I closed my eyes and let my imagination run wild. It always
took me to greater heights if I could get into it—if I didn’t just ‘pretend’.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
I felt the bed move beneath me as John crawled up behind
me. “I don’t think you are.” He stroked the length of my back, his hand sliding
down the curve of my ass. Menacing. Possessive. I cringed. Not because I was
repulsed, but because my skin was so primed, the slightest touch was almost too
much. His hand rounded my ass and came to rest between my legs where he rubbed
me with authority. It wasn’t
almost
too much now, it
was
too much
and I tried to wiggle out from his touch but he held my hips so I couldn’t move
away.
“You’re wet, Claire. I can feel your arousal through your
panties.”
I moaned as he rubbed me harder.
“You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you?” He
rubbed me while he stroked my ass. “You’re thinking about his cock…right here.”
With three fingers he pressed against me, fingering me through my panties.
“What a greedy little cunt you have.”
Then he spanked me.
I cried out. In surprise. In pain. In delight.
“You like that, don’t you?”
I whimpered and he spanked me again. Oh yes! I was already
so close. So fucking close.
“Let’s see this naughty cunt of yours.” He yanked on my
panties, pulling them down my thighs and leaving them there, trapping my legs,
leaving me exposed.
With a hand on my ankle, holding me in place, I felt John
lean over and heard the drawer to my bedside table open. Within seconds a
familiar whir had me writhing in anticipation.
“Is this what you want?” He tapped the vibrator against my
ass and then rubbed it between my legs. “
His
cock. Inside of you?”
I think I meowed. I was a cat in heat, waving my ass in the
air, trying to grind myself against the constantly evasive vibrator. One second
it was butted up against my clit, the next John wedged it against my anus, then
down one thigh and up the other.
“Please,” I begged.
“You want him to fuck you?” John panted.
“Yes. Please. Yes.”
He moved the vibrator into place behind me, twisting it
this way and that, driving me deliciously insane. “I’ll let him fuck you if you
promise me one thing.”
“What? Anything?”
The tip was inside of me now and no matter how I tried to
thrust against it, John held it in place. “You don’t come until I tell you to.”
Sex,
Spies and Photographs
Chapter
Three
O
H GOD! IT was
impossible. My orgasm was so close I could feel it, taste it. My vision was
swimming and my vaginal muscles were already twitching with eagerness. “I don’t
think…”
He thrust and it was too late. I exploded while John thrust
into me with a ferocity that I’d rarely experienced with him, drawing my orgasm
out until I collapsed into a pile of muscle and bone, quivering with pleasure.
“Get up.”
John withdrew the vibrator and I pressed my knees together,
trying to contain the aftershocks that rocked me.
“Get up.” I heard his zipper and opened my eyes.
My husband was kneeling before me. His penis was in his
hand, big and stiff. John’s eyes shone with an unholy light. “I warned you, but
you wouldn’t listen. Now you’re going to pay the price.”
I bit down on my lower lip and then crawled slowly to my
hands and knees.
“Open your mouth.”
I looked up at him, licking my lips and slowly,
ever-so-slowly, opened my mouth.
With cock in hand, he used the head of it to outline my
lips. “Lick me.”
I touched the tip of him with my tongue, catching a droplet
of moisture that clung to him, spreading it across my lips.
“More,” his voice caught in his throat as he thrust his
hips forward.
I moved closer and circled him with my tongue, running it
beneath the ridge of his erection until I closed my lips around him, just the
tip of him, and sucked.
John threaded his fingers through my hair and groaned. “Oh
God, babe! That’s it. Suck me.” He groaned again. “Oh, fuck…suck me hard.”
Because John seemed to have relinquished his role, I did my
best to remind him. “Yes, Master.”
I caught a glimpse of his smile before I closed my eyes,
opened my throat and took him in nice and deep.
“That’s right. Suck me until I tell you to stop.”
With my mouth full, I could only moan in response. I cupped
his balls while I slid my mouth faster and faster along the length of him.
“Hold still,” John commanded.
I went still and he held my face firmly beneath my chin.
Then he thrust and I opened to take him until finally I couldn’t do it any
longer and I let my jaw close ever so slightly so my teeth grazed the length of
him.
With a deep inhalation, he pulled out of my mouth and then
spun me around and smacked my bare ass with his open palm. “Naughty girl.” His
voice was barely more than a whisper. “You’ll pay for that.” He spread my ass
wide, pressing the pad of his thumb up against my anus.
I whimpered with desire.
“Is this what you want?”
Yes!
“No,”
I moaned.
His thumb pressed inside my tight opening and I cried out.
“Fuck, Claire, I can’t. I need to…” John’s voice shook.
Gone was the commanding tone only to be replaced by uncontrolled desire. After
some fumbling behind me, he buried himself into my pussy and started ramming me
so hard a framed photo of us toppled off our nightstand.
It didn’t take long before he cried out his release and we
collapsed together on top of our duvet, both of us panting with exertion.
“Wow,” John finally said. “It’s been a while since we’ve
done that.”
“Mmm,” I sighed, wriggling my body against his, enjoying
the pleasant tingles that always followed the aftermath of a good lovemaking
session.
“I think it took you all of three seconds to orgasm.”
I playfully smacked his bare hip. “It’s not like you were
about to win any endurance awards, mister. I counted five thrusts.”
“No, you just lost count because it felt so damn good.”
I rolled to face him, “Well,” I whispered, “I can’t argue
with how good it felt.”
“Neither can I.” John leaned forward and kissed me. It was
soft and sweet and his lips tasted of wine. Normally a beer drinker, I liked
the new taste on him.
John rolled on top of me and gently spread my legs with his
knees. His kisses deepened and I wrapped my arms around him, threading my hands
through the curls at the nape of his neck.
“God,” he murmured against my lips. “I feel like I’m
eighteen again. I hope you’re ready.”
“Oh baby,” I breathed, spreading my legs and inviting
entrance to my still pulsing pussy. “I am more than ready.”
He rubbed his growing erection against my semen-drenched
slit. “You know what I think?” he whispered. “I think we should have
Mar-ten
over more often.”
***
T
HE DECISION
WAS easy to make. John and I hadn’t had sex like that in months, years even.
John’s birthday was coming up. For a man who typically bought whatever he
wanted, I always struggled with what to get him for his birthday. This year I
knew exactly what to get him. Whether I had the balls to go through with the
gift was another matter. Every time I’d geared myself up to go over to Martin’s
house, something stopped me. A phone call just as I was about to go out the
door, an unfamiliar car driving up to Martin’s place…my own stupid doubts and
insecurities. By Wednesday morning I’d almost given up on the idea when the
doorbell rang and I found the man himself standing on my stoop.
“Martin!” I rubbed my clay-stained hands down the sides of
my pants. “What are you doing here?”
He handed me a bottle of wine. “This is a thank you gift
for the other night.”
“You really didn’t have to.”
“But I want to. I had a very nice time.” He stood on my
step and our roles from the previous week—when I’d shown up with the Welcome
Wagon basket—were reversed, with him standing outside and me stepping awkwardly
to the side. “Would you like some coffee or something?”
“No, no thank you.” His smile was slow and leisurely,
nothing like my uncomfortable, grin. He pointed to my hands, “You’re working.
I’m sorry to interrupt.”
I spread my hands out. “Oh, it’s no problem, I was just
about to clean up.”
“I’d love to see your work sometime.”
I laughed. “I don’t think so.” I lowered my voice. “I’m
really bad.”
“You’re too modest.”
Shaking my head, I said, “No. I’m not. Ask John.” I looked
at my dirty hands. “But I love it.”
“I can see that.”
I glanced up at him again. The intensity of his
heavy-lidded gaze was crazy, absolutely nuts. I had the sudden image of Demi
Moore and Patrick Swayze in the pottery-sex-scene from the movie
Ghost
.
Except I was Demi and Martin was Patrick.
I cleared my throat. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to stop
by. I’d love to see
your
work.”
“I’m free this afternoon. Why don’t you come over then?”
***
I
T WAS THAT
simple. Two hours, a cold shower and a quick session with Mr. Happy later, and
I was standing on Martin’s doorstep in a new cotton sundress feeling
alternately cold and hot. The door swung open and Martin ushered me inside.
He’d done a lot in the last week, unpacking and settling in to his house. He’d
obviously had some work done because, although I’d never been inside, I could
tell the hardwood floors were new and it still had that freshly painted smell.
The living room was sparsely decorated but elegant and modern with black
leather furniture, simple end tables and enough art to be interesting without
looking overdone.
“Are these yours?” I asked indicating the collection of
black and white landscapes on the wall.
“Yes.”
“They’re very nice.”
His lips twisted wryly and he motioned with his head for me
to follow him into the kitchen. “Have a seat, Claire.”
With a hand to my fluttering stomach, I took a seat at the
breakfast bar because there were still cardboard boxes piled around the kitchen
table. Martin motioned behind him. “What would you like? Cappuccino? Espresso?
Tea? Wine?”
I licked my lips. “What time is it?”
“One o’clock.”
“Wine.”
“White or red?”
“White, please.”
Martin poured a glass of wine from an already opened bottle
in the fridge, then he set it in front of my and left the room. He came back
less than two sips later and placed a leather bound book in front of me.
Gesturing to the book, he said, “Please, take your time. If you have questions,
don’t be afraid to ask.” Then he turned his attention to a shiny chrome gadget
on his counter, poured coffee beans inside and the whir of grinding beans met
my ears as I hesitantly opened the book.
The first image was a close-up of a beautiful woman’s face.
She had dark hair and exotically slanted, heavily made up eyes. Her lips were
full and slightly parted with just a hint of tongue at the corner. Her hand
rested gently against her cheek and her pinky finger was positioned just below
her swollen lips. The lighting and composition was perfect. I touched the
picture. There was something about it? What was it? I mean, I’m bombarded by
images of beautiful, sexy women every single day in the media—magazines, TV,
billboards, the internet—but for some reason this portrait elicited a response
in me I was unprepared for, a sexual response.
There was nothing obscene about the image, nothing at all.
It was her eyes. Somehow her eyes conveyed the message that she wanted to be
loved, desired, fucked.
Oh my.
I flipped the page. The next was an image of a blond woman
lying on a bed. She wore a pure white teddy, she was on her elbows and her head
was thrown back, her legs parted, her hands clenching wrinkled sheets beneath
her. A strategically placed mirror showed her expression. It was one of lust
and desire and need.
I downed my wine and flipped to the next page.
This one was of a man and a woman. The man had a nice body
but I wouldn’t call him model-worthy, however he stroked the naked back of the
woman kneeling in front of him with such a look of loving tenderness that I
wanted to be her, positioned on my hands and knees, his pelvis flush with mine
as he touched me with the same sort of reverence he touched the woman beneath
him.
I reached for my wine glass and found it filled. After
drinking too deeply, I set down the glass and carefully closed the book. I
didn’t need to see anymore. I was already more aroused than I should be.
Hesitantly, I lifted my eyes to Martin where he stood on the opposite side of
the counter, drinking an espresso and somehow managing to make the tiny cup and
saucer appear manly. “I don’t know how you do it,” I whispered.