Sweet Danger (18 page)
Authors: Violet Blue
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors), #Erotica, #Romance, #Contemporary
The doctor pulled out of my ass and took the tape recorder out of the nurse’s hand. He came around the bed and positioned himself at my upper body. The nurse turned an unseen crank, lowering my head until my upper body was far enough below my hips to put my mouth within easy reach of the doctor’s cock. Then she guided the doctor’s cock to my mouth and began to stroke the shaft with her long, slim fingers as I opened wide, hungry for his come. The head hovered between my widespread lips, and the doctor groaned into the tape recorder as the first hot stream of come shot onto my tongue. I moaned and gulped it down, swallowing the next stream, and the next, overwhelmed by the pungent flavor of the doctor’s come.
“Patient eagerly received administration of oral cumshot approximately fourteen minutes after initiation of vaginal intercourse. Condition of vaginal lubrication seems unchanged, but no further treatment recommended at this time.”
The nurse tucked the doctor’s cock back into his pants and buttoned up his lab coat. The doctor left without a word.
The nurse extended the lower half of the hospital bed again and unhitched the traction cables. She then pulled the Velcro straps on my hard breakway casts and unbuckled the brace on my stomach. I moaned softly as she unwound the gauze from around my head. Laying there naked, no longer restrained, I could feel the spasms in my pussy that spelled the afterglow of two intense orgasms.
The nurse wiped down my thighs, my pussy, and dabbed away the lube that oozed out of my ass. She bent down and kissed me on the lips, smearing my lipstick.
“Thanks for visiting the Citadel,” she said. “We hope you return soon.”
I was too tired, exhausted, and dopey with codeine to answer. I just smiled up at her and gripped her hand.
“Take your time getting dressed,” said the nurse. “Your husband will be waiting in the lobby. I’ll try to make him comfortable.”
She winked at me, and I sighed. It had been way too expensive, this fantasy of ours—after all, there’s only one professional dungeon in the state with a fully operational medical exam room, set up to provide traction.
It had been almost more than our budget could bear.
I looked up at the monitor, which still showed me, spread, naked, used. Glistening with sweat, painted like a tramp. I watched as it showed my pussy, tits, face. I felt my clit swelling. My hand slowly slid down my belly, still marked by the angry red impressions of the brace.
I touched my pussy, feeling it wet, hot, and aching. I began to stroke my clit, feeling another orgasm surprise me as it began to pulse into being.
Expensive, yes. But oh, so worth it.
I heard the hospital bed groaning and squeaking in protest as I came.
Cocked and Loaded
THOMAS S. ROCHE
I usually don’t speed, but this time it can’t be helped. You hug my body as I hug the curves, leaning low into the seat. You keep your hand above my waist only because I’ve made you promise to do so—to transgress would be dangerous. But I can tell, this time in particular, that it’s an effort for you.
I merge the Triumph onto the freeway, hitting sixty, seventy, seventy-five, and you grip me with your spread thighs tight against my hips. The wind whistles past us. You’ve unzipped your jacket, and even through the back of mine, I can feel them. Firm, insistent, unforgiving. And it’s not because of the cold.
I can still feel our positions reversed, your body in my arms, your back against my front, me leaning down to line my eyes up with yours, smelling the scent of your hair and feeling your pigtails brush against my shoulders. I can still feel your ass against mine, pressing against my crotch, your tight jeans smooth and your round butt wriggling maybe a little more than it needs to. I can still hear you say, “I can’t,” a little pathetic whimper designed, I suspect, to get me to do exactly what I’m doing: to curl my arms around you, put my hands on yours, and help you steady them. “You can,” I tell you, and your body tenses as you pull the trigger.
The Magnum explodes in front of us, its four-inch barrel erupting in a flash of death, and you let out a yelp, a scream—and then a trembling giggle as I help you put down the gun, pointing downrange. You bring your hand to your mouth, gasping. A hole has appeared between the eyes of the shadowed target.
“I hit it,” you say in a faint moan, as I put my arms around you and hug you. I realize, in an instant, that your nipples are so hard that they hurt my wrist as I brush by your breasts. Your ass is pushed back firmly against my crotch, my now hard cock resting centered in the furrow between your cheeks.
“Beginner’s luck,” I whisper, and you reach for the gun.
I can still feel it all as we pull into the driveway, stinking of cordite and flop sweat. Now I understand why you needed to fire a .44 Magnum for your first gun, why you begged me to leave the Glock at home, why you said you’d do anything if I’d keep the Sig .380 in the gun safe in the back of the closet. And I know why I agreed.
Because I remember, perhaps even more vividly than the first shot, how you glanced behind us, made sure the clerk wasn’t watching through the filthy bulletproof glass; how you unfastened the top button of your incredibly low-slung jeans, took my cordite-stinking hand in yours, shoved it underneath. No panties—I knew that, or I could have guessed it, because I’ve seen you in these jeans and I know even the skimpiest thong shows above your waistband. But tonight, for your virgin foray into squirting lead, you’ve got nothing at all under those tight low-rise jeans. Nothing but your pussy, smooth and shaved and—I find out as you force my finger into you—dripping. No, not dripping. Pouring. It’s a wonder your jeans aren’t soaked through. You ease my hand out of you, bring it to your face and lick my finger, breathing deeply, making love to the tip of my pussy-slick finger, inhaling its scent.
“Ever notice how pussy and gunpowder smell sort of the same?” you ask.
“Not until now,” I say.
I understand it now—I understand a few things, maybe more than a few. Why, when you found out—after our first night together—that I was a cop, you searched all over the Net for interesting facts about women and guns, quoting them to me from obscure websites while I cleaned my service Beretta on the coffee table. Why you “happened” along schoolgirls-with-guns. com and giggled for hours with me over the ludicrously cheesy photos of scantily-clad pigtailed girls with assault rifles.
Why that was the night we fucked so hard we broke the bed, I was late to work, and you called me at my desk the next day to masturbate on the phone for me while I sat uncomfortably amid the hubbub of the squad room. Why you started begging me to take you to the shooting range, show you how to shoot—not just any old gun, but the .44 Magnum my father left me.
Why, when you showed up at my place for the ride to the range, you were wearing those low-rise jeans with the flowers down the sides, a skintight Britney Spears crop top too obscene for its namesake to ever get away with on national television, and your hair in pigtails. The guys at the gun shop couldn’t take their eyes off you, their gazes of abject lust thicker than the smoke in the room as their eyes roved over your erect nipples showing through the top—but then, nobody fucks with a wellarmed schoolgirl.
I shove you against the wall the second we’re in the house, holding you hard with my whole body. I set down the gun case and rip off your jacket, exposing your firm breasts through the crop top. Your nipples are so hard they feel like rocks against my chest, and it’s not from the ride. You’re not wearing a bra.
“Will you give it to me?” you whisper into my ear as I devour you, my mouth biting and sucking at your neck, your shoulders, your cleavage. “Will you give me what I want, Officer?”
I step back, my cock throbbing in my pants.
“What’s that?” I ask you.
“Oh,” you say. “I think you know.”
Wriggling out from under me, you pick up the gun case and saunter into the combination living room/bedroom. You set the gun case down on the bed. I watch as you kick off your Adidas and slowly unzip your incredibly tight pants. You have to squirm and struggle to slide out of them; I can see as you bend all the way over to take them over your ankles that your pussy really is smooth, smooth as silk—and that your jeans really are soaked. You stand up partway and look over your shoulder at me, your pigtails framing your gorgeous face and your smooth, round asscheeks framing your bare pussy.
Slowly, you crawl onto the bed, stretching out. You’ve still got the crop top on, maybe because you like the sense of innocence it imparts. I don’t doubt it. But however innocent Britney may be, your tits with their hard nipples spell out that you’re anything but. You cuddle up with the gun case and unzip it.
“Be careful with that,” I tell you, and you smile coquettishly, as if daring me to stop you.
I stand watching, my cock hard in my jeans, my motorcycle boots planted firmly—I couldn’t stop you if I wanted to.
You take the .44 Magnum out. It takes me a moment to realize you’ve switched the gun case—it’s not the one I take to the shooting range, now. It’s the one I use when I’m playing with you. This isn’t the gun I shoot; it’s the one I use to fuck you. It’s identical to the gun I shoot with in every way—from the outside. But it’s a stage gun, one that wouldn’t even shoot a starter round if they made them in .44. The cylinders are filled, and there’s no firing pin on the hammer. The barrel is solid, despite the fact that its opening looks black and dangerous like that of a real gun. If I hadn’t removed the bright-orange cap that the barrel came with—that cap the law requires to make sure the cops don’t shoot some B-movie actress by accident, thinking she’s got a real gun—it wouldn’t look real at all. But I did, and it does.
You lick your way down the four-inch stainless steel barrel. Spreading your legs, you ease the gun between them and, holding the gun upside down, nuzzle the muzzle of the gun between the shaved lips of your sex.
“Don’t you need some lube?” I ask.
You shake your head,
no
.
no
.
The barrel disappears into your pussy, and you moan “Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.” Usually when you’re rubbing yourself to orgasm, you take it slow, warming up, getting yourself all hot. This time it’s none of that—just slam, bam, thank you, Ma’am. You shove the gun as deep as it will go and rub yourself as fast as you can. You come almost instantly, twisting and writhing on the bed.
When you come to a stop, you look up at me flirtatiously and lick your lips.
I want to touch my cock so bad, to climb up and slide it into you. But I have to watch—like one of your strip club patrons getting a lap dance, I can watch, smell, hunger—but not touch.
You spread your legs wide and set the gun between them on the bed. Your hands resting on your thighs, you look right at me.
“What do you say, Officer? Will you give a little girl what she really wants?”
I’m on you in an instant, the Sig coming out of my belt pouch before you can gasp. You know I pack, twenty-four/ seven—a sexy silver-finish Sig-Sauer .380 that you’ve always been fascinated with. But you never expected to have it shoved in your mouth. You never expected to suck it.
The fact that I’ve switched guns, too—grabbing my second stage gun, the automatic I like because its barrel is thicker and I can fuck you with both barrel and slide—hasn’t escaped you. The Sig is just as safe as the .44, but you don’t care. In our fantasy, it’s a real gun—cocked and loaded.
My knee is between your legs, holding you down, as your eyes go wide. You’re sucking on the barrel like it was my cock.
Your eyes are wide and I see excitement in them like I’ve never seen. “You like it, baby? You like tasting danger? You want to play on the edge?”
I see the effect my threat has on you. The terror heightened, your nipples become even more evident through the shirt.
“Reach for the Magnum,” I tell you. “Fuck yourself.”
I look down at the glittering revolver, wondering who owns you.
You pick up the gun, turn the barrel toward your pussy, ease it up to your sex.
“Pull the hammer back.”
I hear the hammer clicking back, feel your body shivering with terror. “Put it in,” I tell you, my cock so hard I can hardly stand it.
This time your cunt is tight, tight from the anticipation. The gun won’t go in at first.
“You asked for it. Now take it.”
Finally the barrel slides into your cunt, and you can’t stop the spasms of your body as your back arches and you shiver back. Now I’m on top of you, my hand between your legs, holding both guns and shoving the .44 deeper into you. I’ve got the Sig out of your mouth and against your head now, dripping with saliva. You’re sobbing. Sobbing because you’re about to come, and even in these short months we’ve been together I’ve learned to recognize the sighs. I work the .44 around so the barrel is hitting your G-spot, and that’s when your mouth goes wide, drool leaking out and soaking the front of your T-shirt, making your tits even more evident. I feel you grabbing for my belt, ripping open my pants as I fuck you. Both your hands wrap around my cock, and it only takes a few quick, expert strokes before I know I’m going to come.
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