Skirting Pleasure She shifted in her seat, suddenly apprehensive about getting up. She'd never gone without panties for so long and now understood why. The flimsy gauze of her skirt clung insistently to her exposed labia. Since they'd left Wisconsin, the skirt behaved like a sponge dedicated to absorbing her most intimate emissions. She tried to sit with her pussy tucked neatly between her cheeks to keep it from touching the thirsty fabric. Not only did she have to avoid sweating but she had to turn off her libido. Try as she might, however, she was unable to resist her urges whenever Nick leaned in close, took her hand, or slipped an arm around her waist. Her body would flush and she would feel the familiar warmth rush to her private parts. And so, throughout the day, as the couple made their way from Wisconsin to Jamaica, she'd become fairly skilled at diverting her attention from the carnal to the cerebral (or at least the mundane). She couldn't possibly bear the thought of walking around with a telltale wet spot on the back of her skirt. The irony of the situation would be funny if it weren't so pathetic. She'd gone without panties to excite Nick and now her own arousal threatened to ruin her plans. She fidgeted again and tried to think about the mistakes the caterer had made at the wedding to take her mind off her growing wetness. "What's the matter with you?" He looked askance at her from his seat to her right. "You've been acting like there's a thumbtack on your seat," he joked. She sighed and leaned her head against the back of her seat. "Not quite but it's nearly that ridiculous," she admitted, closing her eyes in surrender. He caressed her thigh lightly. "What is it?" "I'm not wearing panties," she said softly, angling her body towards him so he'd hear her. His eyes sparkled. "And that's a problem?" He leaned toward her now. "When your skirt develops an unnatural attachment to your crotch, it is." "Well, who wouldn't be fond of your crotch?" "Nick," she chided, laughing in spite of herself. "It's a problem because I have to stay dry, if you know what I mean." "Hmmm, how interesting. You want me, a man with a vested interest in keeping you lubricated, to help you stay dry. Is that correct?" "Yes, please." "I see. But first I have a question. Why aren't you wearing panties?" Her eyebrows came together as she said, "To turn you on." He grinned in that magically lopsided way she adored. "You succeeded. I can now think only of your unprotected cunt." "You're not helping me, honey." "So, knowing that I could tap the flight attendant on the shoulder with my dick right now is making you wet?" "Stop it!" She giggled, cradling her forehead in her hand. He surveyed the aisle fore and aft before he whispered into her ear. "Put your tray table down." Her eyes never left his as she released the latch of her table. "Like that?" "Exactly like that." His hand dug under the billowy folds alongside her legs until it made contact with her skin. As he inched up her thigh, she caught her breath. The tray blocked her access to his hand, which would have been an issue only if she'd wanted to stop him. "What if that guy turns around and sees us?" She nodded toward the middle-aged man with a newspaper one row in front of them, across the aisle. "He'll probably stop reading his newspaper." The hand crept closer to her throbbing bush. She longed to part her thighs to welcome him but the seat was too narrow. His fingertips brushed the boundaries of her furry vortex as his breath warmed her neck. Her pussy lips swelled with the anticipation of his touch. The plane jolted enough to bounce his hand into her mound then up into the tray table. Seconds later, the pilot's voice announced turbulence ahead and the need for seatbelts. An efficient and inquiring flight attendant approached, checking passenger laps. Rosalie slammed the tray table up as Nick whisked his hand out from under its steamy hideaway. Mortified, she caught a whiff of her own arousal, just as the attendant smiled vacuously at their row. "Seat belts… seat belts…." She barely heard the words over her reckless pulse. "Damn," Nick cursed after the attendant had passed. "This was such a bad idea," she lamented. "What was I thinking?" He took her hand. "It was a great idea. See how hard you've made me?" He pressed her fingers to his bulging crotch. She imagined unzipping his jeans and sliding his hardness past her lips and down her throat. She squeezed her thighs together to erase the image, but he moved her hand over his restrained erection, stroking it slowly. "If I'm going to be this hard, it's only right that you cream into your skirt," he said huskily. His mouth touched hers tenderly but with the focused intent she'd come to recognize as can't-turn-back-now horniness. Her pussy ached for his fingers, his cock, his tongue - any part that might fit inside her. As their tongues wrestled sensuously, he delicately encircled her breast with one hand and squeezed more than a little. Her juices spread over her engorged lips and seeped out toward the soft, white flesh of her inner thighs. Something about his touch always made her feel naked and liquid. Her nipple rose to push at his palm through her bra. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our approach into Montego Bay airport. Please be sure your seat belts are fastened and that your tray tables and seat backs are in their upright and locked position. We should be on the ground in approximately 10 minutes." The couple pulled apart, defeated yet again by the flight crew. They looked at each other and chuckled as the flight attendant trolled one final time. Rosalie and Nick busied themselves with the pilot's instructions so as to avoid eye contact with the attendant. The skirt was surely drenched by now, Rosalie worried. It clung to the cleavage of her buttocks, tickling her as if to remind her that she'd lost the battle between pussy and fabric. "Promise you'll stand behind me all the time so nobody will see the back of my skirt," she pleaded furtively to her new husband. "Nobody'll notice a little wet stain." "Promise me!" she insisted. His expression changed as he understood her desperation. "Okay, babe. I'll keep the world from discovering your pussy actually does get wet." He kissed her forehead. "But how will I hide my woody?" She smiled in relief. Holding his hand as the plane descended, she beamed inwardly. Her little seduction plan had worked, after all. + + + He trailed behind her dutifully from the plane to baggage claim. As he watched her full ass cheeks sway under her skirt as she walked, his pants got tight. She had no idea how much the sight of her voluptuous ass increased his blood flow. No matter what she wore, he pictured her naked, ripe, and juicy. He didn't stifle his smile when he noticed the saucer-sized wet spot precisely where she'd feared it. "Can you see anything?" she muttered as they waited for their bags. "It's tiny. I only saw it because I was looking for it," he assured her, wondering if she was still oozing juice. The bustle of the airport relegated her stain and his erection to infinitesimal concerns. Soon, they jostled with other tourists to determine the best route to their destination. Miss Ruby's in Treasure Island was their goal and Miss Ruby had advised them to take the number 17 bus. Nick found a bus schedule posted outside and the couple then waited with a stoic-looking Jamaican woman in her thirties for their 17 bus. The heat permeated everything with an intense haze, as invisible as it was palpable. Humid restlessness settled into Nick immediately. "Do you feel that?" he asked Rosalie. "Feel what?" "Something in the air. Something, I don't know, primal." "Maybe you're just still horny," she teased, blushing and smiling simultaneously. The rickety bus, long ago deferring any scheduled maintenance, barreled toward the stop, braking too late. The standing passengers, of which there were many, jolted forward and back without complaint. More than half the bus exited, balancing bags, knapsacks and babies with cheerful dexterity. The newlyweds clambered aboard after the native woman. Two seats remained, despite the ten or twelve standing passengers. Nick and Rosalie settled in, ready for adventure, at the rear of the bus. The native woman stood nearby, never losing her quiet elegance, even when she politely declined Nick's offer of his seat. Diagonally behind her stood a Jamaican man roughly her age, engrossed in a folded newspaper. All the windows were open, giving the bus all the ambience of a cattle car. Though the ride was somewhat smoother than Nick anticipated when the contraption had first pulled up, the bumpy Jamaican road and defunct shock absorbers kept things rattling. Rosalie stared out the window with a wide-eyed excitement. Nick watched as the Jamaican man with the newspaper squeezed the quiet woman's shapely butt cheek. Nick prepared himself for her outrage. She didn't flinch. As she continued most serenely to take in the passing scenery, the man bunched her loose skirt slowly into his palm until he could slip his hand under it. Once he'd gained access, he let the fabric cascade over his wrist, his hand now hidden beneath her skirt. Nick watched the woman's eyes close as her breathing changed. She remained immobile. He nudged Rosalie and nodded surreptitiously toward the couple. Rosalie's jaw dropped and she stared back at her husband incredulously. No one seemed to notice the man's brazen exploration of this woman's snatch. Nobody seemed to care that he was fondling her wet folds, probably burrowing into them with experienced, agile fingers. In his mind, Nick became the man, pleasuring the surprised but juicy cunt, imagining the cunt to be Rosalie's, yielding to him in silent, slippery assent. The bus screeched to a halt, dislodging some stored bags as well as the man's hand. "Treasure Island!" announced the driver. Nick scrambled to his feet, angry with himself for not paying attention to the previous stops in order to prepare for this one. Rosalie followed him, helping with the luggage. As the bus pulled away, Nick wiped the start of perspiration from his brow. "That may just be the most incredible thing we see on this trip," he said. "She didn't even move! Do you think that goes on all the time here?" "I don't know but I can tell you that you won't be riding any buses here without me!" They turned to see Miss Ruby's place just a few yards away. A dark, middle-aged rotund woman with gleaming white teeth stood on the porch, smiling as she waved them over. The couple returned the greeting and headed toward the large, rambling house-turned-hotel. "Welcome!" She boomed. As she ambled toward them, her enormous, unfettered breasts swayed in unison. "I am Miss Ruby and this is my house. You must be Nick and Rosalie, yes?" She extended a hand to Nick, who took it warmly, already enchanted with her eccentric, exotic demeanor - and her remarkable breasts. "I know you are honeymooners so I won't waste no time showin' you to your room!" She laughed, leading them to the tiny reception area, which was an alcove just inside the front door. "Sign in and I'll take you where you want to go!" She laughed again. As Nick signed in for himself and his wife, Miss Ruby instructed a young man she called Bobba to deliver the couple's bags to their room. "You two just follow Bobba and we'll see you again when you're ready to come down. You hurry now, Bobba," she added kindly to the young man. When they were halfway up the stairs, Miss Ruby called after them. "Chile, I can get that stain outta your pretty skirt if you just bring it by later!" + + + Bobba, quiet, strong and pleasant, smiled broadly when Nick put a few coins in his hand. He exited quickly. Rosalie immediately unlocked and opened her suitcase, searching wildly for the shorts she knew she packed. After extracting them from the neat assortment of clothing, she pulled down her skirt, letting it drop to the floor. "What, no foreplay?" Nick teased, admiring her dark triangle as she donned her shorts. She felt herself blush. "No, silly, I'm bringing Miss Ruby my skirt right now so she can take care of my little problem." With that, she headed down the stairs. At the foot of the staircase, she stopped, suspended by the vision that greeted her. On the sofa in the living room, across from the reception alcove, sat Miss Ruby, abundant legs spread wide. The hem of her blouse had been stuffed into her underarms, exposing her formidable breasts. Kneeling between her legs with his head buried in her pussy was the compliant Bobba. He ate quietly as his hands kneaded the meaty titflesh of his employer. Miss Ruby's eyes were shut in mindful oblivion and she groaned periodically. Her skirt had been pushed up to her hips. As Rosalie stood, mute and transfixed, a hand slipped between her own legs and began to caress her. She gave a start but instantly realized it was Nick behind her, taking in the same scene. With his other hand, he played with her breast, emulating the rhythm and motion executed by Bobba on the big woman. Rosalie's pussy pulsed with need as it creamed for the umpteenth time that day. Neither she nor Nick spoke, so as not to be discovered. She knew they were both torn between watching the servant pleasure Miss Ruby and running upstairs to pleasure each other. In minutes, the latter option won out. Once in their room, Nick said, "I'm beginning to see why skirts are so common here in Jamaica." He practically tore her shorts off her. "Do you wish my breasts were as big as Miss Ruby's?" Rosalie asked, removing her top shamelessly. "To me, your breasts are perfect," he said, bringing his face to a nipple. "I dream about dying with my head between them." He licked at one nipple while he tweaked the other. She reached between her legs to touch her hot pussy, coating her fingers with juice. Her own touch was not enough. She needed his - had needed it all day. "Play with my pussy. I'm so wet for you," she whispered. Once his fingers found her clit, she came in seconds. + + + Nick never imagined he could fuck one woman so soundly, so repeatedly, and yet have his hunger for her grow rather than subside. He and Rosalie retreated to Miss Ruby's two, sometimes three times a day, never running out of positions or enthusiasm. They'd spent most of their time at the beach, so the hotel helped cool them off a bit, too. By the fourth day, Rosalie suggested they do some sightseeing. "Let's go to Rose Hall Great House. It's supposed to be a beautiful old house." "I'll go on one condition." "What's that?" "You wear a skirt." "Nick! Nothing can happen on a tour of an old house! I'm sure we'll be with other people, anyway!" He would not be dissuaded. He'd been on this island long enough to know that anything was possible. The next morning, they agreed not to begin their day with a sexual romp - they wanted tensions high when they took their tour. Rosalie continued to dismiss his dubious plan but her lack of faith only furthered his resolve. At Rose Hall Great House, about 20 people milled about the base of the steps. The view of the deep blue Caribbean helped soften some of the home's ominous mood, but still the house exuded a presence strangely at odds with the tranquility of its setting. A cheerful Jamaican woman appeared from a portal beneath the house and greeted the group of sleepy tourists. At 9:00 a.m., many were still recovering from their evenings. Nick, on the other hand, had never been more alert and eager. "Hello, everyone!" The guide spoke in that lovely patois that made Nick think of reggae and bright colors. Most everyone in Jamaica talked as she did, but her voice was clearer and her diction better than most. "Welcome to Rose Hall Great House. We will soon be touring about seventy five percent of this old mansion and as we go, I will tell you about its mysterious legend." Her eyes widened for dramatic effect. Rosalie looked at Nick and grinned indulgently. He winked, thinking her dark hair gave her a particularly sexy aura today. Her tank top clung to her curves in blatant invitation, to which his cock prepared an urgent RSVP for immediate delivery. The guide led the trudging group up the majestic stairs toward the main entrance. As she turned to face the visitors, a subtle breeze slithered by and she paused until it passed. "Do you feel the restlessness here? Legend has it that the owner's sexual appetite was insatiable; so insatiable that she murdered three husbands as a result of it." Predictably, her audience gasped. Rosalie raised an eyebrow at Nick who nodded smugly. "A woman named Annie was taught voodoo by her Haitian governess. By the time Annie was a young woman and ready to marry, she'd set her sights on John Palmer, then owner of this house. Because she knew how to make men fall in love with her through voodoo, it wasn't long before she became Annie Palmer and moved into this house. Let's go in and I'll tell you more." Nick and Rosalie straggled behind the crowd. In the grand foyer, a male and female uniformed attendant flanked the incoming group, smiling as they counted heads. The man accepted a piece of paper from the guide and the woman walked to a small desk to write something down. The guide then continued her story. "Within three years of the marriage, Mr. Palmer was stricken with a sudden and unidentifiable illness which killed him. Mrs. Palmer didn't take kindly to widowhood or celibacy so she found herself a new husband quickly. I guess that's easy to do when you know a little voodoo, eh?" As the tourists chuckled, Nick whispered to his wife. "See? The house inspires sex!" Though Rosalie rolled her eyes, she also blushed. Nick could tell by the color in her cheeks that her excitement was building. He could picture the start of glistening moisture at her pussy. But why just picture it? As he'd seen the man on the bus do to the beautiful, silent woman, he grabbed a handful of skirt and slowly stuffed his palm with increasing amounts of fabric until her derriere was nearly exposed. Alarmed and beet red, Rosalie did not move as he let go of the skirt and slipped between her thighs. Oh, yes. She was wet, all right. Her juices coated his fingers immediately and the heat between her legs coaxed him deeper. They both stared straight ahead at the guide, who regaled the group with the fates of Mrs. Palmer's next two husbands. Both had been murdered but not before Annie the nympho had exhausted their sexual usefulness. The guide led her charges into the dining room where heels clicked around the wooden floor. Nick's hand remained in his wife's slippery folds, swollen now with mounting desire. He stroked her cunt as they walked and when they stopped at the table, he pushed a finger up her dripping slit. He heard her breathing, heavy and erratic. They moved to the deep rose-colored bedroom, him frigging her clit with each step. If he unzipped his shorts now, his cock would slap him in the face. "After her third husband, Annie took many lovers among her slaves. But her abuses finally caught up with her on the day her slaves revolted and strangled her in her bed. Though the furnishings here are all replicas of the original, this is indeed the room where Annie seduced her lovers and the room where she died. Some say she died while a slave made love to her." "So, she died happy, then!" A tourist commented, pleased with his droll insight. The group laughed politely. The guide led the visitors out of the bedroom. Nick kept his busy hand in motion, whipping Rosalie's cream to a froth. With his free hand, he held her arm to keep her in the room. When the crowd had moved on, he guided her toward the white-canopied bed, nudging her from behind until she crawled up on it with her full, beautiful ass in the air. The scent and sight of those spread, shapely cheeks, the sheen of her dripping twat - it was too much. He dove face first into her pussy, tonguing, lapping, sucking at her sweetness. As he ate her, he diddled her now engorged clit. Her muffled shouts poured into the aging coverlet. Grasping a bedpost, she tried to steady herself. Her orgasm was so strong that she ejaculated into his face. Her pussy lips spasmed and she pushed her ass toward him, unconsciously grinding her cunt against his nose and mouth. When she'd finished, she turned over, legs sprawled, her luscious hair dissheveled around her face. She raised her head only slightly to meet his gaze. "Fuck me," she pleaded. The whole room smelled like her cunt. He was a step ahead of her, yanking off his shorts, aiming his thick, needy cock at her drenched opening. When he thrust himself into her, she yelled. He put a hand over her mouth to keep the tour from returning. He pumped her wildly, desperately. Her pussy sucked him inside her, squeezing and massaging him. Each time he banged her, her tits absorbed the force and bobbed in response. He leaned forward to free her breasts from her top. Once they were unencumbered, he took hold of them with both hands as he continued to fuck her. She bit her lip to keep from calling out. Holding her tits pushed him past the point of restraint. He let go a stream of hot cum into her belly that reverberated throughout his body. The way her pussy clutched at him, he knew she was coming again. The knowledge kept him pumping, obsessed now with never stopping. Finally, she pushed him away. He fell gently on top of her, kissing her face and hair, running his hands along her rounded hips and breasts. He thought he'd wait until he shrunk to pull out of her, but when it became clear he would be hard for quite a while, she spoke up. "I think we should go, don't you?" "I suppose." They moved quickly, smiling and giggling throughout until they noticed the male and female guards at the doorway. The woman stood in front of the man, with her skirt hiked up high enough to display her bush, where her hand was buried and busy. Behind her, the man grabbed both her breasts. "Are you finished now?" The woman asked, breathless. "Yeah, sure," Nick stammered. "We want to do what you did. You've brought the voodoo back to Rose Hall!" the man whispered reverently. His gratitude and awe were almost comical. Nick
and Rosalie let them in and then slid past them before sprinting out of
the mansion, laughing uncontrollably.
Copyright
© 2004 Sage Vivant. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
 |
