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“Are you wet?”
I flushed. I was always embarrassed by the copious amount of fluid produced whenever I was aroused. “Feel.”
His hand moved up under my skirt, finding the damp crotch of my panties, but that wasn’t enough. He shoved those roughly aside, seeking my inner heat, and I thrilled at the sharp intake of his breath in my ear when he discovered just how wet I really was.
“Christ,” he murmured. “That’s a hot, wet little waterslide, isn’t it?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I agreed, working his zipper one handed–the other was twisted behind my back, secured in his fist. “Wanna go for a ride?”
He groaned when I slipped my hand into his trousers, his cock tenting his boxers. I pressed it flat up against his belly, feeling his pulse against my palm, my own just as fast.
“You’re going to get me fired,” he growled, turning me around and shoving me against the copier, lifting my skirt high. I never wore pantyhose anymore, just old-fashion stockings and garters, so he could have easy access whenever he liked.
“Ryan! No!” I protested when his finger probed my ass instead of my pussy, using all my abundant wetness to shine that puckered hole. “Don’t you dare!”
“Oh but I do.” His cock slid into my pussy and I sighed in relief, letting him twist my arms tight behind my back, tying me up like a neat little package, both of my wrists wrapped in one of his fists. I loved it when he took me like this, fast and hard. Even when I didn’t get off, it didn’t matter. I’d replay the scene in my head later and make myself come and come–maybe in my bed that night, or perhaps the bathroom if I couldn’t wait, or one time, extra daring, at my cubicle because I was waiting for a phone call and couldn’t leave my desk.
“Hungry little whore,” he groaned as I squeezed my pussy tight, the sound of him fucking me filling the little copy room. There were three copiers on this floor and this one was old and temperamental–no one liked to use it. But it was a busy office and sometimes you just had to have a copy right now. Anyone could walk in on us, and if they did…
“Ryan!” I hissed his name as I felt his finger probing my ass again, twisting, trying to loosen his hold on me, but it was no use. His cock was so good, swollen and pounding, jarring my hips into the edge of the copier. I never wanted it to end.
“What’s the matter, Missy?” His finger slipped into my asshole and I clenched, but that was no use either. I was too wet. He could do anything, have anything he wanted. “Don’t want me in here?”
“Please,” I begged, but he wasn’t hearing me. The copier didn’t give him the angle he wanted and he moved me, shoving me forward with his hips, his cock still buried in my pussy, until I was bent over the table in the corner. It was only thigh-high, stacked with a myriad of colored paper, and I found my cheek resting against an 8 1/2 x 11 ream of lemon-yellow while Ryan pressed his dripping dick against the tight ring of my asshole.
“Oh fuck.” He gasped as the head of his cock slipped in, just like that. He was so wet from fucking me there was very little resistance. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, the pain intense, a burning stretch, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to wait until tonight for my own orgasm after this. In fact, I had a feeling this little scene was going to be at the top of my masturbation repertoire for weeks, maybe months, to come. “Oh Missy, your little asshole…so…fucking…tight!”
And with that, he was off to the races, his breath coming hot and fast. When I went to lift my head, he shoved a hand against my neck, my cheek flat against the ream of yellow, leaving a flesh-colored make-up stain, my lipstick smearing on the paper as I twisted and whimpered, painting my own sexual artwork.
“Oh god.” He let my hands go and used both of his to grab my hips and drive himself home. My arms ached from being pulled behind my back and I pressed my hands flat against the wall behind the table to keep my head from hitting it as he pounding his cock into my unwilling flesh. “I’m gonna come!”
I don’t think either of us cared at that moment if we got caught. It would be worth it. Ryan grunted and thrust and shuddered into me, his cock painfully swollen in my ass, stretched to the maximum. I felt him, every white hot spasm, the way his dick pulsed at the base, the whole of him buried into the deepest part of me. We were both breathing hard when he pulled out and started straightening himself up again. He seemed aware, now that his climax was receding, of how dangerous what we were doing really was.
“You fucking loved it.” He grabbed my hips as I started to pull my skirt back down with trembling hands, kissing me hard on the mouth, my lipstick gone. I was sure my mascara was running too. I felt tears stinging the corners of my eyes. My poor bottom was on fire.
“No,” I insisted, shaking my head and trying to twist out of his arms, but he was right and he proved it, sliding his hand up under my skirt to feel. My pussy betrayed me, juices literally running down my thighs and soaking the tops of my stockings.
“I’m staying late tonight,” he whispered, hot against my ear. “And so are you.”
I just nodded, breathless, as he fingered my pussy and I rocked in rhythm with his hand.
I was too wet to argue.
Selena Kitt
Erotic Fiction You Won’t Forget
www.selenakitt.com
LATEST RELEASE: A Modern Wicked Fairy Tale: Goldilocks
When people see my avatar, the most common question (after the standard, “Is that you?”) is “Why fishnets?” Well geez. Do I really have to answer that? Just look at them!
But the question is, why are fishnets sexy? What makes stockings more attractive than just bare flesh?
I think it’s the tease, their peek-a-boo nature. Full nudity can be sexy, but kind of like when you’re writing erotic fiction, if you jump straight to the genitals, you’re going too fast! It’s only sexy after a little seduction, after we take our clothing off bit by bit, when buttons are popped to reveal the swell of cleavage over a bra, when jeans are wiggled out of, leaving panties rolled at the hips and a line of dark pubic hair showing just above the little white bow.
There was something to that Garden of Eden myth, but it wasn’t really about shame after all. It was about provocation. Clothing incites arousal. That’s what Eve did with that naughty apple, right? She provoked poor Adam into action. Isn’t that why they cover women in burkas? To keep the men from attacking women on the street. If they saw just a little bit of skin, it might provoke them to act on their lust.
But they got it backwards, because if we went around naked all the time, flesh wouldn’t be a big deal. You’d have seen mine and I’d have seen yours and it would just be a matter of putting all the parts together in a way that felt good for both of us. Clothing might have been been conceived (at least mythically – practically I’m sure it had more to do with temperature and the idea of getting a rash from brushing up against the wrong bush!) to introduce the concept of shame, but what it also gave us is the opportunity to reveal our sexual selves.
I like looking and wondering what’s underneath. I have the sexual curiosity of a cat. If my name was Pandora, I admit, there wouldn’t be a box left unopened on the planet. But the appeal for me isn’t ever an open box. That’s boring. Naked is kind of just… okay. Once you’re actually naked, it’s the stuff your doing that becomes the fun. But before that, it’s all about finding out what’s underneath, inside – getting to the surprise. Licking the Tootsie Pop to get to the center.
And that’s why I love fishnets. They give you a lovely view of flesh, fully intending to arouse, while not…quite…revealing everything. There’s more to be discovered through that criss-crossed window of fabric and that promise is exactly the point.
Selena Kitt
Erotic Fiction You Won’t Forget
www.selenakitt.com
LATEST RELEASE: A Modern Wicked Fairy Tale: Goldilocks
I should be writing, but…
Maybe I need a spanking?
It’s a lazy holiday weekend and I’m dreaming of a getaway. Everyone I know went somewhere this weekend or had plans. Not me. We’re not going anywhere in the near future because we’re packing to move at the end of July and the littles have a million things going on over the summer, but still. I want. Sun, sand, heat.
It was a nice enough day here today. Can’t say no to sunshine and blue skies. Thank you Mother Nature.
But.
I guess I’m just wishing for a getaway. A weekend of nothing to do but sit on the beach and tan. Lazy–no responsibilities, no clocks. Just the gentle sound of waves, the trickle of coconut oil between my breasts and maybe my Kindle for a little R&R.
Instead I’m sitting at my laptop, working. *sigh*
Well, at least the sun is shining.
Selena Kitt
Erotic Fiction You Won’t Forget
www.selenakitt.com
LATEST RELEASE: A Modern Wicked Fairy Tale: Goldilocks
I feel your pain, Calvin.
I, too, suck with the whole “write 2000 words every day” creedo. The lure of the Internetz (those damned LOL catz!) and the siren call of nature (my garden won’t grow without me!) and the day-to-day existence of trying to keep up with life are just excuses, I know.
I should just do it. Just sit down, like anyone else with a real day job, and do it.
But I don’t. Instead, I procrastinate. I weed and water, I take the dog for a long walk, I play Monopoly with the littles, I hunt the cupboards for any signs of chocolate, I read one of the many ebooks piling up on my digital TBR list…until either a) inspiration strikes or b) the deadline looms too large for me to possibly bear any longer.
I’ve always been, as Julia Roberts once said in Pretty Woman, a “fly by the seat of my pants kind of gal.” I’m not a planner. I hardly ever outline unless I absolutely have to. I like the spontaneity of not knowing where it’s all going, the possibilities of where things might end up. Which is strange, because in my real life, I’m an organizer. I make lists. I have routines. But writing? That’s a whole other animal.
But the truth is, I work best under pressure. I would have made a great bomb diffuser. I need a timer, a countdown, the pressure – oh my god, is it the red wire or the blue? Something happens to me during those moments, a sort of calm in the midst of a storm. I know what needs to be done and I know I can do it.
I can write on those days when I don’t have a deadline timer ticking down… but it’s nowhere near as good. Writing under deadline is like having sex in the coat room or a public bathroom – it might not be very comfortable, but it’s hot, fun and exciting as hell.
Of course I’m sure there’s something to be said for arranging for babysitters, reserving a room, ordering wine, spreading rose petals on the bed and spending hours making love, too.
But somehow, I still find myself with my legs spread in the coat room, whispering, “Hurry! Hurry!” and enjoying the hell out of myself as the clock ticks down…
Selena Kitt
Erotic Fiction You Won’t Forget
www.selenakitt.com
LATEST RELEASE: A Modern Wicked Fairy Tale: Goldilocks
I had a crush on Danny Bonaduce. It’s true, I did. And not when I was twelve either. It was back when he was on the radio here in the Detroit area, before his marriage fell apart. I even met him at some local thing – nice guy, in spite of all his apparent faults. But hey, we’ve all got ’em, right?
Anyway, here’s a bit of fiction that will never be published, since it’s about the man himself. But I thought it would be fun to share it here…
——————–
“I want everything you can find on former child stars.” Nelson slapped a long list on Chloe’s desk. “I want to know who’s in rehab, who got fat, who went bald, who’s gay, who’s dead… I want pictures, but definitely interviews… I’ll take anything.”
Chloe stopped chewing on her pen cap long enough to look away from her computer screen at her boss. “You want interviews with the dead guys, too?”
Nelson raised his eyebrow and smirked. “If you can get that, I’ll run it front page.”
“If I can get that, I’ll take it to the Enquirer—they pay more,” Chloe snapped back, giving him a lopsided smile.
“Ooooo, you bitch!” Nelson picked up the paper and waved it at her. “Careful, or The Star won’t be paying you at all. Now, research, missy… I wanna know what happened to that little freckled kid from Lost in Space and, more importantly, so do our readers.”
Chloe snatched the paper from his hand. “Our readers also want to know who last saw Elvis and where the latest alien abduction probe took place.”
He grinned. “See… be thankful I didn’t give you those.”
“Riiiight.” She rolled her eyes. “Thanks, boss.”
“You’re welcome,” he winked, heading toward his office.
“Billy Mumy,” Chloe called after him. “He did that weird song, ‘Fish Heads.’”
Nelson stopped, turning to face her. “What?”
“The kid from Lost in Space,” Chloe replied. “He did that song, you know, ‘Fish heads, fish heads, roly poly fish heads…’”
“Really?” Nelson cocked his head at her. “See, I picked the right girl, didn’t I?”
Chloe sighed. Probably, she agreed silently, picking up and scanning the list. Willie Aames—wasn’t he the kid from Eight is Enough? Not the little one… one of the older brothers, the blonde one, the cute one… what was his name…? Tommy! She had such a crush on him as a kid, she remembered. She’d had crushes on half the people on the list, she realized with a smile.
She typed Danny Bonaduce into her search engine, pulling up a picture of the little smartass redhead from The Partridge Family. What the hell happened to him? she wondered. It wasn’t long before she found out.
* * * *
Chloe would do pretty much anything for her job. That, apparently, included fucking Danny Bonaduce, former geeky redhead on The Partridge Family. Funny, she thought it was going to be some sort of sacrifice, a pity fuck, but he turned out to be a pretty good lover, considering how much they’d both had to drink that night.
Of course, the whole situation came with the usual first-time one-night-stand tension—does he like that…oh, that’s good, but ouch, ouch, elbow on the hair… oh no, not the plunging tongue kiss! But that tension also proved to make it hotter, that newness in the moment, coupled with the fact that, while he might be a “washed up” child star, at one time this guy had women following him around like bitches in heat.
He was strong, well-muscled, and had a cocky sort of confidence in bed she associated with men who were unsure and a little soft underneath. She realized, as he slid inside her for the second time that night—condom firmly secured, that much she wasn’t willing to risk—that this man would tell her anything she wanted to know when it was all said and done.
The second time took longer, thankfully, and she led him over to his back so she could finish herself, his hands cupping the full weight of her breasts, his cock busy up inside her, but it was her fingers rubbing her clit that would bring it all home, and that’s where she focused, eyes closed, wondering for one brief, dizzy moment before she came what Danny Bonaduce would think if he knew she was fantasizing about some other, bigger star.
It didn’t surprise her that he called out his wife’s name when he came, grabbing her hips and pulling her pelvis in tight—it both amused and saddened her to know they’d both been thinking of someone else—but it opened the door and let out a flood as she slithered onto the bed beside him, resting her head on the other pillow.
She didn’t have to ask him a thing. He talked about it all—the alcohol, the drug use, the prostitutes, the fighting—and underneath was the pain, pulsing like some festering, unhealable sore. The perpetual reporter in her thrilled at every detail. His devoted wife was finally divorcing him. His life was falling apart. He couldn’t stop using, couldn’t stop looking, believing that maybe the next thing would be the magic elixir, the pill that would fix it all.
Chloe propped herself on an elbow, tracing a finger through the center of the tight, red curls on his chest. “Do you hate David Cassidy?”
“Are you kidding me?” Danny barked a laugh and shook his head. “David Cassidy was the reason I got laid every night. I was the one who consoled the poor girls who didn’t make it into his dressing room on the first try.”
“So you think they weren’t there for you?”
“I know they weren’t.” He shrugged. “And you aren’t either.”
“No?” She managed a tight smile.
“I know what I am.” He said it with a certainty that surprised her. “I’m a sideshow attraction. A freak. But you gotta work with what God gives you, right?”
She couldn’t help herself or her next question. “So why do you think I’m here?”
Danny reached over her and pulled open the motel night table drawer. Chloe didn’t have time to react as he lifted the running microcassette player from its resting place on, of all things, the King James Bible.
“Because you’re P.T. Barnum, baby.” He dropped the recorder next to her on the bed with a smile. “And there’s a sucker born every minute.”
Chloe watched him as he dressed, feeling something thick and tight filling her chest as he pulled on his boots, tucked in his shirt. She dressed, too, more slowly, finding her panties hooked over the doorknob, a high heel tucked under the bed.
“So which rag are you from?” Danny finally asked as he pulled on his jacket, picking up the electronic key card. “No hard feelings, babe. I just want to know where my face is going to end up tomorrow, that’s all.”
She sighed, reaching across the bed for the recorder, half-hidden by the brightly bleachable but inevitably still stained motel sheets. “It doesn’t matter.”
His eyebrow went up when she pulled the cassette from the recorder, twisting the long strands of tape around her finger and pulling, breaking it off before dropping it into the empty blue plastic trash bin.
“You know, P.T. Barnum never said ‘There’s a sucker born every minute.’” Chloe slipped her jacket on, ignoring the sudden intensity of his gaze. “It was some rival of his who credited him with that particular phrase, trying to disgrace him.”
“Yeah, I know.” Danny held the door for her as they walked out into the cool night air. “But Barnum never denied saying it.”
She frowned. “I wonder why?”
Danny laughed, taking her hand as they walked. “Because he knew the truth. Free publicity is gold.”
Chloe glanced up at him, and something caught her attention, something she rarely saw anywhere near L.A.—the twinkle of a faint star in the sky. She let Danny Bonaduce, former child star, lead her toward his waiting car, and wondered which one of them, exactly, had played the role of the sucker that night.