Make Her Ask: Taboo Erotica E-Book

Zoey Nova

• Herausgeber: Taboo Pulp Press
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Teaser:

Teaser:

"Of course, my darling Susie, my sweet Sue." And I embraced her, fondled her, kissed her pretties, made her better.
I led her to the sink, she leaned over and we mixed soothing soapy water into the bowl. From behind, I put my arms around her waist, reached my hands up and soaped and caressed her pain away. She felt my cock respond, and she gently pressed her bottom back against my stiffened prick, writhing and wriggling just a little, to enjoy and for me to enjoy the rhythmic contact. We did a fine dance there and she reached a soapy hand down between her thighs, felt for my cock as it dangled behind her between her slim thighs, pulled my big prick forward, then worked and squeezed it soapily between her thighs. She directed the stone-hard prick up, the tip touched her clitoris and felt it rise minutely but deliciously in response, her schoolgirl parts alive and welcoming this big new male intruder. I lunged forward and felt the tremor through her whole body as I gripped and held her hard against me for us to merge.

Leseprobe

Make Her Ask

Zoey Nova

Copyright © 2017

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

Don't get me wrong. My wife's a very sexy bird. She has that kind of Mona Lisa beauty, long dark hair and lovely skin. I still love her. And right through the extravagant sexual adventures that were to drag me bodily out of my rut, I stayed loving her. It is no reflection on her that I wanted a change. Except that wanted is a total understatement. It was absolute necessity that drove me, that day, out of my flat in search of something new.

My situation and the fantasies and desperate desires that grew from it--all this is conventional enough. Though, when you have read my story you may agree that the outcome and the strange accidents that occurred on the way were unique.

This is what happened; on the very day that I was prepared to go crazy with frustration, to go berserk in the street, to gobble up the nearest policewoman, to hijack a jet plane and rape the hostess, on that day' I met a girl, the girl. Without trying, without at first being aware of my existence, she aroused a desire in me which, combined with my tense frame of mind, created a raging lust which tolerated no hindrance. Nothing else mattered. My family disappeared, my work forgotten, the law extinguished. I would have gone to jail for life if necessary. With her consent, or by force or subterfuge if need be, she would be brought to a place and into a situation in which my every extreme of sexual desire could be fulfilled.

I have just said that it was on the very day I needed her most that Susie (you might as well know her name, it is possible you suspected it all along) "came into my life" as they say. Well that's not quite true. I had seen her before; I distinctly and definitely noticed her in the street. It was one of those passing affairs that happens perhaps a million times a day in any big city. You see her, she half-sees you, you think, Jesus! If only... But by the time the thought is formulated, you have passed, she has passed, time has passed, and that is the beginning and the end of the matter.

On this occasion, though, casual circumstance allowed a slightly closer and more prolonged acquaintance. I say casual but perhaps pedestrian would have been a subtler choice of adjective. We were standing at a bus stop. She in front, myself behind. It was a hot, humming day. Tensions of all kinds but especially sexual tension shimmered in the urban air. And--curse this for an anti-romantic thought--the first thing that struck me about the girl standing about two inches from me was her smell. But she was that kind of girl; smelling, yes literally smelling, of sex... though perhaps a stranger to it. You know the kind of girl, and you know the kind of smell; certainly not Desire or Love's Lagoon or any damned commercial thing. This is a stuff found not in a bottle but a body. It is a body scent that leads your senses to her sex, that calls you in, directs your nerves to her.

Her first quality, her primal spirit, was youth. Of course it was essentially a matter of relationship, her age related to mine. If I had been her age, her youth would not have occurred to me, I would have taken it for granted. But it was more than the obvious nostalgia for my own youth, more than a platitudinous regret at passing time; it had little to do with death-terror, or the bitter taste of mortality. The veneration I felt for her youth had to do with grace, innocence, curiosity.

I have often wondered at what age a beautiful girl becomes aware of her own body, the power of her sexual appeal. I don't mean the earliest Freudian stirrings, but the beginnings of the more sophisticated love-play around the age of eighteen or eighteen, when the fulfillment of her own desires becomes physically possible. With what anxiety and tremulous excitement she must examine her changing body, understanding that the way she looks, the way she moves, will determine the content of a hundred sexual adventures over the next years. While her elders talk amusedly of "puppy fat" and "gawkiness", she knows that the shape and size of her breasts, the length and slenderness of her legs will decide whether the erotic fantasies that have plagued or delighted her for years will remain in her imagination or will be acted out in reality. How keenly she must anticipate that reality!

The girl who figures in this account had the luck--for is it not sheer amazing luck?--to have, at the age of just eighteen, a perfection of face and body that quite simply astounded those who met her. She was growing used to the effect she made while merely walking down the street; men would stare at her as she walked by. Often they would stop as she came level, mumble something appreciative or insulting: "What are you doing tonight?"

"You're gorgeous, baby."

"Jesus! What tits!" With a quick hand out to touch or grab or pinch. Though a sweet and mild-mannered girl, she very quickly learned, through repeated experience, how to twist and dart away from the exploring hands. But their eyes she could not avoid. They devoured her. Those male eyes looked hard, sometimes brutally, sometimes with a searching softness she had learned to fear, straight at her eyes, then traveled quickly over her body, flicking with monotonous and somehow insulting regularity from her breasts to her legs; then, as she walked past and beyond them, the head turning and staring after her.

She was a naturally self-conscious girl, she blushed easily. Needless to say, this treatment did not decrease her sensitivity or self-awareness. As her breasts grew full and firm, she would on occasion carry a quite superfluous parcel in such a way as to try to hide her bouncing charms. And on walking away from an aggressively admiring glance, she would sometimes, slightly awkwardly, trail a hand-bag or even her bare hand behind her, in a pathetic attempt to mask the backs of her pretty thighs or the movements of her sexy little butt.

These observations were made by me on a scattering of occasions during the year before I found myself waiting with her on the pavement. Although l then knew neither her name nor her address, I had noticed her around frequently enough to conclude that she lived close by. During this year, her eighteenth, she generally wore a school uniform and my rare sights of the exceptionally pretty schoolgirl were enough to arouse my interest but not enough for me to give her more than a passing glance.

This day, however, was different. It may have been the heat; more likely it was some complex development in her psyche which made her "ready". There was about her an indefinable quality of ripeness, of expectancy, of do it now. Incidentals played their part. It happened to be summer holidays, which not only contributed to her evident sense of freedom, but also meant that she was not wearing the restrictive school uniform but her own choice of clothes. And her clothing was without doubt a crucial element in our meeting. That is not to say she was dressed to kill--far from it. What she wore was as free and easy as one could imagine, as casual and delightful as a young girl knows how to be. Minimal was perhaps the best word to describe her dress. It covered her decently, certainly it kept her with the law, but it did little more for her. The attraction lay in the girl herself not in her decoration. For she wore two tiny pieces of clothing only, perhaps a couple of ounces of cotton, two scraps of cloth and nothing more. A tiny pale-blue denim skirt and a thin white cotton blouse. And that was all.

It was a mini-skirt, of course, six or even eight inches above her pretty knees, shaped close to her bottom and revealing her long slender legs, naked from thigh to foot--for she did not wear shoes and her small elegant feet skipped apparently quite happily along in the dust and dirt of the town. The thin white blouse was quite tight around her breasts; one had the impression that it had fitted her quite nicely no more than a few months ago but at this crucial age her breasts had grown plump and full almost overnight. Her swiftly maturing curves had taken her so by surprise that dresses she had worn easily one month before were almost embarrassingly tight. Her breasts may have seemed much larger than they were because her body was generally slim, almost slight, with a tiny waist and long slender legs and arms. The reason I felt sure she was wearing no underwear was based more on conviction than reason. But there was a sense of nakedness about her, I had an instinctive knowledge of the shape and beauty of her young body. The delicious way her breasts bounced as she walked, the way each breast wobbled and bobbled rather than the whole bosom rising and falling as one, and the way her taut young nipples thrust through the thin cotton; all this showed to my practiced eye that the full soft shape was, as they say, "for real."

Seeing this attractive girl in her brief summer things made me smile a little. I had previously noticed her embarrassment, her shyness as she attempted to elude the attentions of passing men. Why did she not dress in some old coat and thus avoid their prying eyes completely? I imagined her arriving back in her own room. She stands before the mirror, she bends down and touches her toes, her feet, then draws her hands up her legs from trim ankle to calf to knee to thigh, enjoying the memory of male desperation a few minutes before. She twists in front of the mirror to view the tiny cotton skirt clinging to the curve of her buttocks, leaving her long legs naked, a permanent invitation which she enjoyed both giving and taking smartly away. She yawns and stretches, the movement of her arms forces her breasts against the thin, tight cotton blouse. She giggles to herself, remembering the effect this harmless gesture had on the boy sitting opposite her on the bus. She had seen his thoughts in his eyes. He had instinctively passed his tongue between his lips as his imagination had stripped the blouse from her and he fondled her naked breasts, licking and kissing them. How awkwardly he had shifted his legs as his cock grew stiff and forced against his pants, his hand going unthinking to rest between his legs, and it was her turn to look and blush as she imagined the big hot throbbing thing between her legs.

Thus my naive but busy thoughts as I stood close by her waiting for that bus. She really had grown into a sexy girl, and she knew it. I was only inches away, my hand strayed naturally forward and just brushed her skirt. I could have grabbed her, pinched the flesh of her bottom, forced my hand between her long legs, shoved those slim young thighs apart and poked my fingers in. First the tip of one finger would touch the damp patch on her panties (if she was wearing any panties), then press against the moist entrance, those curly blonde hairs, then deep in, hard in, I would force three fingers in, my whole hand up to the wrist, working my fingers deep inside her, feeling every deep inch into her. My other hand would grab those delicious breasts, digging the fingers into the soft flesh, biting the heavy lovely curves, drawing my teeth across her breasts, even to draw blood from the fair virgin's skin, giving her those heavy suction kisses, love bites that would make deep blue bruises on her lovely breasts. Then to slap and twist, slap them till they rocked with the shock and she screamed with pain, then pick her up by her breasts, dig my fingers in as if to lift them from her body. Then hold the globes in my hands and twist, forcing the young breast flesh round until the skin was torn and the breasts almost wrenched from her body...

Those familiar with the fantasy territory I was inhabiting will recognize the shock, the abrupt stunned sensation I had when reality incredibly intruded on my dreams.

"We're neighbors. Did you know that?"

The dream spoke! It was a pleasant, low voice. Quite calm. What was astonishing to me, in view of the violent rape I had just committed on her, was the sweet smile she gave me as she turned and put her question. It was my turn to blush, to stutter a meaningless, inadequate platitude as I collected my thoughts. "Hm? Really? Oh well... " these were the idiot words I blurted out. On second thought, while looking a little harder at her, I felt that her smile was not entirely sweet after all. It held a hint of malice, or at least a touch of irony at my expense. As if she divined my thoughts and was enjoying my shock at being brought down to earth.

The change in my awareness of her was extraordinary; before she had been a figure in the street and my eager eyes had focused on her body. Now she was close, conversational, and with a second shock I realized for the first time I was noticing her face! Of course it was a dream face; huge blue eyes, a deep-sea feeling about them combining innocence, danger and depth. Perfect heart-shaped face, pretty ears, long, long straight golden-blonde hair framing simply but charmingly her upturned, inquiring face. Delicious, full lips; I say full because they had that slight generosity of shape, that sweet, immature, girlish tendency to plumpness that was the secret of her body's charm, yet she combined with this quality of fullness a sensitivity; a firm, nervous line could have been drawn about her lips and limbs, a pure and subtle line. Renoir more than anyone who would have loved her, she was one of his girls. Only a modern slimness in her legs and waist distinguished her from his glowing beauties. Certainly this sweet heart-shaped face turning to mine had the intelligence and sensual appeal of a Renoir.

Naturally, apparently unthinking and seemingly unaware of the effect, she placed her hand on my arm as she chatted away, telling me her name and how it came that she had moved to the flat above mine. Yet her hand burned into my arm; it seared and shocked my nervous system. I was quite prepared to find a scar of burned tissue when I pulled back my sleeve, so hot did her innocent hand feel against my sleeve.

It appeared that she had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday, and her parents had allowed her to leave the family home and take a flat close by. She shared it with two other girls, a Chinese and a French girl. Each the child of wealthy parents, they had been able to afford a "dreamy" apartment with a bedroom for each, a beautiful modern kitchen and two reception rooms. Susie--she begged me to call her by her first name, her pet name--had begun the first course at art school, and was quite thrilled at the prospect of painting and drawing and exploring ideas and techniques. The sprinkling of double entendres that enlivened her conversation left me gasping slightly, but I managed to put a calm and reasonably collected face on it, make the required responses, and, above all, conceal my obsession. Or did I? On occasion our eyes would meet and linger for fractionally more time than was quite normal in polite society. We would exchange looks that lasted, I should think (I did not have my chronometer handy), about seven-tenths of a second. A moment, no more, but long enough for me to wonder, with crazily palpitating heart, whether it might not be possible that some kind of conspiracy, some suggestion of intimacy was maturing between the two of us. At any rate the essential first step was taken. I suggested oh so casually that she might like to drop in for a meal one evening; we were neighbors, after all. Though I dreaded the inevitable intensely jealous reaction of my wife to the prospect of a female between the age of six and sixty entering our home, yet I was determined to push the thing forward in some way. And this dull, bourgeois invitation to dinner was the best I could think of--indeed in my profound panic I instinctively resorted to the tried and steady remedies. Amazingly, she said, sure, she'd love to come. She added, though I could hardly believe this, that she had already met my wife, and they had got on fine. My first reaction to this was surprise that my wife had not mentioned her new acquaintance, but a moment's thought told me why. It was all too much in character for her to conceal the existence of this delectable child.

I knew that I would have to handle my wife in relation to this situation with the greatest possible care.

CHAPTER TWO

As a precaution against arousing my wife's jealousy, I told Susie that I had just remembered some business in town and could not therefore travel back to the flat with her. She, unaware of the situation between my wife and I and thinking she would be welcome, was all prepared to breeze in with me, sit down, and presumably become a Friend of the Family overnight. This indeed was my ultimate aim, but I intended to achieve it by more indirect means. I left it that Susie should certainly come round for a meal one evening soon, but she should fix it up with my wife.

On arriving home later than usual, I was a little surprised by the warmth of my welcome. My carefully prepared excuses for lateness were not required (and were therefore stored for future use). Celia had opened a decent bottle of wine for a change and fussed over me in a manner that roused my suspicions. I became completely mystified when she said brightly that "Such a nice girl from upstairs had dropped in earlier and she was coming that evening to dinner." She was sure we would get on.

The possible outline of a series of conspiracies went through my mind. All sorts of bluffs, counter-bluffs and triple bluffs occurred to me as conceivable explanations for this uncharacteristic behavior. And as I watched her minutely, I felt sure I could discern traces of momentary sly smiles cross my wife's face, as if she were enjoying some private joke at my expense.

Although every genital instinct prompted, urged me to embrace this marvelous opportunity of sharing an evening with this disturbingly sexy girl, a deeper instinct warned of danger. It was not merely that it was all too good to be true. It was a nagging suspicion that I was to be, in some manner unspecified, not the assailant in this particular sexual encounter, but the victim. I hesitated. I was on the verge of making some inept but unanswerable excuse for canceling the social evening when the doorbell--bang on time, as I afterward recounted--rang and rang with a peculiar, desperate insistence. (Though now I am quite prepared to accept that the weirdly piercing nature of the ring was a figment of my strained imagination, nevertheless, in retrospect I fear that shrill sound as a signal: a note of doom: the starting point of a network of plot and counterplot that was eventually to destroy me.

Meanwhile I shrugged off the ill omens and with a surge of nervous excitement went to answer the door. It was Susie. Those huge blue eyes again.

She was carrying a portfolio of drawings and had some difficulty handling them through the doorway. I bent to help her. I heard my wife approach, and thought, Trouble. She'll not like this. I've been caught in the act; actually standing close to an obviously attractive girl.

But I was astonished to notice that Celia, when she approached, did not react in her usual way. She exchanged a quick smile with Susie and glanced over her body, beautifully shown off in a simple low-cut gray wool dress, not with her normal spitting bitchiness, but almost with pleasure.

"Let's take a look at your work," Celia said in a friendly tone. Susie placed her heavy portfolio against the table, and took from under her arm a few quarto sheets on which she had made a series of quite respectable life drawings. I joined the two of them, studying the drawings which Susie laid in a neat pattern on the table. Encouraged by Celia's neutral altitude, I slipped my hand in a friendly way round Susie's waist, and we studied the drawings, saying polite things about them.

The first thing that struck me about them was not their technical competence but their subject. I was not surprised to find a modern art student showing off her skill at drawing nudes, but the fact that she herself was the subject of each of them certainly made an impression on me. The poses were unremarkable, the typical life-study style, reclining figure, standing full-front nude, and so on. But the sensitive firm line with which she outlined her own delightfully proportioned body made me whistle in appreciation--and also as a way of relieving my inner tension. My hand tightened fractionally around her pretty waist. I was particularly pleased that the high standard of her work would allow me to take an interest in her professionally, or at least give me a plausible excuse for doing so.

Celia returned to the kitchen to prepare our meal. Before she left the room I took care to disengage my hand from Susie's waist so that I could look my wife steadily in the eye and say, "Don't be long, darling. We're hungry." While Celia was puttering about in the kitchen, Susie appeared to have some trouble with the buckle of her portfolio. As she bent down and struggled with it, her low dress displayed her breasts for my benefit. The two delicious globes shook each time she tried to force the strap. I went to help her.

With one hand I easily straightened the buckled leather, the other I gently slid into her dress, watching her big blue eyes for a startled or outraged reaction. Instead she gave a slight, shy smile, to indicate complicity. I fondled the heavy curves of flesh and explored the deep valley between. I soon discovered that she had taken this evening's social engagement sufficiently seriously to invest in a bra for the occasion. But fortunately it was a very slight affair, only a light half-cup, shaped like two cupped hands, (lucky hands) holding the breasts up from below, and, indeed, offering them up to my searching fingers. I soon stopped the idiotic fiddling with the portfolio and with both hands pulled her left breast free. In the modest suburban surroundings of our lounge it was a shock to see the sphere of naked flesh, the perfect pale skin of the full curve rising to the rosy red, erect nipple.

By now she was half-kneeling on the carpet beside me, with her face close to my thighs. The hard outline of my roused penis was within an inch of her soft peachlike cheek. I looked down at her, withdrew a hand from her breast and caressed the length of her long blonde hair. I felt her lips first brush them for a split second push hard against my penis, her arms around my thighs. We heard Celia's quick, efficient high-heeled footsteps clicking on the parquet floor and the nervous clink of dishes. We disengaged in a flash. I looked at Susie gratefully and thought, How bloody marvelous; she is not only sexy but quick witted, too. And I reflected that in any event it was just as well to end it then. A minute longer and I would have had an orgasm in my pants. I wanted to save my spunk for better things than that.

Although the meal seemed normal enough, full of bright chatter and moderately clever repartee, with talk of Art and Life and God knows what, my mind was all the while leading a fantastic, a desperate double life. On one level we were passing the salt and yapping about art school, on the other I found that every object, each piece of cutlery and crockery, every morsel of food, was charged with erotic significance. As I carved the joint the bone-handled fork [...]