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Authors: Kojo Black

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Summer in the City

Summer in the City
Story 3 of Sun Strokes
♦♦♦♦
by Kojo Black
Illustrated by Ruby Baiser

For sun worshipers and libertines everywhere!

♦♦♦♦
Sweetmeats

There's just something about the summertime. The temperature rises and clothing retreats. Everything we wear gets shorter and looser. Naked skin gets softer and browner—warm and enticing in the heat. Everywhere you look there is a celebration of abandon. People are so easy to watch as they move—no longer hidden beneath layers of heavy clothes.

The chiselled and powerful arms of men, strong and sinewy, extend from sleeveless shirts to flex and gleam in the sun. While the soft, naked thighs of women emerge alluringly from beneath the most tantalising of skirts. Even bodies that can bear to remain covered in the heat still ripple and sway beneath clothing that is barely there.

So, whether the summer is a distant memory, or you're about slip into part three of Sun Strokes in the sunshine, I hope the story within these pages will tease out the sun-worshipping hedonist in you!

Also from Sweetmeats Press
Paperbacks & eBooks

The Candy Box by Kojo Black

Sun Strokes by Kojo Black

Immoral Views by Various Authors

Named and Shamed by Janine Ashbless

Naked Delirium by Various Authors

Making Him Wait by Kay Jaybee

Seven Deadly Sins by Various Authors

Strummed by Various Authors

Made for Hire by Various Authors

In the Forests of the Night by Vanessa de Sade

♦♦♦♦
A Sweetmeats Book

First published by Sweetmeats Press 2011

Copyright © Kojo Black 2011
Illustrations © Ruby Baiser 2011
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from Sweetmeats Press. Nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-0-9564390-9-3

Typeset by Sweetmeats Press
Sweetmeats Press, 27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3XX, England, U. K.

www.sweetmeatspress.com

Summer in the City
♦♦♦♦
by Kojo Black
Chapter 1
♦♦♦♦
Meeting Stephanie

They say that winter in the city can be a miserable affair. Expressions change. Faces become grim, stuffed down into the collars of overcoats. No one celebrates their body in winter. They celebrate resistance—if grim survival can be celebratory. But that's why I've come now and not then. Even in the city the air smells like flowers. Chestnut blossoms dust the pavement and the girls who walk over them move like willows. Their short, loose skirts whispering over their buttocks and fluttering about their soft, strong thighs. In the afternoon heat, from my shaded seat outside the café, I notice the girls. And I notice that the girls are not annoyed when I look.

They have not dressed to be plain and they expect to be noticed. I notice them pass, but without lechery in my eyes. They needn't know the secret heat of my maleness, as the singly sentient member tightens both itself and the fabric of my jeans. And so they smile sweetly back at me as I smile sweetly at them. They cannot know how the heat of the day and the delight that I find in the mystery of their beings fills me with a lust that needs to be celebrated just as roundly as the winter's defeat. Or perhaps they do. Perhaps they are aching deliriously to celebrate the heat, and the sun, and the freedom of unclothed bodies and warm skin. Perhaps it's all a game—all of us tucking in and restraining our panting heat until we can't take it anymore. And all the while the heavy heat between the walls of the city taunts us, moistens us, draws us out.

Having briefly put my gaze back down into my magazine, I was startled to see her making her way toward me—where a few seconds ago the footpath had been empty. Her long, dark hair fell in waves down over her shoulders. The creamy, honey-tinted flesh of her slightly over-prominent breasts rose out of the low-cut valley of her diaphanous, sleeveless blouse. Her breasts swayed and bounced in time with every step, every bend of smooth knees, and every sure footfall. Her pretty, short skirt swished in a counter-rhythm to the movement of her breasts and the soft exchange of her thighs. She looked down at her breasts for a moment, as girls will do when they walk in light clothes, to see if their motion was unseemly. The motion was far from unseemly. I found her beautiful. And so her own research must have found also, for she continued to walk with the same easy, merry, unhurried gait which caused her contours to wiggle seductively.

In another few steps my gaze met hers and she smiled at me. I returned a smile as she drew closer and then parallel to my chair, preparing to pass me forever and glide on through the baking city. But as she drew alongside me, a strap from her shoulder bag caught the wicker backing of my chair. She let out a small cry of surprise as the bag was jerked suddenly from her shoulder and into my world. The bag became amorphous as it tumbled from her control. It fell to the ground, expelling a phone, some lipstick, a book by Isabel Allende, mascara, and a few other sundries.

I leapt quickly out of my seat and knelt down to help her recover her items. Her brief shock gave way to an expression of wry embarrassment, as if she found the whole thing funny—which it was. Though she was aware that she might be just a fraction less cool than she had been a short while ago. But, for the sun and the heat and the ardour of the city in summer, neither of us minded at all. She knelt too and began to scramble for her belongings. Her skirt rode up high on her legs as she did so. Although she made a vague attempt at modesty, I saw that her thighs were strong and smooth. So smooth, in fact, that they gleamed in the afternoon sun.

She had collected her things and prepared to move along. And I nearly waved her goodbye. But I stopped. Instead, I asked her who Isabel Allende was. And then I asked her if she'd have a drink with me. She looked almost relieved. As if she'd suddenly realised the effect of the heat, and that it might be nice to be off her feet. For two people who'd never met before, we chatted comfortably. She was from outside the city, but that only served to give her natural tongue a softening lilt. Our chance meeting had led us on to ice-cream around the corner from the museum, then to coffee in the shade of the acacias on the piazza and, as the day drew on, to chilled white wine just off the waterfront. The day had unfolded and wrapped around us so easily that she had not even asked if I'd like to see where she lived. So now just as easily, or so it felt, she was leading me up the stairs to her apartment.

We had been sprawled out across the cool bed linen looking at pictures when she'd suddenly drawn herself close to me and kissed me deeply. As she pressed herself flush against me, her skin smelled fresh and pure. She was hot and golden. As if she'd not only walked in the sun, but bathed deeply in its rays.

Wordlessly, gently she coaxed open the buttons and clasps of my garments so that in time I lay naked before her. She rose from the bed and, before the open window, loosened the buttons on her blouse to shrug it casually, fluidly off her shoulders. She unclasped her bra from the front and peeled the low, broad cups away from her like a protective skin off two ripe fruits. Her breasts were heavy and globular, moving with even the most diminutive movements of her arms, shoulders, and torso. I was surprised to see she had no tan lines and the honey-gold of her cleavage coloured her ripe breasts, delicate shoulders and tapered torso all the same rich shade. She stepped out of her skirt and let it slide down her legs to the floor as easily as she might have stepped out of her heavy winter overcoat six months earlier. Her little white panties made an apex at the meeting place of her long, golden legs—the fabric of the little cotton thong conforming readily to the pouting mound of her vulva.

“You've caught the sun, this summer,” I told her.

“When there is sun, I do not hide my body from it.”

It was a good philosophy and, spoken in her accent, it made me smile.

In no time at all she'd pulled the elastic of her thong away from her hips and slid the slinky material down to the floor. Her cunt was plump and neatly trimmed with the dark down making a sparse velvet covering. The slit of her entrance smiled sidelong at me as she swayed across the floor. She sat down cross-legged on the bed and looked into my face, silently asking what we should do now.

We stretched out on the bed and she covered me with her body. Her weight was deliciously light and heavy all at the same time. She smothered me with her honey-brown warmth and kissed me hard. I responded with a probing tongue and a stiffening cock as our hands explored each other.

Soon she broke away her mouth from mine and worked her way down my body. She suckled my balls teasingly. First cupping them in her hand or flicking her tongue over the seam before wrapping her lips entirely around one and then the other of my testicles. All the while playing her fingers and palms along my cock-shaft so that its stiffness was way beyond my control. She held her ass high in the air, swaying, finding a rhythm to her handy work. Then—my cock was in her mouth—her lips pushing down on the foreskin—her fingers sliding up the shaft—her minnow tongue sweeping over the crown, as though swirling around a mound of ice cream. Or she'd flick her tongue over the slit of the bulbous helmet before taking it to the back of her throat, sending chills of delight right through me. With the intuition of a geisha, she rolled her tongue over the most tender, sensitive parts of my glans, making me buck suddenly. Every now and again, when I was not wracked with pleasure, I would look down and see her big, dark eyes gazing playfully up at me over her lips stretched wide by my bulging organ. She was beautiful like that. She made us beautiful.

She dipped her lips, tongue and throat one last time, nearly engulfing my entire length, down to where the hard cylinder met the soft cushion of my balls. With agonising lethargy she drew her lips tight around my penis and, with a strong suction, siphoned herself off my length from base to tip.

She clamoured up my body and straddled me with her strong, golden thighs. I smiled at her through my expression of delirium. She knew what skills she possessed.

“I'm wet from sucking you,” she admitted.

“And my cock is very hard from you sucking me,” I told her, and she laughed at my clarification of the obvious.

She raised herself up on her knees. Delicately tilting her pelvis and arching her back, she took my cock in her hand, raised it and pointed it into herself. I found it amazing how she guided my throbbing prick directly to her entrance. Sometimes, when I place myself inside a woman, we probe and bump gently, unsure when and how my blunt, round end will find that honeyed cavern. But she knew and loved her body so well that she led me easily inside. Her pink pussy needed only to touch the head of my prick before I was glistening and slick. She gasped—I think we both did—briefly, as she lowered herself onto me and my bulbous tip spread her deeper pink petals. In the next motion she thrust herself down violently and took all of me into her. Her pussy contorted and contained me as she threw herself onto my cock again and again. Gulping—slurping—slushing—rippling around my cock. Her pussy was so wonderfully greedy, so voracious that it was audible. Her dark-lashed eyes were downcast and her lips pursed as if in reverie as she concentrated on every electrode of pleasure firing from her epicentre. I found her rhythm and thrust upward into her, first holding her by her hips then placing my palms over the smooth ellipse of her belly. From below, I watched the smooth under-globes of her breasts bounce and jiggle as she rode on and on.

She leant forward to press her fruit-sweet mouth against mine. Her warm breasts lowered onto me, softly first, until at last she pressed them full against me, warming my own heart with hers. As she kissed me, her hair fell about my face and I breathed in the soft, flowered fragrance that enveloped me. Our scents mingled and the smell of hot, sweet fucking surrounded us. We rode on and on, every stroke seeming to encourage her to yield up more of her honey, while engorging me with greater desire.

At last I put my arms around her, held her close, and rolled us both over so that her legs were still astride, her pussy still deeply demanding. I knelt now, looking down upon her. She smiled at the role reversal and snuggled down more securely onto my cock. She reached down to stoke my short pubic hair; then to feel what her cunt was doing to my cock; then to feel what my cock was doing to her. As if to feel through her hands and her sex an emblem of the pleasure that we made. Her pussy puffed and pouted under her hand as she trilled her fingers around and over her clitoris. I put one hand behind each of her knees and scooped up her legs so that they rested over my shoulders. Without any sort of apprehension, she drew back her own thighs, bringing her knees almost in line with her head. She was giving herself to me fully, opening herself to me, needing me to give her all that I had. The motion threw her ass and her pussy into the air. And I sank so hard and so deep into her supple offering that her lovely round ass sprung up and down off the mattress.

With every stroke, our trust of one another grew and we sacrificed ourselves to each other for a long time. Eventually, we rested. And I fully withdrew my hardy muscle—slippery with her nectar. The sight of her—so totally naked, panting and open before me—that alone could have made me cum. I breathed deep for a moment to regain some semblance of control. She looked at me expectantly and I, playfully, but perhaps a little too roughly, flipped her over onto her belly. She was not put out by my roughness. On the contrary, she let out a little yelp of delight and surprise as she turned over and wriggled her legs apart.

Here, she had a more delicate tan line from a thong bikini. The same abandon with which she'd bared her breasts to the sun had not extended to her nether parts. Her back was lithe and supple with little dimples and a valley adjoining the musculature of her spine. Her little back was firm and strong but swept into the broad arches of her buttocks in a celebration of fleshy supplication. I had already spread her buttocks and seen the sheen that her own errant juices had made down the length of her crevice. The pretty, puckered pink star of her anus seemed, from here, to be as malleable as her pussy. I worked the slick juices gently around her tight opening and the flesh there spasmed delicately in response. But I did not touch her there much longer. Instead, I had turned my attention lower, to her newly deserted pussy, pouting out less than an inch below her little asshole. Although I had withdrawn from her for only a moment, my cock had begun to quiver and throb without her around it. I not only wanted to be back inside her—but needed to be, with what felt like terminal necessity. Gratefully, I sank my rampant prick back into her.

I had tried to slow our rhythm. But from her position, which I had thought to be so yielding, she controlled me. I stopped my strokes altogether. But as I did, I heard her moan loudly and I felt the whole length of her glorious pussy begin to pulse and ripple. I shouted out in surprise as her whole body began to shake and she gritted her teeth. I begged her to stop. I begged her not to make me cum yet. But she ignored me as her own pleasure overtook her. She had the control and I felt the rushing, surging onslaught of impending orgasm. The rush rose so strongly that I knew, and she knew, that I would not fight it….could not fight it. Resigned to my sticky fate, I pumped a few hard, final strokes that took me to the brink of sanity. My head and my cock exploded as one—my head spewing delirious expletives, and my cock spewing stream after stream of hot jism. My cum spurted onto her skin, splashing across her smooth bottom, dribbling into the little valleys of tender muscles that worked the small of her back. She cried out in enthusiastic appreciation of what we had brought forth as my semen met her flesh.

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