Clane.”
Tongue sharp I leaned forward and pushed between Jane’s folds. They embraced my tongue, clinging to every taste bud. Sharp, sweet, sticky love. My tongue swam between the soft skin until her clit was anchored between my lips.
Jane gasped and took hold of the railing on the upper bunk.
I took my medicine, sucking her pill and tapped my tongue softly. With each pat her buttocks tensed and she moaned my name. I brought a hand around and slipped it between her thighs.
Wet heat warmed my fingers.
Suction centered.
Jane rocked against my face crying out my name.
***
After a couple of days my stomach found the pitch and sway of the boat. I wouldn’t say I felt one hundred percent, but I could stand on my feet and eat without my food coming back up to get reacquainted.
The two of us were working in the galley. Jane had more culinary experience so she was boss. She planned a menu and I was put to work prepping for her. Being good with a knife helped when you were a sous chef. It was peaceful chopping and slicing.
I liked to watch Jane . She had a way with the crew. Not a surprise considering they were all men. I think her breathy voice and flirtatious nature reminded them of girlfriends and wives back home. They also liked the low-cut shirts she wore with her apron. The men worked hard and were grateful for the thought Jane put into the menu.
The weeks on board fell into a pattern and I could almost forget the Order existed. There was nothing but the sea, the salt air, and Jane snuggled close at night. I was more happy than I could remember being in a long time.
If we could stay on the ocean they would never find us. But then my stomach would pitch again and I knew it couldn’t last.
***
We had been in Australia for two days and now that we had a secure place to live, I had gone out in search of a gift for my woman. Jane deserved a treat after those weeks at sea. It had taken longer than I expected and when I opened the door to the motel room, I was hit by Jane’s body flying into me.
“Where have you been?” Jane asked, squeezing me to her. “It’s been an hour!” She was shaking.
“I had to…”
“I thought…I thought…” She said her voice catching.
“Hey.” I pulled Jane’s head back and looked into her dark eyes and saw what I knew was in my own. Trust. Vulnerability. Love. “I’m okay.” I kissed her forehead. “I was getting you a present.” I led her over to the bed and tossed the brown paper bag onto the mattress. I took off my coat and turned to face her, rubbing my hands together expectantly.
“Take off your panties.”
Jane looked up at me blankly. She was wearing was a black tank-top and a pair of thigh-high hipsters. Conservative on most people, but on Jane a simple seduction.
“I love it when you’re forceful?” she purred. Jane hooked her thumbs under the soft cotton at her hips and slid the panties from under her ass. She leaned back on the bed to make a show of sliding the scrap of fabric down her long legs. “Like what you see Mc Clane?” How could I not? Jane flicked the panties off of her toes into the air and caught them in her hand. Impressive. With one finger, she twirled the panties in the air in a couple of rapid circles before flinging them so they hit me in the chest and fell at my feet.
“Open your present.”
Jane pulled out a can of shaving cream from the bag and a blush spread across her cheeks. I think it was the first time I had ever seen anything but a blush of desire.
“Not a carpet muncher Mc Clane?” she said, raising one long thin brow.
“What?—oh no, sugar,” I said, sitting down next to her and taking the shaving cream from her.
“This isn’t a complaint.” I pulled her down onto the bed so that we lay facing each other. “You could grow a jungle down there sugar, and I would go on a clit safari any day of the week.” I slid my hand between her legs and rested my palm on the soft hair that had grown up in the past few weeks. “But you like to be smooth, sweetie.” I kissed the tip of her nose and got up from the bed.
I went to the bathroom and came back with the ice bucket full of warm water. Jane lay on her back, knees bent and legs spread. I sat beside her and gave the can of shaving cream a shake, the bead making a loud ping against the metal. Just below Jane’s belly button I squirted a small ball of foam. She giggled.
I crawled between Jane’s legs and spread the mound of white flat and thin between her thighs. I massaged the white bubbles into her skin and pressed the smooth cream between her pussy lips until her hips followed my movement and soft moans played like background music in the room.
I took my knife from my boot. “Be still, Sugar.”
Jane froze her breath ragged.
“Ready?” I asked raising a brow. Jane looked obscene with the white foam covering her pussy and the golden tan of he legs fallen open. I could just see a hint of wet pink in the center of all that white.
“I’ve never let anyone shave me.”
My pussy creamed.
“Something Jane Paul hasn’t done?” I said. “Well you just lay still, sugar, while I demonstrate my skill with the blade.” I held my stiletto firmly between my fingers and Jane held her breath.
“Ready?” I asked and she nodded. I set my knife at the top of her hairline and drew the sharp edge across her delicate skin in the direction of her clit. She gasped as each hair caught on my knife and came free leaving a hairless reverse Mohawk across her mound.
I rinsed my blade in the ice bucket.
Again, I ran my stiletto across her skin, removing hair and leaving a blush of pink on her skin.
Jane’s desire clung to my nose hairs, making a home in my sinuses as I opened her legs further and cleaned her flesh free of hair until she was as bare as a newborn.
I leaned close and blew against the sensitive flesh. Goose bumps rose along the skin and Jane gasped, her hands flying to her pussy. The feel of steel on flesh had been too much for her and now she had to touch. My eyes followed her fingers as they played with her soft bits. Her thumb and forefinger took her clit firmly in hand and began to squeeze in soft controlled motions. Her other fingers were in her pussy diving in a forceful need to get off.
Again, I blew against her skin and she cried out. I leaned in close and my tongue found the spot between her fingers, wetting her clit, spreading her juices against the hard excited nubbin.
Jane called out my name, her thighs tensing, the long muscles stretching past my ears and collapsed against the mattress.
***
After Australia had been Russia and after Russia Brazil. We’d driven through the back roads of small villages, living off or rice and beans. The journey had lasted six months and now we were back in the states. We were in Borrego Springs, California. A small desert town with a population of three thousand. A single road ran between the shops selling south west souvenirs and Mexican food. We had driven across the border from Mexico yesterday and had a road trip planned to Canada, where we hoped we could stop running.
I sat at a table in the back of the bar, close to the kitchens and sipped a beer. Jane was at the hotel down the road sleeping off her jetlag, but I was restless, too tired to sleep. Something had me on edge ever since we arrived back. I was hoping it wasn’t instincts.
Bells on the door handle at the front of the bar rattled as another person came into the dimly lit room out of the desert heat.
“Can I help you?” The bartender asked.
It was the bartender’s tone of voice that had me sitting up straighter and turning in my seat.
“Have you seen these women?” They one who spoke was Bahir. He slapped a photo down on the bar. There were three men dressed in black and wearing sunglasses. The tall lanky man I recognized as Dawson. I didn’t know the shorter one. These were not tourists.
The bartender shifted his feet and I could see him reach beneath the counter, his hands resting comfortably on a shotgun.
My senses became heightened. The waitress drying the barware was still.
“No,” the bartender said, not looking down at the pictures.
“Perhaps you should take another look,” Bahir said, pushing the photos forward.
I slid down the blue vinyl seat of the booth until I was under the table and pulled a gun from the waistband of my Levis. My knife was in my boot.
“I saw just fine,” the bartender said.
Dawson and shorty were no longer at the bar. I knew they were sweeping the room, but I couldn’t see them from my position on the floor.
“Don’t let their good looks fool you. They’re armed and dangerous,” Dawson said.
There were five others in the bar. A couple was at a booth near the front entrance. She was black and dressed in a pretty white dress in sharp contrast with her ebony skin. He wore sandals with jeans and had a large tattoo on the back of his neck the disappeared under his white linen shirt.
“Are you the police?” The waitress asked, coming to stand beside the bartender. She twisted the rag she had been drying the glasses with in her hands and shifted from foot to foot.
“Perhaps you should leave,” the bartender said addressing the newcomers and pushing the waitress behind him. She walked toward the kitchen looking over her shoulder nervously. I could hear the panicked conversation in Spanish after she went through the swinging doors from where I crawled along the tacky floor two booths away.
Two migrant workers and were playing pool near the jukebox on the other side of me. They stopped and stared at me, speaking rapidly in Spanish and pointing to the front of the bar.
The first bullet splintered the wood just above my head and I rolled, landing on the black and white tile floor in the kitchen at a crouch, surrounded by stainless steel. From my position I saw the pool players drop flat to the floor and shimmy under the table as bullets tore up the booth behind them.
The old drunken man at the end of the horseshoe shaped bar jumped from his stool and hit the floor with a crash.
My knife flew from the doorway, hitting the henchman who had fired at me. He collapsed without a sound.
The woman in white let out a blood curdling scream.
“Mc Clane!”
I stood and peered around the corner to see the woman pulled tight against the assassin, his gun at her temple. Tears were streaming down her face.
“Let her go!” the sandaled man was yelling. “Please!”
“Let’s all relax,” the bartender said. He held his rifle pointed at the intruders. People were going to die and there was nothing I could do about it.
“Do you want this woman’s blood on your conscience Mc Clane?”
Baher had ice in his veins and I had no doubt he would shoot her. I hurried around the prep station across the kitchen to the swinging doors on the opposite side. I lifted my gun and fired off two shots. Dawson fell across a table, a bullet in the head ending his life. The kitchen was empty now as I raced back to the other side. I scurried over to the first gunman and removed my knife, wiping the blood from my blade onto my jeans.
There was a sound behind me and I turned, leg extended, and another person dressed in black tripped over my ankle and fell to the ground. He sat up and I swung my arm in an arc hitting him in the jugular.
He’d come from the kitchen, which meant there were more outside. How many had they sent? Did they know where Jane was? They mustn’t find her.
Bahir was turning slowly back and forth, he eyes panicked. He knew I was about to end his sorry life.
“Let her go, Bahir and I might let you live.”
“You don’t have a chance Mc Clane!”
Without hesitation I stood.
Say hello to the devil from me.” With a practiced flick of my arm, my knife flew. Before Bahir had time to think, it sunk between the eyes with a soft thump. Blood flew in all directions and covered the girl he had been holding. She was screaming in short bursts, tears racing down her face.
“Get down!” I shouted, flying forward and knocking her to the ground. Bullets flew through the windows. Glass shatter splayed the floor in a sharp rainfall.
“Everyone stay down!” I yelled. On hands and knees I moved across the floor as quickly as I could toward the kitchen. The Order was shooting the place up, that meant that the agents had been miked and they knew they were dead. Their only goal was to take me out.
Once behind the wall, I made my way to the service entrance. I kicked the door open and saw nothing but blue sky and desert. All looked clear, but I knew it couldn’t be. My head was ringing and my eyes stinging from the sweat that was now running down my face. I lifted a hand to wipe my brow and it came back red. Blood.
I couldn’t stay. If they found me they knew where Jane was and they would have her shortly. Or they already had her. I blocked the thought out of my mind and threw myself out the door in a summersalt, gun drawn, expecting gunfire, but there was nothing. The silence outside mirrored the noise inside. It was two in the afternoon and close to one hundred ten degrees. The town was silent.
Siesta.
I was now behind the restaurant and shops. Nothing but discarded boxes and large trash dumpsters were there to greet me. The length of the buildings at my back, I made my way in the direction of the hotel half a dozen buildings away. There was a copse of aging palm trees lining the perimeter and I took shelter there, reloading my gun.
All was quiet. The wind blowing sand and grit against my sweaty skin. Was Jane asleep in there? Dreaming of a life together without violence.
I stepped between the towering trees and across the gravel parking lot to the hotel. Our room was on the back corner and I couldn’t see the door from where I was. Back along the wall I made my way down, the sound of my heart in my ears.
The door was ajar. Without thought I kicked it the rest of the way in.
“Ja─” An arm shot out clothes lining me. I doubled over and clutched at my throat afraid my trachea was broken, my vision blurring. The shadows of legs were in front of my eyes and then all went black.
***
The room was deathly cold and dark. A chill enveloped the solid interior of the cement structure I was held in. I could make out the outline of the door across from me. In it’s center was a small window and outside I could see sky and bits of green.
Freedom.
Mere feet from me, an exit, but it might as well been miles away. My arms had fallen asleep hours ago from being raised above me head, and my wrists were raw from my weight pulling at the restraints in the ceiling. My attempts at escape had been futile and served only to weaken me.
I may have been down here for days, or hours. Time was still to me.
Behind me was another door. It was where those loyal to the Order came through. They drizzled water into my mouth with a sponge, giving me just enough sustenance to keep me alive. They wanted Jane, but I would die before I told them. My back bore the proof of my resolve. The strikes of the lash burned and the blood stained my jeans.
Jane and I had been so close. Our time at sea had made us over-confident. We were beginning to feel normal, like real people. Why did we think we could come to the states?
The Order didn’t have Jane. If they did they would have mentioned her during the hours of torture. They would have brought her here and hurt in front of me. That was the only way they could break me.
A door opened behind me and I tried to see over my shoulder. The wounds on my back burned a like a mother fucker.
“I trust you are well Mc Clane?” Maxamilian said. He was the head of the United States branch of The Order. I hadn’t expected him here, not yet.
“Your girlfriend tells me she wouldn’t be happy if you were harmed in any way.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said.
The sound of his shoes echoed in the small space as Max came to stand in front of me, but I wouldn’t look up.
“We know better than that,” he said.
“Go to hell.”
“We hand picked her ourselves.”
“You don’t control me.”
“She a good fuck, Mc Clane?”
My vision blurred and I thought of Jane. Safe. Away from here, on an island sipping fruity drinks with colorful umbrellas in them. I could hear the crash of waves on the beach and the one-liners the men were throwing at her as they tried to get her into bed.
“I taught her everything she knows,” Max said.
I looked up and glared.
Max smiled, his teeth flashing neon white against his manufactured tan. He was a short, but handsome man somewhere between forty-five and sixty. His salt and pepper hair was overly long and curled around his nape.
“You weren’t so receptive to my advances, Mc Clane,” he said, standing too close. Max took hold of my chin in a rough grip. “That uncle of yours the only man to touch that twat?”
“Fuck you!” I spit in his face.
“No fuck you, Mc Clane!” He said taking hold of my Levis and dragging them around my knees. In that moment I was a ten year old girl again and frozen, terrified. The wounds on my back were nothing compared to the fear that sliced through me. Nausea made my stomach quake.
I shut my eyes tight and thought of Jane. Beautiful Jane.
Max’s tongue flicked against my lower jaw.
“Move one millimeter and I’ll cut off your dick!” Jane’s voice came from behind me and I felt despair fill me. She wasn’t safe.
“And you took such pleasure from my cock before,” Max said, looking over my shoulder at her.
“You prick couldn’t satisfy anyone but a teenager too stupid to know what fucking was,” she said.
Max took hold of my throat with one hand.
“You trained her to fuck and smile while hating every moment,” I said, and spit in his face. He squeezed gently, his eyes boring into mine.
“Let go Max!” Jane ordered.
His grip tightened, and my throat began to close.
Bright dots of color peppered my vision.
“Jospehine!” Jane shouted.
All went black.
I was in Jane’s arms. This could mean I’d died and gone to heaven. But my throat hurt like a mother-fucker. The pain in my shoulders was worse.
I opened my eyes. Max was gone.
“What…” I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. It was difficult to speak. I rubbed my tender vocal chords, “…happened?”
“Quiet Mc Clane,” Jane said and kissed my forehead.
“You found me,” I rasped.
“I keep my promises,” she said, helping me to my feet. I stood awkwardly shivering. The room was cold and I didn’t have a shirt.
The door behind us was wide open and the building eerily silent of movement.
“How long have I been out?” I asked, placing a hand against the wall for support.
“Not long,” Jane said. “Can you walk?”
“Of course,” I said, but wasn’t as confident as I sounded. I knew I was dehydrated and weak. Jane reached behind her back and drew my blade from her waistband. The familiar weight straightened my spine and my resolve. We would get out of this.
“Where’s Max?” There wasn’t a body.
“Gone.”
“What?”
“He’s gone.”
***
“Why didn’t you just inform Max that you had evidence of his part in Josephine’s murder before you came after me?” Josephine was legend amongst us. There had never been an agent more destined to run the Order. Not just the American branch, which Max was now head of, due to her death, but the world Order.
“The demand for your death had already been given. I had to get to you before anyone else did. I had to be sure you were safe.”
“I can take care of myself, Sugar.” I gasped as she applied ointment to my back, and then gritted my teeth.
“Yeah, looks like it,” she said, closing the jar and setting it on the nightstand.
“Hey, it was me against six.”
“And now, it’s you against me,” Jane whispered huskily. My savior lay down on the bed beside me and rested her head on her palm, elbow bent to the mattress. She stretched her long fingers to my forehead and ran them through my hair.
The Order would no longer bother us. Josephine’s ring had seen to that. I took Jane’s hand in mine and saw what Max had when Jane had come to get me out of my cell. On her ring finger was a large pink diamond set in a band of gold. Unique not only for its color, but for the microscopic camera that had captured her demise on film.
“At last, we’re dead Mc Clane.”
Max’s desire for power was more important than his need to see us dead.
I brought my arm around her waist and pulled Jane flush to my side so we were hip to hip. “You feel alive to me, Sugar.” And sleep found me.
Got the edit back today from Torque and there are no major changes...just some typo stuff. I am attaching the rest of the story here...forgot to put it in dare to share. OOPS! Hope you like it and thanks for reading!
This story contains sexually explicit scenes! If you are offended by FF sex or sex using toys, stop reading now!
(Continued from previous post)
Jane’s tongue swept across her plump lower lip, and left the bit of flesh glistening. I cursed her for knowing how fucking wet that made me.
One of her gloved hands lifted toward my breasts.
“Behave,” I said slapping her hand away.
This certainly wasn’t a time to be fucking around, but Jane was all too tempting, and she knew it. She had a hold on me like no other woman ever had. Looks weren’t the only thing about her that kept me at her side. She’d saved my life on more than one occasion. And now she’d found me.
Why fight instinct? It’s what brought her to me. The leather glove made contact with my nipple and I leaned into her palm. The feel of the supple hide tightened my areola and sent jolts of electricity straight to my cunt.
“You want me,” Jane said with a sniff and a satisfied smile on her lips. It wasn’t a secret. “We could bottle that fragrance.” My desire was thick in the air, mingling with her more subtle flavors.
I’d been on the run for more than two months with nothing but my hope for a life outside The Order to keep me company. I had taken flight after flight, from one country to the next, and was called by names other than my own more times than beared remembering.
I had no friends but the woman who had been sent to kill me.
I drew my blade gently along a layer of air above Jane’s throat, careful not break her delicate skin and let the knife catch on the collar of the black turtleneck she wore. The steel took hold in the soft fabric, unraveling the expensive threads one by one.
Jane gasped, her black eyes narrowing into angry slits as I dragged the belly of my knife down her chest, between her breasts and across her stomach until I reached her belly button.
“You bitch,” she whispered huskily. “This top is a Michael Coors.”
“Was.”
I smiled and peeled back the thin fabric. Jane’s skin was golden caramel except for the flush that had spread from her nipples to her neck. A sure sign that she wanted to fuck as much as I did. I drew my blade across the pinkened skin in figure-eights, leaving a pale trail that flushed to red.
Her breath trembled.
I hooked my knife under the center of her bra. Jane glared.
“You wouldn’t!”
I tugged.
“La Perla!”
The fabric snapped and the lace fell away, her breasts swaying to the sides of her body. They were round and firm. The best breast job I had ever seen.
“You always had expensive tastes,” I said.
“They might cost me my life,” Jane whispered.
The tip of my knife circled one nipple and she moaned. The look in her eyes told me she wanted to move beneath me, but she knew my blade well. The steel was honed to a deadly point and lethal in my hands. Only my skill with the stiletto kept her skin from being torn.
Jane gasped when I pulled the blade from her and tossed it to the floor. I leaned forward until our tits touched. Heat spread through my torso and centered in my pussy.
My face was inches from hers, so close I could taste the mint of her breath on my lips. Her tongue slipped from between her lips and found my mouth. She traced my lower lip slowly and traveled to the dent in my upper. Jane then brought her tongue back into her mouth, licked her lips and moaned.
“You found me,” I said softly. When I had left I had told no one. Not even Jane. Her death would not be on my conscience.
“And I always will.”
I closed the distance between us in a quick swoop. Our tongues fought, teeth clashed, the coppery tinge of blood flavored our kisses.
“How long?” I gasped.
I took Jane’s face between my palms.
“Fourteen hours, maybe fifteen,” she said.
I slid my fingers across her scalp, pulling at the pins that held her thick black hair tight to her head. Her femininity wouldn’t allow her to cut it as I had mine—it was one of the things I admired about her. Jane was all woman, but tough as her manicured nails.
She sat up so I was in her lap and her hair slipped free. The silky strands fell around our shoulders, the floral scent of her shampoo invading my nostrils. A life on the road didn’t leave much time for fancy perfumes and spa appointments, but she still smelled of baby pink.
My palms traveled along her spine until they found her ass and I pulled her tight against me.
Jane nibbled her way over to my ear, her teeth tugging my lobe. “You’re not topping me,” she said, leaning back to meet my eyes. “Not tonight.”
“Is that a challenge?” I asked grabbing a fist full of her hair. Tears welled. This is how she liked it.
Hard.
Fast.
Rough.
“A promise,” she hissed. Her eyes narrowed and tears welled.
My fingers were already working her fly, but she had an advantage. I was buck naked and her hands were quick.
Jane pressed her leather-clad fingers against my pussy, slipped between my wet lips and tweaked my clit. I gasped as she circled my hard nubbin, but pulled free, although every instinct
I had told me to let her fuck me.
I used my hold on her hair to pull Jane back until she was nearly flat to the mattress again. “You should cut this,” I said giving her hair a yank. “Might not be me you’re in bed with next time.”
I slithered from atop my lover, my fingers tangled in her thick mane, and inched my way off the bed until my feet were firmly on the floor. Using her hair as a rein, I led her to the edge of the bed. Tears trembled on her lashes and her teeth sank into her lower lip. Perfect white pearls on a cushion of─
The air was knocked from me as her foot made contact with my mid-section. I dropped to my knees on the stained carpet. The pain nearly overwhelmed my desire, but not quite.
Jane’s index finger took hold of my chin and she lifted my face until our eyes met. I smiled slowly, as the air returned to my lungs. God, I loved her.
“Think you’re more of a man than me, Mc Clane?”
She was stunning, her hair a wild disarray, nipples peeking between the lustrous strands, breasts heaving as she caught her breath.
I winked and said, “I know I am.”
I shot up from the floor and grabbed Jane’s right arm. She’d injured her elbow eight months ago and I knew the joint was still weak. It was a dirty blow, but that’s how I fought and Jane should have expected it.
Holding her arm behind her back, I twisted Jane around and pushed her stomach onto the bed.
“Not fair Mc Clane!”
“Who’s fighting fair, Sugar?”
With a swift tug I had Jane’s pants and panties around her knees. I slid my fingers along her ass crack and into her wet hole.
“Missed me did you?” She was wet, her petals soaking my palm.
Easily, three fingers returned home, swimming in her musky depths.
Jane moaned.
My thumb found her fat round clit and the button pulsed against me. I moved my hand in a steady, hard, rhythm. With the sound of every juicy movement my pussy creamed.
“Why are you here, Jane?” I put my weight into the motion and she cried out.
Sweat stung my eyes and dripped onto her back.
“For you,” she gasped. Elation raced through my veins.
My hand found heaven between her scented folds. I twisted my wrist and fell onto the bed next to her, pressing the length of my body to her torso. I humped her hip while my fingers fucked her cunt. The bed told our secrets as its squeaks found our heartbeats. For a minute we were flying free.
Free of danger. Free of guilt. Free of The Order.
We lay quiet, hearts pounding. Jane’s legs were wrapped with mine. Her damp breath began to slow against my shoulder. I stared at the ceiling.
Love was a gamble in our line of work.
I wasn’t sure how we were going to get out of this one. The Order was not an organization to be trifled with. Cliché it may be, but they were one of the most lethal organizations in the world. Neither of us had chosen to be one of its members, but fate had put us there. Everything we knew about survival had been imprinted on our brains through The Order’s skillful training.
That was the problem.
We had to be smarter and quicker than our teacher if we wanted to survive.
“We have to go,” Jane said beside me. She was right; they would be on our trail soon. But my arms tightened around her.
This moment. Skin glistening and the air heavy with our feelings.
“They’re only hours behind me.”
How had this become my life? Bad choices. I couldn’t turn back the clock. Wouldn’t. Not if it meant not knowing Jane.
“You’re with me then?” I asked her. A life on the run was not one many would choose. And it would be forever or until we were dead. She sat up and looked down at me, her face soft from pleasure and eyes moist with dreams.
How could Jane be what I knew she was? A killer and a damned good one. The Order certainly wasn’t going to be happy if their two best agents jumped ship. If they had been determined in find me, they would be twice as diligent in locating the two of us.
“I have more than three million put away,” Jane said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
“I didn’t expect you to come. You don’t have to do this.”
Jane looked over her shoulder at me and ran a hand through my short red hair, and then smoothed it down again. The familiar intimate gesture squeezed my heart.
“Marcus has someone waiting for us at the airport for a flight to Singapore.”
I didn’t ask if she could trust Marcus. She wouldn’t have asked for his help if she couldn’t.
Jane stood and stretched her long arms over her head, the muscles in her back and buttocks flexing in the light from the bathroom. She walked over to the TV stand where she had a small satchel. She tossed the bag to me and then picked up her pants from the floor and shimmied into them. Inside the pack were passports, I.D.s from several countries and a wad of cash as big as my fist.
I had left with a similar stash of my own, but the months had taken a big chunk out of it.
“Singapore it is,” I said.
***
“You two are a porn movie come true,” Marcus said, pulling Jane into a hard hug.
Although I found this to be insulting and glared to emphasize my disapproval, Jane smiled wide and said, “Thanks, baby.” She always did love ‘compliments’, especially when they came to her looks.
Seven hours from Los Angeles after a sleepless night and we were at a private runway in the desert somewhere outside of Vegas. Jane looked as fresh as a daisy and I felt like hammered shit. Marcus didn’t help the feeling with his greasy smile and unsightly comb-over.
“Do you two wanna?” He raised an inquiring brow and pumped his arms. Marcus then twirled a lock of Jane’s hair around his finger and brought it to his nose for a sniff.
“Fuck you,” I said pulling Jane to my side. I wasn’t usually so possessive, but Marcus’s high school theatrics made my skin crawl. Not so Jane. She giggled slipping her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder.
“Mc Clane doesn’t do men,” Jane said, with a pretty pout. “She’s all about hot pussy.”
Damn straight. I hadn’t been felt up by a guy since junior high, and even then I knew I was touching the wrong body parts. I was the anti-dick poster child.
“So sad,” Marcus said. “You could make some hefty coin.”
I hadn’t asked Jane where she knew Marcus from, and I was now wondering if he was as trustworthy as Jane originally thought. He led us out of his cluttered office, and into the empty hanger. The building was crowded with crates from floor to ceiling. I was careful not to notice what was inside them as we hurried past. The dark of pre-sunrise greeted us outside the large doors on the other side. The pinks and oranges muted to purple by the clouds stretching across the sky.
“Your chariot,” Marcus said, extending his hand with a bow.
A private jet was parked on the tarmac.
“Thanks Marcus,” Jane said, throwing herself into his arms again.
“Anything for you doll,” he said. “I won’t forget what you did for my brother.” Marcus brought Jane’s hand to his lips and then left us, the wind whipping around our bodies.
“Come on,” Jane said clinging to my elbow as a gust of wind hit us. She led me up the stairs into the plane. The interior was sparsely decorated, but comfortable. There was seating for a dozen people. Out-of-date wood paneling curved along the walls.
I threw my knapsack in a corner and took a seat, leaning my head back against the cool grey leather. I was exhausted.
Jane returned from galley in the back of the plane with a bottle of wine and package of saltines. “You need to eat something,” she said, and handed me the wine opener and bottle then buckled herself into the seat beside me. “I’ve never been able to count your ribs.”
“And saltines are gonna fix that?” I twisted the screw into the cork and tugged. It wouldn’t budge.
“Just eat the crackers,” Jane said. She took the bottle from me and gave the corkscrew a swift twist, pulling the cork free. I must be more tired than I thought. “When we stop in Seattle to switch planes we’ll work on getting some real food.”
She took a swig of wine while I opened the crackers. They were stale but I ate a couple to make her happy.
“What’s up with Marcus’s brother?”
“New York last Spring.”
“Tommy Cocapelli.”
“Yeah. Hal is Marcus’s brother,” Jane said.
“Our Hal?”
Hal was an older agent and an ammunitions genius. Taught us everything we knew about firearms and weapons. My skill with the knife was his doing. But his reflexes were becoming slower and I knew they thought him a risk. Expendable.
Jane pulled her foot up onto the seat and rested her chin on her knee. “Intel said the Cocapellis knew Hal wasn’t one of them and were gonna take him out.” She ate a cracker. “The Order had decided Hal wasn’t worth the risk of compromising the lives of other agents. They were going to do nothing. I thought differently.”
There was no retiring from our calling, just death; by The Order’s hands or their enemies.
“That was the solo mission,” I gritted out between clenched teeth. Anger flushed my system.
The one she wouldn’t tell me about. Unsanctioned.
“He’s been with The Order more than twenty years. They wouldn’t watch his back, so I did.”
I took her hand in mine and swallowed hard. Anger twisted my gut. Jane had barely come back alive from that mission and it hadn’t been the mob that had gotten hold of her.
The Order was not our family. The people we worked with were not there to take care of us, but to keep us alive to further their goals. Where we lived, what we ate, who we fucked—that was with their permission.
Step out of line and there was a price. And knowing that, Jane was still with me.
“You’ve got some balls, Sugar.” The plane picked up speed.
“Nearly as big as yours.” We lifted off the runway, sunrise lighting the cabin.
I saluted her with the wine bottle and knocked back another swallow.
***
We touched down on a dirt runway just outside Olympia, in the small town of Yelm, Washington. Not much there but beautiful scenery and the beat-up Lincoln continental waiting for us in the overgrown grass.
“It’s pretty here,” Jane said, opening the passenger door. “It smells so clean.”
“But there’s no shopping,” I said.
Jane stuck her tongue out at me before she slid into the car.
I breathed in the pine treed earth and took in Mt. Rainier’s white cap in the distance over the hood of the car. A mountain cabin and fireplace to keep us warm in the winter sounded nice. It was easy to imagine Jane out of her four inch heels and designer labels. A nice warm flannel would be an inviting contrast.
We were still in the states. Not far enough away. Not yet.
The keys were behind the sun visor. The car started with a sputter, kicking up gravel along the dirt road. Two hours and we would be at Sea-Tac airport.
When I’d first met Jane I didn’t think she had it in her to do the job we did. I’d seen many, stronger, tougher broads fall under the weight of guilt our “profession” brought. Trainee qualifications had never been beauty school know-how and an ability to give hard-ons at twenty paces. Oh, don’t get me wrong, looks were an asset in our line of work. Many a man had been brought down by a nice pair of tits and a pretty smile. But taking life was not a woman’s specialty.
Jane’s husband was six feet under because he had fallen for a beauty that would not take his possessive jealousy. He had started locking doors and telling her what she could and could not wear Jane felt trapped. A month went by, then two and he no longer wanted her talk to her friends or leave the house without him. She no longer was allowed access to money. Nothing could be done without his approval. A year later she had been found guilty of poisoning him.
As I took the ramp onto the highway I looked over at Jane. She was already asleep beside me, her body drifting toward mine across the cracked vinyl seat. I extended my arm and slipped it behind her neck, pulling her to my side. I’d always envied her ability to fall asleep quickly.
The Order had me in its fold for close to two years when Jane arrived, and I had hated every minute of my time there. It was worse than the year I spent in prison. Incarcerated, I had a release date and an option for parole in two years. The Order was a life sentence with no chance of making it to the outside again.
I had worked my way up in the ranks by keeping my eye on the prize. Learn fast, train hard and find a way out. All it would take was money and an opportunity.
Before the Order I had been a martial arts instructor. A hobby I had picked up after my uncle
Charlie had decided his niece was a perfect target to flash his sagging balls at. Mom had worked two, sometimes three, jobs to keep us fed and she couldn’t be a watchdog to his advances. So, I learned to protect myself and Callie, my little sister. Callie was knocked up when at fifteen, not by my uncle, but a boy from school. My niece was a beauty and my uncle thought so too. That was how I wound up in the pen and that was where The Order found me.
They looked for recruits that had skills they could use to their advantage. Mine had been an ability to kill someone with one swift move. Jane’s had been her talent of fucking coldly while stabbing the target in the back.
It had been hard to accept, Jane’s position within the organization. She shifted against me and I tightened my arm around her.
We hadn’t been lovers that first time they sent her out to fuck a stranger and steal his secrets. That mission had been kept from me. The Order knew I had a soft spot for Jane. Knew that I wanted her for myself. They wouldn’t let me have her. Not then.
Jane had come to me, tears streaming from her dark eyes and her lips bruised from another’s kisses. She’d sobbed into my neck, her mascara running down her formerly perfectly made-up face. Those calculated come-hither looks were a shield around her heart.
That first night together we had clung to each other and found our humanity. It wasn’t until weeks later that we took each other and found hope in one another’s eyes.
***
“Love your connections,” I said to Jane, buckling myself into the co-pilot seat of the Boeing 747 on its way to Singapore. Jane straightened her conservative navy blue pencil skirt made jaw-dropping by the curve of her ass. She fluffed the out-dated eighties style tie on the neck of her cream-colored stewardess blouse.
“And they love me,” she said holding up the mirror of her compact. I still couldn’t get used to Jane as a blonde. She was too sharp for the golds that framed her high cheekbones. She brought one finger to her mouth and wet it, then smoothed it along her narrow eyebrows. The make-up was a new acquisition from the airport drugstore. “But not like you.” My shoulder was given a quick squeeze and Jane left the cabin.
We had parked the car in twelve hour parking and then Jane had led me to the locker rooms for United Airlines. She knew exactly what locker to visit. Uniforms had been waiting for us, along with I.D. badges. I’d never had an easier time boarding a plane.
My training as a pilot was The Order’s doing, and I am sure they were regretting it now.
“Attention passengers,” I said into the intercom, flipping switches as I spoke. “This is your co-pilot, Patricia Anderson. If you would please take your seats, Captain Friedman and I will have you on your way.” This was the best way of skipping country. The Order wouldn’t be expecting us to fly a commercial airplane. They would be keeping all solo flights and small aircraft grounded.
We had been in the air two hours when Jane came back into the cabin and spoke into the pilot’s ear. Friedman smiled and I watched out of the corner of my eye as Jane’s finger ran down the side of his ear. A blush spread down his neck. He flipped his eyes over at me and shifted in his seat. I knew he wished I wasn’t here. Tough luck asshole.
“I’m already taking some pretty big risks,” he said, getting up from his seat. Jane smiled and tongued her lips. She set her palm on the back of his neck and twisted the curls against his nape. He needed a haircut. His glare softened. “Ten minutes.” Marcus left the cabin and Jane made herself comfortable in his vacated chair.
“Remember that flight to Belize?” She asked, setting her hand on my knee.
“You kidding?” How could I forget? The memory was made stronger by Jane’s traveling fingers climbing higher. Jane’s hand came to rest on the crease where my thigh met my hip. Last time she hadn’t stopped there. Her fingers had journeyed beneath my waistband and we had finger fucked at ten thousand feet. But then, I hadn’t been flying the plane, but had been sitting comfortably in first class.
“When we get to Singapore we’re gonna join a commercial fishing freighter to Australia.”
“Fuck!”
“They won’t be expecting you to travel by boat,” Jane said.
“’Cause last time nearly killed me.” I get violently ill traveling by water.
“You won’t be alone this time.”
And that was the only way I would get on a boat this time.
***
We were tall and unfortunately stood out quite a bit, but hopefully were perceived as we presented ourselves. Jane, although still striking, was playing down her looks. I am sure it was a hardship for her to wear the looser clothing and sans the make-up. I was in drag. My red hair was slick with pomade, making it appear brown. The narrow tuft of artificial hair on my lip was itchy. I had to force myself not to play with it. In a suit, I made a passable man, if a pretty one.
My queasy stomach wasn’t going to make this easy. I had scored some Dramamine, but was still nervous. I hated it when I lost control and stepping onto a boat was a sure way of giving up my power. I wasn’t sure if this journey was going to keep us safe or make us more vulnerable to our enemies. If they found our vessel there was nowhere to run and I wouldn’t be able to protect us. I would have to rely completely on Jane. Not easy for me.
Our cabin was lacking in the amenities. The space was eight by eight foot, with a bunk bed, a trunk, and a small port hole. Claustrophobia was setting in already. My stomach began to roll. I took a seat on the lower bunk and lowered my head between my knees. I was a trained assassin, not this weak-kneed pussy .
“Already?” Jane said coming into the room. She shut the door behind her and tossed her pack onto the top bunk. “We haven’t even left the dock.” She sat down beside me and ran a soothing hand over my back.
“I told you this was a bad idea.”
“You took your pills?”
I nodded.
“Well, don’t throw-up, it’s gross.” Jane said and moved the waist basket closer to the bed.
I glared up at her. A loud bell sounded and the boat began to move, my stomach with it.
“You need a distraction,” Jane said.
Did praying to God count? I squeezed my eyes shut tightly committing myself to my newfound calling.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
Food was the last thing on my mind. “You’re not helping, Jane.” I gritted my teeth and stared at my feet, concentrating on the toes of my black leather boots.
“You really should eat,” Jane said standing.
“Look woman, anything I eat will end up painting the floor.”
The ship rolled and I felt myself turn green.
“But you haven’t eaten any pussy today,” she said pouting.
I lifted my head to see that Jane had taken off her pants and panties.
“Sugar, I don’t think─”
Jane took my head between her palms. “Don’t think Mc Clane.” She brought my head close to her mound and the familiar bouquet invaded my senses. “Eat.”
My face was so close I could see the stubble growing on her soft skin. Normally, she was smooth as silk, but our present situation didn’t allow for waxing. There was a small tuft of curly hair curving around the hood of her clit, the wet pearl just hidden.
I rubbed my cheek across her pubs, feeling the gentle scratch. Hands full of Jane’s ass; I turned my head so my nose bumped her heated nubbin. The treat poked free of its shelter.
My stomach pitched, but lower, my gut tightening as desire replaced sickness.
“Take your medicine, Mc Clane.”
Tongue sharp I leaned forward and pushed between Jane’s folds. They embraced my tongue, clinging to every taste bud. Sharp, sweet, sticky love. My tongue swam between the soft skin until her clit was anchored between my lips.
Jane gasped and took hold of the railing on the upper bunk.
I took my medicine, sucking her pill and tapped my tongue softly. With each pat her buttocks tensed and she moaned my name. I brought a hand around and slipped it between her thighs.
Wet heat warmed my fingers.
Suction centered.
Jane rocked against my face crying out my name.
***
After a couple of days my stomach found the pitch and sway of the boat. I wouldn’t say I felt one hundred percent, but I could stand on my feet and eat without my food coming back up to get reacquainted.
The two of us were working in the galley. Jane had more culinary experience so she was boss. She planned a menu and I was put to work prepping for her. Being good with a knife helped when you were a sous chef. It was peaceful chopping and slicing.
I liked to watch Jane . She had a way with the crew. Not a surprise considering they were all men. I think her breathy voice and flirtatious nature reminded them of girlfriends and wives back home. They also liked the low-cut shirts she wore with her apron. The men worked hard and were grateful for the thought Jane put into the menu.
The weeks on board fell into a pattern and I could almost forget the Order existed. There was nothing but the sea, the salt air, and Jane snuggled close at night. I was more happy than I could remember being in a long time.
If we could stay on the ocean they would never find us. But then my stomach would pitch again and I knew it couldn’t last.
***
We had been in Australia for two days and now that we had a secure place to live, I had gone out in search of a gift for my woman. Jane deserved a treat after those weeks at sea. It had taken longer than I expected and when I opened the door to the motel room, I was hit by Jane’s body flying into me.
“Where have you been?” Jane asked, squeezing me to her. “It’s been an hour!” She was shaking.
“I had to…”
“I thought…I thought…” She said her voice catching.
“Hey.” I pulled Jane’s head back and looked into her dark eyes and saw what I knew was in my own. Trust. Vulnerability. Love. “I’m okay.” I kissed her forehead. “I was getting you a present.” I led her over to the bed and tossed the brown paper bag onto the mattress. I took off my coat and turned to face her, rubbing my hands together expectantly.
“Take off your panties.”
Jane looked up at me blankly. She was wearing was a black tank-top and a pair of thigh-high hipsters. Conservative on most people, but on Jane a simple seduction.
“I love it when you’re forceful?” she purred. Jane hooked her thumbs under the soft cotton at her hips and slid the panties from under her ass. She leaned back on the bed to make a show of sliding the scrap of fabric down her long legs. “Like what you see Mc Clane?” How could I not? Jane flicked the panties off of her toes into the air and caught them in her hand. Impressive. With one finger, she twirled the panties in the air in a couple of rapid circles before flinging them so they hit me in the chest and fell at my feet.
“Open your present.”
Jane pulled out a can of shaving cream from the bag and a blush spread across her cheeks. I think it was the first time I had ever seen anything but a blush of desire.
“Not a carpet muncher Mc Clane?” she said, raising one long thin brow.
“What?—oh no, sugar,” I said, sitting down next to her and taking the shaving cream from her.
“This isn’t a complaint.” I pulled her down onto the bed so that we lay facing each other. “You could grow a jungle down there sugar, and I would go on a clit safari any day of the week.” I slid my hand between her legs and rested my palm on the soft hair that had grown up in the past few weeks. “But you like to be smooth, sweetie.” I kissed the tip of her nose and got up from the bed.
I went to the bathroom and came back with the ice bucket full of warm water. Jane lay on her back, knees bent and legs spread. I sat beside her and gave the can of shaving cream a shake, the bead making a loud ping against the metal. Just below Jane’s belly button I squirted a small ball of foam. She giggled.
I crawled between Jane’s legs and spread the mound of white flat and thin between her thighs. I massaged the white bubbles into her skin and pressed the smooth cream between her pussy lips until her hips followed my movement and soft moans played like background music in the room.
I took my knife from my boot. “Be still, Sugar.”
Jane froze her breath ragged.
“Ready?” I asked raising a brow. Jane looked obscene with the white foam covering her pussy and the golden tan of he legs fallen open. I could just see a hint of wet pink in the center of all that white.
“I’ve never let anyone shave me.”
My pussy creamed.
“Something Jane Paul hasn’t done?” I said. “Well you just lay still, sugar, while I demonstrate my skill with the blade.” I held my stiletto firmly between my fingers and Jane held her breath.
“Ready?” I asked and she nodded. I set my knife at the top of her hairline and drew the sharp edge across her delicate skin in the direction of her clit. She gasped as each hair caught on my knife and came free leaving a hairless reverse Mohawk across her mound.
I rinsed my blade in the ice bucket.
Again, I ran my stiletto across her skin, removing hair and leaving a blush of pink on her skin.
Jane’s desire clung to my nose hairs, making a home in my sinuses as I opened her legs further and cleaned her flesh free of hair until she was as bare as a newborn.
I leaned close and blew against the sensitive flesh. Goose bumps rose along the skin and Jane gasped, her hands flying to her pussy. The feel of steel on flesh had been too much for her and now she had to touch. My eyes followed her fingers as they played with her soft bits. Her thumb and forefinger took her clit firmly in hand and began to squeeze in soft controlled motions. Her other fingers were in her pussy diving in a forceful need to get off.
Again, I blew against her skin and she cried out. I leaned in close and my tongue found the spot between her fingers, wetting her clit, spreading her juices against the hard excited nubbin.
Jane called out my name, her thighs tensing, the long muscles stretching past my ears and collapsed against the mattress.
***
After Australia had been Russia and after Russia Brazil. We’d driven through the back roads of small villages, living off or rice and beans. The journey had lasted six months and now we were back in the states. We were in Borrego Springs, California. A small desert town with a population of three thousand. A single road ran between the shops selling south west souvenirs and Mexican food. We had driven across the border from Mexico yesterday and had a road trip planned to Canada, where we hoped we could stop running.
I sat at a table in the back of the bar, close to the kitchens and sipped a beer. Jane was at the hotel down the road sleeping off her jetlag, but I was restless, too tired to sleep. Something had me on edge ever since we arrived back. I was hoping it wasn’t instincts.
Bells on the door handle at the front of the bar rattled as another person came into the dimly lit room out of the desert heat.
“Can I help you?” The bartender asked.
It was the bartender’s tone of voice that had me sitting up straighter and turning in my seat.
“Have you seen these women?” They one who spoke was Bahir. He slapped a photo down on the bar. There were three men dressed in black and wearing sunglasses. The tall lanky man I recognized as Dawson. I didn’t know the shorter one. These were not tourists.
The bartender shifted his feet and I could see him reach beneath the counter, his hands resting comfortably on a shotgun.
My senses became heightened. The waitress drying the barware was still.
“No,” the bartender said, not looking down at the pictures.
“Perhaps you should take another look,” Bahir said, pushing the photos forward.
I slid down the blue vinyl seat of the booth until I was under the table and pulled a gun from the waistband of my Levis. My knife was in my boot.
“I saw just fine,” the bartender said.
Dawson and shorty were no longer at the bar. I knew they were sweeping the room, but I couldn’t see them from my position on the floor.
“Don’t let their good looks fool you. They’re armed and dangerous,” Dawson said.
There were five others in the bar. A couple was at a booth near the front entrance. She was black and dressed in a pretty white dress in sharp contrast with her ebony skin. He wore sandals with jeans and had a large tattoo on the back of his neck the disappeared under his white linen shirt.
“Are you the police?” The waitress asked, coming to stand beside the bartender. She twisted the rag she had been drying the glasses with in her hands and shifted from foot to foot.
“Perhaps you should leave,” the bartender said addressing the newcomers and pushing the waitress behind him. She walked toward the kitchen looking over her shoulder nervously. I could hear the panicked conversation in Spanish after she went through the swinging doors from where I crawled along the tacky floor two booths away.
Two migrant workers and were playing pool near the jukebox on the other side of me. They stopped and stared at me, speaking rapidly in Spanish and pointing to the front of the bar.
The first bullet splintered the wood just above my head and I rolled, landing on the black and white tile floor in the kitchen at a crouch, surrounded by stainless steel. From my position I saw the pool players drop flat to the floor and shimmy under the table as bullets tore up the booth behind them.
The old drunken man at the end of the horseshoe shaped bar jumped from his stool and hit the floor with a crash.
My knife flew from the doorway, hitting the henchman who had fired at me. He collapsed without a sound.
The woman in white let out a blood curdling scream.
“Mc Clane!”
I stood and peered around the corner to see the woman pulled tight against the assassin, his gun at her temple. Tears were streaming down her face.
“Let her go!” the sandaled man was yelling. “Please!”
“Let’s all relax,” the bartender said. He held his rifle pointed at the intruders. People were going to die and there was nothing I could do about it.
“Do you want this woman’s blood on your conscience Mc Clane?”
Baher had ice in his veins and I had no doubt he would shoot her. I hurried around the prep station across the kitchen to the swinging doors on the opposite side. I lifted my gun and fired off two shots. Dawson fell across a table, a bullet in the head ending his life. The kitchen was empty now as I raced back to the other side. I scurried over to the first gunman and removed my knife, wiping the blood from my blade onto my jeans.
There was a sound behind me and I turned, leg extended, and another person dressed in black tripped over my ankle and fell to the ground. He sat up and I swung my arm in an arc hitting him in the jugular.
He’d come from the kitchen, which meant there were more outside. How many had they sent? Did they know where Jane was? They mustn’t find her.
Bahir was turning slowly back and forth, he eyes panicked. He knew I was about to end his sorry life.
“Let her go, Bahir and I might let you live.”
“You don’t have a chance Mc Clane!”
Without hesitation I stood.
Say hello to the devil from me.” With a practiced flick of my arm, my knife flew. Before Bahir had time to think, it sunk between the eyes with a soft thump. Blood flew in all directions and covered the girl he had been holding. She was screaming in short bursts, tears racing down her face.
“Get down!” I shouted, flying forward and knocking her to the ground. Bullets flew through the windows. Glass shatter splayed the floor in a sharp rainfall.
“Everyone stay down!” I yelled. On hands and knees I moved across the floor as quickly as I could toward the kitchen. The Order was shooting the place up, that meant that the agents had been miked and they knew they were dead. Their only goal was to take me out.
Once behind the wall, I made my way to the service entrance. I kicked the door open and saw nothing but blue sky and desert. All looked clear, but I knew it couldn’t be. My head was ringing and my eyes stinging from the sweat that was now running down my face. I lifted a hand to wipe my brow and it came back red. Blood.
I couldn’t stay. If they found me they knew where Jane was and they would have her shortly. Or they already had her. I blocked the thought out of my mind and threw myself out the door in a summersalt, gun drawn, expecting gunfire, but there was nothing. The silence outside mirrored the noise inside. It was two in the afternoon and close to one hundred ten degrees. The town was silent.
Siesta.
I was now behind the restaurant and shops. Nothing but discarded boxes and large trash dumpsters were there to greet me. The length of the buildings at my back, I made my way in the direction of the hotel half a dozen buildings away. There was a copse of aging palm trees lining the perimeter and I took shelter there, reloading my gun.
All was quiet. The wind blowing sand and grit against my sweaty skin. Was Jane asleep in there? Dreaming of a life together without violence.
I stepped between the towering trees and across the gravel parking lot to the hotel. Our room was on the back corner and I couldn’t see the door from where I was. Back along the wall I made my way down, the sound of my heart in my ears.
The door was ajar. Without thought I kicked it the rest of the way in.
“Ja─” An arm shot out clothes lining me. I doubled over and clutched at my throat afraid my trachea was broken, my vision blurring. The shadows of legs were in front of my eyes and then all went black.
***
The room was deathly cold and dark. A chill enveloped the solid interior of the cement structure I was held in. I could make out the outline of the door across from me. In it’s center was a small window and outside I could see sky and bits of green.
Freedom.
Mere feet from me, an exit, but it might as well been miles away. My arms had fallen asleep hours ago from being raised above me head, and my wrists were raw from my weight pulling at the restraints in the ceiling. My attempts at escape had been futile and served only to weaken me.
I may have been down here for days, or hours. Time was still to me.
Behind me was another door. It was where those loyal to the Order came through. They drizzled water into my mouth with a sponge, giving me just enough sustenance to keep me alive. They wanted Jane, but I would die before I told them. My back bore the proof of my resolve. The strikes of the lash burned and the blood stained my jeans.
Jane and I had been so close. Our time at sea had made us over-confident. We were beginning to feel normal, like real people. Why did we think we could come to the states?
The Order didn’t have Jane. If they did they would have mentioned her during the hours of torture. They would have brought her here and hurt in front of me. That was the only way they could break me.
A door opened behind me and I tried to see over my shoulder. The wounds on my back burned a like a mother fucker.
“I trust you are well Mc Clane?” Maxamilian said. He was the head of the United States branch of The Order. I hadn’t expected him here, not yet.
“Your girlfriend tells me she wouldn’t be happy if you were harmed in any way.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said.
The sound of his shoes echoed in the small space as Max came to stand in front of me, but I wouldn’t look up.
“We know better than that,” he said.
“Go to hell.”
“We hand picked her ourselves.”
“You don’t control me.”
“She a good fuck, Mc Clane?”
My vision blurred and I thought of Jane. Safe. Away from here, on an island sipping fruity drinks with colorful umbrellas in them. I could hear the crash of waves on the beach and the one-liners the men were throwing at her as they tried to get her into bed.
“I taught her everything she knows,” Max said.
I looked up and glared.
Max smiled, his teeth flashing neon white against his manufactured tan. He was a short, but handsome man somewhere between forty-five and sixty. His salt and pepper hair was overly long and curled around his nape.
“You weren’t so receptive to my advances, Mc Clane,” he said, standing too close. Max took hold of my chin in a rough grip. “That uncle of yours the only man to touch that twat?”
“Fuck you!” I spit in his face.
“No fuck you, Mc Clane!” He said taking hold of my Levis and dragging them around my knees. In that moment I was a ten year old girl again and frozen, terrified. The wounds on my back were nothing compared to the fear that sliced through me. Nausea made my stomach quake.
I shut my eyes tight and thought of Jane. Beautiful Jane.
Max’s tongue flicked against my lower jaw.
“Move one millimeter and I’ll cut off your dick!” Jane’s voice came from behind me and I felt despair fill me. She wasn’t safe.
“And you took such pleasure from my cock before,” Max said, looking over my shoulder at her.
“You prick couldn’t satisfy anyone but a teenager too stupid to know what fucking was,” she said.
Max took hold of my throat with one hand.
“You trained her to fuck and smile while hating every moment,” I said, and spit in his face. He squeezed gently, his eyes boring into mine.
“Let go Max!” Jane ordered.
His grip tightened, and my throat began to close.
Bright dots of color peppered my vision.
“Jospehine!” Jane shouted.
All went black.
I was in Jane’s arms. This could mean I’d died and gone to heaven. But my throat hurt like a mother-fucker. The pain in my shoulders was worse.
I opened my eyes. Max was gone.
“What…” I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. It was difficult to speak. I rubbed my tender vocal chords, “…happened?”
“Quiet Mc Clane,” Jane said and kissed my forehead.
“You found me,” I rasped.
“I keep my promises,” she said, helping me to my feet. I stood awkwardly shivering. The room was cold and I didn’t have a shirt.
The door behind us was wide open and the building eerily silent of movement.
“How long have I been out?” I asked, placing a hand against the wall for support.
“Not long,” Jane said. “Can you walk?”
“Of course,” I said, but wasn’t as confident as I sounded. I knew I was dehydrated and weak. Jane reached behind her back and drew my blade from her waistband. The familiar weight straightened my spine and my resolve. We would get out of this.
“Where’s Max?” There wasn’t a body.
“Gone.”
“What?”
“He’s gone.”
***
“Why didn’t you just inform Max that you had evidence of his part in Josephine’s murder before you came after me?” Josephine was legend amongst us. There had never been an agent more destined to run the Order. Not just the American branch, which Max was now head of, due to her death, but the world Order.
“The demand for your death had already been given. I had to get to you before anyone else did. I had to be sure you were safe.”
“I can take care of myself, Sugar.” I gasped as she applied ointment to my back, and then gritted my teeth.
“Yeah, looks like it,” she said, closing the jar and setting it on the nightstand.
“Hey, it was me against six.”
“And now, it’s you against me,” Jane whispered huskily. My savior lay down on the bed beside me and rested her head on her palm, elbow bent to the mattress. She stretched her long fingers to my forehead and ran them through my hair.
The Order would no longer bother us. Josephine’s ring had seen to that. I took Jane’s hand in mine and saw what Max had when Jane had come to get me out of my cell. On her ring finger was a large pink diamond set in a band of gold. Unique not only for its color, but for the microscopic camera that had captured her demise on film.
“At last, we’re dead Mc Clane.”
Max’s desire for power was more important than his need to see us dead.
I brought my arm around her waist and pulled Jane flush to my side so we were hip to hip. “You feel alive to me, Sugar.” And sleep found me.
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