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Taken! at the Fertility Clinic
Taken and Shared by the Art Professor
Taken Hard During The Massage
Taken Three Times at Once
By Deborah Cockram
Bad Brat Taken by the Cop
An Erotic Tale of Public Seduction
Office Slut 1: The Boss Takes Amanda
Office Slut 2: Taken Hard By Hubby
Office Slut 3: Taken in the Conference Room
Taken Hard on Stage: A Live Sensual Performance
Forbidden Fruit: Becky Pays Hubby's Debt
Rough Threesome On My Front Porch
Blind Lust 2: Creamed By My Best Friend
Shared On My Birthday
Pounded for Pleasure
Roommates, Best Friend, & Lovers
Bareback With My Daughter's Boyfriend
Pounded and Pumped At The Gym
Wifey's Revenge: A Hard Group Cuckold Tale
A Naughty Job Interview
His hands on me, in me…
A Tale of Rough, Group, Paranormal Pounding
Shared With The Boys
The end (for now)
Time Traveling Threesome
By Deborah Cockram
© Copyright 2017 by Deborah Cockram and After Midnight Press
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Everyone in this story is 18 or older.
If you like these steamy, sexy tales, please look for other stories by the wicked writers at After Midnight Press. To find more of their work, simply visit their website to find a host of our hot, sensual stories for sale – often many are offered free or on a special reduced rate!
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A Taboo Foursome Tale
By Deborah Cockram
Felicity shivered at his touch.
She'd just stepped out of the shower, staring into the fog-shrouded mirror when the ghostly figure of her lover appeared in the mirror. He was standing behind her, and in the condensation-covered mirror she could barely make out his image.
There was no mistaking his touch, though. Since the first time they'd made love, more than four years ago, there was no mistaking Brandon's caress. Now, after three years of marriage – and two years of trying to get pregnant – she still trembled when his fingers played along her skin.
Brandon stepped against her, from behind, his nude, tight body fitting perfectly against hers. She moaned when he reached around from behind, arms encircling her, hands cupping her breasts. Another shiver ran through her as he kissed along the back of her shoulder.
Felicity melted back into him, felt his hard, large cock against her ass. A thrill ran up and down her body when he pinched her nipples.
She turned to him – at five-foot-eight, Felicity was nearly the same height as her husband. She pressed her lips against his, kissing, as his cock pressed against her pussy. Brandon's tongue slipped between her lips, exploring inside her mouth. Felicity ran her hands down along the side of his muscular body.
Before she knew what Brandon was doing, he had pulled back, bent down and scooped her up. Felicity sighed, closing her eyes, enjoying the moment. She loved it when Brandon picked her up, his biceps bulging against her body as he supported her weight. Several quick steps and they were in the bedroom, he laying her on the bed.
Brandon climbed over her, straddling her now, stretching her arms above her head, hands clasped around her wrists. She felt another shiver racing up and down her body as he leaned down, pressing his lips against hers for a moment, then kissing down over her chin, chest, licking her breasts, taking her left nipple in his mouth.
He suckled hard, pulling as he did, a mixture of sharp pain and pleasure running along her nerves. She arched her back, moaning, trying to lift her hands – she loved it when Brandon held her down, refused to let her go.
Brandon pulled harder, deeper pain coming from her nipple, then he let go, quickly taking her right nipple into his mouth, sucking, pulling just as he had done with the left.
"Oh Jesus," she whispered, knowing orgasm was coming soon.
"Not yet," he whispered, crossing her wrists above her head, pinning them against the mattress with one of his powerful hands while he reached down with his other hand and slapped her on the side of the hip.
"You wait," he said.
Striking her like that, commanding her to wait stirred even deeper wanting.
He let go of her wrists as he slipped down along her body, kissing her stomach, now her hips, hands caressing her breasts as he did. Felicity felt every muscle in her body tighten when he slipped his head between her legs, hot breath tickling her pussy.
"Please," she whispered, arching her back more, lifting her hips toward him.
With a sudden, savage thrust he mashed his face against her pussy, tongue plunging deep, violent shudders rocking her body.
"Oh fuck!" she screamed, hands now on the back of his head, pressing him forward.
With one powerful move, Brandon pulled his head away, lifted his body up over her, then rammed his cock deep and hard inside her, almost as if he were trying to impale her. Hard, savage convulsions wracked her body. Felicity had always marveled at Brandon's ability to bring her to climax so fast – he seemed to know everything about her body, her mind, able to tease and play and hold her right on the edge of orgasm for long periods, then at other times simply taking her to climax almost immediately.
Today was one of the latter.
He pulled back and rammed forward again, his hard cock going deep, stretching her, sending rivulets of scorching pleasure shooting through her pussy, along every muscle in her body. Felicity screamed, wrapping her legs around him as tightly as she could hold Brandon, hands gripping the bed sheets, pulling so hard sheet slipped from its hold on the bed corners.
Brandon continued pounding, in and out, as orgasm continued shaking her body. She heard a loud, long grunt escape Brandon's mouth just as she felt semen shooting into her, filling her, as her own climax ran through her body.
They continued just like that, thrusting against one another, for several seconds, until Brandon stabbed down hard and deep one final time, calling her name, before his movements slowed. Felicity's breath caught in her throat – she loved it when he called her name, and a new mini-orgasm filled her, a pleasant echo of the intense sensations she had felt just seconds earlier.
And then it was over. He let his weight fall onto her, both of them gasping for breath, bodies covered in sweat. After a couple of minutes their breathing returned to normal and he rolled off.
"Love you," he said.
She smiled, reached over and ran her fingers through his short hair. Then she rolled from the bed, slipped to the bathroom to clean up, then came back – he was still lying on the bed, his lean, tight nude body on full display. His cock was still partially engorged, and she knew he would take her again if she allowed.
Instead she stepped to her drawer, pulled out a bra and panties.
"No," he said, rolling across the bed, patting her ass. "You look so much better without any clothes."
Felicity reached down, gave a fake slap to his hand. "So you say, but I fear this little thing called an indecent exposure law if I don't put something on before going to work."
He chuckled, then climbed from bed and went to shower. By the time he was done she was dressed. Felicity gave him a quick kiss, then slipped out the door, a sudden wave of guilt filling her as she did.
Brandon really was the perfect husband. Attentive, kind, affectionate, and a mind-blowing lover.
He was also incapable of giving her what she most wanted at this point in her life – a baby.
No, she hadn't had that fully confirmed, but they had been trying for a year, and Felicity had twice gone to the doctor to be examined, probed, tested. Both times the docs told her there was nothing wrong with her – she was a fertile as a bunny rabbit in heat.
That meant just one thing – her hubby was shooting blanks.
Rather than have him submit to those embarrassing tests, and the humiliation of finding maybe he was sterile, Felicity had taken matters into her own hands. Today she was going to visit a clinic that promised fast, confidential service – without expensive or time-consuming treatments.
She had already visited several times, meeting with the doctor on staff there. During her most recent visit, they had finalized the type of men whose sperm she wanted donated for her child – the clinic, it seemed, allowed you to choose three different men, and in the end you wouldn't be sure exactly which one had been the semen used for your insemination.
Of course she had gone for the best she could find – a physician, a lawyer, and a CEO whose hobby was competing in triathlons. Surely, if genes were the critical factor, whatever child came from such a union would be destined for greatness.
She pulled into the parking lot, walked to the small, non-descript building, then stepped to the desk. There was no one there, as the specialist had explained. In order to ensure confidentiality for all involved, she had been given a keycard. She slipped it into a slot at the front desk, which brought up her name and photo on a computer screen in the wall there. She punched in an ID code the clinic had given her, and a door off to the side slid open.
Felicity stepped over, pausing for a few seconds. Last chance to back out, she thought, wondering what this would be like.
She already knew, at least on an intellectual level. The clinic's specialist had been very thorough in his explanation, but on a more visceral level, Felicity couldn't help but wonder what this would feel like, what it would feel like.
Only one way to find out, she thought before stepping through the doorway. The door swooshed shut behind her. She was alone now, in a dimly lit hallway, lined with plain white doors. A red light flashed over one of them.
Felicity made her way down the hall, opened the door under the flashing red light and stepped in. There, she was to disrobe, which she did carefully, slowly, sure to hang up her clothes so nothing wrinkled. Then she slipped into the outfit the clinic left for her to wear during the procedure – it was black. A simple lacy black see-through bra and a matching set of almost non-existent panties, along with a soft black cloth she knew to be a blindfold. The blindfold, the clinic specialist had explained, was as much for her as for the donors – sometimes women felt more at ease if they didn't see the donors, and some donors were understandable shy about letting the client see them.
Once done dressing she stepped back into the darkened hallway, and another red light flashed over a second door. Felicity stepped to it, paused while she held her breath, slipped the blindfold over her eyes, tied it off tightly behind her head, then she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The air was cold in here. She shivered, then jumped when the door clicked shut behind her. Felicity stood, waiting, not certain what would happen next. Well, that's not true. She knew what was supposed to happen next, but she was still unsure of herself, of her decision, of what she was doing.
Then she felt hands on her shoulders, touching lightly, gently, the whisper of a caress. A small gasp escaped her lips, followed by a louder one when a second pair of hands began tracing the curve of her breasts, at first underneath, where the cups of the bra held her breasts, then along the top, fingers against skin.
Suddenly all three men were on her, hands massaging her shoulders, fondling her breasts, touching her thighs, fingers playing along her skin, and the kisses – the one behind her kissed along the back of her neck, another man kissed across her chest, along the exposed top of her breasts, while the third man pressed his lips against her left thigh, then her right.
She moaned – Felicity had expected to be put off by being handled by three men, by three strangers, certainly at first. She was surprised at how fast her body responded to them, even more shocked at how fast her mind was accepting of what was going on.
Before she knew it, they scooped her off her feet, carrying her. The temptation was great to reach up ad yank the blindfold from her face – not being able to see, to know what they were doing, was nerve-wracking for Felicity. Yet she left it in place, because it was equally exhilarating.
Now she was on what felt like an examining table, the men pawing her, touching and kissing and moaning. Without warning hands grabbed the bra, another hand grabbed her panties, and all yanked. She heard the seams give way, the stitching tear, and then the cloth was pulled from her body, leaving her nude and exposed.
Felicity gasped again, her heart beating fast now, and, incredibly, she felt heat rising to her skin, radiating from her body, arousal growing inside her as the men had their way with her body. Hands squeezed her breasts, so hard it was painful, yet the very sensation of hurt made her even more aroused.
Fingers pinched, squeezing her nipples, hands played up and down her legs, teasing, tickling, caressing.
Felicity groaned. She felt arousal heightening – suddenly she was afraid she might climax early, and the clinic's doctor had instructed her it was vital she hold off, not cum until the very end, as her donors were likewise cumming. Otherwise, the likelihood of success was greatly reduced.
Then she felt it – hot, heavy breath on her pussy. She quivered, knowing someone had his head between her legs, hovering over her. A hard, deliciously painful convulsion gripped her body when she felt a tongue lap against her pussy, quickly, just once, like a dog lapping his tongue across the surface of the water bowl.
"Jesus," she whispered.
With a violent pull the hands on her breasts yanked, pulling her nipples hard before releasing them. Then her right nipple was covered with a mouth – the man was kissing her, licking, sucking, tasting, teeth grazing her breast.
A second man began doing the same to her left nipple, and hard, uncontrollable trembles now ran through every muscle in her body.
"Oh my god," she called out. "Please, please…fuck me!" She was screaming now, knowing she couldn't hold off long. "Fuck me no—"
Before she could finish, a hard, engorged cock filled her mouth, going deep, stretching her wide. She gagged at first as he rammed hard, cutting off her air momentarily before pulling back just a bit – barely enough for her to catch her breath before he rammed down again, his pubic hair tickling her face, his balls bouncing on her chin.
Felicity tried calling out – though she wasn't sure what she'd say, other than calling for someone to fuck her hard – but his cock was so large, going so deep with each downward motion, that all she heard was the gurgled, wet sound of her saliva bubbling around his cock.
The man kissing her pussy moved away, and now she wanted to scream, to beg for him to return. Her body was racing, orgasm growing, hard, stronger, more intense than anything she had ever experienced.
And then it happened – one of the man rammed his large, hard cock into her pussy. Nothing slow and gentle, nothing gradual. One second she was empty, her pussy throbbing, aching for a touch, a kiss, for anything, and the next second he was in, all the way, filling her, stretching her, so deep she thought she might cum on that first thrust.
She didn't though, and the man pulled back and thrust harder, even deeper if that was possible, at the same time the other man rammed deep into her mouth, touching ever so briefly the back of her throat. Felicity pounded her hands on the table, then as the man in her mouth pulled back she sucked, hard, trying to bring him to climax soon. She liked calling out, talking, yelling even during sex, none of which was possible with a mouth full of dick.
He thrust down hard again, and when he did she pressed her tongue up, as firmly as she could, against the bottom of his tongue, guiding it, partially pinning it to the roof of her mouth. This kept it from going quite so deep, and she could tell it excited the man. He shuddered and groaned.
Then the man between her legs pulled back and thrust forward again. The two men had a rhythm now, the man in her mouth thrusting down as the man between her legs pulled back, then the man there pounding her pussy as the one hovering over her face pulled back.
Over and over they continued, in and out, in and out. Vaguely, she was aware the third man was simply touching her, hands on her breasts, then her hips, then her thighs, and the other two continued pounding her body, her mouth.
The sensations – the touches, the kisses from the third man, the cocks plunging deep over and over, the hair against her face, the balls bouncing on her chin – it all mixed together in a single, overwhelming, fierce level of intensity she'd never known.
Felicity arched her back, thrusting her hips upward to meet the man between her legs, while she bit down as much as she could, sucking on the man whose cock filled her mouth. Sweat coated her body now, breathing was fast and shallow, heart pounding.
Jesus Christ! she screamed in her head as every nerve in her body seemed to fire at once, the most overwhelming, all-powerful orgasm she'd ever felt crashed through her body.
Just then she felt the man between her legs cum, semen filling her, coating his dick, spilling onto her body as he moved back and thrust in deep. Without warning her mouth and throat were suddenly full, semen shooting down her throat, filling her. She choked at first, then swallowed, hard and fast, over and over as the man continued thrusting, pumping her full, grunting as he did.
The man between her legs rammed down one forceful, last time, then withdrew. The man in her mouth continued – how long can a man cum? – and without warning she felt another cock, the one from the third man, slamming inside her pussy, even harder and deeper than the first man, if that were possible. He was fast, almost like a piston in a car engine, stabbing in and out, over and over, fast and hard, a slapping sound echoing through the room with each thrust as his body crashed against hers.
Finally the man hovering over her head pulled out, semen spurting and spilling over her face, across her neck and chest, matting her hair. Felicity didn't care. She cried out, gasping, screaming.
"Yes, Yes, YES FUCK ME!" she screamed. While Felicity was often vocal during sex, even this surprised her, the ferocity with which she screamed.
Then she felt a new wave of orgasm rising in her, so hard and intense it was almost painful. Her stomach muscles cramped, her breath caught in her throat. Even with her eyes blindfolded, she could see gray filling her vision, like it does when one is about to pass out.
The man between her legs let loose with a deep, loud call, and as he did he slammed down against her hard, stretching her legs wide – he clearly was a big man – filling her like she had never been filled. Then the sensation of hot, gooey semen shooting inside her, almost like a small pressure hose, filler her, dancing along every nerve inside her.
She arched her back even more, crying now, her mind not able to fully process the electricity shooting through her body, the heightened sense of a climax that seemed to go on and on, no end in sight.
Finally, mercifully, the man gave one last, long, hard thrust, then he pulled out. Felicity's body didn't stop at first, her hips continuing to thrust, orgasm dancing along her nerves, but eventually she began to slow her movements, going over that edge that defines the moment before final climax, and then she gasped, trying desperately to catch her breath, bring her heart and body under control.
After several minutes she was able to slow herself, felt like she was no longer going to pass out. She lay on the padded table for a while – how long she wasn't sure – until a mechanical voice came over what she was certain was a loud speaker, telling her it was safe to remove her blindfold.
Felicity lay a few seconds longer, then uncovered her eyes. She was naked, on a padded examining table, drying semen on her face, chest, in her hair, dripping onto her ass and legs. She sat and remember the instructions she had been given earlier. On a table along the wall was a pad – she was to wear that through the day, to keep the semen from leaking from her pussy. She stepped over, pressed it in place between her legs, then stepped into the shower in the corner of the room.
Afterward she dried off, wore a robe to the room where her clothes still hung, she dressed and then left the building. Felicity was sore, and she couldn't help but wonder if she might cross paths with the men she had been with without ever knowing it.
Of course, they would know her, would remember her, and she found that arousing. Most of all, she felt a warm, deep satisfaction – surely, now, she would conceive, and bring a child into her world.
And if not? Well, the clinic offered free follow-up visits to ensure success.
A Rough, Public, College Foursome
By Deborah Cockram
I sound like a silly teenager, I know. But it was…I guess the word is, well, hell, I don’t know the word. But when Professor Stokes stood there, and I leaned against him, my breast pressing against his arm, it felt like an electric charge ran through me.
It was an accident, of course, but I almost gasped just the same. I glanced at him, to see if he noticed – of course he noticed, I mean I’m a 20-year-old coed, with a firm body that most guys my age drool over, and I was leaning against him, my boob pressed hard against his forearm. He was reading a paper he was holding in his hands, and I knew he knew I was staying there, pressing against him on purpose.
I looked at his face – he glanced at me, his eyes locking on mine for just a second – then I swear he actually leaned into me. Not much, but enough for me to believe he enjoyed the feel of my body, the touch of my breast against his arm.
And then it was over. That quick. Two other students walked in and he moved away – which confirmed my suspicion, my hope, that he had been doing it on purpose, enjoying the feel of me against him. That night, lying in my dorm room alone – my roommate was out partying with some of those juvenile drooling guys – I closed my eyes and ran my fingers along the swell of my breasts, imagining it was Professor Stokes.
That’s his first name, and that’s what I whispered into the silent dark as I felt sweat break out over my body, an aching desire growing between my legs. I reached down, fingers walking along my thighs, playing along the edge of my panties, just as I imagined Professor Stokes would do…and then the door flung open and my roommate came in with her stupid boyfriend, kissing, fondling one another. He had her shirt off before I could draw their attention, let them know I was there – and that I was leaving.
I ended up walking the campus that night, aimlessly, thinking of Professor Stokes.
That was three months ago, and I had thought of him plenty since then, and even had a few opportunities to more successfully fantasize about him while bringing myself to climax.
Those times were what I was thinking about now, walking to the art studio. Walking to meet Professor Stokes.
He had asked me earlier in the week if I’d like some extra credit in my commercial art class. That’s my major. I suppose my dream would be to become an actual artist, painting and photography mostly, but career prospects in those fields are less than stellar. I suppose anyone can be an artist, but to make a living at it, to avoid being a starving artist, is the trick.
So I plan to be a commercial artist – maybe designing brochures, ad campaigns, billboards, that sort of stuff – while doing my own art work on the side.
Professor Stokes is one of my professors, not in the commercial art disciplines, but more in the real art, thus his invitation to me – to pose for a human sculpture class he’s been teaching. I didn't really need the extra credit, but I hoped he asked me because…well, because he was interested in me, as more than just another student.
The students in his class need a live model to work with for a couple of nights – the first night they’ll just be sketching me, and the second they’ll work on a small-scale version of their sculpture, while I stand there, not moving. After that, they’ll work on their piece for a while, then I’ll come back for another night or two as they finish off their life-size piece.
Oh, did I mention I’ll be posing nude?
That makes me kind of nervous, but it’s not like it’s skanky or anything – it’s a real art class, with art students taking part, even if some are guys who might drool over me in any other setting.
I slip into the art building, and immediately a variety of scents fill the air – paint, other chemicals, freshly sawn wood, and an understated smell, that of clay. I walk down a long hallway, to the sculpting room and slip in.
“ Ah, Chelsea, come in.”
It’s Professor Stokes. He smiles, and I nearly melt – he’s around 40, twice my age, old enough to be my dad, really – but I can’t suppress a small tremble that runs through me. He’s got this boyish little grin that drives me crazy. He has short blond hair that would be curly if he let it grow longer, and wire-rim glasses that give him the definite college professor look. He’s slender, but in shape – I see him running a lot around campus, and my roommate says she’s seen him working out in the gym from time-to-time.
And I’m going to be naked, in front of him. Damn, I’m already wet at the thought – shit, it would be embarrassing if I started dripping my own juices down my legs.
Then I look around, and see three other guys and a girl, sitting at their work stations, and suddenly I grow nervous and realize I’m going to be too self-conscious to be aroused once I’m up on that little stage in the middle of the room.
Professor Stokes leads me to a door on the opposite side of the room.
‘ You’ll undress in there,” he said. “There’s a couple of clean robes hanging inside. Please feel free to wear one of them as you come out.”
He leans closer, as if he doesn’t want the other students to hear him. “Please, Chelsea, if there’s anything I can do to make you more at ease, let me know.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, and it’s all I can do to keep from shivering at his touch. “Remember, it’s just an art class, and while you’re a beautiful young lady, the students will not be looking at you as such. You’re a model, an artistic object they will be seeking to represent with their work.”
He patted my shoulder. I looked up at him – I’d guess Professor Stokes is around six feet tall, while I’m only five-foot-five – and I smiled. I’m not sure being thought of as an object is that much more of a comfort, but I know he was trying to put me at ease.
I slipped into the room, shut the door, and quickly undressed, telling myself it’s just art, it’s just art, it’s just art. I undressed as quickly as I could, not wanting to think about what I was about to do, not wanting to give myself a chance to back out.
I slipped on the robe – it's thick and soft and comfortable. Maybe I'll ask him if I can keep it after we're done. I smile at the thought, like it's some kind of joke or something. I suppose I was just so nervous anything was a welcome distraction.
I took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled while I opened the door and stepped out. All of the students looked up from their work station when I did.
"Chelsea, please, come along," Professor Stokes said. He stepped to me, put his hand around my upper arm and ever-so-gently led me to the dais. We stepped up until I was standing there, looking down at the students.
"Everyone. this is Chelsea," Professor Stokes said. "She's one of my painting students." He glanced at me and smiled. "One of my best students." His eyes locked on mine for a moment when he said that. Silence hung in the air for several moments. I smiled back, felt heat rising to my face, and then he turned back to his other students.
"She's graciously agreed to model for us. She'll be with us the next few sessions as you work."
With that he stepped behind me, his hands now on my shoulders, fingers hooked over the edge of my robe. He leaned against me, his lips to my ears – I closed my eyes and fantasized we were alone, and he was reaching around to undress me as his over, the object of his desires.
"Are you ready?" he whispered.
I nodded, without opening my eyes.
Suddenly, before I was ready, he pulled, the robe parted, and then it was gone. I was standing stark-naked on stage, in front of Professor Stokes and four strangers.
I thought I heard the tiniest gasp from Professor Stokes, but I was suddenly so self-conscious I couldn't focus on what he said, what he did. Instinctively I crossed one arm over my breasts, my other hand over my pussy. I was too nervous to even be embarrassed.
"It's okay to be self-conscious," Professor Stokes said. "Just take your time. We're all artists here, nothing more."
I opened my eyes – the four students were already working away, glancing at me, then back down to their sketch pads. The woman – she looked to be about my age – she plopped a handful of model clay on her workstation and started kneading it, rather than doing a sketch.
I waited, staring at them, waiting for some sort of reaction, some comment or movement that showed one of them was aroused, focusing on me for something other than an art project.
No such signal came.
At least not for several minutes.
I shuddered when it came, at the touch – Professor Stokes was still behind me, his hands now on my bare shoulders. He was gently massaging, working his fingers into my tense muscles.
"Just relax," he whispered. He stepped against me, still behind, his hands running down my arms.
Oh my god, I feel his cock now, large and rock hard, pressing into me. He's fully clothed, of course, but that really doesn't hide it.
His one hand is on the forearm I have crossed against my chest, his other hand is on my hand that's between my legs. He moved my arm away from my breasts, lifts my other hand away from my pussy, so that I'm now fully exposed to the class.
Professor Stokes stepped away and turned me until I'm facing him, my back to the class, then he motioned for me to lie down on what looks like a small, square box, about the size of a footlocker. I lay down on it, face-up. It's small, so that my head hangs off of one end, toward the students, and my butt hangs off the other end. I have to brace my feet on the floor to keep myself balance. I leaned my head back until it's hung down over the edge, seeing the students now upside-down.
A hard shiver raced through my body as he touched my stomach with his hands, begins rubbing gently, moving his hands up my body.
My voice quivers as I speak. I … I'm stunned, my heart racing, my breathing coming in quick, shallow gasps. I don't know what he's doing, why he's doing this, and I know I should stop it, I should stand and grab the robe and run away from there as quickly as I can.
Instead I close my eyes.
"It's okay, Chelsea," he whispers as he leans over me, lips pressing gently against my right nipple.
I quiver, and I feel moisture seeping from my pussy.
Before I can react Professor Stokes is over me, straddling me, hands massaging my breasts, fingers pinching my nipples.
I gasp, a sharp, sudden intense wave of sexual craving gripping my body.
Just as quickly as he stepped over me, he's gone, and I'm lying there, on the posing table, exposed, alone.
Then I realize the students aren't at their work stations any longer. I feel hands on my thighs, body, breasts. I lift my head, try to sit up, but they hold me, caressing, playing and then it happens – lips press against my pussy.
I cry out, the suddenness of the unexpected sensation sending a hard, stabbing orgasm rolling through my body. I groan, reach up and grab them – whoever I can find, gripping hard, calling out, feeling heat rise to my skin, sweat beading over my body. I arch my back, thrusting my hips upward, pressing against the lips. I have no idea who's doing that, and I don't care.
I cry out again, my body shivering, climax gripping every muscle in my body. I've never cum this fast, certainly not when it was so unexpected, and briefly I wonder what's going on, what this has to do with sculpting, but then I don't care.
I gasp as I finally reach the peak of the orgasm, holding my breath, wanting to delay the inevitable point where my body falls back down, returns to normal, but it comes, and just as quick as orgasm came, it's gone.
I sigh, long and contented, wondering how I managed to be here, to experience this, wondering if this is what every class will be like when I realize they're not finished. I hear the unsnapping of buttons, the unbuckling of belts, and suddenly everyone is naked, and Professor Stokes is kneeling on the floor, at my head, his hands running through my hair. I start to protest, to ask what's going on, when he pulls my head down a little further over the edge of the posing table and presses his cock against my lips.
Instinctively I try to turn my head to the side, and he wraps my hair around his fingers, holding my head firmly in place.
"This is entirely your choice, my dear," he says, his voice soft, calm, comforting. "You keep your mouth closed, don't do anything, and I'll take that as a sign you wish us to leave you alone. If you want me, want us…" he paused, pressed his cock against my lips, "…then just open wide and we'll take care of the rest."
At that moment, before I even had a change to think, I felt her, the one female student, press her mouth to my pussy, tongue slipping inside me, flicking across my clit, her long, blond hair draping over my thighs, tickling my skin. The sensation of her against me, her tongue inside me, was so unexpected I gasped, opening my mouth wide.
Without a second's hesitation, Professor Stokes rammed his cocked deep, filling my mouth, stretching it wide, going deep. Remember, my head is hanging backwards off of the posing table, and when he thrusts so hard and deep his crotch covers my face, my nose, his balls slam against my nose.
I couldn't breathe for a second, cock so deep in my mouth, his crotch over my nose. I struggled, and he pulled back just a bit, enough for me to take a quick, shallow breath, before ramming back in hard and deep, the tip of his cock touching the back of my throat.
I gagged, and then she – I think Professor Stokes called her LeighAnn, pressed her mouth against me harder, her tongue tasting me inside, lapping across my clit, and a violent, almost painful shudder crawled through me, the most intense, sudden, powerful orgasm I'd ever felt washing over me, sweeping me up in a sexual euphoria I'd never dream of.
Professor Stokes continued thrusting, hard and deep, each time cutting off my breathing for a second, before pulling back, while LeighAnn toyed with me, sent shivers of pleasure rolling through my pussy, sensations I'd never known, never dreamed existed.
I kept cumming, orgasm seemingly washing back and forth across my body – I'd never had two orgasms before, not this close, and this second one was so incredibly, powerfully, intense, and it seemed like it would never end.
Professor Stokes continued pounding away, fucking my mouth. I felt sweat beading on his skin, dripping onto my face now, precum dripping from the end of this cock.
Then my blood ran cold. Another one of his students, one of the guys, grabbed my left ankle and yanked, pulled my leg straight up in the air, and then he pressed his cock against my tiniest hole.
Yep, against my ass.
Oh dear, god, he's going to fuck me in the ass.
I tried turning my head, pulling back enough so that I could get my mouth clear of Professor Stokes' dick, but I couldn't – he was still holding my hair tightly, his cock filling my mouth so much I could barely move.
Then the guy pressed, the tip of his cock slipping in.
I braced, my muscles tightening. He slipped in, just a little, then back out, before pressing in just a little further. He was well lubricated, and whatever he had coated his cock with was cold, numbing where he had been.
That's not so bad, I thought.
Then he thrust again, this time hard and deep, fresh raw pain erupting from my ass. I screamed, though it was nothing more than a gurgled sound around Professor Stokes' cock.
Just then LeighAnn plunged her tongue deeper, lapping inside me, pulling her tongue back and then flicking it against me again.
Oh dear lord, I don't know how much more of this I can take.
Then Professor Stokes yanked on my hair – I think it was instinct on his part – and cried out, his voice deep and guttural.
Hot, salty, gooey cum shot from his cock, down my throat, filling my mouth, coating his cock, dripping into my nose, spilling across my face. He continued pumping, in and out, in and out, and I licked, I sucked, I tried to take every ounce of his semen in. I don't know why, I've never particularly liked the taste of semen, never swallowed before, but something drove me, made me want to take him in a way I've never taken anyone, drive him insane.
Just then I felt a bolt of white-hot…well, something. It was agony. And absolute pure euphoria. The guy with his dick up my ass had done something, hit something, touched some nerve. A savage, overwhelming bolt of pleasure stabbed through me, mixed with a still-present pain, in a delicious, bone-rattling sensation that sent waves of shudders up and down my body.
And LeighAnn..she continued with her tongue, and now I felt like fire was dancing along every nerve, orgasm burning through me like molten lava, burning me in a sexual fire.
I screamed as Professor Stokes pulled out, semen still squirting from his cock, covering my face, into my hair. I thrashed, cried out, gripped by the strongest, most intense climax I had ever imagined.
And then the guy up my ass came, his semen shooting inside me, like a little jetstream, filling me, spilling from me, coating my ass, covering LeighAnn's face as she continued licking, tasting me.
I couldn't breathe, my vision turned gray for a few seconds and for a moment I thought I might pass out – and what better way to go out, right? – and then, mercifully, disappointingly, I reached that final climax, as far as my body and mind could go, and then went over.
For just a second my breath caught in my throat, it felt like my heart paused, and then I gasped. The guy pulled away, LeighAnn continue licking and tasting, slower now, more gently, and then she finally moved away.
I collapsed, rolling off the posing block onto the floor. I lay there, gasping, my body still shaking, tears actually welling in my eyes. I know I was a mess – sweating, cum all over my face and hair, more between my legs, dripping onto the floor, but I didn't care.
I stayed there, eyes closed, catching my breath, slowly getting control over my body. Finally, after several minutes I opened my eyes. Everyone was gone.
Everyone but Professor Stokes.
He sat, watching me, and I realized his hand was stroking my shoulder, arm. When I looked at him, he smiled, then stood, holding my robe. He helped me to my feet, helped me slip into the robe.
Without a word I walked away, toward the dressing room. Then I turned back.
"When's the next class?" I asked, a tiny trickle of cum slipping from the corner of my mouth.
I turned and went to the dressing room, already dreaming about Friday night.
Taken Hard in the Library
A First-Time Slut Wife Tale
By Deborah Cockram
I stood up, just as she commanded me to do. I could feel the heat radiating from my face, and it felt like the bottom had dropped out of my stomach, sort of like that moment at the top of a roller coaster, when you’re not climbing any longer but not yet going down, when the world stops for just a second and you’d do anything to stop what’s coming next – even though what’s coming next is exactly why you paid your money to climb on board.
“ Go on,” she said, impatience in her voice. Guess I had paused long enough.
I reached up, with my right hand, to my left shoulder – god, my hand was shaking – slipped my fingers under the strap of my sleeveless shirt and slowly began slipping it down, over my shoulder, down my arm.
“ Yes,” she whispered, a smile playing across her face.
I don’t know why the hell I got myself into this, or even how. Well, that’s not true. I know exactly how, and standing here, having to do a striptease act for her was certainly something I deserved. What kind of slut does what I did, with a complete stranger? Or at least a guy who might as well have been a stranger, for all I knew about him. And in public?
I turned to Robert – he had his own penalty yet to come, but he didn’t seem all that disturbed. He sat in his chair, watching, his attention as focused on my moves as Mrs. Tuckwillow, the librarian, was.
I looked at him as I let the strap fall along my arm, reached with my left hand to the right shoulder and did the same, and I knew, standing there, my shirt about to fall down from my shoulders, that despite my humiliation, despite the fact that Mrs. Tuckwillow might as well own me with the blackmail material she has now, I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.
It had all started not that long ago, though at the moment it seemed like so very much time had passed. I was watching Aiden, my five-year-old, flip through the children’s books when I glanced around the library and saw him – Robert.
A sudden, dark longing flashed through me, just as it had the day I met Robert. That was three months ago, when the last throes of winter was still hovering over our little community, cold and windy with a frigid rain falling that day. It was here, at the library, where I gathered with a dozen other writer wanna-bes to hear Robert give a presentation on becoming a fulltime writer.
I was enthralled with him, for some reason. He’s not particularly good looking – Robert’s probably 45, a good 20 years older than me (old enough to be my dad), with really thin hair combed over his head in a silly looking attempt to hid his creeping baldness. He’s got a small pot belly, and a thick, graying mustache that’s a little unkempt. He does look strong – his shoulders are wide, his arms are thick, and it’s clear he does regularly visit the weight room, even if he never does cardio and makes no attempt at healthy eating.
And it's not money that attracted me to him, either. He does okay, he told us during the talk, but writers aren’t millionaires like the movies try to make us all believe. Writing, he told us, is about being rejected over and over and over, with a few little acceptances here and there – maybe some decent paying magazines, if we’re lucky a small book contract that pays enough to meet your utility bills for a year.
He told us how self-publishing ebooks can keep a writer fed, but isn’t going to make anyone rich or pay for jaunts to the Bahamas.
But none of that is what makes me think of him, remember his talk, even – dare I admit it – fantasize about him.
The thing that I remembered from his talk, the thing that caught my eye this morning, when I saw him perusing a few of the book aisles, was freedom. He was free from an alarm clock, from a regular job, from answering to anyone but his own drive to write and publish.
Well, that and the fact that writes the most awesome erotica I've ever read. I mean, the kind that'll have you breathing heavy, one hand on the Kindle and the other hand inside your panties, dreaming you’re inside that Kindle with his characters.
I glanced down at Aiden – he was flipping through a pop-up book – and the rest of my life played out in front of me: dutiful wife, loving mom, member of the local women’s club, maybe volunteering at his school when he starts in the fall, PTA meetings, little league games…the things I saw my mom do, the things I dreamed of doing when my husband, Josh, and I were married six years ago.
I was just 19 at the time, and he was 20, and it all looked great to a girl who had never lived anywhere but my small little town in the mountains.
And it still looked good – except the part about being tied down to what everyone else thought was right for the next forty years, without ever knowing, even for a day, even for an hour, what it would be like to simply be free.
Robert represented something else – freedom to live however one wanted, freedom to do what one wanted, freedom to fuck whoever one wanted.
I know that sounds odd. But I’d only been with two other guys by the time Josh and I started dating, and I’ve been faithful to him ever since, but we’ve never had that kind of mind-blowing, naughty, can’t-get-enough sex you see in movies, you read about in those little erotica ebooks we all download and read then delete from our Kindles. The kind of mind-blowing sex Robert writes.
Maybe that doesn’t really exist, but for some reason Robert represents that to me – and it doesn't hurt that he knows, at least he can write knowledgeably, about exactly how to touch and kiss and caress a woman in ways that can drive her out of her head with orgasm.
Standing there, with Aiden still playing with the pop-up book, and Robert leafing through a book he pulled from the shelf on the other side of the library, I couldn’t help myself. I stepped back, into the shadows of the aisle, and ran my hands down my body, along the swell of my breasts, down my sides, to my hips.
A heavy, breathy sigh escaped my lips. I closed my eyes, running one hand back up my body, pressing against my right breast, while my other hand moved down, between my legs, pressing my jeans against my pussy. A shudder rolled through me. I gasped, and then remembered where I was. I opened my eyes and found Robert, from the other side of the library, staring at me, a small, barely perceptible smile playing along his face.
Quickly I turned, lifting my hands to the shelf, fingers playing along the spin of the books, trying for all I was worth to act as if nothing had happened, that Robert hadn’t been watching me touching myself in the middle of the library.
I glanced back his direction – he was leaning against the shelf now, arms crossed over his chest. He nodded at me, and I felt my face grow hot.
“ Ms. Lauren!”
I turned to see Chase and Aubrey running toward me, their arms outstretched. Chase and Aubrey are twins, and Aiden’s best friends. I squatted down and took them both in my arms, giving them a big hug. Their mom, Martina, stepped up behind him. I glanced up, she was smiling – just like she always does. Martina is my best friend, at least she has been these past few years.
She and her husband moved here about the time I learned I was pregnant with Aiden – and she was only two months further along than I was. We met at the doctor's office, and became fast friends. She was really the first good friend I had that I didn’t grow up. We live in a small community and other than the Internet and satellite television, not a hell of a lot has changed since my parents were kids.
She and I talked for a while, while the kids played and looked through books. I noticed Robert had pulled a book from the shelves and was sitting in one of the large arm chairs in the corner, reading. I couldn't help myself – several times while Martina and I talked, I glanced his way. Each time I found him staring at me, though as soon as I looked his way he'd turn his attention back to the open book in his lap.
Finally, Martina glanced at her watch. "I have to run," she said.
"Can Aiden come over?" Chase and Aubrey said in unison.
"Can I Mom, please?"
That's one of the things kids do – put you on the spot. If I said yes, and Martina had plans, then I'd be imposing on her, making her the bad person having to say no. If Martina really didn't mind but I said no, then I'm the bad guy.
Almost as if reading my mind, she smiled and said that would be great, if it was okay with me.
I glanced Robert's way – he looked down at his book again – then I said it was okay.
After we checked out the kids' books, I went outside, moved Aiden's car seat to Martina's minivan, then stood and waved as they drove away, my insides fluttering at the thought forming in my head.
They finally slipped from view, and with my stomach doing little flips, I went back inside. Walking through the front hallway I caught a glimpse of myself in a body-length mirror hanging there. I stopped and looked – I was dressed in black jeans, with a black tank-top that hugged my body tight. I looked pretty good, actually – I'd worked hard after Aiden was born, and while my breasts remained larger long after his birth, I'd got my flat abs and tight ass back. My hair, though, was a mess. I reached up and tried smoothing it down – it was short, which meant it was more likely to stick out than if it was long enough for the weight of the hair to hold it down.
I did what I could, and still not fully believing I was going to try what was forming inside my head, I stepped through the interior doors, into the library.
And he was gone.
I walked back to the children's section – that was in the front corner of the library, and gave a good view of most of the rest of the building. I turned and looked, leaning to the left to look down some aisle, to the right to see down others.
I'm not sure why I was looking around, feeling so desperate. I mean, let's get real – I'm married, for Christ's sake. I have a child. And Robert is just a middle-aged, pot-bellied guy who’s managing to eke out a living writing smut.
I sigh, ready to leave, when I see him. He's in the far back of the library, down a long, narrow wing of the building that goes into the reference section. He gives me a little wave, then disappears behind a couple of shelves at the far end of the library.
I feel like a thousand butterflies are flitting around in my stomach. I breathe in deeply, exhale, then march across the library. I have to walk across a large, open area among some tables, right by the front counter. I glance at the ladies behind the counter, sure every one of them is watching me, knowing exactly what I'm thinking, where I'm going.
None of them even acknowledge me, instead wrapped up in whatever tasks they have at the moment.
Next I have to walk by the circle of computer stations, where all the people in the county without Internet come to play online. It's funny, but almost every computer is either taken by a middle-aged guy who's here in the middle of the day instead of working, or by old people who are probably retired. Again, I glance at them, certain they're all watching me, leering. Not a single one even glances my direction.
I move into the reference section. It's darker back here, and cooler. I look down one aisle as I pass, then a second, then a third. I keep walking, finally reaching the last aisle.
He's there, leaning against the shelves, arms crossed over his large, barrel-shaped chest, smiling.
"Didn't know if you'd ever make it," he whispers.
I look around, afraid someone will hear us, will look.
"Don't worry, no one ever comes back here, he whispers. "Everyone thinks Google is all the research they ever need."
I smile, not sure what to say.
He pushes off from the shelf, reaches out, takes my hand.
I shudder, think about pulling back, running away.
"You know you aren't leaving," he says, as if reading my thoughts.
"I…" I didn't know what to say.
He grabs my other hand and yanks me forward. I crash against him – but he is solid, hard despite his belly. He presses his lips to mine, and I know I should fight, I know I should push away, tell him no, that's not what I'm here for.
But I feel a sudden, molten heat rushing through my body, as if someone spilled hot oil over me and it's seeping through the pores of my skin, infiltrating my blood vessels, flowing through my whole body.
A hard, almost painful shiver rushes through my body. I wrap my arms around him – I can barely get my arms all the way around him – and return his kiss, pressing hard, my tongue inside his mouth, his tongue playing across mine.
Robert picks me up like I was a kid. When he does I wrap my legs around him, and he carries me to the back corner of the aisle. This one ends against the wall. The walls are wood paneled from the floor up to about my waist, with a small wooden trim along the top of the panels, almost like a ledge.