Sex Beyond the Fringe by Don J. Winslow
A collection of steamy erotic stories by a master storyteller. They speak to the terrible power of Eros, which simmers just beneath the surface of all the games that lovers play. As life’s voyeurs we watch fascinated as romance and attraction grow between friends and lovers. We witness desire surface in its many variations, captivated by the obsessive compulsions of ordinary people, as well as those who skate along the kinky outer fringe of human sexuality. The very thought of being summoned by her lover sent a jolt of electricity through her. The lust rose in her, blowing all her circuits. She knew only that she must go to him, submit to this boy…to feel his strong hands…manipulating her in ways that pleased him, clamping her shoulders, forcing her to her knees… A surge of deep-seated arousal suffused through Miriam’s body. She took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she arched back in her deep office chair, moaning softly, sending a hand down into her lap… Includes: D/s, F/m, M/f, F/f, spanking, punishment, exhibitionism, forbidden sex, teacher/student, sex slave, erotic dressing and so much more!
The Casual Touch
What is it that turns a perfectly normal girlfriend, or an ordinary wife, into a raging sex fiend – a woman driven by an insatiable appetite for sex? It’s one of those questions to which man has given a lot of thought over the ages. Maybe, just maybe, it may be no more than a single touch.
Two narrow tables had been set up on the floodlit stage flanking a podium that was bedecked with the ornate seal of Boxford College. Having taken their places at the tables, the six panelists were getting settled behind the sky blue banners that hung down draping the front of the tables. The banner on the left held the name “Boxford College” in bold, cream-colored script; on the right was the title of the week-long symposium: “A Woman’s Place.”
Dr. Gail Fender-Lee, the youngest President of Boxford College, sat behind the table next to the podium, where, at the moment, today’s keynote speaker, the Pulitzer Prize runner-up Alma Wright, was acknowledging the polite applause, arranging her notes, preparing to address the group.
Gail had shifted in her chair, twisting to look up at Ms. Wright, her smile of respectful attention fixed firmly on her upturned face. It was then that she felt the breath of air fan across her left ear — warm and moist, like a summer’s breeze. Startled, she quivered, as though to shake it off. At that very instant it dawned on her — she suddenly knew exactly what was happening. It was him! Reaching out for her! His touch on her shoulder; the electrifying announcement that said: ‘I am here.’ Soft, lightly teasing fingertips were felt on the back of her neck, gliding up under her collar-length hair. Her shoulders gave a tiny involuntary twitch. She knew for certain now, just what was happening. It had started — here, of all places!
‘Oh god, not now. Please not now!’ She fought the rising panic, biting her lip. She felt the first unmistakable flush of heat. Under the table, her working fists tightened. She had to get a grip on herself; determined to maintain her poise, her self-control, to resist the terrible power of that loving caress, no matter what.
Gail waited anxiously, fearful; not at all sure she had the strength to resist. She looked down at the tabletop, paused, took a deep breath, slowly let it out. It had never happened to her before, not like this, never when there other people around, never in public like this! This was something new, a dangerous escalation in the game he played. He would toy with her before possessing her, right there, in public!
She prayed that he was just teasing her; one of his devilish little pranks. Perhaps it was no more than a passing fancy. Sometimes his touch was nothing more than that. A simple gesture to let her know that he was there: a reminder of what he could do. His way of telling her he had joined her.
Flushed and feeling that telltale warmth, Gail sat rigidly on the stage, heart pounding, pulse racing, unseeing eyes gazing out at an audience of mostly young co-eds. The touch came again. This time on her left knee at the hem of her skirt. She quickened, shot upright in her chair at the slight teasing. She could feel the pads of two fingertips gliding up the outside of her nyloned leg. Gail looked quickly around her, anxious to see if anyone noticed her startled reaction. Her fellow panelists were staring out at the audience; the audience, in turn, was giving their respectful attention to the speaker.
The College President sucked in a shivering hiss of breath through clenched teeth as, without pause, the wicked fingers moved steadily to slip up under her skirt. She felt him trace a continuous line from her knee to her hip with a touch that was oh so light and delicate, the barest trace, a whisper to tease her: I am here, and I will have you.
The tormented woman straightened, shivered in spite of herself, again looked around, nervously licked her lips.
A wave of panic rose up in her, she had to flee, yet she remained paralyzed, glued to her chair. It came to her with desperate awareness: She was about to be taken, Right here. Right in front of all these people! ’Oh…please, not now,’ she silently begged, never sure if her controller could hear her unspoken pleas. The touch faded away. A wave of relief swept over her. Still she held herself tense, scarcely daring to breathe.
Her relief was short-lived. Suddenly she felt the weight of masculine hands heavy on her shoulders, fingers clamping her shoulders, holding her possessively from behind. She jerked upright as those hands came down her front to capture her small breasts through her clothes. She arched back at the creamy rise of pleasure of knowing hands tightening on her brassiered beasts and she felt the searing lick of a tongue up the side of her neck. She quivered.
She could sense him now, his masculine presence enfolding her. His hot breath was on her cheek. Her lips were being pressed back, mouth forced opened; her head fell weakly backward, and her tiny cry lowered into a helpless moan as it forced its way through her parted lips. She felt her controller’s tongue demand entry; press boldly deep into her mouth. She was being kissed; a soul-searching kiss of burgeoning passion.
The youngest President of Boxford College slumped back, splayed out in her chair. Her eyes were closed; slack-jawed, she was breathing heavily through her opened mouth. On either side of her, her fellow panelists were eyeing the sprawled-out woman with increasing alarm. Suddenly, Dr. Gail Fender-Lee scrambled to her feet, stood staggering on her heels, looking about her wild-eyed like some crazy woman, before turning to rush off the stage.
At the podium, Alma Wright, was stopped dead in the middle of a harangue about being sensitive to how men used women so shamelessly. Standing there with her mouth agape, she watched her distraught hostess stumble off the stage, while her eyes widened with astonishment.