It is the little things that capture the imagination. The devil – the horny little devil – is in the detail. My eye is always drawn to the smaller picture. You can keep your supermodel looks and your Harvard MBAs, I’m far more likely to be drawn to a nicely turned ankle, the shape of a bra through a top, or a skirt curving neatly and snugly around an ass.
Once noticed, those details gnaw away at my imagination, like a dog with a bone, leaving me – almost – helpless before the power of my own eroticism. Even the word wicked – now here’s a clue for ya, if you want one – in an e-mail can be enough to set the pulse on a little dance. What’s she thinking, what does she mean, how should I reply, she’s feeling horny, to write that, hot to trot…
And I am captive. Sex is wonderful, beautiful, the supreme moment in any day, but is it right for me to be its slave? I have a responsible job, can I really afford to pull my chair in close to my desk, slide low in my chair, tease my skirt up my thighs and slip my hand inside my knickers, feeling the wetness of my pussy, just because a temp bent forward a little too far, or my most recent correspondent on Hotmail (now there’s an appropriate name) told me what she was thinking or doing last night when she came? Steel chains couldn’t hold and possess me more completely.
My resistance is weakest when it comes to my preference, my obsession. My perversion. I have been in the UK some years now, and I’ve decided that it is an English English word that describes what I like, what I crave, the most. The epicenter of the earthquake zone that is my sexual imagination, almost my sexual life, is a simple three letters that can be used quite innocuously in the grandest of company. But it has the power to thrill me to the very core.
“Of course in Rome, all they try to do is grab your bum.” The voice was cut glass, the perfect product of the English public school. (By which they mean private school, by the way. No I don’t understand either). The speaker, enjoying her Gap year (no I can’t help on that one, either, but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with the clothing store), was eighteen or so, long blonde hair, and just graduated from said school. The bum in question – I risked stealing a quick peek – well, although it was covered by a sweet little blue silk number, I could tell the Romans got that one right. Seeing the way it swelled away from the slimness of her lower back, the hemline of her dress reaching midway down to her knees, as far as I was concerned grabbing was nothing, what this bum really needed was a full-on Samantha inspection, me kneeling behind her, reaching up…
Somewhere in the house, a bell sounded. Oh yes, the ceremony.
Sitting somewhere near the back, I tried to spot her. It didn’t take long, the combination of blonde on blue was striking. The question on my mind, stupid really, I knew that, was “is she with somebody?”
She was talking to a guy on her left, leaning in, but that was probably just because everyone was trying to keep their voices down. Or because he was her boyfriend. Or because they liked each other, and at some point in the day they were going to get it on together. Shit.
I barely took in the ceremony. I’m sorry, but who really gives a fuck? I mean, how many marriages end in divorce? Tom had been married before, we all knew that, who was to say this would work out any better? It was nice to spend a weekend in a nice English house in the nice English countryside, but I, for one, was taking all this commitment and vows stuff with a whole cellar-full of salt.
Besides, I had better things to think of. My close observation had persuaded me that the Girl and the boy were not an item, nor were they going to be. His teeth were too big for a start. Which, theoretically, left the field open to me. Now I was fully aware of the likely outcome of the day’s chase.
I may be sexy, pretty, seductive, hot and horny (yeah those are the kind of compliments that ring in the ears) but I knew damn well that an eighteen year old high-school graduate does not go to weddings looking to make out with twenty-nine year old American ladies. You won’t find that happening in any films starring Hugh Grant. But just once in a while all the right buttons get pushed and, before you know it, and yo everyone’s amazement, you’re in the sack.
So there was just enough hope to let my mind wander. My eyes may have been open, but my imagination was in a completely different place altogether. As we’d walked in to the ceremony, me a convenient couple of feet behind, I was sure I’d picked out a couple of interesting details. First, she was wearing panties, not a thong. Probably worried what would happen when the dancing got going in a dress so short. Second, she had on a garter belt and stockings. That figured. Just out of school, she probably thought they were classy and sexy not uncomfortable and damn obvious.
So as the “I love you”s droned on, I let my mind slip. It was more a collage than a fantasy. The Girl, standing facing away, fingers toying nervously with her hem, lifting the dress, the smoothness of her thighs, and then the pert flesh of her bum, barely covered by the blue lace of her knickers. (I figured she’d have something matching and frilly). Those knickers coming down, revealing the bare flesh of that pretty young ass.
Despite the people around me, and the marriage ceremony less than thirty feet away, I could feel the familiar warm wet heat between my legs. I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them, fidgeting as my arousal increased with my fantasy.
Her hands, pulling her cheeks open for me, her head turned to one side as she wondered curiously, anxiously, why was I so interested in her bum? I tried to picture her asshole, so rudely exposed to me. How would it look, smell, taste, feel on the end of my tongue?
The ceremony was still going on. If they didn’t hurry up and get married soon I would have to up and out somewhere private, my fingers teasing my poor throbbing clit to a desperate climax.
Then, the wedding service was over, people were standing up, and despite the dampness in my panties I was forced to return to reality. My mind was set, though. I was going to try to seduce her.
I won’t bore you with the meal. The Girl and me were sat at different tables, and at mine the discussion mainly revolved around “hunting”. In England that means chasing a fox(?!), and I’m afraid I may have slightly damaged transatlantic relations by my references to high velocity rifles and endangered species. Whatever.
So it was early evening before I could make my way over to her. The guy with the big teeth was still hanging around, but all the body language was going against him. He was actually a help to me, because it seemed all the other people she presumably knew were giving them a clear run at it.
“Hi,” I said, “we weren’t introduced earlier. I’m Samantha.”
I wasn’t sure she remembered me standing by during the earlier conversation, but cool as a cucumber she put out a hand. “Sarah.” We both ignored Goofy.
“I so loved hearing you talking about Rome,” I said. “It’s such a beautiful city. Did you get to the Pantheon?” We were off.
There is a technique, that I think I have quite polished, of shifting a conversation imperceptibly into more intimate areas. I could say “I know what you mean about the men, they were all over my ass,” we would laugh knowingly about having our bottoms fondled, and then I’d continue, leaning in, “but so good looking. And they don’t disappoint, either.” And to see the uncertainty of her reaction, and I knew – so she didn’t put out in Rome.
We moved quickly to an easy, relaxed closeness, enough for Goofy to wander quietly off and anyone else to realize that joining in this conversation probably wasn’t a starter.
There was a band playing, loud, not very good, but it was another plus for me, because the only way Sarah and I could talk was by leaning in and almost breathing into each others’ ears. Sexy and intimate, but limited, so after a while I suggested we take a walk outside.
That was a make or break time. If she was worried about being monopolized, now was the time to make some polite excuses and scoot out of there. No. “Fine.” I’m guessing she suspected I was coming on to her, and I’m guessing that, for the moment at least, that was fine too.
There was a bench outside partly lit by one of the windows. Now I like to think I can charm and seduce, but I’m not stupid. If Sarah had been a 100% died-in-the-wool hetero girl, no way she’d still have been there. Somewhere along the line I could only imagine that the possibility of a little Sapphic dabbling had appealed. Maybe just arousal in the changing room after sport, or an innocuous daydream about a friend that inexplicably turned bluer, but enough to plant a seed that would grow to the possibility, the potential, now, to think “Well I don’t care if this yank is seducing me. Doesn’t mean we have to do anything. And it’s always nice to be flattered.”
That said, I knew I had to be careful how I went at it from here. I was guessing that, however interested Sarah was in fucking me, at least part of her wasn’t ready to admit that yet. I needed to follow an indirect path into her knickers.
My route was sex. Conspiratorially, maybe like big sister to little sister, I confided my experiences in Rome. Sucking off this guy, him being too rough, forcing my head down, wanting me to deep throat him when I didn’t know how. (Yeah, right).
Course Sarah didn’t know how either, so I explained how to practice, and I was sure she must be getting off on hearing me talk about such sexy things.
I have a feeling, maybe I’m wrong, that even when I talk about sex, I don’t come across like a nymphomaniac, the kind of slightly crazed woman that sends off all the wrong signals. I’d like to think I just seem like an enthusiast for fucking in all its shapes and forms. That was the line I eventually used on Sarah, anyway.
She smiled, a little bitterly, perhaps. “Well you’re the opposite of me then.”
“You don’t like sex?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly. I haven’t done much, it’s true.” I glanced quickly down at her legs, smooth and tanned from all that Mediterranean sun.
“You’re a pretty girl,” I said, knowing the compliment was safe. “You must get plenty of offers.”
“Oh yes. But…I just don’t get excited. I mean, the prospect…I don’t know why, but it just doesn’t appeal.”
My heart was beating faster. I felt like a leopard circling for the kill. “That’s a shame,” I said. “I’ve had some moments when…” I struggled for the words, “…it’s like an explosion into wonder. Every fiber of your body is pure, electric, sexual pleasure. And once you’ve been there, it stays with you. You can almost summon it at will. Like a demon.”
And then Sarah looked at me, her eyes serious, but yearning. “How?”
Like most of the guests, I had a room in the house where the reception was being held. Big house. Big wedding. On our way up I’d swiped a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses. No-one noticed or cared – the place was swilling in Krug.
We hadn’t kissed, or fondled, or anything. There was just an understanding that I would explain to Sarah how to summon the demon. For all I knew she thought I had a self-help book tucked under the pillow.
“You’ve got to trust me on this,” I said. We were sitting on the couch in my room, a slightly respectable distance apart. “I think sometimes I felt a little like you. You’re a Catholic too, right?”
Sarah looked amazed. “That’s right, how did you know?”
“Just a wild, educated guess. You give the impression you can’t separate sex from guilt. Each time your body gets excited, your mind gets scared. You need to be comfortable with your body. It’s a beautiful body,” I said, resting my hand lightly, almost innocently, on Sarah’s knee, “why don’t you show me it?”
She didn’t move. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” I asked, trying to make my voice sound both kind and dominant. “I mean, we’re not here to talk about the Coliseum, are we?” Sarah shook her head. My hand was still on her knee.
“I didn’t really expect…” She trailed off. God, I didn’t want her going cold on me now.
“Isn’t that what’s exciting?” I asked. “You didn’t expect this? To end up in a hotel suite with a horny American who’s dying to show you every inch of screaming ecstasy? What you expected was fending off a guy like Goofy,” – I was pleased to see her laugh at this – “and maybe if you got really bored treat him to a drunken kiss. No wonder sex isn’t exciting.” I was getting flustered. So close, the thought of her getting away was criminal. “Okay,” I said, still talking too quickly, “how about I go first? Show you how much fun a girl can have without any help at all. Then make up your mind.” It was a break from my normal routine, but the thought of bringing myself off in front of Sarah was appealing in its own right, let alone the chance it might have to get my hands on her.
She still just sat there, which I treated as an assent. I was going to wander over to the bed, then figured there was maybe enough room on the couch. My dress, which maybe I should have mentioned before, was a simple peachy gold number by Versace. (Well Giorgio needs a break sometime). A little longer than Sarah’s, just above the knee. I slid round a bit, resting my back against the arm rest, so I was facing Sarah down the couch, and in a simple, natural move, lifted the hem up to my waist, like we were nine years old and playing nurses and nurses.
I could see Sarah wasn’t sure what to do – get the hell out or settle in for the display. So she just sat there, I suppose you could describe it as transfixed. I’ve said already, I’m no fool, and I knew exposing my bare pussy to Sarah would probably have been too much. So only opening my knees a little bit, I slid my left hand inside the lacy peach panties, brushing through my hair and slipping the tips of a couple of fingers along my slit. I was so wet already.
Well clever old Sam, the sight of a slim long legged yank frigging inside her knickers was something Sarah could not only handle, but positively had to see. When I felt those eyes drop between my legs I felt a new flood of wetness, and I let my knees slip a little wider, encouraging Sarah to linger. At the same time I slipped the spaghetti straps off my shoulder. The dress had meant a bra wasn’t possible, but I never really need one anyway, and I wanted to expose my nipples to Sarah, they have a certain chewy pencil like quality when I’m hot, and I was hot. Sure enough, curiosity drew Sarah’s eyes up, and I gave them a couple of wicked little pinches just to show her that good sex wasn’t all kisses and cuddles. Not that she would have any doubt if my plans for her succeeded. When she saw the way my nipples responded to my minor mistreatment Sarah’s eyes narrowed, and my confidence that I was drawing her in increased.
By now my legs were probably at ninety degrees, my hand moving softly underneath the silk of my knickers, and it seemed time for me to move us on.
“Do you want to see?” I asked, my voice waveringly slightly in time with my frigging. Sarah nodded her head slightly. “Do you want me to take them off?” I asked again, as if I hadn’t noticed, although I think she and I both knew it was exciting to vocalize it. She nodded again. “Do you want me to show you?” Her head was nodding continuously now, yes she wanted to see, she wanted me to show her. “Do you want to see my pussy, Sarah?” and this time, almost whispering, she mouthed “Yes”.
I wasn’t going to wait around, hang suspense, I whipped my knickers down, Sarah’s gaze not moving, and then coyly dropped my knees, inviting her eyes down to my crotch. I stroked my inner thighs, teasing myself, occasionally drawing a finger along the slickness of my slit.
I was close, very close, maybe twenty seconds or so delicate teasing away from a lovely orgasm, but it wasn’t about me. My frigging was only the means to an end. How best to move from my masturbation to the proper exploration of Sarah’s body, meaning an intimate inspection of her pretty little ass?
I pulled my knees back, up towards my chest, knowing that in doing so I was bringing my asshole into view for the first time. Keeping one hand caressing my thighs and my pubic thatch, I slid a couple of fingers from my right hand further down, pressing them along the inner valleys of my butt cheeks. I could see a look of surprise on Sarah’s face, just a hint, but I knew what she was thinking – “this is frigging, why is Sam touching her bum?”
I rubbed all around my asshole without actually touching it, my fingers encountering the slight stickiness I’d expected and hoped to find there. Then, slowly, I began to poke my index and middle fingers against my anus, tickling and prodding the crater. At the same time I began slight thrusts from my pelvis, and moaned some quiet little grunts.
This was deliberate. I love my ass, and the sensations it provides, but on a purely physical level my pussy, like, I’m sure, everyone else’s provides a hundred times more sensual sensations. (Except when an ass is filled with something thick and fat, which is a different matter entirely). The stimulation for this type of anal sex is mental, not physical. But I wanted to convey to Sarah how erotic ass games could be for her, and the only way to do that was cheat.
I certainly had her attention, her eyes were fascinated as my fingers slowly disappeared into my bottom. Just to make sure I pulled my knees right back, ensuring my backside was fully, obscenely displayed. It was an extraordinary feeling, first knuckle, second, and then the knowledge that they were embedded all the way into my asshole.
Just a couple of strokes on my clit would have been enough, but the way Sarah was looking at my unusual wanking persuaded me I could risk a further brush with perversion. I drew the fingers out, and my bottom briefly felt horribly empty, until I replaced them with the last two fingers on my left hand, penetrating my asshole with less care and greater passion. That left my thumb free to brush around my clit, readying it for the moment that was so near at hand.
But the focus of the act was as Sarah watched my right hand move up my body, a quick nasty tweak on my nipples, and then I was sure she was thinking – “My God – she’s moving her fingers to her face.”
Although I was affecting not to look at her, I saw Sarah’s mouth drop to a little O as I held my fingers to my nose, before tracing them softly along my lips. By now my bucking and moaning was a lot more intense, largely naturally as a result of my excitement. I was tempted to explain how good it was all feeling, but then remembered it was better to show not tell.
Slipping my fingers, fingers that had just been right up inside my tight dirty asshole, into my pouting mouth was the climax of my performance. Sure enough Sarah looked both shocked and enraptured, and that was enough for a couple of soft brushes with my thumb to tip me over, and I was thrusting and grunting to a nasty but overwhelming cum.
I lay there for a while, recovering, my eyes only partly focused on Sarah’s confused but excited face. I’d wondered if, at some stage, she might have joined in, but I was relieved that everything had been centered on me. Her climaxing without my involvement might have marked the end of the evening for her. As it was we still had it all to do.
“Your turn,” I murmured, all my erotic senses returning to a peak at the thought of what was coming up.
Sarah looked a little confused. Clearly she wasn’t ready to try what I’d just done. Not that I wanted her to. “Come here,” I said, indicating she should stand in front of me. “No, turn around.” Like she should have known I wanted her to face away. “That’s good. Now lift your dress up.” Just a momentary second’s hesitation and it was up and bunched around Sarah’s waist. It seemed my demonstration had persuaded Sarah the only way to sexual bliss was by trusting me completely.
Like I’d guessed, stockings, smooth long legs, nicely tanned from her Roman holiday, a garter belt, and a nice pair of cobalt blue panties with a lace trimming.
I could have cum a hundred times just staring at Sarah’s bum in her underwear.
“Pull your panties down for me, Sarah.” Again, barely even a second and she was reaching for the waistband, dropping her knickers down, exposing her naked ass to my sight.
What can I say? A beautiful, pert, teenaged bum. A nice curve away from the tops of her legs, and a bright white bikini mark contrasting with her tan, proving to me this sexy young lady’s bottom didn’t get shown to just anyone. And the dark secret slash of her ass crack, currently hiding everything I lusted after most desperately.
I was on the verge of asking Sarah to open wide, when a little piece of inspiration came to me. Like I said, the devil’s in the detail. I slipped quickly down onto the floor, moving around Sarah and turning her as I went, until she was facing the couch and I was sitting sideways on the floor behind her bum.
“Pull off your dress,” I said. Normally I like them half-dressed, but on this occasion I wanted Sarah to be able to have her hands free and also get a clear look at what was about to go on. “And your bra.” Normally I’m not so bothered about breasts but Sarah was quite heavily endowed, which I found quite exciting for some reason. Whatever, they didn’t distract me for long.
“Squat down for me honey,” I commanded gently, “rest your arms against the couch.” And she did, naked, and truly my cup was running over.
So she was squatting. You might call it the Indian squat, but for us gals it’s more familiar as the position we adopt when we need the bathroom but there’s no bathroom available. The toilet aspect wasn’t what excited me (although on reflection there was something hot about this pretty young English girl in that pose in my room). What I liked was the way it opened her body, and how.
I kicked my legs back, so my body was flat along the floor, on my tummy, like I was a little girl watching cartoons. But I was a thirty-five year old inspecting the bum of an eighteen year old. In a final act of preparation, I reached for my bag and pulled out my vanity mirror, just a couple of inches across but big enough for my purposes. I slipped it onto the floor between Sarah’s legs.
“Can you see?”
She looked down. “Yes.” Spoken very quietly. What was I doing?
I moved my face close, just an inch or two away from where’s Sarah’s position separated her ass cheeks nicely, offering me a good clear view of everything I desired most. The white curves of her bum, sloping in towards her crack. The way her skin darkened near the anus, a muddy dirty sexy brown. The soft downy blonde hairs that circled her asshole. The exciting mystery of her hole, the little creases around the edge that wrinkled and winked at me. Knowing that this pretty young bum was at the end of a long busy day. Did Sarah know that too?
With my fingertips I teased her ass-hairs. Looking down I could see Sarah’s eyes in the mirror. “Can you see that?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. I teased and I played, gently tugging them back and forth. From the sound of her breathing Sarah was enjoying it.
I moved my fingertips up, brushing them against the brown skin around her asshole. A little bit sticky. How far could I go?
“Are you a clean girl, Sarah?”
Her eyes lids looked heavy. “Yes.” She was breathing very heavily now.
“I mean, are you a clean girl now?” Her eyes closed completely, and her beautiful breasts heaved with passion. She seemed unable to answer. “If I poked my tongue out,” Sarah’s eyes, now open again, widened completely, “and I licked your asshole, would I taste that you are a clean girl?”
She looked me in the eye. “No.” I slipped my tongue between my lips and passed the tip over Sarah’s ass-hairs. She trembled at the contact but didn’t pull away.
“If I licked your butthole,” I was circling around her anus with my lips as I spoke, the softest of caresses, “what would it be like?”
Her head dropped, the combination of shame and desperate excitement that I so loved. “Dirty,” she sighed, surrendering to my perversion completely, “my bum’s dirty.” And then I was licking her asshole, slavering over her bum, trying uselessly to penetrate her tight virgin sphincter and loving my failure.
I wanted Sarah to come like this, with my tongue in her bum, but my own needs were growing desperate again. I guided her to kneel down, still snacking on her ass, but then urged her face down, down between my knees. Maybe she thought she was being invited to go down on my pussy, but I scooted my knees back like I had before, exposing my ass again but this time her face was just inches away.
I teased a fingertip around her clit, the wetness of her thighs told me my perversion had found a new convert. I pulled my face away from her bum long enough to beg “Lick my asshole, Sarah, please lick my ass.” And I’m sure that she wanted to, that by then Samantha’s dirty bum was as thrilling to her as hers was to me.
Then it was simple, although electric and breathless. They were my fingers on both our clits, giving me the chance to bring us together to the perfect ass-loving climax, and letting Sarah lick and suck and clean my hungry bottom.
It was everything I’d promised both of us, my mouth full of the flavor and the texture of Sarah’s beautiful young bum and the feel of her frantic tonguing of my own behind. I could only imagine it was the same for her, and certainly the way she forced her ass back on my mouth told me she wanted it so bad. I took my cue from her climax, a violent spasming explosion that proved I had truly shown her the way. I responded automatically, uncontrolled, bucking my ass against her face as my climax shuddered through me.
We rolled onto our sides. There was a silence, I don’t know how long. Then I saw Sarah was peeking at me under cover of her elbow. There was a sly little smile on her face. “Fuck,” she murmured dreamily. “No Roman ever did anything like that for me.”