Madame B - Ecstasy

The rhythmic breathing from the other car was getting louder, and the car itself began to rock gently on its wheels. Listening to a sexual sound track of the man's deep baritone groans and the woman's soft sighs, I pictured them sitting in the front seat, masturbating each other, her hand on his cock like a gearshift, his fingers working away between her thighs. I couldn't be this horny without a dick inside me, so I spread my legs, and Steve was on me and in me in seconds, his hot, smooth dick bigger even than it had been a minute before, stretching my pussy. He slid one expert hand between us and circled my clit with gentle but rapid movements, sending waves of desire pulsing through my body and triggering that series of responses that builds up before a body-rocking orgasm. I felt my legs become weak and my thighs start to tremble. The harder Steve thrust, the more the base of my spine scraped against the metal of the car. Concentrating on this tiny pain was the only thing that stopped me from coming right there and then, and I wanted to delay the exquisite pleasure for as long as possible. My face contorted, and I made my hands into fists, fighting the urge to let go and surrender to orgasm.

"Oh, no," said Steve, recognizing the signs, "not yet. We're making this last as long as we can," and, with a swift movement, he pulled out of me, making me gasp as the tip of his penis traced the quivering lips of my pussy on exit and flipping me over like a rag doll so that I was facing the windshield with my tits and belly pressed against the hood. He spread my legs and was inside me again with an ever-growing hard-on that threatened to split my body in two.

We stopped midthrust when we heard the soft click of a car door and knew that the other couple had finally left their vehicle. They were so close that I could smell their mingled scents: her designer perfume, his expensive aftershave, and, underneath that, floating through the twilight, something else, the unmistakable musk of a man and a woman ready for each other, the infectious aroma of presex. Because of my position and the pools of light and shade that the headlights cast in that little glade, I couldn't make out their faces, but I could see their bodies-and what bodies they were. Hers was tiny, tanned, fashion-model perfect. Like me, she was wearing only a slip of a dress, a slinky sequined wisp that she pulled up and over her face so that only her long, honey-blond hair was visible. Her smooth caramel skin was the same color all over, and her pubic hair was waxed into a neat strip. As we caught a glimpse of her cherry-colored cunt, Steve resumed his thrusting, taking things slowly this time so we would be able to focus on what we were about to see as well as on our own screwing. The man was naked, his physique perfect, like an ancient Greek statue, but carved in mahogany rather than marble. He was perfectly proportioned, a masterpiece of rippling muscle inside dark, nut-brown skin. He was hairless but for a patch of tight black curls above his magnificent, imposing cock. He was circumcised, and his penis stood to attention above a pair of smooth brown balls that weighed heavy with spunk and expectation. For perhaps a minute, his body was turned toward us, watching as my husband fucked me slowly from behind. Then he turned his attention to his lover, who waited patiently for his dick, spread out against their 4? 4 like a tiny golden starfish. I saw him lift her up and sit her on the hood, where he slid his cock into her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and they began rocking against each other, vocalizing their pleasure, their moans growing louder with each swaying movement.

Steve and I slowed things down again to give the other couple time to catch up, breathing deeply and evenly for as long as we could. From the corner of my eye, I saw that her back, too, was scraping against the metal of the car. The knowledge of the tiny pain she'd be experiencing was an instant turn-on for me. By imagining the delicious fuck she was getting, I was able to enjoy my own that much more. Steve must have thought so, too.

"God, I'm gonna lose control," he whispered into my ear, and he thrust hard, so hard that our car rocked as he put his whole weight behind me. Deftly he slid one hand onto my hip and made a series of tiny frantic tugs on my panties that were almost more than my engorged and tender clitoris could take. Facedown on the car, I flung my arms wide, sending half my body falling over the edge of the car, and prepared to let go and surrender to my orgasm. "Not yet, darling," Steve whispered, although he didn't let up the pressure on my clit to tease and test me.

And then the woman next to me reached out her perfectly manicured hand and let her fingers touch mine. That tiny touch-the only time we two couples came into contact-was all it took to propel me headlong into an overpowering climax, the like of which I had never experienced before. She kept her hand on mine as she had her own orgasm, letting out a tiny cry, like birdsong, as her partner buried his face in her breasts and shot his spunk into her, mumbling, "Oh, fuck, oh, fuck," over and over again in a deep voice.

Seconds after I succumbed to my climax, Steve came, too, his jagged thrusts letting me know that this also was an unusually intense orgasm for him. Spent and exhausted, we leaned against the car for a minute or two, letting our mingled juices travel down our thighs and over the car. Steve stroked my hair and told me he loved me. Lost in each other, we again almost forgot our companions until they pulled apart. We turned just in time to see the man pull out, his cock glossy with spunk. As she bent down and put her lips on his declining erection to lick his penis clean, I saw her face for the first time. Her features were partly obscured by a messy curtain of blond hair, but there was no mistaking her: the chart-topping singer who was engaged to a certain notorious football player. Sure enough, when my gaze traveled upward I found myself looking at the face that had appeared on the front page of my Sunday tabloid just days ago. As she gathered her dress and he strolled around to the driver's door, he winked in our direction and she gave us a shy, satisfied smile. Seconds later, they had vanished behind their tinted windows once again. Steve and I looked at each other in disbelief as their engine purred and the couple drove off into the night.

"It couldn't be them," Steve said. "Could it?" All the way home, we couldn't help bursting into stunned laughter, high on our own experience and the shocking knowledge of whom we'd shared it with.

The following Sunday, the papers printed a picture of the same two celebs at a film premiere. She wore a low-cut backless dress, and at the base of her spine was a small scar that looked as though she'd grazed her skin while someone took her roughly against the painted metal of a car hood. And then I knew I hadn't imagined the whole thing. I shivered at the memory of the sexy secret I shared only with my husband and one of the most famous couples in the country.

You'll never think about massage parlors the same way again after reading this sizzling little tale. I vividly remember the girl who told me this story. Some women just blossom and bloom after a satisfying sexual encounter, but she was still glowing with pleasure weeks after the event. You know that feeling when you're so stressed out that the symptoms are physical? When your shoulders stiffen and ache as though they've been set in concrete, and the furrow in your brow is in danger of becoming a permanent fixture? Not a good look. That was me last November. I'd been working late into the night Monday to Friday, and weekends were spent hunched over my laptop, catching up on work I hadn't been able to squeeze into a seventy-hour week. I felt more like an automaton made of metal and on overdrive than a female of flesh and blood, and I was about to go into meltdown. My sustenance was coffee, cigarettes, corporate lunches in faceless restaurants during the day, and microwave meals for one in the evenings. Exercise was out of the question. As for sex… yeah, right. I couldn't remember the last time I'd even been touched. You forget what a man's hands on your skin feels like after the first six months, and after that you just begin to shrivel up. If anyone had tried to touch me they'd have found me brittle and impenetrable. But no one did. I'd been meaning to book myself a pampering massage, to take time out, relax, and unwind, but there was always something else, something more important, that had to be done, and I'd never got around to it.