The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories Read Online Free

of my
vulva. I wriggle around to increase pressure on my clitoris,
careful to not make too much noise with the expression of my
mounting arousal.
    Blondie's moans
become distinctly more audible, and I look around nervously, more
worried than they about discovery. If they're discovered, my
entertainment's gone for the day. If they're discovered, then the
pervy little sleaze in the bushes is likely to be discovered too.
But I'm sure anyone, venturing to discover the source of the
strange noises, would have my reaction. How could they not?
    Red removes her
hand from the blonde's pants and shoves her fingers roughly into
the Blondie's mouth to shut her up. The blonde sucks them eagerly,
and I lick my own lips, wondering how her juices would taste.
    The redhead
straddles the fountain ledge, which means that one leg gets soaked
up to the knee, but she doesn’t seem too concerned. If I were in
her situation, I wouldn't care either. Her free hand tugs Blondie's
pants further down and embraces her clit once again, and I feel the
echo in my own cunt. Oh god, I shouldn't be doing this. Those girls
are in Utopia; they seem totally unaware of where they are
physically. Surely I'm taking advantage of them by lying here
enjoying the show rather than creating some kind of distraction
that will snap them back to the real world without causing them too
much embarrassment? Does this make me a bad person? I know if a man
were to do what I'm doing now, I'd be the first to bay for his
blood. So am I a hypocrite as well as a pervert?
    The guilt goes
straight to my cunt.
    A loud,
grunting moan snaps my attention back to the girls. The blonde is
coming, her limbs flailing, her arm splashing in the fountain as
she struggles for control against the sensations that tear through
her body. Red is murmuring to her – I can see her lips move, and I
imagine she's telling the blonde how she's a naughty little slut
for coming so hard and she's going to be punished later. The
thought makes my solo frottage pay off, and I
come hard against the seam of my jeans, biting my forearm to stop
myself from crying out and alerting the girls to my shameful
voyeurism. I collapse into the earth and for a long moment
feel totally organic, as much a part of the park as the grass and
trees. Then I realise the girls might be doing something else worth
watching, grin for a nanosecond at my unabashed lasciviousness, and
look up.
    They're gone.
Panicked and bereft, I struggle to my knees to scan the small area
of the park visible through the foliage. I think I see a flash of
movement off in front of me and to the left, but I'm not sure. I
shake my head, feel more than a little foolish, and glance down at
my abandoned book. Somehow, I don't feel like reading too much at
the moment. I grab the book, stand up, and start walking home,
purposefully ignoring the curious looks the grass stains on my
jeans attract.

 
The Gospel of
Sophie
     
    Like a lot of transplanted people, from
anywhere you’d care to name, I am passionate about the fact that
Fitzroy is my home. It’s my chosen home, rather than somewhere I
ended up living as an accident of birth, much as my chosen family
are more part of my life than my blood family.
    I’m not the
first person to feel this way about my adopted home. Fitzroy is
where we gravitate because, despite complaints about
gentrification, and Balwyn silver-hairs making their weekly Sunday
pilgrimage to Babka, it is still where we find each other. It is
where we come to make ourselves and see ourselves reflected in the
eyes of others.
    I love that the
streets have a tangible hum of music and art. I love that if
there’s room for a tiny stage, or even just a space on the floor,
then bam, you’ve got a live music venue. And of all my favourite
little holes in the wall and ever-changing destinations, the Old
Bar remains constant. I respect it because it does what it sets out
to do: to provide a steady dose of rock to supplement one’s musical
diet. It