Monday, 28 July 2014

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt from one of my stories, for your entertainment.

Because it's been incredibly warm and sunny here for a whole week(!), today's snippet is from "Abigail's Ice Cream," which appeared in Best Women's Erotica 2011.

Abigail makes artisan ice cream and sells it at summer food festivals. Tev and Matt are paramedics, and they've been flirting with her all day.

“How did it go?” asks Matt.

“I sold every last scoop.” 

“So ... what’s your favourite flavour?” Trev wonders.

“These two,” I answer honestly. “That’s why I brought both; I can’t choose between them.” Then I catch his lifted eyebrows and blush. Matt, chuckling, offers me the chocolate cone.

“Want a lick?”

I shrug one shoulder and nod, tipping my lips to the creamy chocolate his tongue has already swirled over. Goddamn, we’re flirting. How did this happen? What the hell do they see in me? I’m not ugly, okay - but I’m an artsy middle-aged lady who makes outrageous ice cream and wears clothes two decades old and her hair in a style and colour that’s too young for her. I’m not like them; not the sort of person who can press into a drunken crowd or a freezing pond to rescue someone from certain death, not the sort of person who can address a total stranger as ‘love.’ I haven’t even worked for a living until recently – I went straight from art college into marriage, and the divorce settlement and child maintenance were generous enough to keep me and Skye living comfortably. I’m a joke, by their standards.

The chilli heat burns on my tongue. My cheeks are already flushed. Matt grins at me, an easy wickedness dancing in his hazel eyes, as I lick my lips. I’m not trying to be provocative, honestly: you have to lick your lips if you are eating ice cream. “That’s hot stuff,” he teases.

“This is better,” says Trev on my left. “Try some of this, Abi.” It would be rude not to, so I turn to the golden ice cream he offers. This one is melting faster: it’s dribbling down the cone and threatening to slide off. I catch a big gobbet on my tongue, aware that they find my action vastly entertaining, and still not quite believing it. “Bloody hell,” says Trev happily.

“You like the taste of his cream better than mine?” Matt complains and I giggle. Then a cold drip hits my skin and I realise the honey ice cream is dribbling out of the tip of the cone and is marking the front of my dress.
"Ack!” I yelp, half laughing, looking down. “Call myself a professional, eh?’

There’s a drip on the inner curve of my left breast. I’m not wearing a bra – what would I need a bra for, after breastfeeding Skye flattened them so? -  and this dress has rather a deep V-neck. The white trail winds down toward the cleft.

“Oh,” says Trev, looking too. “Oh ... that’s...’

“Hold on,” orders Matt. He drops his own ice cream back into the rack and then swiftly kneels before me. His fingertips graze my thighs. “Keep still,” he commands. I feel Trev’s free hand settle on the small of my back and my spine arches, thrusting my cleavage out a little more. Delicately – and it surprises me that this hearty, vital man is so careful – Matt leans forward until his lips are brushing my upper breast. I feel his breath on my skin: my own stops in my throat. I feel the tip of his tongue as he gently licks me clean.

My heart is pounding. The world seems to lurch. I stare over his head, wild eyed. We’re tucked away here, shielded by the first aid tent. Sunlight glints on the dark leaves of the hedgerow and the discarded cans in the long grass. His lips are on my breast in a lingering kiss, causing my nipples to respond greedily, hardening to points. And Trev’s hand slides up and down my spine, slow and firm.

Then Matt sits back. “Trev’s right,” he says softly, his eyes narrowing with hidden laughter. “That’s bloody good.”

Despite the warmth of the day, my nipples are standing up hard against the soft cotton. My sex is full of melting honey.

“Let’s go inside, Abi,” Trev murmurs in my ear. “Come on.”

Chocolate and chilli: oh, this is not the chocolate of childhood. This is a purely adult pleasure - bittersweet, dark and troubling. Heat lingering upon the lips and the breath. It is chocolate that makes the pupils dilate, the skin flush, the heart quicken. It is the taste of passion.            
They take me into the ambulance and close the door on the outside world. I glance around – emergency equipment, fold-out chairs, bright plastic drawers - but to be honest I’m not taking anything in. My brain has frozen. All I can think is that this is happening to me, and that I don’t understand how. Is it a joke they’re playing? Will they suddenly back off and start to laugh at me? Will they-?

They kiss me, both of them in turn, urging up against me with their big hard bodies, sandwiching me between them as they press their caresses upon me. I taste chocolate and chilli, honey and saffron. Their tongues are eager, their hands bold. Stubble scrapes my skin. Teeth tease my ears, my neck, my nipples. Trev has kept hold of his ice cream, though it is melting over his hand now: he encourages me to lick it, to suck his fingers, to pass the soft cream from my mouth to his.  In the meantime Matt is pulling up my dress, working it over my shoulders, stripping me bare.

I tremble, anticipating their mockery.

Instead, the flash of Trev’s teeth signals pure appetite. He touches the melting ice cream to my right nipple, and as I flinch from the cold Matt catches me, holding me still. As Matt props himself against the stretcher bed and pulls me off balance against him, Trev paints my body with the cold cream: my freckled breastbone, my dark stiff nipples, my puckered stomach. All the way down to the juncture of my legs.  He tugs down my panties and, discarding the cone, squashes the last handful of ice cream into my sex, slathering it over my labia, squashing it up into my hot core until it melts and runs down my thighs. It’s shudderingly cold and I squirm in Matt’s embrace, biting back the squeals. I’m half aware that the blond man is tugging at his own clothes, pulling his cock out, but I can’t see it – I just know it as a slab of burning heat thrust against my cold bottom.

Then Trev gets down and eats the ice cream off me, tits and belly and thighs, all the way. I must be salty from the day’s work but he doesn’t care. His mouth is both hungry and tender. It makes me fear and it makes me need, and ultimately it makes me surrender, opening my legs to let him plunge his mouth and his hand between. His fingers go inside me, diving through the cream. His mouth devours my clit, sucking and nibbling and licking like I’m a gelato. I heave up against Matt’s torso, feeling his hands cup my breasts and tug at my sticky nipples. I’m helpless to resist. Trev’s hand is working me insistently, each thrust opening me more.  His mouth has taken control of my whole body. Matt’s tongue is hot and wet in my ear: I’m being eaten by both men and I can’t stop it, I can’t help it, I’m coming now with breathy unmistakeable squeals – and Matt growls “Yes - you give it all up now; that’s right,” in my ear as my world turns inside out.

Orgasm leaves me shaken and trembling. Trev stands and pulls me up against him, stroking the wet strands of hair back from my face, and I focus my eyes with some effort. He’s smiling, but his cock is straining impatiently against me. I can feel it through his green paramedic trousers. “What happens now?” I ask in a tiny voice.

“What do you want to happen, Abi?” he murmurs, brushing my face with kisses, rubbing my palm against the swollen ridge in his pants.

“I want...” I reach behind me for Matt. He’s got his flies open and his cock is standing up hard under his stroking hand, and as he guides my fingers to grip that thick shaft I realise he’s already clad it in a skin of latex. Smooth operator.

“Want this?” Matt asks, voice full of chocolate.

“I want both of you,” I confess.

Trev’s eyebrows arch. “Together?’

What am I thinking of, at my age? This is crazy. “Yes,” I gasp.

BWE 2011 is still on sale at Amazon US : Amazon UK

No comments: