Women in Lust (5 page)

I’m stretched wide open for him and his toy—exposed and hungry for it, using it to feed the mounting lust that burns for being filled like this.

The night air is muggy like death. A dog barks outside. A car drives by and no one knows what is going on in my room. No one suspects that I am right there, through the thin pane of a window with my lover’s cock in my ass, a cold dildo inside of my cunt.

I’m so excited, I can hardly breathe.

I rub my clit. He presses an ice cube against my arm and
I take it, using it to rub myself off. The cold is more than my clit can handle. I picture the soft pink flesh rubbing against the slick clear rectangle and I start to tremble above and beyond the cold.

I’m so close and I just want to hear his voice. “Tell me you want me.”

“God, yes. I want you. I want you to make me come like this.”

The pleasure rolls over me like the lapping of waves, coming in slowly, cresting, connecting me to the world as my body fights for that ultimate release. I can hear my breathing and nothing else.

I exhale and the air grows denser from the steaminess of my breath.

I let go, feeling the pulses wrapped around the toy, sending the shock waves through my anus so that it clenches around him until he comes, too. He places his drink on the floor to knead my breasts as we twitch, milking the last of our releases, trying to ride it out for as long as we can.

He pulls me up, fingers pinching my nipples. Then he grabs my arm to twirl me around. Then he kisses me. It’s the first time I’ve looked into his eyes all night. And the last for tonight.

I tell him that I love him.

He smiles and finishes his scotch.

Then he leaves.

I
really, really need a smoke.

I’m in the middle of yet another attempt at cutting down—not giving up. I’ve tried that and failed so many times, I know it’s never going to happen. Instead, I try to go as long as I can without giving in to my cravings. And I’d been doing so well, until now.

Two things are always guaranteed to make me want a cigarette. One is sex. My first instinct, once the last sweet waves of orgasm die away, is to roll over and light up. Not that I’m inconsiderate in these matters. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve wrapped a sheet around myself and padded out onto the balcony of the flat to smoke in satisfied postcoital solitude.

The other is beer. That’s why I knew I was in trouble as soon as I walked into the bar. But after a long, tedious couple of hours spent tramping round the Rijksmuseum, while the guide droned on about every last nuance of every last Rembrandt masterpiece, I was more than ready for a glass of something cold and bitter.

A couple of minutes’ walk away are the tourist traps of the Leidseplein, packed and noisy in the hot June sun. Holland has been playing in a World Cup match this afternoon, so it seems half the people crowded around the pavement tables are decked out in the team’s traditional orange. It makes an arresting spectacle, but a friend at work told me I should bypass the bars on the square in favor of this place, hidden down an unremarkable side street.

It seemed a little dingy as I walked in, but maybe that was just my eyes adjusting after the brightness outside. Gradually, I’ve come to appreciate its not inconsiderable charms: wood-paneled walls and furniture, stained even darker than their original brown by exposure to years of nicotine; tea lights flickering in heavy red glass jars on every table; posters celebrating the output of a dozen breweries across the Low Countries. And, most importantly, a beer menu every bit as extensive as my friend promised.

After careful consideration, I plumped for a bottle of geuze, dry and deliciously sour in taste. The barman, who couldn’t be any older than twenty-one, went through the ritual of washing an already perfectly clean glass before pouring the beer with a flourish. As I relished the first sip, he adjusted the sound system, swapping it from a loop of bland Euro-ballads to low, dirty rock music, the kind whose bass line makes a direct connection to your crotch, impossible to ignore.

So now I’m not just ready for a cigarette, I’m getting horny, too. It doesn’t help that the barman is rather cute, very tall and very blond, with traces of puppy fat still clinging to his cheeks. Maybe he’s a little young for me, but that doesn’t stop me looking and silently lusting.

Mind you, Amsterdam has far more than its share of hot blonds. Like the policeman keeping a watchful eye on the
Leidseplein crowds, his uniform trousers clinging to his ass in a way that makes me yearn for him to press me up against a wall and frisk me. I’m sure that’s not a tactic favored by the Dutch police, but still my mind revisits the scene, fantasizing about the moment when he kicks my legs a little farther apart so he can pat his way up my jeans-clad thighs, closer and closer to my pussy…

I shake my head to clear it of the thought and take another swig of my beer. It doesn’t help, because now sex is firmly on my mind. Just round the corner from here is a day spa and sauna. Passing it earlier, I saw another good-looking blond going inside. He didn’t notice me, and even if he had, I doubt I would have registered with him. The tight white underwear and accessories for sale in the window made it very clear this spa is for gay men—the memory of which only plants a whole new set of images in my mind. Men, lolling on the benches in the heat of the sauna, pulling aside towels to display their rapidly stiffening cocks. Long, muscled thighs being spread widely, so a blond head can bob obediently between them, mouth sucking hard…

I shift on my stool, aware that the seam of my jeans is pressing insistently against my pussy lips. The barman catches my eye and smiles, as though he’s reading my thoughts and knows just how turned on I am. It’s no good. I fumble through my bag, searching for the packet of cigarettes and lighter I’ve stashed firmly at the bottom, so as not to tempt me.

In common with most cities these days, Amsterdam has very strict rules on lighting up in public, and so I make my way to the little terrace outside. There’s one table, big enough for half a dozen people to sit around it. When I arrived, there was a group here, all dressed in orange and celebrating Holland’s victory, but now only two lads in their late twenties remain.

One of them is drinking Kwak; I recognize the distinctive,
round-bottomed glass at once, held suspended in a stout wooden frame. A colleague once ordered a bottle on a night out back home and had to leave his shoe behind the bar to guarantee he’d return the glass. There’s no such system in place here. Maybe the Dutch are more trustworthy, or maybe it’s just no longer a novelty.

Neither he nor his friend appear to pay much attention as I emerge from the bar’s dark interior. They’re chatting away in rapid Dutch, interspersed with the odd raucous laugh. I study them covertly as I flip a cigarette from the pack. Kwak Boy has tousled dark hair and a growth of stubble on his broad jaw. His companion is fairer, with a cynical cast to his foxy features. I wouldn’t turn either of them down, but I’m not vain enough to automatically assume they’d be interested in a woman my age.

The flint on the lighter strikes, but fails to ignite. I try a couple more times, growing increasingly frustrated.

“Do you need a light?” the fair-haired lad asks in impeccable English.

“That’d be great, thanks.”

He produces a lighter, quickly kindling a flame from it. I lean close, inhaling as the cigarette lights and tasting the first welcome lungful of smoke.

That’s one of my imminent needs sorted, but not the other. The pulse still beating steadily deep between my legs is proof of that.

“You’re on holiday here?” the other man asks. I can’t help but notice he’s not looking me in the eyes as he speaks. His gaze is lower, fixed on the point where my olive-green T-shirt stretches across my breasts. Even in my forties, I’m lucky enough to be able to get away without a bra on sultry days like this, and he’s making the most of the sight of my nipples poking hard against the soft-brushed cotton.

“Yes.” I accept the unspoken invitation to sit, to make conversation, perching on the edge of the bench.

“Your first time?”

I shake my head. “I’ve been here a couple of times before, but I’ve never found this bar till now.”

“You’ve missed a treat. Gijs and I almost never drink anywhere else. I’m Peter, by the way.”

“Barbara.”

He takes my hand, holding it for a fraction longer than is socially polite. I’m wondering if there’s more than just friendliness behind his eagerness to make small talk, whether I’m reading the flirtatious looks he’s giving me correctly. His next words remove any doubt from my mind.

“You have fantastic tits, Barbara. I said that to Gijs when we first saw you.”

Gijs takes a long swallow of his blond beer before adding, “That’s not all he said. He reckoned you were pretty fuckable, too.”

There are two ways the conversation can go from here. I can quickly finish my smoke and scuttle back inside, flattered but ignoring the obvious proposition. Or I can—as I do—make eye contact with Gijs and suck on the cigarette as though it’s a miniature cock.

There’s something I need to know before this goes any further. “When I arrived here, you were sitting with three girls.” I picture them in my mind, young and pert, attractive in a wholesome, farmer-folk way, like the barman inside. “If you’re in the mood for a fuck, what was wrong with them?”

Gijs shrugs. “They don’t do it for me. I like someone older, someone who knows what she wants.” He leans closer. “Tell me, Barbara, what do
you
want?”

I want what I’ve wanted since my first sip of beer, since the
music started to rouse me on some primitive level: to be filled with hot, hard cock. More than that, I want to try something I would only dare in a foreign country, where I know there’s absolutely no chance of bumping into someone I know who wouldn’t approve, or understand.

“You and Peter. At the same time. And we’ve got to be quick, because I’ve left my beer sitting on the bar. How about it?” As my words hang in the air, I can’t believe I’ve been so bold. Playing for such high stakes has never really appealed to me before.

Peter spins his empty bottle on the table. Is he deciding whether to go for it or not? A quick glance between the two men, then they nod.

Gijs extends a hand to me. “Come on.”

Halfway down the street, there’s a little alleyway between a low, modern block of flats and the older, more traditionally gabled building next to it. Gijs pulls me into the darkened gap and starts kissing me fiercely while his hands push up under my T-shirt to caress the breasts he’s been admiring so openly.

The smoky flavor of his kisses excites me, even as part of me wonders whether this is all just a little too dangerous. The street is quiet, closed off to traffic, but I still worry someone might wander past and spot us. My T-shirt is up almost to my neck now, tits bare and nipples stiffening in the cool of the shadows. Do the police patrol along here, or are they sticking to the main square where pickpockets are likely to lurk? How much trouble might I be in if we were seen?

Then I catch sight of Peter unzipping his shorts, pulling his cock out of his fly. Even limp, it looks big, and my fears of being caught in the act are replaced with the greedy anticipation of having something that size inside me.

While I’ve been distracted, Gijs has undone my jeans, and his
long fingers are burrowing down into my panties. They slither in my juices, seeking out my hole.

“Mmm,” he murmurs in my ear. “You’ve kept yourself nice and tight.”

His words encourage me to squeeze hard around his invading digits, demonstrating the extent of my muscle control. But even as he’s fingering me with quick in-and-out motions that have me groaning with the depth of my pleasure, I somehow retain the presence of mind to ask, “Who has a condom?”

“I don’t,” Peter admits.

“I do,” Gijs counters.

It means I’ll miss out on being fucked by Peter’s big cock, but some risks I’m not prepared to take.

While Gijs drops his trousers and rolls on his condom, I sink to my knees. The alley floor is cold and a little uncomfortable, and I’ll have the marks of the cobblestones on my skin when I rise, but I figure I won’t be down here for too long. That much is obvious when I take the head of Peter’s dick between my lips, and he shudders like he’s on a short fuse. As I gorge on the juicy plum in my mouth, I tug his foreskin slowly up and down his thick shaft.

“That’s it,” I hear Gijs mutter, his voice hoarse with lust. “Suck him good. Take his come down your throat.”

I can’t imagine how sluttish I must look, on my knees in a back alley, half-dressed and with a stranger’s cock in my mouth. But I feel powerful, completely in control of Peter’s pleasure. While my tongue laves the length of him, my finger rubs at his tight asshole. Playing with that intimate spot is, in my experience, guaranteed to make any man weak at the knees, maybe even anxious to feel that finger burrowing deeper, up into the forbidden recesses of his ass. Peter is no exception. His hands form fists in my hair, trying to pull me harder onto his cock.
But this is going to happen on my terms. I grip his shaft firmly, halfway down its length, so I’m swallowing just as much as I’m comfortable with, and no more.

Peter doesn’t argue. He’s so close to coming now he barely has the ability to do anything more than give a couple of despairing jerks of his hips. His spunk floods my mouth, thin and carrying the bitter flavor I’ve come to associate with men who smoke.

He flops back against the wall, and Gijs hauls me without ceremony to my feet. Spinning me around so my palms are flat against the rough brickwork, he gets into position behind me. I feel him guiding himself into me, my juiciness making his entry nice and simple. He gives me the briefest of moments to get used to his size, then he starts to thrust hard while I brace myself with my hands. In the past, I’ve sometimes been self-conscious of my height, but here, where everyone’s so tall, I’m glad of it. Otherwise, this would all be too awkward.