Cougar: An Erotica Collection. Elizabeth Coldwell
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lapping and swooping, almost urgently.
‘Ah, ah.’ Pleasure shot through me. Pleasure and disbelief and, as he said, desire. I could feel my pussy dampening, a hot wetness seeping from me. And he was lapping at it eagerly. Groaning his approval as he did so. His warm, firm tongue was divine on flesh that had been neglected for so long. Searching and stimulating, drinking from me as though I was a honeyed treat.
I tightened my grip on his head and parted my legs further, giving him unhindered access.
Another few seconds and he found my clit.
‘Oh, God,’ I said panting. My knees buckled. I struggled to remain upright and was glad of the support of the wall behind me.
He was exploring my right inner thigh with his fingertips, winding upward, stroking and caressing. My pussy clenched; it felt like a gaping hole that needed filling. Jared must have sensed my need because his fingers circled my entrance, spreading my moisture around, teasing and fondling.
‘Please,’ I murmured, ‘oh, please, inside.’
He stretched my pussy with his big long fingers, two at least pushing in, easing me open.
My spine curled and I squeezed my eyes shut, gripped him with my internal muscles. Electric whips of sensation burned through my core. He was working me with his tongue, fucking me with his fingers. For a moment I imagined I was that beautiful woman on the DVD being serviced as I lounged by a pool in the sunshine. I was glamorous and rich and living in LA. My body young and lithe, my skin flawless and smooth. Thinking nothing of wearing a bikini from dawn to dusk.
And the Californian sun could well have been heating me, for my body was feverish, sex-sweat pricking at my flesh. The blistering pressure was growing and building. I gripped his hair and thrust my hips in time with his penetrations. Forgot about that woman in the sun and became me again. The star of my own smokin’ porn movie with Jared as my co-star.
‘Oh, God, I’m going to come,’ I moaned, throwing my head back against the wall and staring up at the dusty lampshade.
He reached up and grabbed my breast, squeezed and massaged, plucked at my nipple through my blouse and bra.
The nip of pain tipped me over the edge. I was there, teetering on the precipice of an almighty orgasm. So much better than any at my own hand. My breath caught, my heart thudded, every muscle in my body tensed.
He shunted into me even higher, sped up the rotations over my swollen clit and palmed my breast in a big hard grab.
Bliss flooded my soul, my torso slumped forward and my pussy gripped and spasmed around his fingers. A cry echoed around the room and it wasn’t until the tail-end of the noise that I realised it came from me.
Jared stayed with me, expertly working my pussy, carrying me to the end of my climax and then bringing me gently down.
My breaths were hard to catch and moisture popped all over my body. I could barely focus on his features when he finally stood and withdrew his fingers. My vision was blurry, my brain in a dazed state.
He grinned and wiped his shiny mouth on the back of his hand. I caught a whiff of my arousal – my come.
‘So,’ he said.
‘So what?’ I reached for his upper arms and fisted his T-shirt, needing the extra support for my floaty body.
‘Was that my best performance?’
I grinned and then giggled, quite giddily. ‘Definitely, as far as I’m concerned.’ His handsome face came back into focus. He was flushed, his lips a little puffy and the skin around them pink and moist.
‘Good.’ He dropped a musky kiss onto my mouth then stepped away, forcing me to release him.
Instantly I felt cool, the loss of his body heat like a cold draught. I shivered and failed to suppress a final blissful tremor as it wound up my spine.
Reality hit. Hurriedly I pulled up my knickers and straightened out my skirt. Shoved my hair behind my ears and realigned my bra and beads. How I must look I had no idea.
Jared reached for the door handle, his movements as smooth and graceful as ever. ‘So do you think you could bring the DVD in for me tomorrow?’
‘I, um, sure. Of course.’
He walked out of view. ‘Jared,’ I called, tottering forward, my quivering thighs only just doing as instructed. ‘I, but … I mean … why?’
He grabbed his jacket and turned, reached for his shades. ‘Why what?’
‘Why did you, you know, just then, do that?’
His gaze latched onto mine. ‘Let’s just say I like to keep my fans happy and you, Miss Fenchurch, are someone I’ve always wanted to make happy.’
Confusion wriggled through my mind. I clutched my necklace and twisted it like a rosary. Trying desperately to figure out the puzzle. ‘You say that like you’ve known me for a long time.’
He pointed to the jar of mint humbugs next to the till. ‘When I was a kid you used to give me a sweet whenever you helped out my mam, which was a lot.’
‘Your mam?’
‘Petunia Kirkwood.’
‘Oh, Petunia, yes, of course.’ I dropped the beads and clasped my hands to my mouth. ‘Bloody hell, you’re little Johnny Kirkwood? I would never have – God, it’s been so long since your mam told me you were heading to LA with stars in your eyes.’
‘Yeah, I guess it has been a while.’ He slotted his shades on and opened the shop door. The bell tinkled as a self-satisfied grin spread on his face.‘ I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ he said.
And just like that little Johnny Kirkwood, who was not so little any more, was gone.
Sighing I sat on my chair, my nether regions swollen and damp. I couldn’t help but wonder if tomorrow, when he came back for his porn, there might be a repeat performance.
And, if that was a possibility, I would have to watch the movie all over again, just in case he asked if I had another favourite scene and offered me a personal performance.
B and B
Primula Bond
My friends swore I’d be bored stiff in the countryside. A year ago Soho was my stomping ground. Bars and clubs my natural habitat. Conference calls my mode of communication. But a girl can get tired of the stress and grime, tube trains and flight paths, impossible deadlines and demanding clients.
One-night stands were my sex life, fuelled by frustration, wine and the potential for danger. But a girl can tire of thumping hangovers and meaningless fucking, especially when she hits forty.
So when my fairy godmother bequeathed me her chocolate-box cottage and thriving bed-and-breakfast business I shocked everyone by upping sticks and moving to Camber Sands. People even laid bets on how soon I’d tire of green fields, oast houses, gossiping neighbours and the slow grey roll of the English Channel.
The arrival of a slick, single city girl in a village full of retirees and young families certainly wasn’t greeted with fanfare. I stuck out like a sore thumb with my red lippy and loud laugh, my vociferous reluctance to bake cakes or join the flower rota. I was viewed with suspicion as I struggled to keep my godmother’s hollyhocks and roses going, the tourists arriving and the husbands at arm’s length.
But when the London gang turned up unannounced on the first anniversary of my move they didn’t find me alone and palely knitting. Oh no. They found themselves gate-crashing a raucous gathering of apple-cheeked locals singing along to X Factor and getting rat-arsed on my vodka cocktails.
‘Us backwater types thought Sara was like the woman from that film, Chocolat, springing from nowhere,’ the vicar, who also teaches street dancing in the school hall, confided once