Sensuous Stories Read online

  Ellen sat on the couch, her legs propped up and open as Maya poured the honey over her breasts.

  “Is this right?” Maya asked.

  “It’s perfect. Now the book.”

  Maya picked up the book and then sat between Ellen’s legs on a footstool. She started to read. Ellen could feel Maya’s voice enter her and moved her fingers toward her cunt to keep the words in.

  “Can I do that?” Maya asked, breaking off from her reading.

  Ellen hesitated, uncertain, but seeing the look of avid desire on the other woman’s face, nodded.

  Maya slid two fingers into Ellen and started a steady, rhythmical thrust. She held the book in her other hand and started reading again. Wanting to weep with relief, Ellen felt the warm vibration build and pulse within her.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  “And if I wish to pay her out for something very dreadful – as may happen once or twice, when we become to gladsome – I bring her to forgotten sadness, and to me for cure of it, by the two words, ‘Lorna Doone.’”

  Gardening with Grace

  Grace McLaren sat back on her haunches and surveyed her garden. It looked good. Most of the beds were made and filled with her favorite plants. The sky was blue, the air clear, the sun a warm caress on her back. She gave a satisfied grunt as she stood and stretched her arms, feeling a not unpleasant stiffness in her muscles.

  Virtuous pain. It felt wonderful.

  She pulled off her gardening gloves and hat, then ran a hand through her short, dark curls. A cup of tea would be a perfect finish to the day. Bending to pick up a stray weed, she stiffed, then stood abruptly, hearing the piercing sound of circular saw cut through the still air.

  No, not again! That bastard!

  She strode over to the fence and hiked herself up to peer down into the yard next door. There he was, that wretched sneak, Jack Henson. Using those appalling power tools after he promised her he’d only use them when she wasn’t in her garden. She couldn’t even yell at him with all that sound going on. Grace vibrated with fury as she gripped the fence and felt the sharp edge of the paling cut into her hands.

  I’m going to get him this time. He’s going to regret he ever moved in to this neighborhood.

  He looked up suddenly and she saw the dismay on his face. She smirked with satisfaction.

  Too late for that boyo. You’re in trouble.

  Sure, he was the most interesting man to ever move to Arcadia in recent years, with his silver streaked hair and broad, muscled chest, but being the object of lust of most of the women in the street would not stop Grace from crushing him like a bug.

  He turned off the saw and crossed over to her. “Grace, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were in the garden.”

  “Oh sure, like yesterday and the day before and the day before that. I’ve had enough, Jack. You’ve never intended to compromise. It’s all been just a con. Well, we’ll see what the local Council says when I tell them you’re running a business from home.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Watch me.” She spun around and marched toward her back door.

  “Grace...”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him climb the fence and drop into her garden. Excellent. “What the hell do you think you’re doing. Get off my property!”

  “Can’t we talk about this?” he said, sounding desperate. Even better.

  “There’s nothing to talk about. You agreed to not use power tools when I was in the garden and you’ve not kept to your side of the bargain. That means all bets are off.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice you there. You didn’t exactly announce yourself.”

  She waved her hand in dismissal and turned to walk back to her house. His hand on her arm made her jump.

  “Grace, this is ridiculous.”

  She shook him off and almost ran to the back door, panting as she raced in and slammed it behind her. Or tried to. Panic and something else, something delighted and dark, speared through her as she sensed him just behind her. Sure enough, he pushed the door open and strode after her into the kitchen.

  “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t come here. Get out!”

  “We need to talk about this, Grace. It can’t go your way all the time.”

  “Oh can’t it?” she said, a delicious lick of nervousness sliding through her belly as he backed her against the kitchen wall.

  “No!” he yelled. “I’ve tried my best to be a good neighbor but it’s never enough for you.”

  “You haven’t tried hard enough,” she said. He was only inches from her and she could smell earth and sun on him. And something else, something male and pungent. The fury in his eyes ignited a spark of satisfaction deep within her. He would pay all right.

  “What do you mean?” he said. “I’ve talked to you, I’ve listened to what you want. You were so quick to lay down the law as soon as I moved in and I agreed to everything. Now you threaten me when I’m not quick enough to notice where you are every time of the day. What am I supposed to do?”

  She bunched his shirt in her hand and pulled him close. “Pay more attention,” she said and bit him right where she could see the fast beating pulse in his neck. He yelped then groaned as she soothed the sting with her tongue. “Don’t be lazy.”

  He glared at her and raised his hands to her throat. She felt a moment of skittery fear but smiled with triumph when he grabbed the collar of her shirt and ripped it open and off, sending buttons flying. She felt his hot, enraged gaze on her breasts and gasped as he roughly pulled down her lace bra. The cool air felt glorious on her hot, tight, nipples.

  “Pay more attention?” he said. He took her breast into his mouth and sucked hard. She whimpered as he flipped open the button to her jeans and slid down the zipper. Pushing his hand down into her curls, he found her clit. She was still dry, but he scrapped his callous roughened fingers against her. The harsh friction took her to the edge in a few seconds.

  He kept working his fingers against her and pressed her to the wall. Lifting his head he glared at her. “How much more attention do I have to pay you?”

  “I’ve told you,” she said, as she closed her eyes, feeling his fingers thrust hard inside her now far from dry pussy. “You agreed to not use power tools and control your dog. You’ve done neither.”

  “Control my dog?” he said slipping a third finger inside her while running his tongue down her neck. “What’s wrong with Angus?”

  She pulled his shirt from his jeans and fumbled with the buttons, desperate to get his skin under her hands. “He keeps digging up my pansies,” she said, scrapping her nails against his flat brown nipples. She bent her head to twirl her tongue around one, hearing his indrawn breath, as she unzipped him and pulled out his hardening cock. Her hand circled and squeezed him, starting a regular slide up and down.

  “That’s because he jumps the fence to get at that wretched cat of yours,” he gasped, moving his fingers back to her clit. “She deliberately bates him.”

  She moaned as he gave her clit a final rough tweak. His arm caught her around the waist as her harsh keening signaled the beginning of an explosive climax.

  She screamed, feeling her wetness gush all over his hand. His fingers continued to gently slide in and out of her as he held her against him, nuzzling her neck. She let herself rest, just for a few seconds, so she could feel the glorious jelly in her bones and taste the salty skin of his shoulder. But not for long. She gathered herself together and narrowed her eyes.

  Not so fast, buster. It’s not that easy.

  Pushing herself away from him, she held onto his cock, pumping and squeezing.

  “So you admit your dog jumps the fence,” she said, pushing him against the wall. She squatted in front of him and held onto his hips, taking him into her mouth.

  “He’s only a puppy,” Jack moaned. She looked up at him to see his eyes closed and his face transfigured with painful ecstasy. Her satisfaction deepened as he thrust into her mouth. Div
erted, she caught sight of herself in the glass of the oven and felt an immediate, hot pulse in her cunt. Her full breasts were hanging out of her white lace bra and her mouth was wide and voracious, sucking and licking Jack’s long, wide cock. She listened to his moans and knew he was close.

  “No,” she said, pulling away. “Being a puppy is no excuse. You have to control him.” She knew how she must look to him, as she watched him gaze down at her, his cock bobbing up between them. She lightly licked the tip and cupped her breasts, rolling her nipples between her fingers. A hot burst of avid want flooded her as she saw his jaw tense and his eyes flare with lustful fury.

  “Then you have to do something about the cat,” he said, pulling her up roughly. She stepped out of her shoes and gasped as he turned and pushed her against the kitchen table, bending her over. He striped her out of her jeans and panties leaving her exposed to him, completely naked. A sharp quiver of anticipation shot through her. She could feel the coarse cotton of his jeans as he pushed open her legs with his knees and heard the sudden rip of foil. The cool wood of the table felt exquisite against her aching breasts. She raised herself on her elbows and tipped up her bottom to welcome him.

  With one ferocious thrust, he was inside her wet slit, grasping her hips and pumping her hard and fast.

  “Oh god!” she moaned.

  “Are you going to do something about that wretched cat?” he panted between thrusts.

  “Only if you control your dog!” she whimpered, thrusting back at him, feeling the cold metal of his zipper against her buttocks. His cock felt hot, so hot, pushing her harder and higher. She lowered herself so she was flat to the table and moved her arm underneath her to rub her clit. She was close again when she felt him lean down the length of her body and take her ear lobe into his mouth. He kept thrusting as he sucked.

  “I’ll do better with Angus if you keep the cat in at night. Agreed?” he whispered pulling himself almost completely out but keeping the head of his cock just at her entrance, lightly sliding up and down her slit. She pushed back trying to get him in. He laughed and evaded her. “What do you say Grace? Do we have an agreement?”

  “Yes, but you have to find out where I am before you use any power tools,” she almost shrieked, feeling the tingling glow of stars build through her body.

  “Okay,” he gasped, thrusting into her again. Golden heat and sparks exploded through her cunt, up and out through her mouth.

  She contracted around him, felt his last, hard thrust and heard his muffled moans as he pressed his mouth to the back of her neck.

  She stretched her arms out in front of her, feeling the delicious pull of sore muscles throughout her body. Jack trailed kisses down her back, making her squirm with laughter. Slippery moisture slid down her legs when he pulled out of her. Turning over, she sat on the table and watched him zip himself up and button his shirt, looking flustered and tussled.

  Not so smooth now are you boyo. Not when my cunt’s been around you.

  She dipped her fingers into herself and drew out her moisture, drawing it over her nipples.

  “The fence is falling down. It’ll have to be replaced,” she said, sucking her fingers.

  “What? That’s ridiculous! There’s nothing wrong with that fence!” he said tucking his shirt into his jeans.

  She shrugged. “Looks bad from my side. I have a beautiful garden and I want to keep it that way.” She smiled at him and lifted a leg onto the table, opening herself to his gaze.

  His eyes glazed over and she saw, to her amusement, his struggle to pull himself together.

  “I can’t deal with this now,” he said “I’ve got things to do. Can’t we talk about this another time?”

  “Oh, you can be sure of that,” she said, sliding off the table to pick up her clothes.

  I’m a long way from finished with you.

  “Tomorrow will be fine.”

  Persephone's Door

  I know what to do with doors. People come to me because they want a special door, something that makes an impression and gives a clue to their character. Sometimes they want me to paint their favorite animal on the door, or their girlfriend or a landscape, but I talk to them first before I decide what to paint. It’s not always pleasant. They have to understand that.

  I do both sides so that when visitors come to the house, they see the beginning of the story as they stand and ring the bell waiting for the door to open. Then they see the rest of the story on the other side of the door as they hang up their coat.

  When I first started painting doors, I only painted happy images that made people feel good. That soon changed.

  And I didn’t always stop at doors. My first client was a chef, but as I talked to him, I realized he had a love of entomology, particularly ants. He had an ant farm on his book shelf and lots of books on insects. I painted a version of the Last Supper on his front door, with him as Christ and famous television chefs as the apostles. On the other side, I painted his ideal kitchen with every implement he had ever wanted. It gleamed and shone in the hall light, the stainless steel surfaces lacquered to perfection. Down one leg of the kitchen bench I painted a trail of ants which led from the door, across the hall way, through the living room and into his own kitchen, up his kitchen table, across and down again, eventually going out the window. He was very happy.

  Not long after, he moved to Lightning Ridge where he did some opal mining, devoted himself to his ant passion and ran a little cafe. I don’t know what happened to the door, but I don’t really concern myself with that. It is more important to me that people listen to what I’m trying to tell them.

  Another young man wanted me to paint a beach with him riding a surf board. But I knew as I talked to him, this was only a transitory point in his life. He had an air of tragedy about him, and as we spoke, he told me that he was estranged from his parents who wanted him to live a life empty of passion.

  I painted a huge tsunami on his door, looming up over his small figure standing on the beach. On the other side, I painted a path through a rainforest leading up from the beach. At the top of the path was a naked, pregnant woman waiting for him. She had skin like ripe peaches. One of her hands was on her belly and one on her breast, lightly squeezing her nipple.

  He loved his door but didn’t understand why I painted this image. When I offered to change it, he stopped me. I could see he didn’t know why.

  Later, I heard that he often sat and contemplated this door. Eventually he found his own path and became a gardener with six children.

  I don’t know if my doors push people into what they become or if I create something that will happen anyway. All I know is that if I get a sense of what I should paint, and I am not true to that sense, something bad will happen. I will be forced to paint the door as it wants to be painted. This can be very hard. Not everything that happens in life is joyous or can make people happy. When I talk with some people, I know that their life will be hard or that death is hovering. These are the times when I am tempted to change or hide what I am driven to create. But I know now this will make everything worse. I can’t even refuse to paint the door. It’s as if the door knows as soon as someone comes to me to discuss what they want. It waits for life to be poured into it. At times I feel very lonely when I have to paint a door full of sorrow.

  The first time I painted a sad door was for one of my friends. I was happy because I like to create beautiful things for my friends. But I soon learnt I had to tell them never to ask me for a door after my experience with Rebecca.

  She did not have a vision of what she wanted on her door. As we sat and talked, I had a growing sense of disquiet. All I could see were scenes of abandonment and despair. On the front of her door, I knew I had to paint a picture of an orchard full of fruit that was overripe and almost rotting on the trees. It was strangely beautiful. The fruit glistened with color and moisture, but there was an overriding sense of corruption and sickness. On the back of the door I had to paint a wasteland, where the trees were skeleto
ns against a fiery orange horizon and black earth. I didn’t want to paint this door because Rebecca’s life was full of happiness. She had a much loved daughter and a husband who adored her and who she adored.

  When she saw the door she was horrified and demanded I paint it over. I immediately did, but it was too late. The door had taken on the life I had painted and nothing could stop what was to happen. Within six months her child was dead and her husband had left her in his grief. She blamed me and came to my house and cursed me for ruining her life. I wept as I tried to explain that I didn’t know if I make things happen or if I just paint what will happen. She didn’t care and left me with her rage and sorrow ringing in my ears.

  For a long time I refused to speak to anyone who wanted a door. I got my mail and phone diverted to an answering service so that any requests didn’t get to me. I became reclusive and would only talk to my friends who knew what had happened. I stayed in my house and painted and painted but nowhere near any doors.

  Finally, I realized that I had to continue with my life and that whoever approached me for a door, had to take the risk of starting something they had no control over. I put a sign up in front of my house telling anyone who wanted a door that they had to be prepared for what would happen. Some people had second thoughts, but others went ahead with their request. The people who particularly sought me out were people who were stuck and unable to see where their life was going. They didn’t seem to mind if I set into motion something bad in their life, because they were sick of treading water.

  One day a man came to see me to enquire about a door. He hadn’t decided whether he wanted a door or whether I was the right person to paint it. I was surprised and a little affronted, as no one had ever questioned my abilities before. He came and sat in my sunroom and sipped tea as we talked. For some reason, he made me nervous.

  He watched me with a determination and fierceness that confused and excited me. I felt he was testing me.

  I was conscious of my paintings lining the walls and looked at them through his eyes. All I could see was a woman who toyed with her work, unable to produce anything significant; just some strange decorations for other people’s houses.