Sweet Danger (5 page)

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Authors: Violet Blue

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors), #Erotica, #Romance, #Contemporary

BOOK: Sweet Danger
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I hadn’t realized that she still had the condom—I’d thought she just didn’t want me to make a mess when I came. But she had other things in mind, I realized as she forced the rubber ring of the condom’s end between my lips and behind my teeth. She let go of my hair, roughly forced my mouth closed and, deftly using one hand, rolled the condom like a tube of toothpaste. I tasted my own come, felt it oozing into me, lukewarm goo from a rubber tube. I choked at first, not expecting the strong taste. But Brooke wouldn’t take the condom away until she’d squeezed the last drop into my mouth.
“Swallow, dear,” she said.
I swallowed, the taste overwhelming me and making even my cock-opened throat close tight. I managed to gulp it down with some difficulty, but as I finished, Gina slapped my ass hard, making me surge against her as she grabbed my hips and shoved me back onto her cock.
“
He’s
fucking
me
,” she laughed. “Come on, bitch, fuck yourself onto my cock.”
She had my hips firmly between her hands, pulling me back to meet each thrust. I could have struggled now; I could have resisted. But I didn’t; I let Gina’s firm hands guide me up and down on her shaft.
As I felt my cock stirring, getting hard again.
“Ready for another go?” said Gina. “I think he’s more virile than you let on.” With that, she slapped my balls, and I gasped as my wife grabbed my hair. “I thought you said he didn’t fuck you so good,” said Gina.
“His cock’s all right,” she said. “But men are so obsessed with their pricks. It’s their tongues that they should learn to use better.”
Brooke shoved my face into her pussy and growled: “Show me how much you love me, bitch.”
I began to tongue her cunt as Gina fucked my ass harder. She spanked my balls with every few thrusts, but even the seizing pain that rocketed through me with every rough blow on my nuts didn’t stop my cock from pulsing to full erection. My tongue worked up and down as I suckled on my wife’s clit, and she twisted her hand up tighter in my hair as she forced my face more roughly against her cunt. Her hips worked in time with my rhythm, and she began to moan as she neared her orgasm.
“I’m sorry,” gasped Gina suddenly. “I’ve
got
to fucking come.”
She got my ankles unstrapped in a moment, pushing me onto my side and twisting my lower body so she could get at my cock as I continue to eat Brooke’s pussy. Gina wedged her thigh under my hip and straddled me, guiding my cock to her entrance. She slid onto my cock, her pussy wet and open as she leaned back, hanging partway off the bed. Her hand pressed tight against her clit and she rubbed fervently as my hips began to grind.
Brooke came loudly, moaning as she gripped my hair. I kept licking faster, just barely managing to coordinate my thrusts into Gina’s pussy with my tongue against my wife’s clit. When Brooke shuddered all over and finished coming, she slipped out from under me and pushed me hard onto Gina. Gina squirmed underneath me until she was spread, missionary-style, under my thrusting body, her hand still pushed between us working her clit.
Still quivering from her orgasm, Brooke curled up beside me and nuzzled the back of my neck as I pumped into Gina. “Fuck her good, baby.”
I was close to coming but Gina was even closer, and her hand came away from her clit just as she came, wrapping me in her arms and grabbing my ass to pull me roughly into her. I pounded faster and faster, feeling Gina’s cunt tightening around my shaft as I thrust into it—and then she moaned loudly, the moan turning into a scream as her intense arousal drove her over the top.
I went rigid as my second orgasm ripped through me. I came in Gina’s pussy, clutching her tight as Brooke stroked her hand down my sweat-sticky back. When I’d finished coming, Brooke put her arms around both of us and kissed Gina hard on the lips. Gina was so ruined from her orgasm that she could barely respond. As my soft cock slipped out of her she gasped.
“How’s that for an anniversary celebration?” asked Gina. “As rough as you hoped?”
“Rougher than I’d imagined it could be,” I said. “And everything I’ve ever wanted.”
Brooke’s hand found my ass and gingerly stroked the tender, moist hole, still oozing lube.
“It’s true,” she said. “There’s nothing like old friends to keep a marriage interesting.”
“You’re lucky it’s only five years,” said Gina. “Just wait till your silver.”
“I’m quivering in anticipation already.”
Brooke playfully slapped my lube-slick ass.
“Just ’cause the scene’s over, don’t start getting smart,” she said. “You’re still my bitch.”
I rolled off of Gina and took my wife in my arms.
“Of course I am, darling,” I said.
“Don’t get cute.”
“Never,” I said, snuggling close to her. “Never, ever.”
Alice
 
M. CHRISTIAN
 
It started with the laundry—now how ironic is that?
It obviously was a kind of blind spot for Al. Ask him to take out the garbage, drive five hundred miles to help out a friend, weed the backyard, vacuum, even cook (he made a mean-ass clam chowder he was particularly proud of) and it would get done—so quick and so neat, in fact, that half the time jaws would drop and eyes would pop at how well done it was. No muss, no fuss: just a well-executed chore or perfectly performed task.
Just don’t ask him to do the laundry. Domesticity might not be pretty, but the way Al faced stripping the bed, picking up crumpled clothing, hauling baskets downstairs, stuffing the washer, adding soap—the whole laundry procedure in fact—you’d think he’d been asked to give a sponge bath to Karl Malden.
Jeannine hadn’t been bothered by it at first. “Your usual breaking-in stuff,” she thought to herself, said to some of her friends when they asked how their experiment in living together was progressing. “Nothing to worry a war crimes tribunal about.”
Four months later it was, “Okay, it’s starting to really bug me,” she thought and said as she clenched her smooth hands into tight, white fists.
At six months she was wondering how to dispose of his body.
To be honest, he tried—and in many ways that simply made it worse. Huffing and puffing like a kid asked to eat his broccoli he’d make such a big production out of it that Jeannine didn’t know whether to make him stand in a corner or give him a Golden Globe for overacting. Even when Al seemed to want to do it, earnestly “helping out around the house” on her birthday or when he’d done something spectacularly dumb and needed to do some housework Hail Marys, it didn’t work out. Her favorite red dress, white shift, socks, the linen, dry clean onlys, even a suede jacket went in—and what came out went straight to Goodwill.
Despite Al’s laundry issues, he and Jeannine had it pretty good: Al’s underground comic, “The Snitch,” was doing remarkably well—well enough that he didn’t need a real job yet; Jeannine’s store, Deco Mojo, was paying their rent and a little more; and unlike a lot of their friends, they’d been together for a little over a year with no sign of breakup or even nasty drama.
In all their time together, the months before and then after making the big leap of cohabitation, Jeannine and Al had a pretty cooperative relationship: some gives, some takes, fair play all the way around. Al did the shopping this week, Jeannine the next. This month Al paid the phone bill, next month Jeannine did. Except for the issue of the laundry, they kept everything fair and even between them.
That’s not quite true, though. Everything was fair and even except for the laundry and one other place: the bedroom.
 
That’s also not quite true—mainly because for Al and Jeannine the bedroom was only one of the places where they fucked around. The outdoors, you see, did it for Jeannine. The more out the better, especially when there was a real risk they’d get spotted by someone—extra especially when they could be spotted by more than just one someone. Parking garages, baseball games, movie theaters, hiking trails—they’d tried them all.
Al called it “eye-porn”: the way Jeannine reacted to people looking was just like the way most guys reacted to looking at anything and anyone sexy. He loved it almost as much as Jeannine did: crawling up the fire escape to the roof, giggling and whispering like schoolgirls; laying out a blanket on gravel still warm from sunlight; a kiss, more kisses, clothes off, hands roaming, cock very hard, pussy very wet; fucking long and slow, then hard and fast knowing that either someone could be looking at them at any second or that hundreds—maybe thousands—were doing just that.
But what did Al like? “I’m not complaining, mind you,” she thought and said to some of her friends when they’d first moved in. “Not at all.”
Four months after that, “I just can’t figure him out,” was the order of the day.
At six she was wondering what terrible secret he was hiding, what skeletons he had in his closet.
Then, one lazy Saturday afternoon—chores completed, laundry carefully ignored—they curled up together on their plush, painfully bright orange sofa (that Jeannine had never been able to sell) and started flipping through mail, stopping in the middle of the bills, the miscellaneous flyers, to glance at the Victoria’s Secret catalog.
“Wow,” Al said, brown eyes wide as Jeannine flipped through the glossy pages. “Pretty.”
When they went to the museum—and after they snuck in a quick blow job in the French Impressionists—all Al said was “Nice.” When they went to friends’ gallery openings—and fucked ferociously in the grimy bathroom—all Al said was “Eh.” “Good” was what Al called his world-renowned chowder, and how he described their sex life. In all their months Jeannine had never heard Al call anything else by that one word of praise. Until, that is, page seventy-nine of the Victoria’s Secret catalog.
That night, after much thought, Jeannine smiled to herself. The next day, with the dreaded laundry, it was time for Al’s skeleton to come out of the closet—and play.
 
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Or else,” she said, obviously uncomfortable with even the idea of a threat—but even more obviously excited by it.
“Or else?” he said, as uncomfortable as she was with the threat—and just as excited.
“Or else you’re going to be very intimate with some of my more intimates, Al. Do you get me?”
Al was speechless. But his face said what his voice couldn’t.
“Good. Now, get it all done right, Al: fabric softener, the right temperature, no mixed colors, no running, nothing wrong. Perfect. No mistakes, Al.” She cast him a cool glance. “I’m going out for a few hours—got some store stuff to take care of—and when I get back I expect the laundry to be done like it’s never been done before.”
Then she went out, with even a wider, more wicked, smile on her lips.
 
“Let me see,” she said, four hours and some-odd minutes later. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Ah, sure—” Al said, nerves making him hesitate, stammer. “Sure thing, babe.”
“Don’t call me ‘babe’—not yet, at any rate. Now show me. And this had better be good.”
“Yes—” he started to say something that started with
b
but caught himself, substituting a quick “be right back,” and a smile.
The first basket was full to overflowing with sheets, pillowcases, blankets, and towels. Jeannine tried to keep the smile off her face as he pulled out each neatly folded bundle. Creases almost made her giggle with joy, seams made her flash some pearly white teeth—but she fought to keep her face stony and firm.
“Now the next one,” she said.
The next basket was packed with slacks, jeans, blouses, socks, boxers, bras, shirts, and panties. Al may have screwed up every other attempt at laundry, but this time he gleamed, shone, sparkled, was absolutely spotless. She may have barely kept the smile from her face before, but now it took every ounce of her control to keep from laughing and giving him a big hug—and the laundry had nothing to do with it.
But she had to find something wrong. That was the game, after all. “What’s this?” she said, holding up a pair of panties.
“Um, er—it’s your…panties.”
“That’s right, it’s my favorite pair: soft, pearlescent, pure white with the frilly waistband and the tiny blue flower right in the middle. Right there. See the flower? But there’s something about this flower, Al—something very, very bad.”
Al swallowed hard but didn’t say anything.
“You see, Al, my favorite pair of silky panties has four little green leaves next to that sweet little flower. Four. Not two, not three, not five—four. Now, Al, I want you to take these and tell me how many little green leaves there are next to that so-sweet little flower.”
Al took the panties in suddenly moist hands, turned them carefully until the little flower was turned toward him. Just as Jeannine had never heard Al use the word
pretty
before—not at the museum, not in a gallery—she’d never really seen him hold something reverently before.
“Three,” Al said, glancing up from the panties to look her in the face. His eyes were wide and gently moist.

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