I was licking her cunt gently - sex stories

I knew Trent wouldn't be home. He'd stung me and I wanted get
back at him. So I called on his wife when I knew she'd be alone.
Maybe it's an underhanded trick, but Trent hardly played fair
with me. I believe in returning blow for blow. The Smallminded Grant had changed my life more than money should
but does, and in the process it transformed Trent into a living
symbol. The man represented everything I was struggling against,
everything I could never be. When I knocked on the door of their
suburban home, I despised him. Trent had proved himself to be a
petty tyrant without a shred of nobility and a small mean soul.
For reasons of its own, society had conspired to hand this
shallow paper-pusher control over me. It was bad enough that I
had degraded myself by bowing and scraping at his pathetic altar
to receive the money I needed to write my book. But then, as my
work approached completion, Mr. Trent and the Smallminded
Foundation suddenly withdrew all support from my efforts. He
chastised my life, my work, the very fiber of my art. Trent
sickens me. Interestingly, Trent has a beautiful wife, a woman he simply
cannot deserve. My creativity works on all levels. I have some skills in the
field of battle. When I suffered the sting of his blow, I
studied him. Some consideration revealed the secret to Joseph
Trent's smug happiness. The beauty in his bedroom inspired this
hopeless man with an unflappable self-satisfaction. What
couldn't he do, after screwing her? I took for granted that Trent wouldn't be giving my problems
another thought. There wasn't a chance he'd bother evaluating my
art on its own merit. His decision had been made the moment
Trixie and I had been nabbed by the cops. He couldn't imagine
there was anything to discuss. But something told me that his
wife, the lovely Mrs. Kate could open her pretty mouth and effect
a change in his small, timid mind. What's more, I believed I
might convince this woman that they should give me another
chance. I had seen a softness in her eyes. We had only met once before, very briefly, when the grant was
being considered by the foundation. Trent and I took an
immediate dislike to each other at the first interview. When I
left his office, I felt convinced that I would never see a dime
of the foundation's money. That weekend, Trent and his pretty
lady dropped by the Wakko to hear my band play. During a break
between sets, I went to the bar to get a drink. An attractive
woman sitting alone caught my eye. I saw more than her
prettiness, for there was something about this woman that
fascinated me at once. Kate has a gleam of earthy wisdom in her
eyes. I felt bold, and said something. She responded and we
spoke together for a few minutes, long enough to give me ideas.
Then my nemesis, Trent, appeared out of the shadows and put his
arm around her. The bastard was beaming with pride, catching me
flirting with his wife. I had no idea who she was. The next
day, I received word that my grant had been approved. How could I not think that the pretty woman, Kate, had been
behind my good fortune? Trent hinted that it was Kate's
enthusiasm for my work that persuaded the foundation to cut me a
check. When they took the money away, I knew Kate was my best
hope of getting it back. What's more, I knew that Trent loved Kate. I figured that if he
was going to persist in denying me the money I needed, nothing
would hurt the bastard more than stealing his wife away. I clutched my book in one hand as I rang the bell. When I met
Kate, that night at the club, she struck me as an attractive
woman. However, in the simplicity of a lazy summer afternoon,
shorn of social contrivances, Kate looked too lovely for words.
My eyes opened wide, drinking in her elegant charm, and I forgot
everything for a moment. "Mr. Courlain," she said, recognizing me at once. "Mrs. Trent," I replied, regaining my composure. "I wonder if I
might have a word with you." "I suppose," she said. "But please call me Kate." "My name is Mark." "Hmm," she said with a smile, "I thought it was Razor." Kate led
me into the parlor, offering me a seat. I moved slowly in the
direction she indicated. "It's a stage name. I use it to foster the illusion that our
music is dangerous." "I think it rather suits you." "So do I," I mused. "That's why I chose it." "Are you dangerous?" she asked with a self-conscious laugh. "My
husband certainly thinks so." "Yes," I said. "To someone like him, I could be very dangerous." "You don't like Joseph," she observed. "He thinks he can control me," I said. "He doesn't seem to
understand that control is the polar opposite of creativity." "I've seen you on stage, Razor. You exercise incredible
control." "Control in that sense is the artistry. I have studied and
practiced the control of delivery, timing and phrasing. But
control is a workman's skill, achieved by practice, by rote.
Control is easy, but it can smother creativity, when left to its
own devices. Creativity is a flower which must be fostered and
tended until it blossoms. Control is the hoe that cuts away the
weeds. But if the hoe cuts the flower in its zealous efforts to
control the environment, nothing beautiful ever grows." "Can I get you something to drink?" "Please," I replied. "I'll confess that Joseph doesn't know much about flowers, but
he's a first rate farmer, if you don't mind my abusing your
analogy. His work at the foundation helps hundreds of artists.
Aren't you just angry because he's giving your bit of ground to
some other flower?" "He didn't cut my funding because my art was inferior. He cut it
because of the little trouble Trixie and I were mixed up in." "The foundation has responsibilities beyond nurturing wild
flowers. Your scandal might hurt their image and their ability
to help other artists. By embarrassing them, you bit the hand
that fed you." "Good art is always dangerous." "Even if that's true, and I'm not sure it is, just because
something's dangerous doesn't mean it's good. And just because
the artist is arrested in a scandal doesn't mean his art is
dangerous." "Did anyone bother to read what I've written?" I asked. "Really?" she asked. "No one looked at your work?" "Not one. They don't give a damn about the art." "Is that it?" she asked, reaching for the notebook in my hand. "Yes," I said, handing it to her. "May I?" she asked. "Please," I replied. It is often awkward to sit by while someone reads the words
you've written. You don't want your presence to influence their
reactions, but it's as difficult to pretend you don't want to see
the response first hand. Kate fell at once into my piece, wholly
absorbed in scanning the pages. That, I knew, was a good sign. I finished my drink and then amused myself with studying the
Trent parlor. Expensive hutches held pristine arrangements of
ceramic figurines and imported pottery. Photographs leaned on
tables with the wry smiles of vacationing relatives. The
environment was warm and unthreatening in every regard. Finally,
I noticed a painting almost hidden in the corner of the room, a
watercolor of soft desert pastels rising and rippling to form
something like a narrow canyon at sunset but more like an aroused
cunt masquerading as a landscape. Kate turned the pages with the steady pace of a skilled reader
intent on moving through the words. "Did you paint that?" I asked, interrupting her intense study. I
already knew what she thought of my work. Her lips betrayed the
feelings I had succeeded in rousing. "Yes," she said, blushing deeply. "Years ago." She gestured
toward my words. "This is good." "You shouldn't hide it back there," I said. "It's gads better
than that or those." I pointed to several dull paintings of
horses and waterfalls. "Joseph," she said, looking back at the open notebook in her lap,
"doesn't care for it." "Ah," I said. "I should have guessed. So do you think they
should have cut off my funding?" "No," Kate said emphatically. "This is magnificent. You are
very good." "Two months are all I need. Can you persuade them?" "I can try." she said. "They might still listen. But you were
arrested." "And the courts are going to punish me. Why does the foundation
have to get in a kick? I can still give them art." "Why were you arrested?" "Kate," I said with a coy smile, "the whole thing was nothing.
No one was hurt. I didn't steal, kill or rob anyone. Nothing
like that. It was pure excess, a spontaneous overflow of
feelings. . . I'm not sure I can tell you about it." "Why not?" "It's not really a story for mixed company. I think it's damn
sexy, in fact." "Oh," said Kate, a little piqued. "Tell your story, sailor.
I'll let you know if you go too far and offend my sensibilities."
Her sarcasm goaded me into a heightened desire for frankness. "I was with one of my friends, a woman I hang out with. Trixie's
a wild one. I wouldn't call her my girlfriend, although we spend
lots of time together. She's an artist, a damn good artist.
Better than me, maybe, but don't tell her I said that. Some of
my best ideas have come from her. Not just what she says, but
the way she lives." "A painter?" Kate asked. "Sometimes, but Trixie's really a performer. We were down at
Clyde's over on Chestnut, tying one on and she started telling me
about fertility rites, you know Frazer's bough and all that jazz.
Anyway, Trixie was painting verbal pictures of May orgies,
various and sundry traditions from a thousand cultures to make
the crops grow by sympathetic magic and I could tell the subject
was getting her really hot. When Trixie gets aroused this flush
starts rising from her chest to her shoulders and up her neck.
Her fingers started fidgeting with her buttons, like she's
thinking about taking off her shirt, even though we're in this
crowded bar. Her voice fell about an octave, until she sounded
so sultry that I abandoned myself to the tender stroke of her
words. One look into Trixie's eyes and I knew she was lost in
the dream of ancient rituals. She has hot blue eyes and they
shone feverishly. Trixie's whole being fiercely demanded
attention. Her brain was spouting sociology, but her cunt was
running, participating in the mystique" "Damn," said Kate, her own voice deepened slightly. "That's what I said. Trixie wore this thin muslin skirt and I
noticed that she was caressing herself through the fabric, gently
rubbing with the beat of her patter. Her nipples were bulging
against her shirt." I paused to lick my lips, remembering the jut of Trixie's tits.
Kate's eyes were open wide, waiting for more. "So Trixie kept telling me these stories, just one after another
about kings and queens and sex and death, and I'm just sitting
there, completely enraptured by the sound of her voice. All of a
sudden, Trixie stops talking. She reached over and grabbed my
arm tight. I started to say something, but then I noticed a look
of panic in her eyes. Trixie bit her lip and a spasm shook her.
I asked her if she was all right, and she moaned a stifled moan.
Then I caught on. We're sitting in a bar with a hundred people,
and Trixie's coming hard. I could feel people staring, but
Trixie doesn't seem to notice, she just shivers and throbs.
Orgasms are ripping through this pretty girl. The scent of her
cunt was overpowering. Finally, Trix throws her head back and
let's out a giggling squeal. Man, it was beautiful. I was
smiling from ear to ear. People whispered and pointed. One
couple close by started clapping in appreciation." "What did you do?" "I paid the tab and got her out of there. Trixie's capable of
anything, and I didn't want to find out what kind of trouble she
could start with a bar full of people watching her. We ran down
Chestnut, generally headed toward my place. That's what I had in
mind, anyway. Trixie was charged and so was I, so I figured we'd
go back to my place and burn some of that sexual energy off in
private." "I can understand," said Kate. A soft flush slowly crept from
her shoulders up her throat. "When we turned up twenty-eighth, Trixie saw the park. She took
off and I had to follow her. When we got to the big field at the
east end, she started tearing off her clothes and chanting stuff
about the Great Mother and the Rain King. I was dumbstruck. I
mean, I'm used to pretty wild stuff, but this was all so insane,
and yet it was really powerful. A few minutes later, Trixie was
completely naked, lying on her back with her limbs stretched out,
reaching for me. What could I do? I did my best to answer her
prayers, at least until the cops showed up and dragged us down to
the station. Trixie didn't seem to care. She was in a state of
rapture, glowing with some kind of fucking divine radiance."

"Yes," Kate said in a low voice, "that is sexy." Her left hand
unconsciously caressed the breast of her blouse, raising the
shadow of a nipple underneath. Kate closed her eyes for a
moment. "Oh, my," she whispered. "If that's not art," I said, staring at Kate, my whole being
intent on kindling the spark I had lit into a blaze, "I don't
know what it. It wasn't just Trixie and me fucking, but a
fertility ritual, as old as humanity, brought to life in the
garden." "But," said Kate, trying to find her voice again. "I see." "I didn't plan it that way. It just happened. Like art." "Self control is what . . . ." Kate's thought trailed off. "Lose control," I said softly and I kissed her. She melted at my
touch, her body going limp as if I had touched a switch, released
the tension that held her upright. Kate responded to my
provocation, but only slightly, an involuntary reaction, as
though her surrender was compelled by a desperate appetite of
years without passion. Her reticence touched me and I backed
away, unwilling to press her any further. In the momentary brush
of our lips, I felt a sudden blossoming of admiration for this
woman of sense and emotion. I didn't want her to regret my
visit. I'd forgotten about her husband, about my petty craving
to inflict pain on him. "I'm sorry," I said as her eyes questioned my retreat. "No," she said, insisting, demanding, a fire suddenly raging
within her dark eyes. Lunging toward me, Kate pressed her lips
hard against mine, feverishly, passionately, wantonly. Her hands
roamed my body, pulling me close upon her, exploring and
compelling my surrender to her unleashed desire. "I've always
dreamed of a man like you, and I won't let you go without . . .
.." Her bold hands assaulted my crotch, rubbing furiously at my
cock through the soft denim of my old jeans. "Stop," I said and she ceased her pawing, looking lusty in her
reluctant obedience. "Take off your clothes." Her eyes
expressed both coyness and modesty. "I want to watch you
undress," I said, as though my command held some forethought,
echoed a design in search of an underlying purpose. Kate backed
away slightly, bit her lip, and reached for the top button of her
blouse. I gazed hard, drinking in the seduction as each button
came unfastened. Her bra was white and lacy. The tits within
were big and creamy. I pulled open my fly. Kate blushed
modestly as she unclasped her undergarment. I pulled my hard
cock into the light. Kate moaned as her bra slipped away,
exposing her naked chest. I rubbed my cock appreciatively. Her
dark nipples tightened. I groaned. Kate cupped her breasts in
her hands and squeezed, kneading the milky flesh. "Beautiful," I
said. Kate turned away from me as she unsnapped her jeans and pushed
the faded denim down her hips. Her flesh was fair with the soft
shades only found in those who never pursue the sun but sometimes
happen into it. The waist of her white panties fell, dragged
down a short ways by her jeans. The soft cloth cut a subtle line
across the creamy curves of her full bottom. The jeans dropped.
Kate stepped free of the denim crumpled at her feet and pulled
her panties up, stretching the cotton taut. I stroked my cock as
Kate swung her hips, teasing me with a circular sweep of her
veiled charms. The woman had me by the balls; I never wanted
anyone so badly in my life. My imagination roared. Deep creases
implied the shrouded lips of her cunt. I swam in sensations of
the woman, tormenting my patience imagining the naughty details
she still hadn't told. Kate's tits sometimes swung into view,
offering pretty peeks topped with cherry tight nipples. Kate was
on fire, teasing me this way. The money was gone, but the woman
was mine. Kate turned around, thrusting her bare breasts toward me. The
sight arrested my attention beautifully and I rubbed my cock in
appreciation. Pushing her thumbs into the waist of her panties,
she danced closer. More than anything in the whole world, I
wanted to see her muff, the lips of her cunt, to let my eyes
devour the last secret she could know. Kate moved closer, her
hands poised at her waist, trembling to show me everything. I
gave the air an involuntary lick. She pushed her pantied pussy
against my mouth. "Suck it, pretty boy," Kate said. The cleft of her panties
eagerly sought my tongue. "I don't care," Kate growled, her
hands in my hair. "I can't stand it, just suck my pussy,
please?" I lapped at the moist fabric. She yanked her panties
down and I kissed her aching cunt. Kate perched herself on the
sofa and poured wet kisses over me. My fingers slipped into Kate's hole as she teased my tongue with
her clit. An orgasm ripped through her in a flurry of spasms and
squeals. I kept Kate from falling, lost in ecstasy as she
collapsed across the sofa, spent. I knelt down behind my antagonist's wife and slipped my dick into
her dripping cunt. A shudder inside of Kate tickled my lustfully
sensitive rod. I was in heaven. Kate had always been
attractive. I took great pleasure in looking at her, clothed and
proper, but eyeing Kate from behind, with her round bottom tipped
up, her back arched, her big tits in soft silhouette, her hair
tossed wildly as she met each thrust with a bump of her cunt,
Kate embodied my best fantasies. At times I was fucking Kate, but at other times she was fucking
me. Kate let herself get raunchy when the mood struck her,
taking everything she could get with reckless abandon. But our
intimacy would turn around and she'd be confiding some secret in
a tear-filled rhythm as our bodies pulsed, connected together.
Then I'd be on her, pumping and kissing, embracing and filling
the emptiness we felt in each instant spent apart. The hours slipped away, and eventually I had to go. I was
licking her cunt gently as she read from my book, when I realized
it was already after five. "I can't control myself," Kate said, pulling on her jeans. "I've
always wanted someone like you." I took my book and left. Three days later, the grant was restored. I'll probably finish
my book soon enough. Kate, however, put herself out of my reach.
I still hate Joseph Trent. The bastard always seems to have
something I want. But I'll get her. All I need is a scheme.