The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica Read online

  “Had enough?” Jess asked her, his voice resonant with arousal.

  “More, please, Sir,” said Gina. “More, please.”

  Monica seized Gina’s hair, pulled her to her hands and knees, raising her ass high in the air. Gina felt the most naked she had all evening. Then Monica kissed Gina, her tongue exploring Gina’s mouth as Gina obediently parted her lips.

  “Charles is next,” said Ronald. Gina crawled off of the couch and went to the loveseat where Charles sat. She was just small enough to tuck herself into it with her ass pushed up high.

  Charles, too, was hard, but she tilted her body at just the angle that prevented too much contact with his cock. Charles responded by pushing her down, grinding her belly against his cock through his slacks. He chuckled.

  “You want more, do you?” he growled.

  “Yes,” said Gina. “More, please, Sir.”

  Charles spanked her even harder than Jess had, bringing an instant cry from Gina’s lips. She had been right to fear him; he was cruel in the way he spanked her. Gina thrashed in Charles’s lap, clutching the arm of the loveseat and gasping loudly with each hard blow. Gina felt her ass catching fire with the stinging sensation; she had never been spanked for this long before.

  As Gina’s ass flushed deeper, now an angry red, Charles switched from open-handed blows to the side of his hand, rapping Gina hard, hitting her sweet spot firmly at its thickest point. There would be deep bruising from that, she knew, deeper than the bruises from Monica’s or Jess’s blows. Or the blows Ronald gave her every night when he spanked her. Gina’s ass was hot, pulsing and throbbing with every blow, sensitized to every touch.

  Charles switched back to an open hand, spanking Gina in a smooth rhythm for what seemed like an eternity. Gina sank into the feeling, her heart pounding as she took more than she had ever taken.

  Charles did not ask her if she had had enough; on the contrary, he seemed to be spanking her purely for his own enjoyment. When she let out a particularly loud moan or whimper of distress, he would chuckle. He didn’t pause to finger her pussy, either, but she could feel the hard blows of his hand making her clit pulse with the impact.

  It felt like she was going to come.

  There was something about the way Charles spanked her, something about the rhythm he used, that conjured a powerful heat not just in her ass but in her clitoris as well. She seethed and pitched against him, pumping her hips rapidly. And still he spanked her, without pausing to see if she was enjoying it. She felt helpless over his lap in a way she never had with Ronald, always knowing he would stop when she begged him to.

  With Charles, she wasn’t so sure.

  The sensation mounted; the pain grew as Charles hit her still harder. She was reaching her limit, and everyone in the room knew it.

  Gina cried out, louder than she had yet—and choked back what sounded like a sob. She was right on the edge of a climax, an experience she had never had before—coming from a spanking.

  “Had enough?” asked Charles.

  The word formed in her mouth, but she could only get out a tortured “Mmmmm” sound before she stopped, swallowed, and gasped. “I’ve had enough, Sir,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Then come over here and get some more,” she heard Ronald’s voice. He had taken his place in an armchair opposite Charles. Gina felt a wave of fear; she was so close to coming, but she had asked them to stop. And now Ronald was going to spank her some more. She quivered as she rose and walked over to her Master’s chair.

  “Over my knee,” said Ronald.

  Gina took her place, her pained ass pushed up high.

  She gritted her teeth as she felt her Master’s hand stroking its way up her inner thigh. She awaited his first blow, shutting her eyes tightly.

  Instead, she felt him parting her lips with his hand, then sliding two fingers deep inside her. His thumb struck her clit, and as he began to finger her, she came.

  Gina came harder than she had ever come before. She clawed at the arm of the chair, shuddering and squirming across Ronald’s lap. Her moans filled the room, and approving sounds came from Monica and Jess and Charles. Ronald kept fingering Gina as her orgasm intensified; he could feel the clenching muscles of her pussy as she came. When she was finished, she let out a long, low wail of release.

  Ronald slid his fingers out of her and pressed gently on her reddened cheeks.

  Gina felt hungry, her pussy opened. The sting of her ass as Ronald touched her there made her pussy clench tighter.

  “Now,” said Ronald, “I think you’ve had enough.”

  Gina felt her lips moving, heard the whimper deep in her throat.

  “What was that?” asked Ronald.

  Gina cleared her throat. She took a deep breath.

  “More, please,” she said softly. “More, please, Sir.”

  Ronald drew back his arm with a gleeful laugh, and Gina whimpered in anticipation of the next stroke.

  PUSS-IN-BOOTS

  Shanna Germain

  I found them by accident. I’d given up the search, days, maybe a week ago even. Then, the night before his birthday, there they were, in the window of a secondhand store: the boots. Knee-high, black leather with at least a five-inch heel. Even through the window glass, I could tell the leather was that soft, stretchy kind, something with enough give to slide over my muscled calves. I leaned in closer to the window, put one hand up to block out the glare from the streetlamp. The toes were long, but not pointed. Jesus, they were perfect, just what my husband had asked for. I’d been so sure I wasn’t going to find these boots that I’d already bought him an expensive backup gift. Who cared? I’d been given a last-minute blessing and I wasn’t about to turn it away.

  When I exhaled, my breath fogged up the glass, and I realized I’d been leaning in so close my nose was almost against the window. I wanted to wipe away the fog, keep my eyes on the boots. I had a sudden fear that someone was already inside, getting ready to buy them. Or that I would walk in and the salesperson would say, “Sorry, only for show,” and then I would have to get down on my hands and knees and beg her, offer her anything, anything, for those boots. Maybe she’d just let me borrow them for the night.

  The door didn’t open at first, and there was a fresh fear that I hadn’t thought of, that they’d be closed already, that I would spend the night kicking myself for leaving work too late. But then I pushed instead of pulled and the door swung open to the smell of incense and patchouli and the insides of old purses.

  The dark-haired girl behind the counter gave me a half smile, just the corners of her lips curling up. Normally, she was the kind of girl I would have stayed and flirted with—cute in an almost boyish way, funny, great smile. But I had other things on my mind.

  “Those boots,” I blurted, pointing to the window. “Are they for sale?”

  The girl smiled again, this time for real, showing off small, perfectly straight teeth.

  “Everything’s for sale,” she said. “Well, except for me.” She paused, seemed to think about her answer. “Well, at least not usually.”

  Something flooded through my stomach. “Thank god,” I said. “I’ll take them.”

  She hesitated, tucked a dark curl behind her ear. “Don’t you want to know how much? Or the size or anything?”

  I shook my head. It didn’t matter. If they were size six, I’d pop a couple of aspirin ahead of time and squeeze my feet into them for a couple of hours. Even if they cost a hundred dollars, I didn’t care. I’d put it on my card. My husband was only going to turn thirty once.

  She took the black boots from the window display, put them on the counter. I resisted the urge to stroke the length of the leather.

  “Twenty-two bucks,” she said. “Size eight.”

  I had to laugh. It was too good to be true. They were a little big—I wear seven and a half—but I couldn’t have asked for more. I wanted to hug the girl behind the counter, but she was already looking at me like I was kind of nuts, so I just put my card
on the glass and said “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, apparently.” She put two fingers on the long, thin heel of a boot, stroked it gently. “Or maybe someone else’s?”

  I blushed then. So obvious. She could have overcharged me by a hundred bucks and I still would have said yes, I was that desperate.

  Then she wrapped the boots in tissue paper, slowly and carefully, without looking at me, and put them in a bag. “You come back and let me know how it turns out, okay?”

  “Okay,” I promised—she really was cute, with that smile—and then I took my boots home to plan.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. I’d put the boots in the back of the closet, next to our toys, and the thought of them nestled there, waiting, was almost more than I could stand. I wanted to slide them on now, wake him up with one heel pressed to his thigh. But I didn’t. I just watched him sleep—the little laugh lines around his eyes that were new this year, the gray hairs at his temple—and imagined what I would wear with the boots tomorrow: my wraparound dress with nothing under it, a long button-up shirt half-buttoned, or nothing but a black thong and a silver necklace….

  In the end, I chose the black wraparound dress, nothing under it but me. I slid it on before he got home, tied it loosely around my waist. Then I pulled the boots up over my ankles and calves. The leather curved perfectly around my calves and stopped just below the knee. I could barely walk in the heels, but I figured it didn’t matter: if I could just knock his eyes out when he walked in the door, I’d be okay. I tied my long hair up in a sexy, kind of librarian bun. Then I sat down on the bed and waited.

  It wasn’t long before I heard the fumble of keys as he came through the front door. “Hon?” he called.

  I stood up, brushed down the back of my dress, and leaned against the wall with what I hoped was a sexy, come-hither look and not a these-heels-are-too-high look. “In here,” I said.

  He came in, head down, hands focused on undoing his tie. “What’s the deal with—” He lifted up his head and saw me.

  “Happy birthday,” I said, quickly. Standing there with nothing on but boots and a dress so thin you could see the points of my nipples through it, I was nervous. What had I been thinking? Surely he’d been kidding when he’d asked me to buy him boots for his thirtieth birthday. Jesus, I was nearly thirty myself, too old for knee-high boots and this sexy pose I was trying to pull off. My fingers tightened on the tie of my dress.

  “Jesus,” he said. His voice was breathy, like he’d been hit in the gut. For some reason, that made me feel a little better, like maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea. And then I saw his eyes, the way they were even darker than usual, and a shiver went through me. Yes, this was what he’d been asking for.

  Those dark eyes were silent on me so long that my thighs broke out in goose bumps all the way up to my cunt. The combination of nerves and excitement had me shivering. I was afraid my teeth would chatter if he waited any longer. I inhaled, swallowed.

  “Well, unwrap me already,” I said, and then I had to laugh at the nervous impatience in my voice.

  He didn’t seem to notice, or care. He just came close enough that I could see the cat’s-whisker wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His hands on my lower back were warm and strong. After he pulled me against him, he ran his hands down around the curves of my ass, saying, “Oops,” the same way he used to fake yawn and put his arm around me in movie theaters. Hands settled into the curve at the bottom of my ass, he put his mouth to my earlobe and gave it a tug with his teeth.

  “What if I don’t want to unwrap you?” he asked.

  There were those goose bumps again, everywhere on my body, like they were inside too. I leaned against him, and the warmth of his chest calmed my skin, the press of his already-hard cock lit my skin on fire once more. I swallowed, trying to gain some sort of control. I’d forgotten how sexy he could be when he was turned on.

  “Well, if you don’t unwrap me, then you can’t have your present,” I said.

  He just held me away from him, both arms straight out and me on the ends of his hands, like I was a painting he’d just found.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You just look gorgeous. Those boots…”

  He dropped his head, and I looked where he was looking: down at the boots rising up my calves, the contrast between the black leather and the pale skin.

  “You really like them?” I asked.

  In answer, he went down on his knees in front of me. I gave a second of thought to his poor knees on the wood floor, thought about reminding him that he wasn’t as young as he was yesterday, but then he put his mouth right at the edge of the boot, right where the leather met my skin. He licked it, the half leather, half skin, and I felt his warm tongue and the slight scrape of teeth around the side of my calf. My goose bumps came back, peppering all the way up my legs and back. Beneath the thin fabric of the dress, my nipples tightened. The only thing I could say was, “Oh.”

  He ran his hand up one boot, then the other, his palms sliding over each ankle and shin and calf. I’ve never been much of a foot person—I find hips and chests and cocks and smiles sexier than feet—but there was something about the way he caressed my skin through the leather that made me understand why people found it a turn-on.

  Then he went back to kissing the skin right along the edge of the boots, right in the hollow at the back of my knee. With each kiss, he slid his hand a little farther up my thigh. When he reached my cunt, his fingers slid against it, then in, easily. “You’re so wet,” he said. He put his mouth to my belly, wiggled the ends of his fingers inside me until I shivered. “Thought this was supposed to be my birthday present.”

  “Sorry,” I said. But the way he said it, I knew he didn’t mind that I was enjoying it as much as he was.

  When he came up from his kneeling position, he slipped his fingers out and his cock inside me. He was fully hard, and felt longer than usual—maybe it was the angle—and I moaned in surprise and pleasure as he made his way up. He thrust inside me, kissing my chin, my cheeks, the side of my nose, somewhere new with each movement of his hips. In my boots, I was almost as tall as he was—I didn’t have to stand on my tiptoes to meet him, I was lifted up, with him balancing me on his cock.

  He slid out of me. “Let’s get on the bed,” he said. “I can’t see your boots from here.”

  He undressed fast, a kid with a present in front of him, unable to slow down. Then, he climbed on the bed and lay down on his back with his hands behind his head. I almost laughed: lying that way, he was all cock; the way it stuck up away from his body, that sweet curve toward his belly that I loved.

  I reached down, started to peel the boots down.

  “No, please,” he said. “Leave them on.”

  “What about the bedspread?”

  “Do I look like I care?” he asked.

  And gazing at him lying there naked, cock up and waiting for me, I realized that I didn’t care either. I climbed onto the bed and straddled him, keeping the boots as close to his hips as I could, so he would feel the leather every time I moved. I found his cock with my hand, and squatted over him, my thighs already starting to ache. But I didn’t care, it was worth it to feel him inside me like this.

  I slid myself slowly down over his cock, taking him in little bit by little bit, loving the way his eyes closed and his mouth opened. He didn’t make much of a sound until I grabbed his shoulders and used the leverage to lift myself up and down on his cock. Then he moaned, his head back a little, and reached out and grabbed the boots at the ankles. The feel of his hands through the leather made my cunt ache like it was empty even though he was already inside me.

  “Want to switch?” he asked after a few minutes. And I did, but I didn’t. My thighs burned from holding myself over him, but everything else was burning too, in a good way. Then I remembered: This was his birthday. Not mine.

  “Do you?” I asked. He pumped his hips up into me a few times, hard and quick, his eyes closed.

  “Let’s swit
ch,” he said. “I need a condom anyway.”

  While he grabbed one from the dresser, I rolled over on the bed so that when he turned back around, I was all ass and boots. He didn’t even stop to put the condom on—just put his hands around the sides of my ass and slid himself back into me.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You’re killing me.”

  “Well, you’re old enough now to have life insurance, so maybe I am,” I said.

  Instead of responding, he thrust into me harder, which is what I knew he’d do. I leaned back into his thrusts. I love that position, the way his balls slap against me, the way he reaches around, like he was doing now, to find my nipples, tweak them.

  “Bitch,” he said, and dropped his hand off my nipple and put his finger right on my clit.

  “Shit.” My voice was mostly breath and push, then the sharp inhale of pleasure.

  After a second, he dropped his finger away and pulled out of me. I moaned, aching from lack. I heard the sound of the condom wrapper, and felt him pushing back into me, different now, but just as hard, just as much him.

  And then he wrapped his hands around the ankles of the boots, lifted them up. For a second, it was like a new yoga pose—doggie-style with boots. But then my hips settled in, and I could push back into him. His hands tightened around my ankles with each thrust.

  “You’re going to have to get yourself off,” he said. At first I didn’t understand, but then I realized he meant because his hands were full. I went down on one shoulder, pushing my ass even further in the air, and reached down with one hand. My clit was huge and wet, and as soon as I touched it, it sent shivers through me. I felt kind of bad, because it was his birthday, and I was the one getting myself off.

  But then he said, “Go ahead,” and I realized it was good for him too, feeling me finger myself while he was inside me. I rubbed my clit hard while he fucked me; thought about him behind me, his hands tight around my ankles. I came before he did, but it was okay, because when he came, he came a long time, shuddering into me, dropping the boots and leaning over my back like he couldn’t hold himself up. His heart was pounding against my back, matching the pumping of my own heart and clit.