CeeCee blinked. Ashes, blood and sweat mixed on our skin with fragments of ceramic. The effect was surreal. “I know, bro. I can feel it.”
I reached for somebody’s whiskey bottle, took a pull of it and got a mouthful of lukewarm tea.
“You didn’t need to set up all this elaborate game, but I’m glad you did. You both make pretty convincing drunken sluts.” I spat the tea into CeeCee’s face, grabbed her ankles and pushed in again. Hard. She squealed.
Izzy slapped a little more emphatically at my sister’s clit. “Are you going to come for us, honey? Come around your brother’s big, hard cock?”
“They both should.” Pauline stroked and tugged at my balls. I wasn’t in any hurry to orgasm, and I was feeling so full of liquor and beer that I probably couldn’t anyway. This time when I reached for a bottle it was pure whiskey. CeeCee clenched around me, wiggled her rear and leered. “Give it to me! Graham, you’re the brother everyone should have. I love you too.”
She laughed as she came, her asshole spasming around me and her face reddening. “Holy shit! Yes! Yes!”
Pauline’s guffaw joined in behind me. “You guys are amazing. I don’t believe you’re actually fucking.”
CeeCee held me close, made sure I didn’t pull out. “This is so fucking sick. It doesn’t get any nastier. Damn!”
For a moment, we both believed that was true. I relaxed, pushed in further and concentrated on releasing the valve that should be shut when one fucks. It took a moment, and then the floodgates opened. I breathed deep, looked into my sister’s eyes and waited for her to notice I was pissing up her ass.
The Queening Chair
Kate Dominic
One doesn’t have to be a queen to enjoy a queening chair. One does, however, need to have a retinue of lusty men available, ready and able to wear their tongues out on the queenly nether regions presented on the opened seat of the low stool beneath which each royal retainer will lie.
Max loves eating my pussy, but it will be a cold day in hell when he slides beneath a queening chair. We’re both hardcore dominants with no interest in seeking out non-existent submissive sides. Fortunately, by the time we met, we’d been in the BDSM scene long enough to have learned how to negotiate getting our sexual and emotional needs met. We go to BDSM play parties together, spend the evening topping other people in bondage and spanking scenes, then come home, compare notes, and fuck each other senseless.
Neither of us was comfortable with penetrative sex with others — at least, not yet. When I realized how much I really wanted to try a queening chair, though, he thought about it, then said even though a tongue sure as hell could penetrate — we both knew his did! — to him oral sex wasn’t the same as fucking sex. He bought me the queening chair, invited three trusted male submissive friends from our group over to entertain me, and went off to play poker with his non-kinky buddies.
When Max had gone, I took my time getting ready. I’d programmed my MP3 player with a selection of slow sexy songs, all sung by men with deep, rough voices. I shaved my pussy silky smooth. I piled my hair on my head in my favourite jewelled clip and slid into a deep, scented bubble bath. Then I leaned back on my bath pillow and let those crooning sandpapery voices glide over my skin while my pores opened.
It wasn’t long before my hands were sliding through the warm, slippery bubbles, stroking my breasts and my belly, moving down between my open thighs until I was so horny I couldn’t help wiggling my fingers into myself. With my thumb on my clit, my index finger in my pussy, and my middle finger up my ass, I masturbated until my skin was flushed and I was breathing hard. Finally, I was so close to coming I just lay there, my fingers motionless inside me, concentrating on the feel of the air moving in and out of my hypersensitized body as the bubbles popped around me.
However, I had no intention of coming before I was seated on my queenly chair. By the time I climbed out of the tub and wrapped myself in a thick thirsty towel, I was primed for an evening of talented male mouth performance.
I’d chosen a black leather bustier, short gold velvet skirt and thigh-high leather boots for the evening’s festivities. As I finished styling my hair, I could hear my submissives arriving downstairs, greeting each other as they disrobed and set up the living room per the detailed directions I’d sent them during the week. I had no doubt they’d be naked except for their cock rings by the time I made my entrance.
It’s so lovely playing with well-trained submissives. When I walked in the room, the queening chair was in the centre of the carpet — low to the floor, the well-oiled leather of the padded arms and back bar forming a C-shape around the opening in the middle. Below that opening, the cylindrical neck pillow hung from silver chains that gleamed in the firelight. I had no doubt it was already adjusted to position the mouths of my servants at exactly the right height to service me. Next to the chair was an antique end table, covered in a pristine white linen cloth. On it rested a glass of sparkling water in a crystal goblet, a just-opened box of Godiva chocolates, the TV remote, the latest issue of Cosmopolitan and my cell phone.
The only sound in the room was the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. I lifted my skirt just enough for it to clear the arms and back of the chair. Then I squatted down with my boots just outside the chair legs and adjusted myself until I was comfortable. It took me a minute. Although the chair supported my weight well, my knees were bent deeply. The position spread my pussy lips and my anal crack deliciously wide, though. I snapped my fingers, picked up my glass and the remote, and turned on the TV.
Those wonderful men had set the station on the Food Channel. A special on angel food was just beginning. I picked up a bonbon, biting into a juicy cherry truffle as the lusciously muscular and spectacularly hung Darin slid his head beneath my skirt. The women in our club considered him an Adonis, and he was a masochist to his core. He was usually naked in my presence — my submissive in many percussion scenes. I had never before allowed him access to my pussy.
He appeared determined to show himself worthy of the honour. His erection stretched above his belly button, the gleaming red head so stiff it had pulled completely free of its cover. His forehead bumped my thigh as he positioned his head on the pillow. He kissed the spot in apology. Then his hands gripped the chair legs and his hot, wet tongue slid like silk the entire length of my newly shaved slit.
I shivered so hard I almost dropped my glass. Max was no slouch at tonguing me to orgasm, but Darin was worshiping my pussy. With each tender, delicate swirl, my clit seemed to reach for his tongue. I drew in a deep breath, my hand shaking so badly I could barely set my glass back on the table. He swiped full length again. I arched my back, pressing my pussy into his mouth as I imagined my exquisitely sensitive nub growing more engorged with each taste. I imagined it puffing and stretching out from under its tiny hood, displaying itself in a way that invited even more dedicated attention.
Darin rose to the task. As pre-come drooled from the long, deep slit at the tip of his penis, he flicked his tongue mercilessly over my clit. He wasn’t even stopping to breathe, just ruthlessly flailing with a constant steady friction that seared sensation beneath and over and around — and deep up into the exquisitely tender area that so rarely peeked out of its protective cover.
The orgasm stunned the air from my lungs. I screamed. Screamed again, thrusting my pussy down hard on to his face. He wrapped his lips around my clit and sucked. I shrieked and came again.