TABOO TALES(erotica)

Millie was lifting herself higher now, to better savour the length and thickness of his shaft. As she raised her body upwards Rose could see his rod exposed, gleaming in the light until the rim of his helmet appeared, held only by the thick lips of her sex; and then she watched as the girl plunged downwards and the turgid flesh of his cock slithered back inside her slim, golden body, each stroke accompanied by an explosive grunt of pleasure. Rose’s fingers were busy too, easing into the wet channel of her own pussy in tune with the penetration, and she envisaged that the wetness that she could feel on her fingers was the same as her employee’s. She licked her lips, imagining the salty taste of the girl’s juice, its texture oily on her tongue, dribbling thick and wet to the back of her throat.

She could feel the growing whirlwind of her orgasm approaching and she slowed the frantic twitching of her fingers to control it. She wanted to come at the same time as them, to bond with the pleasure of their flesh… to time the clasping spasms of her own cunt to be at one with the frantic grasping of the one before her. She watched with hooded eyes as the girl leaned backwards, her body angled away from the mirror so that the man’s cock was sliding into her at a different angle. She could see the shaved lips of her pussy moving with the stimulus of his penetration: easing aside as he entered her, and clasping at his rod as he withdrew. His body was twitching now as he reached for his climax, and Rose leaned forward even further to watch more closely.

With exquisite timing the girl lifted herself to the extremity of his shaft and clasped the trembling head in the tight portal of her vulva. She held her body still and milked his glans with her vaginal muscles, the lips fluttering around the bulbous head as her flesh stroked and suckled him like a mouth. For a moment he was rigid, his body drawn to the very brink of ecstasy, and then with a hoarse cry he came, spurting upwards into the soft, wet tube surrounding him. Rose imagined the hot jets of his sperm entering the girl’s body, pooling at the entrance to her vagina, drawn out by the grasping lips of her cunt.

With a soft cry of anguish Rose came, her fingers buried in her channel. A spurt of juice splattered out of her body over the soft cream leather of the seat. The jolts of pleasure rocked her body, one upon the other in waves of heat and white, grainy light. She watched as Millie came too, tripped over the edge by the warmth and volume of the seed being pumped into her; she heard the girl shriek and she watched the thick white strands of his cum being forced out of her body by the contraction of her cunt, spattering over the man’s belly and trickling down the gleaming shaft in thick, clinging strands.

For a long moment the three figures were frozen, each locked in the tight spiral of their pleasure, each savouring the spurting of their juices and the tight, rhythmic clasping of their parts. And then the moment passed and the light and sounds of the day seeped back in to their consciousness, and they moved again.

*This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

She waited until the man had gone before she entered the bedroom. Millie was lying on the rumpled sheets with some crisp green banknotes scattered around her, and she looked up.

“He was old,” she said accusingly. “Why are they always old now?”

Rose sat on the side of the bed. “Because they are the important ones,” she said soothingly, “the ones with money and influence. That was Justice Peter Cranbourne, and until about an hour ago he was a pillar of respectability in the State’s judicial system. He is a Supreme Court Judge, has a wife who moves in high circles and two virginal teenage daughters who go to Saint John’s Academy for young ladies. And unlike some others in his profession he has been as clean as a new whistle – no scandal, no girls and no bribes. Now, he’s just a randy old Judge, just like the others.”

Millie laughed. Cranbourne’s semen was still oozing from her vulva and she thought it felt just the same as any other man’s, even if he was a Supreme Court Judge. “Why do they do it?” she asked. “Surely they must know that nothing is ever a secret.”

Rose shrugged. “If you saw his wife you’d understand – shagging her would be like buggering the Sphinx. And he’s at that age where he looks in the mirror every morning and sees another chin on his face or bigger bags under his eyes, and he figures he’d better have a bit of fun before it’s too late.” She smiled. “Everyone thinks its women who have a problem with ageing, but I think men worry about it more.”

The girl nodded. It was a familiar story: older men in stale, empty marriages, aware of their mortality and prepared to pay for some delicious young thing with firm tits and a tight pussy to play with for a while.

“Well, at least he didn’t have any strange fetishes,” Millie said. Judges were notorious for it – the last one had asked to be put on a leash and punished like a dog, and she had heard of others who liked being whipped. Perhaps it was because they spent every day handing out sentences, so the idea of being receiving them was appealing.

“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Rose replied. “Even though he didn’t ask you this time, I’m certain he’ll have some dirty little secret he wants to play out. They all do. Just give him a bit of time.” She leaned forward and patted the girl on her cheek. “Now, clean up, sweetheart and get some rest. I have a special job for you… something a bit different and one with a bonus if you pull it off – and yes, he’s a bit younger, too.”

*****

A week later the Most Reverend John S. Tobias, Auxiliary Bishop in the Dioceses of Bunyong, slowly placed the phone on its cradle and stared out of the window.

The call had been from one of his parishioners, a woman called Marie Sheldon with three children, who lived not far from where he now sat. She was a single mother, struggling under the crushing burden of raising her family and grateful for whatever scraps he was prepared to give – a few dollars here and there, some cast off clothing from the charity bin in the church, left-over food from his kitchen. In return she lifted her skirts whenever he called upon her.

Marie had just asked for more money, but she was not a particularly good shag, he decided. She might have been once, but now she was usually too tired to do much more than lie underneath him, and her personal hygiene wasn’t always that good. He wanted a younger, more energetic woman, with a bit more class.

As it happened, he had seen one during the service last Sunday. She had been sitting in the front pew and was on her own, which was unusual. She was chastely dressed, but he saw the quality of her clothes was good, and she had the trappings of breeding and wealth. He’d watched her as he gave his sermon and by the end of the service felt compelled to speak.

In his normal fashion he stood on the steps of the church and greeted each of the congregation as they left. At first he thought he’d missed her, but she appeared at the end of the queue and he saw that close up she was even more striking than he’d first supposed.

“Thank you, your Eminence, for your words this morning.” Her voice was low pitched and the eyes that looked into his were a honey brown, like molten caramel. He was interested in her choice of words, too: “Your Eminence’ was reserved for Cardinals, those esteemed Princes of the Church. He was merely a Bishop, two rungs down the ecclesial ladder, but ambition burned brightly in his chest and he liked hearing the title.

“You are welcome, my child.” He took her proffered hand and held it. “I haven’t seen you here before – have you moved from another place?”

She shook her head, the dark curls glinting in the evening light. God, she was stunning. “No, father. I found my local priest could not offer what I seek, and I felt compelled to move to another parish.” She smiled slightly. “I really hope you will accept me here.”

Her hand was warm and she made no move to release it from his grasp. Instead, her eyes were on his face – bright, interested eyes that invited comment.

“I’m sorry to hear that my child. Perhaps I can help? You are always welcome to talk to me, here in the confessional or perhaps somewhere less… intimidating, if you wish.”

“Thank you, your Eminence.” She released his hand and shuffled in her clutch purse for a moment before extracting a card. “I would welcome that, but I know you are a busy man. Perhaps, at your leisure, you could see your way to call me? It is a matter that weighs upon my mind and I would like to talk about it.”

“Of course.” Tobias smiled reassuringly and watched as she walked away, her tight little buttocks moving alluringly under the skirt. It was an image he would revisit in the bath that evening to build a little fantasy. He glanced down at the card, noting the heavy linen card and crisp embossed lettering: Amelia J. Cardoza, Physiotherapist. A professional woman, then. Smart and beautiful, and probably with money – just as he liked them.

They met later that week in a cafe in St Kilda – a little way from where Tobias lived, but he thought it worth the journey. She’d explained that her faith was flagging and the conversation would perhaps be easier outside of the walls of a church, and he’d agreed. She wore a simple cream dress with a pearl necklace and earrings, and her fingernails were painted a soft shell pink to match her lipstick. The coal-black tresses of her hair had been pinned up, highlighting the slender column of her neck. Tobias was into long necks and he felt his cock harden at the thought of gripping it as he fucked her.

“Can I get you a drink, your Eminence?”

“A coffee only, Miss Cardoza. I have other business to attend to later.”

She nodded. “You must be a very busy man, in your position.”

“It has its moments.” He smiled reassuringly. “Sometimes I long for the days when I was just a plain parish priest – life seemed so much simpler then.” He remembered the women he had known in that role too, and some of the memories they had given him – like Mary McGinnis’s pendulous breasts wobbling as he fucked her on the sofa, and Sylvia Robertson who feared pregnancy so had suggested other innovative ways he could take her. Such things had seemed perversions before then, but now they were a part of his sexual repertoire.

“You shouldn’t call me Your Eminence, Miss Cardoza – that is a term reserved for Cardinals. I am, alas, only a Bishop.”