Penthouse (25 page)

Once seated, she looked left, studying the tightly
bunned blond head of the woman beside her until the woman glared back. To the right she scrutinized Greg while tugging a curl
from a corner of her wire spectacles. Seven scattered freckles on a cute nose insisted she was innocent. Greg could not help
but smile. Aisle lights faded on the midnight flight from Phoenix to San Diego. The plane took the runway.

Greg fantasized a slick pussy rotating atop his cock as the plane ascended toward the clouds. That “Weeeeeeeee!!!!” feeling
in the bottom of his head during takeoff might mix with the sensation of a cunt slide-sucking his prick. With any luck it
would freak out his brain, and he’d come until the pussy was sprayed white, the chair filled with goo, and him a babbling
idiot.

Greg snorted at this unlikelihood and chanced a look at the girl, who had turned away from him. Beside her the woman in the
bun had fallen asleep with a business publication in her lap. The redhead’s legs were curled under, stretching her dress above
her ass. She lay sideways against the back of the seat, her head perilously close to the padded shoulder of Ms. Executive.
Greg blinked while his mind did back flips. He took a deep breath and wondered how her ice-cream skin would quiver if he rubbed
it with his five-o’clock shadow.

Peach straps lined each cheek of that ass, and they pouted as if in prison. She had magenta pubic hair that didn’t curl, lying
like a horse’s mane between her thighs. Greg desperately wanted a comb. This girl was testing him.

But why? Why him? What the hell could he do for her on a plane that was completely full? If he shoved his mouth in the crack
of her ass and gobbled the marshmallow flesh, people would notice. The pulse pounded in his prick as his hand strayed to the
armrest and pushed it slowly up.

The garters were old silk, the buckles antique, with etchings of flowers on the tarnished clips. Had she bought them used?
How many pussies had that lace strapped down to be licked? Maybe years ago she had stolen them from the drawer of an older
sister who’d bought them at a vintage shop and worn them thin. Perhaps the older sister’s cunt was a golden red and glistened
like sun-drenched wheat when it came, whereas the younger’s was more of a dark, dewy velvet rose.

The girl did not move or indicate that she was aware of Greg’s attentions, but he knew she was. She was waiting for his hands,
which were beautiful. Greg was vain about them, had the nails manicured twice a month so the tips were white. Tanned and double-jointed,
they were perfect for finger-fucking, nipple pinching, and of course caressing. He rested a forefinger on her left garter.

“Let’s see,” he said to himself, “if this girl really wants to play.”

The finger slipped beneath the silk, and pulled it taut, like a bow. He heard her hold her breath, so he let go. The snap
of silk against skin sounds softer than it feels, and as he watched, a red mark surfaced, marking her ass.

Uh-oh,
he thought. Greg figured he could point to the guy in front of them if she turned around angry. Her backside began to quiver.
He gulped. She was moving, but not turning… no, not at all, merely raising that powder puff farther into the air, exposing
a view of her crevice, which was clenching like a hungry mouth, open and shut.

Holy God, was it alive?

That was not a pussy. It was an exotic sea anemone. Glistening pink swirled before Greg’s eyes. Its closing and popping open
undid his manners. Without thinking, he shoved his finger into the puckering mouth.

“Hello, hello, hello,” it said to him, soft as a cloud and slick as a squid. He rested his other hand on her ass cheek for
support, because he felt faint at his own luck. He pushed in and out a bit just for the hell of it, enjoying the gooey sweetness,
then got down to business.

Let’s see,
he silently asked.
Where are you, hmm?

The tip of his finger brushed every crevice, all over the deliciously slimy interior.

“Where are you?” he whispered. “Come out, come out, wherever you are—ahhh, there she is. C’mere.” His finger rubbed the little
thing affectionately, like the chin of a reluctant cat.

The G spot.

It was a little uneven and tucked beneath a ridge under the belly button. It was prickly.

Her asshole was fluffy; all he wanted to do was slap on a little butter and some honey and eat this biscuit. It was rutting
onto his finger as he teased the G spot. His pearl-tipped pinkie traveled the rim of the anus, exploring its sensitive ridges—pretending
to plunge in, then not. So smug was he at holding her orgasm in the palm of his hand that he dipped his finger into her squishy
pussy like a chip to be popped into his mouth. Then Mr. Cool realized
he
could not wait.

The pinkie baptized itself deeply into the ass, the forefinger fondled her clit without mercy. Two other fingers spun around
inside to relieve the G spot of its torture.

She came with the quietest of jerks. Cream frothed onto Greg’s wrist. Her legs did not stop trembling, even as he rubbed the
moisture down her flanks to her curled toes. Greg merrily licked his digits and waited to see what would happen next.

It took a while for her to sit up.

Perhaps he should stop licking his fingers, or maybe extend his hand to share?

The dishevelment of the blonde with the business magazine wiped the smirk off his face. His redhead stood, her own fingers
glistening. Her fox eyes looked meaningfully at what he recognized now to be the third porn of this party. The magazine was
shredded across the woman’s lap. Wetness darkened the crotch of her pants, and the zipper was down. The bun, which had been
pulled firmly back, now stumbled around her shoulders in disarray.

Incredulous, he looked to the clever redheaded girl for confirmation, and she held up the prize fingers. In slow motion they
glided wetly to his nose. He inhaled a full-bodied pussy aroma that was not the redhead’s.

She whispered, “Meet me in the john.” And left.

This is getting out of hand,
he thought happily, while rubbing come into his nostrils. Who was he dealing with?

Aw, who cares,
he answered, standing in the aisle, knowing his erection was trying to tear like Alien through his pants. He imagined the
passengers’ alarm if li’l Elvis actually did fight its way through zipper-land and hiss at everybody, shooting sperm everywhere.
People would scream and faint; the plane would crash, because the captains would get it in the eye.… But nothing bizarre occurred,
and Greg reached the bathroom with little incident.

He pulled off his pants faster than Clark Kent. Arranging his jeans on the toilet as a cushion, he sat and spread his thighs
wide so his dick stuck straight up like a butter churn. The door handle clicked. He had left it unlocked, almost daring someone
else to enter. She peeked in and observed his eager extremity. A little slyness flickered at the corners of that shapely mouth.
A kisser like Veronica Lake’s, he decided: wide hilly upper lip, and tiny round
bottom one, perfect for framing the stem of a prick as the tongue caressed its vein.

Her glasses were gone, and Greg smiled at this mysterious female with the elegant cheekbones, suddenly understanding the predatory
look in her eyes. This was no girl, this was a woman. She stepped in, immediately leaning into him, and without ceremony pulled
up the bottom of her dress. He kept his fists clenched on his knees, unwilling to touch her yet.

The “Fasten Seat Belt” light came on outside. There were knocks on the door. Eyeing Greg, the redhead reached back and locked
it with finality.

She pulled the plaid garment over her head, and two ice-cream-cone toppers spilled from the material, bounced free a few times,
then lay still. Being naturally large, there was a nice swing to them when she arched her back. Their round architecture offered
refuge and pleasure. They molded softly around his face. He inhaled and sighed, then took up like a pig at supper, slurping
while she watched and played with his hair.

All the while an emergency was building up in his cock. It began as a glowing ball of sexual energy throbbing between his
anus and dick. When she talked dirty, it grew. It remained at the base of his dick and felt about the size of an apricot,
at first. But when she reached down and stroked his balls, cooing and sucking, the energy ballooned to cantaloupe size. Yet,
for him, the most wonderful thing about sex was not launching that energy too soon.

Finally she placed one bare foot on the toilet paper rack, the other on a ledge. With thighs trapped in juice-darkened garters,
she squatted onto Greg like an Indian mistress, slower than poured honey. He banged his head back against the wall in happy
tension as his hands
kneaded her buttocks. She was so leisurely about it, he felt he would go insane. It was like his dick was being stirred into
something warm, like hot chocolate, or being mixed into somebody’s dessert, with melting sugar, milk, and butter. Absolutely
delectable.

She put him in a semi-liquid world each time she engulfed him, her nipples bobbing, boobs shining. His anus extended to the
walls around them as if the walls were caving in. As the stewardess outside buckled her seat belt and opened a trashy novel,
the redhead told Greg she wished there was time for an ass fucking. And would he like to squirt all over her meringue cheeks
and rub it in like a lotion? Greg squeezed her waist and pumped her up and down, faster and faster. The plane was descending.
His ears popped. That “Weeeeee!!!” feeling hit the back of his head. His eyes crossed. His balls rumbled.

Holy fucking damn, he moaned and let it go, lifting her off just before his spasms pumped out the sperm. It shot up from the
base of his dick and jetted out the tip like machine-gun fire. Later he swore it was about two-hundred miles per hour. Everything
he had erupted onto her stomach and breast.

She kneaded his dick to wring every bit of mellow from it, watching—too intently—the way his jaw quivered as he forced himself
not to squeeze her thighs too hard. She admired the Adam’s apple in his straining neck. She smiled at his wide-open eyes.
It was charming that he did not know what to say.

Sweat made their hair dark at the roots. He luxuriated in her softness, while she licked jism from his fingers like lemon
pie.

The plane skidded to a stop, forcing her to lean into him. Greg locked her in his arms.

“Tell me your name?” he asked, stroking her vanilla back.

She kissed the top of his head and whispered, “Don’t ruin it.”

“Not even a name?”

“All right,” she said in his ear with a giggle. “Just call me Thumper.”

She dressed, gave him a deep kiss, then backed out the door with the same sly smile she wore upon entering.

He just sat on the toilet and glowed for a while. When the stewardess jiggled the handle and inquired if anyone was left,
he gathered his spent body together and sauntered back to his seat. Greg reached for his briefcase and spied a silver clip
with a few peach strands stuck in the minuscule spring.

He put it in his pocket.

Outside, Thumper jumped in a taxi. She pulled out a cell phone.

“Hello, Helen? Sorry to call you at home so late, but I’ve changed my mind, we won’t have to push back the deadline on my
Erotica
story, after all, because I just wrote the last page about five minutes ago. It’s a new process of writing for me, exhaustive,
but definitely satisfying,” she confided, unable to suppress a grin as she watched Greg walk out the glass doors and hail
his own taxi.

BY
J
ENNIFER
M
ILLER

F
ive miles to Minooka.” The excitement in me doubled at the sight of the sign. Jade and I became friends over the Internet,
both avoiding the real world. I think fate made us meet and become friends. We had both just gotten out of abusive relationships
and needed each other’s understanding to survive.

We lived about four hours from each other, so after talking a few months we decided to meet. Jade seemed very dear to me,
and had become my closest friend.

She had found a hotel halfway between our towns and reserved our rooms. I was so nervous I hunted down a restaurant right
off the highway, and sat for a minute to reapply my lipstick. I then headed for the hotel.

When I walked in I was completely taken by surprise:
This is a lovers’ cove!
It was lit by candlelight, and a sensual aroma consumed the air.

I gave the hostess my name and she smiled and said, “The other half of your party is waiting at the table.” A young, handsome
waiter escorted me to the table.

Jade practically jumped out of her chair and ran to me. I had been so worried about how the first minute we met would go.
We hugged, and kissed each other’s cheek, as if we had been friends since grade school.

We talked about every major part of our lives, and even the minor parts of them. We were still talking about grade school
when the cute waiter took our orders. We talked about old boyfriends and the trouble we caused.

When our food arrived we were still laughing about childhood like we were still kids. It was amazing—even though we talked
online all the time, I never imagined this day going so well.

I was sipping on my drink when I felt her leg run up my calf. I wondered,
Was that an accident? Or is she coming on to me?
I kept questioning what happened, but my body was busy sending me signals. It didn’t matter really how it happened, what
mattered was I liked the feel of it.
Should I attempt to rub her leg? I will know for sure then if this is something…

I looked deep into her eyes as we talked, so I could watch her reaction. I slipped my foot out of my high-heeled shoe. Slowly
I ran the side of my foot up Jade’s soft, well-defined calf. I watched carefully for her reaction. Her next breath was a little
deeper, the corners of her lips lifted a little higher. I slowly caressed her calf.