Penthouse
Authors: Penthouse International
… a movie theater where the hot sex scene
isn’t
on the screen.
(Samantha Fleskin’s “A Hot Movie Date”)
… a daring liaison between two women, all bought and paid for.
(Robbi Sommers’s “Marie”)
… a pair of strippers discover their inner lesbian.
(Scarlett Fever’s “Bi-Curious Female Seeking Same”)
… a phone-sex session that’s pure electricity.
(Jolie Graham’s “The Hot Line”)
… a dance student teaches her instructor a torrid variation of the tango.
(JoAnn Bren Guernsey’s “Private Lessons”)
… bright lights, big binoculars—and some very naughty neighbors.
(Marcy Sheiner’s “The Naked City”)
… a coffeehouse where the waitress serves her own hot specialty.
(Susan Scotto’s “On the House”)
THER
B
OOKS IN THE
S
ERIES
:
E
ROTICA FROM
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ENTHOUSE
M
ORE
E
ROTICA FROM
P
ENTHOUSE
E
ROTICA FROM
P
ENTHOUSE
III
L
ETTERS TO
P
ENTHOUSE
I
L
ETTERS TO
P
ENTHOUSE
II
L
ETTERS TO
P
ENTHOUSE
III
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ETTERS TO
P
ENTHOUSE
IV
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ETTERS TO
P
ENTHOUSE
V
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ETTERS TO
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ENTHOUSE
VI
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ETTERS TO
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ENTHOUSE
VII
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ETTERS TO
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ENTHOUSE
VIII
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ETTERS TO
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ENTHOUSE
XII
26 N
IGHTS
: A S
EXUAL
A
DVENTURE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by General Media Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: March 2010
ISBN: 978-0-446-53941-8
Contents
Carmen Visits the Ladies’ Room
Bi-Curious Female Seeking Same
Double My Pleasure on a Double-Decker
B
egun in 1993 as a column especially for women writers, “Bedtime Stories” continued the
Penthouse
tradition of providing the best erotic entertainment for men. It enabled women from all walks of life, including some of
today’s most popular erotic fiction writers, a prominent place to publish their incredible flights of fancy. Tantalizing readers
with images that expressed their wide-ranging sexual desires, “Bedtime Stories” helped to bring erotic fiction into the mainstream
of American literature. Although no longer published in the magazine, this exciting column continues to provide an extraordinary
venue for writers and readers alike on our website Penthouse.com. Here for your enjoyment is a mixture of stories from the
magazine and the website. It has been my pleasure to act as editor of this column since its inception. I hope you enjoy reading
these stories as much as I have.
Lavada Nahon
Penthouse
Magazine
Editor, “Bedtime Stories”
BY
S
UZANNE
L
ICATA
I
t burns, always burns. So few words spoken, so little needs to be said.
The air is hot and heavy, and the air conditioner is broken. We open a window facing the ocean, and a warm, wet, humid breeze
reaches toward us. But we get hotter, just keep burning.
I wear a loose white T-shirt and khaki shorts, no bra. I am barefoot. My hair is tied back, and the sweat has saturated the
top half of my chest. My neck drips as if cool rain is beating upon me. But it is not cool. Hot, always hot.
He lies on an unmade bed, just pants. Beads from a nearby doorway beat together, and wind chimes sing, reminding us of the
ocean breeze blowing aimlessly around the room. It never reaches us, never cools us.
I stand at the bottom of the bed and wait. A surge of juices builds between my legs.
His hands reach to my head and he loosens my hair clip. My blond hair falls around my face, in my eyes—it moves as I breathe.
But I don’t move. My shirt is being
pulled up and he is touching my stomach, just touching and burning—l breathe harder. I need more. Wildly, I throw my head
back. I’m angry, touch me. I’m so wet, hot, dripping.
He smells sweet with every breath I breathe. He has yet to kiss me, but I can taste him, his mouth so close to mine. Our eyes
meet. His hands still wandering but not touching. Touch me.
The last of the sunlight has faded, and the beginning of twilight is illuminating what is left of the day, casting dark and
deep shadows around the room. Three candles, fragrant and burning in the corner of the room, flicker a softer set of shadows
to the far wall. A roaring ocean, so loud. Suddenly every sound and shape seems loud and sharp. But I am fucking burning.
I feel weak and vulnerable and anything goes. I want so badly for him to touch me. I am so wet and hot. I want to scream—I’m
angry.
He is sure of himself as he climbs off the bed. Every bit of energy that leaves my body climbs into his, empowers him, and
transforms him into complete power. He possesses me. I have no control left. I am only his—what he wants me to be.
I stand in front of him now, my king, and I wait for his next command. But I find my feet moving one behind the other—I back
slowly into a cool wall, afraid. The temperature has probably dropped to a cool and comfortable breeze. Probably.
I can go no further, my body completely neutral and waiting for the next move, his move. His strong hands open my shorts,
zipper then button. Inside my shorts he reaches around my waist. His hands slide down each side of my hips now, down my thighs
as he shimmies the shorts to the floor.
He kneels. Breathing hot breaths between my legs. I want to thrust my hotness into his face, but I know I must wait. I’m dripping,
burning. He kisses my thighs as his hands massage my breasts.
He comes up quickly and suddenly. We are face to face. Tears well up in my eyes, I don’t know why. He extends my arms over
my head and forcefully holds them against the wall. But I dare not break free for only he can set me free.
He crashes his hips against mine, and we are moving in perfect sync. We grind harder and harder, my whole body being thrown
against the wall. He rubs against me.
He is biting my mouth, my lips. Tears of pleasure roll down my face to meet the never-ending water pouring from my hair. Still
so hot. I am sucking his tongue, biting, sucking hard. My hands still raised above my head. He is finally touching me. His
body to mine. My eyes roll to the back of my head—my head banging against the wall.
His hands roam my body now, but I still hold my arms above my head, clutching my wrists. I forget to relax—to release.
His fingers roam into my underwear; they come up wet and find their way into my mouth. I suck them. Lick them. Bite them.
I taste sweet, and he licks my tongue—we share me.
I am going crazy. He is driving me crazy. Crazy.
I turn to face the wall to get away—to regain myself. I mustn’t be here. But I was born to be here. My face cooled by the
cool wall, I rub hard into it. Cool. I need cool.
Our bodies never leave that sync, my ass now grinding into his penis. Moving slowly, never missing a beat.
I cry now, his fingers fondling inside me, two fingers fondling inside me. And the rest of his hand cupping my vagina and
pushing my ass into his pants. I reach to undo
his pants. I sense I have his permission. It is time. Somehow my shirt lies on the floor, torn.
He stands behind me naked. He turns me. I move my face along his as I fall deeper and deeper into the passion. He affixes
a gaze into my eyes and lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist. I am swept to his bed and into the night. Holding my
hair in his hands, forcefully mashing it against my head as our kiss becomes wildly passionate.
Each part of my body comes to life under this touch, giving me what I need, have needed… and when I need it. I shiver and
burn. He knows how to handle me, almost calculating but with certain unpredictability. I am the most alive I will ever be.
I run my fingers through his hair, down his back, around his waist, and, finally, between his legs. I stroke him. I breathe
down his neck and kiss his chest and lick around his nipples. I move slowly and his groans edge me a little farther to his
stomach, where I stop before taking him in my mouth. I lick up and down and twirl my tongue around the top of his penis. I
finally send him down my throat and bob my head between his legs. I go farther below and moisten the area beneath but quickly
return to his pulsating penis. Above I roll my finger around his tongue, which has just returned from being buried deep inside
me.
I stop, I can’t wait to kiss him. He towers over me as our positions change. He holds my ass up in the air, bringing my body
to his mouth, and begins to drink me. I am so wet, and his tongue turns me inside out. He returns to me, but now the look
in his eye turns from passion to savage. I sense he has gone mad with this fever, and it spawns an animalistic state of ferociousness
and rage within my soul.
We fall off the bed onto the floor. We play a game of cat and mouse. I try to get away, and at every attempt, his grip tightens.
I crawl backward on my hands, now sinking to my elbows. He crawls on top of me, keeping my body between his legs and increasing
my drive for escaping him.
He plunges himself between my spread legs, and I fall lifelessly into bliss. He pumps my body up and down and lets the passion
back in. My nails run down his spine. He pumps harder and harder as I beg. My entire body is being lifted from the floor.
His teeth are clenched. We explode.
Ecstasy of this magnitude has an energy all its own. Our souls touch briefly as the climactic peak of this episode flows.
The air cools now, almost chilling. There is less to be said now than when we started. Yet his look and touch will live inside
me forever.
BY
S
ARAH
K
ATHERINE
I
didn’t mean to walk in on him—it was all an accident. I got to his apartment and found the door unlocked. I walked in and
called out for him, but there was no answer. I knew that he usually did not leave his place unlocked— he would often remind
me that we
are
in New York and we
should
be careful. I decided to check around; maybe he was asleep. I pictured myself walking into his bedroom and finding him dozing
peacefully in his bed, sleeping off the afternoon high.
