Fire
by Jolene Kendry
Copyright 2011 by Jolene Kendry
Smashwords Edition
My older sister daubed her finger in the bowl of doe blood and then painted a warm red stripe across my forehead, down my nose, across my cheeks. Her face was drawn, angry, but it was to mask her worry for me, I knew. She’d always called me the little mouse. The weak one. The frightened one who hid behind skirts when strangers were in the village. Brigid’s experience two years before had been unpleasant, although mother says it’s not always so. Mother’s experience with her Fire—which resulted in Brigid—was unpleasant as well. Perhaps it was a curse passed down thus, and so I had no need to fear, but Brigid had scolded me and called me a stupid goose when I suggested it to her the night before. Then she cried herself to sleep, quietly so as not to disturb me, but there was no sleep for me on the night before my Fire and I listened to her weeping long into the night.
I drew my deerskin robe closer to my body, as though it could protect me from the night and the traditions of my people. It was barely thick enough to protect me from the drafts which blew like a gale across the floor of our hut. Brigid had spent weeks staining the robe with a white paste and sewing on beads in patterns of the blessed, but I thought it all a waste of time. I’d snuck out to watch last year, and no one so much as glanced at the robes, which were in a pile on the ground before the sunlight had completely faded. The robes were for the sisters, and the mothers and the gods. No one at the Fire cared for robes, only for the bare flesh beneath them.
My heart hammered in my chest. It was my Fire this year, mine and three other girls from the village, and of course all the men who were of age. Their rite was different, secret, but once theirs was past they tended the Fire every year after that.
The daylight dimmed and my mouth went dry. The scent of wood smoke invaded the hut. Brigid froze, her eyes wide with panic. This was the time to set aside myself. It was possible I would have to set aside my mind later in the night as well so as not to linger in my ravaged body, but for now I merely had to set aside the little mouse inside my heart. I leaned forward to place a reassuring hand on Brigid’s leg, not because I felt calm and unafraid, but because my sister needed me to act calm and unafraid.
“Your Fire is over, sister,” I said. “They cannot hurt you further.”
She nodded, her eyes locked on mine. Her lips trembled as though she wished to speak but feared she would only weep if she opened her mouth.
“I’m not frightened,” I lied, and stood to go. Brigid clung to the hem of my white robe.
“I don’t want you to be hurt,” she said, and began to weep.
“No one will hurt me. The gods won’t allow it,” I said. She held onto the hem of my robe a moment longer, but then I pulled free and ducked outside quickly so she would not have more chances to object.
Outside the sunset dwindled to a rosy glow beyond the mountains. Inside our valley the darkness had invaded the village so the shadows blended together beyond the reach of torchlight and campfire. On the hills to the east the forest had turned into a dark smudge. My eyes avoided the hills to the north. I wasn’t ready to see the sacred place yet.
My mother and a group of women whose Fires had long since passed stood outside our hut to escort me to the northern hill. They wore robes dyed red and embroidered with black beads and feathers. One of them carried a knife which shone ominously in the last of the daylight, and another carried a wooden bowl. The rest bore torches. None of them looked me in the eye except my mother.
“You have always been my brave one,” she began. I held up a hand, shook my head. I couldn’t listen to her lie about my cowardice, or explain to me how awful the night was going to be, not after Brigid.
“Lead on,” I said simply, and after a confused moment she did so.
The smell of smoke in the air was intoxicating, but I kept my eyes on my feet as we walked in line through the village and up the trail which wound its way through the northern hills.
After I’d witnessed the beginning of the Fire last year, I’d begun to see the men in the village in a different light. Before that night I’d been as a child, trusting and unaware of anything deeper below the day to day life of our village. Since then every look was suspect, every light touch code for desire, and every male the object of fantasy. The bulges beneath their trousers were sources of constant inspection as I searched for any sign of the beasts I’d seen at the Fire. They’d been as animals crazed with sickness and power, thick monsters riding waves of instinct with no thought, no scrap of humanity left in their wide, red-veined eyes.
The drums began before our caravan of women had reached the halfway point. Deep and slow, the sound bounced off the hills, echoed, amplified until each beat seemed to enter me through the soles of my feet. It sang to my heart, urged it to beat in time. It robbed my limbs of their natural rhythm. My chest longed to leap, my shoulders to jerk in the dance of my ancestors, to initiate a congress through time, to reach back and drag their souls forward in order to fill me with their knowledge, their wisdom, their drive for survival.
Mud caked my feet. The rains had come the day before and turned the northern trail into a bog. With every step I was keenly aware of the tugging, the resistance, the way the wet mud embraced my bare feet and then refused to let go easily each time I tried to lift my leg. The suction clutched moistly at my toes. After a few yards I realized the sensation tugged in a higher place as well. Thoughts of Brigid tried to invade my mind but I pushed them away in favor of hope. I focused on the desire which flickered and licked at the edges of my body like a low flame.
The climb should’ve been exhausting, but the importance of the night made it somehow invigorating. I climbed the path to lose my childhood in the basest of rituals, but it felt as though I was embracing my future, taking charge of myself as a grown person so I may now shape my own life without the controlling hand of my mother and sister.
We paused at the lesser apex, and the women began to chant in time with the drums as they circled me. The one who carried the bowl stepped forward and silently urged me to drink. Murky white liquid filled the hand-smoothed wood. Their voices rose and fell in time with the drums, low and rhythmic, and pierced at intervals by a high ululating wail. The drums grew louder and more intense. She held the bowl to my lips and I sipped. It was bitter and strong and I tried to spit it out, but someone held my head from behind so she could pour the liquid down my throat. Some of it spilled as I coughed and sputtered. Hands took my arms and held me tightly. She tipped the bowl up and forced the last of the liquid into my mouth, and only then was I released.
I bent, coughing and angry as I tried to regain my breath. My lungs seemed ready to explode and it crossed my mind that this night would be my last, but finally my breathing eased and I stood, only to have my knees buckle beneath me. Many hands reached out and caught me before I could hit the ground, but I barely felt their support. Blood rushed to my head. My limbs felt as though they’d been disconnected painlessly from my body and sent to the corners of the sky to float among the stars. Serenity washed over my mind and I closed my eyes to savor the absence of worry, the absence of fear, a feeling of release which was more than pleasure, it was peace.
I loved the women who held me so I would not fall in the mud. I loved my people, and the men I climbed to meet. My love swelled to include the stars, the wailing woman whose high pitched song contrasted the low chants, the drums hidden in a valley behind the sacred hill, the young ones who’d been sent to gather wood for the Fire. I loved our creators and the tradition that brought me here this night to writhe at the feet of those who had come before.
The drums grounded me, but made me wish to leap in time so my feet could add to their rhythm. Somehow the women got me to my feet and we were able to press on. I could not still my legs, and released my love of the night in a whirling dance. Hands occasionally touched me here and there to guide me ever onward, but twice I was caught in a frenzy and had to spin and spin until I nearly fell down with dizziness before I could obey.
The top of the hill loomed brightly in the deepness of the night. The Fire had been built up until it was a column of light and heat that shot up as high as a tree planted in my grandmother’s youth. The power of it held me frozen at the edge of the circle of light. From the corner of my eye I saw the other girls who belonged to this Fire and this night. They each had a group of older women to support them. One of them had fallen to the ground and I wondered why someone didn’t pick her up. She seemed to be trying to dance without getting to her feet. Another girl danced with such grace I felt jealousy even through the thick fog of whatever had been in that bowl.
At some sign I didn’t see, the groups of women stopped singing and stepped back to stand in a ring around the fire just outside the circle of light. There was silence for a moment, and then one of their number began to sing an unfamiliar song in the ancient tongue. Her voice was rough, unpracticed, but it wavered up and down with the drums and I could not help but move. The other girls danced also, except for the girl on the ground, who simply sat staring into the flames.
My robe fell away at some point, or perhaps someone took it from me. My body leapt with the flames and the flickering shadows, warming in the night air, swirling as a dust mote swirls in the summer sun. My heart filled me with love and peace until there was no room left inside me for thought, only for emotion and movement. I danced. The others danced. The mud on my feet dried to a dark grey and I wished wordlessly to roll around in the mud until my naked flesh was covered head to toe.
A log broke in two in the depths of the Fire and the structure shifted so a jet of flame shot out of the Fire and reached for me. I threw my arms back to allow it to embrace me. The heat of the flames kissed my flesh. I broke out in a sweat. The flame retreated back inside the fire and a great bubble of laughter left my belly, rose up in my chest and escaped out my throat as a wild sound.
They took this as some kind of cue. Perhaps it was a sign from the gods, or perhaps it was simply time, but the men stepped forward and joined us in our dance.
They were naked as well, and were painted with symbols of the ancients in the white paste Brigid had used on my robe. Some of them were hard already, and their cocks jutted from their bodies like curious snakes tasting the air. They danced between us, beside us, and tried to touch us. A hand brushed my hip. Its heat surprised me. I bent and dropped my head to my knees, and just as quickly rose up again, teasing whoever had come so close with a glimpse of my sex. Then I ran ahead between other men, laughing.
My breasts bounced with each shuffle and leap, each spin, and my nipples had long since grown as hard as little acorns in the night air. I laughed deep in my throat and threw my head back, grabbed my nipples and pinched. A moan escaped me. The sight of so much desire mingled with the memory of the Fire I’d snuck out to witness, and suddenly I couldn’t remember if I was watching another girl’s Fire or dancing around the limits of my own.
Strong hands rubbed my buttocks, my thighs. A mouth pressed my breast until I moved my hand so it could get to my nipple. My sex moistened as the mouth found purchase and suckled. Still I moved, dancing away though now I wished to stay, to find one of the bodies flashing past and let it find its way inside me, fill me up as my heart was full of love and the night was full of stars.
I found myself on the ground, on hands and knees, fingers calloused by labor exploring my body. A cry of desire escaped from my throat and I tipped my head back so it might become a mighty roar that echoed up into the sky. Across the fire I heard the other girls echo my cries. Something hard and fleshy pressed against me as rough hands gripped my hips. At once a finger invaded my most secret of places and I cried out again, pressing back until the finger was replaced with a cock. It slid inside me, and there was a brief spike of pain, but then it began to move in and out and I lost what was left of myself to pleasure and instinct.
As a wild dog, the man behind me thrust into me, banging away until he suddenly grunted. I felt something warm and wet trickle down my thigh when he pulled away. His seed, I thought, and then there was no time left for thought. A second man pressed his hard cock inside me and I cried out again, this time like a great cat in heat who wishes to be fucked by the first strange male to show up be it uncle, cousin, or brother. I bucked against him, screaming deep in my throat, growling to urge him on, forcing him to thrust harder, grip me tighter, service me as a creature of the wild.
Hands gripped my dangling breasts and I nipped at their arms with my teeth. Another man replaced the second and he threw me down in the mud, rolled me over so my body was painted with it, and then threw himself on me. His teeth found my nipple and I slapped at him as he bit. My body burned. I used my teeth on his neck and felt the life blood pumping so close to the surface. He was my vulnerable servant even as his body pumped into me. If I chose I could end his life, spill his blood onto my breasts for the next man to lick away.
The power of the she-wolf flooded me. Suddenly heat began to build in my belly and I pressed my hips up off the ground with every thrust, yipping and screeching and roaring. It felt as though the fire had caught inside me and threatened to burn me from the inside out. Each thrust of his cock fanned the flames, until they rose impossibly high and at last I rose with them, and a shuddering explosion sent a shower of sparks up to meet the stars, and fell again to singe the world with my desire.
I’m told I fainted, then, but they didn’t stop of course. The fury was on them. As it was meant to be. Each one took his turn to ensure a child of the Fire would be born, and that no man could claim the child as his own, but that the child would be of the spirit of our people and belong to no one.
Three of us at the fire that night, and two of us transcended ourselves and became wild things, and were given the gift of a child. One of us went mad for a time. The next morning her hair had gone white as well as her eyes, and something inside her took away her sight as a punishment for her failure. In time she spoke again, of visions of the other world, and she grew to become a great seer and counseled the leader of our people until she was very old.
My own daughter goes to the Fire on this night. I’ve kept her from her aunt, who still weeps and moans over the maids every year, and who I spit upon in disgust. She isn’t even as useful as the Mad One for she doesn’t have the courage to live her destiny, only to whine of the pain of her past. She is weak.
But my daughter will be strong.
Now a free story from
Sizzle
Steamy Erotic Stories
by Jolene Kendry
Sophie Peeks
She kept her eyes closed when Christopher came to bed and was careful to keep her breath slow and even. Her ears picked up the soft noise of his shirt falling to the floor, and then the jingle of his belt buckle as his pants followed. Her husband sat heavily on the edge of the bed to take off his socks and add them to the pile before rolling into bed with a sigh. She’d find the clothes there in the morning after he’d left for work, just as she did every morning. Sophie would dig through the pockets to throw away the used tissues and candy wrappers he inevitably left, and to put the loose change in the jar they kept on a shelf before tossing the laundry into the hamper. She’d put the hamper on his side of the bed so he could shuck his clothes and toss them in without having to take even one step, but he’d only used it for the first couple of days and then abandoned it despite her pointed requests. It was just easier to let her do it.
It was easier to let her do a lot of things around the house. Cook every meal. Clean every surface. Wash every dish. Raise the children. Sometimes she felt more like hired help than a wife.
Christopher didn’t reach over and touch her hand as he used to. He didn’t kiss her cheek goodnight. He hadn’t given her a hug in days. The only time he touched her at all were the nights he wanted sex, and then it was only enough snuggling to get her to take her panties off. Once the sex was finished he would thank her, roll over so his back faced her, and then drop off to sleep. Most nights after they had sex, Sophie wept silently, alone on her side of the mattress, and wondered how she’d lost his affection, his desire. When they’d first been married they’d had sex nearly every night, more dutiful than she thought it was supposed to be, but at least it happened often. But slowly over time, something had changed. Become even more mellow until it was more like mutual masturbation than intercourse, and then eventually it had soured until it was simply her duty, his itch to scratch, a habit they hadn’t gotten around to breaking yet.
She didn’t feel like indulging in their habit tonight. She’d had a long day trapped inside with toddlers, after a week of the same, and the resentment building in her was too much to move aside in order to allow any passion into her heart.
Once Christopher’s breath grew even and he began to snore, Sophie eased the blankets back and slipped out of bed. She stood there for a moment to see if the movement of the bed had woken him, but his breathing didn’t change, and after she was sure he wouldn’t wake, she turned and tiptoed quietly from their bedroom.
The moment she was in the hall she felt a tingle of anticipation, like a feather tickling her lower belly. As she passed the open door to the room where her children slept she peeked in to make sure their eyes were closed and their breathing even, and then closed their door.
Sophie moved noiselessly down the hall until she came to the den. The floor plan of their home had included a bonus room on every floor, a three-sided nook with a window and built-in shelving. Downstairs the bonus room was Christopher’s office, they’d brought in a contractor and added a fourth wall and a door, and the assessor had come out and everything, because Christopher insisted he needed quiet in his office when he had to bring work home to do over the weekend, which he’d done exactly once in the six years he’d been working at his firm, and he’d been so insane over the deadline he’d gotten a hotel room downtown so he could work with zero distractions.
Upstairs, the bonus room had begun as a playroom for the kids, but their toys had simply strewn down the hall until they took over the entire second floor, so toys had been removed to their room and Sophie had been allowed to use the bonus room as a project room of her own. She didn’t have a proper wall and a door installed—by that time Christopher had begun insisting he didn’t like how small his home office was because of his wall and door, and had said she wouldn’t like it so much and so often she’d just given up asking—but she’d found a lovely vintage dressing screen with silk panels and a cherry wood finish, and it divided the space from the hall nicely.
Now Sophie slipped behind the screen and moved through her project room. It was the only room in the house where no one else ever invaded, the only place exclusively hers, and so it was the only room in the house devoid of brightly-colored toys, dirty socks, graham cracker crumbs, mugs with shriveled tea bags pasted inside, or faint coffee rings on the table tops. She paused a moment to stop and simply enjoy the space, something she only did here. An old door had been painted and set flat on legs for a table against one wall. The built-in shelving held bits of fabric and jars of buttons, thread, lace, gesso and paints, canvas and a few high-quality brushes behind stout doors. Shelves held a few glass figures, a small fountain, tons of flameless candles and many ivy plants which grew draping over the edge of the shelves. A deep orange chair sat in front of her work table, and a shaggy sheepskin rug lay on the floor below so she could dig her bare toes into the plush fur while she painted or hammered or sculpted or sewed. Beside the window sat an overstuffed arm chair with a Japanese lantern hanging from the ceiling above, and a small table meant to hold her tea while she cuddled into the chair and read a book on whatever new craft she’d decided to explore. Sophie inhaled deeply. The lavender oil in an oil burner on her work table gave off a faintly floral scent even when the candle was out.
As always she wished she could spend more time in here, but always there was something else to do, some other chore that needed immediate attention. For months when Christopher came home from work she’d planned to come up here after dinner while he watched the kids, but he was always tired, so she felt like she couldn’t ask him to help just so she could spend time away from her family. Sophie pretended not to see the thick layer of dust coating everything and went to the chair which had been in her space for three years and which she’d yet to actually sit in to read. The last time she’d been in it, apart from her late-night sneaking, had been to hang the lantern above it.
Now she knelt in the chair, her legs curled beneath her, and widened the bent blind in the middle of the window so she could see through it, hope fluttering about in her stomach strong enough to make her jumpy and nervous.
There. The light was on in the upstairs window next door, the lace curtains providing no protection from prying eyes, which in this case belonged to Sophie.
The Giacopellis had moved in two months before. Valentina Giacopelli was a slender, dark-haired woman with wide, exotic eyes, and full lips that had never seen the tip of a lipstick yet were always a deep natural mauve. Her hips and thighs were curvaceous and thick, but her waist was small and her breasts full, so the effect was of an old-world sexiness. She spoke with an accent so deeply Italian it was difficult to understand although her English vocabulary was as wide and varied as Sophie’s own. Add in her love for clinging fabrics and elegant-yet-outrageous accents, and the woman’s body practically spelled sex. She exuded it like a smell. Once, the month before, Sophie had tried wearing a red silk scarf around her neck exactly as she’d seen Valentina wear, and Christopher had nearly split his sides laughing when he came home from work. On Valentina it was sexy, on Sophie it looked as though she were about to herd cattle.
Arturo Giacopelli was tall and black-haired with flawless olive skin and long, lean muscles, but the thing Sophie had noticed first, the thing she liked best about him were his hands. He had enormous, strong hands with thick fingers that looked as though they could crush a windpipe as easily as a bit of tissue, but which moved with delicacy, like he was feeding baby birds. Sophie had seen his hands the day they moved in, when he shook with Christopher, and her mind immediately showed her a picture of what those hands would look like on her bare breasts. It had taken her breath away, and she’d been forced to pretend a dizzy spell so she could retreat inside. The Giacopellis were too stunning for her to feel comfortable with their eyes on any part of her. Their grace and loveliness set them apart from her and Christopher, set them above. In the following weeks Sophie had avoided them as much as possible. When Valentina waved from her kitchen window or the mailbox, Sophie waved back, and found any excuse she could to be in another part of the house or yard. She knew this probably confused the friendly couple, but she couldn’t stand them to inspect her too closely and find her flawed.
Now the couple stood together in the center of their bedroom. Valentina wore a peach silk nightgown edged in black lace, Arturo a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. They stood pressed together, the arms of each wrapped around the waist of the other, their bodies trading heat. Arturo’s hand moved slowly but restlessly, the strong fingers caressing the small of Valentina’s back. The gesture was small but so intimate Sophie felt the intruder more acutely than she had in the last few nights. It spoke of desire and affection that she could only imagine. A pang of loss squeezed her heart for a few moments. She would never feel what Valentina felt right that moment. She would never be loved like that, not unless she left Christopher and became a completely different person, and those were two things she was unprepared to do. A longing swelled inside her, to be loved and desired for who she was, so much that her lover couldn’t help but touch as much of her as possible even in moments of stillness.
The couple in the house next door began to sway, and Sophie imagined some romantic classical music filled their room. Her gaze went from his face to hers, the incredible love and passion which welled behind their eyes and tightened the corners of their mouths making the warm spot in Sophie’s belly heat and spread.
Arturo dipped his head and kissed Valentina, lightly at first, and then more deeply. The couple ceased one kind of dance and began another. They moved farther into the room so that Sophie only had a partial view, first Arturo’s back with Valentina’s roving hands caressing his shoulders, trailing down his spine, gripping and squeezing his buttocks, and then a show of muscle as Valentina tugged his t-shirt up over his head.
Sophie had leaned over and her nose was actually pressed against the blinds when she finally realized that someone was in the room with her, quietly watching. She jerked away from the window, face already burning, and her mouth opened to lie even before she could take in the amusement on Christopher’s face.
“I thought I saw, uh, someone,” she said stupidly. Then she went on quickly so he didn’t have time to ask questions. “You scared me, Chris! Didn’t your parents teach you not to sneak up on people like that? Well it’s late I’m going to bed. Don’t forget tomorrow is trash day, maybe I’d better go downstairs and take it out myself since it’s so late. Do you want a snack while I’m down there? I could bring you a piece of pie or a ham sandwich.” Sophie’s face burned brighter. A ham sandwich? Was she out of her mind? She tried to push past her husband—still babbling nonsensically—but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to stand in front of him.
“Ok, please stop,” he said, and gently touched her lips with his fingers. Sophie stopped. Shame and embarrassment made her legs want to buckle, but it grew ten times worse when Christopher went to the window and peeked through the bent blind. He nodded as though to confirm his suspicions, and then Sophie didn’t see anything else for a few moments because her eyes filled with tears of shame.
“Sophie.” His voice was soft. “Why are you crying?”
She covered her face with her hands, unable to speak. It was bad enough he didn’t want her like Arturo wanted Valentina, and that she had to face that fact every time she glimpsed the neighbors, or whenever her husband came to bed without bothering to kiss her cheek, or whenever he came home in the evenings and failed to hug her or even to touch her hand. Now she had to be humiliated as well? It wasn’t her fault he’d driven her to this behavior, this immoral spying on the neighbors.
“Please sweetheart, stop. Don’t cry.” Christopher pulled her to his chest, the first time he’d done that in at least a year, and rubbed her shoulders. Shame gave way to anger and fear, anger that she was in the position of the wrong one, and fear that he’d realized she was unhappy about something and now they’d have to have a fight about it, and then there would be consequences. Sophie was unhappy but she still held a spark of hope somewhere inside her, and she feared the consequences of this fight might be the end of something that had become her whole life.
Her family.
Christopher sat in her reading chair and pulled her into his lap. They sat that way for a long time while Sophie’s tears eased, and then dried on her cheeks. He left her there for a moment to get a damp towel so she could wash her face, and then he lifted her so she was again sitting on his lap. At this angle they could both see through the bent blind.
She expected him to begin asking questions, but he didn’t. A part of her was relieved, but another part was disappointed. They needed to talk, badly, or things were just going to get worse. Sophie didn’t know if she could open up to him like she used to without something to make her do so, and the part of her which wasn’t ashamed of spying on the Giacopellis, the part that would harden and survive if her marriage ended, wanted him to make her do so right then.
That’s when she realized Christopher was staring through the blinds, and that his breath had begun to speed up. His hands moved slowly from where they had wrapped around her waist, down to her hip, brushed against the curve of her ass. Beneath her he’d grown hard.
Sophie was unsure what to do. She wanted to talk with her husband, but it had been so long since he’d been this tender, and the warm place in her belly had returned.
“It’s so hot that you come in here to watch them,” her husband whispered. Sophie’s face burned again, but this time a hint of pride mixed with her embarrassment. No one had ever called something she did hot before. Then his hands did what she wanted most. They moved over her waist, the small of her back, and gently trailed along the length of her spine. Sophie gasped. It felt as wonderful as she’d imagined. She wanted to cuddle deeper into his lap so he could continue the motions, but the warmth in her belly became more demanding, so instead she shifted so she straddled him with her back pressed against his chest. When she settled down onto his lap the bulge in his pajama bottoms pressed against her panties at precisely the right spot, between her pussy and her clitoris. They gasped together.
Christopher began to grind slowly against her. Sophie, feeling oddly frightened but somehow exhilarated, lifted and pressed into him, in time with the rocking of his hips. It felt amazing. His cock was hard even through the layers of fabric and rubbed the length of her sex so that all of her was stimulated, all of her engaged. He reached over and pulled the cord on the blinds so they could both see the house next door, but if the Giacopellis looked out their window, now they could see Sophie and Christopher as well, although they would have some warning because in order to see them the neighbors would have to turn off their bedroom light.
It was as though she’d married a stranger, and only now her real husband had shown up to surprise her. They’d always been so careful, so respectful of one another. So vanilla. Sophie had spent her married life on her back, and Christopher had spent it pumping passionlessly above her. Now he grabbed her hair in one hand and her left breast with the other. He tugged on her hair just hard enough to let her know he held on, and he fondled her breast as they moved. Together they stared at the couple next door.
Valentina had moved so now she was the one they caught a glimpse of at the edge of the window. Her gorgeous brown body was still encased in the sheer nightgown, but her panties were gone and the edge of the gown was pushed up around her waist. Arturo’s arms were just visible as they held her aloft while he thrust into her. Her supple ass rippled each time his cock slammed into her. Sophie found herself moving to their rhythm, Christopher speeding up below her to match her timing, and suddenly dry-humping wasn’t enough.
Sophie’s hand reached down between her legs and found the fly of his pajamas. Her eyes still on the neighbors, she undid the single button and released his cock from the cloth. Then she pulled the crotch of her white panties to one side—they were soaked with her juices—and lowered herself onto him. Christopher cried out softly beneath her. His moans gave her a feeling of power she’d never felt before, and she slowed her hips to an agonizingly slow pace, teasing him.
His fingers found her nipple and pinched it. A new burst of moisture lubricated his cock and so she sped up, jerking her hips as she jerked each moan from his throat, in love with her new sense of control. She could make him come, or she could climb off him now and leave him begging. Or she could draw it out, make him wait, make him plead with her to end it for him.
Sophie sped up as the heat built in her pussy. He released her hair and gripped both of her tits now, squeezed them while she bounced on his cock. Sweat trickled down between her breasts. In the window Arturo moved forward until both of them were front and center, his bare ass pumping into his wife, her open mouth obviously issuing moans Sophie couldn’t hear, but the sight of it unlocked something inside of her. She opened her own mouth and let go, released the sounds she’d always repressed, sounds which had lain inside her waiting for this day, this moment. At first she merely grunted and gasped, and then Christopher moaned his approval behind her so she gave a soft moan. It made her pussy burn brighter, so she moaned again, louder, and then again.
Soon Sophie was crying out with each thrust of her husband’s cock. Her eyes locked on her neighbors as they fucked upright in their bedroom, she sped up as her own heat increased, and then she felt it. The high she’d never felt before, the peak. Her pussy clenched around Christopher’s cock and her legs clenched down on him so he couldn’t move, couldn’t interrupt the explosion of sensation which rolled over her. Sophie ground down on him and shuddered, her torso falling forward as the orgasm left her as weak as a kitten.
“Oh my God,” Christopher whispered beneath her. “Oh my God.” He jerked inside her once and she felt him come inside her. Once it was over for him as well she lay back against his chest, his cock still inside her. She could feel his heartbeat inside her pussy. It made her desire flare up again almost immediately, but she figured he might need a rest.
His arms wrapped around her and gave her the sort of hug she wished he would give her every day, when he left in the morning and again when he came home at night. The sort of hug that felt like love rather than obligation, the sort of hug that made her feel sexy and wanted. Sophie placed her hand on his forearm and turned her head so he could hear her quiet words, but not so far she couldn’t still watch the Giacopellis fuck in their bedroom window.
“So, we need to talk about some things,” she said. Christopher’s arms tightened around her.
“Yes, I agree,” he said. “I think I owe you an apology, Soph. I think I owe you a lot of apologies.”
She rubbed his arm soothingly.
“I owe you more than a few myself,” she said.
“I can take tomorrow off,” he offered, and she smiled. “We can take a drive to the mountains, to that spot by the river you like so much.” It surprised her that he remembered. “The kids can stay with my sister, it’ll be just the two of us.”
“I’d like that.”
“Me too.” He paused. “Wow, they really go, don’t they?”
“Yeah, they’re fuck machines.” The unfamiliar word felt strange in her mouth, but good, it felt raw and passionate. “Fuck,” she said, tasting the word, feeling the way it came out with force and emotion. “Fuck me,” she said to her husband. “Fuck me again.”
Which he was more than happy to do.
Look for more from Sizzle: Steamy Erotic Stories by Jolene Kendry, now available on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com and Smashwords!
Jolene Kendry is an erotica author and full time beach bum. She spends her days on the sandy shores of the world’s best beaches, and her nights writing down her daydreams and fantasies. She eats too many crab cakes, spends too much time in the sun, and owns more bikinis than t-shirts.