It's Sunday. (I thought it was Monday. I set the alarm for 6.30am. Jeez, I'm still jet-lagged from staying up all Friday night). It's definitely Sunday. So here's the excerpt I promised from my short story
Michelangelo's Men, now to be found worldwide in the anthology
Sexy Little Numbers: best women's erotica from Black Lace. Now pass the coffee, please.
The plot: Danielle has a thing for watching men have sex together. On her birthday she lures her boyfriend Mike - who is straight and just a bit naive about the sort of things his girlfriend is in to - back to the flat she shares with her tattooed gay friend Trent...
Mike tries to disguise the disappointed downturn of his mouth and sits back on the sofa while I pour bourbon into three glasses. Trent parks himself in the armchair facing us and sets his tin of rolling tobacco out on the low table, his attention focused on skinning up the first of a series of stingily thin cigarettes. I pass a full glass in his direction and he nods.
But I don’t hand Mike his. Instead, taking one in hand, I climb onto the sofa and sit astride his thighs, looking down on him with a smoky smile while Mike’s eyes widen questioningly. Taking a sip of the whiskey I stoop to kiss his lips and the dark liquid passes from my mouth to his. Our tongues lap cautiously, then deeper. There’s no hurry, no urgency, just a savouring of the layered tastes of the bourbon and each other. I slip my hand into Mike’s lap and find that it’s still there, his semi, still restless and eager for my touch. We laugh together, silent and private. Mike slides his hands up my legs, unable to resist my spread thighs, and I’m not surprised – I’m wearing this ridiculously provocative outfit: black fishnet stockings and a blue faux-snakeskin miniskirt. His thumbs find the gap of silky flesh between stockings and knickers and caress my innermost thighs, easing up toward my gauze-clad pussy. I squirm against him and moan in my throat, nipping at his lips. I feel his cock surge, protesting at the confines of his trousers. Soon I’m absolutely sure it’s a full-on erection, and his hands are, under the very inadequate cover of my skirt, making incursions under the edges of my panties in a manner that makes me gasp. And every time I gasp, he twitches with arousal.
‛Come on, love,’ he says under his breath. ‛Let’s go.’
I slide sideways off his lap onto the cushion, one fishnet thigh still draped over him, and look over my shoulder at Trent, who is drawing with satisfaction the first lungfuls of tobacco. ‛Mike’s after a blow job.’
‛On your birthday?’ His brow puckers. ‛Shouldn’t it be your turn?’
Mike seems dazed by the unexpected interruption to events, but he’s adaptable. He swallows hard.
‛Oh, I like sucking him off. He’s got a lovely cock.’ I squeeze the member in question, finding it rock solid still. ‛I could suck it all night.’
‛Or at least until you get bored.’ The quirk of Trent’s lips is patronising.
‛Hey, you: I’m really good at it!’
‛Yeah, right.’ His tone is unmistakably derisive.
‛She could wake the dead,’ says Mike in a hoarse voice, and I feel my heart warm: he’s coming to my defence. But this time Trent actually snorts.
‛What?’ demands Mike.
‛Women don’t give proper head. They don’t know what they’re doing with a dick: it stands to reason. You want a really great blow job, you need a man.’
‛Like you know what women can do, mate?’
‛I’ve given it a couple of tries, a few years back.’
‛But not with Dani.’ Mike is pugnacious.
‛No.’
‛Then you don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Trent exhales a long cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowing wickedly. ‛Show me then.’
‛Huh?’
His eyes flick to me, glinting. ‛Show me. Reckon you can eat his meat good enough to make me eat my words?’
I straighten my back, thrusting my tits and my lower lip out. ‛Hell yeah.’
Mike grins, not quite certain where all this came from but appreciating the novelty. He’s sort of aware that this is crossing a boundary he’s never previously approached, but he’s a bit punch-drunk from the sensory overload at the club and he’s stand-up horny from my teasing, and the caresses I’m still lavishing on his shaft are stopping him thinking clearly. He even helps by uncinching his belt as I set my glass aside. ‛She’s going to make your eyes water, mate,’ he promises. He’s being possessive; he thinks it’s us as a couple against the gay bloke.
Poor unimaginative Mike.
His cock is straining the seams of his fly as I get started and the teeth part with a staccato purr. Out pops Mike’s cock, hot and eager and flushed dark, his foreskin already being shouldered aside by his swelling glans. God, I love the way cocks stand up like that, so uncompromising and unambiguous. There’s nothing half-hearted about an erection. Nothing that says ‛Well, I’m not really bothered but...’ It’s a demand made physically incarnate.
Trent brings his drink and his smoke and comes to sit on the near edge of the coffee table so that he can get a good view. I flash him a conspiratorial look before I crouch down on the sofa and take that great big meaty length in my mouth, sliding it all the way to the back of my throat and bathing it in the taste of sour-mash spirit. Mike lets out a little grunt and shifts his position, getting a good angle as he lays his hand on the back of my head. I’m aware at the very periphery of my vision of Trent taking a drag on his cigarette and rubbing his knuckle over an itch in his nose, coolly appraising of my performance. So I give him one, though it’s all supposed to be for Mike’s benefit. I make sure there’s plenty of visible tongue and lots of movement, my head bobbing up and down as I suck that cock as far down my throat as it’ll go. I make sure there’s audible sucking and little grunts of erotic shock as it pushes to its limit in my throat’s sheathe. I can’t really take him all the way, he’s too long for that, but I can have a good go. Mike’s certainly moved by my efforts: after a few minutes he pushes his jeans down from his hips to expose himself further, releasing his scrotum into view. A big, furry ball-sac matches his big exuberant cock. I take it in my hand, playing with his nuts through the tightening skin.
I know Mike. I know all his little tells – the catch in his breath, the sudden surge of sweat to the skin of his crotch, the ooze of clear lube from the slit of his cock – well enough to be sure that he’s reached the Zone, that he’s no longer conscious of anything but the need to orgasm. That’s when I stop, lifting my open lips from his cock, washing its crown only in my hot wet breath. It twitches with frustration.
‛Not bad,’ says Trent softly. ‛Want something to compare it to?’
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P.S: you can see more (a lot more!) of my muse for Trent if you type "Logan McCree" into your search-engine, with the content filter switched off.
