Penthouse (5 page)

Words are important. While men tend to be stimulated visually, women respond well to audible stimuli. I myself take kindly
to strong, dark, and mysterious language—few words, monotonic delivery, and that ever present directing power. Like when he
says in a straight and low voice, “We’ll just keep this thigh here so I can fit my hand in here to feel your… mmm, how smooth
your skin is. It makes my hand want to discover all of your body….Don’t wiggle around too much now, not when I’m having such
a good time.… [Nuzzling my neck] Mmm, you smell so good, I smell your perfume, I smell you, hold still so I can follow this
scent all the way down.…Well, now, I believe you’ve set out to tease me, putting that perfume down between your breasts and
then covering them up so. Make me happy and undo some of them pretty clothes you’re wearing.…
Don’t let me do it or they’ll rip soon enough. Yes [sucks in breath slowly], oh, yes, sugary little girl, yes, I am gonna
do it to you!”

With his lips at my neck, he raises himself up and over me—not by pushing, but by directing me down and back. I’m lying on
the seat of the cab with him at my pussy, and the Alien could suddenly be at the wheel of the taxi without catching his attention
’cause it’s all on me. The stabilizing hand has left my thigh and is now under the small of my back, lifting it a bit, and
his fingertips are doing the sea-anemone dance right straight toward me. When they brush against my red hair, my eyes close
and roll back in the sheer pleasure of it all. I want… I want…I want… anything. At this point I can’t be picky. Fingers, a
cock—even a small cock—the Club car-theft-prevention bar, a Coke bottle (well, maybe not, but nearly anything else). And I
feel so wide open, I feel like the Eisenhower Tunnel, and a finger would be a dachshund running into it.… But I’m wrong. When
his finger (the middle one… ohhh!) slides into me, and he twists it around and cocks it toward my abdomen, I feel truly overwhelmed.

Now, I’ve heard some men say that women dislike finger-fucking because it makes them feel like the man is simply testing the
water, so to speak. But in all my twenty-five years, I have met only one woman who didn’t like it. But, perversely, she loved
faking that she did. I’ve always chalked it up to the wrong finger at the wrong time. To me, there is no wrong time for a
good finger-fuck. Before, during, or after sex, finger-fuck me. In the morning wake me by fingering me. Stick your biggest
finger up my pussy and leave it there as you drive down the Long Island Express-way. When I ride your face and you’re sucking
gently on my clit, slide a finger up me and see me buck my way into
outer space. Tired? Not in the mood? It’s okay, baby, just lend me your digits and let me do the rest. Anytime, anywhere—finger-fuck
me.

When he begins to slowly “itch” me with the finger that is deep inside me, I start to go crazy. That’s the spot, boy, that’s
the spot to aim for. Ten points every time you hit it. But he’s a big scorer as he slips another into the mouth of “red cat.”
This is literally hot sex. I’m soaked with perspiration, so is he, and I’ve lifted my whole body off the seat. I am wriggling
like a snake that just ate a live kangaroo— partly because I want to get closer, partly to try to get away, and partly because
I am this close to coming.

Now, I don’t throw those words or that action around lightly. An orgasm is a beautiful thing that requires a whole hell of
a lot of time, energy, and excitement to build. But his fingers inside me are touching places that simply have never been
touched. I feel like I’m a burlap bag and there’s a frantic tomcat inside me. Then the clincher.

He says, in a perfectly strong, dark, and mysterious way, “Do you think that’s all this cowboy knows how to do? How’d ya like
it if I gave you what we sometimes have to give a birthing cow?”

After the first finger or two, I am squealing, like I’m sure that heifer did, too, somewhere on the ranch or wherever this
wild man came from. The passion in his eyes and the marching finger men heralding the king are making me so fucking excited—I
have never been this excited before. I’ve gone beyond having a string of orgasms. I’m passing Go without stopping; I do not
collect $200. I’m just going around and around the board at killer speed.

Remember the dachshund in the Eisenhower Tunnel? Now he’s a 747 taxiing into my tree house.

Taking advantage of my delirium, he’s pushing his fingers
s-l-o-w-1-y in and out of me, still on his knees, between my knees. He twists them to a slightly different position with every
stroke, and I, not having any idea of what’s coming next, am reduced to moaning, crying, screaming, and messing up my hair
in a big way. My little hands are little fists, beating wildly against the leather seat on either side of me. Sometimes I
hit the divider between the driver and us. But believe it or not, I’m too far gone to even wonder what the Middle-Easterner-who-doesn’t-speak-English-yet
driver is thinking about all this.

Maybe to stop me from beating the cab senseless, or perhaps just to torture me in a new way, he smoothly lifts my back up
and turns me over, holding that infamous stabilizing hand on my right shoulder. When he’s behind me, he slowly unzips his
pants so I can hear it. I hear it, all right. I hear every tooth of the zipper being pried away from the others. I feel like
a zipper separating down the center. Then, using his left hand, which he has a little less control over, he is really giving
it to me now. Why the unzipped jeans? To confuse me? To hint that he’ll be using another tool soon? Because his jeans are
too tight? I don’t know, and I never will know, but I do know that all this not knowing takes my concentration off his finger
thrusts. And just as I realize that his left hand has slipped out of me and is rubbing back and forth at the same pace across
my clitoris instead, while just his thumb stays behind to guard the castle, I come, long and hard. I can feel my wetness dripping
out of me and onto the leather seat, scenting the air with my own musky perfume. The city flies by in a blur as I lose myself
in the talented rope work this cowboy is doing on me.

He doesn’t stop, but slows his pace for me. To say that I need a breather is a real big understatement. I need an
ambulance. What I get is his fingers, in different configurations and quantity, while I sit on his lap. Yes, this little piggy
squeals all the way home.

A videotape of this will probably be on sale at the Yellow Cab garage sometime tomorrow.

I don’t care.

BY
C
ECILIA
T
AN

I
discovered my love for trains a long time ago. This isn’t some kind of historical nostalgia I’m talking about. I’m talking
about one evening on the overnight train to Florida, the train on which you brought your car along with you, when I went to
bed in my tiny berth and snuck my hand down under my nightie and entered the magic kingdom for the first time. Maybe it was
something about that particular orgasm or maybe it was something about the train itself—the rhythm, the vibration—who knows?
All I know is that every time I get on one, I get as horny as the devil himself.

Usually, this isn’t so bad. I put my Walkman on and go to sleep and have the most amazing sex dreams you can imagine! In my
dreams I’ve had every hunky celebrity you can name. But there was one trip where that trick just didn’t work.

I was about to graduate from college, and I had my first big job interview in New York. I got to the Amtrak station bright
and early, wearing my navy-blue interview suit.
The skirt was tight, it came to just above my knees, and I could barely walk in the thing. But it did look nice.

The train was crowded, and people were pushing their way for seats. I sidled down the aisle looking for an empty one. They
all seemed to be filled, and I was beginning to feel despair that I’d be standing up for five hours, when I made eye contact
with a nice-looking redheaded man. He returned my smile and hefted his large suitcase off the seat next to him. “Would you
like to sit here?” he asked. Nice, deep voice, like a radio announcer. He looked to be about thirty, in good shape.

“Thank you,” I said, and settled into the seat.

By the time I discovered that my Walkman batteries were dead, the train was already moving. A baby began to cry in the seat
in front of me. I was clearly not going to get any sleep. Mr. Nice Guy was reading a business magazine. I reclined my chair
a bit and watched him out of the corner of my eye. I was feeling the motion of the train as we picked up speed, the gentle
rocking. He had very nice hands, I noticed, and through his suit he looked like he had a broad chest. I wondered what his
nipples looked like. I was starting to get wet.

I clenched my legs tightly together and tried to look away, but my eyes kept straying over to his legs, trying to get a glimpse
of the bulge at his crotch. I imagined he’d have red pubic hair and how his long, smooth tool would look poking out of it,
red and hard.

I imagined that we were in an old-style train compartment on a steam-powered train, he a perfect society gentleman and I his
proper lady. Once he had given the conductor a generous tip, the compartment door would be closed and the tiny shades drawn.
And then, only pausing to hang his hat, he would ravish me. He would draw up my
frilly skirts—of course, I would be wearing garters—and he would plunge his cock into me. No, he’d tease me with the head
first until I thought I’d go mad, then very slowly he’d inch his way in until I grabbed him and rammed him inside. Ah…

“Are you all right, miss?”

I gave a little gasp as I opened my eyes. I hadn’t realized I’d shut them, or that I’d moaned out loud. My face very red,
I said, “Oh yes, I’m fine. Just, uh, drifting off to sleep.” I tried to keep my smile on straight.

He smiled back. “Are you on your way to a job interview?”

“Yeah. Did the suit give it away?”

He nodded. “It’s quite attractive on you. You have a very nice figure.”

I blushed all the harder. “I guess it couldn’t hurt my chances of getting hired.” I just hoped the guy I was supposed to meet
wasn’t a crotchety old pervert or something. I hoped, actually, that he’d be a lot like Mr. Nice Guy, here. “Although I hope
they look at my figure first.”

“Oh, what line of work are you going into?” His eyes, I noticed, were a beautiful green.

“Banking and finance,” I said. “I figure there’ll always be money in that business!”

He laughed at my little joke. “That’s the business I’m in, also.”

“Oh, really? You’ll have to tell me more about it when I get back from the rest room.” I made a dash for the lavatory.

I wanted desperately to get off in the bathroom, but people were in line, and I was afraid Mr. Nice Guy would smell it. So
I just splashed some water on my face and took a deep breath. In the tiny compartment, I could hear the
sound of the wheels over the tracks even louder, and I pressed my hand over my crotch. Mmm, I love trains.

When I got back to the seat, he seemed to be sleeping, with his head against the window. I slid in next to him without disturbing
him, and took the opportunity to look him over without fear of him seeing me. He was in good shape, didn’t have to suck in
his gut, and now I could stare at his crotch all I wanted.

I reclined my chair all the way back and wished the train car were empty. If it were, who’d notice if we fucked? He could
roll right over on me. I closed my eyes and pictured it. I could prop my legs up on the chair in front of me and he could
slide himself right in. I imagined his cock would be thick as well as long, stretching my insides as he pumped in and out
of me. I started clenching my thigh muscles as I imagined him fucking me, as I pictured each stroke of his big meat. I took
off my blazer, laid it across my lap, and folded my hands under it. Now I pressed on my mound every time I squeezed, and no
one could see it. There was no way I could get my fingers under the waistband of the skirt, though, so after a while I became
even more frustrated. I pretended it was him—he was teasing me, playing with me, he wouldn’t let me come. I stifled another
moan.

I felt a hand on my knee, another over my eyes. “Shhh,” he whispered in my ear. I kept my eyes shut as the hand fell away,
and felt his jacket being draped over me. And then the fingers, working their way up the inside of my thigh. I sneaked a glance
at him. In one hand he held the magazine as if he were reading, while the arm closest to me disappeared under the blazer,
as if he were holding my hand. But he wasn’t. He pushed my skirt up my thighs. I shifted slightly so it would go all the way
up, and he slid
a finger right into the wetness of my panties. It was so creamy down there, I would probably have to change them before the
interview. His finger made its way right between my slippery lips and into my hole. I gave a silent gasp as my cunt tried
to suck him in deeper. He pulled away then and reached over the top of my panties, forcing them down over my mound. They held
his hand tightly against my fur and even tighter against my clit.

He began to wiggle his finger with a very small back-and-forth motion—nothing that anyone could see, but it was everything
to me. It was all I could do not to buck my hips and grind myself hard into his hand. I whimpered, then I began to come, my
thighs shuddering and shaking as the orgasm spread all through my legs. I could hardly breathe as I tried to keep quiet. Finally,
I sat still. He kept his hand where it was, right between my legs, pressed into my cunt.

“I always try to help a woman in need,” he whispered.

I opened my eyes. “Come with me.”

We had to wait in line for the lavatory. I don’t think anyone saw us go in together, but by then I didn’t care. We could always
make up some story if we had to.

I worked his belt loose and let his slacks drop to the floor. He put down the toilet-seat cover and sat on it. I took off
my sopping wet panties and hiked my skirt up all the way. Then, placing my hands on his shoulders, I perched one foot on either
side of the toilet and lowered myself down.