Free Reading Fest winners and a new release - #giveaway #fetish #FreeReadingFest

Well, I’m back from travels, and very happy to see that at least some readers have been enjoying the free stories on my blog over the past three week.

Random.org helped me draw the names of my four winners. Here they are:

First prize - $10 gift certificate – Trix

Second prize - $5 gift certificate – Marle

Third prize – two free ebooks – BN100

Fourth prize – one free ebook – JeanMP

A big thank you to everyone who participated. If you didn’t win this time, stay tuned. I’ll certainly be having another giveaway soon.

By the way, I’m considering packaging up all the stories and publishing them as a free volume on Smashwords and BN. All I have to do is find the time...

Meanwhile, I do have a new release, or rather, a re-release, to announce. SinCyr Publishing has brought out a new edition of Rule 34: Weird & Wonderful Fetish Erotica. Along with many other fabulous stories, this volume includes my haunting erotic tale “Fire”, about a young man who finds fire so arousing that he becomes an arsonist. 

Here’s a short excerpt:

The flames drew me as nothing ever had. I craved them, wanted to feel their burning caress on my sweaty skin. I wanted to be consumed. For one crazy moment, I almost gave in to the need, almost broke through the ranks of police and firemen and threw myself into the blaze.

Something shifted. I felt the flames inside of me. They surged through my body, tasting my fear and my lust. They teased me, rippling up and down my spine. The heat was unbearable.

My dick went hard as rock. My breath came in gasps. I wanted to grab my cock and jerk away at it until the flames spurted out but, somehow, I was paralyzed, hands clenched into fists by my side.

I watched, fascinated, as the fire whirled and eddied through the shell of the house. I felt it circling my dick, searing my rigid flesh. I heard a strange sound, some animal whining in pain. I realized dimly that it was my own voice.

My eyes felt scratchy and dry, from the brightness and the drifting ash. I closed them for a moment, but the flames still danced on the insides of my eyelids. I could feel the fire breathing. It sucked up all the air into itself, then released it in scorching gusts. Once, then again, and again.

My aching lungs took up the same rhythm. My cock throbbed in time. The fire ate me from the inside out, turning my bones to embers, roasting my organs, bringing my spunk to a rolling boil. I writhed in its embrace, pleasure so acute that it was almost agony.

Thunder cracked, suddenly, close enough to deafen me. I opened my eyes in time to see the house's roof collapse into the raging furnace below it. A cloud of sparks flew into the night sky. Droplets of fire rained down on the crowd of bystanders. The first ones seared my bare arms just as the shock wave hit.

Like the house, I exploded into a million shards of flame.

* * *

You can find all the buy links here: https://books2read.com/u/m2P5E1

Caritas -- #FirstImpressions #Menage #FreeReadingFest #Prizes

 Image by Ulrike Leone from Pixabay

 

“Beanpole.” That’s what they call him, those designer-clad, perfectly-coiffed society moms over near the window. One of the kinder epithets they’ve bestowed, actually, but it fits him, poor man.

Awkward, skinny and at least six feet tall, he hunches over his laptop at his regular table in the corner, alternately pounding away at the keys and staring into space. His head’s a wild mass of straw-colored curls. His eyes are a watery blue behind the thick lenses of his wire-frame specs. His wrinkled shirt is half untucked and half unbuttoned. I catch a glimpse of his pale chest, sprinkled with blond fuzz.

He flashes me a vague grin when I bring him his double cappuccino. Not at all like the avid gaze he turns on the coeds and career gals who come in for their caffeine fix—all those tanned legs and painted toenails, flirty skirts and high heeled sandals. Not that I blame him; summer brings out the best in the local women.

With my buzz cut and tattoos, I guess he doesn’t realize I’m a girl. Still, I’d wager a triple mocha frappe with extra whipped cream that I could show him a better time than one of those little tarts.

He’s not really my type—I prefer both my men and my women with darker hair and more meat on their bones—but he broadcasts his need like an S.O.S. Plus I’m intrigued by his metier. He’s spent almost every weekday afternoon here, for the past month, and I’ve had plenty of opportunity to sneak glimpses at his screen.

He’s a writer—well, anyone could figure that out—but guess what he writes? Erotic stories. Kinky stories, if I’m not mistaken. I’d love to read them, but in my professional capacity I’ve only caught a sentence here and there.

“I’m willing to bet the price of this fancy ride that your pussy’s bare under your skirt.”

“Oh, but those rosy nipples just cry out for some clamps!”

“The belt slices into my flesh, less than an inch from my pubis.”

I’ll say one thing for Mr. Beanpole. He’s got a vivid imagination. Probably compensating for a lack of sex in his everyday life. In this image-obsessed town, especially, someone with such a total lack of style probably has a tough time getting laid.

What would happen if I came on to him? I can picture him stretched out on my futon, his desperate cock rearing up from the pale golden tangle of his pubes. I suspect it’s long and thin, like he is, just right for getting at those hard to reach places. Perfect for back-door entry, actually. That’s probably something he’s fantasized about a lot—most guys do, I gather. One of my specialities—both taking and giving.

Wiping the smudges off the massive brass espresso machine, I pause for a moment to close my eyes and imagine his solid, greased rod sliding into my anus. I feel the scary pressure against my tight ring of muscle, always there no matter how many times I’m butt-fucked. Then the painful instant when he breaches me, followed by the sweet, nasty sensation of his bulk filling me up. My clit tingles and swells as I mingle recollection with anticipation. My jeans are suddenly too tight.

When I shoot a glance in his direction, I discover he’s looking back at me. He points to his empty cup and with an apologetic grin, raises one finger.

Sure, baby. Whatever you want.

I grind the beans, set a pristine cup under the spout, and go to pour the milk while the head of steam builds. Inhaling the rich, complex scent of quality coffee, I flip the scene in my head. Now I’m the one reaming him, the straps of my harness biting into my hips as I bury my cock deep in his ass. His pasty white cheeks tense each time I impale him. They just cry out to be pinked by a slap or two.

Would he like that? Given what he writes, he just might.

He wouldn’t refuse me, certainly. If nothing else, he’d want the opportunity to research all the things he writes about. And I expect he’d be suitably grateful. After I make him come, I’m sure I could coax him into eating me out.

So what I’m not his ideal woman, all soft and feminine. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I scribble my phone number on a napkin and stuff it into my jeans pocket. Then, feeling playful, I sprinkle cinnamon over the foamy surface of his beverage, in the shape of a heart. When I place the cup next to him on the table, I deliberately brush the side of my breast against his arm.

He starts, looks up, snags my eyes. Oh, there’s fire there! A bolt of lust sizzles from my solar plexus to my pussy.

I’m just about to hand him the napkin when the door of the shop opens. His gaze snaps to the woman who enters.

He jumps to his feet, towering over me. “Layla! You’re early!”

She breezes in, silver bracelets tinkling, unutterably lovely. Ringlets black as midnight tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Ropes of colorful beads encircle her neck, nestling in the valley between her opulent breasts. A flowing rainbow-hued skirt drapes over her equally abundant hips and swirls around her sturdy ankles.

“Michael, darling!” I back away as she descends on the writer and sweeps him into a searing French kiss. His hands slide down her back to fondle her ass. As his tongue plunders her mouth, he grinds his pelvis against hers. The gesture’s definitely not family-friendly. I glance around at the other customers, hoping no one has noticed, but everyone appears to be transfixed by various mobile devices.

They make out for a shockingly long time, while I watch, becoming hotter by the instant. And I thought this guy wasn’t getting any! I thrust my hands in my pockets and crumple up the phone number, as a blush climbs into my cheeks. Talk about feeling stupid!

Finally, I tear myself away from the erotic spectacle, hurrying back to busy myself behind the counter. They’re still kissing, though the intensity has waned a bit. At last he releases her. She sinks into the chair next to him, licking her lips.

I’m still quivering with arousal when the writer—Michael—beckons to me.

“Can I get the check please, Nikki?”

I didn’t think he knew my name. “Oh—sure. Just a sec.” I have new respect for this guy. Despite his less than impressive appearance, he must be someone special, to have hooked someone as gorgeous as Layla.

He turns to the gypsy-like vision beside him. “This is Nikki. She’s been taking care of me over the past few weeks, while I’ve been trying to finish the novel.”

Layla snares me with eyes the color of French roast coffee. “Thanks, Nikki. I know Michael can consume a lot caffeine when he’s in the throes of a creative endeavour.”

“Um. Yeah. I noticed.” I’m burning up, though I can’t say whether desire or embarrassment makes the greater contribution.

She turns to her lover. The pair share a long, smoldering look, before she swings her gaze back to me.

“Looks like you work really hard.”

Is she mocking me? She must have noticed the cinnamon heart decorating her partner’s drink. “Well, you know. It’s a job.”

She fingers an inky tendril of hair before flipping it over her shoulder. Her full lips curve into a friendly smile. “So we were wondering, Michael and I, when you have a day off.”

What? My knees actually go weak for an instant. Does she mean...?

“I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for you, actually,” Michael adds. “Seems as though nobody here really appreciates you.”

“Except Michael,” Layla adds, stroking his arm. He shifts in his chair. Even though his lap’s in shadow, I glimpse the swelling in his crotch. “And me, of course.”

The beanpole hands me a twenty. Electricity sizzles between us when our fingers touch. “Keep the change, Nikki.” His smile makes me feel naked.

Meanwhile, Layla pulls a pen from her lover’s shirt pocket and writes something on the check. “Call us,” she murmurs. “We’ll be good to you.”

Blood roars in my ears. I have a lot of fantasies. I’m not used to having them come true.

I’m certainly not going to turn them down. Even if, for them, it’s an act of charity.

Today's the last day of my Free Reading Fest. I hope you've enjoyed it. I will announce the winners on Wednesday. (Of course, you can still enter today, by leaving a comment with your email.)

Red Eye -- #Stewardess #MileHighClub #FreeReadingFest #Prizes

 Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

He was the one. She knew it, the first time she felt him slide into her. Everything was right. Perfect fit, glorious fullness without pain. Every movement woke new nerves, sent new sensations shimmering through her. Bent over the seat, digging her nails into the faux leather covering the armrests as her body shook with his thrusts, she couldn't see his face. She didn't need to see him; she knew what he was thinking, knew what he wanted.

She arched her back, letting him bury his flesh more deeply in hers. She clenched her inner muscles around his hardness, wanting to swallow him, to make him part of her. He rammed his cock into her again and again, one hand over her mouth to stifle her cries. She writhed against him, each stroke a shuddering, prolonged delight that nudged her closer to the ultimate pleasure.

He was not gentle like the men she had dreamed about before she knew him. He was not tender. Still, she had no doubts that he was meant for her. In the darkened cabin, he read her body like Braille. He knew how to tease every nuance of pleasure out of her wet and open flesh. While one hand held her gagged, the other toyed with her nipples through her blouse, twisting and squeezing the swollen nubs. She worried briefly that he'd tear the fabric, until the seething flood of sensation washed her worries away.

Above the sussurations of the passengers shifting in their seats, the coughs and the snores and the faint babble of movie sound tracks, she could hear the slap of his balls against her bare thighs and his open-mouthed panting. The steamy jungle smell of her cunt rose around them. She was sure that someone would notice, would turn around to check the empty rows toward the back of the section. His palm smothered her moans. Then the pulse of his come inside her swept her into a whirling climax. The engine whined in her ears. Gravity released her. She floated weightless, shaken by spasms of pleasure so intense that they practically stripped her of consciousness.

When she came to herself, she was on her knees, her face buried in the cushion, the seat belt buckle digging into her cheek. There was no trace of him, save for the burning in her cunt and the used condom she found under the seat. She pulled herself to her feet, smoothed her uniform down over her torn pantyhose, slipped back into her sensible pumps. She was still shaking.

She peered through the dimness toward the front of the plane. There was a man's head there in 16B, silhouetted by the lighted No Smoking sign on the cabin wall. He leaned against the headrest, seemingly asleep. She could almost believe it had been a dream. But her thighs were sticky with her own juices, and when she pressed them together, delicious echos of her climax sparked through her.

Later, an hour before landing when she came down the aisle with drinks, he had grinned and slipped a card into her hand. "Email me," he had said. "If you want, that is." His expression made it clear that he had no doubts about her decision.

So it had begun. He was a fortyish media hotshot with a cedar and glass ranch house in the Hollywood Hills and a condo on Central Park West. He had lots of excuses to fly cross-country. He had a wife in LA, a suspicious wife who checked his cell phone bills and tried to read his email, a wife too expensive to divorce.

She was twenty eight, a single girl from Iowa City, brought up on the Bible, Nora Roberts and Danielle Steele. The airline had based her in Minneapolis. Her schedule changed from month to month, but whenever she was assigned the red eye, she'd let him know. He'd do his best to arrange a trip east to coincide. Business class. Sixteen B.

It started with her standing at the door of the plane, proper and well-groomed, inspecting boarding passes. He'd tower over her, giving her a proprietary grin that liquefied her bare cunt. She'd learned not to wear underwear when he flied. His scent made her knees buckle even as she welcomed him aboard. "Sixteen B", she'd say, handing back the slip of cardboard. "Down the right aisle, sir." His fingers would brush hers, sending electric sparks to her cunt.

Sometimes he'd murmur his instructions, sotto voce, as she came through with the drink cart, forty five minutes out of LAX. Sometimes he would email her beforehand, sharing his fantasies. "I should crouch behind you as you're checking the boarding passes. My fingers would be buried in your cunt, my thumb stuck in your ass. Then we'd see how cool and collected you really are, Ms. Perfectly Poised Airline Hostess."

Alone in her neat apartment, she'd still blush, reading his messages. Her nipples would harden to aching pebbles. Her pussy would grow so wet that she'd be slithering back and forth on the vinyl desk chair. She'd close her eyes and remember how it felt to have his cock, or his fingers, or both, inside her. She couldn't wait.

At the same time, he scared her. Or rather, her need for him scared her. More than once she was tempted to call in sick when she was assigned to the red eye. What would he think, boarding, finding himself welcomed by some other young lady in the trim navy uniform? Would he miss her, really? Would he make a pass at someone else?

Ultimately, she couldn't bear to give up a chance to see him. To touch and be touched by him. It might be weeks, even months, before the next opportunity. Typically she'd be at the airport hours before the scheduled departure time, hanging around in the staff lounge, drinking cup after cup of weak coffee and replaying their last encounter. Once, he had laid her out on an empty seat, binding her wrists with the seatbelt while he slurped hungrily at her cunt. On another flight, he'd locked them into the bathroom, then made her kneel on the commode and swallow his cock. He had even fingered her to climax in the galley, while the other stewardesses chatted on the other side of the curtain.

She was amazed that they'd never been caught. People - the passengers and the crew - were all so oblivious. For everyone else, the flight was just routine: stressful, exhausting, part of the job, something to be gotten through. For the two of them, it was a ritual.

"It's been six months," he had written to her yesterday. "Our anniversary. I think we should plan something special." She'd followed his instructions, giving herself an enema, gasping at the nasty, delicious relief that came from emptying himself. She bought a tube of personal lubricant at a pharmacy on the far side of town, her cheeks blazing red even though she knew she'd never see the cashier again. As she waited for the first passengers, just inside the door, she was suddenly, irrationally sure that he wouldn't show up. That he'd leave her, empty and hungry, suffering through endless five hour arc across the continent.

But no, there he was, elite level frequent flyer that he was, one of the first people up the jetway. Her heart revved like a jet engine. Liquid trickled down her naked thighs.

"Good evening, sir." His smile lit up the entire cabin. Calm certainty washed over her. Of course he was here. He was the one, the one she had been waiting for.

"Good evening, Miss. How are you tonight?" He hovered over her for an endless moment and she had a fleeting notion that he'd kiss her, though he never had, not on the lips at least. I'll remember that later, she thought. I'll imagine his mouth on mine.

"Very well. And you?"

"Excellent. Looking forward to the flight." He gave her a conspiratorial grin that nearly made her laugh out loud.

"Sixteen B?" she asked, a bit boldly.

"Of course."

"You know the way."

"I do indeed. I'll see you later." He gave her butt a soft slap as he passed. She desperately hoped that no one noticed.

After the folks crammed into economy had gotten their pretzels and the business class passengers had finished their chicken breasts in cream sauce, the lights dimmed. The flight was smooth, no turbulence predicted until eastern Pennsylvania. Their steel coccoon hurtled through the darkness, over the blankness of the plains where she'd been born.

She moved silently through the aisles, headed for the rear-most lavatory, the larger one that was handicapped accessible.

"Leave the door unlocked," he wrote. "Lift your skirt to your waist and bend over the toilet, holding onto the invalid bars. Put the lube on the sink. And wait for me."

When she'd read his instructions, she had imagined what it would feel like, to be so exposed and vulnerable. Since the lock was not thrown, the indicator lights would show that the lavatory was free. At any moment, someone might slide open the door and come face to face with her bare bum. How could she possibly do such a thing, even for him? Still, she knew in her soul that she'd follow his instructions to the letter. She didn't sleep, the night she got that message. She sat up, naked in her single bed, staring at her own pale, lush body, wondering what she was becoming.

Now, actually arrayed in the indecent position that he had dictated, she felt oddly calm, though there was an undercurrent of excitement. He was in charge, even if he was still lounging back in 16B sipping his scotch. She would wait for him. She trusted him to come. To take what he wanted and give her what she needed. And if someone else discovered her lewdness, well, perhaps that was his intent, to show her how much she craved the exposure and the shame.

A steady stream of cool air from the ventilator played over her buttocks. She could almost believe it was his fingers, stroking, testing her readiness. No one had ever touched her, there in that most private spot, let alone entered her as he promised to do. She was simultaneously terrified and eager.

Five minutes. Ten. She became agitated. How long? She felt the plane shift, a kind of hiccup in the air. Could they were descending, two hours early?

All at once she heard of squeak of the door sliding open. She stopped breathing. There was no gasp of shock, no outraged shriek. His scent wafted into the small chamber. The door scraped shut. The lock clicked. She released her pent-up breath.

He laid his hand lightly on her naked rump. "Lovely," he murmured, his fingers drawing small circles on her flesh. Bending over, he planted a kiss on each cheek. "Thank you, Alison."

Her heart surged. He rarely used her name. That was part of the game, the conceit that they were chance-met, lust-driven strangers, that this was the first time that he'd partaken of her body. Perhaps tonight would be different. Perhaps they were moving toward something closer, more substantial, something beyond fantasy.

He did not say anything further. He simply stroked her ass, and looked at her. She felt the heat of his gaze sweeping over her like a spotlight. She didn't need to see him to know. It was, as always, as if she could read his thoughts. She arched her back a bit, offering him the swelling globes that he admired so much. He reacted with sudden, stinging slaps, one to each cheek. Her startled cry turned into a moan as the heat raced from her burning butt down to her pussy.

"Minx! Are you so eager?" He slipped a finger between her splayed thighs and into her soaking cunt. She bucked against him, unable to control her reactions. "Seems as though you are. Well, I won't make you wait any longer."

His hand left her sex for a moment. It was unbearable. She heard him pick up the K-Y. The tube made an obscene spurting sound as he squeezed out what sounded like several tablespoons. Then his fingers were back, lightly stroking her pussy lips and circling her clit. She squirmed, rubbing against him, halfway to coming already.

Then other sensations distracted her from the hungry buzz in her cunt. He traced one slippery finger down the crack between her cheeks. It settled against the whorl of her sphincter, swirling around that sensitive spot, slathering her with lubricant. At first he concentrated only on the entrance. Even that was nearly too intense to bear. He massaged her clit and her rear hole in the same rhythm, circling, spiraling down, then slipping his digits into her, front and back. His finger in her anus reawakened all the shameful pleasure of the enema. She clenched down on him, struggling for breath. He probed deeper, then added another finger, stretching and loosening the rubbery ring of muscle.

He knew that she was virgin there. He took his time, adding another finger only when she was rocking backwards, keening, urging him deeper, silently begging. He pulled out, and she thought that she'd weep. Then she felt delicious pressure against her slippery hole and knew that it was his cock, much thicker and harder than his fingers, seeking entrance.

He hovered there, rubbing the bulb against her, easing her open. All at once he jerked his hips, forcing his bulk halfway into her rectum. She whimpered at the sudden invasion, edged as it was with unaccustomed pain. He thrust again and buried his full length in her bowels. His hand was ready to muffle her scream. Her musk rose fresh and sharp from his fingers to her nostrils.

He waited while she became accustomed to the novel sensations. The pain faded. He seemed to swell inside her, huge and hot. She fought the urge to expel him, trying to relax. He started to move, pulling partway out and then slamming his cock even deeper than before. He gripped her ass cheeks and held them apart, so that he could plunge his engorged, solid cock in, up to his very balls.

It was like nothing that she'd ever felt. Each stroke kindled a delicious burn that radiated from her pinioned ass to her extremities. When he filled her, the pressure rose to her chest, making her gasp. When he emptied her, tears filled her eyes at the yawning ache that swept over her.

Her cunt felt all the emptier, with his flesh stretching her behind. She desperately wished that he had two cocks, that he could penetrate her front and rear at once. She wanted him to take all of her.

As if he could hear her thoughts, he slipped a hand into her cunt, gathering her juices. The next thing she knew, he was sliding something hard and smooth into her pussy, raking it across her clit on the way in.

It might have been the new stimulation. It could have been her foggy realization that he'd just plunged a dildo into her cunt. Her muscles clenched down on the enormous bulk invading her. Her cunt convulsed, vibrations speeding through her, pleasure peaking and then climbing off the scale.

Then, just as the first climax subsided, the plane hit a pocket of bad air. It bucked and rocked, slamming her back against the rod of flesh embedded in her ass, then forward onto the dildo. She came again, a delicious shattering that left her hanging limp on the two poles that impaled her.

The 747 continued to shake. He grabbed her hips and fucked her hard, using her body to bring himself off. The plane dipped suddenly, leaving a hole in her gut. What a way to die, she thought, delirious with pleasure. With one cock in my ass and one in my cunt.

With a grunt, he slammed into her one last time. She felt the heat of his come in her bowels, even through the latex. Every sensation seemed to be heightened after her dual crisis. When his cock slipped out of her, she reveled in the feel of his half-hard penis slithering over her cheeks. When he reached to remove the toy, she ground her clit against it, and exploded a third time.

The plane still tossed like a feather on the transcontinental currents. She heard a ding; a red light came on near the ceiling.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're experiencing some severe turbulence. Please return to your seats immediately and fasten your seatbelts."

She turned, seeing his face for the first time since he'd entered. He looked more serious than she would have expected, without his usual teasing grin.

"You'd better get back to your seat. If one of the other stewardesses notices that you're missing..."

He stopped her with a kiss, grabbing her shoulders, smearing KY all over her blouse. His mouth was as forceful as his cock. His tongue was brazen, taking her over. She relaxed into his embrace, floating on a pink cloud of happily ever afters. He devoured her as though she was his last meal.

The plane shook itself like a dog after swimming. The force of it pulled them apart.

He gazed at her, his dark eyes brimming with emotion. "Alison - thank you."

"Anytime, sir." Sure of herself, surer of him now than ever, she risked a bit of cheek. "You know that I'd do anything for you. Just let me know what you'd like for the next time."

He stroked her tousled blond hair. "I'm afraid that there won't be a next time."

Her heart skipped a beat, then another. She grabbed his shirt. "What? What do you mean?"

"My wife. She's been snooping around. Asking about all these trips to the east coast. Next time, she says, she wants to come with me. Visit the shops on Fifth Avenue. See a show."

"So? Take her some time when I'm not on call. Convince her there's nothing going on." She stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss him. He did not respond.

"I'm sorry..."

"Look, we can cool things off for a month or so. I can wait, if I have to, if that's the only way..."

"But I can't wait." He gently unclasped her hands where they gripped his clothing. "Between times - when we're apart - I can hardly stand it. I think of you all the time. I'm constantly tempted to write you, to tell you all the kinky things that I want to do to you..."

She snuggled against him. "So why don't you?"

"Don't you understand? I can't! I can't afford to be obsessed with you! It would ruin me. When I'm with you, I'm risking everything - my life, my fortune, my job, my reputation."

"And what about me? All I ever dreamed of as a kid was being a stewardess, but if we were caught - no airline would ever hire me again." She pulled herself to her full 5'4", just barely regulation height for air crew. "But I'd do anything for you. I love you."

He couldn't meet her eyes. "I know. I'm close to loving you, too. You're the most perfect partner. It's like you can read my mind..."

A hint of triumph laced through her pain. He felt it too. It wasn't just her romantic imagination. "I know. I understand." She took his hands in hers. "Please, Carl. Give us a chance. What we have is something precious. It's once in a lifetime. Don't throw it away."

Anguish twisted his handsome face. "Alison, I don't have a choice." The bell dinged again, and the seatbelt light switched off. He backed out of the cubicle, closing it behind him. Not even saying goodbye.

She sank down onto the toilet, burying her face in her hands. Her whole body shook, but her tears were silent, spilling over her fingers and soaking her crumpled skirt. Please, she thought, her mind whirling desperately. Let the plane crash. Let the world end.

She cried and cried, until her throat rasped and her eyes burned. Finally, exhausted, she leaned back against the wall. There was something there, pressing against her buttocks. She reached behind and brought out the dildo.

It was hard rubber, bright purple, and shaped like a rabbit. It was so ridiculous that in the depths of her despair, she almost laughed. She ran her hand along its sticky length, remembering the glorious places he had taken her. She sniffed at it. The oceany reek of her cunt woke echoes of her climax. She suddenly felt how stretched she was, behind, the legacy of his cock plowing her. It burned a bit, but the sensation was pleasant, stirring further shadows of past lust.

She felt the plane nose downward, just as the PA came on. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're starting our descent to JFK. Please fasten your seatbelts, lock your tray tables and bring your seats to an upright position." She stood up resolutely and tried to brush the wrinkles from her uniform.

Let him go. If he left, then she must have been wrong. He was not the one for her, the one she'd been searching for all her life. That man was still out there, waiting for her, somewhere. And now she knew a lot more about how to recognize him, and how to make him happy.

She splashed some hot water on her face, then peered at her reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot from all her crying, but otherwise, she looked pretty good. She pinned up her hair again, and reapplied her lipstick. After a moment's thought, she unfastened the top button on her blouse.

Lots of men had fantasies about stewardesses. She could take advantage of that. She smiled at the sexy young woman in the mirror, savoring the growing buzz between her thighs. "Good evening, sir," she pouted. "Welcome aboard."

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Baristas -- #YoungMenOlderWoman #Fantasy #FreeReadingFest #Prizes

 Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay

 

Who can explain desire?

Some women lust after rock stars or cowboys, rough-and-ready construction workers or CEOs in designer suits. Me? I fantasize about baristas.

The best are artists, concocting beautiful, customized beverages for their clientele. They know your name, remember your usual order, gift you with radiant smiles that tell you you’re special. Perhaps they’re just angling for tips, but they do it so gracefully that you feel privileged to drop a dollar into their box.

There are four coffee shops on the ground floor of the office complex where my firm is located, two in the east tower, two in the west. Each has its own vibe, and its own delightful young men.

D’Amicos is a classic Italian café, its gleaming espresso machine adorned with brass lions and cherubs. Theo, the server, fits in perfectly, with his jet-black curls, olive complexion, lean frame and lazy grin. He’s told me he’s studying drama, but he wouldn’t look out of place behind the wheel of a Maserati.

Stanwycks caters to the millennial crowd; rarely do you see a table without a MacBook or iPad. Jim and Jeff preside over the counter there, two rangy blonds from South Dakota of all places, with an easy manner that seems out of place here in the city. Jeff tells me they got tired of cows. The way his blue eyes sparkle, I don’t know whether to believe him or not.

The Espresso Club is more upmarket, frequented by many of my colleagues. It’s where the deals get done. Behind the bar, his trim white uniform contrasting with his gorgeous ebony skin, Jeremy works with quiet efficiency to lubricate the wheels of business. He takes his job seriously—he might be the only barista I know who thinks of it as a career—but he always lightens up when he sees me coming.

Finally there’s The Bean Bag, with its retro sixties décor, complete with posters of Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead. The low, cushioned chairs in the Bag are almost sinfully comfortable. The Bean Bag’s a place to hang out, a place where you don’t hurry. Of all the options, it might well be my favorite. The baristas, Todd and Martin, provide the leisurely service their customers expect. The generous drinks and moderate prices more than compensate for their lack of urgency.

Todd has a dancer’s build, slender and muscular, while Martin is stockier, more like a wrestler. Neither could be older than twenty-five, but they’re channeling the styles from half a century ago: shaggy hair (Todd’s sandy, Martin’s ginger), embroidered Indian cotton shirts (Martin’s with a V neck that shows off his furry chest), broken-in jeans that hug their young butts.

I find them both irresistible.

Actually, I want all my baristas, with their ready smiles, their flirtatious charm, their strong young bodies. On weekdays I cycle from one cafe to the next, trying not to be too obvious as I ogle them. On weekends I invite them—in my fantasies—up to my luxury condo, where I entertain them, and vice versa.

I’m not a cougar or anything like that. I occasionally date men my age. When I do, though, I remember why these encounters are so infrequent. Men of my generation have such a sense of entitlement. They expect to be flattered, coddled, treated like the kings they believe they are. They find it hard to deal with an intelligent, assertive woman like me.

Plus they’re rarely good for more than one round of sex. They always leave me hungry for more—hungry for my youthful, virile baristas who, unlike my own cohort, are open-minded and egalitarian. They look at me with awed admiration, a full partner in a prestigious law firm at only thirty-seven, but they’re not intimidated. They live to serve.

Most of the time it’s more satisfying to spend time with my vibrator and my coffee-dispensing fantasy lovers than with some flesh-and-blood advertising executive, retail magnate or real estate tycoon.

I’ve never done more than imagine, though. These days women get sued for sexual harassment, too.

My job often demands long nights, but usually I manage to keep my weekends free. Last Saturday, though, I was forced to go into the office. Pam, my paralegal, finished her research into a complex M&A case late on Friday. I had to review the stack of files she’d left on my desk before Monday’s meeting with the client.

I gathered the documents, dumped them in my attaché case and headed to the ground floor for a cappuccino I sorely needed. I’d planned to drop in on Theo, but D’Amicos was closed. Indeed, only The Bean Bag was open on that summery Saturday morning. Peering into the empty coffee shop, I concluded the other cafes probably had the right idea. Why stay open when there were no customers? I was grateful the owner of The Bean Bag wasn’t so sensible.

“Ms. Jordan!” Todd’s face lit up as I walked in. As I lowered myself into a chair at my favorite table, he rushed over to scrub at the already-spotless surface with his towel. “What a surprise to see you on a Saturday.”

“Hi, Todd.” I grinned up at him, my mood noticeably improved by the sight of his broad shoulders and narrow hips. “You know what they say: no rest for the wicked.”

“Are you wicked, Ms. Jordan?” Martin emerged from behind the counter to join his colleague. “I don’t believe it.” They stood together on the other side of the table, the blond and the redhead, eager and attentive, waiting to hear what I wanted.

I recalled my last fantasy starring these two, in which Martin’s presumably substantial cock had filled my pussy while Todd’s more slender member rooted in my rear hole. I’d needed a second dildo for that one. I felt my face heat up at the memory. “Oh, you have no idea what I’m capable of, gentlemen.”

“I’d love to know,” Todd murmured, brushing his hair out of his eyes. The two men exchanged a meaningful glance. My blush intensified.

“Your usual, Ms. Jordan?” Martin asked. “Double cappuccino?” He licked his lips.

“Add some whipped cream this time,” I said. “And one of your scrumptious blueberry muffins, toasted. Never mind healthy eating—I need some consolation for having to work on the weekend.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll console you,” said Todd with a cheeky grin. “We’ll be right back.”

I pulled out the first file folder and started to skim the pages inside. Normally, I have no trouble working regardless of what’s going on around me, but I couldn’t seem to focus on the analyst’s reports and tables of figures. I kept glancing over at Martin and Todd, as they bustled about fulfilling my order. Although both were over six feet, with long legs and arms, they didn’t interfere with one another. They had long practice choreographing their movements in the cramped space behind the counter.

Would they be that way in bed, too? The thought came out of nowhere. At the same time, I realized that my nipples were taut beads under my designer tee and that the crotch of my panties was soaked. Fortunately the rich aroma of fresh ground coffee wafted through the shop. I hoped it would drown out any hint of my personal scent.

Get a grip, Elaine. Fantasy was all very well, but careers had been ruined by failing to distinguish it from reality.

“Here’s your coffee.” A decadent swirl of whipped cream decorated the cup Martin placed before me. Perched on top was a tiny milk-chocolate heart.

“That looks amazing. And fattening.”

“Not something you need to worry about, Ms. Jordan.” His hazel eyes glittered with mirth.

Todd appeared beside him. “And your muffin...” Melted butter dripped down the toasted surfaces of the two halves.

“I didn’t ask for butter,” I protested, a bit alarmed by all the calories in front of me.

“You can’t have a blueberry muffin without butter,” insisted the sandy-haired barista. “It’s illegal!”

We laughed together. “What the heck,” I said, surrendering to their charm. “I didn’t have any breakfast.” I dove into the feast they’d prepared for me.

I must have been hungrier than I realized. I’d drunk most of the coffee and devoured half the muffin before I noticed they were watching me. Their eyes followed every sip, every bite.

“Good?” asked Todd, his voice smooth as one of the blended frappes he and his partner concocted for their customers.

“Unbelievable. Thank you...”

“You missed a bit.” Martin ran his finger around the inside of the cup, gathering some remnants of the whipped cream. He held the digit out to me. Before I could stop myself, I took it into my mouth and sucked.

Time stood still. The two men shared another one of those pregnant looks. His finger still between my lips, Martin nodded at his partner. Todd strode over to the door, locked it, and flipped the sign to “Closed”.

No, I wanted to say. No, I can’t.

Martin withdrew his finger.

“Oh,” I breathed, wanting it back. I felt empty, everywhere. “Please...”

Todd lowered the blinds.

Martin moved the table to the side, then crouched down so that his freckled face was level with mine. “What do you want, Ms. Jordan? How can we serve you?”

“I—I can’t...” I babbled.

“You don’t have to do anything.” Todd joined his colleague on the other side of me. “Just leave everything to us.”

Before I could reply, he was pushing my casual cotton skirt up my bare thighs to give his partner better access. Martin hooked his fingers into the waistband of my bikinis and tugged them down far enough to expose my pubic curls.

“Oh, pretty!” Todd exclaimed, brushing his palm over my fur and sending electric sparks straight to my clit.

“A natural blond,” added Martin. He slid one delicate finger between my swollen labia. “A very wet blond.” The slight invasion just made me want more, but even as I arched up from my chair, he withdrew to suck off my juices. “And delicious.”

“Let me taste, Martin.”

Shameless, I tried spreading my thighs, but the panties interfered. I raised my butt so Todd could slip them down to my ankles. He stuffed them in his jeans pocket before kneeling in front of me.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long, Ms. Jordan.” Using his thumbs, he opened my sex like a ripe fig and licked me from back to front. Just one stroke, but it was more than enough to make me squirm.

“Oh, God! More! Please...”

He bent closer and lapped along my cleft with a firmer pressure, finishing with a flick to my clit. Lightning sizzled up my spine. I arched up from the chair, trying to hump his face. With a chuckle, he burrowed deeper, plunging his tongue into my folds then nibbling at my inner lips. Everything he did felt heavenly.

Before long he had his whole face wallowing in my pussy, using his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, even the hardness of his nose to bring me pleasure. A climax coiled in my pelvis, winding tighter each time he dove into my body with such enthusiasm. I was soaked and slippery. I knew I was drenching him with my secretions, but unlike many men I’ve known, he didn’t seem to mind at all. The more I bucked against him, the more energetic he became.

I was so, so close to coming. I knew that was what he wanted, too. My fingers buried in his shaggy hair, I pulled his head closer and directed his agile tongue to just the right spots. I ground my sex against his face, thrashing and wailing like a wild woman as I teetered on the edge of climax.

I’d forgotten all about Martin. When he clasped my breasts through my shirt, I jerked in shock at the new stimulation. He’d circled around behind my chair so that he had a better angle.

“Relax,” he murmured in my ear, before licking the sensitive skin below my earlobe. “Relax and enjoy.”

He dragged my tee up to my armpits, then deftly peeled down my bra to bare my breasts. “Oh, yeah!” he breathed as he gathered them in his big hands. “You are the ultimate fox, Ms. Jordan.”

I started to laugh, but Todd grazed my clit with his teeth and my chuckle turned to a gasp. Martin rolled my nipples between his fingers, gently at first, then harder. “Come for us,” he urged, pinching and pulling the swollen nubs. “Don’t hold back.”

Todd burrowed into my pussy, devouring me. Martin played with my tits, teasing me with his clever fingers. Together my baristas worked to push me into climax. How could I resist them?

I screamed as the whirlwind seized me. Pleasure swirled, rose, tore me apart. My self-awareness shattered into a million shards of bright sensation.

I came back to reality to find them grinning at me, looking as pleased and satisfied as if they’d been the ones who’d come. Todd’s face was slick with my juices. The scent of pussy overwhelmed the usual coffee smells.

“Thank you.” Grateful but embarrassed, I started to pull down my shirt.

“Wait—don’t!” said Martin.

“Don’t you want more?” Todd asked. He glanced at the locked door. “We might not get a chance like this again.”

“I don’t know—” I began.

“We want more,” said Martin, tossing away his shirt and starting to unzip his jeans. My mouth watered when I saw he wore nothing underneath. His muscular thighs were furred with the same red down as his chest. His cock reared up from a ginger tangle at his groin, frankly magnificent.

“If you’ll have us,” Todd added, stripping down as quickly as his partner. His skin was paler, and almost hairless, but his erection was no less impressive—certainly not the slender shaft I’d imagined.

Their nakedness triggered a new surge of arousal. I wanted those lovely young cocks inside me. I understood that I could say no—my rational side suggested that would be the wisest course of action—but I just couldn’t refuse.

“I’d love to have you,” I told them. I took longer to undress than they had, partly because my clothing was in such a tangled state, but in minutes I was as nude as they were.

Martin eased me back into the well-padded chair. I spread my thighs wide. He stepped into the gap between them, his enticing erection bobbing with every movement. Grasping my hips then pulling me forward a bit, he hooked my legs over his shoulders. “Can you handle this position?” he asked.

I nodded, glad for all the hours I spend in the gym.

His cock poised at my entrance, he paused once more to check my reaction.

“Do it,” I stammered, so turned on I could hardly talk.

He tilted his hips and plunged his cock all the way in.

“Oh!” We cried out at the same moment, as bliss overwhelmed us both. Closing my eyes, I savored the heat and the sense of fullness. No dildo could ever compare.

The red-haired barista struck up an easy rhythm, thrusting deep, giving me time to feel every inch. I clenched my inner muscles around his rigid shaft and was rewarded by his gasp of pleasure. He picked up his pace. His swollen rod massaged my clit on each stroke and I found to my surprise I was already well on the way to coming.

“Ms. Jordan?”

I opened my eyes to find Todd’s tempting cock hovering inches from my face. “Oh, I’m sorry for neglecting you!” I cried. I kissed the rosy head, then swallowed the whole impressive length. My tongue danced along his silky skin, stretched so tight over the steel beneath. He moaned as I turned up the suction, thrusting deep. I took him all, right down to the root. My nose buried in his pubes, I breathed in his funky male scent and sucked harder.

Meanwhile, Martin continued to fuck me, sliding his cock in and out of my drenched sex. The two men seemed to fall into the same pattern. Todd’s cock filled my mouth while Martin stretched my pussy. Both challenged me to take what they had to give. Then they both withdrew, giving me a moment to breathe and appreciate the many shades of delight that flickered through me.

We were in perfect balance. It seemed to go on forever. I suppose the guys must have been very horny, but they had amazing stamina. Our climb together was gradual but inevitable. Our climax was blissfully easy.

Todd’s cock twitched and pulsed against my tongue. I knew he was close. I grazed his shaft with my teeth and tasted his first spurt of cum. Meanwhile, Martin drove deep while thumbing my clit, releasing me into an orgasm as smooth and rich as whipped cream. As I convulsed around him, he exploded in a flood of heat.

The guys recovered before I did. Well, they were younger. Plus they’d each had only one orgasm to my two. When my eyes fluttered open, I found them seated cross-legged on the floor, side by side, watching me.

“Are you all right, Ms. Jordan?” Martin asked.

I sat up, leaned forward, and gave him a quick kiss. “Of course I am, silly.” I brushed my lips across Todd’s as well. “But given what we’ve been up to, maybe you should call me Elaine.”

Martin reached out to tweak my nipple. “That wouldn’t be respectful.”

Grinning, Todd nodded his agreement. “After all, you’re our valued customer.”

He stroked his resurgent erection. “So, are you ready for a refill?”

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