COMING SOON

COMING SOON

WOMEN’S ORGASM EROTICA

EDITED BY

RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL

Copyright © 2021 by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States by Cleis Press an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 221 River Street, Ninth Floor, Hoboken, NJ 07030.

Printed in the United States.

Cover design: Jennifer Do

Cover image: Shutterstock

Text design: Frank Wiedemann

First Edition.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-305-7

E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-518-1

Contents

Introduction: Women’s Orgasms as Journey and Destination

Read to Me • CC BRIDGES

I’m Her • HENRY CORRIGAN

Tracing the Edge • LOUISE KANE

Love and Porn in a Retirement Home • CLAIRE CUPP

Remote Vibrations • Z. ESMÉ MENDOZA

Exceptional Service • T.C. MILL

Adorn • NICO MURRAY

Envy • EVAN MORA

The Voice in Your Head • VICTORIA DIANE

Multiple Gifts • ANUJA VARGHESE

House of Fingers • SIENNA SAINT-CYR

Business Trip • ELLA DAWSON

After • KATRINA JACKSON

Belts Have Tongues • VELVET MOORE

The Electricity of a Dark Peak • D.L. KING

What You Need • ANGELA ADDAMS

Kindness • GABRIELLE JOHNSON

The (Re)Education of Truvi Anderson • RENEE DOMINICK

The Size of Love • SALLY BEND

Antarctica • DONNA GEORGE STOREY

About the Authors

About the Editor

INTRODUCTION: WOMEN’S ORGASMS AS JOURNEY AND DESTINATION

We may all think we know what an orgasm looks and feels like, but orgasms are also personal, each one special and unique. For women, orgasms can take many forms, and you’ll find many of them here in these twenty erotic stories. In “Read to Me” by CC Bridges, after meeting in a bookstore, Elise gets aroused by having Jake read erotic passages from books to her in his sensual voice. This story is any book lover’s very wet dream.

We discover a restaurant that offers quite the “Exceptional Service,” in T.C. Mill’s tale of a delicious threesome between a waitress and her very pleased customers, and an act of “Kindness” that’s repaid with several different kinds of sexual favors from a sexy stranger in Gabrielle Johnson’s evocative story. In Victoria Diane’s futuristic story “The Voice in Your Head,” Hitomi finds the most intimate kind of relief in the form of artificial intelligence, with a device that knows precisely what she needs, and is able to give it to her in ways nothing else can.

In some of these stories, the passion between the characters leaps off the page, the desire for their lover fierce and urgent. In others, it’s about the fantasy, the possibility, the thrill of what is and what could be combined, such as in “I’m Her,” in which Henry Corrigan writes, “In the darkness behind her eyes she remade him into what she needed most. Simply a man who would let her ride him the way she wanted, whose hands were strong and could be taught.”

Some of these tales are full of filthy fantasies, while others evoke the ways experiences like childbirth affect women’s approach to sex, such as in “After” by Katrina Jackson, as Damon kisses the narrator’s stretch marks, then uses her new vibrator, and his tongue, on her. In “Remote Vibrations” by Z. Esm⃩ Mendoza, lovers kept apart by social distancing find creative ways to keep their sex lives thriving.

You’ll find in these tales, women’s orgasm—or in the case of “Multiple Gifts” by Anuja Varghese, orgasms—is a journey and a destination. In some, they take their time, while in others, it’s the fast, urgent rush that makes their climax so powerful.

In this book, you’ll find women and nonbinary characters who take and find pleasure in a wide variety of ways, from posing nude for a photographer who has a very hands-on approach to attending a women’s sex retreat, watching porn in a retirement home, or attending a sex party. They discover that what makes them come, what makes them ache, what makes them yearn, doesn’t always stay the same throughout their lives, but can be an ongoing process of learning mixed with yearning. These discoveries, such as in “The (Re)Education of Truvi Anderson” by Renee Dominick and “The Size of Love” by Sally Bend, are revelatory. Whether it’s the taboo nature of a relationship between a younger woman and her boss in “Business Trip” by Ella Dawson or being ordered to get as close as possible to orgasm without actually going all the way in “Tracing the Edge” by Louise Kane, these stories bring women’s desires to vivid life.

The twenty sexy stories in Coming Soon don’t include every type of orgasm under the sun, but they do offer a window into the ways orgasms, whether by their own touch, a lover or lover’s, or sex toys, can transport you, make you come (pun intended) alive, make you breathless. I hope these stories do that for you, however, whenever and wherever you read them.

Rachel Kramer Bussel

READ TO ME

CC Bridges

Later, much later, she’d tell her friends that she’d met him at the bookstore.

A-Mazed Books sat between Elise’s favorite coffee shop and a store that sold artisanal soap. The combination made for a rather interesting mix of scents when she walked this street on her way to work at the public library. At least they were good smells—the rich aroma of coffee or a lush mix of cedar and lavender.

She had no such luck at work. Who could blame her for slowing her steps as she passed this part of the block, her coat open in deference to the warming spring weather, her nose in the air to capture whatever delicious scents wafted her way?

Something caught her eye in the window of the bookstore. A single book in the back of the display, it looked almost like it had been placed there accidentally. In vivid black and white, a woman’s face had been caught in the moment of pleasure: her eyes scrunched tight, her mouth wide in the middle of a shout, and her hands cupping her own breasts. What was that book doing there mixed with the typical bestsellers? Maybe someone had added it as a joke.

Not wanting to go home and face her empty apartment, she decided to investigate. She always felt a bit guilty actually purchasing books for herself. Better to support the library. But they didn’t have that title at her library. Elise pushed open the glass door and set off the jangle of the bell above it. Inside, books ruled the land, all set up in unique patterns—a pyramid built like a house of cards on a square table right in front of her, a shelf where all the spines had been arranged by color. There was no organizational scheme that she could see and, as a librarian, that offended her soul.

But the arrangement pulled her in, made her want to explore. Who knew what lay behind that pile of books laid in a spiral? The name of the place made sense, suddenly. She found herself in a true maze.

The book that had taunted her from the street sat within reach. Elise pulled it off the display and stepped out of view of the tall window. Stories of Lust and Lace read the title, which she hadn’t been able to see from outside. She flipped to the back copy.

Fourteen stories to amaze and arouse. Be prepared to read the most explicit, the most sensual, the most erotic of tales. If you don’t get off, we’ve done our job wrong.

She smiled. “What, no money back guarantee?”

“That’s one of our bestsellers.”

Elise dropped the book.

The speaker had a voice that sounded like whiskey tasted— smooth and chased by warmth. The rumble of it reached her down to her toes and she nearly shivered.

“Let me get that for you.”

If he’d stop talking for five seconds, Elise might be able to compose herself. Instead she stood with her mouth agape as he approached. He looked almost as good as he sounded—dark curls framed a face with a salt and pepper beard and sleepy bedroom eyes. When he smiled, it reached those eyes, giving them delightful little crinkles.

“Thank you,” Elise said despite her dry mouth, as he bent down to grab the book. She tried not to notice the way his jeans framed his ass.

It hit her suddenly, as he stood and held out the book, how much like a librarian she looked today. Beneath her coat she wore a pencil skirt and blouse, with a scarf patterned with images of cats tied around her neck. At least she hadn’t put her light brown hair into a bun; no, that would have been too much.

Why did she always do this to herself? Bookstore guy might be hot as hell, but she was just another customer. She shouldn’t be imagining things that weren’t there.

“Are you going to purchase it? I can ring you up over here.” He gestured to the register, hidden behind another tall display of books. She wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t pointed it out. He seemed to notice her hesitation. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. One of our policies is not to judge what people read.”

She took the book from him, their fingers brushing against each other. He had sturdy hands, the kind used to dealing with large boxes of stock. “That’s what we say at the library. Every book its reader.”

He grinned. Elise bought the book.

She couldn’t help but read the words in his voice. Stories of lust and lace were much improved when they came with a deep rumble. The thought of it had her squirming in the café seat and for a moment she wished she’d left the book at home.

On Wednesdays Elise worked the late shift and often spent her mornings reading in her favorite coffee shop before heading to the library. Of course she’d started the book last night, but had only managed one story before taking matters into her own hands—and the hands of her capable vibrator. She’d come so hard she’d nearly blacked out.

If only she could do the same when actually with a man.

She took a sip of her latte, enjoying the creaminess of the milk and the sweetness of the mocha syrup. Elise preferred her coffee doctored as much as possible when she had the time to enjoy it. Some mornings at the library necessitated twenty ounces of black coffee straight into her veins, so when she had the time, she made sure to savor it.

“Good morning.”

Elise nearly spit out her coffee. She swallowed abruptly, and stared up at the familiar face of the bookstore clerk from yesterday. He held a paper cup with a name visible in black marker—Jake. It suited him.

“Hi,” she finally got out.

“Would you mind if I sat with you?”

Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. His voice still aroused her, especially the way he had to speak to be heard in the busy coffee shop. What would it be like to hear him whisper?

“Please.” She gestured to the empty chair across from her.

Jake sat. “I see you here every Wednesday, but I’ve never had the courage to speak to you.”

She blushed, embarrassed that she’d never noticed him before. All he had to do was speak and then the rest of the world disappeared. “Elise,” she said, pointing to the name on her cup.

He laughed and gestured with his own. “Jake.” He held out his hand for her to shake.

She didn’t want to let go. His palm was warm, his hand large, enveloping hers completely. The touch sent tingles all up her arm.

“You’ve never come into my bookshop before.”

“Your bookshop?”

“Well, I do own it.” He grinned, that adorable crooked smile again. Elise thought her cheeks would never cool down if she kept blushing like this—to say nothing about other parts of her body.

“It was your window display,” she admitted, although that wasn’t the entire truth. She put her hand over the paperback on the table.

He noticed. “Is that the book? Did you seriously put a cover on it?”

“I didn’t want any nosy café people to look too closely.”

“And a brown paper cover isn’t conspicuous at all. You, my dear, need an e-reader.”

She laughed. “And then what excuse would I have to visit your shop again?”

It felt nice to flirt. She’d been so closed off since Len left. No, she wouldn’t let his nasty memory ruin her perfectly wonderful morning. Screw Len. He was in the past.

Jake brought his hand to his chin and rubbed his beard, looking thoughtful. “Hmmm. I’d have to woo you with more tales of lust and lace.”

“Honestly all you’d have to do is read them aloud. You’d have a line out the door.”

“They are that good then? The stories?”

She hesitated. Elise considered saying nothing at all. But she’d spent too much of her life being quiet and she was ready to finally be heard. “They’d be better with you reading them. Hasn’t anyone told you before? Your voice, it’s like”—she sighed—“sex on a stick.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment and Elise wondered if she’d offended him. But Jake didn’t grab his coffee and leave, so that was a plus.

He grinned. This time the movement was slow, and resulted in a filthy, sensual smile. “You know, the bookstore is closed on Wednesdays, and I just got a shipment of new books from this publisher.” He put his hand over hers, which still covered the book. “Want to come see? I’ll read the titles out loud to you, and you can tell me which one interests you the most.”

There went her heart again, pounding against her ribcage like it wanted out. Elise took one final sip of her latte. “I’m in.”

Navigating the bookstore in the dark had its own set of challenges. The place was a trip hazard even fully illuminated. The third time Elise ran into a table, Jake took her hand, making her gasp at his touch. Heat flared through her with anticipation.

He turned back and winked at her. She bit her lip to keep from giggling as they made it to the storage room in the back. When Jake let go of her hand to unlock the door, she rubbed her palm, missing the warmth of his skin against hers.

“This is the secret lair of the bookstore,” she joked before following him in. There wasn’t much back here, actually. A few boxes were stacked in a corner, a table with scissors and other packing material in the center, and some metal shelving along the walls.

“Most of my stock goes directly to the floor. I need a place to unpack it all, you know?” Jake walked over to the wall of boxes, picked one up, and put it on the table. The side of it had been stamped with “EroLight Publishing.”

“There are actually books,” she said in wonder.

He used a box cutter to slit the tape covering the top. Elise couldn’t keep her eyes off his hands, the way they used the tool with practiced ease. What else would those hands be good at doing?

She swallowed and forced herself to look away. Elise slipped out of her coat, setting it on the back of a folding chair, along with her purse. Her turtleneck seemed too tight against her chest, and she was too aware of her breasts suddenly, and how they longed to be touched.

“Ah, here we go. Nice selection. I usually get about five copies per title.” Jake pulled out a paperback with a black cover and nothing but a close-up of a red rose. Petals of Pleasure. His voice lowered as he continued to read, “When Jaqueline accepts the invitation to attend a party on a private island she is introduced to a world she’s never seen before. A world of hedonistic pleasure.”

Elise clutched the back of the chair, her fingers wrapped up in the fabric of her coat. “Go on.”

Jake didn’t look up from the text. His eyelids were lowered, exposing the length of his eyelashes to her view. He had beautiful eyes. “Billionaire Richard Rose—ah, that’s where the picture comes from—usually throws away his playthings after he’s done with them. But Jaqueline is different. When the weekend comes to an end, he can’t bear to let her go. Will she stay as his willing slave to love? Hmm. I wonder what she’s going to choose?”

That was it. Elise couldn’t hold herself back a second longer.

She touched Jake’s cheek, causing him to look up from the book, his eyes wide. His beard felt so soft against her palm. Elise leaned forward, and he did the same. Their lips met, first a little too quickly, and she needed to pull back, but then, oh then, they kissed.

He tasted like coffee and smelled like brand new paper. Jake put his arms around her waist and pulled her tight against him. She could feel his erection through his jeans, her plaid skirt barely a barrier between them. If she hadn’t been wet before from his reading—fuck, just his reading—that awareness of him would have done it.

And his kisses . . . Jake kissed like he read, focused completely on her, each press of his lips against hers deeper and deeper. When she stepped back, he moved with her in a dance until she was slammed up against the wall. His hand left her waist to trail up her side, caressing the side of her breast. She strained toward him, wanting him to touch.

But first she had to tell him. “Jake.” She pulled away and licked her lips. A taste of him remained and she savored it.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I should slow down . . .”

Oh, he was sweet as pie, and somehow that made her want him even more. “It’s not that. I am definitely interested. It’s . . . I can’t come with a guy.”

He blinked. “What?”

She looked away. “My last boyfriend, he said I was frigid. No matter what he did, I couldn’t ever reach that peak. I wanted you to know so you wouldn’t be upset when I didn’t . . . ”

“No.” Jake took her shoulders and looked at her, really looked at her, those dark eyes pouring into her soul. “That guy sounds like an asshole.”

That made her laugh. “I guess he was.”

Jake moved close, until his lips were against her ear. “Let me try,” he rumbled in the deepest register he’d used yet.

“I, uh.” She took a deep breath. “Please.”

He stepped back and held out his hand. “I live upstairs. Join me?”

She took his hand and nodded.

***

He had her sit in a chair in his living room, a sturdy chair in dark blue faux leather. Then he tied a bandana around her eyes and told her to hold onto the arms of the chair. She did as he asked, struggling to catch her breath. With the blindfold on she could only listen—and feel.

The fabric of the chair felt smooth beneath her hands. Her skirt had bunched up a bit, so her bare thighs pressed against the faux leather. She tried to close her legs, but a gentle touch on each of her knees had her spreading them.

Then he stepped away. She strained to hear where he’d gone, wondering what he meant to do to her. They expected her at work. Shit, what was the time? She should have looked before . . .

She heard the strike of a match, and then the air filled with the scent of vanilla. Elise breathed in deeply, letting the action calm her. Footsteps meant Jake was returning. She strained to hear more, but only heard the sound of . . . pages turning?

“Jaqueline gasped when Richard pinched her nipple. She was so responsive. Her entire body shuddered when he touched her. He’d laid her out in his bed, her peach skin flushed against the deep red of his silk sheets. Her arms he’d stretched out over her head to better display the lush fullness of her bosom. She’d closed her eyes and looked away from him. Shy. He liked that.”

Jake was . . . reading to her from that book. Oh God.

She made a sound. It might have come out like a squeak.

Jake, bless him, never paused in his reading. “Richard knew exactly what he was going to do to her. He’d make her come so hard she’d be ruined for other men.”

Elise leaned forward to hear better. Jake had deepened and lowered his voice, speaking just above a whisper in a grizzly tone that went right to her center. Her sex dampened, and she longed to squeeze her legs together, to get some kind of relief.

And then Jake was there, his lips on her ear, still reading from that damn book.

“He caressed her breast with one hand, lifting the soft weight of it, and rubbing his thumb over her nipple.” The words were mouthed against Elise’s skin, and then, Jake lifted the edge of her turtleneck, slipping his hand beneath.

She gasped as he made contact with her skin, his hand so warm. First he unhooked her bra, and then he lifted the edges of her top to expose her breasts. The air hit her nipples, hardening them.

“Her breasts were absolutely perfect. Full and round and eager for my, I mean, his touch.”

“Jake, are you still reading from the book?”

“Shhh,” he whispered before mouthing down along her neck, then taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking it slowly.

Elise did close her legs at that point—or tried to, she ended up squeezing Jake between her thighs, causing him to moan against her skin. With his mouth still on her nipple, he slid his hands beneath her skirt and stroked the soft flesh of her inner thighs.

She sighed and tilted her hips, waiting for him to find her center.

But Jake had other ideas. “Jacqueline was like putty beneath his fingers, moaning and writhing as Richard continued to finger her, sliding deep between her folds, feeling how wet she was, all from his touch.”

As he spoke, he shifted, moving so now his face was beneath her skirt, while he kept reading the words against her body. His lips were inches from where she needed them to be. Still he kept going.

“He plunged her depths, filling her with his fingers. Soon he’d do the same with his cock, her legs stretched around him. She moaned and pushed against him, eager for more,” Jake continued. “Do you want more, Elise?”

“Yes,” she whispered, already on edge. Her clit felt hot and swollen, and she knew, just knew, with so much as a touch, she’d go off like a rocket.

Jake did more than touch. He put his lips on her clit and sucked.

The sudden sensation had her crying out. Elise tried to close her legs, but Jake’s broad shoulders kept them spread wide. His fingers joined his mouth, moving aside her underwear and stroking between her folds. She squirmed in the chair, clawing against the upholstery as she fought to get away from the swirling pleasure as Jake bared her to the air.

His mouth moved on her again, tongue swirling inside her as he pressed her open with his thumbs. She felt wanton, like the character from the story, spread open and used for Jake’s pleasure, only, it was her own pleasure. He slid inside her, two fingers that felt almost too big when pressed against her swollen folds. Elise wanted more, and she bucked up into Jake’s lips.

As if knowing exactly what she needed, he surrounded her clit again. This time he didn’t stop, and the pressure built slowly, then inexorably. Elise couldn’t escape it. She didn’t want to escape it. Pleasure swelled, starting deep inside, pulled along by Jake’s talented mouth. Elise reached the peak, and fell over it, her folds pulsing in time to the explosions of her clitoris.

She came so hard her hips lifted off the edge of the chair. Elise yelled, unable to hold back. Her orgasm rocked through her, and Jake didn’t leave her alone through it. He had one solid hand on her thigh, holding her in place as his mouth gentled on her, the sucking becoming gentle licks and nips. He kept at it, waiting until she came back to earth, gasping like she’d run a marathon. Only then did he pull away, tugging her skirt back down her lap.

Elise pulled off the bandana and stared down at him. He looked up at her with a smug little grin. “You.”

“Me.” As he kissed her, she moaned at the taste of herself on his lips.

She tried to stand up, ending up tumbling into Jake and tackling him onto the floor. Not that she minded, since she was now on top with his still hard cock pressing against her. He let out a little laugh as she straddled him, the ridge of his jeans rubbing against the remnants of her soaked underwear. “My turn.”

Elise shifted until she straddled one thigh, then undid his fly. His dick strained against the soft fabric of his boxers. She stroked it covered at first, marveling as it all but leapt into her hand. Then, she slid beneath the waistband, wrapping her fingers around hard flesh. Jake bucked up into her touch.

She trailed her finger at the tip, gathering in the bit of liquid gathered there and using it to lubricate as she stroked him. His breath started to hitch, and she noticed he wasn’t saying a thing. “What happens next? In the story?”

“What?” He looked up at her in confusion. “I suppose . . . old Richard fucks her into the mattress.”

Elise’s folds quivered in response. God, even after coming so hard, she felt she could absolutely go again. And the idea of Jake doing that to her . . . she wanted it. “Maybe Jacqueline turns the tables on him. Climbs up on top of him and rides him into tomorrow.”

He choked out a groan. “Keep . . . like that.” He put his hand over hers and guided the movement. She learned fast. Elise squeezed and stroked, watching Jake’s face, especially the way his eyes squeezed shut and how he bit those beautiful lips. He was so hard, and she was the one doing that to him, making him wanton and desperate. Jake bit his lip, and shuddered, his head bent backward as she started to speed up her strokes. She wanted to mouth along the long lines of his throat, to feel the pulse of him, and so she did, pressing her lips against his neck, sucking delicious skin salty with sweat. She felt his cock pulse against her fingers, and she squeezed in response. Then his hips rose and stilled, his entire body caught up in the moment. Oh yes, she liked that.

With a shout, he came, climaxing into her hand. “Good boy,” she teased.

Jake laughed. Then he got serious, as he sat up and cupped her cheek with one hand. “Was it good?”

She flushed and nodded. He’d proven to her that she wasn’t broken. She just needed a man who knew how to push her buttons. Quite literally. “I believe I’m going to have to purchase that book.”

Elise looked around for it, saddened to see the paperback had fallen to the floor, spine up. The librarian in her ached for that broken spine.

“How about you come over next Wednesday and I’ll read some more of it to you?”

Elise grinned. “It’s a date.”

I’M HER

Henry Corrigan

Catherine could hardly breathe.

Perched on the hard, plastic chair in Terminal C, she tried to focus on the red-eyed men and women power walking by, but the longer she looked, the more she found herself studying their faces, searching for that flash of recognition, looking for the one who was looking for her.

Pulling her eyes away from the crowd, Catherine stared at the scuff marks littering the floor, at the candy wrappers and string, the dust that had worked its way into the crevices of her shoes.

She forced herself to take a deep breath and then let it out slowly, like the last guest at the end of the night. With a sigh, she took stock, sensing for the first time how truly tense she was.

Releasing her grappling hook fingers, she stretched them, the creak reaching all the way up to her wrists. When she kicked out her leg, her knee cracked gunshot loud and she blushed.

Certain that someone would be looking, she eyed the crowd, but no one glanced her way. Her nearest neighbor was an elderly man one row over, sleepily scanning a newspaper. Even as she noticed him, his eyes closed.

Catherine checked her watch. It was nine fifty-seven. She had sixty-three minutes left.

With an absent nod, she tried to reassure herself. She could do it. She could wait that long and if nothing came of it, well . . . A medley of emotions played in her head, with relief providing the high notes and disappointment supplying the bass. But between them resounded an instrument she could not name, one that might have been a mix of the two, or only an echo playing along her bones.

Like a conductor brandishing her baton, Catherine silenced the medley.

Her ad had been posted late last night, leaving little time to read and even less to respond. The odds of anyone reading it, let alone being local enough to make it down . . .

Catherine hadn’t wanted to hold out hope, but she’d lain awake anyway, imagining a hundred replies, or a thousand, or a line stretching down the promenade. Near dawn she’d finally drifted off to thoughts of leaving the airport and walking bowlegged out to her car.

Fifty-nine minutes left.

She shrugged. No one would show, and if this disappointed her, well, that had always been a risk. Regardless of what happened, she would drive back to her safe, normal life.

Thinking of home, she pictured it in all its regimented glory. Right now, Katy and Michael would be outside playing, their grandmother hard at work on lunch. Everyone would smile as she walked in, her little ones’ faces streaked with sunscreen and light.

But at the thought of her mother, something close to guilt crowded around Catherine’s feet. She hadn’t liked lying, but she’d grown so tired of the older woman’s well-meaning “advice.”

“A friend of mine is coming over for dinner next week and she’s bringing her son. He’s divorced too and a nice guy. You’ve been alone too long, Cathy. I know Jim was a jerk, but why don’t you come over and, y’know, see what happens?”

The trouble was she’d tried “see what happens” and it only ever amounted to her rising frustrations. She’d lain awake for countless nights, fingers questing, brain alight, searching for that little bit of heat which would see her through one more nice, normal, all too predictable—

“G-good morning?”

Catherine jerked and almost screamed, sending the man beside her staggering back.

“Sorry!” He half shouted, eyes as wide as panes of glass. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just . . .”

“It’s all right,” Catherine said, sucking in air. “I just didn’t see you coming.”

“Sorry,” he said again, hands clasped in repentance. “I um . . . I was just looking for someone.”

“Oh?” Catherine replied, the medley rising, an orchestra tuning up.

“Yeah, and I um . . . Look, I’m really sorry to bother you but . . . Are you her?”

Catherine took the man in slowly. He’d worn blue, just as she’d asked, his thin, narrow chest wrapped in a cobalt shirt and tie. He was clean-shaven and neither handsome nor ugly, his face like that of a Dave or Pete or Brian. Over his belly, his fingers twined continuously, working themselves into ever shifting knots. Catherine studied those fingers, liking how long and dexterous they seemed.

Swallowing thickly, Catherine pointed to the chair beside her.

“Yes,” she said, voice uneven but firm. “I’m her.”

The man sat and for a long minute, neither spoke, Catherine lost in the atonal tap of his heels against the floor.

“So, um,” he said, voice faltering. “Where do we . . . I mean, how do you want to . . .?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and stopped, fingers finally stilling in his lap. Blowing a short, sharp raspberry, he sat back.

“You tell me,” he said at last, his gaze direct for the first time.

Catherine smiled at him, because apart from this stranger, there wasn’t a detail she hadn’t planned.

The airport may have been small, but security was tight, and Terminal C was the busiest of them all. No one in her family knew where she really was, but one close friend certainly did.

Said friend had called her crazy in every synonym under the sun, but her demand for details, every detail, had brought Catherine laughing ’til she ran out of breath.

Even the outfit she wore had been chosen with the same attentive care. Shoes she could run in if she had to, underwear she could afford to lose, and a skirt that billowed just enough to allow for . . . maneuvering.

Laughing quietly, Catherine tucked her head in close, lowering her voice so it drew in this stranger who could be anything she wanted, or nothing at all.

They spoke for ten minutes and though it was the most awkward conversation of her life, it was also the most honest she’d been with anyone in longer than she cared to admit.

For his part, Dave or Pete or Brian said little, agreeing to everything she asked. What few demands he made were simple, even exciting, and by the time she stood, Catherine felt a new energy suffusing her limbs.

“Give me two minutes, then follow me in,” she said, his smile following her as she left.

The bathroom she’d chosen was small but serviceably spare, wrapped up in the smell of industrial lemon. When the knock finally came, Catherine’s heart thudded as she threw open the door.

Wordlessly Dave or Pete or Brian slipped past, taking his place atop the toilet. Locking the door behind them, Catherine smiled at this stranger with his blue shirt and hungry grin.

They stared at each other for a long moment and then, with slow, conscious movements, began.

Catherine lifted her skirt as he unbuckled his belt.

She slipped her fingers into her underwear as he stroked himself, his cock held tightly in his fist.

She teased herself slowly, stirring the soft hairs with her palm, gliding a finger between her lips, drawing out the warmth like a friend called out to play.

Dave or Pete or Brian bit his lip and stroked more quickly now, growing harder by the second. With deft fingers, Catherine slipped her underwear off and spread her thighs wide. Slipping a finger insider herself, she gasped and rolled the hood of her clit gently, sending light straight up her spine.

Soon enough the smell of lemon faded, replaced by the musk of their exertions. Her thighs were quivering, and his cock was hard and red.

He’d brought condoms, but she made him use her own, squirting a dollop of lube into the palm of her hand. Straddling his thighs, she grasped him, the first time they’d ever really touched.

He sighed as Catherine lowered herself down but for her it was uncomfortable at first. Her inner muscles, too long unused, rebelled at his thickness, leaving her hissing as she rocked against him, back and forth.

Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes, listening to the sounds beyond the door. The whisk of luggage wheels and conversations, the thousands of people walking by. None of them would ever see her like this, her bare ass clenching as she rode this stranger, her breath coming in frantic gasps as he went deeper every time.

With a shudder Catherine rocked forward, now flush against his hips. She sighed and let her head fall back, the sensation not quite orgasm, but the pleasure of being filled.

Bucking against him, she grinned as he grabbed fistfuls of her ass. In the darkness behind her eyes she remade him into what she needed most. Simply a man who would let her ride him the way she wanted, whose hands were strong and could be taught. Taking one of those hands she guided it to the hard bud of her clit, showed him how to roll it ’til she was gasping for breath.

From close by, she heard someone laughing. A jolt of arousal swept through her at the thought of throwing the door wide open. Of hoisting her skirt and letting whoever it was gawk at her stranger’s slick, hard cock thrusting inside.

Shaking, Catherine bucked hard one last time, a shout locked away in her chest. Dave or Pete or Brian’s hands held her tight as the tremors passed. Her chest still heaving, Catherine then opened her eyes to find him grinning at her, eyes as hungry as the sky.

Inside her he twitched, still hard, the sensation burning through her. Smiling, she stood up just enough to let him slip out, then sat back on his thighs. She opened her blouse and tugged her bra aside, moaning as he grasped her breasts greedily and sucked them into his mouth.

Reaching down, she took hold of him, fingers becoming a blur on his cock. With her free hand she spread herself again, showing him what he’d just fucked, glistening and wet. When he saw her sex he whimpered, bucking roughly beneath her thighs. His mouth left her breast and he threw his head back, cock twitching like a fish caught on the line.

At the last moment, before she could decide against it, Catherine ripped the condom off and tossed it aside. Dave or Pete or Brian stared at her wide-eyed, his mouth agape, but her furiously stroking fingers were too much and he bit his lip, spilling a warm stickiness into her hand as he came.

Even here he said nothing, only a touch on the wrist to tell her he was spent. She let him go, loving how soft his cock was as it plopped against his belly.

For a long moment the two sat still, breathing slowly, then moved together like dancers at the end of a particularly arduous ballet. At the sink they washed and dressed, her underwear and the condom buried at the bottom of the trash. By the end they could have been any other world travelers, their only commonality having shared the same plane.

As she poked her head out the door, Catherine quickly scanned the crowd and then walked away without looking back.

Halfway down the promenade she stopped, buying the biggest bottle of water she could find. But in between gulps he called to her and she turned, fearing he’d ruin everything. That he’d ask for her name, or her number, or when he could fuck her again.

Instead he only grinned and held out a slip of paper. Without thinking, she took it and he vanished, swallowed up by the ever-changing crowd.

The paper was a napkin from the donut place across the way. On it was a note and a phone number, written in a looping kind of scrawl.

Call me if you want, it read, and Catherine couldn’t help but smile.

Outside the airport her car had been baking in the warm, late morning light. Behind the wheel, she fiddled with her keys then left them dangling in the ignition. She dug out the napkin again and traced it with a finger.

If I want.

Families slowly shuffled by as Catherine laid the note on the seat beside her. Any one of them could’ve chanced by, seen her spreading her legs, seen the way she relished the warm ache between her thighs. Catherine whimpered at how exposed she was and though her fingers were not as deep, nor as thick as her stranger’s cock, they were enough and soon nothing could hold her back.

Minutes later, she somehow found the strength to putter home, and though guilt at lying to her mother fought to return, it was quickly crushed. Between a full-time job and two kids, the dating game promised far too many pitfalls to be worth her time. For now, all she wanted, all she needed, was someone like Dave or Pete or Brian.

Weaving her way in and out of traffic, she thought of calling him some time. Of proposing another illicit rendezvous, or maybe just . . . Slowly, Catherine grinned and rubbed her fingers together, imagining she could still feel that warm stickiness again.

Maybe she’d post the ad again. Spin the wheel just to see what it brought.

At the thought of it, each car she passed became a different stranger, another patient yet anxious man, silent but for what she desired. Without thinking, Catherine’s foot pressed down hard on the gas because what waited for her at home no longer mattered. What mattered was her longing and that ache and the way all her potential strangers looked at her in her head as she beckoned each of them forth with a slow, sweet smile.

TRACING THE EDGE

Louise Kane

Alex cracked open an eye, blearily glaring at the sunlight weaseling its way into her bedroom through the slats in the window shades. It couldn’t have been later than nine—and on a Saturday, no less. Not that it mattered. When no one was supposed to leave their house, a weekend didn’t exactly hold the same weight.

Groaning, Alex pulled a pillow over her face as her right hand drifted beneath the covers to find her clit. She rubbed lazy circles over her skin as her mind drifted elsewhere. To Bryce. With a quick grin, Alex grabbed her phone. It’d be a waste not to use the early-morning sunlight for something. She snapped a picture of her tits, mouth half-open in invitation, and sent it to Bryce with the caption: Hope work is fun.

Her phone buzzed a few minutes later, and it was Bryce’s name on the lock screen. Alex bit her lip as want bloomed in her stomach. She knew Bryce’s work schedule well enough to know when to text—and lucky for her, she’d woken up in time to get a reply before Bryce headed into her next virtual appointment.

Someone’s being naughty this morning.

A whimper escaped Alex’s lips as she pushed her hips into the mattress, fingers snaking back toward her clit. She was crafting her response when three dots appeared on her screen. Alex quickly deleted the half-written message. There were few things she loved more than the anticipation of finding out what was going through a mind as dirty as hers.

Do you want to play a game today, pretty girl?

“Fuck,” breathed Alex, hips moving in a tight circle. Her fingers flew across the screen.

Yes, please.

Bryce’s next text took longer, three dots mocking how eager Alex was to know the game Bryce had thought up for them. Alex’s mind ran down its own paths as she waited, but she tried to clear it; she didn’t want to spoil the surprise, and she didn’t want to be disappointed if she came up with something better.

I want you to bring yourself to the edge of coming every hour, on the hour. Once you’ve stopped, send me a picture of that beautifully frustrated face and a description of what you were thinking about to get yourself there. Do a good job, and I might let you come today. Understood?

Alex bit back a mewl, stomach clenching at the command. She should’ve known better than to think she could come up with something better than Bryce. Alex nodded as she replied.

Yes, sir.

Good girl. 30 minutes.

Her eyes snagged on the time display at the top of her phone screen: 8:30 on the dot. Alex pouted. Now that it was a game, she didn’t want to wait to play—so she distracted herself with setting an alarm for every hour, on the hour.

Her finger hovered over the screen as she struggled to decide how many alarms to set. Bryce hadn’t given a timeline, and Alex wasn’t sure if it was better to over-or underestimate how long they’d play. With a sudden burst of decisiveness, she turned on an alarm for noon, and closed out of the app. Bryce couldn’t expect Alex to last longer than that. She might’ve liked to play, but she wasn’t cruel.

That done, Alex’s attention turned to more immediate needs—like the insistent growl low in her belly reminding her to eat something before starting today’s tasks in earnest. Her lips curled into a smile as she swung her bare legs out of bed.

Maybe today wasn’t going to be boring after all.

9 a.m.

Alex slid under the covers and switched on her vibrator just as the digital clock on her phone flipped to 9:00 a.m. Perfect. She sighed as the gentle rumble spread over her clit, hips moving in a smooth, easy rotation. Sucking an index finger, Alex’s mind wandered as her skin grew sensitive, the single point of contact reaching down her thighs and up her stomach until it covered her entire body in want.

The tension built until she had to pull away the vibrator, giving herself a chance to settle down before pushing further. Alex knew how far past the initial promise of release her edge existed, and it’d be cheating to pretend otherwise—or to act like she didn’t play a version of this game every time she got herself off.

Alex took her finger out of her mouth and traced a line over the landscape of her body to the area just above her cunt, kneading the flesh until it felt like she’d come from that alone. With a shiver, she turned off her vibrator and let out a long breath.

She grabbed her phone and took a picture, smirk firmly in place as the leftover tension of a not-quite-orgasm ebbed from her limbs. Any game worth playing was a game worth winning, after all—and Alex planned to win this one.

I thought about you fucking me. Alex sent the message along with the picture and settled back against her headboard to wait for a response. This was her favorite part of their play—being told she’d done well, Bryce’s praise driving Alex to please Bryce further.

Oh, I think you’ll have to do better than that if you want to play this particular game.

Alex’s cheeks flushed, embarrassment overtaking the endorphins coursing through her body. She bit the inside of her mouth as she typed out a response she hoped would be more to Bryce’s liking.

We were on the bed. You’d spanked me and then you were fucking me from behind with your fingers, your other hand shoving my face into the mattress.

That’s my good girl. See you in an hour.

Alex’s toes clenched at the praise—and the purr she could almost hear through Bryce’s text. Blowing out a harsh breath, Alex forced herself to get out of bed. She’d read, wait out the dull throb Bryce’s words had reignited, and pretend like she wouldn’t regret agreeing to this game before the day was done.

Alex checked her phone as she ran up the front steps to her apartment building:

9:58 a.m.

She swore her ghost was going to haunt the jerk at the grocery store who went through the self-checkout line with fifty items. Alex let herself into the building’s front door and sprinted up the stairs, sticking her key into the lock of her apartment before she’d come to a complete stop.

She checked her phone again: 9:59. Shit. She didn’t bother with her shirt, just grabbed her vibrator and shimmied out of her pants as fast as she could before hopping onto the couch. Alex clocked the time as the vibrator made contact with her clit and smiled. Ten, exactly. She’d made it.

The tension in her thighs and stomach grew quickly, convinced she’d orgasm this time and ready to be done with it. Alex wouldn’t—couldn’t—of course, so she breathed into the steady rhythm of reaching the edge, stepping back, and pushing further. She grabbed her hair as the pressure mounted in her core, jerking her head to the side the way Bryce did when she was there. The pain at Alex’s scalp and the pleasure in her cunt warred with each other for dominance until they became greater than the sum of their parts and all she could do was moan.

As her chest tightened, legs tightened, and ass tightened, Alex dropped her vibrator onto the couch. Breathing through her nose, she willed the muscles in her stomach to relax and let the orgasm ebb away without completion. Her body pulsed with need, but all she could give it was the movement of her hips— broad circles meant to soothe rather than enflame.

Alex took out her phone, not missing how far away the smirk from an hour ago felt. She bit her lip, putting as much pain and want into the picture as she dared, and snapped the shutter. Maybe if she looked pathetic enough, Bryce would let her come sooner. Alex could hope, at least. She pressed send, and Bryce’s response was immediate.

Where’s my description?

“Shit,” said Alex, brain scrambling to catch up and put words to what she’d thought about. A pit of guilt opened at the bottom of her stomach at the unintended disobedience.

I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to forget. I was on my hands and knees, sucking your cock while someone else fucked me from behind. I loved watching you watch me get fucked, the way you watched me suck you off. I almost came from how hot it made me.

A minute of worry burrowing into her limbs and then—

Good girl. I know you wouldn’t disobey on purpose. See you at 11.

11:04 a.m.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Alex checked the time on her phone in disbelief. She must’ve missed setting the alarm. Of course she’d magically make it back in time after the grocery-store fiasco only to completely screw up when all she was doing was watching Netflix.

Alex bit her tongue, trying to decide what to do as guilt churned in her stomach. It had to be better to complete her task before confessing her screw-up. She’d masturbate now, ask for forgiveness later, and hope her punishment wouldn’t be too severe.

She jumped into bed, pushing away the guilt nibbling at her edges as she sank into how good it felt to slide her fingers along her clit and dip them into her cunt. Alex pressed harder, dragging pleasure to the surface as she closed her eyes in search of fantasy. Her other hand drifted to her tits, running a finger over each nipple until the sensation grew past the point of comfort. Then she rubbed them some more.

Alex imagined herself sitting across from her boss. They were in her boss’s office, at her desk, but Alex was the one in control—able to make her boss do whatever Alex wanted. Alex made her boss get undressed until all she had on were heels, and then Alex made her crawl, push up Alex’s skirt, and lick her until Alex came. When Alex was done, she had her boss call in another coworker and Alex watched her suck his cock. She had her boss do it again and again and ag—

“Fuck.” Alex clutched at the sheets like a lifeline, waiting for the pulsing in her cunt to subside. She hadn’t been paying enough attention—she’d almost come. After her late start, that would’ve been the cherry on top.

Her stomach clenched at the reminder of what she had to do, and the ache in her pelvis instantly quelled. She sent Bryce a picture and a description and almost stopped there. After all, Bryce hadn’t asked what Alex was doing or why she hadn’t texted. Bryce didn’t know what Alex had done. No, she couldn’t shake the need to confess—to ask forgiveness. With stiff fingers, Alex sent one more message.

I cheated.

What do you mean, pretty girl?

Alex pouted. She hated having to tell Bryce she messed up. She should’ve lied—but even if Bryce wouldn’t have known Alex had disobeyed, Alex would’ve. And no matter the game, Alex wanted to be good. Especially when she was the only one keeping herself accountable.

I started late, sir. I’m sorry. I lost track of time, and—I’m sorry.

Her cheeks heated with the admission of wrongdoing. She knew Bryce wouldn’t actually be mad, but logic didn’t stop Alex’s brain and body from tensing in anticipation. She hated being bad—hated it worse when she hadn’t meant to be. Alex worried her bottom lip, seconds feeling like hours before three dots popped onto the screen.

Well then. You’re such a good girl for telling me, but that doesn’t mean this can go unpunished, does it?

Alex shook her head, mouth twisted to the side even though Bryce couldn’t see.

No, sir.

The next time you touch yourself, I want you to wear the nipple clamps. Put them on five minutes before you start. Don’t take them off until after you’ve sent me your picture and description.

Alex let out a slow breath, a trickle of fear crawling up her spine. The clamps hurt. A lot. But Bryce was right—Alex deserved it. It could’ve been worse.

Noon

“Fuck,” said Alex, breathing through her nose and out through her mouth as she acclimated to the sharpness of the clamps. She hadn’t worn them in weeks, and she’d forgotten how painful they were. It was probably her mind protecting itself from the memory because holy crap, why had Alex bought these?

Oh yeah—she sighed as the steady dose of pain and endorphins pumping through her system made her lightheaded. That was why.

Alex eased into bed, careful not to jostle the clamps as she laid down and picked through her brain for a new fantasy to use. Or, perhaps, something old. She grinned as images played across the inside of her head. It was her favorite fantasy—the one she came to again and again as fingers rubbed tight circles over her clit.

Bryce sat apart from Alex, patted the inside of her thigh, said, “Come.”

It was obvious Alex wasn’t meant to walk across the room, so she dropped to all fours and crawled on hands and knees. She came to a stop between Bryce’s jean-clad legs, sat back on her heels, and rested her cheek against Bryce’s thigh. She breathed the smell of Bryce deep into her lungs.

Bryce was fully clothed against Alex’s nakedness until Bryce unbuttoned and unzipped her pants, opened them enough to pull out her cock. Even then, she made Alex wait. Only when Bryce deemed Alex desperate—and patient—enough, was Alex allowed to suck her cock.

Alex played it on a loop: Her submission and Bryce’s control, over and over again, until she came to the edge quicker than she’d thought possible. The pain of the clamps was insistent, but with her vibrator on her clit, it was more pleasure than pain. Or rather, pleasure accentuated and brought to a finer point by the pain lining its presence.

She hadn’t noticed how loudly she was moaning until she forced her hand away from herself. Fuck. The dull thrum of continually stopping before she came was becoming as painful as the clamps themselves—a burning sensation that promised to go away if Alex let herself finish. She bit her lip, focusing on the pain instead. She’d made it this far; she wasn’t about to mess up now.

Alex took a deep breath and snapped a picture, putting her frustration into her pouting mouth. It was the only part of her face Bryce would see because Alex’s tits and the nipple clamps were front and center. Bryce liked seeing Alex’s pain—liked when Alex hurt herself when Bryce wasn’t there to leave the bruises herself.

Alex hit send and typed out the description to go along with it, the pain in her nipples growing sharper now that she wasn’t touching herself.

It took everything in her not to send another message, begging Bryce to let her come. What if Bryce decided that meant Alex wasn’t allowed to come at all? She groaned as the possibility of such severe denial flooded her. It was tricky, wanting the game to last longer even while begging for it to end. To distract herself from asking for release, Alex removed one clamp and then the other, gasping at the sharp pain that shot through her.

“Fuck,” whispered Alex, drawn out under her breath. The telltale vibration of her phone came a moment later and she snatched it up. Breathing shallowly through her nose, Alex waited for the wave of discomfort to pass as she read the message.

You’ve been so good. When you bring yourself to the edge next time, I want you to fall over it. Record yourself.

Her frustrated pout turned into a grin. Thank God. Gratitude flooded through her in that way it could only when Bryce had withheld what Alex wanted past the point she thought she was capable of enduring. The next hour couldn’t come soon enough.

1:00 p.m.

She thought it’d be fast, but now that she was allowed to come, Alex wanted it to last. Wanted to use more than fingers and vibrator. Wanted to feel everything.

Alex rooted around in the box by her bed, pulling out her quartz dildo—the one that held her heat better than her body— and laid it beside her as she settled into the sheets. The hours before this had been quick and rough: no foreplay, just a vibrator or finger on her clit to bring her to the edge again and again. This time, she’d showered beforehand. Put on lotion. Warmed herself up before crawling into place.

Fumbling for her phone, Alex navigated to the recorder app while her other hand drifted across her stomach and down her sides, fingers feather-light against her skin. She set the phone on her chest, the coolness of metal a welcome sensation, and pressed play.

Recording herself felt like being watched, and a new heat built in her stomach at the thought. She liked it when Bryce watched. Alex’s voice took on a different urgency as she turned on the vibrator, sighing as it connected with her clit.

She rested it there for a moment, her other hand grabbing her tits, pulling her nipples, massaging the skin where thigh met cunt. She dipped one finger and then another into herself, so slick from a day of want that she could barely feel them inside herself. She moaned as they curled upward, rubbing against her favorite spot as the vibrator brought her closer to coming.

“Shit,” breathed Alex, pulling away the vibrator to stop the first crest toward orgasm.

She grabbed the cold dildo, sliding it into her cunt and inhaling sharply at the temperature difference. She imagined it was Bryce’s cock instead and whined deep in her throat at the image of Bryce between her legs. Alex licked and sucked and bit down hard on her hand, imagining they were Bryce’s fingers just as much as the dildo was Bryce’s cock.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” whispered Alex, voice climbing higher with each obscenity. Leaving the dildo inside herself, she focused on her clit—pulling the vibrator away from herself again and again, each time she got too close to finishing. She didn’t want to come yet, but it was building too fast, and Alex barely lasted a moment before she had to pull away.

Her hand dropped from her mouth to her throat, and she wrapped her fingers around her neck as the tension in her core built one final time. Alex let the wave take her. She screamed as it crested, the volume tampered only by the pressure of her hand against her throat. It was a half-choked thing as her hips bucked, liquid gushing from her as the dildo came free. She rode out the orgasm until all she could do was softly whine. Turning off the vibrator, Alex dropped it, soaking, onto her stomach.

“Fuck.” Alex breathed deeply, trying to catch her breath and calm the shiver in her limbs, when she started laughing. She couldn’t stop—just laughed and laughed with the joy of release.

Turning off the recorder, Alex took a picture of her blissed-out face quickly falling toward contented exhaustion and sent it to Bryce with a description and the audio file.

Thank you, sir.

Alex drifted in the postorgasm haze for a while before her phone buzzed. Grinning, she rolled over and pulled up her message.

Such a good girl. See what you can do when you put your mind to it? Can’t wait to see you next week.

Alex snuggled under her comforter, smile firmly affixed as exhaustion overtook her. Burying her head in the pillow, she pulled the covers over herself and settled in for a well-deserved afternoon nap.

Yeah, today could’ve definitely been worse.

LOVE AND PORN IN A RETIREMENT HOME

Claire Cupp

I am so old that even my grandchildren are grown up. They’re married and have their own little children. My children are newly retired. They’re travelling and helping with the little ones. I’m living in my cozy retirement community. My husband Edward used to live here with me, but he passed away five years ago. He was a dutiful man—a good provider and a devout Catholic. We slept in separate beds, but that wasn’t uncommon during our day. It was difficult accepting that I was a single woman after he died, but I’ve befriended many other single women in this community, like Gail.

Gail sits next to me in the back of the classroom. We’re in front of the shiny laptops our families gave us, trying to figure out how the darned things work. My family can’t always visit me personally, but they share their stories and photos on social media. I am in this class to learn how to use it.

Yesterday, I received an “A” on my vocabulary exam. For example, a “username” is a unique name that is used to identify someone on a computer system, computer network, or online account. Spaces are not allowed. Today, I am creating an account on my family’s favorite social media “website,” or simply “site.”

I open the “internet browser” and navigate to the site. As I type my first name into the “field,” I hear Gail giggle. She already knows how to use social media. Maybe something funny came up in her “feed.” I lean over.

She is not on social media.

A young woman is letting a man film her while she . . . pleasures him with her mouth.

I gasp and hit Gail on the shoulder. I whisper, “What is this disgusting thing you’re watching? What if she were your granddaughter?”

Gail “scrolls” down the screen, and my stomach knots at a film title. “What kind of stepmother would do that to her stepson? It’s immoral!”

Gail hushes me. “She’s not actually his stepmother, Rose. It’s pretend.”

“Why on earth would anyone want to pretend that?”

“I really have no idea,” she whispers but lets the film play.

“Then why are you watching it?”

She sighs and smiles toward the ceiling. “Could you imagine being wanted by a younger man? Someone with unbreakable confidence? Someone with smooth muscles and a vigorous libido? Someone who is”—she intently refocuses on the screen— “very good at pleasing a woman?”

Gail was thoughtful enough to keep the volume off, but I can imagine the sound of the woman shouting while the young man valiantly thrusts his hips between her legs. His buttocks are quite round and firm, and the muscles in his hairless back are tense from his movement.

When he sits up, his pelvis turns toward the camera while the woman settles on her hands and knees.

I quietly gasp. “My goodness.”

He has quite a large penis—long, and thick, and firm, and shining with the woman’s arousal.

Gail whispers, “Have you never seen porn before?”

I swallow hard as sweat beads on my forehead. “No. Masturbation is a sin in Catholicism, don’t you remember?”

She huffs. “What’s sinful is what those pervert priests did to our children. I won’t let them tell me what I can do with my body anymore.”

The woman’s back bows, and she shouts again as the young man inserts himself back inside her. Her breasts sway in rhythm with his energetic thrusts. He grips her hips to firmly hold her while his crotch—also hairless—bounces against her bottom. Veins protrude in her neck, and I imagine how her voice might scratch from the intensity of her cries. Her eyes roll into the back of her head and her body slumps forward, submitting to the force from the young man’s rippling abdomen, his thick arms and thighs.

His brow is furrowed in concentration. He studies the woman so intently. He watches how she reacts to all of his actions, like when he circles his hand around her bottom, and when he smacks it hard. I imagine the sound of the slap reverberating in the room while the woman’s bottom jiggles and her hips buck. He grabs the woman by her waist and drives himself harder inside her. Her curled hair tangles over her shoulders. Her manicured nails dig into the sheets. Her tongue hangs out while her eyelids droop, and she looks freed from everything but the euphoria brought on by the young man’s fervent attention. She shakes, and continues to shake longer than I’ve seen any woman shake, perhaps because I haven’t ever seen another woman shake. I’m not sure if I’ve ever shaken. The young man twitches and expels himself directly inside her, and my panties feel wet.

Our computer instructor, a local graduate student named Emily, smiles as she approaches us.

Gail slams her laptop shut.

Emily looks us over, concerned. “You okay, ladies?”

We both anxiously nod. I insist that we are “just fine,” while Gail exclaims that we’re “incredible.”

Emily’s concern doesn’t waiver. She sweetly suggests that we finish our lesson for the day and get some rest. She’s patronizing us, like many do to people our age, but at this moment I am happy to play the frail grandma. I need to get far away from Gail’s computer and put on a fresh pair of underwear.

I grab my laptop and scurry out of the room before bumping into Billy, who is the last man I want to see at this moment. He’s been a good friend since my husband died, and during that time, Gail has insisted that we could be more than that. Sometimes I consider it if it’s a particularly lonely night—only to feel a warm body next to me—but it can never happen. Getting remarried at my age would be absurd, and Billy is a Lutheran.

I yelp, still overstimulated from the video. He places his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Everything all right, Rose?”

Though his skin is wrinkled like mine, he hasn’t lost his strong voice. It makes me even more flustered.

I wave him away and assure him I’m fine. I turn to retreat to my apartment.

“Wait.” He touches my elbow. “Are we still having lunch today?”

The color of his eyes strikes me. They’re brown like molasses—sweet, like his spirit. I wonder if he’s a sweet lover. Perhaps he’d massage my naked shoulders. Perhaps he’d cup my breasts and caress them. Perhaps he’d swirl the tips of his fingers around my erect nipples. Perhaps he’d kiss them or even nibble on them.

“Rose?”

I snap out of my naughty fantasy to stinging nipples. They protrude from my sweater. I want to feel horrified, but instead I feel electrified. What has Gail done to me? Billy can’t see me like this. I hold my laptop in front of my breasts and reply too emphatically, “Yes! Yes, of course. Same time?”

He smiles and nods.

I say goodbye and hustle back to my apartment to pray for guidance. Is masturbation truly a sin? What should I do about these fantasies of Billy? Would I be unvirtuous if I shared my bed with him?

God is silent during my prayers.

Today’s lunch was the same, but different. Billy told me stories, and I had to guess whether or not they were true. I told him jokes I had found in a book in the library, and we rated them from best to worst. But today I couldn’t ignore how happy I was with him, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that video. My filthy mind imagined Billy and me in that scene. He spanked me between superhuman thrusts. The room echoed with my lewd exclamations. I even reveled at the thought of others filming me—of recording my journey to ecstasy until I violently, unashamedly shook in front of them, until I shook so spectacularly that I hardened the phalluses of even the shallowest men.

While the Devil’s desires flooded my brain and my blood, God was still silent. He did not protest when I placed my hot hand on Billy’s, and He did not protest when, without a thought, I invited him to my apartment.

Billy has visited before to play board games, so he’s comfortable here. He isn’t fazed when I ask him to sit next to me at my desk. His body language changes, however, when I type “P-O-R-N” into my computer’s search engine.

Drunk on decades of repressed lust, I impulsively click the first link. The site Gail showed me appears.

Billy whispers, “Rose. What are you doing on this website?”

I peek over at him with a mischievous smile. “I thought perhaps we could watch something together.”

I begin scrolling down the page.

He clears his throat. “Well. This is certainly . . . different than I remember.” After a deep breath, he squints at the screen and says, “There’s a lot more than there was when we were younger, and—oh my. What is his mouth doing on her butt-hole?”

He lifts his finger to point, and the unabashed vixen in me vanishes. I grab his finger before he can identify the video. “No! I don’t want to see that!”

Heat blossoms in my cheeks from Billy’s finger. It’s stiff straight, like his posture. Perhaps something else could react similarly.

We lower our hands onto the desk, and I still have not seen the man’s mouth on the woman’s butthole. I stare at the other side of the screen to make sure things stay that way.

Though half of the screen is now off limits, there is a good deal to watch. It seems the videos are mostly of young women’s lips around men’s penises. Amazingly, when I “hover” my mouse over a “thumbnail,” a video starts to play. There are quite a few videos of men bumping their hips against smooth, round bottoms. The men hold the women’s graceful waists while they guide their penises in and out of the women’s wet entrances—as evidenced by how the men’s penises shine in the light. It’s all a bit overwhelming.

I ask Billy to pick something. After some protest about why he should choose, he agrees to select a video from the library of pornography.

He points. “Let’s try this one.”

The heat in my cheeks floods to my chest. He chose a video of a young woman touching herself on her bed. Her legs are spread right in front of the camera so all I can see are the soft petals of her womanhood. And I can see them very clearly. Once again, she is hairless. Why are they all hairless?

My pulse races. This is a video of a woman masturbating. Did Billy hear my conversation with Gail? Is this finally a sign from God? I hope this is God’s blessing.

I click the video.

The woman sighs, and my heart sparks with timid excitement. The sounds of her fingers slipping between each wet fold project from the speakers. This experience is very different with the volume on. I hear her pleasure. I hear her reward herself. I hear her discover what feels best.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Billy watching me watch the woman. Though my feminine center zings at his interest in how I react to the video, I try to ignore him.

The young woman moans as her glistening finger disappears inside her. I can imagine the possibilities she has at her fingertips—quite literally. She could swirl her finger around. She could press on especially sensitive areas and let the sensations spread through her core. She could clench and release around her knuckles and imagine it were a glorious penis.

She decides to emulate a penis. She slides her finger in and out of herself in a hypnotizing rhythm. With increasing intensity, her moans sharpen into labored whimpers. She vigorously rubs the apex of her opening until her hips jolt and she shakes in front of the camera.

The apex of my own opening is tantalizingly tense. It pulses at the thought of being touched by a finger . . . or a mouth. I shift in my seat to try and ease the pressure.

“Rose?”

I forgot that Billy is here.

Quietly, he asks, “Have you ever done that before?”

Heat rushes all the way to my hard nipples. I admit, “I have not. But I’m willing to try it.”

My hands fly to my mouth. When Billy smiles like a teenage boy, I become so hot that I want to remove my clothing.

“Do you want to try it now?”

I gasp. I fan myself as I retort, “You want to watch me?”

His eyes shine like dark caramel as he nods.

My cheeks burn at the thought of those eyes watching my fingers between me, but I have to look at the floor. Ashamed, I also admit, “I don’t look like her.”

I jump when he booms in a laugh. “I hope not. She’s way too young for me.”

I exhale in relief and let my other emotions float to the surface—adoration, trepidation, and flaming lust.

I stand. With my fingers at my stretchy waistband, I suggest we meet on the bed. He agrees, and it’s quite possible I nearly have a heart attack when he slides down his trousers. His erection is almost as tall as that young man’s.

He cautiously slides onto my bed. He waits for me to remove my trousers. I slide them down my hips and let them fall to the floor.

I can only hear my pounding heart as I approach him. I slide onto my bed. After a shy moment, I open my legs so he can see the most intimate part of me.

His chest heaves while he stares at my untrimmed womanhood. God is silent. What should I do? Should I touch myself? What if I go even further as an unmarried woman? What if I go there with a Lutheran?

There is moaning behind me. I turn to my laptop and find the young woman now sitting on her bed and humping a decorative pillow. Her legs straddle it while her hips grind forward and backward. She pulls the edge of the pillow up between her legs as if she were riding a saddle. Soft whines escape between her heavy breaths. When she pinches her nipple, I want to pinch mine. She cries out and trembles even more than before. I didn’t know it was possible for a woman to orgasm more than once during a sexual session.

That woman chose to film herself masturbate not once, but twice. To my God—or rather, to the men who claim to represent Him—she has sinned. Yet she looks so peaceful. With the pillow still between her legs, she basks in the sunlight from her window. How could something so calming be so evil?

With a breath of courage, I slide my fingers between my legs. I savor my thick, moist arousal. Each petal is sensitive in its own way. I caress them and let the tingling spread to my thighs and my belly. The soft skin is delicate, but it inspires strong sensations as I more intentionally stroke it. My middle finger sneaks between my petals’ dangling maze and finds my precious entrance. It slides inside without hesitation, and its confidence shocks both Billy and me.

While I glide my finger in and out of me, I stare at him— truly stare—for the first time. Our breathing heavies, our eyes shine, and his penis rises even higher. The skin appears so taut that I worry it will tear.

His excitement excites me. My finger’s pace quickens like the young woman’s. My head falls as my eyes close, and I moan deeper than I’ve ever moaned before.

I yip when a large finger presses against the apex of my opening. Billy swirls his finger around what feels like a little ball.

My body swells with long-lost energy when he touches his mouth to mine. Hot tingling erupts under my skin. The longer he kisses me, the more it overwhelms me.

A little overwhelmed himself, he breathes, “I would lick it, but my back...”

The image of his chocolate eyes between my legs is enough to set me off. I tremble against our soaked fingers to both of our surprise.

Our success seems to encourage him. He centers his hips between my legs and slides his magnificent manhood inside. We both cry out. When I let my head fall onto the comforter, he locks himself on top of me and urgently thrusts. I haven’t felt like this in so long that every gliding inch of him makes me wail into my apartment. It’s usually so quiet, but at this moment my euphoria fills it with every exaltation of his name. Not God. Billy. My bed shakes while I praise him again and again, and each time he responds with harder thrusts that reach me at my core. He shouts and finally expels himself, which triggers in me a fit of tremors.

I convulse again with pride and joy for myself. I deserve to be happy—sexually and emotionally. I deserve to love myself; the Church be damned. I deserve to love another man whether we’re married or not, whether we’re young or old, whether he’s Catholic, or Lutheran, or nothing at all. My rapturous shaking continues long after his hips calm.

We settle under my covers. He convinced me to get completely naked, but I tell him he can’t look under the sheet. He has to use his old-fashioned imagination.

He sighs with a smile and puts his hands behind his head. I hide my giddiness while I retrieve something from my bedside table. I’ve kept it for a special occasion, and this moment undoubtedly meets that criteria.

The lighter clicks, and I slowly inhale as the tobacco burns at the end of the cigarette.

Billy sits up as I exhale a long drag of smoke. “Those aren’t allowed here.”

I smile around the cigarette. “Want one?”

He laughs, and lets me hold the lighter when he lights his up.

We cuddle with his arm around my shoulders while we enjoy the smoke and nicotine in silence. I don’t remember the last time I was so happy.

Then the fire alarm goes off.

We frantically put out our cigarettes in an empty pill bottle and try to clear away the smoke. It’s no use.

The apartment door flies open. Nurse Rebecca calls, “Rose! We have to evacua—” Through the haze of the smoke, she stares at us in my bed.

Billy and I burst into laughter.

Rebecca puts her hands on her hips. “You two! When did you become such troublemakers?”

Billy cheekily replies, “Rebecca, unless you want to see me naked, I suggest you give us a moment alone.”

She points her finger. “You have three minutes.”

We still giggle after she closes the door.

Once we’ve finished dressing, he takes my hand, and we walk out into the blaring hallway.

REMOTE VIBRATIONS

Z. Esmé Mendoza

Two weeks have passed since Richie’s health scare. To Babs’ relief, it was just the flu; in these times, she immediately thought the worst whenever someone fell ill.

“When could I see you again?” Richie asked during one of their nightly FaceTiming sessions.

“You really are better,” Babs noted, trying hard not to smile at the twinkle in his eyes. Still, his voice was raspy, not having fully recovered from a bout of laryngitis. “You’re bullshitting again.”

“And yet you love hearing my bullshit.”

He was, of course, referring to his podcast Aural Pleasure. Before knowing that Richie Sato, her annoyingly hot neighbor from upstairs, was behind it, Babs tuned to it regularly. She had frequently masturbated to his oral sex episodes. And right before they were forced to isolate from one another, she experienced the joy of getting eaten out by his own mouth.

“You’re blushing, Babs,” Richie teased.

“Seriously, Richie”—Babs laughed—“we can’t take any risks. It wrecked me so much learning you got sick, and you were lucky it wasn’t anything worse.”

“And that’s thanks to you,” he said gently. “FaceTiming with me, ordering the food I need . . . it all helped.”

“I shouldn’t have let you stay with me in the first place,” Babs sighed.

“No, Babs.” Richie held up his hand.

If only he could take away her guilt. “I was the one who agreed to stay with you. You were only trying to protect my roommates, and you only had a cold. A cold, Babs, that you had just recovered from, and I had the flu! It wasn’t . . .” He stopped when Babs cringed and looked away.

“Please, Babs,” Richie continued. “I don’t regret the time we spent together in isolation. I never blamed you for anything then, and I don’t blame you now. So can we please . . . just put this behind us?”

His girlfriend sighed again. “We’ll do this the right way, Richie. Until this shelter-in-place is lifted, we’re gonna keep FaceTiming. We’re gonna have to act like we don’t live in the same building, all right? Everyone’s health is important. Especially yours.”

He nodded. “Which is why I wanted to tell you . . . I got you something.”

“What?” Babs frowned at the sudden change of topic.

“I appreciate you looking out for my health,” Richie began, “which is why I ordered something. It might not get here for a while, what with everything happening, but do call me once you get it.”

“What did you—”

“Just think of it as a thank you gift.”

“A thank you gift?”

“For caring about me. Choosing me. Loving me.”

“You are so corny, Richie!” Babs scoffed, her face turning red.

“You won’t be saying that after I’m done with you.” His tone shifted from gentle to stern. “Now remember, you call me once you get it, you hear?”

An additional week passed before Babs received Richie’s gift. In the meantime, they kept FaceTiming and texting, each meeting raunchier than the last. When Babs didn’t talk to him, she listened to some of her favorite episodes of Aural Pleasure. One of his more recent ones was him getting a blowjob. He wasn’t acting here; when they were quarantined together she was between his legs sucking his cock as he moaned and grunted for her to continue, all the while recording the whole thing. His favorite part was when she squeezed him between her breasts and rubbed them against his shaft.

“Never thought I’d actually be in a porno,” she had commented as she wiped the come off her face.

“No one will know it was you, babe,” he had gasped, as he recovered from blowing his load. It was true; Babs was quiet when she gave head, but to be on the safe side, he had edited out any faint traces of her sighing before he uploaded the episode.

On the day the package came, Babs discovered a new episode entitled “Remote Vibrations.” She had just finished rubbing one out to one of his BDSM fantasies, giddy that she was the inspiration for many of them. Yet she felt a slight pang of disappointment from missing a new episode.

Before she got a chance to play it, she heard someone knock. She left her room to go to the bathroom, washing her hands first before answering the front door, but when she looked through the peephole, no one was there. Slowly, she opened it and saw a small box on her welcome mat. It was addressed to Richie Sato.

“This must be the gift he was talking about,” Babs said to herself as she picked it up. She sanitized her door handle as well as the box before taking it inside. While opening it in her living room, she noticed the box had been re-taped. She was going to let Richie know that it was tampered after seeing what was inside. It was a pink wearable vibrator, but where was the remote?

She unfolded the box and put it in the recycling bin near her door, which she emptied out once a week. After sanitizing and drying her toy and washing her hands, she went to her room to call Richie.

“I take it you received my package?” he greeted as he waggled his eyebrows. His voice sounded much better.

“Yeah, thanks.” Babs remembered her manners before adding, “But it looks like it’s been tampered. It’s missing the—”

“You mean this?” He held the piece in question. He wore the most self-satisfied smirk Babs had ever seen. Lucky for him they were apart; she would have decked him.

“You think I’d let you control how many times you can come, Babs?” Richie asked. He shook his head and wagged his finger. “I told you, I wanted to thank you for loving me. But I’m not letting your comment about me being corny slide. Nor am I gonna let so many days go by without fucking you in some way.”

“I have your podcast, Richie,” Babs pointed out. “I saw you have a new episode.”

“Yeah, but I can’t fuck you on my own terms,” he countered, ignoring her last statement. “I am your dom, remember?”

“You’re a top at best.” Babs rolled her eyes.

“We’ll see about that.” Richie straightened himself out before resuming. “Put it on.”

“Let me put my phone down—”

“No,” he cut her off. “I wanna see you strip. Now take your pants off, peel off your panties, and put the fucking vibrator in your pussy.” Both his tone and his facial features were harsh.

Without giving her reaction away, Babs propped up her phone against the wall where her desk was. Since she still saw him, she figured he could see her. She placed the vibrator on her desk before slowly taking off her pajama pants, her eyes not looking away from his.

“You’re a little wet there.” Richie noticed a clear spot in the middle of her panties. “You always had this habit of starting without me.”

“I just finished listening to one of your episodes before I heard the door knock,” Babs replied.

“The vibrator, Babs?” He motioned for her to continue.

She tossed the pants aside as she took the vibrator. With the same pace she took while removing her pants, she peeled her underwear halfway, giving him a peek of the pussy he had come to know so well, and inserted the vibrator. She adjusted the smaller part so that it rested on her clit, and let out a sigh.

Richie scanned her T-shirt up and down. “Take your shirt off,” he added.

Babs took off her glasses before doing as she was told. She tossed it aside once she pulled it over her head, revealing her breasts. “You better not let this leak,” she warned.

“Babe, I would never let that happen.” His gaze was fixated on her chest, her brown nipples erect. “God I miss your tits,” he whispered.

She stifled a laugh. Richie was always fixated on her breasts. He admitted they were what first attracted him to her that night he saw her at the party. They were bouncing up and down as she danced to the music. Then the first time they had sex, his mouth and hands were practically latched onto her nipples. He couldn’t kiss her on the mouth, and so there they stayed. It took a while before she even experienced nipplegasms.

“Lie down on your bed,” Richie said finally.

Babs took her phone, and before she even made it to her bed, she felt the vibrator move inside her.

“Oh!” she gasped as she winced. She heard Richie laugh from her phone.

“My bad,” he smirked, waving the remote control. “But hey, it works from my room!”

She rolled her eyes as she made her way to her bed.

Babs stretched out her arm so that Richie could have a better look at her.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I only want to see your face the moment you come.”

“Liar.” She moved her phone toward her breasts.

“Those are nice too,” he laughed. “I’ll just have you move your phone from time to time.”

Suddenly, the vibrator went off again. Babs arched her back and moaned.

“That wasn’t even the maximum setting,” he commented as he fiddled with the remote. “You should see your face, Babs. It’s priceless.”

She glared at him as she panted.

“Let me see your pussy,” he said. The screen moved down toward her crotch. “Keep your phone there,” Richie added as he played with his remote. He reveled at how Babs squirmed, and how her moans grew louder. He told her he wanted to see her face, but she couldn’t hear him from her cries. So he turned it off.

“Hey!” Babs yelled.

“I said move your phone up to your face!” Richie shot back. The image on his screen blurred until he saw a pissed-off Babs, whose cheeks were red, both from irritation and arousal.

“I get to decide when you come, remember?” he chided. “And you better pay attention when I say something, or we end the whole thing, got it?” Richie then turned on his remote at the lowest setting. Babs sucked the air through her teeth as she shut her eyes. “Now rub your nipples.”

Keeping her eyes closed, Babs let her hand massage her right breast. She let her thumb circle her areola before squeezing her nipple, squirming at her own touch. When Richie increased the speed of the vibrator, Babs threw her head back and cried out in response.

“Don’t forget your other tit,” he reminded, his voice gravelly. Babs opened her eyes, and she saw the hungry look in Richie’s face before switching her right hand to hold her phone while her left played with her other breast.

“Look at me,” he grunted. Babs noticed he was panting like she was.

“You must be so hard right now,” she ground out.

He ignored her comment. “Don’t come until I tell you.”

She shot him an annoyed look. Of all things, she hated delayed orgasms the most.

“Who’s your dom now?”

“Don’t ruin this for me, Richie,” she choked through clenched teeth. You fucking bastard, she added in her head.

He increased the intensity further. Babs jerked her head away as if to stifle any moans.

“Breathe now, Babs,” he chuckled.

She tore her left hand away from her breast and held the phone with both hands.

“You’re a fucking dick, you know that?” Babs panted.

“Speaking of”—he smirked—“which part of the vibrator do you prefer, the shaft that’s pumping inside your pussy or the bristles tickling your clit? You can’t pick both.”

“Oh God, Richie . . .”

“Answer, Babs.”

She took several deep breaths before replying. “The . . . the . . . clit,” she gritted.

“In that case.” He ramped up the vibrator to its maximum capacity, causing Babs to scream.

“Get on all fours!” Richie exclaimed as he lowered the speed. She cried out in protest.

“I haven’t told you to come yet.” He cocked a brow. “Now all fours, Babs.”

She did as she was told, but not without giving him the stink eye. The moment she was in the position, Richie once again ramped up the intensity to its maximum setting.

“Richie!” she pleaded.

“Just a top, huh?”

“Oh . . . fine,” Babs conceded. “You’re . . . a . . . dom.”

“Whose dom?”

“M . . . mine.” She rocked back and forth, the same way she did whenever she and Richie fucked.

“Yeah, ride it like that, babe,” he coached. “It’s like my cock pounding your pussy, huh?”

“Richie,” she begged. “Please . . . let me . . . let me come.”

He enjoyed having her in his mercy, and he watched her moan and writhe from the pleasure he was giving her. “I think I can get used to this quarantine,” he quipped.

Eventually though, he gave his consent, and he was treated to the loudest scream she had ever unleashed.

Gradually he decreased the speed as Babs began to calm down. He lost sight of her when he turned off the remote; she dropped her phone on the pillow as she laid prostrate on her bed, trying to catch her breath. Feeling the moisture pooling between her legs, she rolled over to remove the vibrator.

“You there, Babs?” Richie called.

She grabbed the phone and faced him. “Let me clean this thing. You wanna watch?”

He shook his head. “As long as I know it’s covered in your come, my job here is done. And you’re welcome.” He added a wink.

“I take it I don’t need to listen to your latest episode?” she asked. When he didn’t understand, she added, “Remote Vibrations? Looks like we already did it.”

“We didn’t do it,” he corrected. “Completely different fantasy there, but thanks for reminding me. If you think this was intense, imagine what it would be like if you had no idea when and where that vibrator would go off while you were wearing it.”

EXCEPTIONAL SERVICE

T.C. Mill

In memory of John, partner, service submissive, nonbinary girlfriend, and best friend

“It’s hot,” Helen warned, just as two strong hands rose to guide the plate down. Her fingers skimmed them in passing—warm, smooth skin over the muscle. He’s also hot,her mind observed of the body those hands belonged to: equal parts strength and silky softness. Shoulders and arms that filled out his vest and collared shirt with rolled-up sleeves, wide eyes in a blue matching the fine stripes on those sleeves, long hair tied back, a jaw her eyes couldn’t stop tracing.

And so was she, the woman the plate had come to settle in front of. Her red velvet dress set off olive skin and dark brown eyes. Tight waves of mahogany hair swept to her shoulders and the square neckline that framed her small but well-defined breasts. Helen lifted her eyes, trying not to perv, but the woman’s jawline was as traceable as her companion’s.

“Anything else?” Helen pattered.

“No, thank you.” Her voice was like the anise flavoring all their seasonal drinks: sweet and spiced, lyrical. She had been the one to ask for a table for two, who ordered first, who asked about the preparation of the daily special. Her every word and motion were elegant, in command, and pleasant. She looked at Helen and seemed to see her, not a robot there to serve the meal.

Maybe that was Helen’s wishful thinking, but still, this attractive couple made for a pick-me-up in the fourth hour of her shift. A perk of being bi: double the pleasure from a well-matched pair.

Because she was looking so closely, Helen noticed where the red velvet was worn along the seams that hugged the woman’s curves. A few stray threads were loose on the man’s collar and cuffs, and what a surprisingly strong temptation she felt to tug them off and smooth the fabric down for him. Still nice clothes, and wonderfully well-fitting, but clearly not new. They suggested a night like this was a rare indulgence. Both ate small plates, swapping bites occasionally; he drank water, she drank tea. Helen made sure to give her a second bag of the flavor she’d chosen along with a refill of the tiny silver teapot.

“Anything special you’re celebrating tonight?” she asked.

They smiled at each other. The man’s eyes lowered, a touch of pink in his cheeks; an answering glow rose under the woman’s deeper skin tone.

“A five-year anniversary,” she said.

“Congratulations!”

Helen hadn’t only asked out of nosiness. Once their plates were empty and cleared away, once the woman shook her head at the offer of a dessert menu, she was able to surprise them with a complimentary confection fresh out of the kitchen, buried in cream, berries, and chocolate sauce.

“It’s on me,” she said. “Happy anniversary again.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d utilized the eatery’s policy offering free desserts for special occasions. And it wasn’t the first time she’d fallen a bit in love with a patron at one of her tables, or even two patrons at once. But she didn’t often give tokens of her appreciation, like a tropical bird collecting shiny pebbles for prospective mates. Maybe it was a combination of their beauty and their frugality—she saw the opportunity to do something kind. From times when the tips weren’t much, she could sympathize. Or maybe it was a sort of tribute. Either way, Helen walked away from their appreciative smiles with a fizzy feeling in her chest, bubbles that burst as she heard the woman’s gasp of pleasure at the first bite.

Every dessert plate had a cutesy saying glazed on it in calligraphy. This one, apparently, said “Eat what you love.” The couple read it together, and then he leaned close, cheeks still pink, and whispered something that made her gasp again, and giggle. Helen could guess what. And she wasn’t jealous—okay, a little—but she knew it wasn’t her place to be, and tried to set it aside.

It was nearly her own anniversary of singledom. Her ex had never been anywhere near so enthusiastic about oral sex— not about giving it, at least. And these thoughts were far too explicit to be having at work. God, Helen was a professional. Her crushes were usually far more chaste. Maybe she’d been single for too long? Or it was as simple as: this couple was really, really attractive.

The woman’s name was Tricia Williams, she found out from reading the credit card stuck in the bill sleeve. As she processed it, Helen glanced their way, found them deep in conversation. He nodded; she cupped his cheek in her hand, and he nuzzled her palm. By the standards of the couples who usually came here, this was not precisely chaste either, but who could object? Not Helen.

She returned the card to Tricia, who met her eyes and thanked her with one last heart-stopping smile. Then the man had risen, was helping Tricia out of her chair. She took his hand and kissed the knuckles. Then they were gone.

Helen brought a bread basket to another table before making her way to the empty place they had left. A crisp twenty lay on top of the signed bill—more than a 30 percent tip—and as Helen picked it up, she found a small sticky note on the reverse side.

For Exceptional Service. Under those words, a phone number.

Helen put the note in the pocket of her trousers. She felt it rustle there with every step she took, every time she set a plate down on a table, every time she ducked into the galley to stretch sore muscles.

When her shift was finally over, she stood in the parking lot and texted with trembling hands.

Hi. . . you left me this number at Mudita Eatery?

In seconds, a reply:

Yes, we did. :D

Helen breathed out. It was late at night. Her feet would soon be numb, but she was curious and had no reason to hurry home, and neither half of the couple had looked like a serial killer. Plus the emoticon lacked a nose, and her friend Serena always swore emoticon noses were how homicidal impulses invariably betrayed themselves.

Why?

That looked stupid, naked in the little speech bubble, so Helen quickly added, You said something about exceptional service.

Exceptional service, came the reply, deserves an exceptional reward. Would you like to join us?

She didn’t have to think, just watch her fingers type: Yes.

Wonderful! Jacob will be there soon. Can you wait near the front door?

Just in case, Helen sent Serena a text with a photo of the note and an explanation. Pretty sure I’m going to ... She didn’t want to jinx or cheapen it by saying something crude, so she ended with, not be murdered. Still, wanted you to know.

Wanted to brag, i bet XD XD XD. Good luck! Txt me at midnight + morning so i know ur safe!

As she sent Thanks XD, I’ll brag then, a car pulled up to the curb.

The breathtaking man—Jacob, according to Tricia’s text— swept out of the driver’s seat and came up to her.

“Hi,” Helen said. How exactly did you greet one half of the couple you’d just arranged a tryst with? “Thanks for the invitation.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He bent at the waist with such elegant formality that at first she thought he was bowing—then, in a move that left her equally taken aback, he opened the passenger’s seat door and held it for her.

From another man she might find it overbearing. From Jacob, it was . . . a service. As if she deserved better than to be bothered with such mundane matters as opening her own doors. “Thank you,” she said, getting in.

As he ducked back into the driver’s seat, she noticed his shirt collar was unbuttoned. Between pale fabric, she saw a strip of glossy black leather around his neck. It looked supple, soft. She wanted to reach out and touch it. More than that, she suspected that if she tried, he might let her.

She folded her hands in her lap. “So, Jacob, right? I’m Helen.”

“Hello, Helen.” She watched his lips shape her name in the rearview mirror over the dashboard.

She wanted to ask, Do you do this often? But it didn’t seem polite, and maybe she didn’t really want the answer. Instead, she opted for, “You’re celebrating an anniversary?”

“Yes. Of this.” He brought a hand up briefly to the leather collar and glanced her way with a subtle, pleasant expression that led her to believe he’d noticed her looking at it.

“Congratulations.”

“Yes.” He smiled. “We appreciated your congratulations back there.”

“And I appreciate your appreciation.”

They both laughed. His laughter was warm, and seemed to surround her; hers felt like champagne sparkling from her lungs up her throat.

The ride wasn’t long. Jacob parked the car next to one of the shops on a side street and came around to open the door for her again, then led the way up a flight of stairs to the apartment above the business. They entered right into a small living room. Tricia sat in what looked like an antique armchair— one truncated orb-in-claw foot braced on an old encyclopedia volume, but the wood glossy and pearly upholstery spotless. She closed the book she had been reading and looked up at them.

Jacob turned another armchair toward hers, and Helen sat in it. “Thanks.” She returned Tricia’s smile. “Hello.”

“Should I make introductions?” Jacob asked as he knelt smoothly at Tricia’s feet. “Ma’am, this is Helen.”

“And you’re Tricia. I, er, saw your name on the credit card.”

“And remembered.” Though still confident, Tricia’s pleasant tone had a softer note, too. “I also appreciate that you noticed it was my card. So often people assume the man is paying. Which he does,” she added, her hand dropping to stroke Jacob’s hair, “every other date. We’re egalitarian that way.”

She and Jacob chuckled, and Helen joined in.

The room was so small, their chairs so close, that from his place at Tricia’s feet Jacob was able to reach out toward Helen’s. “May I help you take these off?” he asked, fingers brushing the laces of her shoes.

“Oh.” She blushed. “I can do it myself.”

“Of course. But there’s a difference between having to and letting someone else assist you.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Remembering the car door, she stretched her feet out toward him. He cupped her calf as he pulled each shoe off, then peeled down her socks—if he even noticed their stickiness after a long shift on her feet, he showed no sign of it. And his warm, strong hands felt lovely as they moved over her sore ankles and arches, her calluses and strained muscles.

“Oh yes,” Helen murmured, melting in her seat. “Keep doing that, please.”

“My pleasure.”

Through eyes gone heavy-lidded as the relaxation of the massage spread through her, she met Tricia’s gaze. “I see what you mean about exceptional service.”

“It’s both our pleasures,” she replied. “And . . .” She looked down, with another flash of that softness. “And yours, if you like.”

“I would,” Helen said. “Absolutely.”

“Wonderful.” The note of command returned, less calm but no less confident or seductively lyrical. “Whenever you’re ready to get on your feet again—it’s just a few steps to the bedroom.”

A convenient perk of the tiny apartment—but around Tricia, it seemed like a palace. Helen sighed, flexing her toes. Jacob’s caress refused to feel rushed, and Tricia didn’t seem impatient either. She watched them, her submissive and her guest, as if they could occupy her attention forever.

Eventually, Helen did stand, bracing herself with a hand on Jacob’s shoulder, not even thinking to ask. She knew by now he would be glad to assist her. Tricia reached out, and Helen slid an arm around her waist as they walked together to the bedroom.

It had been too long since she’d touched another woman, or anyone, for that matter. Tricia’s body felt so good, warm and vibrant under her fingers. Helen wanted to hold her more, to touch her further, but she wasn’t as sure of the etiquette in a domme’s case and didn’t want to overstep.

At the foot of the bed, Tricia turned and kissed her, sweet and long. It felt like Helen had to clutch at her back and hips for balance.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered when the kiss ended.

“So are you,” Tricia murmured against her cheek.

She stepped back, then, and Helen reached for the buttons on her shirt, which had become confining. Jacob was there, helping her, taking the discarded clothing from her hands and putting it somewhere. He knelt, sliding her trousers down until she could step out of them.

“So beautiful,” Tricia said from where she sat now, a chair in the corner that also proved to be the destination for Helen’s clothes—she took the pants from Jacob and draped them over a wicker arm. Yet she sat there as if in a throne.

Helen’s own back straightened as Jacob looked up at her and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re not half bad yourself.”

“Thank you.” He exchanged a glance with Tricia, then asked Helen, “Would you like me to undress now?”

“Very much.”

Those hypnotizing fingers undid the buttons of his shirt. It came off, then his thin white undershirt, revealing a trim torso with a dusting of gold-brown hair. He stood to remove his socks and trousers. Like his arms, his legs were beautifully muscled, and—Helen overcame an absurd shyness as his boxers came off—his ass too, and she also liked the look of the erection curving between his thighs.

He kept the collar on, of course.

This time, Helen didn’t try to resist touching it. He bent his head back, letting her explore the strip of leather. She found a silver ring and pulled it, drawing him closer to the bed. Tricia made a sound—looking to her, Helen received a nod of approval. Her bra rested over her shirt by Tricia’s elbow; Helen’s nipples prickled even in the warm air, arousal spreading under every inch of her skin.

She sat on the mattress, and Jacob knelt in front of her. His hands ran along her calves as they had before, and as before, it was unspeakably nice—but nicer still was when his touch came higher, over her knees and thighs and hips. Her own quads were muscular from a job that required her to stand all day, and he made an approving—adoring, even—sound as he caressed them.

Yes, after standing all afternoon and evening, it felt good to lie back and be adored.

Jacob’s hands moved farther up, past her waist, brushing her breasts, stroking her shoulders. He bent over her, and Helen reached for his collar again, drew him toward her lips. She kissed him for no longer than Tricia had kissed her, though no shorter either, and she probably couldn’t have withstood doing it much longer—the excitement the two kisses kindled left her heart thundering, her limbs trembling.

He stroked her shaking arms, which didn’t ease her shaking but made clear that her shudders weren’t from nervousness. He kissed her cheek then—as Tricia had done, and with the same warmth behind it, but not exactly like her; a difference between dominant and submissive that was nothing as simple as deference or authority, a difference Helen had no presence of mind to quantify right now. And his mouth moved lower: over her jaw, the crook of her neck, her shoulders. On her breasts, his lips just skimmed the nipples, though she had the sense that both he and Tricia took note of how she moaned at their hot and gentle pressure.

Along her stomach, and lower still.

Helen usually kept her pubic hair trimmed, but she hadn’t been on a date in months. It had slipped her mind, and only returned now as she felt Jacob’s fingers stroking along her folds, parting her. What he found there didn’t give him a moment’s pause. He kissed her there, too, before his tongue began to glide in a slow up and down exploration.

At the same time, his hands continued moving over her— hips, thighs, sides, following the routes that made her gasp. They settled at her waist once he began circling her clit in earnest, in answer to sounds quite a bit sharper and more demanding than gasps. So often Helen had tried to repress, if not her desire, then at least its expression around her lovers. She didn’t want to be greedy, domineering. Here, that wasn’t a problem. Jacob even seemed to enjoy it, voicing his own low wordless murmur as she pushed up against him. His mouth around her was full, warm, his tongue slippery between her folds, offering just the right amount of speed and firmness.

Helen was nearly surprised by her orgasm—she couldn’t remember the last time a climax had come so effortlessly. It swept up from between her thighs across her entire body, her heart and breath and hips picking up speed, then all going slack at once. She seemed to drift on a cloud of bliss, the tender caresses of Jacob’s hands and lips across her skin gradually guiding her back to earth.

“You’re a quick learner,” she said. “I mean . . .”

“Thank you,” he said, his lips curving against her inner thigh in a smile at her compliment. “Would you like me to keep going?”

“Oh my gosh.” That offer did take her by surprise—she’d heard it from female lovers, but rarely from a man. And he asked it in that rarest and most precious of tones: as if by saying yes, she’d be doing him a favor. “Absolutely.”

He didn’t aim for her clit at once, giving her time to recover from the post-afterglow sensitivity. Instead his lips grazed over her thighs, down to the knee and up to her stomach. Tricia appeared over him, and without interrupting she reached for the tie holding his long hair back and undid it. Silky strands fell loose over Helen’s skin, tracing ticklish patterns. Not the kind of tickle she’d giggle at—delicate in a way even his soft and gentle mouth couldn’t be.

She felt herself being driven wild again.

Still, while Tricia stood above her, Helen couldn’t let herself close her eyes. In the dim light of the bedroom, she saw more olive skin—Tricia had stripped down to her panties, in a red that matched her dress. Curls of hair stroked the tops of her round breasts as she bent to run her fingers over Jacob’s scalp. His appreciative murmur was another caress to Helen.

Tricia got a knee on the bed, bending down toward her. “You look divine when you’re enjoying yourself.”

“You too.” She shivered at the stroke of Jacob’s tongue, but tried to continue a conversation with her other lover of this night—“You look divine all the time.”

Tricia smiled and even ducked her head slightly. But her flattered shyness wasn’t false modesty. “I do, don’t I? It’s wonderful to be reminded.”

“Can I kiss you . . . ma’am?”

“There’s no need for that, from you,” Tricia said as she came closer. “Unless you really want to.”

“Maybe not.” Helen sir’d and ma’am’d people all day at work, so the associations of the word on her tongue weren’t primarily erotic—though she had to say, hearing it from Jacob was quite, quite nice. “But . . . Tricia. Beautiful Tricia.” She was going a bit wild. “Can I kiss you?”

“Without reservation.” Tricia lay beside her and met her, lip to lip. Warm as their last kiss, this one quickly grew passionate. She moaned as Helen’s tongue stroked hers. Meanwhile, between Helen’s legs, Jacob’s tongue moved more slowly, as if to give her space to process each new sensation—or perhaps he was distracted by the sound of his domme’s pleasure. Helen couldn’t blame him. Satisfaction glowed in her as she drew out more sighs from Tricia by moving a hand over her body, caressing her. She cupped one breast and traced patterns, then stroked down her side.

As she reached the waistband of her panties, Tricia gently took her hand and broke the kiss. “I’m very particular about how I’m touched there—but that feels nice,” she added as she set Helen’s fingers down on her thigh. “Very nice.” Muscle trembled beneath Helen’s touch. “You’re a quick learner, too.”

Helen smiled, pretty much past words at this point.

“And if you really want to finger-fuck something . . .” She took Helen’s other hand, guiding it down toward Jacob’s mouth.

“Oh.” Helen stroked her finger over his tongue—it felt, in its way, as sweet as kissing Tricia had been, if more . . . dominant. Yes. Jacob tipped his head so she could press in deeper, and she shivered heatedly as she reached the back of his mouth, his throat. He seemed to have no gag reflex. Why was that so hot to her? At the same time it felt too obvious to need explanation.

Tricia’s fingers slipped over the back of her hand, past Jacob’s lips, joining hers. They entered him together, felt him moan across their entwined digits.

After withdrawing, Tricia traced the wetness of his mouth around Helen’s nipple. “Oh,” she said again, the only sound she could make now. She brought her own hand out and up to cover Tricia’s, pleading for her to stay there, to keep touching her. And she did, while Jacob went back between her legs.

Helen’s other hand hadn’t left Tricia’s body, though she couldn’t swear to what it had been doing the past few minutes. Now she went to Tricia’s breasts and returned as much of the attention she received as possible. Tricia seemed to enjoy circles traced with the pad of her thumb. Helen realized those circles mirrored the pattern of Jacob’s tongue around her clit. A dizzying, interconnected spiral of mutual pleasure. It built and built and—

Tricia kissed her once more, then left the bed. A closet door slid open, then shut. She returned and pulled Jacob’s hands away from Helen’s hip and waist. She crossed them behind his back and tied them there. It brought a sound from him of unmistakable happiness.

“Exceptional service,” Tricia murmured over his shoulder, to him and Helen both, “deserves an exceptional reward.” She grinned and stepped back to adjust the strap-on in the harness she now wore over her panties, then nudged Jacob a little higher on the bed—Helen wiggled up with him, his mouth remaining perfectly placed through all their movements—to make room for her to kneel on the mattress behind him. She uncapped a bottle of lubricant.

Jacob was very, very exceptional at service. The pace of his tongue stroking over Helen’s clit didn’t falter, except for one brief slip in his rhythm as Tricia slid inside. His breathing took on a new deepness, each exhale heavy on Helen’s flesh, a welcome heaviness—it caressed her, adding another layer of arousal, not to mention the pleasure from knowing how much he was enjoying this. She wasn’t entirely greedy in bed. Or at least her greediness wasn’t entirely selfish.

Tricia grinned over his shoulder. Sometimes her thrusts, though gentle, pushed his lips closer to Helen’s mound. That was welcome, too. Jacob’s hands, wonderful as they had felt, weren’t necessary after all. When the rocking of Tricia’s hips and hers became more intense, Helen guided him with a grip on his hair, which brought out yet another appreciative moan. And the moans continued, one with every thrust, the vibration of sound joining the weight of his breath and slick pressure of his tongue. His hair had fallen over his face, across Helen’s waist and thighs. So many delicious sensations, and all she really needed was the warmth of his mouth, which she pressed into, rocking against it . . .

Her second orgasms often weren’t as intense as the first, but this one had built and built, and seemed to last nearly as long as it had been in coming. Helen lost track of when it started. In the midst of it she soared, on and on and on, her ears ringing with an awesome rush.

Sinking into sweet afterglow, she didn’t return to sanity. She looked worshipfully up at Tricia, who smiled down at her with lips that parted in her own ecstasy. Helen loosened her grip on Jacob’s hair and stroked through it as Tricia had, returning pleasure for pleasure. He brought his mouth away from her clit, pressing a kiss to where her thigh joined her hip.

Tricia shifted her grip, grasping his tied wrists in one hand and tucking the other under his waist, angling him for deeper thrusts. She pumped her hips in circles and began to gasp. Helen watched the orgasm dawn on her face.

Jacob’s own moans turned to happy whimpers. Helen slid from under him, left more room for Tricia’s strokes to drive him down and forward, for his legs to give out. By the time Tricia finished she was lying across his back, his body flat against the mattress.

Tricia kissed his shoulder and stroked the hair back from his cheeks. Helen helped. His eyelids, heavy with bliss, fluttered in her direction.

“Did you come?” she asked, unable to hold back her curiosity this time. She’d never seen someone orgasm from prostate stimulation before, and was struck by how encompassing the pleasure seemed to be: spreading from an internal point, like her own spread from the root of her clit through her entire mound. So encompassing, though, that it was hard to tell from the outside if it had reached a climax.

“People have sometimes commented that I do so very subtly,” he replied, then turned his head to kiss Tricia’s fingers. She smiled down at him.

Helen realized that hadn’t actually been a confirmation, but his tone of voice and expression made his satisfaction clear. As clear as Tricia’s, or as what Helen felt and was certain showed in her own languid posture.

Yes, she could get used to receiving exceptional service.

Tricia untied Jacob’s wrists, then moved off him to kneel before Helen. She bent to kiss her, and Helen met her with all the force of her gratitude and greediness, her awakened wildness, her unapologetic desire. Tricia responded with the same.

“Jacob and I,” she said when their lips had parted, “issue invitations like this sometimes. And we’re happy to re-issue them, when a third really clicks with us.”

“Name the hour, ma’am,” Helen said, using the honorific to underline her absolute consent. Maybe she could try it out a little more in other circumstances, too . . . if Tricia was interested, and the moment felt right.

If nothing else, this moment felt perfect in its own way. Helen reached out to pull Jacob into their embrace. Yes, even more than perfect, merely flawless, this felt exceptional.

ADORN

Nico Murray

I stood in my curve-hugging wine-red dress feeling overdressed in the swank Paris art gallery. I stared at the framed photos in the exhibit. I tried to make out the image as others in the room exclaimed in delight. What were they seeing in the photographs that I wasn’t?

I moved down the line to the next image and tried again, turning my head to different angles. Landscapes? Abstracts? I couldn’t place why the image and texture seemed so familiar.

Audrey came up next to me, and pressed a glass of wine to my hand.

“Figure it out yet?”

“No. No idea.” I stepped back, frustrated.

“It’s someone’s backside. That one over there is two lovers, at the moment of their petite mort. See?” Audrey traced the lines with her fingers as she spoke with soft French-accented English. In that instant the picture resolved for me, as did the others.

“Oh! Should have guessed. I mean, with the shadowing it makes it hard to make out what or who it is. It’s quite beautiful.” I stared at another image of someone’s fingers gripping goosebumped flesh.

The angles and shadows still threw me off, but I could just see a curve of thigh, the delicate curl of hair, and even the shadowed outline of genitals.

“I have a few of the photographer’s works. Modeled for him, too. Elias and I do. People pay well for them, and his photobook collections. He does about three a year. They’re limited edition collector items. As are the original photos.” Audrey grinned.

“You what? Any of these you?” I glanced around the expansive gallery, packed with patrons.

“Yes, one of them is. Not telling, just yet. Come on, go meet Tomas, the photographer. You’d like him. While you’re here you should model. I expect he’ll ask. You have a look he likes.” Audrey took me by the arm.

I glanced once more at the photos, trying to guess which one was Audrey.

“You’re wondering. I can see it on your face. I’ll tell you before we leave.”

“I can’t just go model nude for some stranger in Paris on your say,” I protested.

“Sure you can. Why not? Who’d ever know? Just meet him. That’s all. Tell him you admire his work, at least.”

“Well, that much is true.”

A man approached us, looking delighted as he embraced Audrey and greeted her with a kiss on each cheek.

“Audrey, my dear. I’ve not seen you in ages! I need you back in the studio with your sir, I beg of you. I’m short of models and there are deadlines. So nice to see you tonight. What do you think? And who is this divine lass?” Tomas grinned as he looked at me. He cut a tall, lean, muscled frame, with cropped white-blonde hair. He wore an expertly tailored, expensive-looking pinstriped suit, right down to the matching blue waistcoat and tie. Blue thread in the fabric complemented the blue in his eyes.

I admired him on the sly as they talked. Audrey’s words played in my mind, as my imagination whispered lascivious things.

“Soon, I’ll be happy to come back and model. I’ve been busy. This is Euna, we went to college together. She’s visiting for a couple weeks so I thought I’d show her a non-tourist side of Paris. Euna, this is Tomas.”

“Hello. Your photography is stunning,” I blurted.

“Well, thank you. You should swing by the studio and see the rest of the work. I had to make some decisions for this show, and left out some of my favorites. And I need to start the next book. Come on over this week. Both of you.”

“Would, if I wasn’t working late this week. I’m leaving Euna to her own devices,” Audrey replied.

“How are you enjoying Paris then, Euna?” Tomas pivoted his attention to me.

“Quite well. Audrey is giving me the hard sell to relocate. My work would transfer me if I asked. Just listen to me, five days in the city and I’m ready to pack up and stay here.” I sipped my wine.

“Well, we’d all welcome you here. If you need a tour guide, I’m free most days. If I sleep late and work in the evening. Indulgent beast that I am.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I replied. “You aren’t going to ask me to model like Audrey, right? It’s not some lure to get me to your place in a state of undress?”

“Only if you’d like it to be. I wouldn’t object. I ordinarily have models in abundance, dear Euna. Everyone’s off travelling or ill. I have assistants on staff who would assure your safety. I have not made a name for myself by coercion. There’s more beauty when my models are enthusiastic. I’ll leave the choice up to you,” Tomas explained.

Audrey grinned. “Euna, you should consider it. Friday evening we can meet up? I’d like to talk more about work with you over a nice dinner, hmm, Tomas?”

“A plan is afoot. Safe trip home, and see you soon, Euna.”

Tomas remained true to his word, and planned several days out.

“The Louvre’s nice but it’s so terribly busy during the day.” Tomas led me along winding streets with shopping, galleries, cafés, happily hailing cabs in his melodious French. He was delightful company, well read and witty. I soaked up the luxury of his attention as he led me around the old city.

“Audrey and I saw it last week. I’m here for another two weeks, and then back home,” I said, as we wrapped up the day in a café.

“Ah, then I wasn’t remiss in skipping it. Audrey would thump me if I was a terrible host. Will you be back again soon?”

“I hope so. I try to visit once or twice a year. I had a work conference in London so I figured I’d just hop over and see Audrey and use some banked time. Do you live in the city?”

Tomas grinned. “I live a few blocks away. I know this part of the city well, as it’s my heart and soul, and I loved showing you around.”

I laughed. “Can I come over to see your other work?”

“Absolutely, my dear. I’d be honored.” Tomas stepped away to pay our bill.

I texted Audrey. Going to Tomas’s. I’m not modelling. Just looking at the art. Back later.

Audrey texted back, Sure.

I could hear the skepticism implied in the digital text. I glanced over at Tomas, and a tiny flame of want lit within me.

Tomas’s home was a tall, narrow cream-colored stonework townhouse, on a classic Parisian street lined with similar town-houses. It was postcard pretty, to the point of absurdity. The sun was just setting, casting a golden glow across the neighborhood. The streetlights flickered to life as we walked.

“First floor is my own small gallery, and a bookkeeper that shares the other shop.” Tomas unlocked the door and ushered me in.

“Good evening, Mr. Calvet. How was the show opening? And a guest!” A slightly older woman with short, spiky crimson hair greeted us.

“This is Cecile, my assistant, Cecile, this is Euna, a guest of Audrey’s. She’s here to see some of my work, up in my office. We could use some refreshments. Nothing elaborate. We spent the day hitting all the patisseries and chocolatiers we could.”

“Madame, welcome.” Cecile escorted us through the main room and up into the office proper, and took our coats.

I looked at the books on the shelves in the opulent sitting room. The shelves certainly told a story of Tomas’s interests. Sex and psychology. The art of bondage. History, ritual, and a wide range of subjects from philosophy to science. Texts and picture books of famous photographers, and Tomas’s own books on one shelf. The art on the walls was all black and white floral photography, and a few framed news articles and award documents for his work, a few candid photos. There was a Lalique-style vase of lilies on the desk, the blooms drooping a little in the summer heat. Tomas lifted the flower head with a gentle touch, and let it fall again.

“You have some diverse interests, I’ll grant you that.” I sat down in the grey-green brocade wingback chair.

“Thanks. If you want to return to Audrey’s at any time, that’s all right by me. I have my own reputation to protect. I don’t coerce or pressure people into posing for me.”

“I know. I’m fine for now. I like your company. People let you photograph them like this? Isn’t it strange? Do you ever get involved?”

I flipped through the pages of the book he set in front of me. Some were undeniably more graphic than the ones at the gallery. A heat crept into my face, not of embarrassment or shame, but want. I wasn’t going to let Tomas in on that so easily.

“The more intimate ones are sometimes private sessions or not for public shows like the gallery. Some couples hire me as a gift for each other. Sometimes, yes, I do get in the picture,” Tomas said.

I gazed at the picture of a nude woman, bound in blue and black ribbons, back to the camera, and Tomas standing in his three-piece suit, with one hand at her shoulder, and a riding crop in the other. I wanted to be her, in that photo. I didn’t let on, however.

My heart skipped a bit as I took in the details over the next few pages, of the lovers entwined with ribbon, skin marked with the faintest lines from the crop.

“Audrey said she and Elias had partaken.” I gestured at the photos. “I don’t know what I was expecting coming here. She suggested I model. I honestly thought she was joking.”

“Audrey knows me well. She has an eye for what I like,” Tomas replied. “A nice memory of your trip, for sure. Maybe not one for the ‘see my holiday’ collection.”

“True. So if I wanted to do this? Tell me what I need to know.”

Tomas smiled, half knowing, half bemused, as I spoke.

“I photograph, and sometimes my assistants do, as I might be indisposed as you can see. No photos show any identifying marks. I edit those out for my model’s privacy. The boundaries in the studio are yours to dictate.”

I sipped at the juice Cecile had brought in, as we flipped through the book.

“I haven’t been involved with anyone for some time. I just want to feel connected again, protected, comforted, even temporarily, pushed a bit, maybe. If I do this, don’t tell Aud. I’ll tell her when I’m ready.”

“I understand. What you say here and in that room is confidential. You and I, by the time the morning comes, will find you some clarity, grounding, and new horizons, and maybe some new work for my next book. I have some ideas of what I could do with you, if you granted me consent. It was on my mind when I saw you at the gallery.”

I blushed. I couldn’t help myself. “By bedding me?”

Tomas laughed. “No, not necessarily, but I confess I wouldn’t object to the current company if she offered. Removing inhibitions tends to reveal things to yourself that you never wanted to admit.” He set a few papers down on the desk near me. “Health form and consent form. Standard for all my models. I myself, I am screened often. And I have been snipped. You’re free to back out at any point. This isn’t a binding agreement of participation for either of us. I like my models happy.” He slid a pen over to me and left the room. I was alone with my thoughts.

I hesitated, and filled in the forms before nerves got me and I backed out at the behest of my rational and over-cautious self.

Why not, indeed. Why shouldn’t I have what I wanted?

“Come with me, then,” Tomas said when he returned and saw my signature. “Elevator or stairs?”

“With all the pastries, I’ll take the stairs.” I laughed. Cecile followed with us.

We stepped into Tomas’s studio, which occupied the space with a lofted ceiling that stretched past what would have been the fifth floor. Lights and lamps hung from the rafters, with rolls of backdrops. A small observation room was glassed off in the corner.

I looked around. “You watch all his sessions?”

Cecile nodded. “Most. There’s a few of us who work here, but I do most of the observing and recording. For archive and liability. One-way glass.”

“You ever . . .?” I gestured.

“A few times. That’s me.” Cecile pointed, and smiled amusedly.

I raised an eyebrow at the black and white in the photo, the model tied in red ribbon and red roses against curves of flesh.

Cecile opened another album of photos. The images showed models in artful poses, faces obscured from identification. All of them were photographed at the height of their bliss and torment. These were decidedly graphic and deeply personal.

One caught my eye, a man, sitting on a bench with an array of needles threaded just under his skin in an elaborate pattern. Another, a woman bound in elaborate ropework, standing with a hint of a lust-filled smile at her lips, her eyes blindfolded in a simple leather mask. It was Audrey and Elias. I gasped.

“Audrey asked me to show you these ones. They posed for a private session.”

As I gazed at the images it didn’t feel strange to see my friend in such images. I watched Tomas through the observation room window as he walked into the studio. He moved some furniture, set out his cameras, adjusted lights. Watching him at work was fascinating enough, more so knowing what was to come.

At the end of the room, he drew the drapes back, revealing the view beyond the wrought iron balcony, the city, and the glittering light of the Eiffel Tower.

“You ready?” Cecile asked.

“Very,” I said.

Tomas caught my gaze and beckoned me into the room.

“Euna, welcome. Come, sit, and breathe a few minutes. We have all the time we need.” Tomas sat on the corner of the edge of the desk he’d laid his cameras and gear out on.

I looked around the space at the black sheets on the wrought iron four-poster bed with a frame that sported loops and whorls at the headboard. The couch over by the wall had attachment points as well. A lush black rug covered the pale wood of the floor. An elaborately baroque inspired black leather bench of sorts sat at the foot of the bed, unlike anything I had ever seen—and then I realized its use.

“Clever, right? Spreading bench. New addition to the studio. It’s fun. I’m very fond of it lately. Strap someone onto that and make them come until they beg for mercy.” Tomas followed my gaze. I wanted to try it.

Still, I clenched my legs together out of self-consciousness, feeling the wetness that had started to pool.

“When was the last time you came?” Tomas grinned at my reaction. “I saw that fidget of your hips.”

My jaw dropped at his boldness. “A year, maybe?”

“Good heavens.” Tomas mock gasped.

I laughed, not offended. “Wasn’t much of a priority after my breakup. I work long hours. Too tired at the end of day to have myself off, no friend with benefits on call. I just let a lot of things slide. I’m fine. Maybe. Maybe I need to change that.”

“That we should.” Tomas spoke as he tapped something on his phone. The lights shifted to blues and golds.

“He wasn’t the adventurous sort either, and sex was sort of a matter of getting it over with. I should explore . . . I’ve thought it over enough . . .”

“Would you like to? I am at your service,” Tomas asked, as I walked around the studio and inspected the space.

“Yes. What did you have in mind?” I asked as he finished setting up, and watched me.

“I would drape you in gems, and silver, tease you into as many orgasms as you could stand, take pictures, before we finish exhausted. Then go out for a fantastic breakfast, and sleep. Then, who knows?” Tomas said. “Might have to retake pictures.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “That could be fun.”

“Assuredly, it will be,” Tomas replied. “We have till daybreak. I like it when it’s quiet and calm and the air’s not so sticky hot in summer.”

“I think I’d like that.”

“Undo the top buttons of your blouse, then.” Tomas reached for a riding crop as we returned to the bench and bed, and he took up his camera. He teased my blouse open with the crop as I unbuttoned it.

“Kiss me first,” I said.

Tomas grinned and looked at me with a stern face before smiling. He pulled me close, slipping one arm around my waist and holding me to him.

“Like this?” He kissed me and I melted, with a small gasp. I felt his soft kiss on my lips, hungry and wanting. I hadn’t been kissed like that in far too long.

“Wow. Definitely like that,” I blurted as we broke apart.

“Sit on the bench, legs apart. Sit up straight, show me confidence.”

With shaking hands, I did as he ordered. I sat up as straight as I could, my breasts thrust forward as I adjusted my posture. I waited for his response, a little off guard by Tomas’s shift into a dominant manner. The ache between my legs grew. I never knew I wanted this until now, and suddenly I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more.

Tomas paced around me, inspecting from all angles as I sat on the spreader bench. My hands gripped the padded leather. I watched him move, all grace and power and assurance. He made a few adjustments to my position, and every touch of his fingers on my skin made me ache more. I was starved for contact.

“I promise, no one will know it’s you unless you tell them.” Tomas raised the camera, crouched before me, and pressed the shutter.

I flinched at the sound.

“If you startle every time all my photos will be blurry. Then we’ll have to do this all over. You’re like a bird, about to take flight.”

I laughed softly. “I’m sorry. I’ll get it together.”

Tomas brushed a lock of my hair back behind my ear and set his camera down. He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled them back. That simple gesture gave my heart a flutter, the intent and focus in every motion he made.

“Undo another two buttons. Bow your head in submission. I just don’t want to get your face in the photos yet. I love how you look at me.”

“I don’t care if you show my face,” I replied, feeling bold. I unbuttoned my shirt and looked at him, almost daring him.

My shirt now fell back off my shoulders. I waited as he took more photos. We worked step by step, and I became comfortable with his process. Tomas slowly undressed me, exposing my breasts, and took pictures as his assistant came into the room to move lights and hand over props. I paused, surprised.

“That’s Nolan. I can swap him for Cecile if you’d rather,” Tomas said. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

I sat at the bench, with my shirt open and my breasts on view, draped in pearls. I eyed Nolan, who betrayed no reaction beyond a friendly wave and smile, holding a camera, waiting for direction.

“It’s fine.” The idea of someone else in the room felt more like a comfort than an invasion of a moment. What did it matter by this point, anyway? I nodded in assent.

“To the balcony. And maybe lose the skirt now,” he said.

I slipped my skirt off, and let it fall as I walked in my black thong underwear and bra to the balcony.

Tomas whistled in appreciation, and uttered something of exclamation in his elegant French. I was overcome with a sudden want to master the language, even if it was clear what he’d meant.

Tomas whistled in appreciation. He followed me, the camera clicking as I put a bit of swing in my hips. “Grip the rail. Just watch the city. Listen to the traffic, look at the lights. Relax.” Tomas traced his hand down my spine, causing me to shift and gasp. I felt something cold and metallic lay against my back.

“Strands of faux diamonds and pearls to sparkle in the light. Hold on. Would that I could afford a river of the real ones to adorn you,” Tomas said as the camera snapped away. He moved my hands behind my back. I felt soft rope binding my wrists. Tomas cupped my hands and set something down in them. Cold, hard, sharp.

“Prop gems. They look real enough in photos.” Tomas kissed the back of my neck. I shivered, the heat rising in my belly as he touched me so carefully.

“No one’s ever said they’d cover me in gems.” I laughed. “I thought you were kidding.”

“Fools they are. Come back inside.” Tomas helped me as Nolan took the prop gems away. Tomas’s hands brushed over my breasts and I drew in a gasp as he grazed his lips over my neck and collarbone, kissing me as he held the camera out to Nolan.

“You tell me to stop when you like, but if I had my way this would go very far.” He unhooked my bra and it fell to the floor by my skirt.

“We’ll see,” I said, wanting to hold a small advantage above him. I watched as he moved, and saw the noticeable bulge in his pants.

“Back to the bench. I saw how you looked at it. Legs on it, and lay back. Spread for me.” Tomas gestured as he draped translucent silk around me, and added more of the prop gems, across my breasts and belly, before they tied my legs down wide on the bench.

A silk blindfold was fashioned around my eyes and a large glass stone placed at my lips. I lay there and let them work with me as a prop, both taking pictures as Tomas directed. Single gems and strands of them were poured down the flat of my belly, cascading between my legs.

And then I felt the distinct flick of a tongue across my nipples. I pulled the blindfold away as I startled. I didn’t want to upset the scene they’d laid out. A few stones rolled off my belly as I writhed. Tomas repeated the action, rolling my nipple between his lips, as he and Nolan took photos, close up now, gems reflecting in the background.

“More,” I said, half gasp, half whisper, all pleading.

“I figured. In time. If we had several nights, I’d take enough photos to make a book just for you, of you.”

I laughed. “I don’t leave for a while. You could.”

“Good,” Tomas said as he pulled my underwear down and peeled my stockings off. I lay there naked, legs apart, covered in gems and silks as Tomas leaned over me, moving the props, draping the silk between my thighs, and placed a stone at my clit. The camera snapped again, my pussy covered in gems, held there by my wetness.

Tomas traced a finger between my labia and smiled. “You are hungry for touch. My goodness. One moment while we make some adjustments.” He held up a strand of slightly larger fake pearls, and grinned as he slid lube over them and over me.

“You’re kidding.” I watched as he delicately fed the strand inside me till I was comfortably filled.

“Rock your hips a bit,” Tomas ordered.

“Oh. That’s strange but I like it.” The beads shifted in me, gently sliding over sensitive skin. More photos, of the end of the strand, as he held my labia open to reveal the strand of shimmery pearls. He pulled them with a torturous pace before the weight of them slid free as I whimpered, and the cameras snapped. By the time they slid free, I was close to sobbing with need.

I lay there and watched as they swept up the stones, rolled me over, and tucked a large black triangular bolster under my hips.

“Tomas?” I asked, as I lay there exposed, in the silence of the room.

“Yes?” Tomas moved onto the bed with me and stroked my back. “We didn’t forget you. I didn’t.”

“Water,” I said. “Before we go further I need water.”

Nolan came over with a chilled bottle and a straw, holding it to my lips. I drank, the liquid comforting me with each sip.

“Not long now. I have other ideas but my own need is calling too. Shall we finish this? I will ask you for some extra photo sessions. I’m feeling inspired.”

I nodded. “Please. I’d like that.” I liked being the center of his attention. I startled as lube was slicked between my legs.

Tomas held up a blue jeweled plug. I stared at it as I felt Nolan set gems down my spine, held by a gentle adhesive.

“Ever had one?” Tomas asked, holding up the plug.

I shook my head. “But I’m open to it. Be gentle.” My heart raced at the idea, but despite my girlfriends’ tales of anal play gone amiss, I trusted Tomas, and quelled a flash of nerves as he stroked my back again. My fear of the unknown was swept away in a wave of lust.

Tomas pressed the plug to my anus and coaxed me. “I promise. Listen to my voice. Relax, bear down a bit, ah, good. So good.” The plug slipped in with an easy pop. I focused on the sensation, and writhed a bit, testing the plug out as Tomas set it buzzing.

I laughed as I caught my breath. “That feels so different.” I heard the cameras start again.

“Good?” Tomas asked. “You look exquisite. Just wait till you see the pictures.”

“Very good. I need to come soon. I really do.”

Tomas plucked the stones off my back and flicked them aside. “Can Nolan take photos while we fuck?” He said the word “fuck” with such elegance, I felt the last of my resolve fall away.

I rolled over on my back and lay there, legs wide on the bench again. “We’ve come this far. Sure. What would Audrey think if she saw me?”

“This wouldn’t shock her in the least. I promise you. I cannot show you those photos,” Tomas said, as he slicked two fingers inside me, gently stretching and teasing. I writhed on the bed, impaled on his hand, and then yelped as he leaned down to suckle my clit. I combed my hands into his hair, half pushing him away, half holding on as he hooked my leg over his shoulder and concentrated on my pleasure.

In the background I saw the lights shift and then Nolan with the camera as he moved stealthily. I avoided looking at him and at the camera as Tomas lapped at my clit as he worked his fingers inside me. He paused a few times, holding me open and setting one of the larger stones at the entrance to my sex, before it fell away seconds after the camera clicked.

“You look so decadent and deliciously depraved. Come for me,” Tomas commanded, resuming his efforts. It didn’t take much as he coaxed me with his fingers in expert motions. He’d found exactly where to touch to draw sounds from me, and soon the room was filled with the sounds of me begging and moaning.

“Oh!” I gasped as the first wave hit while I clenched around his hand, with the plug still inside me. I writhed on the bed, on his hand as the camera snapped pictures. I couldn’t have cared less about being on display as Tomas encouraged me through the aftershocks. I focused on his intensely blue eyes as he watched me and licked his lips, grinning at my response.

“That was good. I can get more out of you yet.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I muttered as I caught my breath.

Tomas unbuckled his pants and pulled his erection free.

“I need this now,” Tomas said, his words breathy with need, as I waited eagerly. He stood there, stroking his hard-on for a few seconds, watching me on the bed. I didn’t dare look away. He let me take a long good look, in fact.

I nodded. “Hello, you’re welcome to try. From behind.”

“Roll over then. Get ready.”

I lay over the bolster, more than ready for him. Tomas’s hands slid over my skin and pried my legs apart. He toyed with the plug, grabbed a loop of the necklaces around my neck and tugged gently. I arched up as I heard the camera. I gasped as Tomas placed himself at the entrance to my pussy. The sound of the camera was lost in the noises that escaped my lips as Tomas penetrated me in a slow, tormenting motion.

I let out a slow groan as he did, taking the delightful aching stretch as I accommodated him. Nolan moved around with the camera as Tomas gave quiet directions. I reveled in being the center of their attention.

“I missed being fucked,” escaped my lips before I could stop it, the realization hitting me hard with each stroke.

“Well, then we’ll make sure you go home with some memories.” Tomas pulled on the necklaces as he thrust against me, while Nolan sidled up with the camera. I stared into Nolan’s eyes as he brought the camera up at Tomas’s direction. “Here, and here.”

I pushed back on Tomas, as he reached between my legs and toyed with my still oversensitive clit.

“Come for me again. Don’t hold back. I won’t last long. I wanted you the moment you signed the form. Come for me, and make all the noise you need.”

“I’m not sure I have it in me,” I whimpered, my throat raw. I was close to exhausted, but I didn’t want this to end just yet. “You can try.” Nolan handed Tomas a lipstick sized vibrator.

Tomas pressed it to my clit on the highest setting. I grabbed his hand, so he couldn’t pull away.

“Come, please, you first. Give me everything you’ve got.”

“That’ll do it.” I saw stars at the intensity of the vibrator and Tomas’s thrusts as I felt another orgasm in me. I glanced at Nolan with the camera, working without betraying a reaction to the scene in front of him, save for a hint of a smile.

“Come for me again, Euna. Please,” Tomas whispered in my ear, pressing his body to mine. I could not hold back.

I let out a keening cry as the intensity took over. I was sure half the city heard me. Tomas showed little mercy in thrusting. He followed with his own finish shortly after and slid free of me with a groan.

I rolled onto my side, covered in the necklaces and a sheen of sweat as Tomas picked up the camera and took a few last pictures of me in postorgasmic bliss.

Six months later, I stood in the same Paris gallery next to Audrey.

In the center picture, the model sat, adorned with a tiara and pearls, and nothing more, a pool of gems in her lap, and Tomas, in a black tux. I’d recalled every second of that final intense session on the flight home—and on the flight back to Paris for this show opening.

I glanced away before Audrey could see my reaction to the finished image.

“I assume some of these are you.” Audrey looked at the photos, black and whites with splashes of color from gems and silks. A hand, clenching strands of pearls, the apex of a woman’s sex, adorned in gems, the back of a woman in silver paint as rubies and sapphires, in strand cast down her back. The moment of penetration, and a hand, reaching for a plug. This time the images were more graphic but again did not disclose the identity of the lover.

“Some?” I grinned and sipped at my champagne. “All of them.”

ENVY

Evan Mora

I loved the way Trey moved. When we were together like this, when I lay beneath him, surrounded by him, his cock hot and hard and buried deep inside me, he moved like nothing else in this world. I loved the feel of his muscles bunching and releasing beneath my hands each time he thrust, the sensation of his cock pushing deep into my pussy, filling me up and then almost but not quite withdrawing, and how he went from slow and sensuous to hard and urgent and then back again, just to tease. Trey liked to tease.

“You like that?” he whispered against my ear, nipping my lobe for good measure.

“No, no, no!” I panted into his neck as he slowed again. My hands balled into fists against his back. “I was so close . . .” He rolled his hips lazily.

“You were?” He feigned surprise, but there was undeniable mirth in his voice.

“You know I was,” I said, punching his arm for good measure.

Trey played me like a bluesman did his favorite guitar, with an irresistible blend of confidence, cockiness, and love. He could coax me to heights I’d scarcely imagined, which of course, made me imagine even more . . .

I slid my hands down to Trey’s ass, pulling him tighter against me and wrapping my legs around his thighs to hold him there. Trey chuckled.

“Easy Liv—I’m not going anywhere.”

“Damn right you’re not,” I growled, thrusting up against him and squeezing his cock tightly inside me.

“Oh fuck . . .” Trey’s hips rocked forward almost helplessly.

“That’s right,” I murmured. Trey liked to control the tempo, but two could play games, and I wasn’t in the mood for any more leisurely lovemaking.

“If I had a cock like yours and a hot, wet pussy wrapped around it, I’d want to fuck it nice and hard,” I said. Trey didn’t say anything other than to grunt, but the teasing strokes were gone, replaced with a steady rhythm that had definite promise. Trey liked it when I talked dirty.

“I’d want to be so deep inside that girl that she’d make these little breathy sounds of pleasure, tell me that I fucked her better than anybody else.” He was moving the way I wanted now, deep strong strokes I knew would take me right to the edge.

I’d never been with a woman, and Trey had never been with a guy, but both of us were open-minded enough to play with the idea from time to time, though I suspected I was a little more interested than Trey.

“I’d fuck her so good she’d start digging her nails into my ass”—I flexed my short nails where they gripped Trey’s backside—“thrusting up against me like she couldn’t get enough, telling me to fuck her harder, to make her come.”

We were both caught up in the fantasy now, our rhythm faster, our bodies fused together, sweat pooling between our bellies and chests.

“And then her back would arch up off the bed and she’d cry out and come on my cock so hard she’d almost push me right out.” My orgasm was intense, sweeping through me just like the girl I’d been imagining. Trey was on the verge, building up to his own release.

“And when she was done, I’d pull my cock out of her pussy and I’d make you suck it clear.” Trey shouted as his climax hit, shuddering and emptying himself into me.

As fantasies went, this one stuck.

It went from sexy bedroom talk to kitchen table talk, from something imagined in the heat of passion to something fleshed out with form and substance. Could we do it? Were we secure enough in one another to bring someone else into our bed? Neither of us was jealous by nature—I enjoyed the looks Trey got when we were out together just as much as he appreciated the ones I got—but what we were talking about went far beyond that.

These were the questions we pondered as we went about our day to day. Trey was a music producer and I was a photographer and our work often overlapped. It was how we’d met; he’d hired me to do a photo shoot for a band he’d been working with, and the rest was history. Working in the arts had afforded us both many opportunities, and as we considered our new adventure, it seemed poised to do so again.

Creative types tended to be more . . . creative . . . in ways that went beyond their chosen medium. In my experience, they tended to be more liberal minded about just about everything. As Trey and I opened to the possibility of allowing more into our relationship, it felt as though the world around us responded in kind. It was a subtle shift: an appreciative glance became a questioning one; a handshake lasted a fraction too long; a friendly hug became a little friendlier.

We navigated the waters as deftly as we could. There was a fashion designer we met through a job I was working, but she was definitely more into Trey than me. Then there was a drummer in an all girl punk rock band, but she hardly noticed Trey existed. We were like Goldilocks, searching for that elusive just right. That’s when we met Samira.

A friend of Trey’s needed a photographer to shoot a gig one of his clients was playing at a hip blues bar downtown. It sounded like a fun way to mix business with pleasure, so we went.

She was already on stage when we walked in the door, her honey brown skin almost golden in the glow of the spotlight. Long black hair brushed the curve of her breasts seductively as she moved, and her eyes, when they hit me, were the most luminous shade of green I’d ever seen. She stopped me in my tracks.

“That voice . . .” Trey was right; it wrapped around you like a lover, warm and sultry, as though she was singing for you and you alone.

She smiled as though she knew exactly what kind of effect she had on us.

Trey’s friend clapped him on the shoulder and broke the spell.

“She’s something, isn’t she?”

Trey shook his head like he was coming out of a dream. “Incredible.”

“Liv, I reserved you guys a table up by the stage if you want to set up. Trey—let’s talk.” The two of them made their way to the backstage door, but I barely noticed them leave. All of my attention was on the woman who sang to me like a siren.

I worked as unobtrusively as possible, capturing her again and again, swapping lenses for more intimate close-up work, adjusting speed and aperture to add warmth and depth. She sang about love and loss, but also desire. Her eyes were fixed on the camera as she sang about longing for a lover’s touch, and yearning for the taste of a kiss. The camera loved her, and by the time she’d finished her set, I was halfway in love with her too.

After she left the stage, Trey and I sat reviewing some of the images I’d captured. He’d wrapped up his business and grabbed us a couple of bourbons from the bar. The house band had taken up in Samira’s absence, and the smooth sounds of an old Robert Johnson song mingled with the low murmur of conversation in the dimly lit club.

“Do you like what you see?”

I started at the voice in my ear. Samira’s laugh warmed the skin on my neck a second before her arm slipped around my shoulder. Her other arm was around Trey’s shoulder; my breath caught as his eyes met mine in a moment of perfect accord. We wanted her. The question was, did she want us?

“Please—” Trey was quicker to recover than I was. “Sit. Let me get you a drink?”

Samira smiled like the cat that got the cream.

“Bourbon. Neat.”

As Trey headed to the bar, Samira slid into his seat, pulling it closer to mine to look at the photos.

“You’re very talented,” she said, scrolling through the shots.

“You’re very beautiful.”

I hadn’t meant to say that. The bottom dropped out of my stomach, but she just smiled that same smile and held out her hand.

“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Samira.”

“Liv.”

Her hand touching mine felt more like a caress than a handshake.

“A pleasure,” she said.

Trey’s return saved me from having to find something clever to say. He settled on her other side as they made introductions and I took a fortifying sip of bourbon.

Samira wanted to see everything I’d shot, and as we worked our way through the deck she’d stop me with a hand on mine, or squeeze my arm when she saw something she particularly liked. She’d turn to Trey to ask his opinion, resting her hand on his thigh when she did. We’d reached the bottom of our bourbons when she declared that that was enough business, and ordered us another round.

Glass to her lips, she eyed us speculatively.

“Is this the first time you’ve done this?” She sipped at her drink before setting it down. My eyes shot to Trey.

“Done what?” He tried for casual, but his breath caught when she leaned in and stroked his jaw.

“This.”

She breathed the word against his lips, teasing his mouth open beneath hers. Arousal flared hot and bright inside me. I’d never seen Trey kiss another woman, and it was so much sexier than I’d imagined. But it was more than that—it was Samira too. As she ended the kiss and turned to me, all I could think about was how her mouth would feel on mine.

Her full lips glistened from Trey’s kiss, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from them. She placed a finger beneath my chin, urging my gaze upward until I met her eyes. Desire shone bright in their green depths. She was mesmerizing.

I leaned in slowly, watching her lips part in anticipation. The first touch of my lips to hers was tentative, but she was soft . . . so soft and warm, that I couldn’t help but deepen the kiss, pressing more fully into her, biting back a moan when her tongue curled sensually around mine.

Samira shivered when it ended.

“I hope you’re going to invite me home with you?” she said.

I loved her boldness; I loved sitting in the backseat of a cab trading kisses with her and Trey even more.

By the time we made it to the bedroom, our hands were shaking in our haste to rid ourselves of our clothes.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, when there was finally nothing left between us.

She was beautiful. Full breasts, tucked-in waist, generous hips; the photographer in me wanted to capture every peak and valley, explore every shadowy curve. As I watched, Trey pressed flush against her back, drawing the black silk of her hair aside to kiss her neck, his hand sliding forward to cup her breast.

Samira moaned, tilting her head back to allow Trey greater access. I knew firsthand what an incredible lover he was, but watching him with her, watching her respond, it was like I was seeing him for the first time all over again, and I’d never seen anything half as sexy in my life.

He released her breast, hand trailing down her ribcage, over her stomach and further still, to the soft, smooth skin between her thighs. He stroked her clit and kissed her, then lifted her leg so it rested over his thigh. Taking himself in hand, he teased her wetness with his cock, then pushed inside with one smooth thrust.

I couldn’t stop watching him move, watching his gorgeous cock fill her again and again. Samira moved with him, her body writhing sensually against his, her pussy coating them both with her desire.

“Liv . . .” Her voice called me from my reverie, beckoned me closer. I moved in for her kiss, felt the thrill of her breasts pressed against mine.

“Tell me what you want,” she said again, and this time, so close, her breath mingled with mine, I whispered it against her lips.

“I want to be inside you like Trey is.”

I felt the tremor go through her.

“Yes,” she said, “oh yes...”

It was the work of a moment. The strap-on I’d purchased when Trey and I had begun fantasizing about this was in my nightstand drawer. I fastened the harness around my hips, felt the weight of the heavy cock between my thighs. Samira and Trey both watched me hungrily, as arousal thrummed through me watching them in turn.

Trey withdrew slowly. He rose to his knees on one side of where Samira lay, mirroring my stance on her other side. Reaching out, he touched the curve of my breast, my waist, then let his hand drift lower, just brushing against the smooth shaft of my cock. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. As much as this was my fantasy, we were flirting with his too.

“So beautiful . . .” Samira murmured, running one hand up Trey’s thigh and the other up mine. She wrapped her hand around Trey’s cock and drew him into her mouth, taking him deep before releasing him and then doing the same to me.

I couldn’t stop the moan that escaped my lips any more than I could stop my hips from rocking forward at her touch. The way she held my cock made it press snugly against my clit, and watching it disappear between her full lips made me want to come so bad I felt weak in the knees.

We’d been spread sideways across the bed, but we moved now with wordless harmony. Samira shifted so that she lay against the pillows, thighs spread in invitation, while Trey sat with his back against the headboard beside her, stroking his cock. His moment would come, but this one was mine.

I moved up her body, learning her taste, her shape, what made her writhe against the sheets and what made her moan. When our bodies were flush from chest to thigh, she wrapped her legs around me and rocked up against me.

“Please, Liv.” She breathed the words against my mouth.

I had a hand on my cock to guide me, and then I was pressing into her, until I was as deep inside her as I could be.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” Trey’s voice was low with desire. He was steadily working his cock in his fist, watching as I started to move, as Samira and I began to find our rhythm.

Her body felt like fire around me, she was so hot, and already I could feel the beginnings of an orgasm tugging at me. I wasn’t ready for that though; I wanted to feel her, to make her feel so good she’d come all over me.

I braced myself on my arms, opening up the space between us, watching my cock sink into her again and again, watching her watch it too.

“You feel so good.” Her words came out a breathy moan. She slid her hand between her thighs, two fingers pressed against her clit, stroking herself as I fucked her. A flush rose on her chest, rising until it colored her cheeks, and if I’d thought she was beautiful before, she was even more so now—eyes closed, lips parted, dark hair fanned across the pillow as she chased her pleasure.

Sweat broke out on my skin as she picked up her pace, hips rising off the bed to meet my thrusts, driving my cock against my clit so hard I didn’t know if I’d last until she came. Then suddenly her body arched and she cried out, shuddering as she reached her climax. It went on and on, and every second brought me closer to my own release. But as much as I wanted to come inside her, there was something else I wanted even more.

“Trey.”

He was already moving, and as Samira’s body stilled, I pulled out, kneeling on the bed. Trey’s mouth closed over my cock, and the sound he made, the sight of him sucking me off, made me come so hard I saw stars.

My legs felt like Jell-O as I collapsed on the bed next to Samira. She kissed me languidly, stroking my body as my heart rate slowed. I unbuckled the harness and let everything fall to the side and we lay for a moment in a satisfied tangle of limbs. As though on cue, we both looked at Trey, still sporting an impressive hard-on.

“Someone isn’t finished yet,” I said.

“Finished?” Samira smiled her sexy feline smile. “I think we’re just getting started . . .”

THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD

Victoria Diane

There’s something life-changing about dying, even when you survive that death. Usually, though, this is a once-in-a-life-time occurrence.

Hitomi’s life has been anything but usual, lately.

Her room on the Orion feels colder than she’s used to, even though the environmental controls haven’t changed by even half a degree in weeks. She knows it’s the thrum of energy just under her skin heating her up, making the air seem cool in contrast. In the midst of a high-intensity adrenaline crash, she wants nothing more than to crawl out of her skin.

Usually, combat is easy to recover from: a hot shower would do the trick. A particularly trying day would require an orgasm or two, even if they were simple and self-induced. Confronting the Caliph face-to-face would have been bad enough, but she had also saved the Endurance—their primary habitat ship— saved its captured crew, lost the Endurance’s captain, and she had died.

Again.

Hitomi is going crazy, and nothing seems to help. Meditation. Yoga. Sparring with Devon. Naked yoga—not with Devon. A hot shower. Two orgasms in said shower. Nothing has released the tension pulling at her shoulders, her chest, her very being. As a matter of fact, she’s pretty sure she’s wound more tightly now than when she first got back.

And she can’t quit fidgeting. Stars fly past as she stands naked and damp from her shower—another failed attempt to relax—in the center of her room. She stares out at the endless streaks of light, the waves and particles of color reflecting off her pale skin. Though it’s artificial, a projection, she loves the way it dances off her curves. While she stands, foot steadily tapping away, she debates what she should do.

Her rich, deep brown hair is still wet; she should dry it properly before the wild curls get out of hand. Drying her hair seems beyond pointless, though she can’t really come up with anything better to do. When she shakes her head in frustration, her hair flicks about, fanning out around her. A smile creeps onto her lips at the way the ends slip across her skin and tickle at the bare skin of her breasts.

With the lights dimmed and the silence closing in around her, Hitomi gives up on trying to think of something to calm her and flops down onto the bed, feigning sleep, the only option left.

Before she can even convince herself to crawl under the covers, she knows it won’t be a viable option.

Most nights, she is content with just the overhead lights out, but with the nerves still crackling under her skin, every little glow is another distraction. The globe for the artificial intelligence that connects her to the ship and helps maintain her body is out, but the soft blue light illuminating the base gives ELI, the AI, away. All the other screens and lights in her room suddenly seem excessive; hell, she doesn’t even use half of them. But even after she gets the forward viewscreen, the ship status screen, and all of the others shut off, each one has a unique light of its own near its manual power button. They aren’t too bad, she tries to convince herself. She can work with consistency, at least.

The email indicator on her otherwise dark computer terminal, however, makes her want to scream. It’s a tiny, softly flashing orange light meant, under normal circumstances, to act as an unobtrusive reminder that everyone in the galaxy apparently wants her attention.

She had told ELI weeks before to stop notifying her when new messages came—she checks the damn thing religiously— but she still hasn’t figured out how to deactivate the light. Not that she’s really tried, to be honest. Damn thing is so broken. Sometimes it wouldn’t be flashing despite her inbox overflowing and other times it would light up incessantly even though she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the damn inbox was empty.

Right now, though, she doesn’t care what may or may not be waiting for her. She twists around on the bed, facing away from it, still lying naked on top of the sheets. Why every surface has to be so damned reflective, she has no idea. Even at this angle, she can still see the steady blinking light.

On.

Off.

On.

Off.

Over and over and over.

“Damn it.” Hitomi throws her legs over the side of the bed and stalks over to her computer terminal. When she gets there, she stands, legs wide and braced with hands in fists at her hips, and glares at the screen like her anger will actually accomplish anything. She hadn’t had a plan when she came over here, and now she feels a little foolish.

The desk is still covered in parts of the micro-repair kit she’d left out from earlier. She could—

The light flashes again.

She snatches a flathead screwdriver from the desk and, without thinking, stabs the light. The cover shatters with a satisfying pop, and she is instantly, finally, in darkness.

“There,” she says, more satisfied than she should be. “That did it.”

“Captain.” From the speaker on his relay station, ELI’s voice fills the emptiness of her room. “I could have disabled that for you.” His reminder is cautious and gentle, but Hitomi still frowns; she hadn’t actually thought to ask.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Before ELI can respond, the light attempts to flash one last time, but instead of being good and dead like Hitomi had intended, it sparks, white hot embers scattering on the back of Hitomi’s hand.

“Fuck!” She shakes off the tiny bits of filament, letting them fall harmlessly to the floor before any serious damage can occur, but she’s too late. She can’t see clearly, but she knows from the blossom of pain that she is going to have some angry red welts.

When she doesn’t move, ELI speaks up again. “Cutis-Balm will help with those burns.”

She should get some, she knows she should; the pain would be gone in an instant, but that would require taking the dozen steps down to the med-bay.

Worse, it would require putting clothes on.

“I’ll be fine, ELI.” Hitomi is surprised at how defeated she sounds.

When ELI speaks this time, it sounds inside her head rather than from his relay. It’s always softer when he does that, more intimate. “Would you like me to block the pain?”

For lack of a better place to direct her gaze, Hitomi stares skeptically at ELI’s relay. “You can do that? Why don’t you do it when I’m actually in pain, like when I’m in combat and taking bullets? How does it even work?”

“In simple terms, the neurons in your brain are all mapped to nerve endings throughout your body. I can block the signal transduction that translates to pain, or stimulate other neurons that translate to any number of senses. It is an essential part of how I enhance your abilities. However, I would never fully block your pain at the height of combat, as it is such an important factor in your responses and reflexes. I wouldn’t even offer now except . . .” He pauses, however briefly, and Hitomi finds herself surprised at the concern she hears. “You need to rest, and I would like to help in any way I can.”

“I’m good, ELI.” Which is a lie, and they both know it. “Thanks.” She blows gently across the back of her hand. It will sting like a bitch for a while, but it will fade.

With a long-suffering sigh, not feeling any more relaxed, Hitomi turns back toward her bed, flipping the forward views-creen on to the lowest setting, and the room is again filled with the soft patterns of space flight. Maybe, she thinks, she should try and get off again. That hasn’t really worked, though. Maybe she needs someone else involved . . .

God, she needs to sleep.

Another sigh accompanies what is sure to be the first of many complete and repetitive turns under the blanket. She eventually lies flat on her back, sprawled out, limbs taking up as much space on the bed as possible, and stares blankly at the ceiling. The blanket settles around her, brushing the back of her burned hand. It sends a small, sharp shock of pain up her arm.

“ELI.”

“Yes, captain?” His voice is still in her head, a gentle hum of thought and simulated sound.

“You said you can block neural pathways but also stimulate them. Not just like you did to restart my heart earlier today, but . . .”

“Stimulating your neural network is a critical process of my core functionality.”

“Ok, that’s great. So, can you, uh . . . ?” She has no idea how to ask what she wants to, nor is she sure she even should in the first place. “Fuck. Ok, ELI. Devon’s unit had some of his memories blocked once, but could he have erased them if he wanted to?”

There is another pause—long by ELI standards. “I would prefer not to have memories erased, but it can be done.”

Perfect.

“For both of us,” he adds as an afterthought.

Even better, Hitomi thinks. Because if this goes to hell in a handbasket—even if she gets what she’s after—she’s not 100 percent convinced she’ll want to remember it.

“All right. Awesome. Perfect. So, can you . . . ?” She’s still unsure, finding her footing. “Can you make it seem like something is there that . . . isn’t?”

“Such as?”

Silence stretches again while Hitomi thinks of the best way to breach the subject. She lifts her good hand out and stares at it.

“Can you make my brain believe there’s a cube in my hand?” Though nothing visible happens, the sensation of something pressing into her hand makes Hitomi’s face light up with a smile. Its edges are sharp and cool to the touch.

“Okay, make it a sphere.”

The shape morphs. It has the same weight, but it’s warmer this time. It feels like—

“Wood?”

“Yes, that was my intention.”

“This is really cool, ELI.” And it is, even beyond her original intentions, but now her body is starting to take note, heating up. She can feel herself getting turned on as her possibilities keep expanding.

“Let’s try something else. How about puddy?”

Though logically she knows she doesn’t need to, Hitomi cups her hand and closes her eyes.

“Would you like something thick?” Her hand is suddenly full of a glob of something dry and moldable, but not changing much on its own, like a corrective polymer that hasn’t been cured yet. “Or perhaps something more like Cutis-Balm?” The polymer seems to melt in her hand until she’s got a palm full of cold, tingly, semi-solid liquid. It even rolls in her palm, her skin feeling sticky where it leaves. At this point, she opens her eyes and has to fight the surprise that her hand is, indeed, still empty. To see how much ELI will play along, she shakes out her hand; the sensation doesn’t vanish but rather feels like the balm is shaken away, sticky residue left behind and all. When cool drops of gel seem to splash on her bare stomach, Hitomi lets out a quick burst of laughter.

“Okay, okay. Next test. Someone grabbing my arm. Not enough to hurt, but enough to really feel the pressure.”

Without a response, ELI complies. The grip on her bicep is so convincing she looks down, fully expecting to see the skin indented and discolored, but, of course, finds nothing. Now, though, the spark has flared into a flame deep in her gut, and she can feel her heartbeat quicken.

“Good. Good. Awesome.” Shit, she’s letting the awkwardness creep in. Keep it together, Hitomi. “How about, sandpaper? Just brushing over the skin.”

Again, the sensation shifts into a coarse surface, barely making contact and sending goosebumps down her arm.

She swallows, trying to make her next request sound like the logical next step rather than her actual goal from the beginning. “Can you do, you know, maybe . . . I don’t know, a human tongue?”

ELI does, and it’s warm, soft, and wet. It’s perfect.

Hitomi sighs, just a small, contented huff of a breath. Her voice lowers, and she points to where the sensation is slipping across her shoulder. “Now, make it follow my finger.” As she slowly drags her finger along her arm, never really touching herself, she expects the slick, steady slide of a static object, but ELI surprises her. There are lips, too. She closes her eyes and moves her hand, ELI’s tongue and lips following her path, fluttering, almost a kiss on her bare skin, so light and so soft a shiver runs down her spine.

Her path continues, the flutter of kiss-like sensations along her collarbone feel like the attentions of an actual lover, rather than a simulated sensation by an Artificial Intelligence installed in her brain. A breath catches in her throat. Hitomi starts to lose herself to it, drawing ELI’s attention down her chest, to her already-peaked nipples. This time, it’s more than a kiss, a deliberate flick of tongue and a brush of lips that draws a soft cry of delight.

“Ah . . .”

“Hitomi.” ELI’s voice breaks her from her trance, and reality comes crashing back, hard. She hadn’t told him her intentions, hadn’t asked.

“Shit. Damn it. Shit. Fuck, I’m so sorry, ELI. I didn’t . . . I shouldn’t have—”

“Please, Hitomi. Do not apologize.” His voice is somewhat quieter than usual, and though on the surface just as artificial as always, there is a hum of something more. “I believe I know what it is you desire.”

“That transparent, huh?”

“If you will allow, I can continue with very little direction.”

Hitomi lays there in silent shock for a moment, frozen in her indecision. It doesn’t last long, however. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s the fact that she hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours. Maybe she really is that desperate for relief.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

“Okay, ELI.”

This time, there are two hands, but they don’t start at her breasts, where the tongue had left off, but at her neck and shoulders. They have a warm, somewhat slick feel to them as if they’re coated in a massaging oil. Strong fingers knead carefully into the muscle at her shoulder, palms rolling across the skin. His simulated hands never pause, working slowly across her chest then down, soft drags of fingers at which she can’t help but smile. He gently squeezes both her breasts, but the ghost of another string of kisses to her collarbone betrays his intentions.

It sends a cool wave of pleasure through her skin, and she lets out a long, slow breath.

“ELI, I have one more request.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t . . .” ELI’s ministrations pause at her word. “Don’t simulate the orgasm. Okay? Let my body get there on its own.” Everything starts again, a little firmer, a little more intense.

“Of course.” He doesn’t say anything after that.

Neither of them do.

For a long time, she lies there, feeling the blissful effects of a sensual massage that isn’t really happening. It’s surreal and all the more intense for it. Because ELI isn’t bound by physical limitations, she finds herself being massaged down her back, soft, teasing touches that bring sweet shivers down her spine, without even having to roll over. All of this continues while both her breasts are kissed and teased until she’s gasping for air.

Hitomi is beginning to think she has found heaven.

Sometimes a movement or sensation will change before Hitomi has even consciously registered that she doesn’t like it. The ones she does like get intensified—harder, softer, firmer— all in the breath of a moment. ELI is reading her like a wide-open book and giving her everything her body craves.

When the hands on the small of her back begin to dip lower, to gently squeeze at the firm muscles of her ass, Hitomi instinctively spreads her legs despite having nothing physical to make room for. ELI’s invisible hands follow the curve of her body along the soft, sensitive skin of her thighs. It tickles in a way that, were she not burning with desire, would make her laugh uncontrollably. Now, though, a sound escapes her already parted lips that is more desperate than anything else.

She tilts her hips, opening herself up, silently asking for more.

But ELI . . . ELI isn’t doing what Hitomi wants. ELI is doing exactly what Hitomi’s body is telling him it needs. The hands continue to glide across her flesh, along her thighs, over her mound, fingers teasing at her soaking lips.

Her breath quickens, and her heart races with every touch, every tease. The firm press of lips returns, starting at the tender skin of her neck, ghosting down, following lines of muscles and tendons that rise and fall along the curves of her body.

Though she aches for more, is literally dripping with desire, she finds that her body and her mind are relaxed. Her muscles no longer twitch with an overabundance of energy. Her skin no longer crawls with the tension and irritation of the day that has plagued her for hours. Every knot, every twist has been pushed aside, replaced kiss by kiss, touch by simulated touch, with a feeling of comfort. She is cared for.

She is safe.

Hitomi lets out a long, deeply satisfied sigh.

And then, a spark.

A jolt of pleasure. Another. It races up her spine and steals her breath. Without warning, something thick and warm flicks against her clit. Again and again, the pressure rolls along the sensitive flesh, and she bites her lip to keep from crying out. She can feel the edge of her release barreling toward her with each lick, every gentle suck and roll of a tongue she knows isn’t really there. Just as her muscles begin to seize up, everything slows, and the pressure and speed die down just enough to keep her on the edge, but not enough to fall over.

This time, she does cry out, a string of breathy curses and pleas that remain unanswered. Almost as if purposely contrary to her begging, ELI eases her back down.

Before she can catch her breath and properly demand more, the gentle, sweet pressure of fullness begins to overtake her. It starts at her entrance, almost too big at first but perfect within moments. A slick slide that feels like taut warm skin against her inner walls. She has to fight to keep her eyes closed, to not ruin the illusion, even as she shifts her body to accept the feeling of intrusion.

It pulls back, then slips in again, deeper each time, a steady buildup of pleasure until something deep within her is stimulated just right, and a new wave of ecstasy washes through her. She clenches the sheets when it happens again, loses her breath on the third one. ELI keeps going, picking up the pace in steady increments, igniting her senses with each deep thrust.

This pleasure is different from before, not as sharp and

slower to build, broader, and all-encompassing.

Hitomi wants this feeling to never end. She hums with appreciation, rocking her hips to meet each thrust, completely forgetting that there’s nothing there to meet.

The touch of hands returns to her breasts, gentleness gone and grip firm, new spikes of bliss with each sharp pulse. And then, a twist of pressure at her rim. Her eyes shoot open in shock, but before she can cry out in protest, she’s full there, too, and it’s better than she could have imagined.

In.

Out.

Deeper.

There is no pain, only the indescribable bliss that comes from having every sexual nerve ending come to life at once, fantasies she’s never in her wildest dreams thought she would get to truly experience coming true.

ELI has complete control over Hitomi’s body—pleasure, pain, all of it—and in that moment, she wouldn’t take it back for anything in the entire universe.

Her back arches, toes curling into the sheets. She is filled and stretched and fucked at a blissfully bruising pace. Each thrust hits her core from front and back—filled, held, caressed, kissed, everywhere, all at once. A thousand tender kisses set her skin ablaze.

Hitomi can’t breathe with the overload of sensations: her breasts ache in the best way, her muscles tight and wound up along every inch of her body down to her bones, all ready to snap.

“E—ELI . . . Please.”

Everything becomes bright and new when the feeling of a tongue on her clit lights up again, fast and purposeful.

Another heartbeat.

Another eternity.

And she comes.

Her body clenches as wave after wave of release crashes through her, a bright tingle of electricity racing across her skin. She is wet, bed soaked, thighs slick down to her knees and getting worse with every pulse. ELI’s thrusts continue through every drawn-out second of her orgasm. She rides out the intensity of it until she has nothing left to give and falls back to the bed breathless, boneless.

A soft, blue light sparks behind her eyes as the Al’s movements slow and another kind of warmth overtakes her.

It starts in her gut, expanding slowly, filling her with a heavy feeling of comfort. It’s like being gently placed into a warm pool of water, the ripples swirling around the divots in her skin, both inside and out.

This is . . . this is not from her own pleasure, Hitomi recognizes that much. It’s something else, something more that she hadn’t expected, can’t even put a name to.

For a while, she lays in the empty silence, breath still shaky, eyes closed, desperately trying to cling to the feeling coursing through her. Though her own orgasm fades, the warmth and comfort—the “other”—remains. Hitomi curls herself into the feeling and smiles, a breathless, almost silent, “thank you” on her lips.

Hitomi drifts, not quite awake and not quite asleep. ELI’s voice registers in her mind, but she can’t quite make it out through the haze. “Huh?”

“Would you like me to erase this evening from our memories?”

Now, she is awake, or at least, awake enough to take stock. She should ache, as hard as she was fucked. There should be blissfully tender bruises, gentle purple spots in stark contrast to her fair skin. But the only physical evidence is the thick pool of warmth between her legs and the lingering afterglow in her memories.

“Do you want to forget?” she asks him quietly, almost scared of his answer.

There is a long pause in which she curls into herself a little more.

“No, I do not.”

The happiness overwhelms her, enough to bring a tear to her eye. But she blinks it away. “Keep it, ELI. I know I will.”

This time, when she closes her eyes, she finally begins to drift off.

But not before a soft, gentle caress of a kiss brushes against her temple, warm and affectionate.

“Thank you, Hitomi.”

MULTIPLE GIFTS

Anuja Varghese

“How many times do you think I could make you come?

Ashika nearly choked on a bite of moo shu pork. She set the Styrofoam container down on the floor next to her and leaned in close to the laptop screen. “Is this what you’re thinking about while I’m telling you about my day?” she demanded, her face set in mock seriousness.

From the other side of the ocean, Vik leaned back in his computer chair and shrugged, even as his mouth curved into that mischievous smile that Ashika knew so well.

She laughed and shook her head. “Honestly, why are men so obsessed with multiple orgasms?” she asked. “It’s not a competition, you know. There’s no prize at the end for the guy that gets the most.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I don’t need a prize, Professor Rai,” he said. “It would be an honor just to compete.” There was humor in his voice, but even with the 3,000 miles between them, Ashika could feel the undercurrent of intensity there, the desire infusing his words with heat.

Ashika rarely checked her account on the Indian dating website her mother had signed her up for, and replied to the messages from eager suitors even more rarely still. But when Dr. Vikram Anand’s striking face had popped up nearly a year ago, his close-cropped beard defining a sharp jawline, gold-flecked charcoal eyes gazing out at her, with the rolling hills of the English countryside in the background of his profile picture, something in her had been compelled to respond.

It made no sense to start chatting—they both knew that. She had just accepted a tenured position at the University of Toronto and he was about to open a private surgical practice in Cheltenham, about two hours west of London. Neither of them had any plans to move halfway across the world, no matter how exciting a new online match might be. Nevertheless, he had suggested a virtual date that first Friday night, and they had been meeting every Friday since—she, usually eating a takeout dinner on her living room floor, and he, five hours ahead, nursing a late-night drink. They had formed a friendship that had slowly become a flirtation, sharing stories of first crushes and kisses, and then, over the past few weeks, more intimate details— favorite fantasies, wildest sex stories, and yes, best orgasms.

The last time they’d talked, Ashika had confessed that once, during a summer spent learning French in Montreal, she had enjoyed a brief entanglement with a very attractive bartender who, over the course of one sweltering weekend in July, had made her come eight times. She had forgotten bringing it up altogether, but apparently, Vik had not.

Ashika tucked her legs underneath her and adjusted the laptop screen. “How many times do you think I want to come?” she asked.

Vik furrowed his brow and made a show of counting on his fingers before replying definitively, “More than eight.”

“Incorrect, Dr. Anand!” Ashika said, waving her fortune cookie at him. “Montreal was a long time ago. We were just dumb kids. We didn’t care what time it was or that there was nothing to eat or that the apartment was a mess, or that we were a mess.” She broke the cookie apart and continued. “Don’t get me wrong, it was fun and all, but realistically, that’s not how functioning adults have sex.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, nodding seriously. “Tell me, Professor Rai, how do functioning adults have sex?” He was teasing her, but he was also looking at her in a way that made her want to reach through the screen, rip that T-shirt off, and start mapping out his body with her tongue.

She cleared her throat and cleared her head and said, “Well, we get in a little foreplay, we get to the main event, we both get off, and then we get a good night’s sleep.”

He raised his gin and tonic in a toast. “Very efficient,” he said. “But not quite what I had in mind.”

“What did you have in mind?”

He put down his drink and leaned forward in his chair. “You know I’m going to that conference in Arizona next month. I’m presenting on anterior cruciate ligament reconstruction. It’s—”

“Knee surgery. I know. You may have mentioned it once or twice.”

“Right. That.” Vik dropped Ashika’s gaze and ran his hand through his hair. Was he nervous? “So, I’m looking at flights, and I think I can swing a stopover in Toronto. It wouldn’t be very long, only twelve hours or so, but . . .” He looked back up at her. “I’d really like to see you, Ashika. In person.”

Ashika paused, letting the suggestion sink in. There had been safety in distance, in friendship, in the wall of the screen always between them. What would happen when that wall came down, if he was here, if he was hers, to touch, to taste? And what would happen afterwards when he was gone again?

Her silence prompted him to jump in with, “No pressure! I know we haven’t exactly talked about meeting, so if that’s not what you—”

“Yes,” she said. “I’d really like to see you too. In person.”She couldn’t help but smile as she said it. The words sounded so lascivious suddenly, dripping with innuendo. I’d really like to see you in person, in the flesh, in my bed. She met his eyes. “Book the flight.”

He gave a slight nod and shifted in his seat. Ashika knew without him saying a word that his cock was hard in his pants.

“Booking it right now,” he said. “I’ll see you in a month.”

Ashika didn’t realize how fast her heart was beating until she snapped the laptop closed and forced herself to take a deep breath. A month felt like too long to wait and not long enough at the same time. She picked up the slip of paper that had fallen from her fortune cookie and read the printed message. Multiple gifts are coming to you, it said.

How many times do you think I could make you come?Vik’s words were in her ears, his smile in her head, his mouth on her mouth in her dreams.

I guess we’ll find out soon enough, Dr. Anand, Ashika thought. She stuck the fortune to her fridge with a magnet and started counting down the days to Vik’s arrival.

Ashika stood in front of the mirror on her bedroom door in a white silk teddy. Demure, she thought. Understated. She chewed her lip and swept her curls into a lopsided bun. She wriggled out of the teddy and replaced it with a lacy pink bra and matching thong. She thought about adding stockings and a garter belt. Too much? She sighed. He had said a woman in lingerie was a turnon, but had not been forthcoming with details. After trying on a few more things, and taking them off just as quickly, Ashika found herself standing in a sea of discarded lace, silk, and satin, naked and frustrated. And that’s when the doorbell rang.

Ashika froze. He was early. Shit. She panicked, searching frantically through the bits and pieces scattered across her bedroom floor. Nothing was right. Shit, shit, shit. He rang the bell again. She grabbed her bathrobe, cinching its tattered belt around her waist, then ran down the stairs and threw open the door.

“Professor Rai,” Vik said, raising an eyebrow at her state of undress. “Hello.”

“Hello! You’re here! How the hell did you make it so fast? The subway has never once got me home from the airport in under an hour!” Ashika said by way of reply.

“I took a cab. But I can leave and come back if you like?” He was very clearly trying not to laugh.

“Of course not, come in.” Ashika stepped back so he could enter. He pulled his suitcase behind him as he followed her into the living room. She knew that smile, those eyes, that voice— except now they were attached to a real man who was taking off his coat, who was turning to look at her, moving in closer, close enough to touch. “I made dinner reservations,” she told him, but she already knew they wouldn’t be leaving the house.

“I can do without dinner,” he replied. “We don’t have much time and if I’m going to beat the eight-orgasm record, I really should get started.” Ashika could hardly argue with that. She felt his hand on her hastily tied together robe. “May I?”

She nodded and Vik gave the belt of her robe a deliberate tug, then slowly pulled it apart. “I was going to wear—” Ashika began, but he shook his head.

* * *

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t say a word.” He held the robe open and looked her up and down, devouring her with his eyes. Circling around, he slipped it from her shoulders, baring her arms as he pulled them free of their sleeves. Once the robe fell to the ground, his warm hands were warm on her bare skin. She tipped her head back to find Vik’s mouth and he obliged her with a long kiss, soft and unhurried, full of the promise of pleasure to come.

His lips traveled down her neck as his thumbs circled her nipples, one of them skimming her torso, her hip, her thigh, until it met her pussy lips and clit. She was already wet, and his fingers slipped easily inside her, a swift, sure movement that made her toes curl into the rug. As his other hand fondled her tits, Ashika felt his hardness through his pants, pressing into her ass. She wanted to turn in his arms, wanted his mouth, his cock, wanted all of him at once, but he held her in place. “Be still,” he said.

“Yes, doctor,” Ashika replied and got a soft laugh in response that made her cunt clench around his fingers of its own volition. He took his time, rolling her nipples, pinching them lightly, playing with them until they stood at aching attention and sent ripples of sensation surging through her breasts, down through her belly, to meet his other hand still buried between her legs. Ashika realized this was not a quick diddle, but a finger-fucking of the most thorough kind.

When she had imagined sex with Vik (and she had imagined it so many times), it was always fast and hard, a brief encounter with a man she might never see again. But as it turned out, Dr. Anand was having none of that. Even after his thrusting, curling, twisting in exactly the right way to make her come, and her gasping, groaning, sliding down his body on legs that felt like jelly until she was just a puddle of coffee-colored limbs spread out on the floor in front of him, begging to be fucked— even then, she only got a slow grin.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he told her, tossing the cushions from the sofa onto the floor.

Ashika put one under her head and the other one beside her for his head and then held her arms out, fingers beckoning, her whole body buzzing with anticipation. He unbuttoned his shirt, then took it off entirely. His pants came off next and then he was on his knees, snatching the cushion she had meant for him and wedging it under her hips. He pushed her legs apart and lowered his head between them.

“No way,” Ashika said, when she realized what he had in mind. “That’s not fair!” He ignored her, pressing his lips to the insides of her thighs, working his way up. “Vik, you don’t have to—” Closer now. “I’ve already—” Closer still. “I just want—” Oh. Oh fuck. His tongue was inside her. Moving. Tasting. Making a leisurely sweep of her cunt until it came to flick the tip of her clit.

He paused to look up at her. “Sorry, professor, were you saying something?”

Ashika had no protests left. She would be a madwoman to stop him from doing anything that felt this good. She shook her head and surrendered to the floor. He went to work in earnest then, licking and sucking and nibbling until he had her moaning indiscernible expletives, utterly at the mercy of his skillful ministrations. Ashika’s legs found their way onto his shoulders and she anchored herself there, her hips rising to meet him, as he brought her to one of the most intense orgasms of her life.

“Where the fuck did you learn to do that?” Ashika demanded breathlessly, as he stretched out beside her on the rug.

“I think it’s like riding a bike,” he said. “Once you learn, you never really forget.” He smiled and tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. It was such a tender gesture, familiar in a way that felt like he had always been there, like he should always be there beside her. A glance at the clock on the wall reminded Ashika that that was not the case. With every passing minute, their time together grew shorter.

She pushed the encroaching sadness away and stood up, bringing Vik’s discarded shirt with her. When she put it on, it smelled clean and earthy, with hints of sandalwood cologne and the leather of his jacket still clinging to it. It smelled like him and that was better than all the lingerie in the world. Ashika knew then and there that Vikram Anand would probably break her heart.

“Drinks,” she said brightly. “We need drinks.”

They brought their drinks into the bedroom and made out like teenagers, up against the walls and carelessly against the dresser, kicking aside garters, bras, and thongs as they went. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ashika reached down to stroke Vik’s cock through his briefs, but he caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

“Let me touch you,” she whispered.

“If I let you do that, this is going to be over much too fast,” he said. “And we can’t have that, now can we? Not when I have—what? Six more orgasms to go just to catch up?”

“I have a vibrator you could stick in,” Ashika joked. “That would probably get you at least one more.”

“I think that would be cheating, wouldn’t it?”

“No one would know,” Ashika replied, leaning in to kiss him again.

He accepted her gin-flavored mouth, her tongue, her breath, her spit, all of it. Then he said, “All right. Get it out.”

“What? My vibrator?”

He nodded.

Ashika paused, then rolled over and pulled the trusty toy out of her bedside table drawer. It wasn’t anything fancy, just eight inches of reliable vibrating silicone in the shape of a hot pink cock. She wasn’t ashamed to have it, but it was a strange thing to show to someone else, someone who she both knew well and was also meeting for the first time. She held it up for him to see.

“That’s very pretty,” he said. “Do you ever think about me while you’re using it?”

Ashika laughed. Cheeky bastard. “Maybe.”

“Come on now, tell the truth.”

“Yes.” So many times, yes.

He laughed with her, then said, “Stand up.” So she did. “Just against the wall there please.” She did as he asked, dildo still in hand. “Spread your legs just a little.”

“Is this some private fantasy of yours that we haven’t covered?” Ashika teased, but she spread her legs apart, just as he said.

“Maybe,” he replied. His eyes on her body as he moved toward her felt every bit as intimate as his hands and his mouth had felt before.

“Come on now,” she echoed him, “Tell the—”

“Yes.” He cut her off as he took the toy from her hand and turned it on. “I have fantasized about this, about you . . .” He touched the vibrating head lightly to her clit. “ . . .Even when I knew I shouldn’t, that this should have ended at friendship. But no matter what I did . . .” He was pressing harder now and the pleasure was spiraling out in waves that kept building in intensity. “. . . I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

Ashika came for him against the wall, the orgasm washing over her like a sheet of warm rain. But he wasn’t done. “I’ve had feelings for other women before, Ashika, but this is different.” He was so close to her and so real; no oceans, no screens, no walls between them now. “Feelings I can manage, but this thing between us, this is a fucking fire.” Without warning, he pushed the entire length of the pink cock into her cunt. Then he was fucking her with it, still vibrating, with long, deep strokes, driving her toward the edge of an electric release. His face was next to hers, his cheek against her cheek, when he said, “I’ve thought about it from every angle, but there’s just no way, is there? There’s no way to touch a fire without getting burned.” He turned his head to look her in the eye. “So, fuck it,” he said. “Let’s burn.”

“Let’s burn,” Ashika repeated, barely able to get it out before he brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her while she came again.

There were no more words, no more jokes, no more reasons, no regrets. There was only Ashika and Vik, falling onto the bed, Vik naked at last, hard in Ashika’s hand, and then hard inside her, the two of them moving together as if they had always been one. And this time, it was just as she had imagined, him pinning her to the sheets and fucking her hard and fast, making her scream, making her come, making her stay in the moment where tomorrow didn’t exist. Ashika wrapped her arms and legs around him and allowed herself to be ravaged. She had no idea what the morning would hold, but she had every intention to make the most of the night.

It was still dark when Ashika woke up, her bedroom cast in the faint glow of a flickering streetlight. Shifting closer to the warmth of Vik’s body in her bed, she let her hand close softly around his sleeping cock.

He stirred and then turned to face her. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she whispered back.

“What are you thinking?”

What could she tell him? That she wanted him to love her? That she wanted him to give up everything he had worked so hard for and choose her? That she just wanted him to fuck her again? “How much time do we have?”

He looked over her shoulder at the bedside table clock. “A few hours,” he said. “Got any suggestions for what we might do?” He was tracing lazy circles around her nipple with his fingertip, making her wet without even trying.

Ashika sat up and brushed the wild tangle of her hair back from her face. “Should we . . . talk? I mean, is there anything to talk about?”

Vik crossed his arms behind his head and considered. “We could talk,” he said. “We could easily spend the time we have left going back and forth, trying to figure out all the potential ways we could make this work, negotiating terms.” He looked at her. “Is that what you want to do?”

Ashika’s gaze lingered on his mouth, on the curve of flexed muscle in his arm, the dark curls on his chest. My god, he’s a beautiful man. “No,” she said and seized the opportunity to find his lips with hers. She straddled his body and felt his cock harden as she rocked her hips on top of him, only allowing the tip of him to touch the glistening folds of her entrance. With her hand holding the base of his shaft, she hovered, relishing the sensation of the thick head pressing against her clit, opening her up, then popping out again.

He growled beneath her. “Cock tease,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Anand, did you say something?” He only groaned in response, as she finally sunk his entire length in deep. There was something hungry and wild in the way that he watched her fuck him. She could feel the orgasm building from the moment he grabbed her waist, holding her in place as he thrust up and into her, hitting her clit each time. “I’m going to . . . fuck, Vik, please, I want to come. I’m going to come!” Ashika’s words became gasps as they slammed into one another, and then a guttural howl, as she reached a shattering climax. Something hungry and wild, it seemed, had been unleashed in her as well.

She rolled off of him and lay on her belly, catching her breath. He ran a hand over her ass, giving it a squeeze, while the other hand stroked his still-hard cock.

“Professor Rai, you have a truly fantastic ass, you know that?”

Ashika remembered something he had said, something he had done before and wanted to do again. “You can . . . put it there,” she told him.

“What?”

“I mean, in case we don’t get to . . . If this is the only . . .”

“What?”

“You can fuck me in the ass!” She looked up at him. “If you want to.”

“Right now?”

Ashika shrugged. “Sure.”

“Wouldn’t that be . . . uncomfortable?”

Probably, she thought. “Maybe just a bit,” she said. “But I don’t mind.”

“What if I do mind?” Vik asked. “I appreciate the offer and I would very much like to take you up on it because the truth is, I want to have you every fucking way possible, but I don’t want to hurt you, Ashika. Not even maybe just a bit.” He paused, then nodded toward the dildo drawer. “Got any lube in there?”

Lube. Shit. Why didn’t I think of that? Then she had an idea. “Hold on,” she said, and scurried into the kitchen. Was it here? No. Where was it? The bathroom! Ashika searched through her overcrowded bathroom cupboards and finally found the half-empty jar of coconut oil. She turned to find him standing in the doorway. “I have this,” she said, timidly offering him the jar.

He took it, opened it, brought it to his nose, and grinned. “Very tropical,” he said, as he moved in behind her.

“It does wonders for the skin,” Ashika said, a slight tremor passing through her as he ran his knuckles lightly down the length of her back, applying gentle pressure to bend her over the bathroom sink.

“I’ve heard that,” he replied, scooping the oil liberally onto his fingers and massaging it into her ass cheeks, working his way into the cleft between them.

“The hair too,” Ashika said, as he enclosed one of her hands under his and brought it down between her legs. “It’s really very multipurpose.”

Vik caught Ashika’s eye in the mirror and held her gaze. “Do it,” he said. “I want to watch you do it.”

“I don’t think it counts toward your total if I make myself come,” she said to his reflection.

His mouth turned up at the corners and he gave a hint of a shrug. “Who’s counting?” he replied, pressing an oiled finger to her asshole and slowly sliding it in.

Ashika pushed back on it, wanting more, and he responded by adding a second finger to the first. She breathed through the sensation and relaxed around him. The third finger, though, that’s when she found her clit and began working it in well-practiced circles.

“That’s good,” he said. “Tell me how it feels.” He was watching her in the mirror, even as his fingers twisted inside her, testing for resistance before pulling out and then pushing back in again, a little deeper every time.

“It feels . . .” She didn’t know how it felt. It was not being taken by surprise and then allowing it to happen because she wanted to be the cool girlfriend, the one who was okay with everything. It was not gritting her teeth and saying oh yeah, I love it in my ass, while hoping it would be over soon. It was something else entirely. And it felt fucking good. “It feels . . . like I’m going to come.”

His fingers slid out and his cock took their place, filling her up as her orgasm rocked them both. Ashika moaned and let her head drop, as she gripped the sink with both hands to steady herself. When she looked back up, she saw the question in Vik’s eyes. She was covered in oil, a sheen of sweat, and her own wetness. She was a total mess, but she had never felt more goddamn beautiful. “Fuck me,” she said.

And so he did, slowly at first, cock coated with oil, but it wasn’t long before he was thrusting hard and deep, hands planted on her hips to pull her back on his length with every stroke. There was the sensation of being stretched, of her body opening to let him in, but there wasn’t the pain she had been expecting. And when he pushed his thumb into her cunt, it made everything feel full and tight and she was making animallike sounds, way past the point of reason and words. He barely had to graze her already inflamed clit to have her screaming into the sink, coming hard around his cock that swelled and spurted into her ass, before they both collapsed on the bathroom floor.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur, like a dream where they were an ordinary couple who did ordinary things together. They showered, got dressed, ate breakfast, and walked around the neighborhood hand in hand. They went back to Ashika’s place, took each other’s clothes off, and made love in a pool of sunlight. She came easily in his arms, spooned tight against him, thighs pressed together, as he fucked her for what she knew might be the last time.

“I think that was nine,” she said.

“Was it?” he asked, and she felt him pause, then pull out slowly.

“Oh, don’t stop,” she said. “It might only be seven or eight or ten or twelve, I don’t know.” She felt close to tears, but managed a half-smile as she turned to look at him. “Who’s counting, right?”

He smiled back and there was sadness and beauty and mischief in it all at once. “One more then,” he said. “For good measure.”

Vik pulled Ashika’s legs over the side of the bed and spread them wide apart. On his knees in the space between them, she felt his mouth close around her clit, sucking on it, tongue circling it. It was a sensation so intense that it bordered on pain, but never quite crossed the line. Ashika screamed when the pleasure became unbearable, saying Jesus fucking Christ and every expletive she knew and pure rambling nonsense that eventually just became noise, because there were no words for what the good doctor was doing to her. When the orgasm overtook her, it was like being swept up in a hurricane or a tsunami or some other natural disaster and Ashika understood then why they call these things “acts of God.”

“I’ll see you next Friday,” he told her when the time finally, inevitably came for them to part ways. “You can tell me more about how functioning adults have sex.”

Ashika put her arms around him. “It’s a deal,” she said. “I’ll bring the takeout, you bring the gin.”

He kissed her goodbye and was gone. Wandering into the kitchen, Ashika noticed again the fortune she had tacked to the fridge. Multiple gifts are coming to you. She touched the slip of paper and thought of the twelve hours she had spent with Vik, each orgasm still smoldering in her memory. She left it where it was, a reminder of pleasures briefly possessed, and a fragment of hope that a fortune cookie might be right twice.

HOUSE

OF FINGERS

Sienna Saint-Cyr

Poppy Johnson took a deep breath as they counted the stairs leading to the front door. There were fifteen, though there might as well have been a hundred. The house was a lovely periwinkle with a wraparound deck and glowing sconces adorned the sides of the oversized door, setting it apart from the newer homes in the Hawthorn district of Portland. Everything about the house called out to them, begging them to come inside. Yet there they stood, the all too familiar dread slowly creeping up their back. One step at a time, Poppy. Just go.

“Hey,” a voice came from behind, “you joining us?”

Poppy jumped and turned quickly to find bright, captivating, sea green eyes looking right into them. Poppy blinked.

“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?” There was a long pause as Poppy stood there, speechless. “I’m Emilee.”

Answer, you idiot!

“I’m Poppy; and yes, you did.”

“I get a little excited when these parties roll around,” Emilee said as she slipped by Poppy and ascended the stairs.

“These parties are regular events?” They didn’t mean to, but they’d shouted their question. Emilee turned around and lowered her gaze.

“This is your first time.” It wasn’t a question.

Poppy nodded.

“Come on,” Emilee smiled and reached out her hand. “We can go in together.”

The rock in Poppy’s stomach eased a bit, and they began to ascend the stairs as well. When they reached Emilee, they took her hand. They made it to the door together and Poppy raised their free hand to knock.

“You don’t need to do that. I live here.”

Poppy dropped their hand; back suddenly tense. “I’m sorry”—they kept their gaze on the door—“I didn’t mean to offend you with my party frequency comm—”

“Hey . . .” Emilee tugged on their hand until Poppy looked at her. “It’s okay. There’s no need to apologize. I know these shindigs can sound a little weird, even be a little scary, but they’re really quite helpful. And . . .” —she paused and winked— “they’re quite fun. I mean, that’s the whole point.”

They didn’t know how to respond. “Let’s go inside before my flight response kicks in.”

Emilee opened the door and held Poppy’s hand until they were across the threshold. Then Emilee got mobbed with hugs and hellos. Poppy backed up awkwardly, as usual, and watched as the strangers—all seeming to know one another, but no one them—greeted and smiled. Before Poppy could turn around and escape out the door, Emilee kicked her foot backward and shut it.

“Hey everyone, this is my new friend Poppy.” She turned around and reached for Poppy again.

Before Poppy knew what was happening, bodies of all sizes and shapes and ages and nationalities and styles were heading toward them, each asking if they were okay with hugs or handshakes or asking their preference. They were all kind, friendly, unafraid; they even asked for the proper pronoun, which Poppy wasn’t used to. They greeted the crowd, and learned a ton of names they promptly forgot the moment they’d been spoken.

“Come on,” Emilee said. “I’ll show you around.”

They walked through the crowd and into a great room smelling of jasmine and cinnamon, the one Emilee explained they’d be enjoying themselves in. The floors were golden wood and littered with beanbags designed for couples, pillows of all shapes and sizes, and blowup beds with cheerful blankets. Dim lighting set the mood of the space and silky, colorful fabrics covered much of the walls, sometimes hanging between pillows, as though to lend privacy. But the main area was open and appeared to be set up for the purpose of talking.

After taking a tour of the house, Emilee and Poppy returned to the great room to find that everyone had made their way inside. Folks they hadn’t met yet were included in the bunch. Six to be exact.

“Come on.” Emilee sat on one of the double beanbags. “Take a seat. I think we’re about to get started.”

Poppy sat next to her. At least the tour had lessened their tension.

“Welcome!” a cheerful woman in a pinup style dress began. “We’re so glad you could join us! Tonight, we have seven new attendees. Because there are so many of you that haven’t attended before, I’m going to go over the ground rules in a bit more depth. To begin, I’m Ellena, and that” —she pointed toward Emilee— “is my partner. We’ve been running these parties for about five years now. Emilee, do you want to give a little background?”

“Sure.” Emilee stood and adjusted her vest. “I was struggling a lot back in the day. I was thirty and had never had an orgasm. When I met Ellena, she’d told me about this finger-bang party she’d been to back in college and how much it helped her figure out her body. I was reluctant, but I finally attended one and it changed my life. The more I shared my story, the more I began to realize how many were struggling with the same issue. So here we are, five years later, hosting our own fingering parties.” Emilee paused before speaking again. “For those new attendees that are nervous, I get it. And know that it’s okay to be nervous. It’s okay to be afraid. This is your first gathering. If you don’t want to take part tonight, you can watch. If you do take part, just know that it takes time to get to know your body. Give yourself that time. Ask questions. And please, have fun!”

Emilee sat down next to Poppy again and patted their hand.

“Thanks,” Poppy whispered.

“You’re welcome.”

Ellena went on to explain the rules; choose a partner, decide if you’re giving or receiving, then thirty minutes of exploration; after that, switch positions or partners. Everything was designed around consent, comfort, and support. Ellena then showed everyone where the gloves, safety, and cleanup items were, as well as the bathroom, and gave options for clothing or nudity. Poppy paid attention to every detail.

Their heart raced, though they weren’t certain it was from nerves any longer.

“Just one more thing . . .” Ellena began. “For those of you who are new, we respect all genders and bodies. Not all women have a vagina and not all those with a vagina are women. Please be respectful and ask about pronouns before making an assumption. And lastly, I’ve got your signed consent forms and acknowledgements that you’ve read and understand the rules. If at any time you feel uncomfortable and don’t want to continue, please respect your needs. I will not be participating tonight and will be here for support if anyone should need such.” She clapped her hands together. “Okay, let’s get started!”

Poppy watched as participants paired off and found a place to explore themselves. Round, full bodies, tall and thinner bodies, bodies with hair and some without, some wrinkled skin and others tight, boobs of all shapes and sizes. Poppy wanted to nuzzle up in them all. Almost everyone looked at ease and comfortable as they smiled and settled in to their chosen locations with their chosen partners. Colored fabric cast lovely highlights on their skin, giving a magical feel to the whole ordeal.

Poppy didn’t know who to partner with or even if they wanted to. Maybe they’d sit this first round out, until they felt more at ease. Their heart felt like it’d beat right out of their chest as their nerves threatened to overpower their excitement. All those hours with their sex coach didn’t feel like they’d paid off. Hannah had been wrong when she’d suggested the finger-bang party. Poppy wasn’t ready for this.

You can do this, Poppy. You’re ready to know yourself. Just breathe. They heard Hannah’s words in their head just as Hannah had said them in their last session. Poppy closed their eyes and took a long, deep breath. Then another. And another. They felt a few tears escape and run down their cheek. Emilee must have seen because she squeezed Poppy’s hand and they opened their eyes.

“Are you okay?”

Poppy shrugged.

“What will help you? Would you rather watch others? Take part in the masturbation circle? We usually discuss technique while we do it . . . Or may—”

“I don’t want to touch myself,” Poppy cut her off. “I’m not ready for that yet.”

Emilee tilted her head as if trying to assess why that might be, but she didn’t ask.

“What do you want then?”

Poppy looked around again and this time, saw that some of the other new attendees were red, flushed, squirmy, and nervous too. They knew what they wanted—why they’d come to begin with—so they faced Emilee again. “I want someone to touch me. To show me different things in my, errr, vagina, so that I’ll feel good. I’ve never”—they paused, lowering to a whisper— “orgasmed.”

Emilee didn’t respond immediately. She scooted forward and sunk to the ground in front of Poppy. From a kneeling position, Emilee met Poppy’s eyes. “May we partner, Poppy, so I can explore your nether region?”

Poppy giggled, their cheeks filling with heat. “Yes.”

Emilee grinned, her gorgeous green eyes seeming even larger now. “I’ll be back then. I’ve gotta get some supplies. Are you comfortable being naked?”

Poppy shook their head.

“Then I’ll grab a blanket too.”

They stood while Emilee grabbed the necessary items. Poppy hadn’t checked Emilee out much beyond her eyes, but now they did. Her knee-high socks, skater shorts, vest, and partial shaven head caused a stir inside Poppy. A pleasant stir, one of desire maybe? Emilee seemed so confident with her shoulders back and her steady voice. The combination was very attractive.

Emilee returned with the necessary items and Poppy spread a sheet over the beanbag chair, then sat again. The beanbag was large enough that they could lay back, so they placed the blanket over them and began unbuttoning their jeans. They slipped off their pants first and felt nothing, but when they reached their underwear, there was a slight tingle . . . a sensation.

“Is there anything that you know you like? I can begin there.” Emilee’s eyes penetrated them as she spoke.

Poppy wiggled their butt in the beanbag, scooting down further, as though the movement would suddenly give them an answer. They felt their cheeks flushing in a different way now and they averted their eyes. “I don’t know what I like.”

Emilee lay down next to Poppy. She slipped on some rubber gloves and covered a couple fingers in lube. “That’s no problem, Pops, I’ll just explore.”

Pops? They’d been called that before, when they first came out. The word—name—shifted something inside Poppy’s chest. “Pops” filled them with a deep and profound peace while also making them aware of how they’d swallowed down a quiet rage. A rage that wanted to surface, wanted to scream, “Shut the fuck up and leave me alone,” but also a rage that needed facing, and Poppy desperately wanted to face it. Especially with someone as adorable as Emilee.

Poppy finally nodded, too afraid to say anything out loud at this point. They tried their best to relax but they were rigid as fuck and they knew it. Their legs hardly spread under the blanket and their arms were so tight at their sides that Emilee couldn’t reach under the blanket if she’d wanted to.

Emilee didn’t seem fazed by Poppy’s rigidity, however, and simply slipped her ready fingers under the blanket. Emilee moved Poppy’s legs open and settled her hand at the base of Poppy’s vagina.

“If you want me to stop, say so. If you like something, say so. If you don’t, say so. Okay?”

“All right,” Poppy squeaked out.

“Maybe try closing your eyes. Sometimes that helps.”

Poppy closed their eyes again and spread their legs further. Emilee moved her fingers up Poppy’s thighs and landed on their labia. Emilee stroked slowly, gently, as she moved further under the folds.

“I like that,” Poppy whispered, eyes still tightly shut.

“How about this?” Emilee said as she found their clit and pinched.

Poppy gasped, “I like. I like.”

Emilee chuckled, and pinched a little harder. Poppy’s chest fluttered, skin warmed . . . and another tingle shot through them. Poppy squirmed and sucked in a breath as a smile grew inside them.

“I’d like to try something else now. Are you good with that?”

“Uh huh,” Poppy said, eyes still closed and mouth slightly open.

Poppy felt Emilee scoot even closer, her whole body now flush with Poppy’s, pressing hard into them. The contact made Poppy move their hips back and forth, allowing their own movements to add to Emilee’s. Tingles built as Poppy tried desperately to stay present, to allow the sensations to fill their body. Poppy moaned as Emilee moved her other hand under the blanket too. As Emilee moved her hand up to Poppy’s vagina, Poppy suddenly froze.

Panic gripped them tight. Their throat felt like it was closing. “Stop!” Poppy managed, but not before Emilee’s fingers had slipped inside them.

Emilee pulled her fingers out immediately, but Poppy’s eyes were already open and they were sitting up, ready to flee.

“I’m sorry. Do you not like that?”

Poppy didn’t know how to answer. Their eyes teared up and they looked the other direction in a half-sit, half-lean slump.

“Hey,” Emilee removed her other hand and rubbed Poppy’s back. “Can we pause for a moment? I have a thought I’d like to share. But only if you want to hear it.”

Poppy wiped their escaped tear and shifted to look at Emilee. They didn’t need Emilee to tell them what was wrong. They knew. They’d just been denying it. Poppy took a couple of deep breaths before saying, “I don’t mind hearing your thoughts, but I know why I’m struggling.”

Emilee nodded. “Do you feel safe to share?”

“No, and also yes. Sorry, I’m just . . .” Poppy hesitated, and pulled the blanket up over their body further. They swallowed hard. “I want to share because I want to feel pleasure. But I’m scared.”

“This is a safe space,” Emilee said, keeping her hand on Poppy’s back.

They looked at Emilee, her sweet smile and sure demeanor, and a reassurance washed over them like a warm summer day. “I don’t want to be penetrated. It causes my dysphoria to trigger.”

Emilee leaned forward and pressed her head to Poppy’s. “I understand.”

“Really?”

“Mmmhmm.”

Poppy shot her a quizzical look.

“I am she. And he. And them. Tonight, though, I am she.” Emilee leaned back and met Poppy’s eyes again.

“So you’re fluid?” Poppy shouldn’t have been surprised, but they were. Their forehead scrunched up in confusion.

Emilee nodded.

“I am too, though I prefer ‘they,’” they finally said. “But I’ve been hurt because of it and now I’m scared.”

“But you’ve just taken a huge step.” Emilee brushed a long strand of red hair from Poppy’s face. “Is this the first time you’ve talked about this?”

Poppy shook their head. “Sharing is what got me hurt. I don’t want to talk about those details right now, but I do want to be whole. I want to embrace all of me. I want to learn to feel pleasure in my vagina. I want to orgasm.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Silence filled the space between them, but also held a great deal of substance.

“I have an idea . . .” Emilee moved her gloved hand back under the blanket. “Do you mind if I try again? But this time, no penetration. You can always work up to penetration later, if you want to. Not saying you need to, nor is there any rush.”

Poppy laughed awkwardly. “I’m nervous, but yes.”

They settled back into the beanbag again and Poppy spread their legs.

The more Poppy wanted to shove the sensation away, the more they felt it instead. The building fire, the ache from deep within, all about to combust and explode out of them in pleasure. No one had ever truly seen Poppy before. Or accepted them in such an open and willing manner. It made Poppy feel alive inside, desired and whole . . . which all added to the tingles as Emilee ran her fingers up their clit again, rubbing harder with each pass.

They felt their mouth falling open, inner juices building as their muscles clenched, ready for what felt like the inevitable release. Emilee seemed to sense their readiness as she kept moving faster, harder, rougher, and Poppy moaned.

Poppy thrust their head back as a wave of pleasure overtook them. They cried out, almost screaming, as they finally let go. Emilee’s hands moved faster, and firmer, to match Poppy’s cries of ecstasy, and it made them release even harder. Orgasm fire moved through their body, lighting them up like a rising sun.

The more the orgasm fire raged through them, the more Poppy felt at home with being all they were. Their body somehow felt less problematic as pleasure dominated their senses. Even their skin felt ablaze as Emilee slowly withdrew her hand and held Poppy’s thigh. Everywhere Emilee touched, they felt pleasure.

Poppy could hardly catch their breath. Their eyes misted but not from tears. “That was amazing,” they began. “Thank you, Emilee.”

“You’re welcome, Pops.” Emilee half grinned as she looked at Poppy.

Poppy felt their cheeks flush again and they pulled the blanket over their mouth as giggles ensued.

“I’m surprised you reached orgasm. It took me several months here before I finally could.” Emilee brushed the hair from Poppy’s face again.

“I think it would have taken me longer but I’ve been wanting this for so long. It’s why I went to see a sex coach. That”— Poppy pulled the blanket down, uncovering their mouth—“and you accepted me as I am. I’m not used to that. You helped me to feel comfortable.”

“I’m glad I could,” Emilee said, then sat up and began cleaning the area. “Our thirty minutes is about up. Do you want a turn at pleasuring me or would you rather try another partner and receive again?”

The way Emilee spoke so easily about moving on to another partner also tickled Poppy’s insides. She was so confident in herself. Poppy wanted that level of confidence too.

Poppy also wanted to explore Emilee.

“How many rounds do we get before things wrap up?” they asked.

“Usually six. Then we break for food, or socialization. Part of being comfortable with our bodies and sexuality comes from supporting one another, so we make sure to have time for other areas of support after play. But . . .” A devious grin washed over her. “We can continue after our social time. And some do. Ellena and I allow folks to go until two, because this is, after all, a finger-bang party”

Poppy blushed. “I’d like to please you then, if that’s okay. Then I can try playing with someone else. May I please you now, Emilee?”

For the first time, Emilee’s cheeks flushed crimson. She looked down, eyes smiling. “Yes.”

Two a.m. rolled around far too fast for Poppy’s liking, so it was no surprise that they were the last to leave. They’d never met so many amazing people. And, they’d made friends. Actual friends. Even exchanged numbers. Hannah was right. Poppy had been ready. They couldn’t wait until their next session with her so they could tell her all about their success.

When Poppy reached the sidewalk, they turned back to look upon the house one last time before getting into their car. Even in the darkness of night, the house would forever be cemented in their mind as a house of warmth, a house of pleasure, and a house of fingers . . .

BUSINESS TRIP

Ella Dawson

He stands beside me on the balcony, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey. The other rests on the railing a few careful inches away from mine. He looks at the sky instead of looking at me. I can read the tension in his shoulders, stiff underneath a blazer he must have bought in a boutique with some salesgirl flirting for his credit card. It’s strange to see him nervous. He is usually so slick.

Part of me always suspected he was like this underneath, a little awkward and hesitating. He puts on this cool dad façade at work, early forties, subtle facial hair, fashionable glasses. He grew into his face late but wooed girls with his collection of vinyl records in college, at least in my imagination. I see concerts in downtown Brooklyn on his Google Calendar sometimes, bands like Tame Impala and The Hold Steady, cool but not aggressively loud. He doesn’t have the swagger of the forever handsome but there is this air of trendy confidence about him. Everyone leans toward him in meetings with unhidden desire to impress him. I wonder if he feels like a fraud sometimes.

“It’s getting late,” he says, because he knows he’s supposed to. It’s part of our dance, an exit ramp neither of us wants to follow.

I ignore his gesture to the proper and take the glass out of his hand. He doesn’t protest when I put it on the table behind us, which makes this easier. I face him and he faces me, parallel desire lines.

“We shouldn’t,” he says. “I can’t put you in this position, it’s . . . inappropriate.”

“You’re not putting me in any position.” I can see his jaw work as he swallows. I can see it on his face as he imagines the twist of my words, how he’d like to contort my young body underneath him on the bed just inside the sliding door. “I invited you back to my room,” I continue. “I offered you a drink.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. Reassuring himself. Forgiving himself.

“You’re not pressuring me,” I say. “This is what I want.”

His hand, glassless, clenches on thin air. I want it in my hair, on my face. I want to taste the gin on his lips.

“What,” he starts, stammers, “what do you want?”

I circle my fingers around his wrist and take a step back, and he steps with me, and then he is against me, warm and lean. He kisses like he is ashamed and famished, grasping my jaw between his thumb and forefinger before sliding his hand back to my neck. This is my weak spot and I melt between him and the stucco wall. I am all need. I am relieved. A kiss like this takes blind and stupid courage.

We could both get fired—no, he could get a reprimand while I get shame and judgment and walking papers, no recommendation, no second chances. Sooner or later the girl who fucks the boss meets a consequence but I want this calculated chaos. I have an escape route planned and he doesn’t need to know that yet. This won’t taste as good.

It started with the earrings. They were cheap metal chandeliers painted gold, glittering obscenely in the impulse-buy section of the department store. I thought nothing of them when I made the purchase, adding them to my basket when I noticed their bargain price. I don’t wear earrings often; they tangle in my hair and clack against the phone when I’m on calls. But I had a vague sense that they’d make me look older, sophisticated, and I slid them on the next morning before rushing to the subway. What a picture I made wheezing on the platform, an assistant in an H&M suit, her slacks unevenly hemmed by hand.

We were in the bi-weekly meeting discussing the budget when I glanced up from my spreadsheet and found him staring. His brow was furrowed, his head tilted to the side, and he startled when he noticed me noticing him. The vice president droned on about Q1 figures and I looked down at my laptop. When I snuck a glimpse of him again, the pale skin across his cheekbones had gone pink.

Later, in our standing check-in meeting: “I like your earrings.”

His voice was sheepish, like he was already regretting the words. His lips flattened into a thin line, his chin twitching. I realized with a pang of tenderness that he was chewing on the inside of his lip.

“Thank you.” I pinched one of the earrings between my thumb and index finger and turned it just enough to catch the light. He followed the shine, his pupils darkening. “I just bought them.”

“You don’t usually wear earrings.” The observation was an admission of guilt and he blushed again. A fistful of freckles was smattered across his cheeks. Funny that I’d never noticed those freckles when I spent so much time minding his schedule and anticipating his needs.

“I don’t,” I said. My confirmation was an out, moving the exchange from the illicit to the factual. His assistant was wearing earrings when she usually doesn’t, a logical change to notice in the workplace. That my glimmer caught his eye wasn’t inappropriate, it was attentive management.

The meeting moved on to correspondence, how I should reply on his behalf to a question from the compliance team.

I continued my job search with some remorse, his freckles following me as I fell asleep at night. They were one of the few things I would miss when I moved on.

It is my job to know the little things about him: his middle name, his ex-wife’s lawyer’s email address, how his face pinches when he skips lunch and becomes ravenous at three in the afternoon. It is my job to book his flights and schedule his keynote speeches and confirm his hotel reservations. It is my job to request that our rooms are close by, just in case we have to work late into the night on some emergency. Those things happen, you know. Slides need to be updated, typos caught and corrected.

His anxiety about what we are doing bleeds into how he kisses me. When I take his lower lip between my teeth, he keens into my mouth like a helpless animal. This hidden side of him feeds an appetite I didn’t know I had before that day with the earrings— an appetite to seduce, to take, to control. Even as he pushes me back against the wall, the stucco digging through the fabric of my sensible shift dress, I have him. My fingers twine through his hair, long French-tip nails grazing his scalp. A defeated moan vibrates in his chest.

I pull my mouth away from his a fraction of an inch and he lets out a shaky breath across my lips, his forehead propped against mine. When I whisper instructions, I imagine them pouring like smoke down his throat and into his lungs. “I want you to kneel,” I say.

He is rigid and limp all at once, those slender shoulders tensing as his jaw goes slack. I tighten my fingers in his hair, delighted by his hiss. “Am I pressuring you?” I ask, wry and steel. Wide-eyed, he shakes his head, only to pull his own hair against my firm grip. “Good.”

He licks his lips, another familiar nervous tell. I consider pouring the whiskey in his mouth and supping it from those bruised lips as it drips down his jaw.

Then, just as I wonder if I’ve pushed him too far, he sinks slowly to his knees on the cold ground. He winces as the concrete grinds through the wool of his trousers. For a moment he hovers there, his hands fisting in my dress at my hips. Then he looks up at me and waits for further instruction, his eyes black beneath delicate eyelashes.

“Good boy.” The endearment comes from me like it’s been lying in wait in my throat. It pleases me as much as it pleases him. I can feel the slickness between my thighs, the desire dripping from me all evening as we circled this dangerous inevitability. The sight of him beneath me, preening under my praise, is almost more than I can bear. My clit pulses.

“Take off my shoes,” I demand next, my voice wavering a notch. He fumbles with the strap of my high heel, his fingers grazing my ankle, and I shiver against the wall. Then he finds the buckle and guides me from the tight pump, cradling the underside of my right foot like it is something delicate. He repeats this with the other shoe, focused and careful. When I am standing flat against the concrete, he traces the seam of my stockings before pulling his touch away, guilty.

“That’s okay,” I say, his magnanimous assistant. “You’re allowed.”

With a grateful grunt, he cups my calves in his warm hands. I want to feel his touch on my bare skin and I step one foot forward, canting my knee out. This brings him closer to my core and he licks his lips again, smelling my heat like a dog. “Roll down my tights,” I tell him.

His hands shake as he slides them up my legs and over my thighs. When he finds the waistband, I push my hips away from the wall so that he can guide my pantyhose down. My underwear pulls away with them and I don’t stop him, too busy watching awe play across his face. He wants to push up my skirt and see me, his fingers twitching at the back of my knees, but he slowly helps me step out of the pantyhose and sets it aside with my shoes.

I brush his hair back from his face. “Such a good boy,” I murmur. “Such a patient boy.”

I’m the patient one, lining up all of the pieces for this business trip so that we could find ourselves here, ready, alone. It all had to look accidental or else he’d never have accepted the drink as he practiced his keynote address. Coming out to the balcony had to be his idea, the hotel room too stuffy, his mind unable to think surrounded by that terrible, generic hotel art. I created this for us, followed my suspicions and playing my cards until he could be brought to his knees willingly before me. His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps, intoxicated by the scent of my desire for him. My arrogant, predictable, beautiful boss.

I find the bottom of my skirt and pull it up, the cotton dragging across my heated thighs. He watches without breathing and makes a strangled noise as I’m revealed, cunt throbbing against the cold night air.

“Just look,” I say as he inches closer, his nose drinking in my musk. I imagine myself through his eyes, a wild thatch of dark, curly hair, my folds gleaming and heavy with blood. A little whine escapes his throat and he clenches his fists in his lap, but he doesn’t move to touch me. I’m proud of him. I’m not an easy sight to resist.

Ever so slowly, I snake my hand down my chest and between my legs, and I trace my slit. I am drenched and ready, muscles tensing and begging for release. When I pull my touch away, teasing both of us, arousal glistens on my fingers. I offer him my hand and he studies it before flicking his gaze up to my face, checking for permission. “Go ahead,” I say. I feel myself trickle down my legs as he sucks my fingers clean.

I consider touching myself more and making him watch. I am shaking with pent-up need, my orgasm threatening to spread like a glass of vodka spilled across a bar. It wouldn’t take much—I am an expert at getting myself off. But no, too much has gone into this, too much planning and restraint to rub one out like I’m alone in my bedroom with the lights on and my roommate’s music blaring next door. I ease my hand through his mussed hair, the hand he just licked clean, and I pull him forward against me. He mashes his lips against my cunt and feasts like he is starving.

I cling to his head for stability, a ragged yell escaping my throat. His tongue laps my clit, pressing and sucking and dragging. He isn’t precise or methodical—he is desperate and possessed, my pleasure feeding into his and his pleasure feeding into mine. I loop a leg over his shoulder, my heel pressed against his back. “Fuck me with your hands,” I order, and he does, he pumps his fingers into me and worships me with his mouth.

My orgasm is hard, a brutal electric snap of tension. It pummels me, scorches me, leaves me gasping and soaked. He doesn’t stop eating me, only tightens his hands at my hips, while I convulse and break against the wall.

I press my palm against his forehead and he relents, pulling back to look up at me. My juices are smeared across his face, his lips streaked with shine as he pants.

“Thank you,” I gasp.

His brows furrow and I realize I’ve fallen out of character, but he leans forward to press a kiss against the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. “I like you like this,” he murmurs across my skin. His breath sizzles like hot air against a frozen window.

“I like you like this,” I say. I can feel his lips curve against me, a furtive little smile. “Would now be a good time to give my two-weeks notice?”

He laughs, his voice still heavy with surrender. Instead of answering me, he takes my thigh into his mouth, and he bites.

AFTER

Katrina Jackson

Dr. McBride told me this could happen. All the books and online articles I’d read said this was a more than probable thing I’d have to contend with. My best friend told me to expect it. I thought I was prepared.

I wasn’t.

Stupidly, I assumed my life would be like all the women I saw in the TV shows and movies, and six weeks after I gave birth, my sex life would go back to normal. I had an entire post-birth plan tucked inside my brain like my hospital go-bag had been tucked in my closet. When the baby was six weeks old, Damon and I would take her to his parents’ house for a sleepover and then he and I would have a nice dinner, a few glasses of wine, and really loud sex all night long. It would be like nothing had changed.

Instead, on our daughter’s six week-aversary, I cried when we dropped her off at Damon’s parents, I couldn’t fit into my favorite little black dress, and I broke down weeping on our bedroom floor half-naked. Hormones. Damon had been terrified. All he could do was hold me. Eventually we ordered pizza and fell asleep on the couch halfway through a movie all our friends had told us we’d love.

Reality met my naïve imagination and won.

We tried again two days later without babysitters, big plans, or reservations. I woke up and turned over in bed to find Damon watching me sleep.

“What?” I asked in a dry, cracked voice.

“You’re beautiful.”

My laughter was a dry wheeze. I was still groggy from sleep, I felt like a dried-out corn husk, and my silk bonnet was sliding off my head; beautiful was not the word I would have used to describe myself first thing in the morning. But Damon was looking at me like he used to when we first met, and I let him lure me awake with the familiar seduction in his eyes.

His hand slid under the covers. His fingers brushed lightly along the bare skin exposed from my tank top riding up while I slept. His fingertips felt like electricity and my body seemed to come to life. For a handful of moments, I felt like myself again, like Eva instead of Mae’s mom, a role I was still figuring out.

Damon’s hand moved across my torso. His fingers rubbed smooth circles over the new stretch marks that had blossomed across my belly and hips like artwork. I didn’t hate them, I didn’t love them—they just were—but in that moment, I had the strongest urge to watch Damon’s lips and tongue trace each striation marking my soft brown skin. I thought I could be convinced to like them if I saw that.

His fingers slipped into my pajama pants, caressed my hip, walked around my thigh, and played at the seam of my legs.

“This okay?” he whispered to me.

We were lying with our heads on our respective pillows, watching each other. The sun was just rising in the sky, filtering through the sheer curtains in our bedroom.

“Yes,” I whispered back and lifted my left leg, opening myself to him.

His fingers moved to my underwear, rubbing up and down the crotch, sometimes circling just over the hood of my clit, sometimes pressing at my opening; teasing touches he knew I loved. There was no urgency, even though we didn’t have all the time in the world anymore. Mae was a good sleeper, but she’d be up in about half an hour. I could hear her light snores through the baby monitor. I wanted to tell Damon to hurry up, but I trusted him to set the pace and make what little time we had worth it.

Eventually, his hand moved to my waist, just under the soft handful of flesh my cousin told me is the hardest to get rid of after a pregnancy. I groaned in anticipation when his hand pushed into my panties, his fingers sifting through the soft curls over my mound and down over my lips.

I normally loved his hands on me but this felt different. I couldn’t pinpoint why so I shifted my hips closer, silently asking him to touch me with just a bit more pressure, and he did. He stroked me from clit to opening and back again, teasing me into full consciousness. Arousal came to life in my stomach and pulsed outward to invigorate all the changed parts of my body: the soft roll of flesh at my waist, larger breasts full of milk, aching nipples, and slightly broader hips.

He caressed my pussy slowly over and over again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And then I felt what was wrong. I was dry and Damon’s caresses were starting to hurt.

“Is this okay?” he asked. His voice sounded different. It had been soft with sleep and sweet with arousal, but now it was deep with worry, unsure.

I nodded my head in sharp, almost jerking motions because the warmth of my desire had turned into something else, something tinged with anxiety and fear. “Keep going,” I said. My voice sounded different too, strained and high-pitched.

Damon brought his hand to his mouth and sucked his fingers before putting them back in my underwear. His touch was heavier now as he focused on my clit, rubbing the pads of his index and middle fingers over the bundle of nerves that had never let me down before.

It worked, kind of. My stomach tightened as desire wound through me and built and rewound and rebuilt toward . . . nothing.

Damon kept rubbing me, but the orgasm I felt just over the horizon never materialized. There was no warm rush between my legs, no clenching muscles inside my pussy, no wracking spasms. My body kept preparing for a release that never came.

Eventually, his touch started to chafe again. I shivered, shifting my hips away just as Mae’s sleepy cry came through the small speaker on my bedside table. Damon and I jerked away from each other as if we were doing something wrong, and it was hard not to think that we had been since I felt colder and more tense than when I woke up.

“I’ll get her,” I said quickly, practically jumping out of bed.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, um, she’s hungry,” I said, straightening my clothes.

“You sure?” he asked again.

I looked down at my chest. I was already leaking. “I’m sure,” I said, trying not to run from our room.

“I’ll make breakfast,” Damon called after me.

“Okay,” I called back, tears already pooling in my eyes. Apparently, I was a wet mess everywhere but where I wanted to be.

None of the books had prepared me for this.

Mae’s sitting up and scooting now. All the baby books say crawling is right around the corner.

She’s drooling a lot and sometimes fussy. Teeth.

She sleeps through the night most nights.

She loves mashed sweet potatoes and rice porridge and for Damon to sing her to sleep. She prefers Stevie Wonder.

Sometimes I stand in the door of her nursery, watching my husband rock and sing our daughter to sleep with a smile on my face and this hollow pit in my chest that I don’t know how long I can hide.

I want Damon to touch me, but after months of trying, I’ve become skittish. I pull away from his hugs prematurely. I stay up late to clean or work or whatever, just to make sure he’s asleep before I crawl into bed beside him. I pretend to still be asleep in the morning until he’s gone, and I keep my skin covered, just in case he touches me and I get warm and then hot, but never boil over.

Every day Mae’s growing and changing, and every day my relationship feels like it’s dying, and I can’t help but feel like it’s all my fault.

“Babe, I’m home,” Damon calls as soon as the front door opens.

I know that already. I used to listen for the sound of his wheels shifting the gravel outside and start to get wet as soon as I heard that familiar crunch. Before Mae, we used to spend a few nights a week just fucking each other for hours after work, ordering a late-night dinner because sex was far more important than cooking. And then we’d get up bright and early the next day as if we’d gotten a full night’s sleep. I can’t even fathom that kind of energy anymore.

I smile at Mae sitting in the middle of her playmat on the living room floor, surveying her toys like they’re her kingdom, and I wish my own life was as simple.

“Is that Daddy?” I coo at her. She smiles her gummy mouth at me and her face lights up at the sound of Damon’s voice. She shrieks when he walks into the living room and wobbles on her butt as if she’s about to fall over.

“Why are you so loud?” Damon asks her playfully, which only makes her laugh louder.

I can feel him behind the couch—behind me—and I jump when he leans over, his warm breath on my cheek. The spicy scent of his cologne used to turn me on; it still does, mentally, at least. But the lines of communication between my mind and body are on the fritz, and even being reminded of all the parts of him that used to bring me joy makes me want to cry, because I don’t know what’s changed.

“How was your day?” he whispers, kissing me on the cheek.

“Okay,” I say, unconsciously turning my head toward his mouth. I rub my cheek against his soft lips and softer beard, wanting to linger there for as long as possible. This small touch isn’t enough but it doesn’t make me feel broken. My eyes catch on a small bag he places next to me. “What’s that?”

“For you,” he whispers.

“You didn’t have to,” I say automatically.

“You don’t even know what it is yet. Open it when I put the baby down, okay?”

I turn around to look at him with bunched eyebrows. “What is it?”

Damon bites his cheek and flutters his lashes at me. When we met at a singles mixer for Black professionals in Atlanta, I remember being irrationally annoyed at how long and curly his eyelashes were. It made him pretty and delicate in a way few men appreciate, and it felt like a waste, so I told him so. He’d laughed and batted his eyes at me, and I was a goner. I still am.

“Why?”

“You’ll see,” he says, brushing his mouth over mine.

He stands up straight, his face switching from simmering lust to glee as his eyes turn to Mae. “You walking yet? Got a job? 401K?” he asks her. She laughs obliviously, so happy just to see and hear him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him crouch on the floor in front of her, but my focus is on that small bag next to me.

It’s all I can think about when we sit down to dinner. It’s still on the couch while I clean up Mae’s toys and put the living room back together, and Damon gives Mae a bath. I fight the urge to peek inside as I take it with me upstairs. In our bedroom, I find Damon kneeling next to our bed, moisturizing Mae’s skin and putting her pajamas on while she shrieks in happiness.

“How’d she do?” I ask. I set the bag on top of our dresser and place her evening bottle next to it.

“She peed on me as soon as I dried her off,” he says with a soft, proud chuckle.

“I thought she’d outgrown that,” I say with a smile as I sit next to her on the bed. Mae reaches for me, and I give her my index finger. She grips it as hard as she can, and Damon and I stop to watch her. She yawns. He slides his hand to my knee and squeezes.

It’s moments like this that make me want to cry the most. No one warned me about how devastating it would feel to have everything I wanted only for my body to betray me.

Damon squeezes my knee one more time before he stands. “Come on, little girl. Let’s get you to bed.”

She’s too tired to giggle, but she kicks her stubby legs at him. I watch him pick her up and walk to the door. He grabs her bottle and turns to me.

“Don’t forget your present.”

My eyes shift to it, and I nod. I force myself to wait until the baby monitor picks Damon’s voice up before I snatch it from the dresser with shaking hands and settle back on the bed. I peek inside and my mouth falls open in shock. I dump the contents on the bed with blood rushing in my veins. The small vibrator is thin and metallic and the bottle of lube has a vulgar etching of a flower on the label. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

Damon and I haven’t ever been into toys. We’d never needed them, so why bother, I always thought? Over the past few months, I’d read so many articles about postpartum sex that recommended sex toys and lube, but the thought of trying something new when I just wanted things to go back to normal was overwhelming. I convinced myself that if I bought a vibrator, I’d be admitting defeat. I’d be accepting that I’d never be normal again.

I also had so many questions.

What kind of toy should I get?

Vibrating?

Clitoral stimulation?

Silicone?

Should I get one for myself? Or to use with Damon?

Would he feel inadequate if I needed a toy?

What brand of lube is good?

How much lube is too much?

Should I order online or go in-store?

Where’s the closest store?

What’s a good brand?

What if I can’t come without a toy ever again?

I guess I have answers to some questions now, but so many more form in my head that I’m as confused and intimidated as ever. But when I pick the thin vibrator up and feel its light weight in my hand, it makes that electric feeling I’ve been running from roar to life again.

“Is that okay?” Damon asks and I startle at the sound of his voice. He’s standing in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pants pockets and a nervous smile on his face.

“You tell me,” I whisper.

“It hasn’t been okay,” he says carefully, walking into the room and closing the door behind him. “I don’t know how to give you what you need,” he says, “but all the articles I read suggested that . . . maybe . . .” His voice trails off.

“You read articles about me not being able to come?” I ask with raised eyebrows.

“I read articles about all kinds of pregnancy and baby things. Do you know babies have to learn how to swallow food?” he asks with wide, terrified eyes. “She’s so damn fragile.”

I nod.

“So are you,” he adds in a quiet voice. “And that’s okay.”

I bite my bottom lip to stop from crying.

“The woman at the store said that might be a good size, not too big, but with strong vibration.”

“And the lube?” I can’t look at him while I speak.

“She said people should use more lube even if there aren’t problems,” he says, again oh-so-carefully. “Also, it’s flavored.”

I swallow loudly. “That can’t be good for . . . you know . . . inside.” I stutter like a virgin.

“I made sure to get one that’s safe for internal use too,” he says.

I look at him now, and I can tell by the awkward smile on his face that he’s nervous, too. He’s as unsure and off-kilter as I’ve been and I wonder how I never noticed that before.

“So, we . . .” My voice trails off, and I swallow again, my nerves paralyzing me for a second. “We can do this together?”

Damon’s swallowing throat is as loud as mine. “If you want to. But you can use it on your own if you feel more comfortable. I just—”

“No, I want you here,” I blurt out, because I do. “I’ve missed you.”

His shoulders slump in relief. He smiles at me. “Good. I want us to figure this out together.”

Hearing him say these words is like a tiny shot of courage and I force myself to embrace it.

Damon’s eyes are on me as I stand from the bed. It’s hard to make taking off a sweatshirt and old, ripped, oversized sweatpants sexy, but I try. My movements are slow as I toss the sweatshirt and tank top underneath onto the floor. I push my pants over my hips. They’re so big, they fall instantly to my ankles, and I step out of them.

I look down and cringe at my ugly nursing bra and the full brief underwear I bought on a whim because my pre-pregnancy underwear still doesn’t fit—it might never again—and the thought of wearing sexy lace that’s too tight anyway just to hang around the house doesn’t make any sense. “I would have worn better underwear if I’d known.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I think you’re beautiful in everything.”

When I look up at him, I know he’s telling the truth. I see all that love and arousal in his eyes, but just in case that’s not enough, I can also see the heavy bulge of his growing erection in his trousers. That wasn’t there before, and I can barely remember the last time I saw it, clothed or bare.

I take my underwear off quickly before I lose my nerve. Then I lick my lips. “Are you going to get undressed?” I ask nervously.

“Not this time,” he says and for some reason those three words make me shiver.

He starts unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, slowly, and I watch him, mesmerized. My body warms. Maybe it’s the heat; we keep the house warmer now for Mae. Maybe it’s embarrassment because I’m fully naked in front of him for the first time since I gave birth, and he can see all the ways pregnancy has changed my body. Or maybe it’s just lust, pure and simple.

He folds his sleeves neatly up his forearms and then reaches for the vibrator.

I raise my eyes in confusion, and he smiles. “I’m going to wash it first. Lay down,” he says.

“I can do it,” I say. I’m not sure why. I think I just need something to do, something to take my mind off of this moment. And Damon knows me so well that he probably knows that.

“So can I,” he says. “Lie back. Relax. This won’t take long.”

It doesn’t, not really, but I swear hours pass as I lay naked on my back in the middle of the bed, listening to the bathroom faucet turn on and off. I’m clutching the small bottle of lube to my chest like a lifeline.

“It’s okay,” Damon says when he steps back into the bedroom. I turn and see him wiping the small vibrator off with a towel. It’s a strange sight. I’m nervous but also excited.

He moves to the foot of the bed and toes off his shoes. I look down my body, and startle at the new contours of this angle. My breasts are heavier now and they droop toward my armpits. My stomach is smaller than when I was pregnant but bigger than it was before. It’s softer than it used to be too. But I can see my toes again, and that’s where Damon starts, smiling up at me as he kisses each one.

I giggle. I’m ticklish and he knows it. I have to drop my head back onto the pillow and breathe through the tears that form in my eyes. My hormones are still all over the place.

Damon kisses slowly up my shins, using his hands to massage my calves. He places a small peck on each of my knees and then drags his tongue up the crease of my legs, but he keeps his hands on my outer thighs, pressing my legs together even though I want to open up for him. He’s not in a rush, not even after all this time, and it’s yet another reason to love him, yet another reason to breathe through tears.

I look again when I feel his tongue move over the curve of my lower belly. I vaguely remember wanting to watch him lick these stretch marks, and he’s giving me my wish. His eyes are on me as he traces each light brown mark from my hips over the curve of my stomach and back again.

I squirm underneath him. I want him to touch all of me.

He’s still smiling at me, but it’s different now, hotter and intimate. His mouth meets his hands under the curve of my breasts and he cups them gently, but when he rubs his thumbs over my nipples, I flinch.

“Sorry,” he says quickly.

“It’s okay, they’re just . . . you know, still sore.” They’re not as bad as they used to be when I first started breastfeeding, cracked and painful, but like every other part of my body, they’re not the same.

For a second, Damon looks left and right, terrified, searching for a way out of this moment. My mood starts to sink, and no amount of deep breaths will stem these tears.

But then his eyes catch on my left hand. It takes a second for me to remember that I’m holding the lube in a death grip. He moves his hand to mine and cups it. “Can I?” he asks.

I nod and release even though I’m not entirely sure what he’s asking me. I watch with more than mild curiosity as he tears the plastic seal off the cap and then tries to pour some into his hand. He rolls his eyes and then unscrews the cap. I watch him struggle to get the seal over the spout open.

“Give it here,” I say, sitting up.

He moves from above me so that I can sit up fully and then hands it over. Our breaths sound loud in our quiet room as I grab the tab with my nails, pull the piece of thin plastic open, and then hand the bottle back to him. I have to scoot to the edge of the bed to throw it away, but then we’re back on track.

Damon crawls back on top of me when I lie down. He pours a bit of lube onto his fingers and then carefully moves his hands back to my breasts.

I don’t want to, but I brace myself for his touch. This time it’s good and I exhale with a soft moan. He doesn’t pinch or pull, just circles them with the pads of his fingers and rolls them back and forth.

I feel that tightening and clenching in my stomach, and my hips begin to circle again. Soon enough, I’m panting and moaning. This is the best I’ve felt in ages.

“Is that okay?” His hands still.

I put my hands on his thighs and squeeze. “Yes,” I whisper. “Keep going.”

His face is flooded with relief again, and it’s hard not to feel the same. I wonder if this is it, if this is all we needed, but as soon as I think that, I realize that it’s not. I might be aroused, but there’s no slick wetness between my legs, no warmth flooding my sex.

My brow begins to furrow with frustration, but Damon cuts off that turn in my mood when he lowers his mouth to my breasts. When his tongue joins his fingers over my nipples, I groan so loudly that I’m worried I’m going to wake Mae. And so is Damon. We both stop and turn our heads to the baby monitor on the bedside table and wait. His fingers and mouth are still on my breasts but we’re both frozen in fear as we stare at the small device, hoping she’s still asleep.

The whole situation would have been comical if this moment hadn’t been preceded by so much emotional turmoil.

After a few tense moments, Damon’s fingers begin to move again. He licks all over my breasts and nipples with careful swipes. I cup the back of his head, desperate to hold on to this feeling, willing it to continue to grow, because we’ve been here before. My body still wants him, but no amount of foreplay can seem to get us to my finish line. I worry that this is all there will ever be now—just a slowly growing desire that fizzles to nothing— and not for the first time I’m overcome with frustration.

But then Damon moves to lay at my side and traces his hand over my stomach.

His fingers graze over my mound and I spread my legs. His slick fingers skim over my lips, the lube making up for my dryness. They glide where they should, and the chafing I was terrified about seems like a distant memory. My hips shoot up from the bed, and I cry out before clapping a hand over my mouth.

“Oh god, yes. Yes,” I whisper, softly cupping my abandoned breast as he licks at the other and rubs my pussy with the gentlest touch.

I feel his lips over my chest and up my neck, and then on mine. I open my mouth and let him push his tongue inside. The fake vanilla taste of the lube is...not my favorite, but I don’t care. None of it matters when I feel closer to an orgasm than I have in nearly seven months; when that electric feeling is so intense, I’m pumping my hips up and down trying to get Damon’s fingers inside me.

“You ready?” he whispers against my lips.

I nod. Desperate. Eager. I so am, but I whimper when he takes his mouth and hands away.

He smiles down at me. I pant up at him. I’m so ready.

I watch him grab the vibrator and the bottle of lube and then crawl to the foot of the bed. I open my thighs and bend them at the knee as he settles his face right in front of my pussy. He pours some lube onto the tip of the vibrator and then spreads it down the small cylinder.

“I got you,” he says to me. I believe him. I love him.

He leans forward to place a quick kiss to my clit, and I groan. His thumb covers my clit. I moan loudly again as he strums it like a guitar string, plucking to create a sensual ballad. He lowers his head and begins to lick my lips, tasting my pussy, with new artificial vanilla flavoring.

Soon enough, my hips are circling and I’m groaning loudly again, my desire cresting toward the unknown. But I still when I feel the cool tip of the vibrator at my opening.

“It’s okay,” he lifts his head to say, his beard glistening from the lube.

I nod and he lowers his mouth, replacing his thumb with his lips. He suckles at my clit and pushes the vibrator inside of me. I have to cover my mouth with both hands to muffle my scream. “Oh my God.”

Damon moves the vibrator slowly in and out. I watch him suck and fuck me as he watches me come as close to undone as I’ve gotten since I gave birth.

Then he turns the vibrator on, and I’m gone.

My head falls back to my pillow and my hands grab at the comforter beneath us. The vibrations ripple from my sex throughout the rest of my body in gentle waves that get more and more intense as Damon plays with the settings, trying to figure out which ones I like, which ones make me shudder or whimper, which ones make me scream.

I’m too far gone to care if I’m being too loud. My entire body is shaking, and my eyes are rolling around in my eye sockets.

“Fuck, I’m close,” I eventually gasp around a deranged laugh, because I am. I’m closer than ever. I’m almost there. For real this time.

Damon doesn’t respond. Unless the hard suction of his mouth and turning the vibrator all the way up is a response. I think it is.

And my orgasm is another kind of answer, a grateful and relieved thank you. I shout and then groan so loud and long, I wonder if I’ll ever stop. My back bends, and my left foot lifts from the bed a few inches before I freeze in orgasmic rictus. My muscles spasm, every single one. I feel the comforter rip. I don’t care, because I’m finally coming, ripping open at the seams like our comforter.

When I finally stop, I’m shaking and I have to push Damon away. My entire body hurts. But it’s a great hurt. It’s a relieved hurt.

Damon’s hovering over me, half of his face wet with lube and a huge smile on his mouth.

I want to tell him how amazing I feel and thank him properly, but I just smile back at him and pass out instead.

We’ll have to buy a bigger bottle of lube and more toys, but I’ll tell him that when I wake up and come again.

BELTS HAVE TONGUES

Velvet Moore

The slicing sound of the knife blade echoes in my ears, remembering how you honed the edge between water stones, dimpled and rough.

I picture the tension in your forearm, the way the muscles lengthen and contract, like when you grip my wrist and force my hands above my head in bed.

This particular instance of seduction took place outside of the bedroom, and quite unexpectedly at that. I had wanted ice cream for dessert; you insisted on something healthier. We settled on pineapple.

With precision, you sharpened the blade before slicing the fruit’s tortoise-like skin, the sweet, tropical smell pouring from each slash. I’m so glad I watched you.

I lick my lips remembering the taste of the sticky, sugary juice as you slipped a slice between them, lingering at the tip of my tongue, a perfect bite.

Ding!

The sound of the hotel elevator reaching my floor yanks me from the memories of dinner before I left. Two days into this trip and I’m longing for home. I push off the elevator wall I had been leaning against and maneuver past the others headed to the upper floors.

I trudge to my room, my pace slow partly due to fatigue and partly because I’m uneager for what’s next. The worst part about traveling alone is having dinner alone.

I push open the door to my room and dodge the small, black trashcan in the entryway that I forgot to put back in the bathroom. I deposit my shoes, jacket, and purse upon and below the chair in the corner and toss the door key on the dresser, below the television. The items join existing piles of clothes, makeup, and receipts accumulated during travel.

You would be unimpressed. If you were here, the dresser drawers would be filled with the guts of your luggage, each item meticulously positioned for convenient access.

Here I am, life spilling over.

Well, just fuck it. There’s something about staying in a hotel room alone that’s permissive. I decide I’m allowed to ignore the decorum that routine life demands, despite what you would think. Hotel rooms offer a break from reality.

Ignoring the inevitability of dining alone, my stomach interrupts and I am hungry for more than the memory of our dinner together. I see the room service menu on the top of the sheets and head toward the bed. How bad is it really to eat dessert first I wonder, a thought that is quickly interrupted by an angry step.

Hidden beneath a towel on the floor by the bed is a belt, its buckle propped crooked like a tumbled boulder. Unexpectedly, I heave the weight of my step onto it, sounding in a crunch of the belt and an expletive from me.

I sharply suck air through my front teeth, hop, and balance precariously on one leg and curse, fueled by surprise and pain. This interruption was not on the menu.

The pain in my arch subsides enough to return my foot to the ground, and I regain balance. Fatigue has shifted to impulsive irritation, and I seek revenge. I dig my fingers into the rubble and grab the belt by its copper head, eager to punish the offender. It snaps back.

I’ve given it enough momentum to fling upward into the air, but close enough for the tip to catch the top of my inner thigh, singeing a kiss of fire along my skin.

Fucker.

How quickly things have gone south unexpectedly.

Unexpected is not unfamiliar. The lick of fire on my skin isn’t foreign, having before been smacked with a belt on my thighs, my ass, my pussy.

It’s one of your favorite indulgences, in fact. You may not have a sweet tooth, but you have one hell of a craving for a leather strike. Strip me down, bend me over, and whip repeatedly. Yes, please, may I have another?

Still, tonight’s unexpected singe caught my senses off guard. The balance is off when a lover isn’t on the other end of the belt. Unlike strikes from you, tonight tides bubble more toward pain than pleasure. Despite that fact, my brain whispers of sensory dusted memories of sexual past.

I remember the room service menu, and I sit on the edge of the bed, tossing the belt next to me. I open the menu and scan the pages. Reading is possible, but comprehension is not. I’m distracted.

Panini and pasta. Mac and cheese. On my knees. Dick du jour.

My thoughts are jumbled, as untidy as my belongings. Dinner mixes with memories mixes with the sensation on my thigh from the tango with the belt. I’m not yet focused enough for dine-in ordering. I’d rather be eaten out.

The menu sails to the bed as I give up and toss it. It lands insecurely on top of the belt, which is enough to throw the menu off-balance and push it to the floor.

I sigh.

This belt is certainly interested in making itself known. Maybe we should get to know each other.

I pick up the belt and hold it at arm’s length, gripping the shining buckle by the neck, allowing the long, black strap to hang slack. I admire its reach before gripping the end and wrapping the free end twice tight around my wrist.

I push my skirt up to my waist and hold my tethered hand between my legs, knuckles of my fingers press firmly along the length of my clit. My mind focuses on the pressure through my tights and through my panties. I unfurl the length, with the weighty buckle reaching toward the floor, like a sprawling cock hanging its swelling head.

I imagine how it must feel to have a constant hanging strap of flesh come alive with the rub of a palm. See its thick, buckled head rest its weight between your thighs. Feel the pleasurable pinprick-like tremble as your hand passes along its length and squeezes.

I stand and admire my reflection in the mirror across the room. I look like a ceiling fan with my skirt bunched above my hips and cord hanging down. I flick my hips back and forth, the belt swaying between my thighs, like a chiming clock.

I chuckle at the sight. This is fun.

I shimmy to the mirror to get a closer view. “I would get down on that,” I think to myself, posing sideways for a more extensive view.

A few more glances this way and that, before I notice that my hand is tingling from having the strap wrapped too tightly. I pause my posing and unwrap the belt.

Despite the shift, I’m not done with this belt. It reminds me too much of you.

I pull tight a few inches of the strap and bite down on it, the edges pushing back the corners of my mouth. My molars press against soft leather, and I open-mouth-breathe earthy flavors.

Belt biting has always been an effective way to distract from pain, so I introduce some by snaking a free hand into my bra and squeezing my nipple. Nerves must get lost in translation, running from nipple to clit, because pain triggers pleasure, and I moan. I clench my teeth tighter so the belt doesn’t slip from my mouth and free up the other hand for symmetrical squeezing. My hips auto-grind into an invisible force behind me, and I mourn the lack of reciprocal pressure.

I’m fucking horny.

Clothes have become cumbersome and have to be dealt with. I stand straight and pull the belt from my mouth; I drape it across the back of my neck and over my shoulders, a rawhide boa. Zippered teeth part as I undo my skirt and remove it, seconds later piling tights and panties on top. I unclasp my bra, careful to not let the belt slip from my shoulders, and I wrestle as straps tangle with straps, belt against bra. Soon, a defeated brassiere joins the textile heap, and I step back to leave it all behind.

All but the belt. That comes with me back to bed.

I lie back against the mattress and clench the belt in my hand again. Closing my eyes, I focus on the windy sound of my nasal inhaling and slowly puff air through pursed lips. I snake my hand upward, the belt tickling the inside of my thighs as it ascends.

I stop when the strap reaches my shoulder, leaving the broad buckle to rest at my crotch. Its heft is enough to lightly press down my puffy pussy lips, allowing my clit to peek out like a curious eel.

I crave more pressure.

I straddle the buckle with my fingers and press its edges into the lips of my pussy, which exposes pink skin, slick with anticipation. The prong rests gently against my clit. My center reaches toward the sky as my ass grounds me, pressed into the sheets. Everything feels on edge, like a chill up the spine.

I hold the pressure and busy my free hand with the rest of the strap. I use its length to slowly draw the curve along my breasts, the eyelets bumping up and over my nipples, like music being fluted with every pass.

I’m buzzing.

I shift to my knees. Arching my back, I lift my ass upward to more directly expose my pussy. I swat myself, gently at first, aiming for my lips. Jolting stings linger between pauses, singing.

My ass is next.

I double up the strap with buckle kissing the tip, and after reaching behind, I crash the looped end fiercely against my naked cheeks. I bear down in pain and rear up with pleasure as I punish myself. I pump the rhythm over and over until I’m soaked with desire. Still, the angle isn’t sufficient for the intensity I crave.

I return to my back, knees bent and spread wide. I unfold the belt and take the buckle in my palm and squeeze. The prong imprints a faint line on my fingertips. I stare at it until it fades.

I play with the buckle a little, and watch as the metal folds down, pivoting on the bar, leaving the prong standing straight. Its rounded tip looks strong and gentle. I rub it downward across my clit. Its curve elicits soft moans.

Fuck, yes. That’s it.

The prong continues to slip its way along my begging clit. I push it along its continued path. I add pressure as it travels downward and release when it tickles its way back up. The metal’s weight adds the pressure of a lover’s tongue. My fingers, mixed with metal, are warm and slickened. I guide the prong up and down and up and down and spin little circles each time it reaches the crest of my clit.

My breath becomes staggered as every shred of focus pounds at my groin. My orgasm can’t wait. With a lightning shot, my body tenses, thighs, arms, hands, grasping and gripping. They’re seeking to hold on as a wave of pure, sex pleasure freezes my brain. I jerk and pant and break open as I come, licked and lapped up by a brassy tongue.

Breathing comes slowly now, as I reserve most energy for rejoining reality. A few more breaths and I’m revived enough to open my eyes and remember when and where I am.

I continue to lie there and breathe slowly. After a few minutes, I stretch and feel awake enough to move.

I shift to my side, press into my hand, and sit up. I place my feet on the floor, and I am quickly reminded how I got here in the first place. The edge of the laminated menu pokes at my toe.

I flip the menu in the air with my toe and I smile. Now that I’ve had dessert, maybe it’s time for dinner.

If this trip alone was worth anything, it was worth learning this truth.

Belts have tongues.

THE ELECTRICITY OF A DARK PEAK

D.L. King

“Itold you, no hands,” I said, glaring at the eager mouth below me and the pleading eyes just above it. My boy was, or at least had been, tied to my bed with his legs spread wide and his hands tied together above his head. I’m fortunate to have a bed with vertical bars on both the head and foot. It’s a nice, modern style, and I love it. It’s also very useful for immobilizing people.

I had been enjoying a nice, relaxing ride on his very talented mouth until I was so rudely interrupted. Alec had managed to work his hands free and was reaching behind me to cup my bottom. And now my former state of bliss was ruined. I grabbed his hands and brought them back up above his head, quickly wrapped a length of rope around both of them, and refastened them to the crossbar at the head of the bed before raising myself from his face and swinging a leg over to get off the bed.

He whined as I rose up. “But I could give you so much more if I could use my hands,” he groaned.

“Not likely,” I said, casting a stern glance back at him on my way to the wardrobe. I opened the doors to the right—the ones that didn’t hide clothes behind them, and rifled around, finally returning with leather wrist and ankle cuffs. He groaned again when he saw what I’d brought, but couldn’t help smiling as I fastened them first to his wrists, spreading his arms apart and tying them to the bedposts. “I figured I’d get both sets, while I was at it,” I said as I replaced the ropes on his ankles with the cuffs. “It’s more comfortable for you since you’ve just earned yourself a much longer time in bondage.”

Alec and I had been dating for almost six months. Oddly enough, we were “fixed up” by a mutual friend. I met her in yoga class and we struck up a friendship, going for coffee after class when we both had time. She didn’t know anything about me, other than yoga, work, coffee, and favorite books. She certainly didn’t know anything about my sexual proclivities. Alec was the IT guy at her office and, for some reason, she thought we might hit it off. How pleasantly surprised was I when I realized he was a sub hoping for the domme of his dreams to come along and sweep him off his feet?

“Now, don’t annoy me,” I said as I settled back over his mouth. It took me a while to get back into the rhythm again, gently rocking and grinding against him as he licked and sucked my cares away. I find riding Alec’s mouth the absolute most relaxing thing I can do. It’s not meant to get me off; it’s just meant to take all my cares away and transport me to bliss, and working from home was giving me a lot of cares that needed to be transported away. Coming, for me, is another story, altogether.

I reached behind me and gently massaged Alec’s cock, feeling it lengthen in my hand. I gathered up his balls and gently squeezed them, gradually applying more and more pressure until his tongue ceased caressing my folds and I could feel the hot breath of his panting. Now we were getting somewhere.

Honestly, Alec was a real prize. We hadn’t been living together when the world changed, but we were now. Being confined at home, in the epicenter of a deadly pandemic, didn’t seem so devastating now. We were lucky. I was able to keep my job, working from home, and Alec was able to do the same, at least most of the time. He’d had to check on his company’s servers once since the stay-at-home order went into effect. Mostly, we stayed inside and got deliveries of food. We were lucky and we knew it. I hoped we’d stay this happy all the way through.

We did what most people were doing: we cooked really interesting meals with whatever we had in the house; we watched Netflix with homemade popcorn; we went for walks, being careful to wear our masks and social distance ourselves from other walkers; we ordered wine online—and we had a lot of sex.

Alec was still testing his limits with me, but I knew what I wanted and was more sure every day about what he wanted, even if he didn’t really understand it himself. You see, I need to be in control—I mean completely in control—when it comes to sex. And the biggest part is controlling the amount of pain and pleasure my boy receives. That kind of control is what gets me off.

Of course, it only works if my partner feels the same way about things. I love taking Alec to the limit. I want to see him pant and beg. I’m happiest seeing him writhe in pleasure based on the pain I inflict. Seeing his eyes water as his cock strains and pre-come oozes from its tip makes me salivate and vibrate with sexual tension until I can’t stand it anymore and then, when the time is just right, I climb that jagged peak, only to throw myself off into oblivion. Sometimes it involves pushing Alec off with me and sometimes it involves making him watch me as he strains toward his own denied climax. But he always gets to come, in the end, one way or another.

This is exactly what I need. Before I realized that, I never really understood what other women were talking about when they sang the praises of orgasm. I liked sex; it was nice, but it wasn’t this amazing thing I couldn’t live without. At least not until a friend recommended a series of books that just happened to be full of sexually dominant women. Those stories resonated in a way nothing had before. I sought out more information and the next time I had sex, putting those thoughts and images into my head gave me my first real, true orgasm. Suddenly, sex was not what I had previously known it to be, but something primal. Which brings us back to Alec, lying spread open to me, with no way to break free. The thought sends a shiver down my center, terminating in my clit.

As I began to play with his body, his cock grew longer and harder and I grew wetter and wetter. I sucked on his nipples, making him moan, and then bit them, making his cock jump each time. With a small length of cord, I tightly bound and separated his balls until they were deep red and shiny and then lightly ran my finger over them, making him yip as his hips raised up to meet me.

My nipples were tight and my breasts ached as I dipped my middle finger into lube and slowly slid it past his sphincter and began to fuck his tight hole. Colors flashed behind my eyes as I squeezed them shut, feeling the sensation around my finger and listening to Alec’s grunts and moans. I was transported to a dark fantasyscape where pinpricks of lights burst all around me and I could hear nothing but the roar of the sea. I felt like I could stay there forever, but I wasn’t finished with Alec yet.

I opened my eyes and smiled down at him. “I’m so ready, baby,” he said, as he smiled back at me.

“Ah, but I’m not,” I replied and reached for a large steel plug to coat with lube and push inside him. He screwed up his face and grunted as I worked it past his tight ring, but once it was seated inside him, he settled and sighed. “Like that, my darling?” He only sighed again as I continued to trace my fingers over his tight balls, even though the sensation made his cock jump and twitch with each stroke.

I had retreated to a steady simmer now and needed to kick things back into gear to climb that dark peak again. It would require more than gentle sighs. I needed to see the ecstasy on his face that only I could give him. He cried out as I unwound the cord imprisoning his balls, shuddering as I first licked and sucked the tip of his cock. The taste of salt and his musky scent was strong as I drew him all the way into my mouth and raked my teeth against him as I withdrew. His balls had drawn up close to his body and were, once again, tight in their wrinkled casing. “Please,” he mumbled.

“No,” I said.

I think it might have been the “please” that got me. I was at the top of the peak with white and gold lights flashing all around me in the darkness. I knelt over him and shoved the tip of his cock against my engorged clit. Twisted it around just so, until it hit the right spot. My body began to vibrate and the lights became fireworks, going off in my brain. I could feel the electricity coursing through my tissues, all the way to my center. I looked down at my hand, pushing his cock hard against my clit, and wondered whether the electricity passed through me, into him. He writhed and strained against his bonds, hard as ever.

Once the blinding sensation of my first orgasm of the day began to subside, I looked at him. Tears of pleasure were running down his face as he screwed his eyes closed. I could continue to torture and torment him in lots of devious ways and give myself several more orgasms—hell, just thinking of it was putting me on the verge of another one. But I could see he wanted to come so badly, needed to come, and I wasn’t greedy. Besides, I knew making him come would give me another release, anyway.

I pressed up on the plug in his ass and, at the same time slid his cock inside me in one quick thrust. I sat there, straining forward just enough to hit the spot, circling and grinding the plug against him as I squeezed his cock inside me. I bore down hard as he mumbled incoherencies and as I felt him draw up, under me, I slid up all the way to the tip and hung there for a moment. As I crashed down on him again, I pulled the plug free from his ass and he came like he’d been shot from a gun.

I collapsed onto his chest and with a series of small quakes, came again and again. We lay there a while, until I gathered myself together enough to reach up and undo his wrist cuffs. He brought his arms around me, squeezing me to him.

“How do you do that?” he asked with wonder in his voice.

“What?” I mumbled into his chest.

“All that. What you do. How do you know how to do it? How do you know what I need? It’s like some kind of psychic ability or something.”

“Oh, my darling, I just do what I like. I do what makes me feel good,” I said. “It’s lovely that you happen to like what I like, isn’t it?”

After a shower, we made a dinner of homemade pasta with pancetta and peas in a béchamel sauce and the last of our fresh lettuce and tomatoes in a salad. Over wine, I suggested that he see if he could restock our vegetables with an online order.

Alec had been at the computer for a while as I watched “Jeopardy!” When the show ended, he called me over. “Hey, look at this,” he said.

I looked at the monitor. He wasn’t looking at groceries. On the screen was a picture of a guy with a broad smile on his face and his hand wrapped around his cock while a woman in a corset stood over him with some sort of box in her hand. There was a video imbedded in the still picture. I pressed play and saw a series of various implements, along with an electrical box. There was a voiceover explaining how the system worked and what could be done with it. It sounded like fun. But when the woman picked up the box and twisted a dial, making the man on the bed arch his back, I stopped hearing the voiceover and instead began to climb that dark peak again.

“Clever boy,” I said, taking his left hand and sliding it under my skirt and inside my panties. “Show me the attachments you want.” He scrolled with his right hand and pointed out things he thought would be fun, like an electric butt plug and an electric penis cap, all the while using his left hand to play in my ever growing wetness as I purred.

“I thought you might like it. Want to get it?” he asked as he inserted his index finger inside me and teased my clit with his thumb.

My pupils were enlarged as I said, “Um, yeah, okay. Will we still be able to afford the vegetables, though?”

WHAT YOU NEED

Angela Addams

There you are, back hunched in such a way that I want to run my hands along your shoulders, ease the tension I see there. But I know that won’t work, not tonight, not when you have that look on your face, the one where your eyebrows are furrowed and you’re biting your bottom lip. You’re stressed. You’re busy. Your eyes are attached by an invisible and unbreakable link to that computer screen, your fingers clicking away in a maddening frenzy. It’s like you’re not even breathing, you’re so focused on your work.

You don’t even glance at me when I walk into the room. Not even a flicker of interest when I flop on the comfy chair to your left. For the briefest of moments I hesitate, a tug of defeat; maybe I should leave you alone.

But then I scan your body, the rigid pose, the tension rolling off of you, and I know that I can’t. You need me tonight. You just don’t know it yet.

We haven’t had a lot of time for each other lately. You know how it goes—life becomes all-consuming, pleasure takes a back seat. But I miss you and I know you miss me. I could tell by the way you were looking at me tonight while we ate in silence, too tired to have a real conversation, too distracted by what we needed to do next. Even so, it was there, in your eyes, the temptation, the yearning.

You just don’t know how badly you need it, how important it is for me to take control.

I dangle one leg over the arm of the chair, spreading myself for you, the thin cotton shorts I’m wearing pulling taut over my pussy, which is already wet. Just looking at you makes me wet. If I touched myself right now I’d feel damp cotton over the heat of my aching clit. Just the thought of touching myself makes my pussy throb, makes me clench up tight.

You are very consumed by your work. I can see that. It makes me smile. You don’t even know what’s coming for you or rather, who is coming for you.

I think about the time, not too long ago, when you came home from work and found me in the kitchen, on the phone chatting with a girl I know. You came up behind me, slid your arms around me, let loose one of those low growls that make my toes curl as you nipped my neck and cupped my breasts.

I do that now, a smile on my lips as I watch you type away, oblivious to my hands molding to my breasts, squeezing just the way you like to, fingers spread over my budding nipples, sliding down until my thumbs brush roughly over their aching peaks then circling back again. The cotton of my tank top makes my touch achingly dull so I yank it down, my breasts popping out until they are framed by the cotton. I bring my finger and thumb together, gently rolling. Ah, yes, that’s better. Little pearls, so hard, I wish I could lick them myself. Or better yet, I wish you would. But there you are, still typing away, still busy and distracted.

I let out a small sigh as I remember that night, your demanding hands moving from my breasts to my belt, the urgency as you opened my clothes, slid your hands into my pants, into my panties, straight to my pussy, your fingers spreading me, coating in my juice, fingering my clit.

I do that now, one hand moving down my stomach, detouring over my hip, the soft skin exposed, trailing a finger along that delicate flesh before sliding beneath the elastic of my shorts. A light touch at first, just glancing my hard clit as I dip into my wet lips, coating my finger just as you had coated yours before returning to that aching nub.

A little moan escapes and for a second I think I see your fingers hesitate, the clicking pause, but if you do, it’s only for the briefest of moments and then you’re right back to it, working so hard you don’t even notice.

I’ve got one hand alternating between my breasts, flicking my nipples with my fingers, rolling them until they are so hard they’re like little pebbles. I lick my lips and roll my head back, my neck supported by the pillow of the chair. That’s fine, if you’re not interested. I let myself get caught up in the memory, my fingers opening my pussy up, sheathing myself in the tight walls of warm cushiony softness. I wish I could reach that sweet spot like you can. Your fingers are so skilled, you know my body so well, you rub me there and I come in seconds, hard, fast, until I scream. My way will be slower, the build longer, but I’ll get there.

I bite my bottom lip, remembering that night again, how you whipped my pants down, ripped my panties from me, like you couldn’t get inside fast enough. The sound of your zipper, your hard cock pressed against my ass making me moan, the woman on the phone forgotten. I don’t think I even hung up, just tossed it aside as I braced myself against the counter. Hands on my hips, you lifted me up. You’re so strong that it was nothing to you as you speared me with your dick, impaling me with one hard thrust. We both moaned then, our bodies linked, finding home within each other.

You are my other half; we belong to each other. Like flame to accelerant, we always ignite in a flash so powerful that we burn the house down.

You always stoke me deep and hard, your cock rubbing me just the right way.

I move one hand, touch my clit again, a tender touch, barely there and yet it drives me wild.

My thoughts flash to that evening, so many months ago when you came to my work. A surprise since you rarely do that anymore. It was what I needed though and you knew that.

“I missed you today,” you growled, your hands sliding around my waist, your lips against my ear. “You get all your work done?”

I nodded, sucking in a breath as you licked my earlobe and pulled me into your lap.

I remember the feel of your cock, so hard already, and I wiggled just a little, earning a low moan. “I missed you too.” I sigh. “A lot.”

“Did you?” You kissed my neck, one hand toying with the opening of my blouse, fingers precariously close to one aching nipple.

The tension of the day melted away as your lips tailed along my collarbone. “Maybe we should go home then,” you said, your hand lightly brushing the slope of my breast, before giving a little squeeze to my nipple.

“Nuh uh.” I wiggled my ass again, grinding harder against your cock. “I want you to do me on my desk. Right here. Right now.”

Your growl of approval made me giddy, your hand snaking up my skirt made me moan, your fingers slipping into my panties made me gasp. “You’re wet, baby.”

“Only for you.”

Thinking of you, remembering those times, it makes my pussy clench as my body ratchets tighter and tighter. I’m lost to it. Deep in thought. No longer paying attention to what you’re doing. No longer listening to your typing.

I miss your probing fingers that make me ache for more, sliding along my folds, teasing my clit with only a slight touch. I arch into my hand, craving more.

I remember tugging at your pants, my hands shaking, urgency to have your cock buried deep made me clumsy. I will never stop wanting you. The lust I feel for you never ends. As I rub my clit and flick my nipple, all I can think about is how you took control that night. One hand swiping away the papers and pens, files from my desk, all landing with a clattering crash on the floor, your hands on my hips just as suddenly, flipping me over, ass in the air as you held me down until my cheek rested against my desk. You pushed my skirt up, a second later the sound of your zipper coming down was enough to make my pussy spasm. My breath hitched, as you ripped away the delicate lace of my thong, your cock pressing against my pussy, my juices soaking you as you penetrated me. One long stroke, we moaned together and then you started to pound me, hands gripping my hips, hard and fast, hitting me just at the right angle, stroking my clit with each thrust.

My pussy clenched around you, trying to keep you in, willing you to go deeper.

I can’t stop myself from crying out; it’s too much, too much. I want to push the memory away and pull you close, but my climax is building until my moan is one long, unending sound.

I come in a rushing wave, so unexpectedly that I gasp, shuddering with spasms so intense I don’t think I will recover. My mind is a hazy mess, flashes of that memory making my orgasm continue. I am relentless as I circle my clit again and again. The sound of something familiar pulls me from my fantasy and I raise my head from the chair, almost too heavy to lift as the last of the spasms roll through me.

Fingers still rubbing, my eyesight comes into focus and there you are, chair turned toward me, computer forgotten, one hand wiping your mouth, rubbing your jaw, the other moving toward that huge bulge in your pants. You devour me with your steady gaze. That sound comes again. The low growl that I love so much, rumbling deep in your chest. I smile as I hook my fingers along the crotch of my shorts and pull them aside, exposing myself to you. You make me so wet, you and those hungry eyes.

You rise from your seat and stalk toward me.

I somehow get out of the chair and stand on wobbly legs. My body is buzzing as I slide my hands up your chest, standing on tiptoe to nuzzle your neck. Your skin is salty as I lick you, can’t help myself. You moan softly, your hands on my hips, almost like you’re going to push me away.

“Let’s fuck, baby,” I purr against your ear, my body pressed close to you, my nipples hard and aching, my pussy quivering all over again.

Your cock is hard and I can’t help but grind against it.

You moan again, a different timber, a different message.

I slide down your body, my hands trailing from your neck to your chest, my knees hitting the floor with a soft thump, my eyes never leaving yours. You’re hungry, I can see it, your eyes are hooded, your hand moving to clutch my hair, your tongue darting out to lick your lips. You need this just as much as I do.

I tug open your belt, sliding the worn leather out of the buckle, before popping the button and unzipping your jeans. I do it methodically, knowing that I’m driving you wild. Your cock springs from your pants. A surprise for me—you’re going commando today.

I smile up at you and lick my lips. You tug my hair, wrapping your hand more firmly, and nod.

I lick my finger, then trail my nail down the length of your shaft. You hiss out a breath. I wrap my fingers around your cock and bring my lips to your head, taking you into my mouth, pre-come spilling against my tongue as I lick your slit, flick the ridge of your head, slide my tongue across that sensitive flesh. Your breathing becomes ragged, your hand in my hair tighter. I start to pump you, saliva and pre-come dripping down your shaft, coating my hand as I slide up and down, my fingers curling over your balls, squeezing just a little before returning to your shaft.

I love your salty taste; it makes my pussy wet to pleasure you. I slip my fingers into my panties and dip into my pussy once again, spread my juices around my clit. You like that I’m touching myself. Your cock twitches in my mouth, grows harder as I twirl and flick my tongue against your head.

This is the language of our love. It’s not words. It’s never words.

I love you with my mouth, with my body. I stroke you, suck you, give you what you need so that the tension in your body leaves and that wary look in your eyes is replaced by hunger. For me. My body. My expression of love.

The explosion comes without warning. You roar as you come, my pussy spasms once again, and you fill my mouth. All over again my body shudders and shakes, my own climax cresting hard and fast.

When you’re done you slide to the floor in front of me and hold my head in your hands. You kiss my forehead. You kiss my lips.

“Thanks, babe, I needed that,” you say as you crush me into your chest, holding me while my body still shakes through the last tremors of my orgasm.

I sigh as I curl into your strong body, loving you in the only way I know how.

KINDNESS

Gabrielle Johnson

He was standing alone in the rain.

Next to a black sports car, with its flashers blinking, stranded on the shoulder. Even if he wasn’t so still, underneath his big black umbrella, she still would have noticed him. He and his car were difficult to miss, the only things to look at save her own house, sandwiched between the end of town and the start of nothing but miles of fields.

She saw him first in her headlights, as her more practical sedan rumbled up the road she often thought of as hers. She only got his profile, since he was looking squarely at her squat ranch-style, and never even glanced over as she approached.

When she turned into her drive, she kept staring at him, marveling at how he hadn’t moved in the autumn darkness. Moments ago, she’d only been thinking about getting in from the rain, tugging on a pair of wool socks and digging into the chicken stew she had on. It was meant to be a Friday night reward for a long week, spent with a stiff drink and bad TV.

But there he was, a lonesome, worrying figure in the rain, throttling those thoughts in place.

Parker cut the engine, but didn’t move, watching him in the rearview, debating all the thoughts that women alone debate when they see a strange man. Swearing under her breath, she got out of the car while opening her own umbrella, tomato-red with white polka dots. She dialed nine, then one, before she crossed the quiet street until they stood close enough to be heard over the incessant drum of the downpour.

“Did you call someone?” she asked.

It was almost like he didn’t see her until she spoke; nothing about his posture or demeanor changed, and then he became . . . real, as though life was breathed into him by her speech alone. But then there was breath in his lungs, blood flowing through his limbs.

And what limbs. He was tall, interestingly so, with wide shoulders, and the rest of him hidden in the shadow of his umbrella and under a trim peacoat.

“Yes,” he said. “I expect help in the morning.”

It wasn’t so much that he spoke slowly. But each word was so well-enunciated. Not careful, as though he were not a native English speaker, but there weren’t any dropping letters, nothing left behind, every sound crisp like fresh bills.

“The morning?” she said, and couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “Are you—do you need a—”

“I will find a way.”

Parker felt her eyebrows knit together in doubt as she parroted his words back at him. “Do you want to come in while you wait for a cab or whatever?”

He cocked his head a fraction of an inch. “Do you make a habit of inviting strange men into your home?”

She did not make a habit of inviting strange men into her home. This was, in fact, the stupidest offer she could make. But, strangely, she wasn’t afraid of him. If he were going to do something, he could do it now. She’d done the stupid thing already, which was putting this much distance between herself and her house or her car.

“No,” she said flatly, irritated by the train of thought. “But I have a gun. And I’m a good shot.”

His tone didn’t change. “Perhaps you shouldn’t inform them you have a weapon, either.”

She shrugged. “You’d have to beat me to it. Are you coming in or staying in the rain?”

“You’re serious?”

Parker’s eyes widened and her brows lifted, an expression of impatient irritation. “Last chance.” She repeated her question, stretching the syllables.

He smiled, moonlight catching big, white teeth. “I would enjoy that very much.”

The sound of the rain faded to a pleasant, steady hum as he shut the door behind them. He watched, wordlessly, as she kicked off her shoes, dropped her umbrella in the holder, and hung her jacket on the coat rack. She wasn’t supposed to be watching him but there was nothing else to do, nowhere else for her eyes to go. He copied her movements as though they’d done this a million times before.

Parker didn’t want to believe it, but his very presence made the room smaller. He seemed even bigger now, out of his coat. But he was dressed so primly, in slim dark pants, a button-down shirt, and a cardigan sweater. It put her leggings, tee, and flannel to shame.

Those clothes almost didn’t make sense on a man of his size. Neither did that purposeful way of speech. Or that dark, wavy hair, so stylishly coiffed. His brown skin was still a few shades paler than her own, though he was reddish and ruddy in the high points where she was yellow-gold.

Weirdest of all were those eyes. Dark, bleak dark, hooded by a brow that was maybe just this side of too strong. Then he’d blink, and for a moment, really, less than a moment, she would think they were something else entirely. Almost colorless, almost silver, and then he’d blink again and the moment would pass.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked. “Water or tea, maybe? I don’t know how long you were out in the cold.”

“It’s not so cold,” he said, slowly, in a way that was different than the purposeful way he spoke. “But tea would be good.”

Parker nodded and gestured to the dining room table. Most of her house was visible from where they stood. The entryway broke off toward her living room in one direction, and the kitchen in the other, dining room square in the middle. If she wanted to feel refined, she occasionally sat at the table and watched TV.

“So, what happened?” she asked, busying herself with the electric kettle.

He paused in his perusal of the shelves in her living room, holding knickknacks and photos. “Who’s to say?”

“It just died on you?”

He echoed his agreement, running one blunt fingertip over a photo of two teenage girls in braids. “This is you.” It wasn’t a question.

“And my sister, yeah.”

“Your hair is different now.”

She laughed and skated a palm over the curls, downright boisterous where they clamored out around her headband.

“It’s different all the time.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said, and her hands stilled where she was stuffing tea bags into big mugs.

“Thank you,” she managed, after a long time.

That dark-not-dark gaze lingered at the kinky coils before slinking down her body. “You are welcome.”

Her cheeks grew hot and her stomach made a jerky knot. It had been a long time, many pounds and dozens of hairstyles since she’d been the girl in that picture. Nowadays, she was too old to have any patience for men and the way they looked at her. The way they could look through her or make a fetish of her size or her dark skin. She’d done her fair share of dating and hooking up, but it seemed like a long time since any man worth looking for had looked at her like that.

His mouth lifted in the corner and he made to say something but the kettle screamed, and she turned as quick as her feet would carry her to finish the tea.

“Want?” She lifted a bottle of cheap bourbon in the air. He nodded and each mug got a generous pour. It was like they’d done this before too. “I made stew,” she said, to fill the silence. “If you’re hungry. I’m gonna go ahead and eat, but you’re welcome to it, if you want.”

Parker mustered up her courage to cross the room and hand him the mug. It seemed a silly thing to have to find the wherewithal to hand someone a cup. How foolish.

Up close he was bigger still.

She no longer felt foolish.

His gaze on her felt both like a cool breeze and the hot prick- lies. Blink, dark, blink, silver, blink, and dark again.

She’d known it was going to happen when she handed him the mug, that they would touch. But there was no preparing for the charge of it, that touching him even as briefly as fingertips brushing would set her back on her hackles like a horny little cat. It was all she could do to keep herself from hissing. It was almost like being burned, but the best kind.

She pulled back, hugging herself. “Stew?”

He sat at her small, creaky table as she ladled up two bowls, and then, giving him the once-over, brought the whole pot to the table. He glanced in at the rich broth, the hunks of chicken, potatoes, and carrots. If he’d been any other man, he might have rubbed his hands together, his delight was so evident. They ate in silence, and she was perhaps a quarter of the way through her bowl when his was gone.

She gestured to the pot as if to say “help yourself” and he did, scooping another big portion into his bowl and taking a long drink of tea. This was another thing that seemed off because though he ate like the end times were coming, he was so clean. Fluid and precise in his movement, it was the eating equivalent of the way his biceps made that sweater stretch.

“Were you on your way home?” Parker said, to distract herself from watching his spoon travel to his lips.

“No.”

“Family in the area?”

“No.”

“Business?”

“No.”

And so it went on like that, his answers annoyingly monosyllabic, but delivered with such earnest politeness, she found herself both frustrated and grinning. So he was just “passing through,” the Middle of Nowhere, Ohio, on neither business or pleasure.

“I take it that people don’t ask you many questions.”

His spoon hovered in the air, dripping hot broth back into the bowl. “No.” He paused. “That is to say, people ask me many questions. They don’t usually ask me these kinds of questions.”

Parker thought these were pretty basic questions, but she fell silent, wondering what people asked him.

He was halfway through the third bowl before he spoke again. “Most of the time, when people ask me questions they’re greedy, or they mean to trick me. They want to know what they can get out of me.” His voice was harsh at the end, the first time she’d heard anything less than exquisite pronunciation.

She hummed, both surprise and commiseration. He finished his food with an angry tilt to his expression that made her look away and down the rest of her drunken tea.

“May I clear your dishes?” he asked and she looked up, brows lifting.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

He rose and carried her dishes to the sink where she watched as he washed each one with care, then placed them in the drying rack. She came up alongside him as he finished and slid the pot onto the counter. He turned to her, drying his hands on her kitchen towel like an old habit, before settling it back in its place over the oven handle.

Not a drop of water on him.

“Thank you,” he said, solemnly.

“No, it’s nothing. You were stuck out there.”

He shook his head. “You did me a kindness. Three of them. Three kindnesses.”

Parker frowned. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, seriously. “You gave me respite from the weather. You offered me a drink—alcohol, no less! You fed me from your own table.”

There was something weird and old-timey in his speech, something that suddenly made sense of the way he spoke.

“You are beautiful, yes,” he went on, his hands making the shape of her body in the air between them. “But also here,” he said, and tapped his middle finger to his own chest. “You remind me,” he said, a little fiercely, “of . . . another time for me. Of a time before greedy questions.”

Parker swallowed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“But at a risk to yourself,” he said, and frowned too. “Do not do this again.”

She rolled her eyes. “But if I hadn’t—”

“I know.”

“But the gun—”

“I know,” he said, and made a sound close to a laugh. “But still. You should be careful. People do atrocious things to one another.”

“Are you going to do atrocious things to me?” It was a joke, brought on because he was saying more than a couple of syllables at once and because, yes, her tea was spiked so nicely.

The expression that crossed his face was a million things at once: sweet and sly and vicious. Too much for a face so stern and handsome. A smirk that was suddenly too big for a face that couldn’t possibly hold all those teeth.

“You would have to ask me very nicely.”

That thing, that feeling coiled in her stomach, gave a sharp downward pull. Tense desire spooled out from there, making her feel like a warm, taut arrow, ready to be fired.

He never broke eye contact as he shrugged out of his cardigan. He carefully brought the points of the shoulders together before folding it in half again over the back of the dining room chair. He only broke eye contact to undo the buttons at the wrist of his shirt. He popped them open with deft fingers and rolled them back to his elbows. The move—the flick of his wrists and the bunch of the muscles in his forearms—was part businessman, part pugilist.

He came closer and reached out to tug a curl, as if he only wanted to watch it spring back. And then, oh God, that hand. He stroked the back of his fingers down her cheek, a streak of hot fire that burned from her scalp to her jaw. She turned toward it, nuzzled into that big palm.

He dipped his head to brush his cheek along her own, and she realized there was the lightest stubble there, stinging her in a scratching slide that made her bare toes curl. If he could do that with his stubble alone, she was a goner.

Lips brushed her ear. Warm and all tingly-making. “I’m going to kiss you, yes?”

Parker nodded furiously. More scratching. More toe curling. His kiss crept up on her. Across her jaw and her cheek. Soft and sweet. Tasting her, until his lips pressed against the corner of her mouth and then he was kissing her for real. It started gently too, but she pressed for more.

She couldn’t resist wrapping her arms around his neck, bringing him in close and kissing him harder, her mouth begging his, already desperate. He pulled back for air with a hiss that told her she wasn’t alone in her intense wanting.

“I want to touch you.”

“Touch me,” she agreed, and his hands fisted in her flannel, pulling it down her arms. Off. She needed the clothes off because she needed those hands with much more ferocity than she could form the words to say. Their limbs tangled in a frantic rush to undress one another.

“Let me, let me,” she murmured against his mouth, her fingers slipping against those fastidious buttons down the front of his shirt. They were half undone and she was getting a sense for how big, how solid he was. He was strong and muscular, but not for looks. There was nothing pretty about him, nothing created for consumption. It was a body of genetic brawn, maintained through work, not gym time.

“Let me,” he said, and yanked her leggings down and her panties with them.

They were not sexy. They were neon pink and printed with cartoony doughnuts, but they may as well have been invisible because he backed her up and out of the puddle of clothing without so much as a second glance. Her back hit the counter, hard enough to hurt, but Parker could not bring herself to care because he was kneeling, bending that big body down to the ground so he could sling one of her thick thighs over his shoulder. He made a sight, those strange eyes blinking up at her, full of lust and heavy-lidded.

“I like these,” he said, squeezing the flesh of her thighs, kneading it between his long fingers. “And . . . this.” His teeth grazed over her stomach where it peeked out from underneath her tee. That touch alone made her remember why teeth existed.

The corner of his mouth tipped up. “But I think I’ll like this best of all.”

She was so wet. And so quickly. When he used two fingers to show her just what he’d like best, they sank into her with such little resistance she couldn’t be sorry for it. She swore, pushing into his hand. She didn’t know if she was meant to be coy, but she couldn’t. It had been too long and those fingers were big and she was still so needy.

With another glance up the length of her body, with those eyes that made her think somehow of promises, he put his mouth to her. His kiss was as exquisite there, his lips and his tongue working in tandem with those fingers.

His mouth on her pussy was as the rest of him: intense, blunt, and particular. Her clit was fat and swollen, and being played so expertly, she was trembling in a matter of seconds. He focused on the task so completely, he’d closed his eyes, giving himself over to it.

Parker swore, reaching back to grip the countertop. It was almost too much, an impossible pleasure rushing to its conclusion and taking her along for the ride, a limp body on the back of a galloping horse. And yet, she was desperately trying to hold on and control it, contorting herself one way, then the other, rising on tiptoe, unsure if she was trying to get closer or pulling away.

Both of those big hands clapped down at her hips and stilled her. Somehow, he pulled her pussy in closer to his face, his nose brushing against her clit when his mouth wasn’t. There was a sound, a filthy wet noise as he worked, and then.

He grunted.

A grunt shouldn’t have mattered. But the thing about it was that there was no way to make that grunt in the same meticulous way he spoke. That was the grunt of a fucking brute, of a man sat down to a fine feast, and she’d reduced him to it. He opened his eyes as he repeated the sound, sucking her clit into his mouth, his tongue running against that place on the underside.

Then. That spooling desire snapped, that arrow fired off. There were lots of things it could have felt like: sparks, fireworks, bright flame. Instead, it was a wash of dark water. Rolling over her, pulling her under. His mouth on her, the way he kept sucking and licking and stroking made it seem as though she was never going to surface, never going to come up for air.

She heard herself gasp and whine, her hips grinding against his face, with absolute shamelessness, driven to it by the most amazing orgasm of her life. She held his gaze as she moved through it—as that orgasm fucking blew her apart—and that black-silver look was warm on her own.

He pulled away slowly, sure she could stand on her own two feet before he brought her in for a kiss. That one was crushing and consuming, and she tasted herself on him. He rocked against her in a motion that felt out of control, that made her want him more. They parted, but only so he could cradle her face in his hands, touch her forehead with his own.

“It’s a start,” he murmured.

Half in a daze, Parker said, “What’s a start?”

“One done. Two more. For each kindness you’ve given me,” he added, when she pulled away, looking confused.

“You think, you only—” She broke off with a frown.

He shook his head. “No. There are many ways to have repaid you. I choose this one, because I’m lucky enough that you’d let me.”

Parker stuttered out a laugh. “I didn’t invite you in from the rain so you’d go down on me.”

The response was his first real smile. Small, but there. “I know. That is the fun.”

She shook her head, still disbelieving. For the first time, it occurred to her that she might be dreaming, but her body was still pulsing and her coffee mug was where she’d left it that morning and when she pinched herself it hurt. “Who are you? What’s your name, even?”

He pursed his lips, his face drawing in tight, his expression a strange mix of exasperation, suspicion, and delight. He leaned in, another kiss, this one an apology.

“Will you let me stay? Two to go, if you recall.”

Parker laid her hands flat against his chest. “Yes,” she agreed with a tiny laugh.

She asked him again in the night, she was sure. For a name to say, and she thought perhaps he might have whispered it in the quiet of the moment right before she fell asleep, but if so it was like the last second of a dream: mostly gone before waking.

As was he. Man. Cardigan. Shoes. Umbrella. Car. All gone when she rose the next morning. But both bowls were in the drying rack, and her soup pot was still on the counter. Real, then.

Parker went about setting her home to rights again. She turned on her coffee pot and opened the curtains to let in the sunlight, which seemed richer and brighter for all the rain the night before. She was even smiling as she picked up the previous night’s clothes from the kitchen floor.

She knew, though, that no one would mind doing chores, if they’d come as many times as she had the night before. As she loaded the washer, she realized that the tables were turned. In his currency of choice, she was now the one in debt.

Well.

If he showed up, looking to collect, her door was most certainly open.

THE (RE) EDUCATION OF TRUVI ANDERSON

Renee Dominick

The minute she’d walked out of the courthouse, official divorce papers in hand, Truvi Anderson had set out to make up for lost time. Her entire adult life, she’d only had sex with one man: her husband, Kyle, whose idea of marital relations was for Truvi to spend three or so minutes on her back in the pitch dark, while he pounded into her and grunted in her ear like a rooting pig.

Her friends talked about men who used sex toys on them, or blindfolded them, or even tied them up. Men who licked their pussies and more. Truvi’s husband wanted no part of what he called harlot sex. Not with her, anyway.

She was forty when she discovered Kyle had a hidden life full of porn and women he paid for sex, but it took her four more years to gather the courage—and the means—to leave him. And in the months since her divorce, with the signs of menopause tapping her on the shoulder like an unwelcome intruder, Truvi still hadn’t gotten it together. She kept attracting missionary-loving, rooting-pig-men like a fucking super-magnet.

Something had to give, and it took her monthly lunch meet-up with her oldest girlfriends—Inadequacy Hour, as Truvi liked to call it—to force her to start thinking outside the box. Carmen and Gina had been talking about “smart” everything. Smart phones, smart speakers, smart TVs, even the refrigerator and thermostat, all listening in on their lives.

“You have to be careful,” Gina said. “They record everything, then they send the data to some server farm and monitoring teams watch and listen so they can refine the voice commands and shit. They can look right in through your webcam and everything.”

“I don’t—that’s not really how it works.” Truvi laughed and nervously scratched her throat. “Is it?”

“It is,” Gina insisted. “One company had to send out warnings to its customers. The mic and camera are always on. Watching you. Listening to you.” She wriggled her fingers spookily.

“Wouldn’t it be hysterical to test it, though?” Carmen said. “Fuck in front of the TV while some dude watches from a server farm in Kuala Lumpur or goddamn Walla Walla, Washington. Like, leave them a note?” She switched to a low, sultry voice. “Hey, baby. Are you watching us?”

Truvi still wasn’t sure that’s how it worked, but she did know one thing. She was sick to death of being the most sexually unsophisticated adult in the room, and the notion, the possibility of doing something so . . . indecent, dropped like a perfect little seed into her brain and sent out wispy roots. What if she could test it? Not that she’d fuck a Tinder date in front of the TV. She didn’t want to bore anyone. But . . . she could pleasure herself.

And like that, the seed’s wispy roots burrowed into her brain and took hold.

* * *

Truvi had gotten very good at educating herself about all sorts of things—leases, TVs, dating apps—and now she would learn to navigate a world she had hardly known existed five years ago.

Acquiring a new email address reserved just for her new adventure was the simple part. It was finding the right person to help her that was the sticky bit. She wanted this to be sexy, not pathetic. If anyone was watching from Kuala Lumpur or wherever, she didn’t want them to see a woman robotically masturbating like a test subject in a psych lab. She wanted to provide an anonymous thrill. To get where she wanted to go, she needed a partner. A cam boy. Someone who could make her forget what she was doing while she was doing it. The kind of fantasy man who would probably never swipe on her dating profile.

Someone who would make her warm and wet.

She spent days scouring live-cam sites, but finally, finally, she found him.

Roman. His name was Roman.

His photo and bio made her scrolling finger slow down, but it was the ten-second clip of him gripping his own erection— and then the fade out on the cocky-ass smile he directed straight into the camera—that made the decision for her.

She bookmarked him on her laptop, but it wasn’t until a few days later that she mustered the nerve to make contact. After she made an account, a second window popped up, a checkerboard of active webcams. Words blinked in a blank space below.

What can I do for you, baby?

I’d like to chat with Roman, Truvi typed.

. . . One moment while we process your request . . .

Three dots came and went in the box. She was on hold? Real sexy, she thought with a laugh. The checkerboard switched to a single box with the video blurred out.

“Hello. This is Roman.”

A double-shot of lust warmed her right up, and with a jolt. Roman, it turned out, spoke in an intimate, gravelly English accent. Truvi hadn’t been expecting that at all.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“I’m T—”

What she thought was an intentional blur must have simply been him adjusting things on his end, because Roman suddenly came into full HD as he stepped back, and oh, lord-Jesus he struck her speechless. The ten seconds of that low definition, thumbnail preview she’d seen the day she first discovered him hadn’t done him anywhere near justice. His voice alone had her nipples ripening for attention, but his bare upper body in motion caused a deep, demanding ache between her thighs. He was all curves and firm planes, surely built to haul an eager woman straight to hell. And she was eager. His lower half was still covered, but the top button of his blue jeans was undone, and his fingers traced the outline of his penis.

She swallowed hard and started over. “H-hello, Roman. I’m Truvi. I’d like to make an . . . um . . . appointment. For later. Is that done?”

“I can do that, sure. It costs a little extra, though.”

“That’s fine,” Truvi said with a decisive nod.

“All right, then. Did you have anything specific in mind? Something I need to plan for?”

“No. Just you, your mouth-watering abs and your bare . . . cock.” She didn’t know where she dredged up the daring, but saying the word cock out loud like that—with barely a hitch, as if she said it in everyday conversation—made her feel bold and dirty, in the best possible way.

Roman didn’t even flinch. “Brilliant. What time, love?”

Love. Funny what one perfect word spoken in a luscious accent could do to her lady-parts. Truvi squeezed her thighs, enjoying in the low-voltage current of sexual excitement that passed through her body. “Can you do later this morning . . . my time?” She glanced at the clock. She still had some last-minute preparations to make. “An hour from now?”

“I can make that work. Type in your email. I’ll send you a direct link when it’s time.”

Truvi entered her new address before she could overthink.

A moment later, he smiled up at her. The same sexy grin that had buckled her knees just seeing it in a thumbnail. “Dewy-Truvi. I like it. See you in a wink, then.”

A violent flush rushed up from the pit of her stomach to the roots of her hair, making her skin tingle all over. The video box went dark, and for a moment, Truvi stared at the empty space, paralyzed by the reality of having her plan in motion. Who did she think she was? What did she think she was doing?

She shook her figurative self by the shoulders. You’re Truvi Marlene Anderson, and you’re stepping up, that’s what. Stretching your wings for an AI—and maybe-possibly an anonymous set of interested eyes—watching through the TV’s webcam.

The seed planted at that lunch had sprouted into a robust vine, its curly little tendrils spiraling outward, anchoring it tight in the cracks and crevices of her mind. She had to gain confidence in her own appeal somehow, and if the notion of being spied on while she masturbated to an orgasm helped, so be it.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Truvi marched to the bathroom. If she was going to turn exhibitionist, she wanted everything on view looking good.

She had shaved all but a narrow rectangle of hair from between her legs. A landing strip, she’d seen it called, and the imagery had tickled her. Now she smoothed lightly scented sensual oil from her throat to her feet, her hands skimming over the soft, rounded curves of her arms and breasts, belly, and legs. Kyle had never shown much interest in learning her body, not beyond the time he’d pinched her nipples and made her flinch when they were teenagers. He’d missed out. Truvi liked the feel of herself under her own hands.

She shrugged into a short robe and padded back to the living room to turn on the TV. It may always be listening, but to be certain of the seeing part, Truvi checked that the webcam was enabled. Then, turning her back to the screen, she bent over the coffee table, flashing her bare ass and giving it a little wiggle. Hopefully, whoever monitored these things would sit up and take notice. She picked up a sign she’d made—bold black letters on white paper—and taped it to the wall behind the sofa.

TELL ME, DO YOU LIKE WHAT YOU SEE?

DewyTruvi at hawtmail dot com

She’d written it out that way on purpose, thinking that if she got a reply, it would have taken a human to work out the address.

Everything was set. Now she just had to wait for Roman.

The clock on the kitchen wall ticked loud in the silence and made her nerves feel jagged-edged. She’d pleasured herself often enough, but alone in the dark, not when someone might see her. And never had she felt so ripe and ready to burst as she did now. As if the smallest touch—a brush of one aching nipple with her thumb, or glide of the tip of her finger following the landing strip right down to the top of her slit—would be all it would take to make her shudder in ecstasy.

If she didn’t back off a notch, she’d spoil the whole plan, so she made herself a cup of herbal tea and nibbled on a chocolate chip cookie while she sipped. But her knee still bounced, her heart still beat erratically, and she could feel every inch of the inside of her throat, it was so thick with anticipation.

Finally, a few minutes from the time she’d given Roman, Truvi took her place in the middle of the sofa and activated both the web browser and the camera on the TV. She logged onto her email account, but there was nothing yet, so while she waited, she untied her robe and pushed the satiny material to the sides, then she slouched back.

When she switched the screen to the webcam view, her heart thumped. Christ, but she made a sight, her feet on the table, her knees spread, her newly bared mound visible for some stranger to gaze at. Potentially.

A notification popped up in the corner of the screen. This was it. Truvi switched from the camera view to her email, drew a deep breath, and clicked on the link.

Roman’s image resolved onto the TV, bigger and clearer than when she’d been using her laptop. He stood close enough to his camera to allow her the illusion he was in the room. He looked amiable rather than cocksure. Calm. And so fucking delicious. She ran a finger through the air, traced his shoulder and arm from one muscle to the next, imagined the warmth and sleekness of his skin.

“Are you there, Truvi?” he asked.

The question drew her back to reality. “Oh. Hey. Hi. Yes.” She clenched her teeth to stop herself from babbling. “Um, Roman?”

He bent closer to his camera. “Yes, love?”

She shivered again at his voice, a cool, mercury trail shimmering down her spine. “This is . . . a first for me. I’m a little, I don’t know. Unsure.”

“Aw, no, love.” His head tipped at an adorable angle, alluring as Lucifer. “This is about finding pleasure, right? No shame in that.”

“I’m not used to being . . . seen.”

“But that’s the beauty. I can hear you—so you can tell me what you want, what you like—but I can’t see you.”

She glanced at the little eye of the TV’s webcam, where her potential audience would be. “Tell that to the guy eating donuts at the server farm,” she muttered.

“What?” Roman said with a confused laugh.

“Nothing. I just . . . need you to talk me through it for a bit, until I get . . . I don’t know. Lost, I guess.”

“That,” he said, his voice gone rough and suggestive, “I can definitely help with.” He took a sauntering step backward, bringing his hips and thighs into view, along with the sight of him running the base of his palm down the front of his jeans. “Finger your cunt for me, Truvi. Help me get hard.”

Fuck. Yes, that was it.

“All right,” she said, and relaxed her legs, letting her knees fall all the way apart. Her fingers danced tentatively over her shaved flesh, the remains of the body oil making them slick.

He flicked open two buttons on his fly, and the dark tip of his cock came into view. “How do you like your cocks, love? Long enough for a good, slow drag over your clit? Or thick enough to fill you up?”

Her body flared to full life at the brutish question. Heat and light and a sharp gasp. “I don’t know. Show me more.”

Roman yanked at his fly, revealing himself one button at a time. Truvi’s spine uncurled and her hips rose, greedy, rocking against the flat of her hand. Roman slipped his fingers into the opening of his jeans, reaching deep, stroking back up. He subjected her to slow torture as he worked the denim apart, revealing his cock in slow increments: crown, shaft, more shaft . . . all the way down to his balls.

“Oh, god, yes,” she moaned.

“I assume that means you like what you see.” He ran his fingers and thumb up his shaft. A firm, slow drag over ridges and veins. “Are you wet for me, Truvi?”

“I’m . . . I’m not touching inside yet,” she said, panting between words. “I want this to last.”

“Dip a finger into your cunt, love. Tell me.” He ran his fingertips back down. “I need to know.”

His instruction caused a sheen of sweat to erupt over her skin. She absolutely wasn’t going to make it long at this rate, but she no longer cared. She did as she was told, slid her finger down through her vulva, curled it into her opening. “I’m wet. So wet.”

Roman uttered a low growl that sounded like yes, and wrapped his long fingers around his cock, dragging back hard like he’d done in the preview she’d seen. Then he did it again, and again, and again, as if he couldn’t stop himself. “I have to sit down, is that okay?”

“Absolutely.” She watched him through half-lidded eyes, her fingers mirroring his, smoothing up and down, slipping through her ripe flesh. Roman worked his pants to his ankles and spread his legs wide, too, then ran his thumb down the length of his cock, pressing it down hard before he began stroking again. Stroking hard, and harder. Truvi worked her fingers in a hypnotic figure eight—up around her clit, down into the feverish heat inside her—until her juices merged with the oil, and her fingertips slipped and slid across her flesh with growing frenzy. She wanted to feel everything, everywhere, all at once. “I want your cock here, Roman. So bad.”

“Where, Truvi?”

“Against me. Inside me.”

A groan rolled from the speakers, scraping over her as surely as if he were here with her. “And I want your pussy all over my cock, love. I hear you panting and moaning. Wait for me.” He pulled harder, his wrist flexing, adding torque to his movements.

“Talk to me, Roman.” Truvi pushed two fingers inside herself and worked them in and out, again and again, her thrusts matching his pace.

“Fuck, I can hear how wet you are, Truvi. Fuck.” His fist rose and fell, each landing with an agonized grunt. “Is that your hand or a toy? Tell me.”

“Fingers,” she said, her voice thready now.

“Work your clit, Truvi. I need you to do that. Circle it, nudge it around, I want to hear you gasp.”

“I am, I—” She pulled back her skin, further exposed the small bundle so she could do what he asked. “Oh, god, yes . . .”

“Don’t stop the juicy finger-fucking, Truvi. Fuck, do not stop that.”

Her thumb on her clit, her fingers deep in her cunt, Truvi’s gasps turned to moans, and then sharp cries. Filthy, dirty words. His name. The ways she dared to imagine being fucked by him. All of it.

“God, there’s a sound a man can’t resist,” he said, his head back, his throat straining. His hand grew furious, blurred. “Come on, baby. Come with me.”

Truvi pressed in, stroking through the soft depression inside her, behind her clit, while her thumb circled outside. Her ears buzzed as her body twisted higher and tighter, her orgasm barreling down from behind her eyes, racing toward her cunt. Groans, his and hers, and—

“Oh, fuck me!” She came in a fierce, rolling tide of spasms, her ass rising clear of the sofa as her body went rigid. It went on and on, sucking her under. And the animal whine she could hear in the room? It was her.

Struggling to breathe, she collapsed back in time to watch

Roman let loose a strangled shout, to see his semen trail out across his belly.

“Fuck. Me,” Truvi said again, this time in a riveted whisper.

They sat there together, half a world apart, coming down from the high with heavy breaths. Roman sprawled over the back of his chair like an athlete who’d left everything on the field, and Truvi, boneless on her sofa, a shit-eating grin on her face.

Eventually, he lifted his head and looked straight into the camera. “Bloody fucking hell, Truvi.”

She laughed, a quiet, breathy snort. “Is bloody fucking hell good or bad?”

“It’s bloody fucking brilliant.”

The sight of him wiping the trail of come across his abdomen with the side of his hand almost did her in again. Her body clenched and clamored, begged for more, but he’d taken his shot, and her time was up. Live time, anyway. She would always have her memory of this, for when she needed it. She traced a finger through her crease, unleashing little zips of unspent voltage.

“All good?” he asked as he bent to grab the waistband of his jeans. The lazy smile on his face served as a good reminder. This was what he did. It was an act. A service performed for people like her. Lonely people, or awkward people, or people who liked their sex quick and dirty. Or functional and impersonal. Only, it hadn’t felt impersonal to her. Not at all.

It had been the most sexually intimate experience of her entire life.

“Very good,” she assured him. “Tell me. You say bloody fucking hell to all the girls and boys, right?”

He glanced up. “I really don’t.”

Roman. He looked adorable and serious and she kind of loved him for making the effort. He stood then, giving her a nice, close-up view of his cock, still eye candy even when it was starting to flag.

“A show-er, are you?” she said to him, hoping he could hear the fond note in her teasing.

“It’s a good qualification for the job, don’t you think?” he asked, putting himself on garish display for her one last time before he buttoned up.

Truvi grinned. “Bloody brilliant.”

His laugh was deep and genuine. “So, you’re definitely all right? Well satisfied?”

“Perfect, Roman. I’m perfect.”

“I’m here for you any time, lovely.”

“I won’t forget.”

They disconnected, and a moment later, a notification popped up in the corner of the TV screen. An email from an address she didn’t recognize. Truvi’s heart beat triple time. Was it the people in Walla Walla or Kuala Lumpur or wherever the hell? Had they really watched?

Her finger trembled as she clicked the remote control to open the email. But it wasn’t from voyeurs sitting in a server farm.

Maybe next time you’ll let me watch, too, it said. I’d really like to. That was bloody fucking hot.

Her shit-eating grin blossomed again. Who needed a pair of anonymous eyes in Walla Walla when she had Roman? “Maybe,” she said to the empty room. “Just maybe.”

THE SIZE OF LOVE

Sally Bend

Christine groaned as she slid her stocking-clad feet back down from atop the dashboard. She knew it wasn’t safe for them to be up there, but forty-five minutes into an empty stretch of rural road made her brave, and over eight hours into a mysterious drive made her restless.

As they turned off the dirt road, a flash of headlights revealed the bottom part of a wooden signpost leaning against the remains of a sagging chain-link gate. “Um, I love a good surprise as much as the next girl,” she mused, “but where the hell are we?” The dirt road seemed to go on forever. There was nothing but open fields on either side. In the distance, though, she could just make out a cluster of buildings.

Rhonda slammed on the brakes so hard the car fishtailed in the dirt. “Why, right here, of course!”

Christine undid her seatbelt and strained forward until it was her chin on the dash instead of her feet. She turned her head and tilted it up, just barely able to read the sign arching over the roadway. “Putterly Amuzements?”

Without warning, the car jerked ahead. With a hiss of dirt and gravel, they sped through what appeared to be an empty gravel parking lot, toward buildings that still seemed impossibly far away. It was only as the car came to a stop, the headlights splashing against the backside of a castle wall, that she realized it wasn’t the distance that made the buildings look small but their size.

They were parked before a miniature medieval-looking village, overgrown with weeds and sagging badly, but still a sight that filled the car with joy.

The doors unlocked as Rhonda turned off the car. “Shall we, Princess?”

Christine tugged on her shoes as she tumbled out of the car. She still didn’t know why her girlfriend had brought her here, but she was always eager to explore somewhere secret and abandoned. “It would be an honor, milady.”

The two lovers walked hand-in-hand through the ruins of a medieval-themed miniature golf course. There were castles and village huts, blacksmith forges, witches’ caves, and the crumbling ruin of what, if you used enough imagination, could have been a dragon’s mountaintop lair. The soft shadows of night cast by the half moon above gave the place a dreamlike quality that made such imaginative thoughts come easy.

“Close your eyes, Princess.” Christine let herself be led by the hand. She felt them walk up the curve of a hill, or perhaps a bridge, and then squealed in surprised delight as her lover lifted her over some unseen obstacle. She sensed the change in darkness as they continued. Her pulse quickened in anticipation.

A soft kiss over each eye was her signal to open wide. “Oh, Rhonda . . .” They were in the clearing of a castle courtyard with crumbling turrets in each corner and a sagging faux-wooden drawbridge to her right.

What had her nipples jousting into the warm summer air, though, were the three statues within that courtyard. In her younger days—before HRT, before Rhonda, before coming out— she’d developed a fondness for mannequins while loitering in the women’s wear department at places like K-Mart and Sears.

She approached the princess first. The pink of her weathered gown bled into the dirty white of her petticoats. Christine nuzzled the cold, damp crook of the statue’s neck. She pressed her chest against the royal bosom and felt the scrape of pitted concrete against her breasts. A shudder ran through her body, her nipples and breasts still tender with new growth.

Back in her cross-dressing days, her gaze would linger on the mannequins, wishing she had the curves and the courage to wear such scandalous clothes in public. She would talk to them, commenting on the women who shopped without reservation, and sometimes commiserating over smirking salesgirls who she imagined were just as cruel to the sexless, genderless mannequins as they were to her.

She pushed away from the princess and twirled into the unforgiving embrace of the queen, her stone arms stretched out before her, with but a single curled talon remaining to mark her as wicked. She humped against the queen’s stiff robes, grinding the illusion of her well-tucked sex against the cruel illusion of the queen’s softness. Before pulling away, she spat in the statue’s face. Her body quivered in arousal at the sight of damp saliva glistening between the hooked nose and thin lips.

After her parents had thrown her out, she’d lived in the attic of her aunt’s townhouse. It wasn’t much, but she’d filled a secondhand dresser with bras and panties and stockings, and hung an assortment of dresses and skirts from hooks twisted into eaves. The house sat cater-cornered to a cemetery, with the statue of an angel half-turned her way that appeared to gaze up into the tiny window. Visible only from the breasts up, her angel’s eyes appeared more erotic than spiritual in the harsh, halogen glow of the streetlights. She used to dance before her, all the while wishing the angel would rise and make her dreams come true.

With a haughty flip of her ponytail, she sauntered over to the witch. She draped her arms about its neck in a lover’s embrace. She kissed abrasive lips and groaned as her tongue found a crack into which it could wiggle. She turned sideways and thrust her ass out until it met with the long, hard shaft of the broomstick that still stood tall despite the absence of the hand that once held it. That position forced her chest downward, her nipples scraping against the witch’s dress.

Her breath came short. Her pulse quickened. Her cheeks flushed. She pushed harder against the broomstick and pressed her breasts against the witch. She rubbed the erect nipples up and down against the hardness of painted concrete. With a kind thought for the princess who’d first aroused her, and a loving one for the woman she knew was watching, Christine gave herself to the witch. She felt the ripples of a mini orgasm spread throughout her body. She hooked her fingers in an unconscious imitation of the green hand hovering before her. She’d been warned this kind of wanton pleasure was only temporary, a gift from the estrogen gods that would fade once the forced puberty of breast growth caught up with the reality of her forty-plus years, but she appreciated it all the more for knowing it was fleeting.

The orgasm faded. She melted against the witch. Temporarily satiated, she looked over to find Rhonda sitting on the plastic grass of the green, legs spread wide, with the first three fingers of one hand plunging in and out of her sex. “You’re such a sexy little bitch, Princess,” she groaned.

“Like you didn’t want it to happen,” she teased.

The other woman’s fingers plunged faster. “Hot and cold, soft and hard, pliant and unyielding.” She had her palm pressed against her body now, rubbing her clitoris while those fingers danced below. “The budding, blossoming young woman and the rotting, frozen old hag. Fuck, you know how contrasts make me hot!”

“My dominant nerd!” Christine dropped to the prickly turf and crawled between her lover’s legs. “How about the teacher and the student?” she asked softly. “The new girl and the old girl? The Princess and the Mistress?” Normally she would wait for some sign of approval, some gesture of invitation, but she gambled on permission having already been granted in bringing her here. She nipped at the blur of fingers and then licked them as the hand withdrew. She opened her mouth and welcomed their thrust inside. With the taste of feminine arousal filling her mouth, she sucked the fingers, tonguing the damp crevices between them.

The moment the hand was gone, she plunged her face into the warm, wet valley of Rhonda’s sex. She sucked at the loose lips of her labia, tugging them softly with her lips as she worked her way down one side and up the other. She luxuriated in the tactile sensations as much as the taste, finding her own pleasure in the evidence of her partner’s arousal. With a wiggle of her chin and a poke of her nose, she pressed her mouth deep between those labia, her tongue plunging into the hole from which those tasty fingers had come. She tongue-fucked the other woman, pressed against her, rocking her head up and down.

“Clit,” the other woman snapped. “Now.”

She didn’t hesitate. She dragged her face upward, further anointing herself with the juices of Rhonda’s arousal. She kissed the clitoris above, standing proud and tall, flushed with arousal. She flicked at it with her tongue. With a deep breath, she pressed her face tight and sucked it hard. She held it inside her mouth, knowing the exquisite pain the additional rush of blood would bring, before releasing it with a contented moan. She dragged the length of her tongue against just its tip, feeling the hood slip back, and then licked circles around that fleshy nubbin with her tongue.

When a hand moved atop her head, she surrendered to its push. She wiggled her tongue back into that wondrous hole again and thrilled at the feeling of Rhonda’s experienced fingers rubbing and tweaking her clitoris, the knuckles grazing her forehead.

She felt her lover’s climax before she tasted it. Rhonda thrust upward so hard Christine was nearly knocked back, but she was used to this. She was prepared for it. She pushed back, thrilling to the ample thighs closing about her head, the other woman’s entire body trembling with orgasm. When she came it was with a spray of arousal that filled Christine’s mouth. She lapped up every drop. She thrilled to the evidence of her lover’s orgasm even as a small part of her felt guilty over the very different evidence staining her panties.

Rhonda pushed her away, but she resisted. She pressed her tongue inside once more, seeking one last taste while she waited for the inevitable tug on her ponytail. When it came, she knew it was time to put aside bratty teasing and demonstrate loving obedience.

“Fuck, that was good, Princess. You eat pussy like nobody I have ever met.”

“Nobody obsesses over pussy like a trans-girl,” she replied, “and nobody worships it like a submissive.” She laid her head upon Rhonda’s pale white flesh, the gold belly button ring pressing against her cheek. “Just your luck to find a lover who’s both, I guess.”

“No woman was ever luckier.”

As her girlfriend shifted, Christine reluctantly removed her head. She watched, curious, as Rhonda rolled over and reached a hand into her purse. When it came back out, it was holding the most beautifully bizarre doll she had ever seen.

“Oh, Mistress!” She leaned forward, longing to take that doll into her hands. She tilted her head this way and that, examining what she could see of the doll through Rhonda’s fingers. It was a full-figured woman, with what appeared to be the equivalent of DDD-cup breasts, a well-rounded shelf-ass, and gloriously powerful thighs.

Long before they became Mistress and Princess, back when they were making the transition from casual acquaintances to best friends, it had been shared size fetishes over which they’d first bonded.

For Christine, the same Barbie dolls that had been the final straw for her parents had taken on new meaning with puberty. What those plastic women represented shifted, with who she wanted to be (a woman) merging with what she wanted to be (a doll). She went from dreams of looking like a doll to fantasies of being a doll, carried about in the bras and panties of beautiful women, compressed and consumed by their feminine sexuality.

“She’s exquisite. Who is she?”

“She’s a prototype,” her lover responded. “A scale model mock-up of two very special people.”

She could see the lust in Rhonda’s eyes and that excited her even more. For her girlfriend, the size fetish had always been sexual, prompted by Saturday afternoon matinees of old B movies like Village of the Giants. Having long been bullied for being a fatty and tormented for being a lezzy, she’d fallen in love with the fantasy of size. She’d started scrawling the names of her bullies on her dolls before masturbating with those plastic effigies. When she was done, she’d break them, burn them, and bury them.

Christine shifted closer. She giggled at the resemblance. “She kind of looks like us.”

“No kind of about it.” Rhonda caressed the doll’s curves. “She’s our idealized beauty. The legs, ass, and hips of my dreams”—she turned the doll in her hands—“and the waist, breasts, and face of yours.” She brought their mini-me up to her face and kissed its ample breasts. “As I said, a prototype, but I have every confidence she’ll resemble us both in time.”

Christine grinned. “You’re not going to bury us here when you’re done, are you?”

“No, but we are going to break you, my pretty little bitch.”

She was already swooning with the pleasure of that promise, so the gentle pressure of Rhonda’s hand on her budding breasts was more than enough to lay her down on the dirty, leaf-strewn turf. Surrounded by statues and about to be filled by a doll, she hiked up her skirt and wiggled out of her panties.

A gasp followed the spreading of her legs. “Princess?” There was a mixture of wonder and worry in Rhonda’s voice. “First of all, where did you learn to tuck like that?” She shook her head softly. “Second of all, how have you managed to stay tucked all day?”

Christine smiled. “Do you like it? Chantal, from the Community Health Center, taught me.” She looked into her lover’s eyes and knew the discomfort of the long drive had been worth it. “You push those yucky testicles up inside, push the useless tube of flesh back, and then tug the sac around it, sort of like building a bun around the hotdog. A little surgical glue and you’ve got a pretty little camel toe.”

“Fifteen years together, Princess, and you never cease to amaze me.”

They had an unwritten rule between them about not touching the one thing that betrayed Christine’s past, but she was too overwhelmed with desire to stop the other woman from planting a single kiss between those faux-labia.

“No pressure from me,” Rhonda whispered, “you know that, but I can’t wait until the day the only thing you’re tucking is my tongue inside you.”

“Stop it.” Christine sniffed. “We’re supposed to be getting all kinky and here you’ve nearly got me crying.”

“Who knows, maybe I want you emotionally vulnerable.” She watched as her lover reached back and pulled a bottle of baby oil from her purse. “Maybe I want you all messed up and desperate.” She didn’t just lube the doll with baby oil, she smothered it. “Maybe I want to take you low . . .”

Christine gasped as the doll head pushed inside her ass.

“So I can take you high.”

With that, her lover began working the doll, turning and twisting it as she pushed, loosening her up until the shoulders were able to slip inside. It hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt. She bore down on the doll. She gasped as its ample breasts slipped inside as well. They weren’t pointy, but the massive peaks seemed to catch her flesh in a way most plugs and dildos didn’t. Once the cleavage had passed the barrier that was her sphincter, her body quickly drew it deeper, before a tug from Rhonda paused it at its waist.

There was a smile spreading across Rhonda’s face that made Christine’s already hard nipples tingle with excitement. The other woman had something planned, and the way her lips pulled back, revealing the chipped front tooth about which she was usually so self-conscious, promised she was going to like it.

“Oh sweet mother of oh my fucking god!” Christine curled her hands into fists as her body began to shake. “Tell me you didn’t,” she panted. “Not even you are that devious.”

Her lover laughed, long and loud. “Oh, did I neglect to mention she’s fully functional?”

What Rhonda pushed or squeezed, how she controlled it, Christine had no idea, but suddenly the vibrator hidden in the doll’s torso, the one massaging her prostate through its breasts, began pulsing. She felt the familiar warmth spreading through her body, beginning with that weird feeling like she had to pee, but slowly giving way to something more pleasurable. The orgasm spread its tendrils throughout her body, making everything from the top of her head to the tips of her toes tingle.

It was this, the slow build and sustained peak, that made her feel most like a woman. Her useless appendage hadn’t grown hard in years, but she still remembered tugging it in her youth, exploding fast and fading even faster, feeling guilty and ashamed after. This was nothing like that. This was an orgasm that seemed to build forever, enveloping more and more of her body as it took her higher and higher, soaring into femininity.

“What’s the matter, Princess? You look uncomfortable. Should I stop?”

“No!” she cried out with her teeth planted firmly in her bottom lip. “Please, Mistress, please don’t stop. I’m afraid I’ll never find my way back if you do, and you’re working all kinds of magic on me right now.”

“So . . . maybe this would be a better idea?”

The doll shuddered for a moment and then those vibrations began pulsating faster until it was almost a continuous buzz, but one with stolen breaths in between. It was precisely the measured cadence that lifted her to the glorious heights of euphoria every time.

“My love, my love, my love!” The orgasm reached its plateau. She held her breath, willing the pleasure to linger just a little longer, until she began to see stars. When she finally allowed herself that desperate gasp of breath, the orgasm began to fade, slowly settling back down to a pleasant buzz.

Christine melted into the warm turf, feeling the new damp spot beneath her. She didn’t like that such mind-blowing pleasure made her leak, but Rhonda never complained. She called it her girl-juice, and she liked to run her fingers through it when they were done.

The way the moonlight fell on the statues around her, she could almost imagine they were glowing with envy, aroused by the act of watching something they would never experience. Christine had once shared a similar yearning for the feminine experience, one that grew stronger—and more frustrated— every time she and Rhonda shared a bed, but with a lot of patience, a lot of love, and a lot of hormones, it was finally within reach.

As her lover lay down beside her, she turned into her embrace and cried.

The best orgasms always did that to her.

ANTARCTICA

Donna George Storey

Haruki rarely watches me pack for a business trip, but he wanted to see what I’d be taking to a “women’s sex weekend.” That’s what he called it. The official name was “The Healing Power of Sexual Fantasy for Women.”

He looked vaguely disappointed as I filled my weekend bag with yoga pants, T-shirts, and sweats for pajamas. My friend Maya said it was basically a three-day yoga retreat spiced up with a few hours of “safe and supportive” sexual empowerment exercises. The workshop had gotten great reviews and she was lucky to get a spot for us this year.

I zipped up the bag and slipped my laptop into the outside pocket.

“You’re planning to do work while you’re there?”

“Nah, we’re supposed to do some journaling or something like that. Comfortable clothes, a notebook or laptop to write down your thoughts, and an open mind—that’s what the workshop leader told us to bring in her email.”

“Seems like you’ll have a pretty light suitcase.”

“I’m not sure there’s enough room to pack a husband, if that’s what you have in mind.” I gave him a mischievous smile.

“I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall,” he replied. “Let me know if you learn anything interesting.”

“I will.”

Our eyes met. He walked over and gave me one of his melting, let’s-go-to-bed-early kisses. It was sweet how turned on he was by the idea of this workshop. I was just looking forward to a little “me time.” I might as well be taking “Unleashing Your Inner Artist Through Collage.”

His hand moved to my breast and he gently brushed my nipple, what he affectionately called my “on button.” I felt that delicious tightening in my pussy and let out a soft moan. Haruki moved my suitcase to the floor. I pulled down the blankets. We shimmied out of our clothes and soon our bodies were pressed together, skin to skin, as hungry and desperate as if we hadn’t made love in months, although it had just been a few days.

The workshop was having a positive effect on my sex life already.

“Clitoris!”

“Masturbation!”

“Orgasm!”

Twelve chanting women stood in a circle in a cozy tatami room lit by lanterns out of the Arabian Nights. The floor was scattered with fluffy pillows and the walls were draped with blue, silver, and purple veils. The workshop leader, Melanie, was a handsome woman of about sixty, resplendent in a gauzy gown that matched the room’s color scheme of evening sky. A mane of lush gray hair grazed her shoulders, and her face was illuminated by a serene smile.

Following her lead, we swayed and jumped as we “transformed” each forbidden word and reclaimed our power over shame.

“Feel the power. Let’s go around the circle one more time.”

“Slut!” shouted Sophia, the woman who had gone first. We all repeated the word three times, dancing and gyrating, grins on our faces. Melanie was right. Each time the naughty word left my mouth, the feeling in my core moved from embarrassment to unfettered joy.

“Cunt,” sang Maya.

“Anal sex.” Without really thinking, when my turn came, the words slipped through my lips. The first time I’d gone with the far safer “selfish,” but the group didn’t miss a beat. “Anal sex! Anal sex! Anal sex!”

By the time we finished the exercise we were all flushed and laughing.

Melanie led us through some cool-down stretches and then invited us to make ourselves comfortable for story time. Stretched out on the tatami floor with pillows under my head and knees, her soothing alto made me feel as if I were floating on a river on a summer’s day.

“Our bodies serve us faithfully, they give us strength, pleasure, and freedom, and yet society encourages us to find nothing but fault with our marvelous lifelong friends. Sadder still is the fate of our wonderful minds and erotic imaginations. They are denied, silenced, and ridiculed. We’re told our fantasies will hurt our partners and even our mental health. We’re only allowed to desire a narrow set of proper things. It’s time to talk back to these lies. This weekend we’ll create a space where we love and honor our erotic desires.”

Her voice felt like velvet stroking my skin, filling me with delicious warmth from head to toe. Still, another voice inside whispered that this all sounded great, but what the hell would it even be like to love and honor my dirty mind?

As if she read my thoughts, Melanie went on, “Is this possible, you ask? Indeed, we already have the key to this special world—our sexual fantasies. But first we have to understand the language they speak. Like Spanish or French or German, many of the words seem familiar. Yet if we don’t listen mindfully, we may misread the messages from this intriguing foreign land. Tonight I’d like to share one of my fantasies with you and explore a new way to read it. Remember, if at any time you feel uncomfortable, feel free to take a break in the lounge. They always have freshly baked cookies. They’re fantastic.”

I made a mental note to sample one on the way back to my room.

Then Melanie put her hands to her heart and bowed. “Thank you for joining me in the world of my imagination.” She sat down on a cushion at the front of the room, took several deep breaths, and closed her eyes. I closed mine, too.

“In my fantasy, I am in a doctor’s office, wearing nothing but a blue patient’s gown, open to the front, just as the nurse instructed. She tells me that the world-famous specialist will conduct my examination in the auditorium and guides me through a different door, one I hadn’t noticed when I first arrived. The space is dimly lit, but I can tell I’m in a grand lecture hall with tiers of desks climbing up toward the back of the room. I can’t see faces, but I can feel a hundred curious eyes upon me.

“The nurse leads me to the center of the dais where a reclining chair with divided leg rests awaits me. I scramble up onto the chair and the nurse adjusts it so my legs are slightly parted. Suddenly I feel another presence beside me: a tall man in a white lab coat with salt-and-pepper hair. I can’t see his face but his manner suggests he is used to deference.

“‘Good evening, class,’ he says in a deep voice. ‘We have a very special live demonstration today. I invite you all to come down and gather round so you can observe our subject more closely. We will also be taking a video of the examination, so you can refer to it later.’

“Although I know somehow I’ve volunteered for this, my whole body is burning with embarrassment and arousal. The students shuffle down to the dais. Under veiled eyes, I notice that the earnest young men and women gathered around me are holding clipboards.

“A spotlight snaps on, bathing my body in a warm glow. The doctor clears his throat. ‘Ms. X has been carefully selected for this class because she is highly sexed and a self-avowed exhibitionist. In fact, she confessed to me after previous demonstrations that her climaxes are especially intense when she is brought to orgasm for the purpose of educating medical students in female erotic response.’

“Then the doctor pulls open my gown and runs his hands gently over my naked body as he describes his methodology. ‘First I will caress and kiss the subject’s breasts to illustrate their sensitivity and the concomitant swelling and lubrication of her genitals. Then I will locate her clitoris and outline various methods of stimulating that female organ of pleasure to increase sexual tension in the pelvic region. I encourage you to pay close attention to changes in her vulva throughout this process, and in particular evidence of muscular contractions when she climaxes, which will be evident by loud moans and convulsive movements of the buttocks, legs, and torso. The subject’s orgasmic display is most instructive, and I encourage you to review the tape several times to appreciate her reactions fully.’”

Melanie paused. If she kept on with a detailed description of the “examination,” I might indeed have to excuse myself or risk a public orgasm of my own. I forced myself to take several deep breaths. No one else was running for the door. I could do this.

“The fantasy goes on from there,” she concluded, “but usually that’s all it takes to be . . . effective.”

The tension broke as laughter rippled around the room.

“Now what would the people outside this room call such a fantasy? Perverted? Exhibitionist? A doctor fetish? Let me suggest another word.” Again Melanie paused. “Healing.”

Several women sighed in agreement.

“This has been a go-to fantasy for years, but it didn’t make sense to me. As a teenager, I had a very bad experience at my first gynecological exam. The doctor hurt me and scolded me for crying out. I’ve always chosen women doctors since then, but the pain lingered, unexamined. Yet in my fantasy, beneath the traditional power dynamic, my doctor not only pleasures me, he teaches other doctors to understand what really turns a woman on. Wouldn’t it be a better world if the medical profession respected our sexuality in that way?”

It certainly would. We broke into applause.

Melanie nodded and smiled. “Now your assignment for this evening is to write down one of your own fantasies—on paper or your laptop. I encourage you to bring the scene to life in vivid detail. Fantasies are ridiculous when you reduce them to an elevator pitch: ‘medical students watch while their hot professor brings me to orgasm.’ The real meaning of the scene lies in the beautiful details and the deep feelings. If you have any thoughts on the roots of your fantasy, jot those down as well. Then, I’d like to invite you, on a voluntary basis, to share the fantasy with me by email and sign up for a private session tomorrow so we can name the healing energy of the scene together. My workshop students have told me this is a very empowering experience. However, if you’d like to keep the exercise private, the real benefit comes from focusing on your fantasy for your own enlightenment. We’ll meet here tomorrow at one.”

With that, we wished each other a cordial good night.

“A female Mr. Rogers of sexual fantasy, that’s what she is,” observed Maya as we lounged around on her bed with our chocolate chip cookies.

I laughed. “Yeah, she makes it all seem so wholesome. That’s a shift for a mother figure. One winter break during college, my mom walked in on me while I was rather discreetly engaging in the solitary vice in the rec room downstairs. You know what she said?”

Maya’s eyes widened. “Do tell.”

“‘I think of that as something to share with a partner. What you’re doing is selfish.’ Then she turned and walked out of the room. Of course that didn’t stop me from masturbating, but I always felt a little selfish after that.”

“Melanie invited us to share with her. Is that what your mom had in mind?” Maya’s eyes twinkled.

“Probably not, but I do need to get started on my homework. ‘Sunrise Yoga’ at six?”

“See you there. Have fun being selfish!”

As I headed off to my room, I realized why Melanie had encouraged us to take singles at the retreat center. Privacy was a must for this exercise.

I knew exactly what I had to write about. My go-to fantasy always made me feel exceedingly selfish, but come to think of it, it definitely involved a lot of sharing. I fired up my laptop and created a new file entitled “Antarctica.”

I wondered if Melanie would notice that my choice of forbidden words had given her a preview of the unorthodox sex act I would lovingly describe. Still, this was my truth, origin story and all. The frozen continent has been the quickest way to get me hot for some time. The seeds were planted when a friend of Haruki’s came to visit some years back. Ryan had spent a whole year at McMurdo Station, about 850 miles north of the South Pole. He showed us pictures of his time there—snow and ice, penguins and seals. At the summit of Mount Erebus, twenty-five miles from the station, you can gaze down into a lake of lava that bubbles on through winter days of fifty degrees below zero. It thrilled me that such a frigid landscape could harbor a cauldron in its depths, ready to explode at any moment.

But what I remember best of all is the crazed look in the eyes of the men Ryan worked with. He said there were a few women at the station over the winter, but they attached themselves to boyfriends pretty quickly “for protection.” The other men had to make do one way or another for the duration.

At the time, the idea of all of that frustrated male lust made me feel tingly between my legs. In the decades since then, that feeling blossomed into a scene that never fails to light my fire.

In my fantasy, I’m a psychologist doing research on the effects of the Antarctic winter on mood and cognitive control. Along with two hundred men and a dozen women stationed at the American base, I’ve committed to endure six months of night, relieved only by a few hours of twilight each day. Being savvy to the local sexual politics, I found a steady boyfriend as soon as I arrived, but the other guys keep flirting and some of them are incredibly appealing. As the darkness of June closes in, I tell my boyfriend I’ve had enough of being owned. He can have Tuesdays and Saturdays, but I’ll have the option to invite any other man I fancy to my quarters the rest of the week.

When I inform the fellow of my choice that it’s his lucky night, his eyes light up like the aurora australis. I tease him a little, brushing my backside against his crotch as I pass, smiling when I see his erection. Later that evening, I greet him at my door in nothing but a red satin robe that barely covers my voluptuous buttocks. I’ve tied it so the collar gapes open, giving him a peek of my rosy nipples, already stiff and aching for the wet heat of his mouth.

By way of welcome, I hold out a jar filled with folded rectangles of paper and tell him to close his eyes. On each slip I’ve written a sex act that always brings me to a screaming climax: oral, woman astride, doggy-style, anal. My paramour of the evening reaches in with an eager, trembling hand.

Other times, when I’m feeling selfish, I tell him there’s no sex lottery tonight, what I’m really in the mood for is to have my ass fucked bareback because studies have shown that hormones in semen have a calming effect on the female nervous system. A direct deposit in the ass will be the surest way to get maximum benefits. With all the claustrophobia of the Antarctic winter, regular doses of come help me keep both oars in the water.

But first I make my lover promise he’ll treat my backside with exquisite care. He has to warm me up for a good long time, then fuck me nice and slow with plenty of lube until I’m ready to come. Then he can go wild, but he absolutely has to shoot his come deep inside me for maximum absorption of his seed. I tell him if he can’t follow directions, I’ll send him out to find a colleague who will.

He swears he’ll please me, so I lead him to my bed and shrug off the red satin robe. He gasps at the sight of my naked breasts and carefully groomed bush. I pull him against my bare flesh and kiss him gently, then with more urgency, welcoming him deep into my mouth. He can’t help moaning, a low and desperate sound, so grateful is he for this chance to be with a woman. I let him suckle and fondle my breasts until my nipples are throbbing. All the while I stroke his cock; the tip weeps a few sweet tears of hunger for my body. When I’m so wet that my own thighs are slick with juice, I tell him to set up the special bench for anal and doggy-style that one of the engineers at the base made to my specifications. I bend over to rest my stomach on the narrow platform and plant my knees on the special supports to keep my legs steady. I designed the contraption so that my breasts hang free and my vulva is positioned over a wide opening that also allows access from below.

At my instruction, my lover secures me to the fuck bench with thick leather straps. The feeling of constriction excites me. As the leather warms to my skin, it feels like my lover is firmly embracing me, even as he positions himself behind me, ready to carry out his duty. He hands me my vibrator, turned to a slow purr. I press the tip to my clitoris and tell him it’s time to play.

He begins by stroking my ass cheeks with his fingertips, then gradually circles closer to the tender cleft. He slides a finger down the sensitive valley and taps my anus lightly. I pull the vibrator away, the better to prolong the delicious electric jolts in my belly and thighs. True to his pledge, he continues to tease and torment my forbidden orifice with one hand, while tweaking my nipple wantonly with the other.

I grunt and moan without restraint. I want the sounds of my pleasure to carry. I know that on any given night, several male colleagues have their ears pressed to my bedroom door while they jerk off.

The diligent attention to my asshole makes me so crazy with lust that before long I’m sobbing for my partner to fuck my ass now.

Ever obedient, he anoints his tool with lube—fortunately I brought a case of the stuff with me to the base. Slowly, very slowly he slides into me until I feel his balls brushing against my swollen vaginal lips. I touch the vibrator lightly to my clit. I don’t want to come too soon because I love that itchy in-and-out stretch of hard cock stimulating my anal muscles. Nothing makes me feel so full, so possessed. I’d swear his penis is penetrating me all the way to my throat.

My lover turns perversely tentative, pulling out and pushing in, pulling out and pushing in as if he can’t decide what to do, his languid pace driving me deeper into blind ecstasy. I try to pull the vibrator away to ration this gut-searing, skull-shattering sensation, but I literally can’t stop masturbating. When I come, I milk him so hard, he shoots his wad into me at the same time, clutching my hips so he stays buried to the hilt through the spasms of our mutual climax.

He collapses over me, sighing his gratitude.

Afterwards I let him make love to me in a more romantic way with kissing, condoms, and sweet words of mutual regard. Other times I dismiss him with an order to send in one of the guys outside the door because I’m especially stressed and need an extra dose of spunk.

And we start all over again.

As I hurried from “Walking Meditation” to my private conference with Melanie, I had to laugh at myself. I’d already come to peace with the fact she’d just read all about my fantasy fixation on anal sex, but would she guess that I brought myself to a mind-blowing orgasm after I wrote it? Could she picture me as I was after I finished my assignment, the blanket pushed down to my knees, as if a bunch of Antarctic explorers were watching me pleasure myself, ready to shoot their spunk all over my naked breasts and into my open mouth?

If so, she still greeted me with her accepting smile. We seated ourselves on the cushions as soothing music played from a portable speaker in the corner of the room.

“Thank you so much for sharing such a beautifully written piece. I learned a lot about Antarctica.”

I blushed.

“This is such a generous fantasy. That’s the first word that came to mind—generosity.”

“Generous? I never thought of it that way.”

“Which word would you use?” she asked gently.

“Selfish. Insatiable. Obsessed with anal sex. Even though I haven’t done it much in real life.”

“I see a woman who is confident in her desires and partners who honor her pleasure. Imagine a world where a woman could be so open about what she wants with such a positive outcome. The sex jar is a lovely detail.”

“Thank you, I’m glad you liked it.” I laughed nervously. “Um, actually I had a question. I want to share this with my husband, but I’m a little hesitant.”

“What are you concerned about?”

“That my husband will think I’m unsatisfied with him. We’ve shared some sexy texts and all, but this takes it to a new level of . . . vulnerability.”

“Indeed it does. Here’s what I’d suggest based on feedback from previous participants. If you feel it would be beneficial to share, warm up your partner to the idea first. Explain some of the themes we talked about last night—that fantasy speaks in its own language so it’s not about the specific acts, but the pleasure of breaking through society’s hostility to our erotic selves. Ask your partner to read your fantasy with a generous mind and perhaps share his own fantasy with you.”

I had promised Haruki a full report, and we were used to navigating cultural and language differences, but I still felt . . . selfish. “Do you think it’s better if I send it from here? I’m not sure I could bear being in the same house when he reads it.”

Melanie nodded. “Some participants have tried that approach quite successfully. If your partner has shown a supportive interest in the workshop, you may want to give him a chance to rise to the occasion.”

We both smiled.

I swiped off my alarm—set for six a.m. “Sunrise Yoga.”

Don’t check for messages until after breakfast. I didn’t care in the least if Haruki had responded to the Antarctica fantasy I sent the night before, complete with a report on fantasy as a foreign country. I had vowed to enjoy every minute of the peace and quiet of my women’s sex weekend. How often did I get “me time?”

My resolve lasted half a second.

Haruki had answered my email and texted. Was one to call me a sick, butt-fucking nympho and the other to ask for an immediate divorce?

My heart was pounding as I opened the email.

“WHEW!!! This is the hottest thing I’ve ever read in my life! I’m not as good of a writer as you are, but I can tell you my fantasy has always been to be with a sexy woman like you. I hadn’t realized you were so interested in Antarctica—I’m thinking it would be fun to go. Counting the hours ’til you get home!”

I sighed with relief. No immediate divorce.

When I opened the text, I laughed out loud.

It was a photo of a jar filled with slips of paper: “Waiting for your return.”

Now I was counting the hours myself. I wouldn’t mind taking Haruki to Antarctica when I got home. I had a feeling we’d have a lot of fun being selfish together.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

ANGELA ADDAMS (angelaaddams.com) is an author of many naughty things. She believes that the written word is an amazing tool for crafting the most erotic of scenarios and tells stories about people getting down and dirty and falling in love. She loves anything covered in chocolate . . . except for bugs.

SALLY BEND (sallybend.com) is an author, editor, and reviewer. Although shy and polite (she is, after all, Canadian), she loves to boldly and boisterously express herself through stories that bend the binaries of gender while exploring submissive sexuality.

CC BRIDGES (ccbridges.net) is a librarian by day and author by night. She writes about amazing worlds with honorable heroes and plenty of romance.

HENRY CORRIGAN (henrycorrigan.blogspot.com) is an author, poet, playwright, and recent Virginia transplant. His erotic fiction has been published by both Literotica and Bright Desire. His first self-published work, Carnal Theory, is available at both Amazon and Smashwords, and the author himself can randomly be found on Twitter (@HenryCorrigan) and Face-book (facebook.com/henry.corrigan.35).

CLAIRE CUPP (clairecupperotica.com) is a new author and lifelong overthinker. She writes erotica to force herself to have fun. She works in the technology industry and lives with the love of her life—her dog. She publishes free erotic flash fiction when inspiration strikes.

ELLA DAWSON (elladawson.com) is a sex and culture critic whose writing has been published by Elle, MTV, Vox, Women’s Health, and more. Her fiction has appeared in short story collections including Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 2 and Erotic Teasers. Find her on Twitter and Instagram as @ brosandprose.

VICTORIA DIANE is a sometimes writer and fulltime procrastinator. Though she prefers creating with a variety of artistic mediums at her home in West Virginia, she gets dressed and goes to work at her day job in the financial industry in order to pay for her addiction to craft supplies.

RENEE DOMINICK (reneedominick.com) writes erotica and erotic romance, stories often inspired by the places she’s traveled. When home in the Pacific Northwest, she can reliably be found enjoying life with her partner, her dogs, and a glass of Chardonnay.

KATRINA JACKSON is a college history professor by day, who writes romances by weekend when her cats allow. She writes high heat, diverse, and queer erotic romances and erotica. She also likes sleep, salt-and-pepper beards, and sunshine.

GABRIELLE JOHNSON is a non-profit professional by day and a romance writer by night. When she’s not consuming all things romance across television, film, and literature, you’ll find her wherever strong drinks and cute animals are. Or, on Twitter, @geminianxiety.

LOUISE KANE (louisekanewrites.com) is a queer erotica writer who lives by the motto: Write smut. Read smut. Live forever. She lives in Seattle, Washington, by way of Chicago, Illinois, with her feline companion, Marge.

D.L. KING (dlkingerotica.blogspot.com) lives somewhere between the Empire State Building and the Coney Island Wonder Wheel. The winner of multiple awards including six IPPYs, three NLA-Internationals, a LAMMY, and a Goldie, she has edited fifteen anthologies and has over one hundred short stories in print. She knows what gets her off.

Z. ESMÉ MENDOZA is a Filipino American writer who believes in the importance of representation. People of color and other marginalized groups take center stage in her works. “Remote Vibrations” is her first published story. A novel about Babs and Richie’s kinky romance is currently in progress.

T.C. MILL (tc-mill.com) is the author of the Lady Crayl series and By the Green Road, and co-editor of three anthologies from the New Smut Project. She’s appeared in Cliterature; Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 3; Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 2; The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty Thirty 2, and the femdom anthology Getting It.

VELVET MOORE has appeared in Orgasmic: Erotica for Women; Best Women’s Erotica 2011; and The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10. She currently lives in Ohio and makes a living as a corporate writer.

EVAN MORA is a kinky queer writer whose tales of love, lust, and other demons have appeared in more than thirty anthologies. She lives in Toronto with her partner and menagerie of two- and four-legged kids. When not writing, she loves food, wine, and all manner of earthly delights.

NICO MURRAY (authornicomurray.wordpress.com/) is a Canadian author now resident in the Netherlands in an old canal house with a lot of spiders. She has written erotica pieces, as well as steampunk, vampire, medieval romance, and sci-fi.

SIENNA SAINT-CYR’s erotic fiction has appeared in series like Love Slave and Sexual Expression, anthologies like Silence is Golden and Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 4, and nonfiction in Kintsugi-Powerful Stories of Healing Trauma. They own SinCyr Publishing; a press with a focus on teaching consent culture.

DONNA GEORGE STOREY (donnageorgestorey.com) is the author of Amorous Woman, a novel based on her experiences in Japan, and the story collection The Mammoth Book of Erotica Presents the Best of Donna George Storey. She also writes a column on sex and writing at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association.

ANUJA VARGHESE (anujavarghese.com) is a Canadian writer whose work has appeared in several literary magazines, as well as in the Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 6 anthology. She is currently pursuing creative writing at the University of Toronto and probably reads too much into every fortune cookie she opens.

ABOUT THE EDITOR

RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL (rachelkramerbussel.com) is a New Jersey-based author, editor, blogger, and writing instructor. She has edited over sixty books of erotica, including Best Bondage Erotica of the Year, Volumes 1 and 2; Dirty Dates: Erotic Fantasies for Couples; Cheeky Spanking Stories; Bottoms Up; Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica; Please, Sir; Please, Ma’am; He’s on Top; She’s on Top; Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica; The Big Book of Orgasms; The Big Book of Submission, Volumes 1 and 2; Lust in Latex; Anything for You; Baby Got Back: Anal Erotica; Suite Encounters; Gotta Have It; Women in Lust; Surrender; Orgasmic; Fast Girls; Going Down; Tasting Him; Tasting Her; Crossdressing; and Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volumes 1-6. Her anthologies have won eight IPPY (Independent Publisher) Awards, and The Big Book of Submission, Volume 2, Dirty Dates, and Surrender won the National Leather Association Samois Anthology Award.

Rachel has written for AVN, Bust, Cosmopolitan, Curve,The Daily Beast, Elle.com, Fortune.com, Glamour, The Goods, Gothamist, Harper’s Bazaar, Huffington Post, Inked, InStyle, Marie Claire, MEL, Men’s Health, Newsday, New York Post, New York Observer, The New York Times, O: The Oprah Magazine, Penthouse, The Philadelphia Inquirer, Refinery29, Rolling Stone, The Root, Salon, San Francisco Chronicle, Self,Slate, Time.com, Time Out New York, and Zink, among others. She has appeared on “The Gayle King Show,” “The Martha Stewart Show,” “The Berman and Berman Show,” NY1, and Showtime’s “Family Business.” She hosted the popular In the Flesh Erotic Reading Series, featuring readers from Susie Bright to Zane, speaks at conferences, and does readings and teaches erotic writing workshops around the world and online. She blogs at lustylady.blogspot.com and consults about erotica and sex-related nonfiction at eroticawriting101.com. Follow her @raquelita on Twitter.