Seasons of Sex 3: Spring, 1968 - Sex Stories

Seasons of Sex 3: Spring, 1968

... seen them, especially as their nipples hardened and grew and seemed to take on a life of their own.

My cock was straining for release, but for some reason I was enjoying the fact that I was clothed and she was not. So I just continued to rub my pubis up against her bare pussy, heedless of the fact that she was making a wet slimy spot on my trousers. I reached behind her and pulled her by the ass, spreading her buttocks apart and grinding her onto me even harder. She moaned—loudly---and I quieted her by releasing her ass and pulling her mouth down to mine for a violently juicy kiss. Breathless, with our combined saliva dripping from her chin, she pushed herself up. “Excuse me,” she said, and she got up and walked across the room. In just her heels, she looked sexier than ever, her calves shapely, her little backside swaying subtly as she went to the shelf where the expensive sound system was displayed. She bent down to find a record, and as she did so her buttocks parted, revealing not only her fire-haired pussy but also her puckered pink asshole, surrounded by just a few wispy orange hairs.

Annabelle started the record, and as the Doors began to play, she stayed bent over and twitched her behind in time to the music. Then she stood up and walked toward me—danced toward me, really—her high heels giving her not only sexy legs but a sexy swing to her hips. She looked willing to “Break on Through to the Other Side,” and I was just the guy to help her do it.

She ...

... reached for me as she got back to the sofa, but I stood up and grabbed her instead, lifting her easily and carrying her to the large square coffee table in the middle of the room. I lay her down on it, pulled her thighs apart, and buried my face between them. She tasted salty and wet and warm, her juices thick and plentiful. She moaned when my tongue found her clitoris, a hot little button eagerly pressing itself into my mouth. I reached up and grabbed both her nipples in my fingers, pinching them a little more roughly than usual. She moaned and ground her cunt harder into my face.

But this was too easy for her; she was obviously near orgasm, so I slowed things down. The Doors reminded me that I could sleep all night in her Soul Kitchen. I reluctantly pulled my face out of her wet crotch and instead inserted two fingers. Now I could look at her face and her chest—her whole body, in fact, as she got lost in her sexual excitement. My fingers slid slowly at first, finding their way, exploring her delicious insides. Sometimes I pulled them out to slide them across her hard little clit, but soon I was inserting them deeper and deeper, finding the sensitive places at the roof of her tight love tunnel, and using a finger from my other hand, or a thumb, or my tongue, to tend to that throbbing bit of exterior excitement.

When “The Crystal Ship” began to play, I slowed down my rhythm to match the music, over which I could hear her heavy breathing and occasional moans and whimpers. I ...