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28 Flavors, No Vanilla To find the limits of lovemaking, how far would you go-to Paris or the Caribbean, to miles above the earth, to your very own bedroom? Who would you invite-a threesome, a foursome, a whole houseful of eager erotic revelers? What props would you deploy-a wisp of knotted silk or a pair of high spiked heels, a stream of scented oil or a sheath of shiny black leather? From the pages of Penthouse Variations-for over two decades America's boldest explorer of the most adventurous frontiers of the ...
28 Flavors, No Vanilla To find the limits of lovemaking, how far would you go-to Paris or the Caribbean, to miles above the earth, to your very own bedroom? Who would you invite-a threesome, a foursome, a whole houseful of eager erotic revelers? What props would you deploy-a wisp of knotted silk or a pair of high spiked heels, a stream of scented oil or a sheath of shiny black leather? From the pages of Penthouse Variations-for over two decades America's boldest explorer of the most adventurous frontiers of the sexual revolution-come twenty-eight sometimes shocking, always exciting stories by people who dare to be different. They range from risque role players to sexy bi-sirens, from casual encounters to the delights of domination. And they just might inspire you to walk on your own wild side.
For twenty-five years Penthouse Variations has presented many provocative facets of sexuality, from the blissfully sensual to the alluringly exotic. But all of the stories contained within its pages share a common thread, which is the bold exploration and fulfillment of sexual fantasies.
While a sensual experience has much to offer in its own right, fantasies can spawn a whole new world of erotic delight. They present endless possibilities to those who are still reveling in the blush of newfound passion, and add color and depth to already loving relationships, where the benefits of bringing clandestine desires to light are often the most dramatic. Reaching a level of trust and comfort with your partner or partners allows your experiences to be all they’re meant to be—physically and emotionally satisfying and sometimes just down-right fun.
This collection opens with adventurous couples traveling to exotic locales, from Paris to Mexico to the Caribbean. This change of scenery helps relax their inhibitions, while others rise to the challenge of finding new pleasures at home. But none of these couples leaves anything to chance, finding the right place in their minds to release their true desires and share them with their lovers. They may at times seek out erotic adventures, but often they discover them in the most common places. All that’s needed is a mindful openness to the awaiting possibilities.
“Lustful Gatherings” is comprised of stories about couples who explore the richness of multiple partners, from the intimate celebration of threesomes with close friends, to the myriad delights available at an upscale, suburban swing party. Each couple find their experience enhanced by the ensuing voyeuristic opportunities, whether it be the thrill of watching or being watched.
The following chapter is devoted to fantasy and role-playing: from the solo erotic daydream of a college professor to the fulfillment of lustful fantasies. You’ll discover a married couple who enlist the help of an inventive single friend and find more excitement than they ever hoped for, a pair of spirited young women exploring an adult toy store, and a couple celebrating their anniversary with a graciously obedient chambermaid.
While many of the stories in Penthouse Variations focus on the experiences of couples, there is no denying the unique thrill of a casual encounter: a passionate coupling with a stranger that leaves you breathless and is etched in your mind forever. “Casual Encounters” tells the sexy tales of a chance meeting on a wintry New York night, a romantic interlude with a rugged cowboy, a businessman who takes a chance on a sultry female biker, and the unusual day of a novice carpet cleaner.
“Satin Embraces” features stories about women who find love in the arms of another woman. Their stories are as varied as women themselves: curious next-door neighbors, playful strippers on a road trip, masseuses at work and play, and a writer who falls in love with a willowy blonde artist in Vienna.
“Midnight Desires” and “Fetish Scene” explore dreams that some may view as forbidden. Although they perhaps seem unconventional, what’s important is that they dare to stretch the boundaries of propriety. The true joy in these stories is the realization that there is no need to conform to set ideals. Sexuality can be your own private world, to enjoy and indulge in without apology.
In “Midnight Desires” you’ll meet a man who learns that giving up control to a gorgeous woman leads him to the best sex of his life; a young reporter who finds the master of her dreams in a charismatic theater director; a dominatrice who recounts the discovery of her masterful nature; and a pair of mountain climbers who find a much more interesting use for all that rope and equipment.
“Fetish Scene” takes desire to another level, where sexual arousal is heightened by tangible objects. Here the luxuriousness of women’s lingerie, the eroticism of body modification, the allure of feet and shoes, and the tactile delights of leather and rubber provide all the impetus needed for an electrifying encounter. While the focus of these tales is varied, they all represent the same freedom to explore and take pleasure in one’s sexuality.
As you read this book, keep your mind open to the erotic possibilities in your own world. These stories might spark some daringly different thoughts, giving you something sexy to muse about on a carefree afternoon. And perhaps lead you to do some sensual exploration of your own.
Barbara F. Pizio
by Antonia Kern
Well, it’s easy. You just roll it back and forth on the tip of your tongue,” I was saying. Realizing I had Byron’s undivided attention, I added, “Close your eyes and savor it.” This was one of the very first conversations I had with my husband. And even though I thought he was incredibly attractive, in truth, I actually wasn’t coming on to him. I was just doing my job. As a sales rep for a small family-owned vineyard, I place wine in bars and restaurants. To do this, I bring around my bottles and pour samples for bartenders, managers, and chefs at various hot spots in the city. Byron, the owner of a chic bistro in my territory, grew accustomed to seeing me on the last Wednesday of every month. He complimented me on my outfits and joked with me, often making me late for my next meeting. It wasn’t too many Wednesdays before we fell in love, or too many months after that before we got married.
Since wine had brought us together, Byron thought it fitting that we honeymoon in northern California’s wine country. The Valley of the Moon, which is what locals call Sonoma, is a region rich not only in vineyards, but in romance. Red and fuchsia bougainvillea blossomed from the hotel balconies, lavender bloomed by the side of the road, and roosters in the plaza woke us up with the sun.
Byron’s cock was up along with the crowing birds. It made a pup tent beneath the crisp sheets, demanding my instant attention.
“Please take it off, Toni,” Byron murmured, indicating my nightgown. “Take it off now.”
I didn’t need further instructions. I stripped my nightgown over my head, then watched admiringly as Byron stood to cast off his boxer shorts. My husband is tall, with light sandy hair and a short matching beard. His eyes are a magnificent ocean blue with fine crinkles around the corners. Those eyes were staring back at me now, and he had an appreciative look on his face.
I tan in the summer, and my skin had already turned a nut-brown all over. I could feel his eyes focused on my breasts, which are firm and round and fit perfectly in his large hands. My nipples were already hard, waiting for Byron to squeeze them between his fingers. But his gaze wandered lower, to the patch of dark fuzz shaved in a strip directly over my pussy lips. Then he dropped to his knees by the bedside and pressed his face against me.
Oh, fuck, it felt good. Byron’s tongue wriggled between my pussy lips, circling my clit and then sucking on it as if it were a piece of hard candy. I placed my hands on his shoulders to hold myself steady, and was grateful when he stopped and lifted me in his arms, spreading me out on the bed. Then he went back to work, nuzzling his face against my cunt and tickling me with his whiskers.
Byron knows how to please me, nipping my clit between his teeth, biting the edges of my pussy lips when I’m about to come. Sometimes, when I’m on the verge of climax, he spreads my asscheeks and licks me there. It’s overwhelming, sexy and dirty, and just the kind of thing I need.
Yet even more than having him eat me, I like it when we’re in a sixty-nine, because then we can pleasure and enjoy each other simultaneously.
“I want to taste you,” I said now. As soon as I voiced this request, Byron rose and joined me on the bed. He swiveled his body around and held his cock still above my open mouth, running the head of his rod along my bottom lip. He wanted me to be desperate to taste him, and as he drove his tongue back into my pussy, I was. I am a very oral person, and I crave something to suck on when he goes down on me, something to occupy my mind so that I don’t come too quickly. “Don’t tease me,” I whispered impatiently. “Let me suck you off.”
Obviously longing to feel my warm, wet mouth embrace his organ, Byron didn’t make me wait any longer. First he dipped his cock between my lips so that I could caress it on the length of my tongue. Then he pulled out and rubbed it all over my cheeks, getting my face wet and shiny.
I consider myself a connoisseur, not only of wine, but of oral sex. And I am well-schooled in all the little tricks that Byron likes best. I suckled him, working his cock all the way down to the root. Then I let him slip from my lips and drew only the helmet-head into my mouth. I played with it, tickling it gently between my teeth, then stroking the flat of my tongue around it to rest on the sensitive underside. The velvety softness of my tongue against his most tender region sent violent shudders through his body, and he licked me even harder.
When I sensed that Byron was about to come, I pulled him all the way into my mouth. He pounded against the back of my throat, driving so hard that I almost choked on the thickness of his rod. Then, whispering my name in a voice that was half sigh, half moan, he shot his sweet load. I drank it all, coming at the same time he did, grinding my hips forward so that my cunt was pressed firmly to his face.
We both wound up wet and sticky, our faces glistening with the nectar of our lovemaking. But it was worth it. It’s always worth it.
After losing half of the morning to our sexy sucking games, we decided to do some sight-seeing outside of the bedroom. Byron suggested that we tour one of the quaint Sonoma vineyards. Dressed for the hot summer sun, we took our time walking among the vines, observing their branches bent under the weight of the ruby-red grapes.
Perhaps because we were on our honeymoon, or because of how we’d spent the morning, everything we did seemed drenched in sexual innuendo. First it was the fruit on the vine. Byron tweaked a handful of grapes between his fingers so that the sweet juices ran clear into his palm. When I bent to lick the pulped fruit from his hand, I worked my mouth over his thumb and forefinger, and he moaned and looked around the vineyard—as if there might be some place we could find for a quickie! There wasn’t, and we were forced to behave ourselves for a little bit longer.
Next we stopped in the winery itself, for a sampling of their wares. For once, I was the one being sold to, given glasses of dark, heady liquid to sip slowly and enjoy. I pretended I was a neophyte, listening to the woman behind the bar as she led us through the five steps of basic wine tasting: color, swirl, nose, taste, and finish. Under this woman’s guidance, we observed the color of wine in our glasses, swirled the wine, sniffed the bouquet, took a sip, and admired the aftertaste. The lesson we received sparked our overworked libidos once again.
“Roll the liquid along the tip of your tongue, then let it flow around in your mouth,” the woman instructed, echoing the words I’d once said to Byron. My husband nudged me, then gave me a lecherous wink.
“I’d rather be tasting you,” he said against the skin of my neck, his voice low so that only I could hear him. Standing at Byron’s side in the cool semidarkness and swirling a sip of Sonoma’s best around in my mouth, I suddenly knew how I wanted to spend the evening.
“Cock tasting,” I explained to my husband once we’d arrived back at the hotel. He gave me a look, his brow furrowed. I could tell that he thought I meant to taste a variety and then choose which one I liked best—just like at the wine tasting. But that wasn’t what I had in mind at all.
“I’d like to spend the evening sipping from my favorite 1961 vintage,” I explained. “Smelling it, savoring it, tonguing it . . .”
I could tell that Byron liked the concept, not only from the smile on his face, but from the bulge in his khakis.
“So how do you want to proceed?” he asked, looking toward the king-size bed in the center of the hotel room. I thought about it for a minute. Then I took his hand and led him into the bathroom. The heat was evident between us, almost tangible, and I knew we could have gone at it right there, on the fluffy white bath mat in the center of the tile floor. But demonstrating impressive restraint, we climbed into the shower together, turning beneath the hot, pounding spray, letting the water wash away the traces of vineyard dust that had collected on our skin and in our hair.
Byron used the oatmeal-scented soap to lather me up, running the hard bar along my ribs and down my flat belly. He pressed it against my pussy, and I thought I might come just from his washing me there. Who knew getting clean could feel so dirty? Still, I worked to stave off my orgasm, letting Byron rinse away the milky bubbles, a soft cloth replacing his fingers.
Once squeaky clean, I was ready to proceed with my plan, sliding onto my knees on the base of the shower and staring up Byron’s body. His cock was rock-hard and ready for me. I admired it before bringing my lips to the head, staring at the length—easily as long as a half-bottle of wine—and the color. The tip was a dark purplish hue, reminding me of the blushing grapes we had observed earlier in the day. The shaft was the paler pink of a fine rosé. I parted my lips, ready for my first intoxicating taste, but Byron stopped me. “Change the name of the game from ‘cock tasting’ to ‘sex sipping,’ baby,” he smiled, “and let me go first.”
I love oral sex, both giving and receiving, and I wasn’t about to stop my husband from pleasing me. Rather, I made myself comfortable against the edge of the tub and waited to see what he’d do next. Getting down on his knees in front of me, he parted the petals of my pussy, staring downward, then looked up to meet my eyes.
“First, I check out the overall color, right?” Byron asked, remembering the wine taster’s instructions.
I nodded, feeling overwhelmed by his touch. He gently spread apart my labia and observed me carefully. His fingers slid a little in the sweet liquid that had already gathered dew-like on my lips, but his grip was just tight enough that he did not let me go. “Lovely,” he murmured, “a light pink that grows deeper inside, turning to a dusky rose.” He bent closer, placing his face just a sliver from my sex. “And the aroma—” He breathed in deeply. “Oh, what a bouquet.”
I thought he was teasing me, but when I looked at him, I saw that he was seriously concentrating on the task at hand—and the task within reach of his tongue and lips. Because now he bent forward for his first taste of the evening. He spent several moments licking me, his tongue flicking between the lips of my pussy to tickle my clit, then dipping lower into my slit and collecting drops of my nectar. I could feel his whiskers against me, rubbing along the insides of my thighs, and that rough sensation against my delicate skin made me moan and grip his shoulders.
Suddenly he leaned back on his heels. “I did that wrong.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said, breathless. “You did that just right.”
“The second step was swirl, right? Not nose.”
I understood and nodded. In wine tasting, “nose,” which refers to smelling the wine, comes after the swirl. Swirling means that you move the glass to oxygenate the wine. But Byron gave it his own special meaning, dipping his tongue between my thighs and rotating it in perfect circles. I liked this definition for swirl much better than the original, and once he had me on the edge of orgasm again, he pressed his face up close to me, getting his nose in between my delicate pussy lips and tickling me with it.
The term nose describes smelling a wine to determine its characteristics. Is it fruity, nutty, corky, foxy? Byron took the term to mean deciphering the scent of my sex.
“Definitely foxy,” Byron said, “I’ve never smelled a foxier aroma than that.”
Well, now that we were back on track, Byron was ready to really focus on step four, which is taste. I was ready as well. With his mouth pressed to my cunt, lips circling my clit, he flicked his tongue back and forth, making rapid, hungry motions that had me aching for release. Suddenly Byron stopped again, and I could hear him saying something, but with his face pressed against me I couldn’t make it out. Regardless of the message, the words felt fantastic vibrating against my innermost regions. Still, I wanted to know what he was whispering to my pussy.
“What did you say?” I asked him, my voice hoarse.
“Roll it around on the tip of your tongue. . . .” He was repeating the first words of the lesson we’d learned about savoring a glass of wine. “Isn’t that what she said?”
I nodded, but he couldn’t see me, so I made myself say, “Yes, that’s right.”
Byron continued to follow this instruction precisely, rolling my clit back and forth with the softly pointed tip of his tongue. I couldn’t believe how excited it made me. The sensation had me raising my hips, trying to press harder against his face, but Byron grabbed me by the waist and pulled back.
“What came next?”
“Close your eyes,” I told him. Mine were already closed. “Close your eyes and savor it.”
“No,” he said. “I’d rather watch.”
For a moment, he replaced his tongue with his fingers, sitting back on his heels to observe as the sensations flowed through me. I could feel his eyes on me, watching, but I didn’t meet his gaze.
“Please,” I finally murmured, needing to feel his mouth again.
“She said to be patient,” Byron reminded me, “to spend as long as you needed with any particular variety.”
We’d made love like this countless times in the past, but this was the most desperate I’d ever felt. I longed for his tongue to continue tasting me, sipping from me, but I did my best not to beg again, to content myself with the gentle motions of his fingers as they rocked up and over my mound, tickling, probing. I wouldn’t be able to come from only his fingertips, but I found myself enjoying the plateau, being kept on the edge but unable to reach release.
Finally Byron bent down again, and I could imagine the look on his face as he continued to follow our wine-tasting lesson. He breathed me in deeply, then brought his tongue again to my clit. And, oh, it was paradise, the warm wetness from his mouth mingling with my own liquid pleasure. I think the best part was that Byron seemed to be getting as much satisfaction from tasting me as I was at being his aperitif. He lapped at me with the thirst of a desert wanderer who had reached an oasis of cool, clear water. I was that oasis, and I gave myself over to him, coming hard and fast on his mouth, gripping his hair and pressing my sopping slit against him.
After that, it took me several moments to compose myself, and Byron held me firmly in his warm embrace, feeling the contractions flow from my body. I thought he might slip his cock into me to enjoy the tight grip of my pussy around him, but he didn’t. Obviously he wanted to make the evening’s entertainment last. Still, as we stood in the shower, I looked down and saw how hard he was. Sticky sweet drops of pre-come had already begun to leak from the tip of his cock, and it was my indication that we should hurry to the next event.
Now that it was my turn to drink, Byron helped me out of the shower and into the bedroom. He sprawled on top of the comforter and looked at me, waiting. Just as he had done, I took my time, crawling onto the mattress between his legs, getting one hand around his cock and stroking him firmly, exactly how he likes it. But because he had made me wait for this, I was so excited about tasting him that I could hardly control myself. I brought my lips to the tip of his cock and pursed them around the head. Then I sucked once, feeling the warmth in my mouth and the pre-come that had been waiting for me to draw it forth. The taste was sweet and light, and I wanted more.
I pulled more of Byron’s cock into my mouth, longing to feel it pounding against the back of my throat. As I worked, I paid attention to Byron’s scent, to the way his cock felt on my tongue. I swirled around it, stroking it while it was inside my mouth, and this made Byron moan and buck against me, driving his cock in even deeper. My awareness was heightened, and I paid attention to the tiniest changes that took place—the drips of pre-come as they slid down my throat; the way Byron’s body tensed when I stroked my fingertips along his balls, cupping them in one hand, grazing them gently with my nails.
The tasting that afternoon had reminded me of the need for patience to truly enjoy an experience. It taught me to observe every nuance, and I employed this lesson in my drinking of Byron. I savored him, swallowing him down, feeling his shaft pulsing in my mouth. I could tell when he was about to come, but he surprised me, gripping my body and quickly positioning us in a sixty-nine. Now we could drink from each other.
I was still wet from his delicious treatment in the shower, and I found that I had to work harder to focus as he brought his lips back to my cunt and teased me once again with his tongue. I sighed, then concentrated on giving him pleasure, working his cock back and forth between my parted lips.
It was sweet torture, trying to remain calm and wait for the climax to wash over me. I did my best to give Byron my full attention, wanting him to feel as fantastic as he had made me feel. But every time he slid his tongue inside me, stroking my inner walls with just the tip, I thought I would melt away. Yet Byron didn’t seem to mind, because each time he drove me onward, I sucked him harder in response, milking him with my throat, swallowing him down.
Again, I came first, as Byron brought his fingers to the split of my body and slid in one, and then another, giving me something to contract upon. And then Byron was coming too, fucking my mouth as hard as he could. I swallowed his pearly vintage, then licked my lips, not wanting to lose a single drop. We had reached the finish, which comes after you’ve tasted the wine. It’s when you let the feeling of the experience sink in.
“So did you like it?” I asked him, still tasting his dreamy flavor in my mouth.
Byron nodded. “Of course, Toni, but you surprised me.” I caught a glimmer of humor in his deep blue eyes, but I could not guess what he was going to say.
“How?” I finally asked.
“I thought that at tastings you were supposed to spit it out.”
“Didn’t you know?” I said, grinning at him, nestling closer between his legs for the final sip of the evening. “The very good stuff you swallow.”
by Joseph Bernardi
We woke that first morning in Mexico City to all the sounds I’d thought we’d left behind in New York. A couple of sirens screamed at each other, taxis disputed with horns blaring, and somebody was having a very loud argument in Spanish right outside our hotel window. When I pulled back the curtain, I saw urban sprawl blanketed with smog. This was our vacation?
Our jobs in the Financial District kept us so busy that Diane and I virtually lived by our appointment books. I noticed that this was Wednesday, and we always penciled in time to have sex on Wednesday evening and Saturday afternoon, unless some unscheduled business commitment came up. I glanced over at Di’s sleeping form, hoping that maybe she’d forget to check her book this morning. After our escape from New York, the flight and a night in a strange bed, I wasn’t really in the mood for sex.
And that was the disturbing truth about our relationship. Neither of us was really in the mood very often anymore, certainly not like the passionate early years of our marriage. Sex had become almost like flossing—you remembered to do it because it contributed to overall good health.
Over breakfast I showed Di the list I’d organized of things I thought we could do during our week-long vacation. “Well,” I said, “there’s the pyramid at Teotihuacán this morning, and the floating gardens at Xochimilco this afternoon, and tonight maybe we can catch the Ballet Folklorico, and—”
Di sighed. I knew that sigh. “What?” I said, peering over my reading glasses.
“How about the butterflies?” she said. “Oh, you remember. I told you about that valley in the mountains of Michoacán where billions of monarch butterflies spend the winter. They migrate down from Canada every year. I read an article about it.”
“You really have your heart set on those butterflies?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine what could be so special about a flock of butterflies.
Diane said that not only were the butterflies a sight to see, but the land up in the mountains was beautiful. We decided to leave the hotel in Mexico City and stay in a small bed-and-breakfast in the mountain town. As soon as we were free of the traffic and the sprawl, Di reached over and gave my shoulders a little massage.
“You can relax now,” she said, laughing. “It’s just us and the donkeys.”
She was right—there were actually donkeys walking alongside the road carrying big loads, with either old men or small boys leading them. Along with the donkeys were green fields and farms in the foreground, hills rolling off into the distance, and looming volcanic mountains as far as the eye could see.
We passed through Toluca, then Zitacuaro, each town smaller than the last and less like anything I’d ever seen. Finally the road ended in the tiny village of Angangueo. We were over ten thousand feet high here, and surrounded by pine trees and mountains.
Using her high-school Spanish, Di hired a guy with a battered pickup truck to take us the last six miles—up a winding, rutted, rocky road—to the edge of the butterfly reserve. He let us out and drove off after agreeing to come back for us in a few hours.
Then, just like that, there we were with the butterflies. Suddenly they were everywhere, millions of them, filling the air with fluttering orange-gold like autumn leaves falling, hanging on to the huge pine trees in clumps the size of small cars. Every few minutes as we walked through the silent forest, there came the sound of a branch cracking under their weight.
We were miles from the village, miles from any other humans, with hours stretching ahead of us before the truck picked us up. The warm air all around us was alive with gold-and-black wings. We knelt by a damp patch of ground near a spring and gazed down at hundreds of butterflies that were lapping up water with tiny black tongues the size of pins and maybe an eighth of an inch long. As they drank, their wings slowly opened and closed.
We wandered like children in Eden, moving in awe under a sea of glittering, molten gold. The blue sky overhead looked like the surface of this magic sea, far away, far above. The only sounds were the gentle crunch of pine needles underfoot and the whir of wings—silent when one or two fly by on a summer afternoon, but now surrounding us with gentle music.
In an open grass-covered spot between the trees, Di stopped and began to undress. I quickly glanced around, but we were alone in the world, alone on this mountain under a sea of butterflies as she scattered her clothes on the emerald grass.
Around Di’s body, moving in undulating waves, came thousands upon thousands of the creatures, their velvety wings catching the sunlight as they swirled around her, flying between and through her legs, waves of them around her torso, fluttering against her breasts.
I joined Di and dropped my inhibitions, along with my shirt and jeans, on the grass. I slipped out of my boxers, then stood only a few inches from her, gazing into her eyes, as waves of gold enveloped us. I was being caressed by thousands of butterfly wings, velvety soft, like tiny silken fingers touching me everywhere.
At the sight of Di’s luscious naked body and the touch of a million wings, my cock began to rise, rhythmically throbbing, hot and eager. Di’s arms were relaxed at her sides, her palms open to the sky, and her legs parted slightly as wings beat softly against her breasts—gold across her pink, swollen nipples, gold across her fluffy black bush. A large monarch settled there, slowly opening and closing its wings like an iridescent jewel set in her glistening black hair.
As I moved to reach for her, the butterflies swirled in new patterns around my body, like sun-burnished water flowing in a warm river. I leaned forward and our lips met in a kiss of probing tongues and hungry lips.
Gently I caressed Di’s breasts with both hands, feeling her nipples plump beneath my palms, touching each nub of flesh, squeezing them between my fingers and thumbs. Her cry of pleasure sent waves of startled gold flying up and away and then slowly swirling around us again as we sank to the grass at our feet.
Di’s long, slender legs opened to me, and her delicate hands reached down to guide my swollen shaft into the pink heart of her pussy. She was wet and hot and ready, and my cock felt bigger than it had in a long time as it plunged in, all the way in. We found an unhurried rhythm in our movements, so different from the rushed coupling we’d become used to back in New York.
With gentle movements, Di urged me to roll over so she could be on top. The grass was soft under my naked skin as Di straddled me, her slick pussy sinking down on my cock, deep and warm. She moved slowly back and forth, her large, firm breasts swaying only inches from my face. Behind her, as far as I could see, was the golden eternity of fluttering wings, a kaleidoscope of shifting splendor against the faraway azure of the sky.
Di’s exploring fingers trailed across my chest, her nails raking softly across all the sensitive spots as I moaned with pleasure. They found my nipples and flicked and teased as waves of ecstasy rushed through my whole body, flooding my cock with new passion as it thrust upward into Di’s hot core.
“Harder, harder,” she panted as she squeezed my nipples. “Give me every bit of it,” she cried as I arched my back, driving my cock upward. She opened her legs wider, thrusting her pussy down to take everything I could give her.
My hands were on her breasts now, pinching her nipples; cupping her squirming tits as she moved, smooth and slick with perspiration; caressing their firm contours as she swayed back and forth. She leaned forward, giving me both breasts, moving them down to my mouth.
“Suck them, sweetheart,” she murmured.
First one swollen nipple, then the other—I sucked them into my mouth, tongued each, sucked, nibbled, biting a little, as she cried and moaned. She held them together with her hands and begged me to suck them both together, and I did, flicking my tongue back and forth from one ripe plum to the other, nipping one and then giving the other a little bite.
She was riding my cock now like a jockey urgently coming up on the finish line, and I rose to meet her, harder and faster, up and into her as deep as I could, as though I could reach her very soul with one mammoth thrust of my shaft.
As we came, we both cried out in ecstasy, and as we did, thousands of butterflies fluttered away from us in a shattering explosion of sun-splashed gold, with Di and me at the very center. We lay, spent, on the warm grass, breathing as though we’d run a mile, perspiration running off our bodies. We hadn’t made love like this in years—maybe never.
We drifted off into golden sleep, lying like tired children on the sun-strewn grass. When I awoke, it was to the strangest, most sensual sensation I’d ever felt. At first I thought I was dreaming. I opened my eyes and saw that hundreds of the monarchs had come to rest everywhere on my body. I was startled by their boldness. Even when I moved to look over at Di, many of them still clung to me. Di, too, was covered with undulating gold-and-black wings.
Barely moving my head, I could see them all around us. The feeling was incredible, like a gentle caress, but tingly at the same time. They were on my legs too, and on my stomach.
Di’s body was covered with as many butterflies as mine, and they were slowly opening and closing their wings. Di sat up, and it caused a frenzy of movement. She looked over at me and moved to embrace me. The butterflies dipped and fluttered around us. Then she lowered her head over my cock.
I could feel my passion growing, and it felt natural that we had made love among these golden creatures. This was a day for sexual adventures, for breaking out of old molds.
The butterflies moved around my throbbing cock while my wife sucked deeply on my shaft. This was truly an amazing journey to a sensuous place we’d never been before.
I let my mind roam, and I felt as though I were truly flying, with hundreds of fluttering wings lifting me higher and higher. The sensation of having my cock licked by Di’s warm, soft tongue, along with dozens of tiny tingles of pleasure caused by small wings, was wonderful.
I stroked Di’s pussy and realized that she too was moving quickly toward the most unusual orgasm she’d probably ever experienced. She couldn’t resist moving just a little, arching her back to make her pussy even more open to my caresses, while dozens of butterflies moved around her body. She moved her breasts too, and between a flurry of wings I could see that her nipples were puffy with arousal.
The butterflies came and went in gently fluttering waves, like golden silk blowing softly in the breeze. Suddenly the sound of one little gasp of pleasure from Di brought me almost to the edge of orgasm. She had lifted her head off my cock and caressed me with her hand. I knew she was ready to come. I was almost there too.
Our cries of release were almost perfectly synchronized, and as my hot juices spurted up into the sunshine, the kaleidoscope of butterflies surrounding us exploded. We rolled into each other’s arms and they rose and swirled away, two clouds of shushing wings becoming one as they fluttered higher into the sky.
Arm in arm, our bodies molded to each other, we wandered in the mountains through the long, lazy afternoon. Below us in a valley was a tiny village, and the smell of cooking floated up to us along with the sounds of laughter and someone strumming a guitar. Two little children, a boy and a girl, chased swirls of butterflies along a path, waving their arms as though they were flinging handfuls of gold coins into the sunshine. We felt like those two children, somehow liberated by the grandeur of the natural beauty around us.
Later the truck picked us up and took us back to the tiny village, where we spent the next few days at a small hotel. Mornings were relaxed and leisurely, and sometimes we made love before breakfast. Afternoons were for walks among the glory of the butterflies and quiet picnic lunches in secluded, pine-scented meadows in the mountains above the town.
At the end of the week we drove out of the village in our rental car. A couple of miles down the road, we noticed that a single monarch butterfly had somehow gotten into the car with us. We pulled over to the side of the road and opened all four windows to let it fly away. As we watched, it fluttered slowly on the warm breeze back toward the mountain, high into the brilliant sky, and we kept our eyes on it until it disappeared.
Then we looked at each other with emotions we hadn’t felt in a long time. That butterfly was back on the mountain, but we would take it back to the hurry and bustle of the city in our hearts.
by Tyra Spence
You know, if there were an Olympic category for making love, Tim and I would have won the gold medal by now. Early in our relationship we’d joined the Mile High Club (having sex on an airplane) and the Yard Wide Club (doing it in a vintage VW Bug). So when we learned from friends about the Mile Deep Club (fucking in the English Channel Tunnel), we decided that this was a ride we had to experience for ourselves.
The “Chunnel” runs underwater between Paris and London, and the Eurostar is the train that travels through it. Tim bought us first-class tickets, believing that if we were going to do it, we might as well go in style. However, we hadn’t even reached the train when Tim’s amorous side emerged. He pulled me behind a concrete pillar at the Gare du Nord train station in Paris, kissing my lips and the hollow of my neck and trying to convince me to sneak into the men’s room with him. At first I thought he was kidding, but when I looked up into his dark blue eyes, I saw that he was serious.
“Let’s wait until we get our seats,” I urged, wanting to postpone pleasure until the last possible moment. Anticipation always heightens sex for me, but Tim was ready now. He placed one of my hands against his crotch so I could feel his hard-on pressing through his khakis. He didn’t want to wait.
“We can just have a quickie here,” he suggested anxiously. “The ride’s three hours long. We’ll have plenty of time for a second round.”
Even though I don’t require fancy settings to get into the mood, I wasn’t keen on doing it in a men’s room. But when Tim spied a row of private lavatories, the type that allow you to put in your franc and have fifteen minutes of privacy in an enclosed capsule, I relented.
“You’re sure nobody else can get in?” I asked cautiously, walking around the egg-shaped unit. It looked like something that had landed from outer space.
Tim pointed to the sign that would let people know the capsule was occupied.
“How long do we get?”
“Quarter of an hour.”
Plenty of time for a quickie, I agreed. And now, with him practically begging me, I found that I was seriously turned on too. Tim slipped in the coins and the hinged door whirred open. Inside, the miniature French bathroom was both spotless and odorless. Tim and I ducked in together and quickly got into the groove. I wasn’t wearing panties, in preparation for our ride through the Chunnel, and Tim didn’t have any boxers on under his slacks. This made things infinitely easier as we maneuvered within the small space.
There was no discussion of position. Tim, sensing correctly that I was aroused enough to forego foreplay, simply unzipped his fly, lifted my short skirt and pulled me back against him, impaling me with his thick cock. We fucked standing like that, in a modified spoon embrace, with me remaining fairly motionless while Tim did the work of thrusting and pulling back, thrusting in deeper still, and then just giving me the head. He steadied me with his hands on my slim waist, and he leaned forward and bit the ridge of my shoulder to keep himself from making too much noise.
In our private capsule, Tim’s cock bucked within my cunt, bouncing deeper against the walls of my pussy with each thrust. I was already well-lubricated from the anticipation of making love in the Chunnel, and this helped Tim’s cock slide back and forth in the most divine manner imaginable.
Even though I was consumed by the sensations, my heart raced at the thought of being discovered. Although this is what makes our sexual adventures exciting, I wondered if the gendarmes we had seen in the station would arrest an American couple for indecent activity.
Then I reminded myself that this was Paris, a city famous for romance. While riding a tour boat along the Seine the night before, the captain had used his lights to reveal couples making love on the riverbanks. The tourists applauded and whistled as several of the engrossed couples managed to untangle themselves long enough to wave back.
As Tim’s cock throbbed within the tight confines of my hungry pussy, I suddenly found myself appreciating the tiny bathroom capsule. It forced us to make the most of the space we had, pressing even tighter together than usual. I could feel my husband’s strong body on mine as he wrapped one arm around my waist and pulled me back against him. Tim is nearly six inches taller than I am. He has a swimmer’s build, strong with corded muscles, and he can easily maneuver my weight in his arms, moving me however he wants. As a fitness instructor, I’m lithe and light and infinitely flexible.
Now he used my weight for his own enjoyment, rocking me on him instead of thrusting into me. The motion was perfectly rhythmic, and he brought his fingers to the lips of my pussy and then slid into the wetness. My clit was ready, near-desperate for contact, and he touched it just the way I like, starting slowly, gently teasing, then giving it to me a little bit firmer. The slightly callused balls of his fingertips played over my jewel in a steady motion, stroking me closer and closer to climax as his cock worked my inner regions. I usually need both sensations when I’m striving for an orgasm, and Tim didn’t let me down. His fingers moved faster, and when he sensed I could handle a stronger touch, he carefully pinched my clit between his fingers and thumb.
“Oh, fuck,” I told him, trying to keep my voice low. “That feels so good.”
“Don’t whisper, Tyra,” he said. “I want to hear you as you come.”
Excerpted from Penthouse Variations by Penthouse International Copyright © 2003 by Penthouse International. Excerpted by permission.
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