Naked Delirium Read online

She shimmied while he pushed and her pants were suddenly around her thighs, binding her legs shoulder width apart.

  The men were moving. The blond getting on his knees, the brunet coming up behind him, moving to kiss and lick and suck the man’s ass cheeks, his crack, his hole. His hole… Danny shifted where he stood. He remembered sliding into Wren’s ass. The insane tightness and smoothness and warmth.

  He groaned into her hair.

  “Hush,” she said, but he could hear the need in her voice. It made him feel restless and half insane.

  And he was in — the brunet was in. Sliding into his lover with a thump and a sigh and moving against him like he wanted to not just fuck him, but climb right inside of him. Danny could see the affection and the lust there. It was staggering, really.

  “Fuck me, Danny,” she said lowly. She was breathless and wanting and Danny pulled his cock free in a blur of movement.

  Wrenny angled her ass back as they watched the fucking in front of them. The man on top buried his thick fingers in the blonde’s hair and tugged. He pulled those bits of hair until the blond cried out, clearly caught between pleasure and pain. But the blonde’s hand went to his cock as his lover rode him hard and he started to masturbate himself in greedy hard jerks of flesh on flesh.

  Danny found her, gave her a perfunctory slide of his glans and drove into her. He watched Wren’s short unpainted nails curl against the tree trunk. Heard her sounds of acceptance and pleasure. Felt her slick cunt grip up tight around him and when her well muscled ass slid back in greedy strokes so he could drive deeper, he pressed his mouth against her shoulder and let her feel the sharp ridge of his teeth. Her fingers found her clit and she started to rub, harder than he’d ever seen. Danny was dumbstruck and mesmerised and, as the blond came in a visible arc of semen, Wren started to make a noise.

  He felt the heated grip of her sex around his shaft and Danny didn’t stop to consider. He clamped his free hand over her mouth, stifling her cry so the men they stood spying on wouldn’t hear.

  The brunet tugged his lover’s hair once-twice-three times and then grew still, tugging that hair so the other man’s head bent back and he made a great sound of submission. And the brunet came.

  Danny came too. Thinking how odd it was that he was getting off watching two men fuck and how it didn’t’ seem to bother him a lick. He moved roughly against Wren and felt her push back to get him deeper as he emptied. His lips sealed to her shoulder to keep from making any nose.

  At the last moment, he bit her flesh, not too hard and not too light and it was then that he realised she was still working her clit with nimble fingers because she came again. Pushing her forehead to the bark of the tree, biting her bottom lip to stifle her sounds.

  The two men glanced around as if they’d heard something and Danny and Wren were a sudden flurry of furtive movements trying to get themselves together to avoid being caught. Wren was barely holding in laughter, he could see by her face and he wondered if they’d stop fucking when the Sugarshuttle Express wore off.

  He liked the high she’d apparently had. It had accented things for her, she said, without clouding her true nature from him. He had no complaints. Anything that had let Wrenny act on her surprising urge to fuck him…was fine by Danny.

  They hurried back along the path, Wren dramatically stomping her feet in dry leaves and twigs and cackling madly to let the men know someone was coming. And to prevent them from knowing they’d already been seen.

  She grabbed his hand and squeezed, her cheeks still blazing with the blush of a really good orgasm.

  When they passed the two hikers, now fully clothed and looking only a tiny bit flushed, they nodded, calling out a pleasant “Hi”. Wrenny waved and the blond waved back.

  She turned her head to Danny’s and pushed her soft lips to his ear and whispered, “He likes it when his hair is pulled. We know that now about a stranger. But you know, Danny, so do I…”

  Danny didn’t know his cock could recover that quickly.

  They walked the remaining three miles lazily. They had an option at the end of Sullivan’s Trail. They could call for a return ride or walk back the way they’d come. Neither had decided on what they wanted to do.

  “So, when it…wears off…” Danny shook his head as the trail end marker came into view.

  “Are you trying to ask if we’ll still fuck?”

  He nodded. Said nothing.

  “Can we?” she asked. Before he could answer she ran in bounding leaps to the sign and tapped it with her hand as if winning a race.

  Danny could only chuckle, moving forward to meet her.

  “Take my picture,” she giggled.

  He pulled his phone out and took a picture of her pointing to the legend TRI STATE TRAIL #69 and smiling.

  He pocketed the phone and she tugged him behind the wooden sign. Wren pushed her back to the marker and kissed him, pulling him roughly to her by the neck of his tee. “Do you want to keep fucking me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then fuck me.”

  “Again?”

  “We have to celebrate the end.”

  It was simplistic sex — which is often the best. Bare from the waist down, Wrenny parted her thighs for him and guided him to her juicy slit. She gasped in his ear — making his stomach tumble with nerves and pleasure — as he entered her. Just the head at first. One slow inch at the time.

  He hauled her leg up and around his waist, spreading her cunt a bit so he could get it in her deep. So he could truly drive into her and bump and nudge the sweet spots where he knew Wren needed it most.

  “Right there,” she said, wrapping her leg to him.

  Danny cupped her ass and held her tight. He drove into her, using the rough wooden sigh as leverage. Praying no one came down the trail. Another part of him praying they did.

  Wren clamped her little sharp teeth onto his earlobe and bit him. Hard. Danny groaned and tried to focus on anything but the sex to keep from cumming.

  “I want you to keep fucking me Danny. It’s not just the Sugarshuttle. It wore off yesterday…”

  That was that. He rammed into her hard, almost lifting her from the earth at their feet. Wren teetered on tippy toe and then came — this time lustily, not caring who heard — before biting his earlobe again.

  Danny fell backwards into that bright burst of pain. He let himself go into it and when he came he gripped her ass in his hands so tight he hoped there would be fingerprints there tomorrow. Little purple fingerprints marking her as his.

  Forehead to forehead they stood there until he went soft and slid free of her. Wren kissed him. “Are we walking back or riding?”

  Danny didn’t even think. “Riding. We’ll call for a lift up by the parking lot.”

  “Wow. Ride! You surprised me. I thought you’d want to walk back. I still have a dose, you know.”

  He shrugged, pulling her along up toward the parking lot that would be on the hill. “You can take it, but you don’t need it.”

  “Why ride?” she asked, eyeing him almost suspiciously.

  “I want to catch a ride, find a hotel, shower for about an hour…with you, mind you. And then…”

  “And then?”

  “And then do all that we just did on this trip again.”

  “Hunh,” she said, but she was grinning.

  “And maybe…” He smiled.

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe we’ll build on our repertoire.”

  “Never say never,” she said.

  “Exactly, never say never,” he said.

  That’s exactly what Danny was counting on. Endless possibilities.

  Gilinda and the Wicked Witch

  ♦♦♦♦

  by Vanessa de Sade

  Chapter 1

  ♦♦♦♦

  Night of the Hunter’s Moon

&nb
sp; Its real name was the Lakeshore Resort and Spa for Women. But with its Keswick green slate roof tiles that turned into slick wet gemstones when it rained, and its viridian Edwardian-glazed inner walls and leaf-green marble floors it quickly became known as the Emerald City.

  Built as an army barracks in 1908, it had metamorphosed over the years first into an asylum, then a hospital, then a conference centre, and now, after meticulous renovation, it was what Gilinda liked to call a designer retreat. Beneath it all lay the ancient natural hot springs that had bubbled up onto this spot for thousands of years. Many said that the waters had curative properties, while others suggested that those properties were soporific. Others still suggested that those properties were positively narcotic. Since Roman times, the waters had been channelled into great stone pools that still lay beneath the buildings. With the renovation the pools had been reopened to become the hallmark of the resort, though their use was carefully restricted to a discerning (and affluent) clientele.

  Isolated by mountains and water and reached only by the charter launch from Windermere, the Emerald City had become the discrete hide away for burned out celebrities and the children of the rich and famous. A fleet of attendants waited, night and day, upon these women of privilege and tended to their every need. The more conventional guests had the run of the upper floors, with sunny windows and access to the lawns and gardens where visitors could perambulate and feel that they were getting value for their exorbitant weekly fee. But down in the bowels of the building where the unmistakable sounds of pleasure could not be heard was the domain of Gilinda, the head supervisor for guests with more discrete needs.

  Most of the staff didn’t have the breadth of skill nor the intimate and considerate attention to detail required to visit the vaulted substructure, and that was how Gilinda liked it. She lived only for the warm, soft light of this subterranean kingdom, and she thrilled to the rhythm of the smooth green marble as it unfurled like a vast ocean of stone beneath the metronome of her heels.

  An antique clock, cradled lovingly by two carved cherubs, murmured Gilinda’s favourite hour, its Westminster chime echoing up and down the tile-glazed corridors, the flickering candlelight reflecting jade and emerald on the eager faces of the guests. “The Candy Box” was what Gilinda called it, although Rejuvenation Spa Bath was what it said on the timetable. Management decreed that the day was over at 10 PM. And most guests, after a full day of facials, wraps, buffs, massages, detoxes, and steams, were sleepily preparing for bed. But here in these secret depths, as the lights dimmed and only the night staff remained, very special guests could enjoy a decadent, late-night soak in the naturally warm spring water as it bubbled up from beneath the earth and filled the marble pools...

  Gilinda always worked the night shift with Jemima. Jemima was mature and buxom. She liked the seclusion of the Emerald City’s catacomb of subterranean passageways where none but the truly privileged ventured, and she liked to sit with her shapely legs crossed in front of the elegant fireplace, her stocking tops creeping into view as she quietly dozed her shift away.

  Gilinda, on the other hand, was a tall and strong woman of thirty-six with a handsome face and short-cropped dark blonde hair. Her body was muscular, and a jocular rumour had circulated that she lived solely on the anaemic watercress stalks that she grew on the virgin-white blotter that covered her immaculate desk like a shroud. Gilinda took much pride in her appearance and, while her hands and heart were warm, the tunic and skirt of her white uniform were always starched and crisp. When she walked her clothing rustled like a soft wind through a high harvest. Her eyes were a deep sea green like wet Iona pebbles, her immaculate skin like polished blonde wood, her pussy waxed to a sheen as it nestled, clandestine, in the secret folds of her snowy-white panties.

  Gilinda always reported early for her evening shift and stalked proudly along the steamy balconies above the Romanesque pools and the beautiful naked bodies, each with a personal staff member to tend and bathe them. Life, Gilinda once remarked in a rare moment of verbosity, was like a box of chocolates, and walking on the smooth jade terrazzo above those dark green pools was like salivating over a candy-box selection, a misty cellophane insight into the delights that lay beneath.

  Gilinda liked looking at all those naked women who had come for her nocturnal ministrations, their breasts and immodest displays of genitalia as their attendants dried and combed them for the night. It gave her a warm feeling inside like a hungry diner who completes his order and sits heady with anticipation, inhaling the tantalising odours from the kitchen as he waits patiently to break his fast.

  Outside, as the launch pulled away from the jetty, a full moon rose fat and silver from the dark waters of the lake and, while Jemima slept, Gilinda walked softly along the somnolent corridors, knowing every woman still lay awake listening to the soft click of her heels. Tiger tiger burning bright, the wolf prowling the dark forests of the night, deciding who would receive the sweetest goodnight kiss from the good witch of the Emerald City.

  The tick-tock of her feet matched time with the mighty antique clock, as though she and the clock were marking the seconds together until Gilinda would call forth the angels and make them sing. Under the velvet shroud of darkness the women heard her. Cocooned in the softest of beds and sprawled beneath mommes of the finest silk, the women whispered their lust. And their whisperings became a susurrus floating up and down the venerable halls. Trembling messages of desire like old Transylvanian peasant songs. Wondering if the footsteps would stop outside their door tonight. Especially tonight. On the night of the Hunter’s Moon, the chosen one will receive the touch of Gilinda the Good Witch or, if they’ve been naughty, the Wicked one.

  Suddenly there would be a soft rap, the slip of a golden key card, and a heavy door glides inwards. Gilinda knows these passages like the back of her hand, like the secret pink inner folds of her own pussy. Tonight she’s come to you. She’s here. She wants your pussy and the witch stands at your door.

  Georgina is a precocious, adventurous young woman. She had been euphemistically described as “an early developer” and an “addictive personality”. Though the unvarnished truth is that she’s seen every shrink in the book to calm her sexual urges. Now she’s a regular at the spa. Knowing that she needs to feed not starve. Knowing that she is not mad. Knowing that that here she is a disciple in a temple of pleasure. And tonight the Witch of the Emerald City has come for her.

  Georgina sighs beneath the bedcovers as the door to her room opens softly and closes again on oiled hinges. Hears the click of the lock as Gilinda fastens it from the inside.

  “Are you a good witch or a bad?” she asks with anticipation.

  “Good,” says Gilinda in the dark, her white teeth glinting, stalking the girl like a midnight silver fox.

  “But it’s the night of the Hunter’s Moon,” says the girl. “Everyone knows She flies when the hunter’s moon shines…”

  “Someone dropped a house on her,” says Gilinda sitting on the bed, running a testing hand over Georgina’s covered form like a desert wind shaping the shifting dunes.

  “So who are you?” the girl asks.

  “I’m Gilinda, the Good Witch of the North.”

  “Then who am I?”

  “Why you’re a dirty little Munchkin who’s come under my spell,” says the Good Witch, pulling back the bedcovers.

  “But I’m clean! I’m still all moist and scented from the bath,” the girl says, trembling in anticipation. She’s had visits from this Good Witch before.

  “No,” whispers the witch, parting the girl’s silky nightshirt and looking at her body in the low, golden light. “You’re a very dirty girl indeed. Your fingers wear the perfume of Munchkin pussy, that hot and sweet Munchkin pussy that you’ve been playing with all alone here in the dark.”

  Georgina feels a wave of heat pass over her as the witch’s hand runs down her long white body, making her big dark nipple
s rise up like stocky sticks of liquorice.

  Georgina lets out a little moan and reaches out a hand. It’s dark but she soon finds witchy’s thigh and starts to cautiously ascend like an incy-wincy spider climbing up the spout. The witch allows it, wriggling a little as Georgina’s slender arachnid fingers find her crotch and start to spin a web across the white cotton of her panties.

  Georgina is breathing heavily now. The scent of her excited pussy fills the dark room, and she knows she’s hot and wet inside. The Good Witch takes the girl’s free hand and starts to kiss and suckle it. Georgina knows that she’s going to taste pussy. The witch makes an appreciative noise and licks her lips.

  “That’s a fine fresh Munchkin pussy,” she whispers, lying down beside her on the bed. “I wonder where I can find me some more of that?”

  The Munchkin doesn’t reply but takes Gilinda’s hand and puts it on her own cunt. She’s a lithe girl with a pronounced pudenda and a thick pelt of sleek blue-black fur like a panther. Her skin is like alabaster in the lamplight, her dark pussy hair black as night. Gilinda lets out a low moan as her eyes drink in the classical nude beside her.

  “Split me open like a peach,” Georgina begs, pushing Gilinda’s hand hard onto herself, Georgina’s other hand slipping a curious finger under the elastic of the witch’s panties, feeling the heat and the wet and the smooth flesh, drinking in the secret scents that suddenly come flooding over her.

  Georgina’s slit is hot and open like a fig, all fire pinks and honey dew; Gilinda’s is tight like an oyster unwilling to disclose its pearl. Georgina squeezes her lover’s cunt from the outside, feeling her clit stiffen inside the tight lips while Gilinda starts to finger fuck her.

  Georgina’s flushed wet pussy has been no stranger to cock in the world beyond the Emerald City, but this does not deter Gilinda. Rather, The Good Witch knows just how to administer her divine touch. She slips one then two fingers deftly into the hot wet cave that clutches and slurps around Gilinda’s touch.