Erotica from Penthouse by Marco Vassi Page B

toward or away from me, manipulating events so that by the end of every session I was always aroused but never satisfied. When he dropped me off at home we would often begin to have sex. He slowly unbuttoned my blouse and sucked my breasts until the sweet tension between my legs turned to a sharp ache. But he would not allow us to make love.
    I increasingly resisted Jonathan's scenario. At first I assumed each time we went out that we would spend the night together. But as the “next times” began to accumulate, discomfiture and confusion overwhelmed me. Paula's appraisal of Jonathan as a neurotic ceased to be an amusing comment. I began to see him as a brilliant sadist. But when he kissed me good night I sensed his fervor. We were playing the game of continence to its farthest limit.
    When spring arrived, Jonathan decided to have an end-of-the-season venting session. He invited Paula, two German filmmakers and me. Afterwards Jonathan brought out two bottles of champagne. We stood around the vent toasting one another.
    “I don't really have any steamy photographs of myself,” Jonathan announced. As he undressed he looked at me.
    “Eva, you should be part of this,” he asked. Weeks of repression had inured me. I pretended not to have heard him. He began to move in and out of the steam.
    “Eva, I want you in these photographs,” he murmured, staring at me.
    I took off my clothes slowly to hide my eagerness. But as I approached him my heart was pounding furiously. His cock was already large and hard. A current of intense joy ran through me when his slender, naked body embraced mine.
    “Finally,” I whispered, and we began to kiss passionately. He slipped his hand between my legs and the sensation was so acute that I started to come.
    He spread his legs. My hands glided down his waist and massaged his groin. When I crouched before him and slipped him into my mouth, he groaned with pleasure. I was oblivious to the clicks of the camera and thought only of his hard cock.
    Steam swirled around us. Jonathan pulled me up, grabbed my leg and put it around his waist. I lifted myself up, locking my legs behind him. The head of his cock found my vagina. When he penetrated me I thought I would faint. He moved in and out, pushing and thrusting, bending his knees for better leverage. A gust of steam swept us like a warm hand caressing our bodies. I reached down and fondled his balls. He began to thrust more quickly and I felt myself exploding.
    “Come with me,” I pleaded. I was contracting deeply, furiously. “Eva,” he cried with a violent shudder.
    Jonathan and I have made love many times since that night. I realize now that the period of celibacy he put us through was his peculiar way of bonding us together. Neither of us has ever forgotten the trauma of intensely wanting but not having the other.
    The steam vent series created a controversy when the photographs were exhibited. Several critics denounced them as indecent, others hailed them as highly original. I find the photographs, like their author, beautifully eccentric. A favorite is one the art world will never see. It shows the ashen, shocked faces of the two Germans watching as I mounted Jonathan.
    I WAS A COKE WHORE
    By Jodi Jettson
    Until recently I was a coke whore, trading sex for cocaine. A man named Carl introduced me to the drug. He asked for nothing in return. Yet it was inconceivable to snort with him all evening and then not sleep with him. Later I met Ted, an acne-faced fellow from St. Louis, who told me outright that he expected to fuck me at the end of a long, hot, coke-snorting night on the banks of the Mississippi.
    Many more men and a lot more cocaine followed. The pattern never varied: I snorted their lines of white powder, drank their booze and then went home with them. The coke made me feel uninhibited and giddy. I usually wanted to have sex after being high. When I closed my eyes and lay down, I could surrender completely to the sensations of my