Tessie L'Amour, M. Christian, Charisse, Jhada Addams, Jayme Whitfield, Whiskey McNaughton, Ainsley, Amelia James

Sexy Briefs: Tasty Little Tails

Nighthawks by M. Christian

1:00AM. Phillies coffee house. A cup each: white and sweet for her, black for him. Nick stirred his clockwise, Darlene stirred counter.

“Chasin’ the moon tonight?” Nick said, looking over at her. Her hair was the color of fresh copper, and she wore a dress to match. Her face was lean, but not harsh, and her eyes were the green of fresh grass.

“Just watching it travel, I guess. Probably gonna be home before it sets,” Darlene said, smiling at him. He had a good face, with lots of character: strong chin, good nose, gray eyes hooded beneath luxurious eyebrows. Not a pretty-boy, but handsome on his own.

“Used to be able to make it myself: all the way from the silver coming up to the silver going down. No gray on the roof, but I’m not a kid anymore,” he said smiling at her. Under the red dress she was slim but not skinny, breasts full and obvious even through the material.

“You don’t look like you’re ready to get stuck in a home to me,” she said, returning the smile. He wasn’t big, but he seemed to be well put together: broad shoulders, and with nothing hanging over his belt. His hands, she noticed, had character. They were like signposts to his soul: strong, elegant, with perfectly clean nails.

“You’re just buttering me. Nah, just been burning too much of that midnight oil lately.” He wondered about her, instantly picturing her standing in his little place: red dress tossed over a chair, silken slip floating as she walked, showing off her fine lines. He imagined a redhead’s soft skin, longs legs stretching beneath the bright white slip, and the twin points of hard nipples on perfect breasts.

“Know it. Just got off a shift myself. Thought a cup might make the trip home a little easier.” She wondered about his lips: strong but soft, at first a gentle graze across hers, just a mixing of breaths. Then the initial chaste one, the first touch of his to hers. Heat between them flaring with the first touch of tongues, then the roaring blaze as he tilted her head back for a longer, more penetrating kiss.

“I’m right down on Bleeker. Got a little more to do but ran out of java. Jack’s place is always open.” He saw himself on his bed, looking down his half-dressed body, t-shirt, shorts, socks, as she climbed up with him. The gleaming white of her slip moving just enough to give him quick snapshots of knotted, deep-brown nipples, a tight tummy, and the distant flash of curled red hairs between her long legs.

“Gotta love Jack. You work graveyard or something?” His hands. Yes, that was next: his hands. Very good hands, and she thought about how he might use them. During the kissing, when it got good, so very good, they would be on her. Not hard grabs, but rather slow grazes across her thighs, up her side, over her shoulder. Then, as the fires grew higher, a gentle rest on her skirt, a cautious knead of the hard muscles. She imagined, and could see herself spread her thighs a little, just enough. But he’d be a good man, and wouldn’t dive right in. Instead, she saw him kiss her even harder, swing dancing with her tongue, and his hand rest softly on her breast. At the thought, her nipple crinkled and gently throbbed in the soft support of her bra.

“My own. I’m a hack; got one thing down but have another piece due tomorrow.” He was hard and hoped she wouldn’t notice-but he was also hard and hoped she would notice. She was there, live and real in his mind, smiling up at him as she reached into his boxers and pulled out his very, very hard dick. She kissed it, at first-just a soft little touch to let him know that she wasn’t afraid. Then a longer, wetter, harder kiss. In his mind, he was in her mouth, with his sensitive head of his cock grazing the roof of her mouth, as he watched her bright red hair bob up and down with each in, each out.

“Maybe I’ve read something.” She could see his chest, lightly haired with dark nipples and ridges of firm muscles. His shoulders would have a light dusting of freckles, and his arms would be thick but not burly. He would have a good manly chest. Salt, the sensation suddenly on her tongue as she sipped at her coffee. Yes, salt: she wanted-then, there-to kiss that bare chest, taste the bite of his gleaming sweat.

“Not unless you hang out in some very unlady-like places. It pays the bills, though. Where do you sling your hash?” It wasn’t that she would do the things he’d seen on playing cards, in stag reels. No, that wasn’t that had his dick throbbing on his pants. It was just the thought of her being there, really there, with him in his little place. The way she smiled: he ached to see her that same smile as she stroked his dick; as she pulled off her slip to show him her lean body, her firm breasts, her dark nipples, the triangle of red curls down between her legs. He wanted all that, but all that with the smile-more than anything.

“Del Rio’s down on 154th. Food’s not bad and the joes don’t pinch my ass that much.” She wanted those strong hands to touch her, to pull her close in a tight clench. She wanted him to hold her, to squeeze her so that her body was pressed against the firmness of his chest, his tight legs, his securing arms. Then-shocking in its quick power-she wanted him in her, to fill her with his kind strength, his barely restrained power.

“Tempting, I have to say; but I’m too much the gentleman.” In his mind she was turning, showing him all that she was-all that she had, a proud display of her excitement. Not shy, not hiding under the bedclothes, but smiling with pleasure. Her breasts, yes; firm, with just a little jiggle as she turned; her thighs, all good lines — a knockout; her bush, looking sweet and inviting, with her legs barely spread so he could see between; her ass, tight, strong, like a perfect pear. And-as she turned for him-always the smile, the brilliant show of red lips and white teeth. She wanted this, wanted him. That was the best part of his fantasy.

“My knight. Just as long as your pen is better than your sword.” She was daring in her mind, imagining his strokes into her, his strong pounding between her tight thighs. Thinking, allowing her mind to run hot and humid, she felt herself respond. A quick blush came to her cheeks as the wetness came between her legs. The shame, though, was gone as quick as the hot, wet had come: the dance of their bodies coming together, of his member sliding into that wetness, of his breath on her neck, of his lips grazing his own, was just too damned nice.

“Don’t know about that — haven’t got any complaints about the sword as of yet.” One playing card stuck in his mind, a favorite of his jerk-off fantasies, and her smile would go so well with it: her red, freckled body straddling him as he lay on his bed, her tits bouncing as she moved her ass up and down on his dick. He could feel her, in his mind: the way her cunt would grip him, the way her so-soft, so-wet lips would push down and pull up with each wild bounce. Smiling, of course, as she fucked herself on his very hard dick.

She felt a new flush, a kind of fear: too much, too much. Good, damned yes, but it was too much: she wanted to touch him, to run a hand across his cheek, to feel the muscles there, the slight sandpaper of his almost-invisible shadow. She wanted to say something, to bring it about. No-no, it was too scary, too present. “This late I don’t know if anyone would be able to find anything,” she said.

He felt a heaviness. She was still there, fucking herself on his so-hard dick, but part of himself felt the illusion fall. If she came with him she probably wouldn’t smile, probably wouldn’t show him her body with pride and excitement. Maybe a handjob, maybe just a promise for sometime later that would never come. “I know. Except maybe the moon. Shouldn’t stop us from trying though,” he said.

“Always willing to try-but, you know, I think it’s going down,” she said, a little bloom springing up. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She touched that hope, and kept smiling at him.

“Happens to all of us. Long nights, too little sleep… you know,” But, he thought, she just might. The illusion flickered but didn’t die-he held it, looking at her pretty face, and smiled back. Maybe -

“Too well. Sometimes I think the only thing that keeps me going is the joe,” she said. She held it, the dream of him kissing her, of his broad chest, his strong thrusts, the chills and wonderful shivers of him inside her. Not tonight-no, but there’s always the next day.

“Good dreams. See you in here tomorrow?” he said, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice, the precious grip on his dream from slipping. It was a good illusion: so real and… too complete not to give it a try.

“It’s a date-I’ll just follow the moon,” she said, swallowing back an octave of pleasure. Not today, but maybe later-maybe sometime soon, maybe even tomorrow.

“See ya,” he said as she got off the stool and picked up her handbag.

“Bye,” she said as she passed him and walked towards the glass doors.

He watched her go, and smiled At the doors she looked back, and returned it.

Perfection by Charisse

Perfection. Greek sculptors mastered their art: realistic carvings in every conceivable way. Astonishing. Mesmerizing. I enjoy touring the ruins and have walked the museums, but never before have I been so lucky as tonight.

It is one of those “friend of a friend” connections that allows me to wander the storage area of a little known museum that houses the newest discovery from ancient Greece. The very male athlete stands, from head to toe, just over six feet. Just like his brethren, there is a tangible realism to his features; he very well could have been a victim of Medusa! There are no identifying marks to credit a sculptor and there is no support signaling a Roman reproduction. Perfect balance, perfect craftsmanship, perfect…perfection. His musculature is well defined. His body poised.

But he is different from all the rest. Where the others follow a contrapposto form, he does not. Neither does he stand rigid and straight. No, there is a real…character…attitude… something in the way he stands. His head is slightly tilted, his face drawn down, and a very faint serene expression rides his visage. His sole arm extends downward, with a slight outward angle, as if he is reaching for something. His shoulders are wide with very obvious brute strength, and yet…and yet he appears tenderly loving.

He is intriguing. But wait! Loving? I step back and look again at the entire statue. From a few feet away he appears to be reaching for something off a table, but up close…

I allow my eyes follow down his body and admire the sculpted abs. This is an Olympian athlete without question! I return to my close inspection as my eyes lower. As with his brethren, he is nude, and very much male. The marble phallus glistens and I realize I have dropped to my knees and gotten a little too close. But is this too close? Never before have I objectified a work of art, but tonight…tonight I am drawn…and I need to understand why!

Just one touch? A single touch cannot harm this masterpiece. The limp carving begs to be caressed. One solitary kiss will not hurt. The moment the thought strikes, my lips press forward. Cool white marble shocks my nerves, but I do not pull away too far. I frown at the aftermath of my momentary peck; bright red lipstick screams from the surface of the stone. I reach up and gently brush my left palm slowly down the smooth shaft. A smile twitches my mouth; I am being gentle because this is a work of art and it is ancient, I tell myself. While a man is the most useful to a lot of women when he is hard, I find the softer moments to be a prized pleasure. Engulfing him and feeling him grow inside my mouth is a wonderful experience! But this is not a real man, I admonish my thoughts. To which, I reply, Oh, but to try!

While I argue with my irrational urges, my hand continues to wipe at my lipstick. I watch as my hand closes and begins to stroke the marble cock. I watch in silence, for my thoughts cease to exist. It is a full minute before I realize my fingers are fully encircled and touch my thumb. I know that means something is wrong, but I cannot place exactly what that something is. My hand is a slight shade of pink, the faded lipstick soaking into the stone acting as a lubricant for my stroking. I lean forward and close my eyes as my lips pull the tip of the statue into my mouth. It has been warmed by my hand and continues to melt on my tongue. I expected a rocky taste, but receive a pleasant flesh flavor dancing along my taste buds. My right hand instinctively rises to cup his balls. As I suck, they become soft in my grasp. A moan escapes, sending chills down my spine, tightening my nipples, and soaking my panties. With a full mouth and full hands, I look up. The sight that meets my eyes is amazing! He is not reaching for something off of a table, he is reaching to run his fingers through my hair!

This thought excites me more than I could ever imagine — a one of a kind Greek statue that is not meant as an offering to the gods or as a tribute to an athlete, but as a simple reminder to a wife of her husband’s love! The view from this angle is splendid! His face, his arm, his stance is so life-like. As I close my eyes, I fail to notice how the white marble is slowly disappearing. A tan radiates from his groin outward, pulsing with my heartbeat.

As the tan deepens, flesh appears. The focal point is the quickly growing cock deep in my mouth. My mouth feels to be shrinking, but it is only the limp cock waking, stretching, and my throat opens to accommodate the larger intrusion. My eyes flutter open, the chills once again spreading through my body. I look up as fingers brush over my head and a smile greets me in his softening face. I slowly pull my mouth away, letting my right hand take over stroking as my left switches to the soft pouch beneath his delicious cock, but before I can release the tip, he halts my head with his strong hand.

“Please, do not stop,” rumbles through the room. His voice is deep, gravelly, warm, and tender. How can I refuse? I once more lower my lips toward the golden hair at the base of his cock. How long had I been sucking on flesh with hair tickling my nose? When had the marble faded?

Questions are useless and annoying when there is a simple pleasure at hand. I ignore my thoughts and concentrate on the enjoyable task. His hand releases his tight grip and his fingers splay through my hair once more. He begins to moan, a deep thunderous yet melodious music to my ears. My panties are no longer simply wet; my jeans, as well, are soaked through. I have had orgasms while giving men pleasure before and I can feel the tell-tale signs of one beginning now. My stomach tightens, butterflies dance inside, and all I can do is moan. He is getting close, too; I can feel him swell and begin to throb.

Just as I begin to cum, just a second before he releases himself down my throat, he whispers, “I am sorry.” I do not care why, the ecstasy flows.

He stared down at the marble statue of a kneeling Greek woman, face raised with her only arm held up, as if drinking water from a nonexistent fountain. His low voice echoed through the storage room, “The Fates are cruel, but I thank you for your gift of life. May the gods favor you and allow you to shed the curse of Medusa as I have.”

Level of Difficulty by Jhada Addams

“Just — trust me. Most comfortable seat you’ll ever have.”

I eye you, wary, as you pat your lap.

“It’s an important conference call this time.” I take a step towards you, your expression mildly amused as you grin back at me. “You gonna behave?”

A low chuckle rumbles out of your throat. You don’t even try to bullshit me. It’s one of the things I like most about you.

“You sure you want me to?”

A tremble goes through my body, and my voice shakes as I respond.

“No.”

A wicked grin curves your lips as you crook a finger, beckoning me towards you. “More fun this way.”

“Fucking hell,” I mutter as I shake my head and move to straddle you, leaning back against you. You’re already rock hard and the call is five minutes away now. I’m allowed a moment to clear my head and get the headset on before your hands slowly begin to slide up my thighs. I’m wearing easy-access clothing, a habit I’ve picked up in the last few months of being with you. Easier this way. Less clothing to replace, although from time to time, I do like the tearing sounds different kinds of fabric make when you rip them off me.

Soft lips brush my shoulder, then nails run along my thighs as you growl, “Like you had a choice.” Such soft, menacing laughter.

God, I love what you do to me. You’re right. I never really did. But then I never do with you. With a groan, I look over at the clock.

“I’ll tell you when it’s time. Get your eyes off the clock.”

Shivering, I look down instead, watching as your fingers begin sliding against my inner thighs, your hands squeezing — first gently, then tighter. Just as I think you’re about to leave marks, I feel teeth on my skin as the first finger dips in, finding me more than ready for the sequence of events to follow. With what can only be described as growling laughter, your teeth dig in as your finger brushes my clit. The combination of sensations has my breath catching in my throat. My head rocks back as sensation flares through my body, pulling a groan from my lips. I can feel another hand sliding up my torso to cup my tit beneath the fabric of my shirt, squeezing it as your fingers pinch the nipple.

Your lips replace your teeth, gently rubbing your lips along my skin before growling, “The top. Take it off. Now.”

I quickly comply, shivering. For a moment, I realize that it’s not entirely fair that you’re the only one wearing a full set of clothes in this particular scenario, but the thought is obliterated as I lean back and you bite down again, your fingers dancing against me. My cries echo out in the small room and the sound of your own groans behind me are damn near doing me in already.

I shudder against you, a wave of numbing heat rolling through me as I crash over, knowing that I’ll have bite marks when I go to look in the mirror afterwards. You know how much I love looking at them afterward. As I come back to myself, you’re chuckling softly, kissing the marks that you’ve made on my body.

“Should be… just about…” you murmur, and the phone rings.

“SHIT,” I hiss, trying to collect myself. My breath hitching, I make sure that the mic is muted before I bring the call online. I’m greeted and take the mic off mute long enough to respond.

“You OK? You sound a little tired,” someone asks.

I nod, then smack myself on the forehead mentally, realizing that the person on the other side of the line can’t see me. I feel your hands on my hips as I reply, “Ah, yeah. Long weekend.”

I carry on an inane call and response conversation while your hands slide back up my torso, cupping my breasts and squeezing. I’m struggling to remain focused on keeping my breathing straight, slow and smooth, in and out. The social chatter stops and I click the mute on the mic again as you squeeze HARD this time, growling in my ear. Whimpering, I grip the edges of the desk, my breathing coming hard and fast as you release me, then nip at my neck.

“Good girl,” you murmur softly, kissing my shoulder. “Stand up.”

I comply, waiting for everybody on the call to arrive so that the meeting itself can begin. I feel you shift beneath me and hear the sound of a zipper as you adjust yourself in the chair. Pressing my hands on the desk, I feel the head of your cock as you grip my hips and pull me back down against you.

“Now, a level of difficulty, I think,” you murmur.

Ah, shit, I think to myself, pretty sure that it’s awfully fucking difficult at the moment.

“You are now going to grind this fucking cock for all you’re worth. Am I understood?”

Shaking, I nod quickly as I feel a hot flush race across my skin. “Yes, Sir.”

The last person on the call is ready, and important pieces of information are now being shared. Fortunately, it’s information that I don’t really need to be paying attention to yet. I wince as I feel the sting of a slap on my ass. “Speak the fuck up, slut.”

“YES, Sir.” I reply crisply, finding myself having an issue with breathing again.

“Now.” Amused impatience colors your tone, but it’s quickly replaced with a groan as I slide myself down over your cock, slowly bouncing, once — twice, then pushing you all the way in to the hilt.

For a moment, we both simply revel in the moment — me completely filled and you surrounded with my moist heat. Once I’m able to breathe again, I begin moving against you, grinding my hips in time with your groans of pleasure. An issue that I’ve been waiting for an update on comes up, and I snap my fingers — my ‘safeword,’ as it were, in this particular instance. I slide you all the way in, struggling to keep from breathing too hard before unmuting the phone. Your hand finds its way to my breast, cupping it as your other hand snakes into my hair, pulling it gently. I battle with controlling my voice as I feel your teeth scrape against my skin, nipping, then biting. Thankfully, the update is quick and the phone goes back on mute. Immediately, I feel your hand bending me forward. My hands slap on the desk and you grab my hips, slamming up into me. My entire body trembles and your name spills from my lips as you growl, “MINE.”

The very word is enough to send me over again and I clamp a hand over my mouth, capturing my own scream. Nobody on the call needs to hear a muted scream. It’d only bring up questions that would be entirely too embarrassing to answer. Pulling me back against you, still sheathed deep within me, you chuckle darkly, nuzzling my neck.

“Such a good pet,” you murmur softly, your fingers tugging gently at the soft nap of fur between my legs. With a contented, rumbling sound, you tug harder, knowing what it does to me.

“Ah, fuck…” I cry out, body bowing away from you.

“Hmm…” you murmur. “I suppose I should leave you to your call.”

“God, no… please, please.”

Begging. I’m here fucking begging you to keep going.