My lost superhero Josh had jet black hair, movie star cheekbones, clever hands, the devil’s mouth, and an instinct for driving me crazy. Josh believed in his own myths. He was forty miles an hour over the speed limit that day, more powerful than a locomotive, when we smashed into the tractor trailer. He blew out like a candle. I sputtered in a sort of half life, year after year, marked forever by that brief dance with insanity.
I booked the dragon boat cruise on Ha Long Bay to use up a few free days at the end of my business trip, figuring my disability wouldn’t be a problem on the luxurious junk. I wasn’t looking for companionship, just a bit of peace. But when British honeymooners Stan and Phil welcomed me into their circle of love, I discovered how much healing I still needed.
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As I passed a side tunnel, some inarticulate sound caught my attention, something halfway between a grunt and a sob. I froze, straining my ears. There was a moment of silence, then it came again, a breathy moan, definitely human, coming from the shadowy depths to my right.
Careful not to scuff my trainers along the earth, I stepped closer and peered into the darkness.
“Oh! Oh, sweet Jesus!”
Only a few words, but enough for me to recognize the voice. Heat flashed through my body like summer lightning. I crept deeper into the hollowed rock, knowing I should move in the other direction, but unable to stop myself.
My eyes adjusted to the dimness. Now I could make out the shape of a man, braced against the wall, legs spread, hips tilted. Another man kneeled on the rocky floor, gripping those splayed thighs, head bobbing in an unmistakable rhythm. The standing man groaned again. He threaded his fingers through the other’s hair, pulling him closer, forcing his cock deeper into his lover’s mouth.
I stopped breathing. My nipples snapped into tight beacons of sensation under my loose shirt. My clit pulsed with each thrust. The damp crotch of my leggings clung to my swelling folds.
“Yeah, oh yeah, oh baby, suck me, oh, suck, suck, yeah…” Phil chanted in time with his thrusts as he ground his pelvis into Stan’s face. Moment by moment, I saw more clearly. Stan pulled away to catch a breath, long enough for me to glimpse the pale, fat shaft he was worshipping. Then he opened wide, engulfing the rod of flesh once more.
I took a step closer, then another. I wanted to see, to smell, to hear Phil’s moans as his husband tried to drain his cum. The men were oblivious. I rubbed my clit through my clothes, grinding at it with my fist. Sparks rippled out from that center. My muscles clenched around emptiness. I wanted that cock, some cock, in my cunt, in my mouth, somewhere, anywhere. I imagined Phil turning his burly husband onto his belly, opening his rear hole, plunging deep. I wanted that too, wanted to see it, to feel it.
Lisabet Sarai has been addicted to words all her life. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – nearly one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html), along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com), she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads and finally, on Twitter. Sign up for her VIP email list here: https://btn.ymlp.com/xgjjhmhugmgh