A tall, glistening, brown wall of naked man comes closer and closer, until his toes nudge the points of her boots. Cathy draws back in alarm, hands clutching arms, knees pressed in tight. The alcohol warming her blood and slurring her speech can't quite obscure her fear of the stripped-bare stripper as he loomed over her. Not quite bare: he still wears his mirror shades, in which her startled expression shines back at her above her white blouse and unusually daring décolletage.
Her friends had complemented her on her sexy outfit, the sheer stockings and figure-hugging blouse, the calf-length, leather, high-heeled boots. She had told herself that it was alright to dress up, that they all had, that it didn't mean...anything. It was all just a bit of fun. But that had been before the show started, when the cocktails were flowing and beginning to suppress the nerves and sense of awkwardness. The sense that, somehow, this wasn't quite right: she didn't normally do this sort of thing, it wasn't her scene at all. But it was okay, once in a while, to go a bit wild, wasn't it? And it hadn't been her idea; she hadn't even wanted to go and had pulled a revolted face at the first suggestion. It was only because it was a birthday party...nobody likes a spoilsport. Don't be boring!
Such thoughts are gone. Thought in general is difficult under the pounding, relentless dance beat, but never mind that! Here in front of her is this utterly brazen, utterly naked masculine specimen. First the tricorn hat, then the frilly pirate jacket, then the three-quarter breeches: all tossed to the wings. And the piece-de-resistance, the leather jockstrap, folded down and tugged aside and finally removed altogether, to leave him, its erstwhile wearer, in the altogether. That was, traditionally, supposed to be it; but nowadays audiences expect more. The dancer carried on dancing, displaying his all. And even this was only a prelude.
The beat quickens, intensifies: throbbing against the sides of her head. To each side, her friends clap and whoop, but barely audibly. She tries to look away, tries to return the delighted grins with an embarrassed smile that wins her a pat on the hand from Nicola, but her eyes are wrenched back to rest on him alone. She gazes up at him, at the slabs of his chest and shield of his stomach, the tattoos writhing on his biceps, the light gleaming on the oil which is now his only coating. He gyrates, snakes, smiles down at her. He is...fit. In every sense. The thought is there, she cannot halt it! It leapt into her forebrain before she could escape. And lead by the thought, she looks down.
His cock is huge! It is not quite erect, but far from flaccid, an awakening monster. His pelvis swings at her, whipping his cock closer to the target, an open letter of unswerving physical reality. Like the rest of him, it is deeply tanned, as thick as a cudgel and very, very long. She wonders how long, when the blood has stretched and tightened it to steel. Another thought! She couldn't catch that one either! In her first, furtive peek, she takes in everything, the swelling rope net of veins, the creases on the hood, the heavy pendulum of his balls swinging along behind. She blinks away, but looks again.
And in that look she is caught. He is a professional, who needs no second invitation. Already thrusting hard at her, he lifts a foot onto the curving bench seat and leans in closer yet, bringing his cock to her face. She hears cackles and shrieks, far away where her friends are sitting next to her. His foot kicks away her protective arm and she does not resist, too frightened, too polite for that. He bends over her; and there is her reflection again as she gazes up in shock and awe. His pumping pelvis flops his mighty cock just above her cleavage. She smells the tang of oil and choking sweetness of deodorant and the faint salt-musk of sweat behind it.
Her heart jolts and fizzes and batters her ribcage. Her spine is wedged against the dense pad of the bench, one of a tier of curving arcs rising as Odeon steps from the stage. His ankle brushes her wrist and she shrinks in relflex, but feels his moisture on her skin. He plants his foot more firmly, kneels forwards and lifts the other foot to plant it on her other side. He squats over her. Again, the shrieks just pierce the fog of music.
His cock swings up to her mouth, bumps on her chin, slaps her cheek. She feels its solidity: even without complete tumescence, it pushes hard on her, with a brute, muscular power. She cranes her neck back until her head touches the bench seat behind them, screwing her lips up and shaking him off as best she can. Each slap is hot, with a slight sponginess, an animal heat from within and a smooth elasticity without. She feels its life, its lust for her, its contempt. He whips it across her lips. She will not do it! She hates that thing! She won't do it for anyone, let alone this stranger. Her lips stay shut, teeth clenched.
He persists for a while, seems to want her to yield, her resistance urging him to force her. But then a new approach. His buttocks, smooth and sweating and tight, clamp down on her chest, squashing her down on the bench; then slide from her bosom to drag her blouse down from her tits. On them, he leaves a smear of oil and sweat and the impression of burning heat. His cock drops to her cleavage, his balls grazing the swelling curves of each full, meaty breast. Each breast rises and falls as panting waves wash through her thorax. She is not wearing a bra! On a whim, to complete the risqué theme for the evening, she took it off and left it in the laundry pile, playing the wicked woman. But now, bereft of protection, his weight pulling down the thin blouse, her nipples must touch his skin! They do, each tingling nerve-ending sending wet, warm stimulation to her swimming brain. She knows they are stiffening against the soft skin of his thighs, knows he can feel her arousal as he shifts his weight against her.
He slides his cock back and forth in her deep cleavage, not fast or hard, but absolutely deliberate, implacable, masterly. Her tongue flicks over her drying lips and finds an acrid taste, the taste of his foreskin and glans, still on her. His hips work, driving the cock up to her taught throat and back again. His scrotum rubs on her nipples as his thighs squeeze her tits against each other. Her tits are slick with wetness, his sweat and now hers. Each breast feels swollen and heavy and tender, somehow bruised. Her breath is a hurricane in the roof of her mouth; her legs shake; her fingernails rake the fabric of the seat.
"Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!"
She wants her thought to be "No, please stop!" She knows it should be this. But her fear, her terror, is that under "Oh shit!" is "Oh yes! More!"
"Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!"
The shrieking of her friends is a constant twitter in each ear, as the bass punches the skull and drums through the liver.
"Oh...go on...keep going! Keep going!"
She thrills. His cock has stiffened! She can feel it pressing its way more firmly on each breast as it ploughs them. Her flesh cannot rebound as easily, there is more force, more insistence against them. As he withdraws, she sees the exposed dome of his glans drinking in the sweat now running in a stream in her cleavage, supping on her, gathering strength. She smells its dirty, immodest stench, tingling in each nostril.
"Yes! Yes! Fuck my tits! Fuck them!"
As soon as the thought has exploded in her, he is gone. He straightens his back, hauling his glistening cock free, stands up, lifts one foot over her head as though to present his arse to her. He jumps nimbly aside and down and heads for Nicola, a paroxysm of laughter reddening her face and shaking her shoulders.
Cathy is left fighting for breath, bare tits shining in the disco light, sweat coursing to her navel beneath her clinging blouse. She stares after him, his buttocks working as he dances up against Nicola, light picking out the ridge of his spine between flowing back muscles. For a moment, Cathy forgets she is exposed, all on show like some cheap slut. For another moment, she doesn't care; finally, what was once normal focus returns and she sweeps her hands up to recover her tits with her blouse. But she finds her fingers diving inside to squeeze and pinch her hard nipples, slick with sweat, to pinch away the fierce, hot, swollen, bruising urge in them that has transmitted itself to her cunt. Her legs still wobble and fidget and vibrate, her cunt feels pressed and constrained and she knows it is swelling with the same urge. She expects her knickers are already soaked.
In all, he was on her, fucking her tits with his half-hard cock, for no more than a minute. A minute in which her friends watched her being sexualised; turned on in baldest, most brutish fashion before their very eyes, opened up for an unknown man to use, led astray from her marriage. His smell and the feel of him are still on her, her bloodstream is flooded with hormones and adrenalin from his touch and the sheer wickedness of being pleasured in public in this way, so far from her usual shyness and reluctance. A beast stirs somewhere deep in the dark pit of her stomach.
The music pounds on, jarring and jangling, hovering around pain. He forces himself up against Nicola, straddling her as he had straddled Cathy, slapping his cock on her jaw. The jaw opens. As Cathy gazes in foot-jiggling, leg-jogging, chest-thumping wonder, Nicola shows her what inhibition is. So what? It's just a cock! It's just a bit of fun, a bit of sex, a bit of a suck! Sex is fun, it doesn't mean anything- and anyway, it's not proper sex, is it? Just a suck, like on a lollipop.
Nicola holds Cathy's bright-eyed gaze for a moment, with look that is nicely balanced between the wry, the delighted and the whorish. She homes in on the latter as she swivels up to look at him, watching each minute twitch of his lips as she parts her own, splitting them redly open for him. She places her teeth on the tip of his exposed glans, lips sliding softly down on the supple skin of the shaft, a sinewy vein pulsing against her nerves. Her head nods, he shifts his pelvis forwards and up and her mouth is filled until her cheek bulges. Her eyes narrow and she arches her back as though he has penetrated not her mouth, but her cunt, as though her vagina is being caressed by the thrust, as though the taste in her mouth is the most exquisite chocolate cake.
Cathy cannot help herself: she has to watch it all, even as she wonders. Why had she thought those thoughts? She doesn't even like the word, fuck. It is coarse and violent. But the feeling of being pinned down and having her nipples fucked by his cock and his huge, big-dog balls, right in front of everyone...Was that just a bit of fun? The throbbing in her body, the scratchy, unsettling longing in her throat, says otherwise.
And to see Nicola, now, sucking deep and hard: she likes it. No, she loves it, loves everything about it. She isn't just doing it to please him, although proving her own power to give pleasure is part of the thrill. She seems to love the feeling, the taste, even. As Cathy watches, Nicola writhes in her seat, slides her hands up the backs of his legs to grip his buttocks. This isn't just a blowjob: it's a face-fuck. Cathy detests the very idea, usually. The idea of something so unclean, so animal in her mouth disgusts her. But then why, as she shifts her legs one over the other, does she feel wetness at the top, heat inside? Why does her hand stray to her nipple once more and find it not only still hard, but almost painfully so, pulsing between her fingertips as they squeeze. She cups her breast in her hand and clenches her fist, grinding her teeth. He turns his head from Nicola and looks over at Cathy. He stays fixed for a moment.
He has finished, but not quite. He pulls back from Nicola, leaving her sulking as his cock leaves her mouth. He steps across her, heading back to Cathy. Cathy's heart shakes her whole body like a flag in a gale, her legs liquefy, she tries to rise and run. Run far away, before...What? She knows what he wants. The mirror shades approach, heaving, white-clad breasts reflected in them. The shimmering muscles approach, raw power channelled. His cock is erect now, enormous and gleaming. It is like a gnarled, vicious club. He brings it to her, threatens her with it, raises it to her face. There are no showy thrusts or wiggles now, no clownish swinging. It is a heated torture-iron held steady and demanding she submit. Nicola has engorged him and her spittle still streaks the length. It looks painfully swollen, beyond hard, about to burst. The veins stand out like crests. His foreskin has retracted and the glans seems to weep, begging forgiveness for what it is about to do to another man's wife.
She smells the stink of cum on it, scouring her nostrils. He taps it against her lips and the trail of pre-cum oozes inside to spark its sweetness on her tongue. Her throat is scratchy, as though tears will flow, her limbs shudder with adrenaline. Her nipples, her whole breasts, ache and she can feel her skirt soaking beneath her. He takes hold of his cock with one hand and drops the other onto her shoulder. The cock brushes her lips again. Her lips open. And open. And open. And with a slight forward jerk of his hips, he pushes his cock into her. She takes it in, her tongue fluttering against it as she feels the blood in his veins and the thrum of life in him, her teeth grazing the shining skin. She cannot hesitate now, but presses on. She presses the tongue against his shaft and wraps around it. She licks, inside her mouth, under the shaft, gingerly tasting his salt. He thrusts further in and she helps him by widening her jaw until he is home. One more push, and he is in her up to the balls.
And she cums. With a shock at something so new, so completely out of character and unexpected, she feels warmth flooding through her from her cunt upwards, a fizz on every nerve-ending. She can feel him throbbing in her mouth and it feels as though he is in her pussy. She wants him in her pussy: and it is this thought, carrying with it the realisation that now she wants him to fuck her, can no longer pretend this is just fun, this thought that triggers her orgasm.
She presses her legs together to try to control the shaking. Her tits bounce and heave. Her cunt throbs, the lips twitching. My God! Just from entering her mouth! She's done it now...Did anyone notice? Her vision clouds for a moment. She closes her eyes.
And she sucks. She sucks. My God, she sucks him as hard and as deep as she can, sucking him into her, pleading for his cock to bury itself inside her, slurping and swallowing. She opens her pulsing lids, to see his bronzed stomach, coloured lights dancing on his flesh. She looks up at him and knows he can see in her eyes what this has done to her: her eyes are bright and reddened.
She drops her head backwards to release his shaft and bring her lips around the knob. She wants to taste him properly! She never, ever liked the taste before, not even the thought of the taste. Now she craves it, hungers for it, kisses it into her mouth, this taste of brutal man. She gasps and sucks and drinks at him. The pre-cum flows more steadily, his cock dips and flicks.
Give me it, give me it, let me have it all now! Fuck it into me! Please, please, please! Oh, shit! Please!
She sobs, feeling the pressure build again in her tightened cunt. She has never been fucked like this, face-fucked in a room full of friends and strangers. As she came, Nicola's fingers brushed her hip, sitting close to her as she is. The epiphany continues, as the sensation of throbbing on her palette intensifies and his cock begins to twitch; instantly, a tidal wave of lust sweeps through her pelvis, while her tits feel on fire with the need to be sucked. He grunts and clenches at her blonde hair, the pain discharging yet more endorphins into her overflowing stream.
With a real effort of will and muscle, he pushes off from her, swivelling his hips to withdraw his cock, awash with spit, from her mouth. She fights him, sobs again in her desperation, but he overmasters her. He sets his jaw, mouth in a harsh line, takes her by the shoulders, pushes her back, bends her backwards across the bench top. Her breasts thrust into the air, massive and vulnerable at the same time, blouse about to give way. He crouches over her, rubbing his hands over her tits, grabbing and squashing them. It has gone too far for gentle caresses, not that she wants them anymore. What this bitch needs is to be treated like a bitch!
Her eyes open wide and she gasps, flailing for his hands. His tough fingers find the line of buttons; her hands grip his wrists. He starts to pull at the flimsy material; she helps him do it, collaborates in her own defeat. Together, they rip the blouse like a stage curtain opening wide. Her tits explode outwards, bouncing and shimmering with sweat. The blouse clings to their sides, sodden and transparent. He hunches his shoulders to stoop low enough.
His tongue runs along the valley of her cleavage, slurping at her sweat as his cheeks massage her tits to each side. She feels the delicious pain of his touch on her tender tits, his tongue sending a cold shiver up her chest and down her spine. She squirms in her seat and her legs open as she pushes her hips up towards him. His mouth finds her right nipple.
Fucking hell! Oh, Jesus! Oh shitting fucking yes! Yes! Oh fuck! Ooooooooh!
Her hips buck. The fizzing, jolting feeling begins again in her legs, which wobble out and in, out and in. All around her, the shrieks of her audience echo, beneath the grinding, angry music which seems to have increased in tempo and volume. The bass thuds through her and synchronises with the waves which roll through her muscles. Her nerves seem to be crackling with energy, her ragged breath buffets her ribcage. Nearby, her friends are no longer shrieking, but sit in silent, stunned rapture, while the strangers further away still whoop and wail.
He tastes her. He nibbles, chews, sucks, and each and every movement fuels her, sends yet another burst of electricity to make her leap and fizzle. He moves to her left breast, continuing to knead and tug on her right nipple, working his spit into it to keep it slick. Her back slides wetly over the seat, which feels soggy with sweat.
Uuuh! Oh! Ah! Ah! Uuuh! Sh...Sh...Sh...
Her grunts, her moans, the rhythm of her sounds and movements, are as though she is being fucked, as though he had transferred his cock from her mouth to her cunt.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me...
She cannot say it yet. One last stand, one last fight to hold him off from the bastion of her dignity, her modesty, her marriage. But if he makes to put it in her, if that cock begins to push its way past her cunt lips...Her cunt will pull it in, her hands will claw his buttocks and heave him in deep as her legs stretch wide for him and her pelvis hammers back on him...She can picture it now...
She cums again. The third time in a few minutes, and he hasn't touched her cunt yet. She is still shuddering against him when he snakes up to her ear, breathing hot and wet into her, letting her smell his oily musk again.
"I'm going to fuck you," he says. This is not a suggestion, but a statement of inevitability. She leans away and screws up her face and writhes. His fingers drag over her tits and he grinds his naked cock over her ruffled skirt. She feels its pressure on her pelvic bone.
"No, please!" she whimpers. "I'm married!"
She has to say it. Has to mean it...
"Bullshit!" he throws back at her. "I've made you sweat, made you moan, you're just about cumming from having your tits sucked..."