Dressed to Impress. Elizabeth Coldwell
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to her navel and then back up again, his eyes fixed on Debra’s face.
She tugged at the belt of his slacks. ‘Get naked,’ she whispered and, without moving much, he did. He stripped off his shirt, removed his trousers, shed his boxer briefs. He cupped her delta and, although his hand lay still on her wiry curls, Debra’s breath sped up. He bent lower and kissed her breast. His lips enclosed her nipple, and he gently sucked at it. His bangs tickled her skin as his tongue licked her – deliberate, titillating. Hot darts shot towards her clit until the throbbing became so overwhelming she had to bite her fingers in order to hold back the moans building in her throat.
Nicholas stopped and looked at her. He tilted his head and with a grin pulled her hand away. The silence had become such a habit, Debra couldn’t even remember the sound of her own voice when she relinquished her composure. ‘You don’t have to be quiet tonight,’ whispered Nicholas, placing a tender kiss on the tip of each nipple.
She let out a soft moan. ‘More,’ he demanded. Lovingly whispering her name, he pushed two fingers into her pussy and watched her let go. She groaned loudly and cried out when he crooked his fingers inside her. He watched her writhe beneath him for a while before withdrawing his hand. His fingertips stroked her pussy lips, changing course whenever they came close to her clit, never touching it.
Debra shifted underneath him. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders and arms as she clutched at an outlet for the pulsating of her clit. ‘Please …’
‘Please what?’ he asked, breathing a kiss on her dry lips.
She threw him a reproving glance. ‘You know what I want you to do.’
He nuzzled at her earlobes. ‘Oh, I know, baby.’ He kissed her temple. ‘But I want to hear you say it.’ His fingers circled the entrance to her pussy and pushed forwards only so much as was necessary to lure a frustrated groan from Debra’s mouth.
‘Touch my clit,’ she whispered.
He changed neither the position of his fingers nor their pace.
‘Touch my clit,’ she repeated and raised her body with a rapt moan when he finally complied. ‘Touch me, touch me …’ she said, her voice fading. She stopped him before she lost control completely. ‘Love me, please,’ she whispered, fondling the nape of his neck.
Finally, she was lying underneath him again, feeling his weight on top of her, being owned by him in a way she would only allow him to own her. Eyes locked with hers, he entered her and began to rock her slowly. He watched her lips quivering, uttering sweet, lustful moans as their bodies fell back into the familiar rhythm.
Emotions washed over her, demanding tears as well as smiles. She pressed her lips against Nicholas’s shoulder and held onto his body. She could feel her sweat mingling with his, she could feel his palm against hers as their fingers entangled and his breath dampened her neck. She could feel the shudder that ran through his body before his muscles tensed and he thrust into her once more, breathlessly uttering her name as he finally let go, uniting with her in a culmination that shook them both.
Panting, Nicholas collapsed onto her body. He buried his face in her neck and didn’t move. Debra relished the feeling of his warm come filling her and his cock slowly shrinking inside of her.
‘I want to stay like this for ever,’ she whispered as waves of cosy fatigue replaced the tremors of pleasure that had left her flesh so wonderfully satisfied.
‘So do I,’ he said, stroking her face. ‘But I guess as often as we can will have to do.’
She wrapped her arms around him tighter. ‘Is that a promise?’
Nicholas kissed the tip of her nose. ‘It’s a promise.’ He rolled over and wrapped their bodies into the blankets. ‘I love you,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘And I love what you did tonight. But can I ask you one favour? Please never do it again.’
Debra laughed and kissed his shoulder.
‘Will they let you keep the corset though?’
‘It’s mine.’
Nicholas let out a content grunt before closing his eyes. Debra watched him fall asleep. Without touching it, she traced the bruised patch above his cheekbone. Tomorrow, watching him shave would excite her even more.
‘Nicholas?’ she whispered.
He mumbled drowsily.
‘Do you still have that aftershave lotion I like so much?’
‘Hmh.’ He drew her close into an embrace. A trace of stubble tickled her bare shoulder, and she laughed softly against his skin.
Shutterbug
Mina Murray
When Howard recounts the story of how he and Amy first got together, he tells people it began with New Year’s resolutions and ended in love. As with most unreliable narrators, there are a number of details he omits. But that’s where I come in.
Howard Venn was not the type of man likely to be cast in the role of romantic lead. Statisticians are generally under-represented in cinema and Howard’s footwear alone was enough to disqualify him. Pairing orthopaedic sandals with white socks, Howard carried himself with a punctilious bearing that said simply pedant. To most people, he looked like an ascetic. But then most people didn’t know that Howard had spent the last hour of this rainy Monday afternoon hunched over in the supply room on Level 3 of the Baker & Sons building, wanking over pictures of Amy that he wasn’t supposed to have.
Howard had not had much luck with women. He found it too intimidating to approach them out of the blue, without a formal introduction. Howard preferred structured environments. He had signed up to several adult education classes in the past few months, such as Still Life for Beginners, Part 1: Fruit and How to Get Your Game On (although he never ended up attending that one). He also enrolled in a salsa class for singles, rationalising that everyone would know why they were really there, thus forestalling the awkwardness and recriminations with which his attempts at seduction were usually met.
The consensus among the class was that Howard led well and always maintained a perfect frame, but would never set the world on fire. Howard had picked up on this, of course, and could only look on with a mixture of detachment and despair as one by one the students paired off. Brent – a fortysomething-ish man with a bad comb-over who was almost as wide as he was tall and could not get through a single song without sweating through the back of his cheap polyester shirt – seemed to fare particularly well. Howard was at a loss as to the source of Brent’s unusual magnetism. When he made discreet inquiries with his fellow students, they replied that Brent had personality, Brent was fun. No one had ever told Howard he was fun.
By the end of the course, Brent had succeeded with not one but two of the female students. Howard wondered how such an arrangement could possibly work. Having little experience in these matters, he could only assume it would operate as some sort of sexual time-share where each woman got precisely half of one week, and alternate weekends. Howard did not imagine this would be a particularly satisfying state of affairs for any woman. But then he could not imagine one woman, let alone two, being attracted to Brent, so clearly there was more than one part of the equation he hadn’t solved.
The upshot of all this was that Howard was the only man left standing alone at the end-of-class dance, in a red sequined shirt that caught the light like a disco ball, and a pair of trousers so tight he feared he’d caused himself permanent testicular damage.
Across town, Amy Jenssen was having a similarly disheartening evening. She had been harangued into a striptease class by her well-meaning friend Celine, who thought that it would improve Amy’s self-esteem. She had ignored Amy’s protestations that having to gyrate in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors – next to women more lithe and coordinated than herself – in little more than a feather boa and underpants would likely be counter-productive. But Celine was determined, and so Amy gave in.
Tonight