Erotica from Penthouse (12 page)

It took three months and another office party, this one at a beach house. Leslie looked incredible that evening. Her eyes sparkled and her long hair covered her breasts mysteriously. Cynthia seemed the farthest thing from her mind. We were drinking wine and talking when I lightly touched her elbow. The spark seemed genuine.

We went home together that night. First we walked the beach for miles. When I tried to put my arm around her, she pulled back sharply.

“I've never kissed a man,” she said. I assumed she was putting me on. But back in my apartment she insisted on wearing her slacks and blouse to bed. And she would not let me touch her. I thought I had won the prize, but had only been allowed to join the race. Thus began the slowest seduction between two basically consenting adults since the sexual revolution.

The situation improved a month later when we were in my bedroom watching television. Leslie sat behind me on the bed with her arms circling my chest. It was the farthest we had gone so far. Without thinking, I turned and kissed her. Her tongue met mine unafraid. The dam seemed to open. I pushed her down, ground my cock against her cunt, and reached inside the back of her blouse to unhinge her bra, fearing she might panic.

We lay on the bed, kissing wildly, and she returned the pressure from my cock. I explored her ass for the first time, pulling it toward me. She made no move for my cock, but bucked against me, legs spread, and I started to feel a wild, unwanted orgasm. I hadn't come in my pants since high school. It felt good, as if we were dry-humping in her parents' living room, afraid that her pop would walk in. Leslie was taken aback by the sticky wet spot on my pants. She thought that could only happen when a man was inside a woman. But at least she was becoming intrigued by the penis and its capabilities.

The next night, when we started to kiss, I slid my hand down inside her panties. Her clit was dripping wet. She did not resist. Pushing me on my back she unzipped my pants and freed my cock.

She took one look at it and said, “My God, it will never fit.”

I was in heaven but for the lack of a tape recorder. My cock measures five and three-quarter inches or six and one-quarter inches, depending on where the tape measure is placed. I was the ultimate average, for years persecuted by pictures of Johnny Wadd and his foot-long cock. Never had a gorgeous, horny young woman pulled back in fright at the sight of my own equipment. It's an experience that I highly recommend to every man at least once.

Using my finger to explore Leslie's cunt, I discovered the reason for her apprehension. To describe it as tight would be an understatement. Her sex life had apparently focused on oral and anal lovemaking, with a minimum of penetration by anything even as large as a finger. This was unexplored territory! This was a certifiable virgin eager to have me captain of her maiden voyage!

“You'll have to teach me how to suck it,” she declared. “I won't let you put it in yet.”

I found it in my heart to teach her how to administer a blowjob. Lying on my back with my head on a pillow, I encouraged her to first rub her breasts over and around my cock, then slowly lick the bottom of the balls and the entire shaft before gently taking the cock into her mouth and sucking it while tonguing the head. I thought she would rebel at this explicit, paint-by-numbers drill, but she had no hesitation.

After bringing me to fever pitch, she strapped my legs over her shoulders while she crouched over my cock. Wolfing it hungrily, she stuck her finger deep into my anus with more gusto than any woman ever had before. She certainly was not interested in “being gentle.” Meanwhile she increased the speed of her sucking. Just before I came I glanced up. Her eyes looked crazed with pleasure. She swallowed my come eagerly.

“You're a natural,” I moaned, exhausted and drained. “You know how to make a man feel terrific.”

She smiled. It was a smile I saw more and more of as our closeness grew. We worked toward fucking slowly by stretching her cunt with my fingers and tongue until she decided two weeks later that she was elastic enough to deal with my cock. After that, her sexual appetite became voracious. She wanted to try everything, as if making up for very precious lost time.

I shied away from anal sex, thinking the initial pain might be too much for her. But she bought the Vaseline on her own and insisted that I take her. We did it gently the first time, hard and piercing the next. She relished the mix of pleasure and pain. Sometimes I fucked her up the ass standing up, or with her lying on her back on top of me. And she often put me on all fours so she could lick my anus. Then she would plunge her fingers deep inside while alternately cupping my balls and stroking my cock with her other hand. That posture gave me an unreal combination of feeling hot, vulnerable and pleasured at the same time.

I began to think we would be together forever. Her lesbianism never bothered me; it seemed at first like an odd ethnic trait, no more meaningful than if she had been Irish or Venezuelan. Politically, I knew that lesbianism was a choice, not a disease, as our parents thought. I never felt it was something to be ashamed of.

When she moved into my place, I quickly discovered that Leslie, despite her untraditional sexual past, was the most conventional of women. My women friends even thought she was unliberated and my male friends figured I had struck it rich. She thrived on cooking for me and making our home look wonderful. I was waited on hand and foot by a sexy young woman who only wanted to make me happy and comfortable.

And so our problems began. Our sex life flourished, but boredom set in elsewhere. I became critical of her for having no ambition. Her work at the station slacked off and the general manager rebuked her for taking too much time off. Formerly a workaholic, she now rushed home to prepare dinner. Our being together at the station further complicated matters all day long. I started snapping at Leslie far too often.

After a year, she asked for a commitment. She wanted us to always be together and for me to be faithful. Soon afterwards I began paying more attention to other women. I also felt guilty for not giving this wonderful person what she deserved. I even started to rethink Leslie's gay past and found myself, for the first time, filled with doubts.

Could I tell my parents that she had been gay? If we had a family, would our children ever think their mother had a dark secret about her past? Was I facing a lifetime of deception?

At bottom I knew such thoughts were mere excuses. But I also felt that our passion had soured. Even if I were living with the world's most beautiful blonde, I would worry about the inevitable day when her breasts sagged, or convince myself that she must be dumb since she was so gorgeous, or that she was too flashy to be faithful. I was not proud of myself.

I also developed a hypocritical definition of fidelity. I went home with other women, unbuttoned their blouses, feasted on their breasts, then blithely informed them that I could not fuck because of my “commitment” to Leslie. However, I would permit them to go down on me. After coming in their mouths, I went home to Leslie, relieved that I had not violated her trust.

These liaisons convinced me that I was hot stuff. I envisioned a wild sex life if I only broke up with Leslie. The details are uninteresting, but we finally parted. She decided to leave town and start fresh.

My friends predicted she would go back to women. I hoped not, then wondered why. Originally, I had believed that gayness was just as viable as heterosexuality. But now I no longer felt quite the same way. Rather I had come to believe that straights in general were more fulfilled than gays and lesbians.

My friends were right. After about four months of being alone, Leslie began seeing another woman. They moved in together and even bought a house. I was relieved. Making love with a woman who cared for her was at least better than being alone or entangled with a man who left her unhappy. But I was still baffled by the basics. What made Leslie prefer women? I had no answers.

Meanwhile I entered one of those famines most men go through periodically—a time when sex, especially during those first halcyon days with Leslie, was no more than a treasured memory.

THE STUNTWOMAN: HIGH SENSATION SEEKER

By Ginger Fahey

I perform movie and TV stunts for a living. I drive cars, spinning and skidding them, stopping on a mark, executing a near miss or an actual hit. Or I jump out of high windows, fall down stairs, get thrown across rooms and appear to have the daylights beaten out of me. I do all this for money and I enjoy it.

Being a stuntwoman means that I have to keep myself in perfect physical shape. Though amply proportioned, my physique is muscular, and living in Los Angeles has given my hair that sun-streaked-blonde look. I often favor jeans, boots and a cowboy hat, and while I take risks for a living, I am no tomboy.

I always get a jolt of fear before doing a stunt gag. My adrenaline is pumping, my sense of space and time is a little unreal, and my breathing accelerates. Fear creates a state of hyper-awareness. Half of me is filled with terror, while the other half is concerned with the cool, mechanical execution of the stunt. Sex is like that for me, too. I like the element of high sensation in both.

Stunting also satisfies my desire for power. To a large extent, men's opinions run everything. As a stuntwoman I jam their circuits. They don't know what to make of me. For certain men that makes me very, very desirable.

I work in a macho field. That makes my relationships with my male colleagues highly charged and often difficult. If a stuntman doesn't accept a woman as a stuntwoman, he'll try to fuck her. He'll want to see if she'll fuck for a job. I get tested all the time by stuntguys who don't know me.

Taking risks all the time makes me especially aware of how precious things like sex are. I won't waste my time on men who bore me. I want them to be risk-takers like me. An athletic body is a plus; so is a large cock. But I am most interested in men who abhor the ordinary.

Occasionally I get involved with stuntmen. Most of them have been very special men. I particularly like those who act as professional mentors to me—who are willing to train, teach and protect me, but who still regard me as an equal.

Sam, a New York stuntman, is one of my best lovers. Since I am based on the west coast, the geographical limitation is considerable. But the arrangement allows us to keep emotionally unentangled while preserving a sense of camaraderie! Making love with him is always a major event—a
battle.

I had been introduced to Sam through proper stunt channels and was hoping he would give me some pointers. I spent an entire day with him and he taught me some driving tricks and gave me tips on getting a job I wanted. Though not looking for a sexual encounter, I was quite aware how attractive he was. He has black hair and green eyes—a hard combination to resist. After we parted I returned to my place and the phone rang. It was Sam asking for a date. He made it very clear that he didn't want to talk business. I was caught completely off-guard. Sam is one of the hottest stuntmen in the country. He lives on the edge and does very dangerous things. A lot of younger stuntmen revere him. It put me in an awkward and heady position. I said yes.

He took me to an expensive restaurant and over dessert pressed a vial of cocaine into my hand. Coke is it in the movie business, but stuntmen use it with great discretion. I could have refused his offer, but felt it was a sign of his acceptance of me; I knew that it did not compromise how he felt about me professionally.

The best way to describe fucking with Sam is that he is a tornado and I am the state of Kansas. What happened between us is an interesting illustration of how I approach sex. I love a man to be stronger than I am. I admit it. Sex, when consensual, can be violent. And you can interpret violent to mean anything you want. Lovemaking provides no thrill if that dangerous edge in my sexual encounters is lacking.

Sam drove us back to my place after dinner and I found it hard to concentrate on anything but the palpable tension between us. Once inside and after some wonderful kissing, he picked me up so I was facing him. I locked my legs around his waist and he carried me up the flight of stairs to my bedroom.

I left to get candles and when I returned Sam had stripped and was lying
flat
out on the bed with an immense hard-on. He didn't say a word. I lit the candles and with deliberate slowness took off my outer blouse, shoes, stockings and underpants. In my white gauze dress, I climbed onto the bed and straddled him. Sam reached up, pulling loose the shoulders of my dress, freeing my breasts. He looked me up and down and told me that he was going to talk me into an orgasm! I almost lost my breath. No one had ever done that to me before.

Sam undid the rest of my dress and pulled it off. I was sitting on him, his thighs locked in between mine. Sam ordered me to look at his cock. He told me to imagine how his hardness would feel inside of me. I felt that twinge of a contraction inside my cunt as Sam entwined his fingers in mine, holding me still. He had beautiful hands; broad and brown with square fingernails. I felt the strain of his muscles through his grip. He told me that his cock was to be the center of all my attention and pleasure, and that orgasmic release depended on my acceptance of that. I couldn't speak.

Then Sam described my arousal and that is exactly how my body responded. He said my breasts were made to be sucked and that their roundness and softness demanded a hard cock in between them. My nipples grew hard from his voice. He saw that and told me to slowly describe what his cock would feel like fucking my breasts. I couldn't get the words out but Sam insisted. I told him that the humid warmth of his cock made my mouth want to suck it. Sam told me to imagine that it was in my mouth.

I looked down. His thighs are beautifully muscled and his cock was straining. The balls were drawn up tight. I didn't want him to shoot. I said so but Sam smiled and replied that it wasn't about to happen. He told me how soft my thighs were and that as I thought about his stiff cock, the lips of my cunt would part and the muscles inside would contract as if around his shaft. I felt it happen. I struggled against the grip of his hands because I wanted to fill up my cunt with his cock. He wouldn't let me do it. He described his super-heated tongue teasing my clitoris and opening the folds of my cunt.