Erotica from Penthouse (3 page)

“Shoot it,” she cried. “Shoot it into me, make me take it.” I pushed my cock deep inside her. Liz was moaning—for me, for my pleasure—while holding the vibrator against my ass. With my last spasm I fell on top of her and we shared a deep, wet, tired kiss.

The two vibrators became a part of our sex lives. We named them Ho and Joe and even took them with us on weekends to the country. It was on one of those weekends that I raised the subject of her Christmas gift. She mused for a moment, then looked up at me with an innocent smile and said, “Batteries.”

THE INDELIBLE AFFAIR

By Natasha Sarnoff

Max Perry owned a Greenwich Village jazz club and had made a lot of money. But the time we spent together wasn't in the city. He loved to fish. That's what he was doing the first time I saw him on Fire Island on a hot July day while I was still married. With my 14-month-old son slung on my hip I walked to the shoreline.

“What do you catch doing that?” I inquired.

“Usually not much,” he answered.

His mouth was full and sensual, and behind his aviator sunglasses I knew his eyes were traveling my body. The baby pulled at the bra strap on my bikini, exposing the white flesh below the tan line and the outer ring of my nipple. Max examined the breast coolly. His detachment excited me, and I waited until he had finished looking before slowly pulling up the strap. I am tall with long legs, a flat belly, narrow hips and straight dark hair.

Max flung the rod over his shoulder and the line whistled past me beyond the low-breaking waves.

“I don't fish because of what I can catch,” he continued. “I fish because I like standing here.”

He reeled in the line and smiled at me.

“Can I try?” I asked.

His arm grazed mine as he put my index finger through the line and showed me how to release it. I handed the baby to him and cast the line in a perfect arc above the water. Max raised his eyebrows in approval.

“Not bad,” he admitted.

“I have an older brother,” I told him. “He taught me to throw a ball. It's the same motion.”

I returned the rod to him and grasped the baby under his chubby arms. His mouth sucked at my shoulder.

“I have to go now,” I murmured. “It's time for lunch.”

“I'll walk you back,” he said. We walked across the dunes to the house my husband and I had rented for the summer. I put the baby in his crib and, knowing what was going to happen next, returned to the shaded deck in back. Wordlessly Max positioned my shoulders against the siding and untied my bikini top so that my breasts fell free.

After examining them for a moment with the same detachment I had noticed on the beach he grasped the nipples and rolled them between his thumbs and index fingers. They hardened instantly and a rush of wetness dampened the crotch of my bathing suit. Then he ran his hands over my belly and pulled the bottom of my bikini down around my thighs. He passed his hand between my legs and then withdrew it. “Open your mouth,” he commanded. I did and he inserted his wet index finger inside.

“Suck,” he ordered.

I was weak with excitement, but knew what I had to do.

With leaden arms I reached up and removed his finger. “I'm sorry,” I whispered. “Not now. I can't.”

A flicker of contempt crossed his face, but then he shugged. “Are you sure?” he persisted.

“Yes,” I replied.

He picked up the rod and walked off the deck and I went inside. I threw myself face down on the bed, put my fingers between my legs and masturbated.

I was on the beach with my husband the next time I saw Max Perry. I introduced them and we became friends. Max and my husband even began fishing together. Neither Max nor I ever mentioned what had happened between us on the back deck. Not until five years later, after I had ended my marriage and spent a summer in Europe, did Max and I become lovers. But by that time I was ready for him.

I arranged that trip to Europe very carefully, having sent my son to stay with my mother. I wanted to feel free to do as I pleased for the entire two months. I was 31 years old and had been married 10 years. But I was a virgin when I got married, I had remained monogamous during the years my husband and I were together and I knew very little about sex. I intended to educate myself that summer, and I wasn't about to let anything get in my way.

My TWA flight was scheduled to leave for London at 10:30 on a June evening. I arrived at Kennedy Airport early, wearing a pair of blue jeans, sandals, a scoop-necked t-shirt and a slender gold chain around my neck. I carried only one bag. A friend in London had invited me to stay with her, but I hoped that would not be necessary. Before long, I saw what I wanted. He was in his late 30’s, about 5 feet 10 inches tall with thinning, reddish hair, pale, freckled skin and a sturdy, muscular body. I got behind him in the check-in line and tapped him on the shoulder. “Listen,” I said. “Would you mind if I sat next to you? I'm very anxious about flying, but I'll be okay if I just have someone to talk to.”

He was an ex-trumpet player turned songwriter on his way to London to write the musical score for a film. That morning, when the flight landed, I checked into the Hilton with him. While he made his telephone calls I took a scented pine bath and then sat naked in his lap in an armchair with a view of Park Lane and Hyde Park. He kissed me, fondled my breasts and stroked my thighs. Then, after I had stretched out on cool sheets, he unbuckled his thick leather belt and dropped his jeans to reveal a healthy erection. Lying down beside me he gathered me to him.

I whispered, “Please, let me do this my way.”

“Sure, baby,” he murmured. “Anything you want.”

I flung my leg over him and pounded my clitoris against his muscled thigh, moving slowly at first and then gaining momentum. It took a long while. Sweat ran from between my breasts and under my armpits before the tiny organ exploded and a feeling of relaxation flooded my thighs. Although I had virtually masturbated myself to orgasm, this was the first time I had ever come with a man. I felt exhilarated. “I did it,” I cried as I fell back panting.

“Good for you,” he laughed as he turned me on my back. Opening my legs, he put his cock inside me and galloped until he came.

The musician was the first of many men I knew that summer. My experience with him freed me. I became regularly orgasmic and my appetite for experiment sharpened as I wandered through Europe, in Rome, in the elevator of a hotel, I got off on the same floor with an American doctor and returned to his room with him. Straddled above me with his cock deep in my throat, he gently peeled back my labia and licked me to orgasm.

In Milan I showered with a Italian financier who had me bend over the sink while he inserted a soaped index finger into my anus and massaged my clitoris until I came. I learned to come in every position with a French poet (who could stay erect for long periods) simply by rubbing my clitoris against the base of his cock. By the time I left Europe I was a different person—no longer the unskilled housewife I had been when I arrived. But even though I liked all the men I knew that summer, I didn't want to continue seeing any of them. I had done what I needed to do and wanted to take a break from sex for a while. But that September, a week after I returned from Europe, Max Perry began calling me.

In the beginning I told him I wasn't interested. Over the years I'd seen him with dozens of women, never with any one for very long. The detachment that made him so sexually exciting carried over into the rest of his life and made him an unreliable lover. In an affair with Max Perry two things would be certain: it would be good, and it would be short.

“Max,” I repeated in November, “I'm really not interested.” I said the same thing in January and then, on an evening in February, he answered me back.

“Oh, for God's sake,” he exclaimed, “I'm not interested in you either. But we're old friends. I've known you for years. Why can't we have dinner?”

I hesitated for a moment and then decided he was right.

“Okay,” I shrugged. “Why not?”

I met him at a small French restaurant not far from his club in the Village. We sat side by side in a banquette. The sleeve of his velour shirt brushed my arm, and beneath my silk skirt I could feel his thigh pressed against mine. He had just returned from a week of fishing in the Caribbean and his face was deeply tanned. Involuntarily I began to wonder who he had taken with him. After dinner, outside in the cold air of Bleecker Street, I did not want to leave him. With a wet snow falling I leaned toward him with my fur coat unbuttoned and my mouth open, but he hailed a cab and kissed me chastely on the forehead. “Just friends,” he gloated as he paid the driver and gave him my uptown address.

I waited a week before I gave in and called him. “I don't want to be your friend anymore,” I confessed.

He lived in a penthouse apartment in the West Village. After he let me in he stretched out on the velvet sofa with his hands clasped behind his head. I sat opposite him in an armchair.

“So you don't want to be friends,” he grinned.

“No,” I said, “I really don't.”

“Then why don't you come over here?” he urged. I kicked off my shoes and lay down beside him on the sofa. His hands remained clasped behind his head with that same detached attitude that had first excited me on the beach. I kissed him and he turned to me and with perfect control slowly explored my mouth with his tongue. He reached down and unbuckled his pants and opened the zipper. Then he stood up. “Show me what you can do,” he demanded.

I thought about all the times I had refused him, and I knew he was going to make me pay for those rejections. But I had learned a lot in Europe, and I was going to enjoy making good the debt.

Kneeling before him I took down his pants. I kissed the insides of his thighs and licked his balls. Then, after sucking gently on the tip of his cock, I took him deep into my throat. “That's a good girl,” he groaned, cupping my head in his hands and thrusting deeper and deeper. I ran my hands up and down his legs, moaning, twisting and whimpering with excitement. I was still dressed and I began to unbutton my blouse. “Wait,” he commanded. I writhed until he finished with my mouth and withdrew.

“All right,” he said. “Get up.”

In the bedroom, although I wanted to rip my clothes off, he forced me to undress slowly. When I was fully nude he ordered me to lie down and spread my legs. I did. “Wider,” he insisted. I did so and he sat down beside me and parted my lips with his fingers. He rubbed me deftly, stopping each time I was on the verge of orgasm.

“Oh please,” I moaned.

“Not yet,” he replied sternly.

He turned me over, positioned me on a pillow and came into me from behind, manipulating my clitoris with his hand and stopping each time just as I was about to come. Finally I screamed, thrashed onto my back and guided his hips into mine. He laughed and began to move rhythmically in tandem with me. His control was perfect. When I came, he began to groan and pound at me until he too came with a violent shudder. We lay drenched together and then fell asleep.

Max Perry and I began seeing each other several times a week. All of my sexual experimentation in Europe culminated in our affair. The depersonalized attitude he brought to our lovemaking turned me on in ways I never would have believed possible before my European trip.

When summer came we went to Fire Island, where we had first met. With my son in camp we spent long weeks at the beach. It was there that our most powerful and erotic sex took place. I wore few clothes (never more than a bikini bottom in the house) which Max felt free to pull off whenever he pleased—sometimes when I was cooking or doing the laundry.

Once he bent me over a corner of the dining room table and entered me from the rear and then, just as I found the pressure unbearable, he pulled out, sat up on the table, pushed me to my knees and, holding my face in his hands, guided his cock into my mouth, where he came. Seeing my dismayed expression he ordered me to stand up and play with myself in front of him. I did so, my head bent with shame at my excitement. Just as I was about to come he removed my fingers, pulled me up on the table and gently licked me to orgasm with his tongue.

In the mornings we rose before dawn and went out to the beach. In a depression surrounded by dunes Max would take off his bathing trunks, sit down on a blanket and lean back. I would lie on my stomach, my head between his legs, my tongue busy.

Occasionally he would guide my head with his hands, pulling at my ears to direct his motions. I found this way of directing me unbearably exciting, and before we even began I was usually moist and groaning with anticipation. Although I was primed to come at a touch, Max never let me. When he was ready he would turn me toward him and tease me, sometimes with his fingers, more usually with his tongue or his cock. When he finally allowed me to come it was always explosive. One of my most vivid memories is of watching the sun rise out of the ocean with Max's body pounding on top of me.

That winter, with no local beaches available, Max and I went to Grenada, a Caribbean paradise with a number of deserted beaches, where we made love for hours. One night, in the bar of our hotel, Max met a beautiful, dusky-skinned local woman named Elita and invited her to join us at the beach the following day.

“I want you to see me with another woman,” he explained. Just the tone of his voice excited me. Elita sat between us in the car the next day as we drove to the beach. While driving, Max parted her legs and ran his hand along the inside of her thighs. I grew wet watching him, half mad with jealousy.

At the beach Max spread a blanket and lay Elita down on it. She pulled off her skirt and wriggled out of her bikini. Max motioned that I was to take my clothes off as well while I watched them. “Sit there,” he ordered, settling me alongside them. Then, after fondling Elita's firm breasts and spreading her legs with the same efficient and impersonal attitude he used with me, he played with her clitoris until she began to squirm with desire. “Isn't she pretty?” he asked me. I nodded dumbly, my body burning with excitement.

“Keep watching,” Max commanded as he thrust into her over and over again in the hot sun. Finally, when I thought I could bear it no longer, he gestured for me to lie down alongside Elita, dismounted and shoved her toward me. We embraced, pressing our bodies together. Then she hovered over me, her clitoris pressed to my mouth, her tongue between my legs.