Literary Fiction
by Lord Malinov

A hot tub is a magic naked sex machine. When ordinary people get into a hot tub, they get horny, they get naked and they get off, usually in that order. I’ve seen it happen ten thousand times. If someone doesn’t want to get into a hot tub, they usually don’t want to have sex. When anyone gets into a hot tub with potential sex partners – or even by themselves – sex is going to happen. It’s magic.

With a small, friendly crowd, the sexual properties of a hot tub are relaxed and naked. For women, however, some find that by directing the hot tub jets at or near their clitoris, they can generate life-changing orgasms. I’m told that the procedure isn’t entirely safe, it being dangerous if someone directs the jet into the vagina proper, but it hasn’t stopped any of the women I know. Maybe the risk enhances the experience. Maybe the risk is just really low.

One night, I had some friends over for a small orgy and we headed straight for the hot tub, understanding full well the power the giant tub has on people eager to screw. Sala, still living in my guest room, decided to join us. I had a “No Swimsuits After Seven” rule in my hot tub, so there was no time wasted in taking off our clothes and Sala sat down beside me in the tub, her large creamy breasts floating on the surface.

I made a  suggestive comment about the jets and Sala looked at me as though I was insane. Who, what and how, I think was her line of questioning. I helped her turn round, kneeling before the jet and helped her direct the forceful stream at her super-sensitive clit.

Pow. Bam. Zing. Sizzle. Blast. Drrrleleleum.

Sala came in a second, like gangbusters. She turned back around and sat, numbly smiling.

“Good?” I asked.

“That was really good,” she said, unconsciously rubbing her breasts. I refilled her glass of wine. Sala took a sip, set the glass down and looked at me lustfully.

“I think I’ll do that again,” she said.

Sala perched herself on the hot tub seat once more so that the jet powered into her tender clitoris. “God, yes,” she nearly screamed as the trembling force took her into ecstasy. The men and women in the hot tub stopped their flirting long enough to admire her shivering orgasm, her boobs jiggling, her head thrown back shaking her golden hair in the moonlight, her ass clenching and spasming as the orgasm ripped through her.

She turned to look at me again, the jet still assaulting her cunt. “That is so good,” she said. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this sooner.”

I started to make excuses but she’d left me already, surrendering her whole mind to the buzz in her quivering pussy. She came with convulsions and squeals. A minute passed, no more and she started again. When number seven left her collapsing into the water, disappearing for a moment and then suddenly emerging with a gasp, I had to help her out of the tub. She finished her glass of wine and excused herself to pee.

The orgy proceeded and after a half hour, I realized Sala had never rejoined us. I went to her room, rapped on the door and went inside. Sala lay asleep in her bed. I gave her a nudge and invited her back to the orgy.

“No,” she said, turning over, away from me. “Go back to your party. I’m done. I’m spent.”

And for the rest of her long stay, she spent almost every evening spending and spending.


About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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