Smut in the City (Absolute Erotica) Page 2

  “Please don’t start on all this again. I gave you a second chance. Don’t make me regret it.”

  He looked at her and smiled, then in a lowered voice, said, “We both know I’m right.”

  She started to get up but he grabbed her waist with one hand, his touch firm against the cotton of her top. They looked at each other for a second, like animals having caught each other by surprise, and she felt his hand loosen its grip. Her breath was taut and shallow, and her thong began to flood. She stood up awkwardly in front of him, refusing to take her eyes off him, challenging him to do more. His hand fell, but then started to caress her thigh, the area just above her knee, and when she didn’t resist, he began to climb it, stroking her, teasing her. She stood there, breathless, refusing to move. It felt like a fight where they could both be winners if they played their cards right. By backing away now, Ashley knew she’d have lost, and likewise, were Fox to remove his hand, he’d be admitting defeat, too. So they continued, eyes locked, defying each other, and his hand roamed further up the creamy path of her inner thigh. When it got to her pussy it didn’t stop, but continued straight up, pushing the lacy fabric of her thong aside as he plunged two fingers inside her dripping wet cunt. Ashley took a sharp intake of breath as she felt her whole being melt into his touch. He moved his fingers up and down inside her, and as she dripped and slipped and dissolved into him, she started to rock against his pressure, pushing her g-spot against his knuckle, and pressing her clit against his thumb. She came suddenly and violently then, caught up in the unexpectedness of events, caught up in her own rashness, and in his daring.

  “Jesus Christ, what did you just do to me?” she asked between breaths.

  He removed his fingers and sucked them clean. “All part of the service.”

  Ashley had two meetings, but was distracted through both of them, allowing her producers to present their new ideas without her usual scrutiny. All she could think about were Fox’s fingers, and his magical way of igniting her whole body. All she wanted was to hide in her secret garden, to suck him and fuck him, to be with him and to melt into him, day after day after day.

  Instead she had to settle for watching his steady traipse through the building with plants and pots and earth.

  When the meetings were finally over she could escape, and climbed up what she now considered her stairway to heaven, where she found him emptying earth into a large Italianate tub in one corner. “This’ll be for your hydrangea, it should fill this space nicely.”

  She looked around at the lavender and geraniums he’d already planted, and the small olive tree that was soaking up the sun in the opposite corner. He carried on working, wordlessly, practically ignoring her. It was as if her lunch time orgasm hadn’t happened.

  “You’re not finishing here today, are you?”

  “No, Wednesday should do it. And from then on it’ll be monthly visits.”

  “Good. About what happened earlier?”

  He stood up stiffly. “Do we need to talk? Do women always need to talk? Why can’t you be like plants, and just go with it? Find a nice spot, get the right conditions, and just enjoy.”

  “I enjoyed what happened earlier, didn’t I?”

  There was that hot, confident smile again. “I’d say so.”

  “Take a break, you’ve been working all day.” She pushed him down onto some bags of earth and sank to her knees, forcing herself not to care about the debris that was attaching itself to her skirt. She unzipped his fly, and as his cock sprang out, she took him in her mouth, reminding herself what it was like to taste cock again, to rediscover that texture unlike any other, and the sensation of his skin against hers, and the sense of doing something daring, the feeling of power that the act gave her, and the innate pleasure she knew she was giving him.

  “You do that too well,” he whispered. “I’ll come soon.”

  In a sudden, fluent movement, he picked her up and lay her across his bulging cock, and as his hands roamed up her thighs to her g-string, he gave her a short, hard spank.

  Ashley had never been spanked before, and the sudden jolt of pain shocked her, but it intrigued her, too.

  “You liked that?” he asked softly, before spanking her on the other cheek. Then he forced his fingers inside her wet cunt again, covering them in her juices, and pulled her g-string aside, baring her anus, and started rubbing it with her wetness. Ashley sighed, not quite believing what was happening to her, as his thumb started penetrating her, and his two middle fingers plunged inside her pussy once again. She clung on to him as the sensations swept over her, inhaling the earthiness of their surrounds, and the fragments of leaves and branches that clung to his trousers. Suddenly she came again, deep and long, thrusting herself against his fingers and thumb, opening herself up to him, revealing a vulnerability she’d long kept to herself. Once her orgasm was over, she climbed off him and knelt down, taking his cock in her mouth again. She was greedy for him, couldn’t get enough of him; she wanted to taste him and to swallow his cum, but she also wanted to know that a part of him was fully inside her, and so when he lifted her up, smearing her thighs with mud, and sat her on top of him, nothing really mattered any more, and Ashley just relished the size of his cock filling her, and she opened herself up to it, oblivious of their surroundings, and of the windows which might overlook them, and the stifled tea-room giggles that might be going on all over Soho at her expense. None of it mattered. He pushed up her t-shirt and yanked up her bra, cupping her breasts and smearing her pussy juices over her nipples before licking each one clean. Once his tongue was covered and wet, she kissed him, greedy to explore every taste and sensation that was open to her. When he came, thrusting heavily inside her, Ashley found herself tumbling into yet another deep, powerful orgasm, pressing her tongue inside his mouth, her pussy hard against his cock. His hands reached down to cup her naked buttocks, and a finger slipped inside her anus, and she thrust down on it heavily, no longer knowing where any of her sensations started or finished.

  They slumped into each other’s bodies for several minutes in silence. Instead of finding words, Ashley just found kisses, as she nibbled and sucked his lips, his tongue and his chin. Perhaps he was right about not talking? Perhaps she no longer needed words when she was with him? She could be his exotic plant, and he’d nurture her to once-monthly orgasms without the need for complications or language.

  “I must go,” he whispered after a moment. “I’ve got the kids to pick up.”

  “Of course.” She slumped down into the misery of reality. Of course he had a life of his own, and this was just a stupid, reckless affair they should probably never have started. Pulling herself away, she straightened up her clothes, dismayed by the streaks and smears of earth on her skirt and her top, and then turned to look into his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “You will.”

  “I understand, you know, about your wife or your girlfriend or whatever you have, and your kids.”

  “There is no wife. She left us years ago. I’m not cheating on anyone.”

  This admission startled her. “You mean, oh God, I thought, you know, I just, I imagined - “

  “Shh.” He cut her off with a kiss that grazed her skin and set her body alight yet again. “Do you always have to talk so much?” He kissed her again, and then his tongue was in her mouth, communicating directly and magically with her clit, and she fell into him, clinging on to him, succumbing to his warmth and his smell and his touch.

  He was right, she thought, as he picked her up and dumped her back down on the bags of earth, his hand roaming back up her skirt, his body climbing on hers, his delicious weight holding her down. She allowed one leg to climb over his, keeping his body there, and relished the sound of his zip being undone, and his cock, hard as rock yet again, pushing its way through her sodden thong and into the longing warmth of her cunt. He was right, she thought, as they pounded together, fighting the same battle and synchronising their movements as if they’d been doing this all thei
r lives. He was right about her life and the emptiness she’d grown used to, and how she’d got everything she’d ever wanted, only to find it wasn’t enough. He was right about the lack of men, and about the ones she’d frightened away, and the ones she’d lost through always putting work first.

  And right now, as they fucked harder, everything felt right about the pressure his cock placed just where it counted inside her pussy. In her exquisite submission, Ashley came again, less violently this time but no less pleasurably, and once he’d come too, they lay there, in the afternoon sunlight, sheltered by the young olive tree and the hydrangea, and she realised he’d been right about pretty much everything he’d said. She lay there, stroking his dark hair, feeling his body slacken on top of her as he slumbered into a gentle sleep, wondering but not caring about where, if anywhere, they might be heading. She wasn’t about to ask or to make any demands of this man. If this only ever happened once a month it would be enough for her. She’d live like a plant that knew it would be looked after, and she’d flourish on that.

  Minutes later he woke up, and checked his watch. “Now I’ve really got to go,” he muttered, climbing off her and getting dressed again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Ashley merely smiled, looking forward to the morning already, and watched as he left. He’d been right about that, too. Sometimes you just didn’t need words.

  Verona

  By Geoff Chaucer

  The weather was miserably hot and sticky in the ancient city of Verona. I was there to attend the opera Carmen at the city’s Roman arena, along with twenty thousand or so other people.

  I am no fan of opera but, as usual, I was under the influence of the woman beside me, my sister, who wanted to see one, so there I was, sweating bullets and being elbowed by people of several nationalities, none of whose cultural up bringing included standing in line. Oddly enough I didn’t really mind because of the lady against whose back I was jammed. She was a stranger but not so much as she had been half an hour before, when I had found myself standing behind her in a semi-line, waiting to use a unisex toilet in a crowded bar.

  I had noticed how lovely she was as we stood in line. She was tall and lithe and I could see the ends of her bobbed strawberry blond hair sticking out from beneath her round school girl type straw hat. The hat emphasised the sweetness of her face; the high cheek bones; the soft pout of her lips; the sensual roundness of her chin. Her eyes were gray-green and so big a man could lose his mind in them. Her skin was silky clear and, despite the sweaty heat, it made me think of rich, smooth French vanilla ice cream.

  She was wearing a mid-length, yellow, sleeveless summer dress with little flowers on it. It buttoned up the front from hem to high enough to cover her breasts, but not so high as to keep from giving a tall fellow like me teasing glimpses of her perspiring cleavage. She wasn’t wearing a bra. I could tell both by glimpse and by the pointed shape of her nipples poking up the little flowers on the bodice of her dress. The lady was having trouble standing still. Between her need for the restroom and the heat she was dancing from foot to foot and flapping the skirt of her dress in a kind of bellows motion to try to bring some air beneath it. She noticed me watching her flap and dance and smiled, a bit embarrassed.

  “I’m like a little girl,” she said, with a crisp British accent. “I hate wearing clothes in the summer, and I hate waiting for the loo.”

  “Does that mean you usually go naked in the summer?” I asked. I hadn’t really meant to say anything so forward, but I was under the spell of the delicious glimpses of her breasts and those eyes.

  She lifted an eyebrow at me and I thought I had offended her, but after a moment she smiled and said, “Actually yes. When it is warm enough I shed my clothes. Not in public though.” Her smile turned to a wicked grin.

  “Ah,” I said. “What a disappointment.”

  At that point we moved forward a little and she stepped into the tiny anteroom of the toilet, where the sink was, and let the door close between us.

  When the current user left the toilet the British lady stepped in, and pulled the door closed. I stepped into the tiny anteroom and let its door close behind me so that I stood almost against the toilet door in relative quiet.

  And then it happened.

  Through the toilet door I heard the hiss of the golden stream rushing out of her, and the splash of it falling into the toilet. It sounded like she was pouring it from a pitcher on the second floor into a rain barrel on the ground, and the sound of it made my heart skip. In my mind I could see her. Rather than sit her naked bottom on a seat that had been occupied by thousands, she had simply hiked up her dress and straddled the commode. The picture of her, skirt held bunched above her waist, knees a little bent, legs bowed open, quadriceps slightly strained and so showing their delicious curves through the smooth flesh of her thighs. The strawberry blond delta of pubic curls; the lightly fuzzed lips of her womanhood parted to show the coral colour of the inner lips; the pink pearl nubbin of her clitoris. And from the centre of that delectable flower the salty, bitter stream spurting forth to break into golden droplets just before it splashed into the water of the toilet.

  She squeezed it off for a moment, but then let a shorter burst of the mind torturing liquid spew out. It stopped again for the length of a heart beat then resumed for two more tiny, finishing dribbles before the clattery, spinning noise of toilet paper sheets being pulled from the roll reached me. That sound set off another picture in my mind, a wad of tissue held in her long graceful fingers as she carefully daubed the last few drops of that heady liquor from between her legs.

  I wondered if she had simply pulled her panties down or stepped out of them completely. No, she had to have stepped out of them. Just pulling them down she might have accidentally wet them so she must have stepped out of them - unless she wasn’t wearing any. That would fit too. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and she said she hated to wear clothes in the summer.

  That sound and those mental images had made my manhood stiffen like a steel post. Even my jockey shorts could not restrain it. It made a very noticeable lump in the front of my pants.

  I was thinking that my condition was going to make my own toilet visit difficult when the lady opened the door and stepped out -right into my arms. Her forehead was just high enough for me to have kissed.

  “Oh. Hello again,” she said, embarrassed at meeting me at such close quarters. It was then that she felt my rampant member poke her in the tummy. She jumped back, but bumped into the door of the toilet and rebounded into my arms.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, turning bright, glowing red, and trying to step back myself.

  “Quite all right,” she mumbled, looking anywhere but into my eyes. She ended up staring at my zipper, and that was when she realised that my situation was because I had heard her pee.

  “Oh my God,” she said and lifted a slim hand to her mouth.

  I was suddenly able to read her mind. She had her own mental images of me, my ear pressed to the door, my fingers pressed to my zipper. “No! It wasn’t like you think. I didn’t mean to listen. I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”

  Now she smiled and laughed a little. “Well, I did have to pee rather badly.”

  I blinked at her, then returned her smile. “No doubt about it,” I said.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said and slipped around me and out the door, leaving me with my mouth hanging open.

  And now I was jammed against her back by the crowd shoving toward the entry way.

  A particularly forceful shove from behind me made me reach to check my wallet, at the same time I bumped hard against her back.

  “I say, steady on.” She glanced over her shoulder. Our eyes met and her stern expression changed to a charmingly crooked smile. “Oh. You again,” she said.

  “I didn’t know you Brits really did say ‘steady on’. I thought that was just a David Niven movie line.”

  “Perhaps I should have simply elbowed you and said, ‘Watch it buddy!’”
Her imitation American accent wasn’t bad.

  “Who’s your friend?” My sister asked.

  I had forgotten she was with me. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” I said to the top of the school girl hat.

  “Nor I yours,” she said glancing back again.

  “Since we are on such intimate terms maybe we should be introduced. I’m Geoff, and this is my sister Darlene.”

  “How do you do. I would shake hands, but my arms seem to be pinned to my sides. I’m Samantha.”

  “Are you alone?” Darlene asked.

  “Why no, I’m with my friends Geoff and Darlene,” she said.

  I laughed. “Samantha and I met in the line for the john back in the bar.”

  “Oh,” Darlene said.

  “An enlightening experience,” Samantha said and turned back to face the front.

  We all lost interest in the small talk about then because the mob surged forward with the opening of the gates. I lost interest, less because of the crush than because I was crushed against Samantha’s back. The humid heat of her body transferred to me like an indrawn breath and my testes tingled as though touched with a gentle electric shock. My cock began to rise, and there was no way to hide it, what with it jabbing the small of her back like the barrel of a .44.

  I was trying to think of something clever to keep Samantha from screaming rape or masher or something when she half turned her head and smiled a sweet Madonna smile. “Crowds are so difficult aren’t they?” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” I began. “It’s just that I can’t get rid of a certain mental image, and your perfume is killing me.”

  “I should have thought I smelled like perspiration,” she said.

  “If this is the stink of sweat I am glad I didn’t meet you when you were all fresh and perfumed. I would have died on the spot.”

  “Oh. How gallant,” she said. “You Americans aren’t nearly as crass as television would lead one to believe.”