Your erotic stories

The first thing I ever noticed about Lady B were her legs. They were gorgeous.

Her upper body was hidden by the side of a wing-backed chair but stretching out over the side of the chair were her legs, endlessly long and clad in a pair of black seamed nylon stockings, the rounded white thighs above that wide band of dark double webbing bisected by black suspender straps. They were perfection – totally erotic, beautifully shaped, warm soft flesh which made you automatically lick your lips – in anticipation of licking her lips — upper and lower, outer and inner.

You couldn’t help but imagine pushing those luscious limbs apart and nuzzling your way from the black toe-ends of her high-heeled shoes up the nylon covered calves past the rounded dimpled knees, trailing your lips and cheeks over the silken sheen of her lower thighs onto the broad black band of the stocking tops, and thence onto that last-lap final pathway of warm bare skin leading to the intricate mix of soft whorls of hair, glistening folds of flesh and oozing juices that made up the earthy, earthly paradise of Lady B’s beautiful cunt.

I was mesmerised by them. But touch them I could not for unfortunately these mouth-watering legs were wantonly displayed not in the live succulent quivering flesh but on the front cover of a paperback underneath the fancy flowing script which announced the book’s title: The Erotic Adventures of Lady B. At the bottom of the cover beneath the back of the armchair was the literary legend by Erica von Lustweiber.

So how did I know that Lady B had a beautiful cunt, I hear you ask. Because I’d seen it. It was not on the book’s cover of course. Even in this permissive day and age that would have been a publishing coup several steps too far. Neither was it hidden away discreetly on the inside of the book. No, it was spread for all the world to see on the internet – on Lady B’s own website. You don’t believe me? I’d give you the web address right here and now for you to see for yourself but you’d likely leave me for a gander at this most gorgeous of glands and never return and that’s not good journalistic tactics, so stay with me and I’ll describe it for you – if, that is, I can find words adequate to the task.

For how do you describe the ineffable? You can’t. Perhaps in metaphor. Lady B’s cunt is like some exotic underwater flower, blooming on the edge of a reef, wispy delicate fronds over pink glistening lips which are slowly moving to the pull of the water like some small exquisite sea creature. I have no wish to be blasphemous, but god created this. She must have. It is perfect. So beautiful and so unusual it deserves a botanical name. Cunnilingus deliciosa erica.

There. Will that do?

I guess I’d better introduce myself. My name is Dickins, David Dickins. That’s what I was christened anyway but since I was born and brought up in Rochester, Kent, England, it wasn’t long before some wag called me Charlie and the name stuck. Charlie Dickins. I’m a writer too – of sorts, a reporter on a local paper. I also free-lance for a little-read literary magazine under a pen-name but that’s enough of names and anyway it’s not important. Though whether I shall turn out to be the hero of this my story or whether that station shall be held by someone else I leave it to you the reader to decide.

It’s a Saturday, my day off and I’m on my way to an interview. But you’ll need to know a little bit more background at least to understand why my driving, normally very good, is so erratic today. My mind is elsewhere – on a pair of legs and the most ineffable cunt I’ve ever seen. Are you with me? I fancy you might be ahead of me. Then slow down dear reader, all in good time. Which I have to say at the moment I’m not. In good time I mean. I’m on my way to interview Erica von Lushlegs and I’m late. Saturday traffic is worse than a weekday.

So, I’m 32 and single. Playing the field and enjoying life. There’s plenty to enjoy around Rochester and we get a lot of summer visitors. A sizeable number of whom are more mature, drawn by the town’s Charles Dickens Museum. I like mature women. I get plenty of opportunity to meet them for I also have another part-time job – mostly Saturdays – showing people around. I am fluent, knowledgeable, tell a few well-honed jokes and generally give them their money’s worth. And if some of the more attractive, mature women fancy a little extra, over and above the official tour it’s not difficult to meet later and go into a little more depth and detail in some cosy English pub, of which Rochester has plenty. And maybe afterwards at my flat a glass or two of Kentish mead which to the non-habitual drinker can make the head spin and the body relax. I see you’re ahead of me again.

But today promises to be special and already I’m feeling tongue-tied. I’ve persuaded the editor of the literary magazine to let me broaden the normal academic scope of the articles with a slightly tongue in – wait for it – cheek piece on Erica von Lustweiber’s promotional tour. She’s staying at the Spread Eagle, one of our plusher hotels, just outside town. Her agent is highly suspicious on the phone. Is he expecting a leg pull? But he does finally grant me just an hour of Lady B’s precious time. She’s flying back to the States today after the first part of the tour and resuming up in the northwest after a week’s rest and recuperation. I’m late, And for once very nervous.

By the time I get to the Spread Eagle I’m a good twenty minutes late and her agent, Ronnie Steinhammer is not a happy bunny.

“You’re late!” he says. “Another five minutes and you’d have blown it. Come on. At the double.”

I run up the stairs behind him and he knocks on the door. “Erica! He’s finally arrived. You ready?” “Yeah. Come on in.” And he opens the door and escorts me, somewhat brusquely, inside.

“Hi honey. Wanna coffee?”

I nod. For once in my life I am struck dumb.

Lady B is quite something. I delete the image I have been carrying around in my head for the past few months. She is not the woman on the cover. But I am not disappointed; The woman I have been lusting over was but a model. This is a woman. A mature woman. Fleshier, fuller, more vibrant. My lust for Lady B is both renewed and redirected. She is wearing a dark blue, pin-striped business suit, light blue collared blouse opened to the beginnings of her ample cleavage, navy blue stockings and half heels. But strangely enough it’s her face which captivates me. I have seen plenty of her body over the last few months on her website but never her face. It is elfin. What the French call gamine. Her auburn hair is cut short close to her face. Despite the easy, out-going American manner she seems slightly vulnerable. There’s something of the young Shirley Maclaine about her. She has a red slash of a mouth. Wide, with full, sensuous lips.

“It’s OK Ron. He’ll be safe with me. You don’t have to worry honey.” And she winks at me as he turns and deflates through the door, pulling it closed behind him.

“Sit down honey,” she-says brightly, indicating two easy chairs and a couple of small tables.

I sit down and watch her full arse; cheeks jiggling nicely as she walks towards the little kitchen area. I could sit and watch her jiggle all day. The room feels suddenly close. Just the two of us in it. I am already sweating. She looks back at me appraisingly.

“Hey! You’re cute! How do you like your coffee? Let me guess. “Strong and hot.” Pause. A lifted eyebrough. “A little cream.”

I give her a frozen rictus smile and nod again.

“What’s your name honey?”

I clear my throat. My mouth is dry. I need some saliva. “Dickins,” ‘I manage to get out. “David Dickins.”

She comes over all sexy coy. Puts on a breathy girly voice. “Do I like Dick-ins? Gee I don’t know Mr President. I’ve never been to one.” And she giggles, still in Marilyn mode, It’s an old joke but she mimics Miss Monroe so perfectly I laugh out loud and for a second imagine that, maybe, in far off Arlington a smile lights up the dead president’s face and for him once more the earth moves.

She has broken the ice. I relax and smile happily. She smiles with me.

I bet they call you Charles,” she says.

“Charlie.” I grin.

“Charlie it is.” She smiles again.

She turns with the two coffee cups and walks towards me.

“One of my majors was Victorian novelists,” she says. “I just love Dickens.”

Is she playing with me?

“Hard Times. Dickwick Papers. Knickerless Nickleby, Adventures in the Skin Trade.”

She is playing with me.

“I think that was … er … someone else,” I end lamely.

“Oh yes, you’re right. Dylan Thomas. Right?”

She puts down her coffee and moves over to my side. She reaches out to put my cup on the low table. The neck of her blouse falls open. She remains motionless for a second and lets me look at her two full breasts straining the blue lace bra, her big nipples clearly showing through the thin filmy material. She knows just what she’s doing, where I’m looking and what I’m thinking. And she’s enjoying the knowledge. She’s winding up my lust. I already feel a stirring somewhere down south. The earth is beginning to move for me too.

She whispers to me in a low voice, her words sending shivers all over my body, draining me of any energy, totally transfixing me.

“Cop a feel?” she asks. And she looks up slowly without moving her body and I manage to drag my eyes away from those big, bouncing, beautiful breasts inside her open blouse to look up at her face, my mouth gaping open. Is she really asking me to …?

“Pardon?” I gurgle lamely.

She stands and puts her hand on my shoulder, her eyes fixing me with a foxy look.

“Copperfield. You know Charlie, David Copperfield. My favourite.”

Her eyes twinkle again. “What did you think I said?”

She knows exactly what I think she said because she said exactly what I thought she said.

She sits on her armchair. And crosses her legs. I hear that distinctive sound of nylon hissing over nylon. It sizzles through the room.

She grins. “Okay Charlie. You wanna — errr – do me? Now?”

I recover my nerve. How, I don’t know.

“I certainly do.” I pull out my notebook and take out a pen. My hands are trembling slightly. “For starters. What do I call you?”

“That’s an easy one,” she says. “Erica. It’s my name.”

“And the Lady B bit. What’s the B for?”

“Anything you’d like to imagine Charlie.”

She sits straight up in her chair and moves her head slightly to one side, her eyes looking heavenwards. “Lady B Good!” And then she breaks the pose, leans way forward to pick up her coffee, freezes the moment allowing me once again to see into her gaping blouse, putting on a brazen display of those big breasts and looks up from under her eyebrows at my face: “Lady be Bad!” She takes a sip of coffee, still bent forwards for me, puts the cup down, and placing her hand on her skirt, pushes the hem forwards over her prim, together knees: “Lady Behave!”

She is a superb actress. She could be something out of a Henry James’ novel, twirling a demure little brolly at a Washington ball.

“But much more to your liking I fancy Charlie – Lady B Naughty.” And with that she pulls back her skirt to mid-thigh and crosses her legs again. More nylon hiss. More sizzle. She looks down at her legs and pulls the hem even higher. To the start of the dark blue band at the top of her stockings.

“And of course …” She sweeps two hands in display down le-tout ensemble – blue jacket, blue blouse, blue skirt, blue stockings, blue shoes “… Lady Blue!”

I take stock. Slowly. Top to toe. And back up again. My cock starts to stand to attention. Stirred by the sight.

“You approve Charlie?”

Two can play this tease. “Well, what I can see. Yes.”

“Oh Charlie. You want more? Is this going to be one of those – in depth – interviews. You want …” another pause “… everything! Out in the open?”

“Of course. You wouldn’t want your public short-changed would you Lady B? The more… erm … ‘open’ you are with me, the more books you’re going to sell. Would I let you down Erica? You play ball with me. I’ll play ball with you.”

“Jeez honey. You’ve only known me five minutes and you want me to play with your balls already! I thought Charles Dickens was supposed to be a Victorian gentleman Charlie?”

“But Erica I am. I am. Open yourself to me. Trust me. I’m a writer. Like you.”

“Yeah and you’re a man too Charlie. And men tell lies. If I had a dollar for every guy who’s told me’ ….and her voice grows gruff… ‘I won’t come in your mouth honey,’ I wouldn’t have to be a working girl Charlie. It’s a good job I like the taste!”

I reach in my pocket and pull out a pound coin. I put it next to her coffee cup and grin.

“I promise I won’t come in your mouth Erica.”

She laughs, uncrosses her legs, leans forward and picks up the coin. Once more her bountiful breasts are on display, moving heavily as she moves. She looks up at me, puts the coin between her teeth and bites it in a mock ‘test’ to make sure it’s not counterfeit. Then she grins at me and reaches one hand to pull her bra cup away from her breast and slips the coin inside. She looks down and settles the big nipple back into its soft nest.

“Okay Charlie …” and she settles back in her arm chair, crosses her legs again and pulls her hem back to the top of thighs, exposing dark-blue garter straps and the beginnings of her firm white thighs, “…you can have the lot. I’ll bare myself to you completely. If you’re gentle with me. Just so long as you respect a working girl afterwards… Now, what do you want?” And I watch in awe as she looks into my eyes and undoes the top two buttons on her blouse, uncovering the dark blue brassiere bulging with the heavy weight of her full bosom. She pulls the blouse open to let me see the huge dark areole and the thick stiffening nipples behind the fully stretched wispy lace.

“Tell me what you want Charlie,” she purrs. “Ask me – anything! You never know – you might just get what you ask for. Come on! Cat got your tongue Charlie?”

I decide to go for it. This is some feisty lady with a sense of humour. I look her straight in the eye.

“Your pussy,” I whisper.

“Oh Charlie! You cannot be seriarse!” And she bursts out laughing. “What about my pussy?”

“Tell me …” And I lean forward: “Is the pussy on your website yours? After all the legs on the book cover aren’t!”

“Charlie! You want me to show you my pussy to prove it’s mine? Can’t you just take my word for it?”

“Erica, I’d love to. Believe me. But don’t you think we have to establish some basis of trust here? Really I do want to believe you. But seeing is believing is it not?”

“You have a very persuasive tongue, Charlie Dickins. But tell me first – what do you think of my website?”

I look her straight in the eye. “Erica your pussy is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Sublime. The object of my deepest and sincerest adoration. I ask only to see it that I may fall at your feet and worship!”

“Oh Charlie! How sweet. How can I resist such a request? But maybe you should …”

But before she can finish her ‘maybe’ the telephone beside her bursts into life and its shrill ringing tone shatters the atmosphere. Damn and blast! My face crumples in defeat. Cheated – at the last second.

She grins at my crestfallen face, turns and picks up the phone.

“Erica Hall.” Pause while the dull murmur of a voice sounds. “Oh. Hi honey! What a surprise! Where are you?”

She turns to me and puts a finger to her lips to tell me to be quiet. Then points to the door, makes a twisting motion with her fingers and wrist and mouths, ‘Lock the door!’ to me.

I rise silently and walk towards the door. Does she want me out or in? I reach the door and look back at her. She nods, repeats the mime and then beckons me with her crooked finger to come back in. Hallelujah. All is not lost. I lock the door and move back towards her. She watches me through hooded eyes. I can hear the faint hum of a voice as she listens. She blows me a kiss and beckons me nearer. I stand right next to her.

She talks into the phone again, her eyes locked on mine. “Sure honey. I’ll be home in just a few more hours. Long before you go to bed. But don’t plan on getting any sleep tonight … I’m gonna fuck your brains out. I’m feeling so fucking horny for you … Oh yeah … you wanna believe it.”

There is a faint answering sound down the phone.

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing honey? Have you got your cock out? Take it out. Right now. Oh yes.”

She takes the phone from her mouth and silently repeats to me, “Take it out Charlie.” She looks down to the bulge in the front of my trousers as I slide the zipper down. I reach inside and pull out my rampant cock. She stares at it, looks back up into my face and mouths an “Oh yes!” and then licks slowly round her mouth with her tongue.

“Stroke it for me honey,” she breathes into the phone, her eyes still locked on mine. “Put your big fist round your big cock and pull on it for me …”

I need no further bidding. I stroke slowly up and down along its full length staring into her face as she watches me. I pull hard at the base of my cock bending the large deep red plum of my cock end so that it strains and bulges. She squirms in her seat, widening her thighs and moves forward wantonly so that her skirt rides higher up her full thighs.

She glances up quickly at my face and our eyes meet briefly. Her eyelids are hooded and her eyes glazed with lust, her mouth open. She parts her thighs wider and moves her free hand down between them stroking her cunt through the silk of her panties. Her breathing is short and shallow.

She groans and speaks into the phone, the voice leaden and lifeless. “Oh honey that makes me feel so fucking horny. Give it a squeeze for me. Tell me what it looks like. I want to take it in my mouth and suck you off. Push it into my mouth. I want to suck your hot cock. Fuck my mouth. Push it in hard. All the way in. Come in my mouth. Empty your balls down my throat. Let me suck you off. Tell me. Tell me.”

She looks up at me and taking her damp finger tips from the wet patch spreading on the silk of her knickers she crooks her index finger and beckons me closer. I move towards her, my erect and slowly pulsating cock preceding me by a good seven inches. Her eyes fixed mesmerically on mine she tilts her head upwards and opens her mouth wide, her tongue poking out and flexing to form a glistening U-shaped welcome.

I stand over her and pulling back on my foreskin to make the head dip and bulge I push it towards her mouth. The taut skin of the head of my cock shines in the reflected light of the room and the thick meat of it pulses with lust. Her eyes fixed on the nearing cock head, she moves her head forward to meet it and then as her mouth engulfs my cock in a hot wet embrace she shuts her eyes and concentrates on the feel of it filling her mouth. She murmurs deep in her throat and her free hand reaches up to encircle my shaft and she starts to masturbate me into her mouth. She pulls her sucking mouth slowly off my cock and looks up at me her eyes alive with mischief. “Oh yeah babe, That’s good. Push it in my mouth. Let me suck it. More. More. Come on. Fuck my mouth. More?” She has the speaker of the phone close up to her mouth and my cock now glistening wet with her saliva. She puts out her tongue bathing the deep red head of my cock with her juices and then she noisily begins to suck me smacking her lips against my fevered skin. “Yeah. Yeah. Come on. Oh yeah.”

The low rumble coming out of the telephone gets louder. Someone is clearly close to shooting his load. As am I. Two of us groaning for release, me almost silently, him grunting loudly now. Both of us mad with lust. Her left hand continues to pull on my engorged cock. Slow insistent tugs bringing me nearer and nearer to the brink. Her mouth is barely touching the end of my cock as she makes a millimetre of space to talk into the phone. Her lips are wet from saliva and as her stroking hand reaches the end of its slow methodical squeezing she spits a shower of gooey saliva and precum at my cock end gathers it in her fist and begins to smear it down the stalk of my rampant bulging cock.

“Was that as good as it sounded honey,” she coos softly into the mouthpiece. “You sure you’re gonna have another big load for me when I get back. My throat is awful dry honey. Don’t use it all up before I get my share. Honey, I’m sorry but I gotta leave you. Something’s come up at my end. Eat some fruit honey. Bananas and cream. I’ll be wanting something juicy to drink when I get back. See you soon lover.”

And with that she blows a big kiss into the receiver and puts the phone down.

She looks up at me eyes twinkling with mischief and her hand continues its slow slippery massage. “You got a beautiful cock Charlie. She looks down to watch her hand moving over my taut skin as her gentle, insistent hand begins another electric upward journey.

Her eyes look into mine again. Now they are darkly thoughtful. Her voice is low, throaty and slow. “Still want to see my pussy Charlie?”

I nod and with supreme effort pull my cock back from her hot hand and moving between her knees. I kneel before her. I push her skirt upwards as she raises her hips to free her body and I reach up and pull her knickers down and over her shoes. They are sodden with her cunt juices. I drape them over my rigid cock and masturbate with them. Two quick strokes of the sopping silk to quicken my lust and then I push her legs wide and as she pushes her lower body forward in the armchair I gaze down at the cunt I have been fantasising about for months.

It is mushy and wet. A glistening little forest of damp hairs and ripe wet open flesh. A long pealed-open gash softly gleaming with her oozing juices and just begging to be sucked up. The small stiff reddened nub of her clit peaks out from the tiny folds surrounding it. I ignore it, lowering my mouth to replicate the slow, insistent pace of the journeys her hand has been making on my cock. My flat tongue licks strongly but ever so leisurely up the fat, fleshy, gaping cunt lips savouring the sharp, bitter-sweet, ‘nature’s-aperitif’ taste of her and my quivering nostrils take in the pungent, slightly gamey, spicy smell of a woman in heat and as my mouth reaches the end of this first lapping pilgrimage I narrow the shape of the very tip of my tongue and worship her clit with a fast and furious licking. Up above my head I hear her crying out a long keening moan of pure pleasure and her thighs begin a series of squeezing and relaxing movements against my head, the silk of her stockings and the warmth of her heavy thighs crushing my face.

I am in heaven. As her moaning begins to heighten I leave the the small hard rounded marble of her clit and go back down to the base of her wide open outer cunt lips to start the long, ecstatic journey again. I am teasing and building her anticipation. By the end of the third lap which climaxes in an orgy of licking and nibbling of her slippy slipping slippery clit I will not be denied and as her screams become louder and higher and more abandoned I push my middle finger past the her tight sphincter and full into her hot dry arse. She screams again and her anal sphincter grips my finger in a sudden tight pulse as she comes long and loud over and over. I look up at her and her head is rolling against the back of the armchair her eyeballs white and her mouth open and gasping and she suddenly reaches down drunkenly to push my head way from her cunt and wriggle free of my invasive finger.

Gradually she comes back down to earth and looks at me a newly landed alien, lungs still heaving, face flushed and sweating, lips fat and engorged and eyes shell-shocked. “Jesus Charlie!” is all she can say as she struggles for breath. And then she laughs in release. “I hope your pen is as talented as your mouth.”

But our mid-coital bliss is shattered by a loud knocking on the door and the sound of Ronnie Steinhammer yelling, “Erica! The taxi’s here. We are late. You’re going to miss your plane! Erica! For God’s sake open this door!”

Fifteen frenzied minutes later I am in the car driving back to the flat. In one jacket pocket is a business card with her email address. In the other a pair of still sodden navy blue knickers. My mind is still coming to terms with what happened in that hotel room and her hurried invitation to join up with up in Wales on the send part of her publicity tour as her agent.

“I owe you one Charlie and next time promise you will come in my mouth,” are her last words whispered into my ear before she kisses me on the mouth and then ducks her head into the taxi that will take her and Ronnie on what will have to be a fast trip to the airport.

I should have a smile on my face at my good fortune but I can’t really concentrate on anything because of the appalling pain in my testicles. But then even that agony makes space for a quick grin as a thought comes to mind.

‘Of course. Lady Blueballs!’

*

My thanks to Erica – she knows who she is – for the inspiration. And to Anna for her encouragement.

Dedicated to another Anna.