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Authors: Rachel Kramer Bussel,Donna George Storey

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BOOK: Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission
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“I think they’d be worth it,” he said, his voice a broken croon. He had that glazed look in his eyes that he always gets when he’s imagining devilish and deviant practices. “Oh, the fun I could have with you…in these.”
“So that’s what you mean when you talk about odd locations for orgasms. In theory, I could have one anywhere at all…if I was wearing these.”
“Yes. Anywhere at all. If I pressed the button…oh, the power! It could go to my head.”
“I think it’s already gone to somewhere else,” I remarked, glancing down at his bulging trouser crotch.
As ever, it was my task to hand the purchase over the counter while Lloyd did the credit card bit. As ever, I crimsoned, prayed that no comment would be passed, no eye contact made. Eye contact, of a knowing kind,
was
made, but the comment was reserved for Lloyd.
“No returns, I’m afraid,” he said. “Same as with all the other vibes. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with it though.”
I was staring stonily at some massage oils, refusing to look up at their no doubt expansive grins and winks.
“Have you road tested one yourself?” Lloyd asked.
Oh, come on, let’s go.
“Yeah. I’d recommend it. Very quiet, no annoying buzzing. So you can wear them…anywhere.”
“Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.”
The shopkeeper was right. The vibrator unit was indeed almost inaudible, as I discovered on the tube journey home, having been persuaded to change my knickers in a pavement toilet cubicle before descending the escalator. Riding smoothly down on the moving staircase, past drinkers and diners and lateworking office types, I was highly conscious of the difference. The fabric was snug and tight, so that the vibrator attachment was firmly lodged inside and the cold rippled latex of the clitoral stimulator nudged and rubbed exactly as advertised.
“How does it feel?” whispered Lloyd, standing beside me, one hand placed possessively on my bum, rubbing my skirt as if this would wear through and reveal the answer.
“Very, very rude,” I replied. “Wicked and indecent. I really hope I don’t have some kind of accident on the way home. I do not want to end up in Casualty wearing these.”
“Does it fill you? Are you wet? Does it rub against your clit?”
“Yes to all three. Shut up, for god’s sake!”
“Oh, no, I want you to know you’re wearing it; I don’t want you to be able to forget. And I want you to know that I know. God, this is turning me on. I hope there aren’t any delays on the Northern Line tonight.”
We stepped off the escalator and I made a concerted effort to try and walk normally, notwithstanding the exquisite pressure on my clit and the large fake cock wedged in my pussy.
“It’s giving you a sensational wiggle,” said Lloyd admiringly, falling behind me to survey my swaying backside. “It looks so
obvious
that your pussy is stuffed. But I suppose I know it is, which makes a difference. Maybe nobody else would guess.”
I was convinced that everybody knew it as we headed on to the platform. Every passerby, from the teenage youths clicking teeth and sucking back high-energy sodas to the elderly, suited man reading his
Telegraph
, was perfectly cognizant of the fact that I was wearing vibrating knickers, the crotch soaked, my pussy wrapped around a plastic cock, because I was a dirty slut who loves to come and can’t get enough orgasms.
Lloyd kept putting his hand into his jacket pocket, teasing me with the fear that he might be about to activate the vibrator, causing me to clamp my thighs together and clench my pelvicfloor muscles. By the time the train came roaring through the tunnel, though, he had still not pressed the magic button.
The train was about three-quarters full, and we could not find a seat together, so I sat in the center of one row while he took a place by the door, at the end of the opposite bank. Sitting like that, with a highly-perfumed lady on one side and a gay punk on the other, I was suddenly sure that people might be able to see up my skirt somehow, even though it was knee length and didn’t even give away the fact that I was wearing stockings ordinarily. I decided to cross my legs, but this pushed the nubbed rubber even farther into my swimming clit and made my pussy feel even fuller, an inescapable sensation. I squirmed against the seat cushion, unsure whether to uncross my legs again, and Lloyd chose that moment to flip my switch.
I had to swallow a cry as the invasive presence in my pussy began to rev up, a slow shudder at first, speeding to an almost unbearable throb. It felt so painfully wanton that I knew my climax would not be put off for long. I sat back, stretching my spine, trying my very hardest not to pant or moan. My pussy lips twitched and my nipples were hard and sore, pushing against the lace of my bra until some of the pattern must have transferred to them. Lloyd’s sly, delighted smile accentuated the hot rush of sensation; he had had to put a copy of the
Evening Standard
over his crotch to hide the excitement of it all. My nether regions seemed to be flexing and rippling beyond any vestige of muscular control; the vibrator whizzed up to maximum speed, my clit was swollen and struggling to barge past the little rubber stimulators, my cheeks were hotter than fire and I was fidgeting so much that my neighbors forewent the customary Tube etiquette of complete-oblivion-to-all and began looking sideways at me. And then I came, pressing my hands down into my lap, trying to breathe through the intense flood of liquid sweetness, shuffling my bottom against the cushion and biting down on my lip.
And we were still only at Goodge Street. It had taken less than five minutes to make me come in public on the dusty upholstery of Transport for London.
The gay punk and the perfumed lady moved to the left and right respectively, making no secret of their desire to distance themselves. I couldn’t blame them. I was sure the heavy odor of my arousal and satisfaction must have been hanging in the air, breaking the barrier of the woman’s civet-drenched fragrance and the gay punk’s patchouli. I spent the rest of the journey looking daggers at Lloyd, or as many daggers as I could muster in the face of the great awe and wonder his sheer perversion engendered in my spirit.
By the time we arrived at Highgate, it was clear that we would never make the journey from the station to our flat without Lloyd’s cock punching a hole through his trousers. We ran with our respective hindrances of an erection and a pair of vibrating knickers as quickly as we could up the path and into the wooded area that stood so conveniently at the side of the Archway Road where the underground came overground. Lloyd shoved me unceremoniously against the bark of a tree, my breasts pushing against the rough wood, and hitched my skirt to the waist, pulling down the back of the knickers to expose my bottom to the fresh night air. Yards away from us, rail passengers mooched up and down the pathway, and the late night traffic rumbled and lumbered. The nearby street provided just enough low yellow light to give us a few visual clues as to how to go about our swift and urgent coupling. Lloyd did not quite pull the panties down, leaving the vibrator where it lay.
“I want your arse,” he muttered, priming it with a thumb that he had bathed in the juices of my overworked clit. “You can keep that thing on. I’m going to switch it on now.” Once more, to my consternated delight, the stiff obstruction in my pussy began to buzz and throb, though the clit stimulator was only half in place now, giving way to the more pressing issue of Lloyd’s easy access. Once I was relaxed enough to take two of Lloyd’s fingers in my tiny, tight hole, he decided he could hold back no longer, unzipping hurriedly and pushing his damp cockhead between my spread cheeks.
The vibe swelled and filled me as he eased the bulbous tip through my rear pucker. We moaned in concert; I from delirious fullness, he from long-anticipated relief. The farther in he slid, the wider and fatter and more apt to split I felt inside, until I had no sensation anywhere other than that seat of basest needs. I was a pussy and arsehole, full and well used, as I should be.
“Look at you,” grunted Lloyd, once he was fully sheathed, his balls gently dangling against my lower cheeks. “Getting your arse fucked against a tree, with a full pussy. I bet Orlando never did that for you.”
“N-no,” I admitted, though my voice came out as a trickle of a quiver. “Oh. No.”
“So who’s the orgasm-meister now, eh?” He began to pull his shaft back, slowly, switching every nerve ending to its brightest setting on the way. “Who makes you come the hardest?”
“You do,” I assured him, pushing my bum back, inviting him back in with all the urgency I could muster.
He was halfway along now, and I could not bear it if he pulled all the way out. I tried to clamp my muscles down on him, but it was difficult, and it stung.
“Who has the hottest, kinkiest plans for you, Sophie? Who knows exactly what kind of a dirty, nasty girl you are?”
“Oh, you, oh, you.” He slammed back in and I hissed blissfully.
“Yes, me. Nobody else. Not fucking
Orlando
. Me. I’m the man for you.”
He began to thrust hard, forcing my pelvis into the desiccated bark, the tip of his cock nudging against the rounded end of the vibrator with each uncompromising plunge into my rudest depths. I imagined the two cocks, real and simulated, joining together and making one long, pitiless invader, keeping that back-and-forth rhythm going from pussy to arsehole and back, forever and without end. The tree trunks here were narrow enough to wrap my arms around, and I clung on for dear life, hanging there while Lloyd gripped my hips and dug deeper and harder than I had thought possible. I knew I would be sore along there for a day or so, but I knew also that each shift and squirm in my office chair would make me smile and glow with the memory. The combination of the vibrator and the cock sent me into a roaring chaos of orgasm that I nevertheless had to keep quiet about, just as on the tube, for fear of disturbing the public. Lloyd froze behind me, then sent a long, sibilant hiss out through the trees before soaking my arse with his plentiful seed, sending jet after jet up, one after the other.
“God, you could have been made for me,” he panted, his head on my shoulder for an exhausted moment, before straightening up and making himself decent once again. I could not quite make myself decent, still in the vibe knickers, which were becoming itchy and too wet to wear without an obvious slicking sound when I walked, not to mention a large stain spreading across my backside and sticking the material to my skin, but I somehow made it back to our flat, feeling that every passerby knew my secret and was giving Lloyd a knowing wink behind my back.
Still, we thought the new addition to our toy box a very valuable one, and the vibrating panties have had innumerable outings since their memorable debut. I wore them in the British Museum, on the London Eye, at the cinema in Leicester Square and picnicking in Hyde Park. They were always just the thing to brighten up a dull day, and we came very close to fulfilling Lloyd’s ambition of making me come, hard and long, in every tourist attraction in the City. Most unforgettably, I began to sweat and puff in the middle of Buckingham Palace and had to sit on a velvet chair pulled out for me by one of the security guards.
“She’s having one of her turns,” said Lloyd laconically, winking at the man, before taking me out and having me down on the Victoria Embankment.
So when it comes down to the question of who provides more, bigger, better orgasms, Lloyd is the hands-down winner. He is also the hands-free winner. I really don’t think Orlando will ever be able to catch up now.
PINK CHEEKS
 
Fiona Locke
 
 
 
 
 
 
E
ver been spanked?”
Charles’s question catches me totally off guard. “What?”
“You heard me, Emma. Have you ever been spanked?”
I’ve been so focused on my computer screen it takes several seconds for me to register what he’s asking. “What, you mean as a kid?”
My coworker grins slyly at me. “Well, that too,” he drawls, waiting for me to catch on. His bright blue eyes sparkle with mischief, making me blush. “No, later. When you grew up. The adult kind.”
The truth is that I haven’t, though I’ve always secretly wanted to be. But there’s no way I’m telling
him
that.
I don’t believe it. He’s trying to make me confess to having kinky fantasies, but I’m not going to admit it until
he
does. Besides, it’s too much fun playing dumb. “What are you talking about? Only kids get smacked.”
Charles laughs. “Silly girl. I’m talking about the sexy kind. The
erotic
kind. You’ve got to know what I mean.”
Jolted, I peer over the top of our cubicle for a quick glance around the office. “Will you keep your voice down?” I plead, my ears burning.
He rolls his chair closer to me, and I tilt my computer screen away from him. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Erotic spanking,” he repeats. “That’s what I’m talking about. With a lover.”
I stare at him blankly for a moment, then feign illumination. “Ohh,” I say. “I get it! You mean…” I shake my head and look away, laughing. A lover, indeed. Everyone knows the roses I got on my birthday last month came from the receptionist.
BOOK: Surrender: Erotic Tales of Female Pleasure and Submission
8.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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