为了政治正确，本文无简介，哈哈😄。
写在前面：
自学英语的最佳方法就是读英文原版书(by新生大学乐静老师)，与其苦哈哈坚持坚持再坚持，还不如找本非常非常非常感兴趣的书，用小小的欲望即可战胜强大的惰性。废话不多说，“食色，性也”，看题目就能吸引大多数的真男人，哈哈哈哈~
（PS：其实真相是，刚买Mac，小键盘很不习惯，我是来练习英文输入速度的，强化肌肉记忆是一件很重要的事情）
About this book
Edited by Cathryn Cooper
Published by Accent Press Ltd - 2007
ISBN 19051700758 / 9781905170784
Copyright © Accent Press Ltd 2007
All rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproduced,stored in a retrieval system,or transmitted in any form or by any means,electronic,electrostatic,magnetic tape,mechanical,photocopying,recording or otherwise,without the written permission of the publishers:Accent Press Ltd,PO Box 26,Treharris, CF46 9AG.
Printed and bound in the UK by Creative Design and Print
Cover Design by Red Dot Design
Also available from Xcite Books: (www.xcitebooks.com)
Publication 14th February 2007
- Sex & Seduction 1905170785 price £7.99
- Sex & Satisfaction 1905170777 price £7.99
- Sex & Submission 1905170793 price £7.99
Publication 14th May 2007
- 5 Minute Fantasies 1 1905170610 price £7.99
- 5 Minute Fantasies 2 190517070X price £7.99
- 5 Minute Fantasies 3 1905170718 price £7.99
Publication 13th August 2007
- Whip Me 1905170920 price £7.99
- Spank Me 1905170939 price £7.99
- Tie Me Up 1905170947 price £7.99
Publication 12th November 2007
- Ultimate Sins 1905170599 price £7.99
- Ultimate Sex 1905170955 price £7.99
- Ultimate Submission 1905170963 price £7.99
Contents
| Story | Author |
|---|---|
| Coming Soon | Elizabeth Cage |
| King Dog | Landon Dixon |
| The First Deadly Sin | Gwen Masters |
| The Tie Breaker | Phoebe Grafton |
| Library Rendezvous | N.Vasco |
| Mother Knows Best | Landon Dixon |
| Changing Objectives | Jeremy Edwards |
| Don’t Quote Me | Lynne Jamneck |
| I Say His Name Out Loud | Adire Santos |
| Choices | Kate Franklin |
| Flash Flood | Lynn Lake |
| Well Suited | Jordana Winters |
| Bananaz | Dee Dawning |
| Crazy Has A Name | Gwen Masters |
| Murder,Whores And Money | Teresa Joseph |
| Getting Waxed | Jade Taylor |
| Night Of The Bear | Garrett Calcaterra |
| Personal Enquiries | J.Carron |
| Test Drive | Roxanne Sinclair |
| Much Ado(About Nothing) | Sue Williams |
Coming Soon - by Elizabeth Cage
I checked my watch for the seventh time in as many minutes. “Face it, Mel”, I told myself, “he isn’t going to show.”
I was hovering in the foyer of the multiplex cinema, in my short skirt, denim halter-neck top and strappy high heel fuck-me sandals, looking like a woman who had been stood up by her date. Which I was.
I flipped open my mobile, telling myself that maybe I hadn’t heard it ring when he called to leave a message for me, which he must have done, if he’d had to cancle. If some kind of emergency had occurred. But there were no message.
I’d met Bill at a Pilates class. He was the only guy in a group of ten women, so he kind of stuck out, so to speak. I was impressed that he was brave enough to join an all-female class — and by his physique. He had a really toned body and I liked watching his muscles when did the press-ups, imagining that I was spread out on the exercise mat beneath him as he lowered himself down on the strong arms and then, with a grunt, pushed back up.
I desided to chat him up after the class, we went for a drink, hit it off and then went back to his place for a great sex session.
Initially, it was passionate, steamy, animal fucking. He had tremendous stamina and I loved feeling his big hard cook pumping inside me. But he also liked to tease, thrusting, filling me, while I gripped with my (greatly improved from Pilates) pelvic muscles, and then he would raise himself up, taking all his weight off me and slowly, carefully, pull out of my slippery, aching pussy until just the glistening tip of his wonderful cock was barely touching my wet gash.
He’d say like that until I begged him to fill me again, my arms and legs wrapping around his waist, his back, desperate to be fucked. It was torture, but exquisite torture, and he would bring me to a point where I couldn’t stop myself coming, repeatedly, at which point he gave me a huge, smug grin before shooting his load with a cry like an injured wolf.
I felt smug, too, at landing such a great lover, ignoring several of my mates’ warnings that he had a bit of a reputation as a user.
“Hey, he can use me all he likes.” I responded, remembering those great orgasms.
We’d been out twice since then — once to a club, another time to a wine bar. I didn’t know if it was going to go anywhere, but the sex was so good I really didn’t care: as long as I got my fix.
Bill only came to a few of the Pilates classes, said he never really stuck at anything; just like to sample different things. I should have realized that included people.
I glanced at the crowds filling past me to the box office. It was Saturday night and this was a popular movie. And, of course, just to rub salt into the wound, the audience was mostly couples.
The films was due to start in five minutes. I had a choice. I would go home, feeling sorry for myself, and get drunk. Or call a friend, and get drunk. Then again, I could always go in and see the film on my own.
It wasn’t something I’d ever done before. I imagined I’d feel self-constious, like when you’re in a restaurant eating alone. In which case, I always took a prop, like a book or my laptop. I’d picked up the ciname’s free Coming Attractions magazine but I’d read that twice just waiting for Bill.
Why was I so hung up about seeing a film along? God, I was a grown-up woman. I’d suggested we come to the cinema because I really want to see this film. I’d been looking forward to it (and the sex which would have followed). Of course, I could always wait until it came out on DVD, I supposed. Relieve my frustration with my favourite vibrator.
I watched as the last of the queue dwindled and people disappeared into Screen 1, the really huge screen with Dolby surround sound. It would have been fun. Damn it, I wanted to see whether Uma did get to kill Bill. I almost laughed at the irony. Because right now, I felt like killing him myself. And the idea of seeing Uma kick male ass really appealed.
“One, please,” I said, thrusting a ten pound note at the bored-looking teenager in the box office. Probably doing the weekend job while he was finishing his A-levels at school.
“We only have a few seats left. Where do you want to sit?”
I wanted to sneak in and sit at the back, unnoticed. When I was sixteen, you could sit where you like in the cinema and preferably at the back with your mates so you could mess about, and have a snog and a fumble. I hated having to choose my preferred position from a computer screen.
“What about in the middle of the row?” he suggested.
The lights had already gone down when another teenager with a uniform shone a torch at row F and I had to ask people to get up, as I stumbled and pushed against them. I felt like they were all staring at me, and a few muttered, irritated that I’d left it so late. I kept whispering “sorry” until, finally, I got to my seat.
I glanced either side of me. I was between a girl snuggled up to her boyfriend, her tousled blonde head resting blissfully on his shoulder, and a guy in a light coloured shirt and dark jeans.
Trying not to fidget unduly and further annoy those who were already comfortably settled, I sat down and discreently adjusted my shirt. There wasn’t a lot of room for manoeuvre here, because I’d chosen to wear a very short, flimsy little number that barely covered my thighs. Okay, so it wasn’t entirely my choice. Bill had suggested I wear something that could enable him to “get at me easily” in the cinema. At the time, I was more than happy with this idea but now I frowned, deciding to send him a nasty little text after the show to tell him what I thought of him. However, to hide my immodesty, I left the film magazine on my knees to cover some of the exposed flesh.
I was still fuming about Bill as twenty munutes worth of advertising was bombarded into the cinema, which simply added to my irritation. Finally, the main feature began and I focussed on the screen.
The film was at the bit where our poor heroine has been buried alive in a coffin, with seemingly no way of escape when I felt something brushing against my ankle. I ignored it at first hoping the cinema didn’t have a rodent problem, but as it continued I peered down to see that the guy sitting next to me had moved his leg across so the leather of his shoes was touching my bare ankle. I froze.
He was staring intently at the screen, as if he hadn’t noticed. Perhaps he hadn’t. Maybe he didn’t realize we had physical contact. I carefully shifted my foot away and decided to ignore it. My focus returned to the screen, and nothing further occurred. I was relieved that I hadn’t ended up sitting next to some pervert, particularly in the mood I was in. But, after a while, I felt the slightest of pressure against my calf, so slight as to be almost imperceptible, which made me doubt the sensation.
My eyes droped down and I saw that his leg was touching mine, the roughness of the fabric of his jeans creating an interesting sensation against my bare flesh.Hmmmm. I wondered what to do next. By rights, of course, I should give him a sharp kick at the very least, or stamp on his foot with my lethal stiletto heel. Then he’d get the message. But while I was diciding, I allowed myself to savour the sensation a little longer, which wasn’t exactly unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. So when I felt fingertips trailing gently across my thights, I wasn’t surprised.
Perhaps he’d interpreted my inaction as unspoken consent to what was taking place. And what exactly was taking place? An erotic exploration of sorts in a large darkened room full of other people. I was in no danger. I was quite safe. And I knew somehow that if I indicated to him to stop he would immediately do so. I wondered if anyone else could see what he was doing. Somehow that heightened the excitement, because I was, despite myself, getting a bit of a thrill from this.
His touch was incredibly light and gentle, as if he was stroking the most precious velvet, sending little tremors through me.
Although I could see the screen, hear the brillant soundtrack, the great music, the witty dialogue, I was also in a parallel universe which consisted of pure physical sensation.
As his fingers moved, he could sense my arousal and perfectly judged when and how to step up the action.
I trembled as his hand moved slowly, inexorably, up my thighs and under the hem of my flimsy skirt. Then he stopped, as if unsure of whether it was safe to proceed. I was torn between indignation, outrage and excitement. But I was turned on. Big time!
I breathed deeply, audibly and he moved his hand further and higher, until I could feel the tips of his fingers caressing the insides of my thighs; my pussy lips, already moist, tantalisingly close.
He found the thin fabric of my lacy thong, pushed it to one side and then I thought I heard him gasp softy as he realized I was shaved, completely.
I froze like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a rapidly approaching car, mesmerized.
Then his intrepid digit found my opening, sleeping inside while his thumb stroked my clitoris.
I stared ahead, unable to bring myself to look at him. Normally, I would have been groaning loudly by now but having to stay quite, to pretend that I was fully engrossed in the film, heightened the excitement, the illicitness, the sheer naughtiness of what he was doing. It was out secret.
But it was hard to deny my vocal chords release, and I realized with exquisite horror that if he continued to minister to my wet pussy in his manner, I would almost certainly come. And almost as soon as I’d allowed the thought expression, I did come. Suddenly, blissfully. And silently. I thought I was going to pass out, as the waves racked my body, drowing me. For a moment, I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, wondering if I had dreamt what had just happened, I let my hand rest on his, and he turned over my palm, his grip gentle but firm, moving my hand away from my own body and placing it carefully on his lap. I was shocked to feel his unsheathed cock, hard as a rock, and took a sideways glance.
He had folded his jacket and laid it across his groin, unzipped himself(had he been wanking himself with his other hand while he was making me come?) and my hand was beneath, resting on his rod.
So while I lusted after David Carradine on the screen, savouring his amazing sexual charisma, I brought off the stranger in the seat next to me. It took a matter of seconds and it made feel powerful, like Uma.
When the film ended, I wasn’t sure whether I should get out quickly. He might be embarrassed. I didn’t know what to expect. Except I knew I was curious. I was also feeling randy again. Then the lights went up and it was my first chance to look at him properly and he at me.
He smiled uncertainly and I smiled back.
“Do you want to go somewhere?” He asked in a deep, smoky voice.
I nodded.”Yes.”
Together, we walked through the crowds into the foyer.
“I know a place very close by,” he said, taking my hand.Walking down a corridor he whispered,”Wait here.”
He disappeared into the men’s toilets, where I imagined he would be using the condom machine.
Minutes later, he reappeared, grabbed my wrist and pulled me into one of the cubicles. I opened my mouth to protest, but he whispered,”Shhhhhh. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can wait until we get back to my place.”
Pushing me against the partitioned wall, he knelt down between my legs, lifted my skirt, ripped of my soakinig wet thong and started to tongue me. I quickly experienced my second quite but incredibly powerful orgasm of the evening.
While I was still reeling, my legs shaking, he rammed his rigid cock into my waiting, very open pussy. My pelvic muscles instinctively griped him like a vice, milking him until he exploded inside me, at which point we both placed a hand over the other’s mouth as we came, desperate not to be discovered.
We heard several guys come in and go out during the next few minutes and when the coast was clear, we crept back into the corridor like a couple of naughty teenagers.
Outside the cinema, I decided to introduce myself.”I’m Mel.”
“It’s not over yet,” I pointed out.
“Very true. You know what I want to do now?”
I shook my head, deciding that nothing would surprise me about this guy.
“This.” And he opened his mouth and screamed loudly, as if he was coming all over again. I quickly joined in, vocalising the ecstasy I’d experienced during the past couple of hours but had been unable to give vent to.
“That feels better,” he sighed.”What now?”
I took his hand.”Back to my place for some good, oldfashioned sex. In a bed. With no noise restrictions.”
“Sounds good to me. By the way, what did you think the film?”
King Dong - by Landon Dixon
I gunned it through the iron gates, up a blacktop lane that looped its way to the barn-sized front door of the Bisbey mansion.
I slid out of my jalopy and stared at the architectural monstrosity — two glowering storeys of red brick and bronze gargoyles, fronted by Southern gothic pillars that put rotted teeth into the ugly face of the building. For the middle of the Great Depression, it was quite the joint. The discovery of oil int the LA basin had enriched a chosen few, when most were shuffling their tired dogs through bread lines and unemployment offices.
I eschewed the ornamental brass knocker and harmmered on the door with my fist. A servant let me into the hushed, cool confines of a marble-carpeted hallway, up a winding staircase clothed in red velvet, to the second-floor study of the mistress of the manor.
Her name was Etta Bisbey, and she was seated behind an oak-panelled desk large enough to float twenty Titanic suivivors. She rose,sashayed around the varnished expanse of wood, giving me a good gander at all she had. And, baby, she had plenty. Her large, round breasts strained the buttons on her pearl-white blouse like Fatty Arbuckle’s claims of innocence strained credibility. The rest of her wasn’t soup kitchen fare, either: pretty face, pitch-black hair piled atop her gourd by the same skilled, effeminate artisans who weave gold out of dross, a slim waist, and shapely, slender calves and ankles peeking out from under a sapphire-coloured skirt.
I pumped her extended hand. “You said on the phone you wanted me to find something,” I stated, talking shop while my eyes took inventory. I dangled my hat over my crotch, to conceal a rather rude case develpment down there.
“Yes, Mr Polk,” Mrs Bisbey responded. “An item of mine — an objet d’art — has been stolen, and I must get it back.” Her hand fluttered about her throat, then down the side of her breast.
Her voice and her mannerrisms were a little too exaggerated for my taste; I smelled ham. “You an actress?” I asked, impressing her with my whiskey-clotted powers of observation. What babe with a built-for-bed body like hers, living in sunny, sunny LA, the window of an oil tycoon who, when living, had more wrinkles in his dick erect than flaccid, wasn’t a current or former actress?
She pirouetted away from me, strutted to the window and gazed out at the Hollywood Hill, perhaps doing a visual size comparison. “Why, yes, I was a thespian of some renown — at one time,” she remarked.
I studied the wicked silhouette of her generous tits and gave my pocket-rocket a surreptitious stroke of affection. “What’s been lifted?”
“I have a picture of the … item … in my bedroom.”
We adjourned to the room next door, a tastefully-appointed sleeping and sex flop big enough to shelter a Wobblies’ convention. She pulled open a drawer, handed it to me. It was an 8 by 10 glossy of a black dildo — a rather immense dildo if I was any judge of perspective, and pricks. I glanced from the picture to her, and her face went redder than post-war Russia.
