Author: Elizabeth Heath
Category: Other
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/elizabeth-heath/page,9,550163-quickie_collection_of_hottest_explicit_taboo.html
'What choice does she have Eric? I gave her a little something to relax her, she can piss and moan all she want's, but she's our toy tonight..........'
Finally the girl on the bed shakes her head and finds her voice. Unintelligible through the gag, eyes streaming with tears of frustration, and perhaps a little fear. What was her friend doing to her?
Slowly pulling the gag from her small mouth,
Lacey gives Carrie a long slow kiss, slowly licking each of her lips. 'Don't worry sweetie, the gag is just for fun, no one can hear us out here. We have the place all to ourselves, Eric and I need a diversion, and you're it!' Carrie looks worried as Lacey replaces the gag.
Lacey slowly removed the bra covering her small firm breasts, 'still ok Eric?'
Not saying anything other than 'god......' Eric reaches over and gently caresses the breasts he had fantasized about for over a year since seeing her last. Finally gaining courage, he pulls her to her feet and slips his hands to Lacey' s firm muscular ass and licks his way down her neck, pausing at each nipple, holding her in a standing position as he feels her legs quiver slightly. Sliding her thong to the floor and pushing her back onto the bed, he slowly licks his way up her left thigh, eventually reaching her smoothly shaved cunt. Gently licking up and down, like an ice cream, occasionally flicking his tongue between her large cunt lips into her now sopping wet pussy. First licking up repeatedly, then down. Slowly pressing his third finger deep into her pussy earns him his first gasp of pleasure from the now entranced Lacey. 'oh... fuck that feels good.'
Knowing her particular interests, Eric gently licks down her wet cunt, kissing the flesh between her pussy and asshole for a moment, before rimming, then firmly pressing his tongue into her now pulsating asshole.
'GOD, you know what I like Eric. Fuck, fuck!' she shouts, pressing his head firmly against her lower body and pivoting around so that she is now standing in front of Eric, pushing him to the ground.
'oh no you don't Lace...' he says while shifting his weight, and standing. Reaching around and grabbing her by the ass, he gently lifts her as he lies back on the bed, pressing his head against Carries right leg.
Taking her cue, Lacy crawls forward, pressing her sweet wet pussy into his face, grinding down the way she knows he loves.
Nearing climax, Eric flips her over, licking first her left breast, then her right, enjoying the firm yet supple handfuls on display.
Pushing him back, Lacey stands and pulls up the now angry dark haired beauty, holding her firmly in front of her, pressing her small breasts to either side of the shorter girls raven head.
Seeing the opportunity, Eric reaches out toying with Carrie's two firm breasts. While not large, they look huge on her small frame.
'No, stop,' is all that comes from her little mouth, 'no, please no'.
Seeing that her objection is only halfhearted, Eric continues exploring her breasts, first with each hand, then his mouth, all the while encouraged by Lacey. Firm, yet supple. Oh, the perfection of youth!
Reaching down, slipping off her black thong reveals a second, perfectly shaved playground. Pressing a finger against her protruding lips unleashes a torrent of muffled demands that he stop. The little body thrashes around some, but less than you would expect thanks to the drugs coursing through her system. Only her mind is clear, and her mouth...
'God damn it, let me go, FUCK, stop, I'll fucking kill you! Please leave me alone!' she begs as Eric continues massaging her cunt lips, and slips a finger into her warm pussy.
'Please get your finger out of my pussy, stop it! I don't want to fuck tonight, stop, STOP! Ohhhhh, Lacey why are you doing this to me? Why?'
Seeing a benefit to doing as she says, Eric removes the offending digit, but presses it briefly against Carrie's little asshole, eliciting a new round of fury.
After enjoying himself in her ass for a few minutes, he withdraws his offending finger and slowly walks backward, now able to lean against the wall, pulling Carrie and Lacy forward, supporting their weight against his chest and now engorged penis.
Without saying anything, Eric stands, spreads the unhappy girls' legs and slowly works his erect member into her tight cunt.
'no.... don't fuck my pussy, no...........' but it's too late.
'Pussy?' Eric asks? 'Feels like a tight little cunt to me, 'is it a cunt baby? Is it?'
'oh... owe! That hurts, my puss... cunt. I can't take it! 'Indeed her love channel was tight, and not as deep as the length of the intruding member. Pressing deeply and firmly against her depths, Eric grins in satisfaction as she comes over and over again, seemingly against her will.
'Well sweetie, maybe this will be better?' he whispers as he slips his now well lubricated cock out of her gaping pussy and presses it against her tiny ass hole.
Finally finding the strength to move her body in spite of the drugs, Carrie twists slightly, tries to close her legs and screams a long series of 'no's' as he presses himself deep into her anal passage.
Slowly at first, then gaining speed, young Carrie nearly gags as he degrades her young asshole. Gently sobbing at first, she finally breaks down into deep sobs, her entire body wracked by emotion.
'Noooooooooooooooo....' She cries. 'Please stop, Please, PLEASE! Oh.....ohhhhhhhhhhhhh,' she cries over and over again as Eric takes her anal virginity.
After pounding in and out of her now gaping ass and seeing that the young girl is completely spent, Eric turns his gaze on Lacy, her eyes glazed, her smile clearly inviting... Together they lay Carrie on the bed, Lacy slowly feeling each of her breasts, and running her hand between her legs.
'She's still wet Eric..........'
'Are you?' he asks in reply as he turn her around, forcing her to lay half on the bed, half off, her ass raised just at the level of his cock.
First fucking her pussy, then her ass he enjoys every sensation her tight holes can provide.
'oh, god,' she whispers. 'Always so good. Oh.... Come on, ohhh...'
'Lacy, you little fucking whore, god I love fucking you,' he exclaims while pressing deep into her now gaping ass. 'I'm about to cum honey....'
They cum together with Lacy furiously masturbating as Eric pumps his load into her ass.
Minutes later, as Eric dresses, Lacy steps up, gives him a big kiss. 'I know we can't do this often Eric, but I love it when you are in town........ You fuck me better than anyone. Please come back soon.'
Looking over at Carries tear stained face; they see her slowly mouthing 'Thank you' over and over again.........
Driving down the hill in his rented car, Eric is glad business brings him to Victoria every few months. Lacey is always waiting; it's amazing what she will cook up for a couple of hundred dollars!
The End.
Camouflage
"Move closer to it. You'll be surprised what you can see."
Cath glanced at the man who had moved up beside her in front of the art photo. She gave a little shiver from just the quick glance. He exuded self-assurance and power—and a slight sense of evil, sensuality, and cruelty. She was accustomed to predatory men and knew how to handle them. But he didn't seem predatory exactly—more so confident in himself that women came to him. Although Cath had no idea why that would be. He wasn't a handsome man. His face was craggy and his demeanor almost gaunt. But there was something in the eyes. Their eyes had met for the briefest second, but she had sucked in air from that fleeting connection. And although, when considered separately, each feature she caught in the brief glance was imperfect and even thuggish, they seemed to work together in an effect that took her breath away.
She instinctively turned full face forward, looking at the framed art photo on the stark-white gallery wall again, determined not to focus closer on it if only because the man had invited her to do so.
Where was Grant? She looked away from both the photograph and the man, back into the interior of the gallery, down a long row of photographs similar to this one. Grant was chatting up the gallery owner, turned away from Cath, so
that she couldn't catch his eye with a begging expression of needing to be rescued. He was taking business cards out of his wallet and cajoling the gallery owner to take them. The woman seemed no less susceptible to Grant's charms than any other woman, and she was holding her palm out to accept the cards.
Cath could see that there was no rescue to be had from that quarter for another minute or two even as it seemed that Grant and the gallery owner were parting; Turning from the gallery owner, Grant had spied a patron who looked vulnerably bored with art work the man's wife was gushing over with another patron. His back still to her, Grant was circling this man for the kill.
But why did she need to be rescued? The tone of the voice of the man standing close to her—a deep baritone—wasn't threatening or even challenging. And this was an art opening. There was no reason why the patrons who had come wouldn't be chatting with each other freely.
"I'm afraid of what I may see," she said. "I can get the hint of it. But the colors and patterns are so interesting. I think I prefer to see it in the abstract."
"Too shy to fully appreciate it then, I think—or perhaps a bit prudish?" the man responded. "What do you make of the title?"
Cath bristled at the mention of "prudish." She'd heard this taunt recently from Grant as well, and perhaps she was a bit slow in picking up the freewheeling lifestyle of New York, but that didn't mean she was prudish—necessarily. "The title? I hadn't noticed that they had titles."
"Yes, of course they do. This one is called 'Rachel Afterward #3.' Perhaps if we were to find numbers one and two, we would see yet another dimension in the art. But, then, if you are reticent even to explore the added dimensions right before us within this self-same work . . ."
"I enjoy it just in the dimension I can see from here. I work with colors and patterns, and I could easily design the furnishings of a room to play off these colors and patterns. The artist has a good eye for those elements."
"Ah, an interior designer then, are you?"
"Yes."
"And you've come to buy something to use as a foundation for an interior you're designing? Perhaps we can stroll down the line and just discuss the merits of these photographs in the dimension of color and patterns—although I do believe you are missing the most interesting aspects of them."
"I've just come along with my date, Grant Treadwell," Cath quickly said. "We were going to dinner and he suggested we stop in here—I think because we are early for our reservations and the restaurant is nearby. He's more interested in the art patrons than the art, I think. And he's coming just now. So, thanks for the offer, but . . ."
Cath hoped she wasn't sounding too breathy. The man hadn't actually touched her, but she felt the goose bumps rise on her bare arms as if he had. But now that she thought about it, she sensed that there had been a hand lightly touching the bare skin of the small of her back. She immediately regretted having picked the cocktail dress with the plunging back on it.
"Ah, I see that you've met . . . but where is he? Have I scared him off?" Grant had reached her side, appearing at last with the glass of white wine he had left her side several moments before to fetch. Cath had known he would be a while in reappearing, though. Grant was a stockbroker. He didn't attend these openings for the sake of the art; he attended for the sake of the wealthy art collectors—or, more precisely, their bored husbands, who had been dragged from behind the protecting series of reception desks in their high-rise office buildings. Grant found it easier to run them to ground in venues such as this than in their bastions they called offices.
"Who? Oh, him," Cath responded. A glance to her right told her that—surprisingly with a slight twinge of disappointment, she realized—the man she'd been listening to had evaporated. For the briefest moment she shivered again with the fleeting thought that he had been some sort of phantom; that he hadn't existed at all. And perhaps more from the realization that he had given up so quickly.
"No, he was just a man who wanted to talk about the art work," she said.
"Oh, he wasn't just a man. Tried to sell one of these to you, did he? He's the photo artist, you know. Or perhaps you didn't. These are his art works. That was Hunter Winslow. Quite the recluse. I'm surprised that he came to the opening, even if it is his. He must have given you some interesting insights into this art. They all seem to be variations on the same theme. Rather intriguing, though. And very sensual."
"He tried to discuss them with me, yes," Cath admitted. "But I was afraid he was just trying to pick me up."
"You should be used to that," Grant said with a laugh. "I know I tried to pick you up for ages before you'd give me a look and a roll. Not that the effort wasn't worth it, of course."
Cath couldn't help but frown slightly. Grant had been much like a possessive puppy dog ever since they'd first had sex—he'd almost done a victory dance around the sofa they'd done it on, and she had felt at the time that he had been itching to text someone about what he'd finally managed. She assumed he'd done so as soon as he'd left her apartment. She indeed had made him work for it, even though his athletic, yet boyish blond good looks undoubtedly usually got him what he wanted without much of a struggle. Even now Cath could see the slitted eyes of the gallery owner following Grant around the room.
But he wasn't as reserved as Cath was comfortable with—another difference, she knew, between New Yorkers and the men she had known in Maryland. She didn't sleep around all that much. When she'd come up to New York, she'd been told that she had to be prepared to move into a hedonist world, but she'd just laughed and said that Annapolis hadn't been any tamer—it just wasn't as open about it. As the daughter of the governor's chief of staff, she'd been pursued closely by a succession of beautiful, young, full-of-themselves Naval Academy midshipmen, and she'd let more than one of them inside her guard—but only if she could vet them as being very discrete. Grant was just as beautiful as any of those young men, but perhaps not as discrete as she might like.
"Maybe we should get dinner over as quickly as possible," Grant was saying. "These photos have made me horny and I'm anxious to get on with the evening."
Horny? Cath thought. Is that it? Is that what I've been afraid of in moving in any closer to these photographs? She turned her eyes to the one the artist had said was titled "Rachel Afterward #3" and looked more intently at it. It was a purposeful maneuver. She didn't want Grant to think she was panting for what he planned after dinner quite so much as he was, although she had been panting for it most of the day. Grant was a good lover. She hadn't achieved an orgasm with a man that easily and intensely before she met Grant, and he routinely could give her two. He spent time with the sex; not like the puppydog midshipmen who came as quickly as possible and just as quickly evaporated over the academy walls to avoid a curfew detention. He paid her a lot of quite effective attention in the foreplay, not stopping until she had been satisfied—and then he had the staying power and depth to satisfy them both in the penetration.
Intellectually, she had already become a bit bored with Grant. Physically, though, she was still able to pant for him. Not husband material certainly. But a perfectly tension-relieving satisfactory stud.
From where she stood, the photo art was arresting. She hadn't lied that the colors and patterns—a swirl of blues and purples and reds—would be great to use as a pallet to furnish a penthouse apartment or mountain vacation home. But now that the somewhat threatening atmosphere that the stranger had exuded—the artist, Hunter Winslow, she now knew—and wanting to cool Grant's heels a bit, Cath did what she was reluctant to do before. She moved in closer to the photograph. It was large and had been printed to canvas. She had seen a hint of its camouflaged secret already, but as she moved in closer, she saw that it wasn't just an abstract pattern of swirling colors. It was a human figure—a woman. Nude. She was reclining on her back on a chaise lounge, and the riot of colorful swirls danced over her body. What was intriguing, though, was that the flow of the patterns wasn't interrupted by the margins of her body, but continued on
over the chaise and the surrounding floor, so that the body was almost fully camouflaged. And you only could discern that it was a human figure—and a nude—by coming in closer and making your eyes focus on the edges where the body ended and the surrounding furnishings began.
As she stared at the photo art, Cath began to feel tingly and breathy—and she had the urge to touch herself intimately. The title. The title must have something to do with how the artwork made her feel.
She no longer saw the work as appropriate for a living room. It would need to be in a bedroom or a dressing room. It was much too sensual and sexually powerful to be displayed in a public area. Perhaps over the bed of one's mistress. Intellectually, she felt she should be disappointed at this limitation, but she couldn't take her eyes off the nude now that her eyes had focused on it. It was just too sensual for Cath to see it in any other light now than the erotic.
"Dinner?" Grant whispered, touching her on the arm, as if he was gently trying to coax her out of an entirely different world and back into his presence.
"Could we eat later?" Cath answered in a low, thick voice. "I'd rather go back to your place now—at least for a while."
Grant grinned.
Cath was panting and still moaning deeply from the release Grant had given her. She was laying on her side, in his arms, cuddled into his chest, his hard, yet-to-be-employed cock rubbing gently against the small of her back. One hand was cupping one of her breasts and teasing her nipple, while the fingers of the other hand, having made her explode, were still moving in their dance of rubbing between her folds and stroking inside her. Two fingers buried inside her, he palmed her mound and squeezed and then released; squeezed and released; and Cath moaned a deep, gravelly, almost animalistic moan.
She sighed as he pulled away from her, and she listened to the sounds of him fiddling with a condom packet. Then, still behind her, he pulled her up on her knees, wrapped one arm around her chest, and cupped her chin with a hand. He slowly slid into her from behind and the fingers of his free hand moved into her fold again, finding the clit. She moaned at the depth his cock was reaching and then started to groan as he began to pump her with powerful strokes.