FOREPLAY: FIGMENTS OF EROTIC IMAGINATION

Barbara Carrellas

Orgasm is an adventure, a surprise. No matter how many orgasms you’ve had—or how few—the potential for new and different orgasms is just one erotic encounter away. Orgasm offers endless erotic possibilities—not only in the countless ways humans have devised to have orgasms, but also in the types and kinds of orgasms we can have. And that’s what you’ll find in this book: a huge variety of orgasms.

There are so many types of orgasms to experience! We can have genital orgasms, nipplegasms, ballgasms, breathgasms, energygasms, gigglegasms, crygasms, screamgasms, analgasms, cosmicgasms, lovegasms, heartgasms, floggergasms, dancegasms, musicgasms, naturegasms, foodgasms… The list goes on for as long as people have had and will have orgasms.

The key that unlocks the door to the cosmic playroom of infinite orgasmic possibilities is imagination. That imagination can be a fantasy, a vision, a meditation, a role-playing scene, a sexy sound, or a sudden overwhelming physical feeling of intense turn-on. It can be sparked by something we see, hear, smell, touch, taste or intuit. Luckily for us, humans can become aroused by almost anything. Equally lucky, almost anything can become orgasmic. As you will no doubt see, the stories in this book can—and hopefully will—trigger any number of delicious orgasms.

What is an orgasm, anyway? Is it a sexual climax achieved through stimulation of the genitals and other erogenous zones? Is it a release of accumulated tension and energy? Perhaps it’s a release of tension and expansion of energy flowing through the body/mind and connecting us to spirit. This last definition certainly allows for many more possibilities of orgasms. However, I have come to think that all definitions of orgasm fall short in one way or another.

The orgasmic phenomenon is both immeasurable and difficult to put into words. Personally, I think it’s delightful that there is a human experience too huge and amorphous for words. Words in service to the definition and description of orgasm may continuously miss the mark. But words in service to the orgasmic/erotic imagination—like those of the writers of this book—that’s a different story. Those words can be instructive, inspiring and impassioned. Erotic/orgasmic words, well articulated, can lead us all to ever more indescribably delicious and profound orgasms. Does that mean that reading this book is going to give you the opportunity to experience more and different orgasms? I certainly hope so.

What comes to mind right now when you think of orgasm?

Pleasure? Erotic connection? Intimacy? Altered states of consciousness? The reward at the end of a sexual encounter?

For the nearly twenty-five years I have taught people about sex, I have stressed the infinite possibilities of orgasm. For most people, orgasm is the quickest and most available way to get a taste of ecstasy—a perfect combustible cocktail of sex and spirituality that launches the human body and spirit to new heights and depths. Unfortunately—because our culture limits our view of what orgasm is or could be—we tend to settle for something that feels more or less yummy. (Let’s face it…there really is no such thing as a bad orgasm.) But when we settle for the orgasms we already know, we miss an entire range of ecstatic experience that lies beyond what we’ve traditionally thought of as orgasm. That’s one of the greatest gifts of a book like this—so many orgasmic possibilities in one volume.

I have a little game I play in some of my workshops. I ask people, “If [a Mercedes-Benz, an ice-cream cone, walking on the moon, a spanking, a thunderstorm, chocolate…or whatever] were an orgasm, what would it feel like?”

Although not all humans can eroticize all things, humans as a species can eroticize anything. So, this little game produces some hot and hysterical new fantasy orgasms—all of which have the potential to become actual orgasms.

The book of orgasmic stories you hold in your hands contains 69 moments of orgasmic potential. The authors of these erotic stories have each asked, “If X were an orgasm, what would it feel like?” “If you could have an orgasm by Y, how might that occur?” “If you could have an orgasm by A-ing in B while C-ing, where would you find yourself?”

I wish I could be a fly on the wall as you read. I’d love to watch while the power of these authors’ erotic creativity combines with your own. What precious new moments of bliss might result from this alchemy of erotic imaginations?

Let’s raise our glasses, shall we?

Here’s to orgasm through art, through the written word.

Here’s to erotic imagination in service to the discovery and exploration of the infinite possibilities of orgasm.

And here’s to both the orgasms we know and love and all the ones we’ve yet to meet.

May the orgasms between these covers inspire you to new orgasmic magical mystery tours between yours.

INTRODUCTION: ORGASM IS JUST THE BEGINNING

As Barbara Carrellas writes, there are so many types of orgasms, more than any single book could cover, but within these pages, you will not only find numerous types of orgasms, as well as the varied characters who experience them, you will also discover different motivations for getting off. Some have a tried and true method, some are willing to take a chance on a new sexual practice—or partner. Some of these characters orgasm frequently; some are aching for the chance to share their body with another person. Some let their orgasms be controlled by a lover; some actively take control of their climaxes.

“You amaze me,” the nameless protagonist of B. D. Swain’s opening story “The Beginning” proclaims. You—readers, authors, orgasmers—amaze me with your boundless sexual hunger and creativity. I’ve been writing and editing erotica for over a decade, but part of why it never gets old is because of the richness, diversity and nuance I find in the stories that come (no pun intended) my way. They fuel my own imagination and show me that I can always learn more about orgasm, about desire, about sex.

The format of 1,200 words or less means these are extremely short stories, but I hope you’ll find, like I did, that what they lack in length they make up for in hotness. As with my previous short-short anthology Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex, all the pieces you hold in your hand, even the shortest ones (“The Park,” by Elise Hepner, clocks in at 249 words; “Her Lover Is a Flame,” by Cecilia Tan, at 308) offer a snapshot of eroticism that draws you completely into its folds. You might consider each one a teaser, an appetizer, the beginning of a fantasy world you can place yourself into and choose your own orgasmic adventure as you consider where the story might go after the last word printed on the page.

Sometimes less is more, and if these stories leave you wanting to see them continued, that’s a good thing. They are, like the narrative in Swain’s opener states, “just the beginning.” Very likely you’ll find a type of orgasm, a sex toy, a scenario, a position or a fantasy you’d like to see represented here that may not be. If so, please write yours and continue the conversation. If your orgasm doesn’t look or feel the way these characters’ climaxes do, that’s perfectly okay. I want to see us expand the possibilities for pleasure, orgasmic and otherwise, not add to the umpteen ways we’re told we “should” orgasm or have sex. Just as a physical orgasm, however you define or experience that sensation, doesn’t define the end of a sexual encounter, a literary orgasm should not mean you are done interacting with the story. I’ve reread these pieces, and the numerous submissions I received for this book, multiple times, and each read offers me something new to consider. I envision The Big Book of Orgasms as one you’ll want to revisit, to pick up and read aloud from your favorites to a lover, to keep next to your bed, to tuck into your travel bag.

I’m especially pleased to be publishing so many authors in this collection for the first time in one of my anthologies. There is a power and depth to these voices that I hope resonates with you.

Rachel Kramer Bussel
New York City

THE BEGINNING

B. D. Swain

Tell me what you want. Show me what you like. Let me watch you fuck yourself. I want to study you. I want to learn all about you and never stop learning. I used to be the kind of cocky butch dyke who pounced and wanted to have my way, but I’ve learned to take my time with a new lover. So sit me down right here. Strap my ankles to the chair legs. Secure my wrists behind my back. Leave the lights on bright. Make sure I see everything. Sit down in front of me. Touch me. Show me what interests you.

I am bound tightly to the chair. She loosens my tie and runs a fingertip inside my collar. I close my eyes while she focuses on me. I feel her on my shirt buttons. Her fingers drag across my collarbones and up to the stiff muscles in my neck. She pushes my shirt down my shoulders and slips the tie completely off. I feel her breath, hot on my shoulder. Now I feel her lips. Her fingers find the hair under my arms and pull at it, pet it. She nudges me with her nose and tells me I have a sexy scent. I shift a little in my chair. She is so slow in her interrogation. I am getting impatient for my lessons.

She explores me with her mouth while her hands crawl down my back, my shoulder blades. Her tongue pushes into the weight of my breast. I feel her teeth wanting to bite me. I sit up tall. Her fingers dig deep, climbing slowly up my back, over my shoulders and down my chest. One whole hand covers my breast. She licks me through her fingers. “Hurt me,” I say. “You can be rough. I’ll let you know if it’s too much.” She pinches me hard—harder than I expect. It gets me wet immediately and I groan in my throat with the pleasure of it.

Suddenly her teeth are on my nipple and the pain is stinging. She grabs at my belt and undoes it. She fumbles with my pants and jerks them down but suddenly stops. She moves away from me completely and my hands suddenly strain at being bound. My fingers reach into the air blindly. She is behind me now, and her fingers thread through my hair. One hand tugs a little at my ear. She kisses the top of my head and tells me to open my eyes. She leans over me and lets her hands fall. They slide down my chest all the way to my thighs where she balls up the fabric of my trousers and growls, saying, “You almost let me move too quickly.”

She circles the chair and stands right in front of me as she unbuttons her blouse. She peels off her bra and tosses it onto my lap. She turns around and bends over, pushing her pants down with her ass teasingly near my face.

She is so simply and lovingly unashamed in this bright light. She stands there and lets me take it in, watching my eyes look at her. I am grateful for her. I am so grateful that I fear I might cry and be misunderstood.

She sits on my lap, snapping me back into the moment. She puts a hand on the back of my head and pushes her nipple into my mouth. I open my mouth wide for her. She grips my neck tightly. I freeze. She slowly slides her nipple across my tongue and back again over and over. I reach my tongue out. She pulls my head and smashes my face onto her breast and I suck. My mouth is moving on her. I am eager to show her how my tongue moves. Too soon she backs away again.

Her breathing is fast. I can see that glow on her skin. She sits on the bed in front of me, staring. She looks so serious. This is serious. She slides back farther on the bed and relaxes against the sheets. She pulls her knees up. I am staring at her cunt. I feel my breath push my belly in, out. I’m nearly panting, the adrenaline building inside me as I take her in. One hand rests low on her belly, just above her pussy. Her other hand is higher, her nipple squeezed between her fingers. I see now that she’s already wet. Oh my god, I can see it. She is showing me.

She slides her hand between her legs. Her fingers move in jagged circles. At first she’s slow and her body is still, but then I see her hips move. I jerk myself forward in my chair. I can’t help it. She grabs a long, curved glass dildo. She is circling her clit with one hand. The other hand is pushing the dildo quickly in with a slower pull out. I am learning this. I am feeling my muscles pushing and pulling. I am seeing the angle my head will want to be at with my tongue on her clit when I get to do this to her. I am desperate to taste her.

She pulls faster now. I can see that it’s the pull and not the push that excites her. I wonder if she’ll ejaculate. I think she will. My ankles and wrists are pulling against these cuffs. I am making noises in my chair. I’m ready for her to set me free, but she isn’t going to stop now. I don’t want her to stop. She pulls out and a clear stream follows. “Oh my god,” I say. “That is so fucking hot.” Her body is still writhing. She hasn’t climaxed yet.

Watching her like this is incredible. She knows it’s sexy, but she has no true idea how powerful this is. “You have no idea,” I say, stunned and worshipful. I am overwhelmed by her trust, by everything she is giving me. One hand pulls the lips of her pussy wide and the other strokes. Her fingers circle the pink, wet lips and trace a path up and around her clitoris. The movement starts slow but quickly builds. Her fingers start to spend more time just below her clit. She lifts her hips, and I watch her toes reach long. Her jaw hangs loose, and I can hear her breathing faster. Too quickly, it’s over. Her hips jerk and then she is surfacing and pulling up on her elbows, smiling at me. The lesson ends.

She stares at me with a knowing, sweet look in her eyes. She sits in my lap, takes my face in her hands and kisses me. “You amaze me,” I whisper. She unbuckles my wrists, then my ankles. “Let’s see what you learned,” she says.

“This is just the beginning,” I say, “and I never want it to end.”

HOW YOU CHRISTEN A BED

Thomas S. Roche

It’s supposed to be a cordial breakup—“the best thing for both of us”—so at first Molly doesn’t think it’s all that weird to have Kurt help her move.

She’s been hoping they can come to some kind of arrangement on the queen-sized bed they bought together for the Page Street apartment. Say, she keeps the bed and pays him for half of it, less depreciation…or something.

But no: true to form, Kurt gets all dramatic about it.

“I could never stand to think about you being with someone else in the bed where I used to fuck you,” he says.

As I remember it, Molly thinks but doesn’t say, most of the time I fucked you. Usually you just kinda lay there.

But she is the perfect ex-girlfriend, isn’t she?

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s both get new beds. We’ll take the old one to Goodwill.”

So she goes to the bed store and puts down $635 on a pretty nice full-sized bed, even though she wants a queen. It seems weird to make her ex-boyfriend move a queen-sized bed into her new apartment. Everyone knows what big beds are for.

But on the day she rents the truck so Kurt can help her move her shit into the new place, he suddenly doesn’t want to haul the queen away just yet. “I’ll get a truck next week,” he says.

She already knows what will happen. In six months or nine months or a year or two years, she’ll feel vindicated when she goes to a party at his place, good-sport-ex-girlfriend-style, and sees the bed still there, with two alarm clocks…his and his new girlfriend’s. Whatever.

But she’ll be damned if she’ll sleep in a full. She makes him wait in the rental truck while she demands that the bed salesman make an exception to their “No Exchanges” policy. He finally agrees, since she hasn’t even hauled the new bed away yet. She makes him take off the SOLD sign on the full she’d selected; she pays an extra $227.35 and gets a queen with a pillow-top. She can’t afford it, but she doesn’t care.

“Queen-sized bed, huh?” Kurt asks her glumly as he helps her move it up the narrow winding stairs. Everyone knows what big beds are for.

At least he only halfheartedly tries to get her to fuck him on it before he goes. His body feels warm against hers. Her filmy white tank top is soaked with sweat. So are her shorts. So’s his T-shirt. She can smell him. She’s kicked off her shoes and the threadbare carpet of the bedroom feels rough against her soles.

He puts his arms around her and kisses her neck.

“Remember how we christened the old bed?” he asks, gently trying to push her back onto the new one.

She stands her ground at first. Then she lets him push her back. She tumbles gently onto the bed, faceup, with her legs apart.

She knows she looks hot; she actually feels hot. She doesn’t want to do something she’ll regret, but it would just be so easy. She wouldn’t even have to make the bed. They hadn’t with the last one; they’d done it right there on the bare mattress. And it wasn’t even a pillow-top.

She doesn’t mean to plant the sole of one bare foot on his cock; she’s aiming it at his stomach, but as he goes to get on the bed atop her, she misses. She feels his half-hard dick stretching through his shorts, stiffening against her sole.

“Thanks for the help, but I don’t want to go there.”

She feels cruel saying it with Kurt rubbing half a hard-on against her foot.

“You’re serious?” he says bitterly. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Thanks for the help,” she says.

She hears his angry boot-steps down the hall. He slams the door.

She lies faceup on the pillow-top for a while, her bare feet dangling over the edge. She can still feel the impression his half-hard dick seems to have left on the nerves of her foot.

It’s eleven a.m. and eighty degrees outside.

She gets up. She opens all the bedroom windows. She finds the file box marked BEDDING/TOWELS and the box marked PRIVATE. She opens the former, makes the bed. She opens the latter, takes out a long, slender vibrator. She lays out a single towel atop the covers, on the side where Kurt would probably be enjoying postcoital relaxation by now if she’d let him stay. She sets the vibe on top of it.

She strips off her tank top, unzips and drops her shorts. She’s not wearing much underneath. It all hits the floor in a tangle. She walks nude past curtainless windows, not caring if neighbors can see her.

She stretches out on top of the covers.

Sunlight pours down, hot on her skin. The breeze blows the scent of flowers from the garden below. A honeybee whizzes in. She’s never been afraid of them; she watches it circling above her. Is it sympathetic magic that it arrived just as she was about to turn the vibrator on?

The buzz of the vibe makes her naked body twist and writhe. She watches the honeybee. It isn’t quite porn—Kurt kept all of that—but it’s something to keep her mind occupied. Hypnotized by the circling of the bee, she lets herself feel the breeze, the sun, her hand on her breasts, the vibe on her clit.

She likes how wet and sensitive her cunt is getting. She likes that she’s sweaty from the move and can smell herself. If she thinks about it and concentrates really hard, she can still smell the lingering scent of Kurt, who right now is either driving home pissed or beating off in the truck.

She likes that, too, kind of.

What’s more, Kurt would probably kill to see her doing what she is doing. She’s suddenly fiercely turned on, thinking about that.

She works the smooth, long vibrator up inside her to moisten it so it’ll slide on her clit better. She turns the dial up to the fastest speed and presses it hard to her clit.

Molly starts to laugh. The honeybee circles, only maybe three feet above her. She watches it as she jerks off. The breeze is soft against her skin. She’s suddenly fiercely horny and mounting toward an orgasm. She takes the vibrator away and switches to using her right hand. Her left goes up to her nipples and gently caresses them. She starts pinching.

When she comes, she makes more noise than she’s made with Kurt, the whole year combined. She practically screams. The bed even creaks a little. She sounds like a porn star.

Molly turns off the vibe and stretches out, sweaty.

She closes her eyes. Pulses ripple through her sex.

“Now that,” Molly sighs pleasantly, “is how you christen a bed.”

The honeybee settles on her forehead; she lies still. She’s still not afraid of it. A minute later the breeze coaxes it into the air, and it flies out the window.

ALL YOU DO IS PLAY

Annabeth Leong

Sharon got home late from the club, Kristie’s words still ringing in her ears. “How are you going to get me to come home with you tonight? Promise to impress me with that bass of yours? All you’ll do is play it.” Kristie had rolled her gorgeous black eyes, her white-lined lids making the effect more stunning than normal.

The object of Sharon’s lust liked to make her lovers work for her.

Sharon unzipped her thigh-high boots and kicked them off. Kristie probably knew she’d spent twenty minutes just lacing them up. It all must have made Sharon look desperate.

Sharon sighed, sinking onto the corner of her bass amp, stroking its black body and rubber-insulated cords, one leading to the wall and the other to the red, pearlescent body of her bass guitar. Long hours of playing had made the habit strong. The bass was in her arms before she made a conscious decision to pick it up, her left hand sliding up its familiar neck and her right hand’s stiffened first and middle fingers hovering over the strings.

This felt easier than anything, certainly easier than thinking about loneliness anymore. She switched on the amp. It buzzed to life beneath her, humming and gently vibrating.

Sharon tuned the instrument and experimented with a few notes. They filled up the room, lingering in the air like smoke. She normally played standing, but her feet hurt after the hours in the club. Sitting on the amp, the notes came up into her feet through the vibration of the floor, and into her body from the movement of the amp beneath her ass. She grinned and played faster, lower notes.

The music settled between her legs and trembled there. Sharon’s fingers sped over the instrument’s thick strings, plucking them to keep the sensation going. She tilted her hips and squirmed, trying to guide the amp’s stimulation more directly to her sex. She slipped, the corner of the amp pressing through her panties, rubbing the opening of her cunt.

The moan that burst through her lips pulled Sharon up short. Was she really about to fuck her bass amp? What if Kristie saw her now? She put the instrument away and went to bed.

When Sharon woke, the shame of the night before had been replaced by an idea. “How about you come over and play for me?” she texted Kristie. “I’ll show you what to do.”

“I don’t know how to play bass,” Kristie said.

Sharon smiled. For all Kristie’s verbal resistance, she’d dressed sexy tonight, wearing a red maxidress that showed off her height. A gold band shone against the dark skin of her upper arm. Sharon hoped the effort meant she had a chance.

“Don’t worry,” Sharon whispered. “This is how you hold it.” She stood behind Kristie and went up on her tiptoes to sling the bass guitar’s strap around the back of the other woman’s neck, then helped her cradle it, closing her eyes at the moments when she got her arm sandwiched between Kristie’s soft skin and the smooth guitar body.

“Now stay there a second.”

Sharon switched the bass amp on and pulled off her top.

“Wait,” Kristie said, her hands flying off the guitar. It dangled in front of her chest, suspended by the strap. “What are you doing?”

Sharon just put a finger to her lips and unzipped her skirt, unhooked her bra strap, and stepped out of her panties. Her bare stomach muscles twitched in the cool air of her living room, her inner thighs trembling at the excitement of living out her fantasy and making Kristie part of it.

Kristie remained speechless, her jaw working and her fingers prodding the guitar as if it might transform into a snake and bite her.

Sharon straddled the bass amp and slowly lowered herself into a seated position. Without having to hold the connected instrument herself, she could angle her body forward so her clit lay flush against the amp. Sharon went ahead and lay all the way down on her belly, supporting herself with an arm on either side of the amp, keeping herself stable by spreading her legs wide and bracing her toes against the floor. She lifted her head up and back and locked her eyes on Kristie.

“Play a note,” she said.

“What?”

“Any note. Hold a string down against a fret with one of the fingers on your left hand. Pluck it with your right. You’ve seen people do this.”

“You make it sound so dirty,” Kristie said.

“Oh, it is,” Sharon said. “Try it.”

The first note bellowed up from the amp, tingling against Sharon’s clit. She let the pleasure show on her face. “Again,” she commanded.

A deeper note. This vibration penetrated farther into Sharon’s body. She rocked herself against the amp, glad she could use all four limbs to direct and prolong the pleasure.

“More. Play the same note over and over again. Or change it. Whatever works.”

“It seems like anything works.” Sharon had dropped her head in concentration, but she heard the smile in Kristie’s voice. The other woman must have started to have fun, because she let loose with a barrage of notes that made the amp quiver and shake under Sharon’s body.

Sharon closed her eyes and rode the amp for all she was worth, letting the music fuck her, letting the notes gather between her legs and push into her pussy. She squeezed the muscles of her ass and strained against the vibrating box, less self-conscious than she’d expected to be in front of Kristie.

The low frequencies buzzed through her brain. Bass lines always put her into a trance, relaxed her, taught her how to let go. Kristie might not know how to play, but the sounds she coaxed from the instrument rang with need.

“You like the notes from this string the most,” Kristie said. Sharon couldn’t argue with the effects of Kristie’s next assault.

Deep, authoritative notes punched and battered her lower belly, their pace increasing. Sharon mashed her clit against the amp, ground hard and sang her appreciation for Kristie’s pounding improvised bass line in a series of sharp moans. Her cunt contracted. Her arms shook under her weight. She flung her head back, and it felt like the notes held her up.

Kristie didn’t stop playing at first. Sharon lay limply on the amp and let the music continue to flow. When the sounds died down, she eased out of position and rolled onto the floor.

“Thank you,” she said. She checked Kristie’s expression.

The other woman grinned, her eyes too wicked for the expression to be considered childlike delight. “I want to see what someone can learn to do with practice.” Kristie set the bass guitar on the floor and walked to the amp. “What are you going to play?”

Sharon took the hint, got up, and lifted the guitar, biting back the joy leaping in her heart. She’d won Kristie for the night. Or more.

HARD KNOCKS

Malin James

You absolutely cannot make someone come just by spanking them.”

I say this with an authority that I, admittedly, don’t possess. Still, the idea that you could orgasm just from having your ass sufficiently smacked seemed ludicrous—the stuff of erotic stories and porn. Max is completely undisturbed by my lack of faith.

“Yes. You can.”

He leans back in his chair, long-legged and lean, the shadow of a smile pulling his mouth. It’s easy to miss, but I’m a very observant girl, and I like observing Max.

“Really,” I say, skepticism quirking my cherry-red mouth.

“Really,” he replies. His eyes flicker over my plump bottom lip, but he doesn’t take the bait. He lights a cigarette instead.

“Well, I suppose if you do a little extra work in addition to the spanking—the clit is a magical thing….”

“No,” Max says, stubbing out the cigarette after only three drags. (Yes, I notice how many drags. Like I said, I’m observant. Max and I have only been dating for a month and there is still quite a lot to observe.)

“Just spanking,” he continues, calmly holding my gaze. “If it’s done right.”

Something flashes through his gray eyes, and I suddenly have the feeling that he knows what he’s talking about. I’m intrigued and nervous and a little bit scared. And surprisingly turned on. I lean back in my chair.

“Show me,” I say.

My chin lifts a notch in challenge. Max smiles, this time a full, real smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, warming the wintery gray.

“Stand up,” he says, warmly, lovingly, as if he’s asked me to an especially fabulous dinner.

“Wait, now?”

I’m ashamed to say that the “now” comes out a bit of a squeak. Very undignified. Not my best moment, but I’m wishing I hadn’t gone there—up to this point I’ve had lots of deviant vanilla sex, but never crossed the boundary to S/M.

“Now,” he says, smiling like the big bad wolf. “Don’t worry, Jen. I’m not going to eat you. Not yet.” He leans forward and catches my hand in his, rubbing the palm with his thumb. “The minute you’ve had enough, tell me to stop and I will. All right?”

I nod like an idiot.

“Good. Now stand up.”

I stand up. How bad could it be? It’s only a little spanking to prove a point. It’s not like I’m going to come….

“Lean over the table. Brace yourself with your hands.”

I lean over the table. My belly roils from nerves and arousal, a combination I haven’t felt since my first time.

Max gets up and runs the flat of his palm over my upturned ass.

“If you need me to stop, knock twice on the table. Do you understand?”

I nod, suddenly unable to speak. His voice is still warm, conversational. But there’s an edge to it that thrills me, all the way down to my core.

“Good,” he says. Then his palm lands on my ass and I shriek. He chuckles. The sound of that chuckle grounds me and I force myself still, gripping the sides of the table.

“Good, Jen. That’s good.”

His hand comes down again. This time I’m still. It isn’t so bad—after all I’m still wearing my jeans. I start to feel smug. Though I’m undoubtedly turned on, I’m nowhere near coming. I turn my head and grin. Max smiles back. Then he reaches around me and unbuttons my jeans and pushes them all the way down.

“Step out of them.”

The grin fades from my lips, but I step out of them. He leaves my G-string on, little good that it does me. This time, when his hand comes down, I hear a crack as pins and needles explode over my bare flesh. I bite back a yelp, settling for a dignified little whimper.

Max’s hand comes down harder and faster now, never in the same place twice, covering every individual inch of my ass in stinging, honeyed warmth. The warmth creeps in deep between my legs, and I moan before I can stop myself.

“Very good, Jen. Now spread your legs.”

I do as I’m told, well aware that I’m really, really wet, a fact that no G-string is going to hide.

“Good girl.”

I hear him undo his belt. As turned on as I am, I still haven’t come and I smile in questionable triumph. He hasn’t broken me. He’s going to fuck me now, right on the table. I squirm, really, really wanting it. But that’s not Max’s plan. Suddenly, gently, I feel the cold leather of his belt on my prickly red skin.

Part of me wants to knock on the table before he can hit me with the strap. The rest of me is reveling in what’s happening between my legs. I press my palm to the tabletop and brace myself.

“Breathe.”

His voice is soft and sweet, right next to my ear. I relax. Then the leather comes down on my backside, and I gasp. He pauses, gauging my reaction before continuing. He peppers my ass and the backs of my thighs with the belt, sometimes softly, sometimes with a brutal snap. My hips begin to move, grinding as my legs spread wider, trying to give the belt better access, inviting what I suddenly realize I desperately want—the leather on my cunt. Max makes a sound deep in his throat.

The blows hit deeper now, vibrating through my ass to the swollen bud of my clit. I moan now, openly, blindly. Max starts to breathe a little harder and I arch my back, inviting the belt, begging for it like a cat in heat. He changes the angle, keeping the strokes short and hard as he moves down the backs of my thighs. Then in one blazing flash of sweet, syrupy pain, the belt hits my cunt—not too hard, just hard enough, and I feel the orgasm whipping up inside me.

“Please,” I beg.

More blows, slapping my sensitive, soaking cunt. Suddenly, Max steps back and tosses the belt aside before landing one massive blow with the huge flat of his hand. And I come. I come like I have never come before, a full-bodied orgasm that has nothing to do with my clit or my cunt and everything to do with my skin and how it feels alive for the first time in my life.

Slowly, slowly, I come down. Max is stroking my backside, murmuring gently and tucking my hair behind my ear. I turn and meet his mouth with mine.

“I concede the point,” I say, with remarkable grace, given the fact that I’m flopped over a table with handprints on my ass.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Max says. Then he lifts my melted body and carries me into the bedroom for a few more hard knocks.

THE GALLERY EXHIBIT

Chris Komodo

Sadie excelled at the art of self-pleasure. On this particular Friday, she sat herself down on a stool, unclasped the top button of her worn blue jeans, slid her right hand inside, and let her skilled fingers begin caressing her sex. It was nearly a full minute before someone took notice.

Sadie Myros was no exhibitionist. She had never even touched herself in front of lovers, let alone a roomful of art lovers. And unlike other twentysomethings, she shied away from being photographed. If a camera were in the room, Sadie was probably the one behind the lens.

Her shyness may have come from the lack of attention boys paid her in college. The hair they chased was long and blonde (not black and cropped, like hers), and instead of screaming, “Let’s party,” her black-rimmed glasses told them, “Let’s debate.” So she spent those days practicing her photography and experimenting with girls. The day after graduation she began seeking out compelling subjects in every neighborhood of Manhattan to capture on film with her large-format camera.

She would spend enough time in places to blend into the background. And when, finally, someone became absorbed in an intimate moment of desire, or fear or love, she would shoot a single frame, unseen, and disappear back into the crowd.

Sadie had learned to photograph the invisible, emotions or moments that don’t easily submit to freezing or capturing. Each black-and-white image was intimate, each of her subjects vulnerable, caught in a slice of time.

This is how she came to be fingering herself in the middle of a gallery on a Friday night during her opening reception.

It was no publicity stunt. The way Sadie saw it, if she had pulled her subjects from their worlds and put them up on display in her exhibit, she owed it to them to be at least as vulnerable as they were now under the eleven clear panes of glass.

That was one reason, anyway.

And with her hand down the front of her pants, visible to anyone who cared to climb the creaky stairs to the second-floor SoHo gallery and wander the rooms with a glass of cheap merlot, Sadie felt more vulnerable than ever.

Guests were examining the prints and speaking amongst themselves in hushed voices when Sadie walked past them, stepped onto the low black platform in the middle of the room and sat down on the empty stool, unnoticed. Only when she felt the warm glow on her pale skin from the light above did she fully grasp how exposed she was about to become.

Before she could change her mind, her eyes were closed and one hand had slipped open the top button of her jeans. Her other hand dipped inside, fingers wandering downward until they felt the familiar warmth of her pussy through her underwear—not panties (Sadie never wore them), but boy-style boxer-briefs, complete with front fly.

She popped open the second button to give her hand more room to maneuver. She could only guess whether others were now watching her. But if they were, she couldn’t see them, so it was almost the same as if she were alone on her couch back at her one-room studio, fantasizing about the geeky boy in #204.

The first person to notice was a fellow student from art school who vaguely recognized Sadie from her black-rimmed glasses. She had been viewing the photograph of a young woman at a coffeehouse gazing sadly at a man—an ex-lover, perhaps—sitting outside the window. It was print #2, entitled Longing. The student happened to turn toward the once-empty stage and see Sadie perched upon the stool. She immediately spied her hand moving inside her jeans and poked her boyfriend’s arm, nodding over toward her. His eyes widened.

Extensive practice allowed Sadie to run on instinct, to submerge herself in an ocean of pleasure with no thought of the world above, only her hunger below.

Her fingers searched out a path to her rising wetness, curling themselves under the brief’s front panel, then grazing along the cotton inside until they found the fabric’s edge. She pulled the inner layer out of the way, making room for her fingers to slip between the lips of her pussy and coat themselves fully with her liquid arousal.

The guests looking on—seven now and growing—couldn’t see her indecently excited pussy, only the back of her hand in her open fly. But the rhythmic movements beneath the denim’s surface lay bare her indecent act, and the bliss on her face confirmed it.

Sadie had hung her work late into the previous night. She had printed each image on textured matte paper and framed them with reclaimed wood from her grandfather’s barn. When she had put them all up on the red-brick walls and turned the spotlights on, the subjects in her photographs came to life.

Like the teenage boy kneeling devoutly in the church, facing forward but eyes looking sideways at a slightly blurred but beautiful girl across the aisle. His look of desire awoke powerful memories of adolescent urges, while the Catholic setting dripped with irony. Lust (#11) prompted lively discussion that night.

Before long, though, everyone who had been viewing the photography was now eying the photographer in the middle of the room.

Sadie’s sex had become swollen with anticipation and flooded with wetness, which her fingers spread liberally over her labia. It beckoned for fulfillment, if not by the cock of the boy down the hall, then at least by the clear glass dildo she would work inside herself when diddling her clit just wasn’t enough.

Her first two fingers moved in to fill the void, sliding easily in, all the way to her now-soaked second knuckles. And filling her pussy made Sadie want even more, so she began working her fingers in and out, fast and repeatedly, as her palm pressed hard against her pubic bone. Those standing closest could hear growing, deliciously dirty squelching sounds coming from the artist. And while she stifled her moans—mostly—her gaping mouth and ecstatic face betrayed her dizzying climax.

Whether it was the neighborhood or the type of people there that night, no one blushed and no one turned away. Reactions ranged from amused to aroused. A writer in her midthirties standing in front of her boyfriend reached her hand back to the front of his slacks and, finding him aroused, gave him a squeeze. She turned around and whispered in his ear, “Me, too!”

When her heartbeat had settled, Sadie pulled her hand out, opened her eyes and buttoned up her jeans, aware now of the attention of her captivated guests. She cleared her throat gently, smiled and stepped off the wooden stage.

On their way out, the writer and her boyfriend passed the empty platform and noticed a single piece of paper left behind. It was one of the title sheets, identifying the last exhibit in Sadie’s gallery. It read simply, #12: ORGASM.

WHITE

Preston Avery

What color is it?” She is always asking me that question. When we hear a particularly good song, when Dad died of cancer, when I kissed her for the first time. So, I knew what she meant when she asked me, “When I make you come, what color is it?” She sees the world that way, on a different spectrum, and I have learned to, also.

At first, I attempted humor. “White,” I told her. “Look.” Then I bent my head to the hollow between her bare breasts and licked the trail of semen I had just left there. She didn’t laugh, just tilted her head in that tolerant, patient, “play how I want you to” way and sighed a little when I took her tight nipple into my mouth. “White.”

In terms of sunlight, or light in general, white is the presence of all color, but as far as pigmentation, white is the absence of all color. White is heat and emptiness, everything and nothing all at the same time and there really is no other color for my orgasms, my existence in orgasm. I know it by taste, by smell, by feel. When everything I am and she is and the world is culminates in my penis, that can be nothing other than white. Brilliant and blinding and pure.

Today when I got home from work she met me at the door. I think about how hard she kissed me with her sweet mouth so open, how she went straight for my dick without even asking about my day. I love it when she’s hungry. She had the cock ring on me before I knew to expect it, and I am in the dark now. Completely helpless, blindfolded, tied to a chair with kneesocks, and with no clue of where she is or how long I have been here. Lamplight filters through the sleep mask she left on me, the girly one she uses when we travel, with Do NOT DISTURB in rhinestones. I have lost track of time, of life, but I can still smell her. That’s probably because the last orgasm she had was on my face.

I never would have pictured myself in this position until the first time I found myself exactly here. At her mercy. Not that we flip this way very often, but when we do I am always a bit bewildered that I can yield to her like this, that I want to.

When I try to remember the last time, all I can see is her mouth, not what she did with it, but what she said—those filthy words in her honeyed voice, about where she wanted to touch me. My memories are about as coherent as my thoughts, shreds of bright paper, scattering like confetti, a rainbow on the way up. Those specks will be white as snow on the way down, though. White, white, white. “I want you to know what it’s like,” she had said. “To be breached. To be touched inside. I want to feel you there. I want to know what color it is when I stick my fingers in your ass, when I stretch you and make you shake with vulnerability. When I stroke you in a place you have never even touched yourself.”

All I want to do is come, and I am red with it. Orange, yellow then blazing electric blue.

She used her mouth earlier tonight, too, her tongue. Up and down, sucking and licking. She can never take me very deep without gagging, but she makes up for it with suction and saliva and enthusiasm. I had the dissociative thought that she was having some kind of love affair with just my cock while I couldn’t see her. I do that, though. I go fucking nuts, just demented, when she takes over. That’s what I am like now and she knows it, too. I’ll do whatever she wants if some part of her will just find my dick. The pinwheel hues in my head spiral louder and louder, a carnival.

She can’t just leave me here, in the middle of all this color. She won’t.

The soft pad of her bare feet on the builder-grade carpet slows the spin some, but I am so strung out that I swear I can feel her approach shake the walls. I visualize the fibers compressing beneath her form and then springing back into halfhearted plush. My world is instantly the color of that carpet. Beige.

Please. It’s all I can think. Please. White. Please.

I want her to be three people so she can touch me everywhere at once.

To be touched inside.

I want to think the word no but it won’t come to me in the middle of all the yes.

“You are blue to me,” she says, warm breath on my cheek, her thighs smooth against mine. “When you make me come, blue, like the sea, the sky. Endless, timeless, vital. You fill me up and make me fly.” She kisses me and between my spread, bound legs, lightly trails her fingers up from my knees. And up. And up. “Do you want to fly?”

I do. I do want to fly. And so when she pulls my lower body forward to the edge of the chair I just go with it. The strain of it burns. Can I break the chair and get my hands on her? Probably. Not that I would.

“I know what you need,” she whispers. Then she shoves back the blindfold. My eyes aren’t adjusted, and the shadows have shadows of their own. I lower my lids as she falls to her knees. Then her little pink tongue is beneath my balls, instantly eager and steadily lapping the underside of each before taking one and then the other into her mouth in turn. I feel a long slick finger slide lower, slowly stroking the stretch of skin that leads there. That one place nobody knows. I must be making noises because she shushes me and rises to kiss my lips. I open my eyes and meet hers, as I feel her circle the bashful entrance to my body.

“Let me.” Not a question but a gentle command. One second she is separate from me and the next she is inside. I am panting, straining and know I won’t last. She is stroking in and then almost out. I shudder with it. Then she somehow pulls the cock ring off and has two fingers submerged. I marvel at how those slender digits can open me so wide. So close. She’s so close to me, and I’m so close. She fluidly drops back down and takes my cock all the way into the back of her throat. It shocks me at first because she never does that, but then thought leaves me and I am seeing shades of color. All color. She is all color and she continues pushing into me, three fingers now. I am taking her, even when she is taking me. And I burst bright white.

MATINEE

Suleikha Snyder

The theater was dark, the rows and rows beneath the air-conditioned dress circle layering outward like the flounces of a child’s frock. She was too old for those kinds of dresses now—too old to let her knees show, in case they inspired one of the men who loitered by the para tea shops to lustful frenzy. No, Shammoli was chastely covered from neck to ankle in a salwar kameez, the light cotton practically shrink-wrapped to her skin in the thick Calcutta heat. She had dozens of them, gifts from aunts and uncles she barely knew, in shades of blue and green and in orange-red combinations that she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing back home in the States.

Somehow, without a single inch of skin showing except her sun-reddened, sweat-drenched face, she’d inspired Azad. Azad, so lean and tall and handsome… with striking hazel eyes that had stopped her in her tracks. She’d been in India all of a week when he trailed her and her cousins through the bajaar—all because their gazes had locked and lingered for a moment too long. In Bloomington, that was nothing. Totally not even flirting. In Calcutta, it was as blatant as a lewd pickup line, like putting her hand along the proud line of his jaw and whispering, “Follow me,” against his sexy mouth.

“What’s your name?” he’d murmured in Bengali as her spine stiffened in alarm. Or maybe something else—a tingling, dangerous feeling that she hadn’t gotten more than once all through high school.

Good boys weren’t so blatant, so forward. Neither were good girls. But Shams—her nickname couldn’t be any more appropriate—had never really fit that mold. Just like she didn’t fit in the traditional clothes her parents stuffed her into whenever they came to India in the summers. She’d been American too long. It showed in the way she walked, tumbled out of her lips with every word of her accented Bengali and glistened as the sunlight bounced off the rims of her LensCrafters glasses.

She’d turned to her oldest didi, meeting the faint disapproval of her cousin’s dark eyes as she answered, “Shams. Shammoli.”

“Where are you from? How long are you staying? Can I see you again?” He peppered her with questions, and she sprinkled careful salt in return, pretending to chat happily with her cousins as she revealed she wasn’t from the neighborhood, would be gone by August and… and, yes, he could see her again.

Azad had sensed the Other, the wildness, in her from across the crowded market…but she, not nearly as savvy, didn’t understand his wildness until he told her his name. Until her cousins’ footsteps faltered, and they whisked her past the neighborhood soccer field, toward home.

Azad. It wasn’t a Hindu name. Not even a little bit. And this wasn’t okay. Not even a little bit. Tilo didi and Pinky didi and Uma didi, who were her constant companions, her buffer between the older India and the emerging modern one, fluttered around her like bright birds, saying that the conservative side of their family wouldn’t approve such an “affair.” They lectured her about how this was bad and wrong and completely against the rules. Like telling a guy your name was something so scandalous. Like it was Romeo and Juliet after a five-minute nonconversation on a dirt path.

“So what?” she’d told her flock of birds. “I don’t care. It’s not like we’re getting married. I’ll probably never see him again.”

Two and a half weeks later, in a movie theater on the other side of the para so no one who knew her family could possibly catch her out on a date, Shammoli understood. She got it. Her knees were covered, but everything else was stripped totally naked. Her blood was roaring in her ears, drowning out the dialogue. She couldn’t see anything on the screen, was only aware of Azad’s profile through her peripheral vision. He looked good, smelled even better…first date cologne, applied a little too liberally in deference to the heat.

Shams wanted to lick him, to clamber out of her seat, join him in his and find out if his inky black hair was as soft as it looked.

All she could actually do was hold his hand like an awkward kid at a sixth-grade dance…except it wasn’t awkward, she wasn’t a kid, and the dance…the dance was skin to skin, their fingers entangling with a sensual slide—below the armrest, so nobody could see it if they were to glance down the aisle. It wasn’t even touching. Most other eighteen-year-olds wouldn’t consider this the dugout, much less a base, but Shams could barely breathe. Her whole body felt flushed and feverish. The lustful frenzy was all inside her. Strange and forbidden and hungry. Too slick and too wet and too much. She couldn’t move, because the friction of her thighs was almost as much torture as their hands linking.

This was what they hadn’t spelled out when she read Romeo and Juliet in ninth grade: that being with someone she shouldn’t even talk to would fry her circuits, knock out her power lines and make her want nothing but Azad every minute of every day. This was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. This was an affair. Shams bit back a moan—really, sincerely bit, because she tasted blood—and tried not to fidget. She tried not to feel… everything. But Azad’s fingers were like silk wrapped in velvet wrapped in sex, and when he tilted his head toward hers and whispered her name, she gasped like he’d kissed her full on the mouth.

They would never get to kiss, of course. Never hug. Never drink too many cheap beers and wind up in the backseat of a car. They would never exchange letters. Never even think of each other, except in black-and-white, out-of-focus “what if” memories. But Shams knew she’d always remember being this turned on: crazy and panting and squirming, letting her head spill back against the theater seat as her lower body swirled like drizzles of honey. She’d never come before—not if this was how it honest to god felt to do it for real—and here, now, she was doing it without prompting, without foreplay, without Azad and a theater full of people even knowing.

I don’t care. It’s not like we’re getting married. I’ll probably never see him again.

She was drowning in wonder—gorgeous, insane, unreal wonder—but not in surprise. Azad, her cousins had warned her, meant “freedom.”

ALL TALK

Jenna Bright

Hot?” The word was murmured in my ear, warm breath brushing against my neck, and I knew from the tone alone exactly who was speaking.

It took effort to turn around to face him, swinging my legs out from inside the pub bench, trying not to wince as the flesh of my thighs stuck to the wood. “Isn’t everybody?”

The temperatures had been off the charts for weeks, a pervasive, mind-dulling heat. Really, the only thing for it was to head to the pub for a few icy drinks in the beer garden.

Paul dropped down onto the bench beside me, leaning back against the table, looking unfairly cool in his jeans and T-shirt. Here I was in a flimsy little sundress, and I could still feel the sweat pooling at the base of my spine.

Really attractive.

He smiled at me, his eyes starting at mine, but soon swaying downward, lingering at my breasts pressing against the cotton of my dress, and my thighs, exposed by the skimpy skirt and the need to feel as much fresh air on my skin as I could. Not that there was much in the beer garden; too many people had clearly had exactly the same idea as us.

“Where’s everyone else?”

I motioned toward the inside of the pub. “Joined the crush at the bar.”

The heat was just boring now. I needed something to wake me up.

Paul could be very good at that.

“Let’s head over there,” he said, waving a hand toward the wall at the end of the garden. “It might be cooler.”

I bit my lip. We’d lose the table, for sure, and the crush over at the wall looked as hot and annoying as over here. But Paul had that look in his eye, so…

“Sure,” I said, and got to my feet.

The side of the wall facing into the beer garden remained shaded for most of the day, so the bricks were blissfully cool against my back. Paul rested his shoulder against mine, his body turned in toward me, too near really, for the weather. But a shiver ran through me at his closeness, at the feel of his skin against my own, damp and clammy. What the hell was he planning?

“You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I think it might actually be too hot for sex.” My eyes widened at his words, and he smiled. “Which leaves me with a bit of a dilemma.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You see, I really want to watch you come for me tonight.”

I swallowed. No one around us seemed to have heard him, or if they had they were politely ignoring us. But my body was certainly paying attention. And the pulse that had started up between my legs wanted to hear more.

“It might get cooler later. We could go back to my—”

But Paul was shaking his head. “Too long. I’ve been staring at you in that tiny sundress all afternoon. I can’t wait any longer.”

The blood was beating hotter and faster around my body now. Suddenly, the heat of the day wasn’t nearly as much of a problem as the fire Paul had started inside me. “My car,” I said desperately. “I parked it—”

“No.” Paul leaned in closer as he cut me off, and when he spoke again I felt his breath hot against my overheated skin. “I want to watch you come right here. Now.”

Oh god. My knees felt weak at the very idea, but I knew I couldn’t. “Everyone’s watching. They’ll have us thrown out for indecent exposure.”

Paul’s smile was secretive. “No, they won’t. No one will notice a thing, as long as you’re quiet. Trust me.”

There was a slight question in his last words, and I looked up to meet his eyes, hot and wanting but never cruel. I nodded.

Shifting his body again so he shielded me almost entirely from the crowd, he placed a kiss against my neck, making my skin tingle. “Now, I need you to imagine for me, okay?”

“Okay.” The word felt thick in my throat. Whatever he had planned, I wanted it so damn much.

“Imagine I’ve got my hands on you right now. They’re sliding up your sides, up to your shoulders. My fingers are running across your collarbone, under the straps of your dress. And you know where they’re going next.”

It was impossible, but I could feel it. Just his words, and the heat in his eyes, were enough to make my nipples harden. The ache between my legs was growing, and my knickers were already drenched. Did he really plan to make me come just by talking?

“They’re pushing your dress down now, freeing your breasts, brushing across your nipples.” I knew what that felt like, from past experience, and my body relived the firm touch of Paul’s fingers over it. “And now my mouth is at your nipple, swirling my tongue around it, making it harder.”

It was already so hard it hurt. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t care who was watching, I had to touch them. My eyes closed. I let my hands brush over my aching breasts, squeezing just for a moment.

“Good girl,” Paul murmured, and when I opened my eyes he was standing right in front of me, hiding me completely from the people around us.

“Now, I run my hands down your body, down your thighs, then up between them.” My eyes still on his as he spoke, I let my hands slide lower, my fingers pressing against the hot flesh of my legs. I bit my lip and, when he nodded, trailed them higher.

The heat from my pussy was incredible, and I could feel my own juices on my inner thighs. I held my fingers there, waiting for my next instruction.

“Finally, finally, I reach your clit, sweeping my fingers around it before I plunge them inside you, filling you. My thumb presses against your clit as I pump them in and out, working you higher, closer…”

I couldn’t think about the fact that I was touching myself in public, and I sure as hell couldn’t stop now. My body jolted forward against his as I touched my clit, and I started to shudder as soon as my fingers pushed inside me. Paul was holding my hips now, his body still hiding mine, and I rested my forehead against his shoulder as I brought myself closer to the edge.

“Come for me, Ellie,” he murmured, and I did, hard and fast, my whole body jerking with the sensation as I fell apart.

It took long moments for me to get my breath back, but eventually I raised my head and looked up. Around us, people chatted and drank and laughed as if nothing unusual had happened at all. It hadn’t for them, I supposed.

“That what you wanted?” I asked, my voice husky.

Paul smiled. “It’ll do for starters.”

SCARECROW

Giselle Renarde

They’d tried everything.

They’d bought everything, every lotion, every toy—and still no luck.

Anisha sometimes wondered if they were doing it wrong. Everything seemed so easy for other couples, like the pleasure bled from their minds to their bodies. Maybe marrying your best friend wasn’t as brilliant an idea as she and Kyle had led each other to believe.

“That little garden center is closing,” she told him as he helped unload supplies from the trunk. “At the end of the month. They can’t compete with the big-box mall in Westbrook.”

“Damn.” Kyle shook his head. “We moved out to the middle of nowhere to get away from that shit.”

They’d had this conversation before and more than just once. They’d probably discussed their mutual dislike of big-box stores hundreds of times since the one in Westbrook went up—not so much because the disappearance of Main Street was a focus of their energies and attentions, but because they had very little contact with other human beings. They lived alone together in this fixed-up farmhouse, operating several online businesses between them. No neighbors for miles around. Just each other.

Barely thirty-five years old, and already they’d run out of things to say. They recycled stories like old newspapers, holding back from saying, “You’ve told me that a million times.” They were polite about it, but every day the repetition grew even more irritating. Every time Kyle started into that stupid story about seeing Donny Osmond at the airport, Anisha had to sit on her hands to keep from smacking him.

They were too young to be this old.

“See what I picked up?” Anisha pulled bamboo rods from the trunk. “The garden center was throwing them away. Got some twine, too. Thought we could tie up the sweet peas.”

“Sure, why not?” Kyle closed the trunk and headed around the house. “Let’s do it.”

Anisha felt silly for being so excited, but it was nice to break from routine. She followed Kyle like a puppy as he headed down the hill and through the lightly wooded pathway, carrying bamboo rods and the mallet he’d picked up from the shed. They didn’t talk, and she was glad for that. It gave them a chance to appreciate the birdsongs.

Beyond the pathway was a clearing that looked out over rolling farmlands, long disused. They couldn’t see their house from here, or anybody else’s for that matter. The old jackleg fence marked the property line, and it was overrun with a thick cascade of sweet peas.

In sunny silence, they hammered bamboo stakes into the soft earth. Kyle used the twine to tie on bamboo crossbeams at the knee level and up near his shoulders for the more ambitious peas. Meanwhile, Anisha wove growing plants up the rods, tying them in place here and there. She couldn’t stop smiling, and she didn’t know why.

“Looks pretty sturdy,” Kyle said, stepping back to admire their accomplishment.

Anisha nodded, gazing at those vibrant little flowers—pink, purple, white. She imagined their softness against her skin, those delicate petals brushing her knees, her bum, her thighs. Before she knew it, she was staring at Kyle.

“What?” he asked. His grin was at once amused and perplexed.

She imagined Kyle as part of that bamboo structure, wild peas winding up his thighs, covering his chest with flowers, growing in his hair.

“What?” he asked again, but by then Anisha was turning him around, pushing him back against the bamboo grid, kissing his surprised lips and touching him all over.

“Put your hands up,” she told him. When he stuck them straight over his head she said, “No, more like… Jesus.”

“Like a scarecrow?” He gave her an odd look, but when he lowered his arms he looked just like Christ on a bamboo cross. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Sunstroke?” Smirking, she bound his wrists to the rods at shoulder level and then secured his ankles to the ones jutting vertically from the ground.

And he let her.

“What now?” he asked when she stepped back to appreciate her handiwork. He looked good strung up against a backdrop of naked nature, but he’d look better without clothes.

“Buttons,” she mumbled, undoing his shirt, letting it hang open in the afternoon breeze. “And we’ll drop these.” She unzipped his cargo shorts and they slumped around his bound ankles. Boxers followed, and Anisha watched his exposed cock twitch uncertainly, like it didn’t know where it was or how it got there.

Without stealing her eyes from Kyle’s cock, she peeled off her clothes. Sunlight kissed her naked breasts, and his dick took notice. She’d never felt so warm or so desirable. Temperate breezes rustled the dark thatch at the apex of her thighs, and her fingers followed, parting her lips, striking juice. She touched her clit, melting into herself while Kyle’s erection strained toward her.

“Anisha?”

Gazing up from his cock, she met her husband’s look without guile. His perplexed lust drew her to him.

“You look really good like that.” She dropped to her knees in front of him. “Tied up, strung up.”

When she touched his cock, he gasped, watching from above, both arms stretched at his sides and tied to bamboo. His erection strained so hard it pulled his satin skin taut across the steel heat of his dick. She cupped his balls and he whimpered, and she whimpered, too, because the sweet peas underneath her were teasing her slit, toying gently with her pussy lips, lapping her clit like a dozen little tongues.

Anisha moved forward and wrapped her mouth around Kyle’s cockhead. She gripped his shaft harder than she thought wise, but it made him groan, so she stroked him in that vise grip, sucking his tip, savoring the precome spilling into her mouth.

As her tongue lolled around his dick, Kyle shook so hard he rattled the bamboo grid.

“I won’t last long,” he warned her.

The sentiment made her smile around the girth of his cock. Concentrating her efforts, she sucked hard and pumped his shaft in her fist.

He strained, bucking into her mouth, moaning, “God, I’m gonna come if you keep that up.”

She swallowed his dick, taking in as much as she could bear, and he groaned like an animal in pain. When she grasped his balls, all bets were off. He jerked against her face, driving his erection down her throat as she stroked and sucked and squeezed, beckoning his orgasm.

With a hollow growl, he gave it up. He spilled his seed all over Anisha’s tongue and she swallowed spurt after spurt, feeling the warmth in her belly, relishing the taste she’d all but forgotten.

Releasing Kyle’s spent cock, Anisha sat back in the soft grass, stretching her legs out into the sweet-pea flowers, letting them dance across her skin. She looked at her husband strung up like a vegetable plant, and she smiled. And even if Kyle didn’t know why she was so amused by the sight of him trained to that grid, he smiled, too.

IN HER HANDS

Tenille Brown

Randall was different. And it was more than the clean clothes and hair and brushed teeth.

It was the strut. He didn’t just walk anymore like the rest of them.

Yes, Randall Freeman was getting fucked and fucked well.

It had all happened around the time he made friends with that woman at the local hotel. Simone was her name.

Button never could figure how Randall had lucked out on that deal, anyway, getting to sneak in and spend nights there, even get his clothes washed.

That Simone had taken it a step further, though, that was obvious. Button didn’t want to come straight out and ask Randall if he was fucking the woman. That would seem too much like she cared. And fucking shouldn’t have been that high on Button’s list of priorities, anyway, seeing as how she rarely knew where her next meal was coming from.

But Button was a proud woman, even under current circumstances, and she walked right up to Randall one day anyway and asked, “You fucking her?”

Randall didn’t hesitate when he parted those pretty, thin lips of his and said, “Why, yes, Button, occasionally I do fuck Simone.”

Button and Randall had never fucked, not even once. They hadn’t even met under the premise of fucking. It was simply good old friendship, built upon the hardship of Dumpster diving and looking for a place to lay your head.

But there was nothing like watching someone else eat to make you realize how hungry you really were.

Button didn’t do it often, but hearing Randall say those words, she thought back to two short years ago, when she was fresh out of college and had the world at her feet, when there was no thought of markets crashing and parents dying and life insurance lapsing. When Button was a beautiful, sheltered, fed, and cleaned woman who could fuck circles around Simone.

She wished Randall had gotten just a glimpse of her then.

Button bet Simone was fucking Randall all over that fancy hotel, from room to room, from bathtub to bidet. She was probably sucking all the semen right out of him.

Randall probably couldn’t come right now if Button called him.

So, standing there in front of him, naturally, she did.

“Randy?” Button said, as sweetly as she could manage. “Can you walk with me a minute?”

“Where to, Button?” Randall asked.

“Just across the street. I want to sit in the park awhile, and I want you to sit with me,” she said.

In the empty park in the late evening, they sat on top of a vacant bench in the back.

“I want to know what’s gotten into you,” Button said, “since you’ve been staying at the hotel and all.”

“Nothing’s gotten into me. It’s just a couple of nights a week of clean sheets and good sleep. That’s all,” Randall explained.

“I know it’s none of my business, Randall, but good sleep and clean sheets doesn’t have a man looking and walking like that.” Button hoped she sounded nonchalant.

“Then what does, Button?”

“A good fucking does.”

Randall hung his head. Then he told Button bit by bit how it had happened one night between him and Simone. And he left no stone unturned.

“So, you can understand how something like that can just happen,” he said. “I wasn’t looking for it. And anyway, you and I, we never established…and you never…”

No, Button realized that she had never… She’d also never mentioned to Randall how good she was with her hands. How she used to mold pots and vases and any beautiful thing you could name, all with her small hands and nimble fingers.

But she did mention now, “I’ve done my share of grinning and strutting, Randall. Walking bowlegged, barely being able to walk at all for that matter. I’ve been fucked like nobody’s business, in hotels, in bathrooms, in cabs. Ever had a two-minute orgasm, Randall? Can you even fathom what that feels like?”

Yes, that. That was what Button had been looking for.

That slight discomfort in his face from hearing Button talk about how well she had been fucked before, knowing he hadn’t been the one to do it because as long as she had known him, Randall had never had the balls to so much as touch her hand.

But Randall regained his composure. He ran his hand over his coarse beard.

“But you’re not going to see it firsthand. I’m not going to let you fuck me.”

Yes, indeed. That was disappointment she saw in his face.

Button cleared her throat. “I have another treat for you. Give me your cock.”

She held out her hand, not giving Randall time to say a thing. She rubbed against the rough fabric of his jeans and gripped the silhouette of his cock, feeling it grow tight and hard in her hand. When she was satisfied at its status, Button unzipped Randall’s jeans and let his cock lie free, heavy and dark against his right thigh.

Randall’s lips were parted in question, but no words surfaced between them.

Button stepped down off the bench and planted herself directly between Randall’s thighs.

“You know it’s in my control, don’t you, Randall?” she asked. “When you come, how you come. How hard you come.”

The words were whispers coming from Button, but Randall could only nod in answer.

“I only hope you don’t have anywhere else to be because I could stand here and do this all day,” Button continued.

“Well…” Randall started.

Button twisted and pulled on Randall’s stiff, velvety cock. She whispered hoarsely in his ear. “Is it Simone?”

“She’ll be waiting on me later.”

Button nibbled on his neck, then bit down hard. “And are you…coming…to her?”

Randall clenched his eyes shut tight. He nodded his head.

“I want to hear you say the fucking words. I want to hear you say you’re coming.”

“I am coming, Button. I promised her.”

Button massaged harder. She squeezed the head of Randall’s cock with her fingers, triggering something in Randall that made him rise up off the bench.

“Remember, baby, I’m the one in control. You come when I say so,” she said.

Randall was alternating between licking and biting his lips. He was breathing heavy through his nose.

“Button…” he grunted.

“I know you want to,” Button teased, and she eased off, stroking lightly now instead.

“I’m so close.”

Button tightened her grip again and Randall swelled even greater, his cock growing harder in her small hands. She teased his balls with the tips of her fingers until she felt his inner thighs vibrate. Randall’s head fell forward on her shoulder.

“Come on, Randy,” Button said. “Feel free.”

And Randall came, spilling hot into her hands.

Gaining his bearings, Randall handed Button a stained handkerchief from his pants pocket and Button slowly wiped her palms, her head cocked.

They sat in the park, silent, until it was dark. Button leaned into Randall and nudged him.

“Simone’s waiting, I’m sure,” she said.

And Randall sighed and said, “She’ll realize soon enough that I’m not coming.”

REMOTE CONTROL

Logan Zachary

It’s my birthday, and you bought me a remote control? Why not a blender? A toaster? Wait, better yet, why not a vacuum cleaner? They say the same thing.” Jessica’s eyes welled with tears.

“But honey,” Simon said. “Didn’t you read the label? The New Ultimate Remote. It can do anything.”

“I never get to pick what we watch.”

“This remote can change things. Let me show you.” He ripped open the package. “Watch this.” He pointed out the front window. The snow disappeared. Green grass covered the lawn, and the summer sun beat through the glass.

Jess’s mouth opened wide. “How did you do that?”

He showed her the SUMMER and WINTER buttons.

“Let me see that.” She grabbed for the remote.

“Watch this.” He aimed it at his head. His brown hair turned blond instantly. His hair grew down to touch his shoulders. He smiled and his hair retracted to a crew cut. “You’ll never have to go to the salon again.”

She took the new remote. “And it’ll do whatever I program?”

“Anything.”

“What if I were a man?” She pointed the beam at herself. Her breasts flattened and firmed into muscle. Hair sprouted across her massive torso, tickling as it covered her with a thick brown pelt. She felt a stirring between her thighs. She pulled open her sweatpants and watched her smooth mound of sensitive nerves inflate like a long balloon.

Her fine pubic hair thickened and turned coarse. Two weighted orbs descended from inside her and emerged as firm hairy masses. Her smoothly shaved legs darkened and turned fuzzy. Her hourglass curves bulked into square ridges.

“Check this out!” She flashed him her new organ. It stood straight out, erect and pulsating with each beat of her heart.

“It’s bigger than mine.”

“So guys have penis envy, too.” She aimed the remote at his groin.

Simon felt his penis descend along the inside of his leg and thicken as it snaked downward. Instinctively, he rubbed himself and was amazed at what he felt. “That’s all me?” He swallowed hard. He had been blessed before, but this was obscene, even for him.

“Let me see.” Jessica stepped forward and pulled on his boxers. Her hand reached in and caressed his shaft. She felt it stir. She rubbed up and down the entire length. Her fingers could barely wrap around its girth, and it was growing.

“That feels so good,” Simon said, enjoying her touch as his member reached its maximum length. He could sense wetness escaping at the tip, lubricating her hand.

Jessica stepped closer and kissed him. Her hand continued working his shaft as her tongue entered his mouth. She pulled his lower lip into her mouth and gently nibbled. She could taste his strong manly taste.

Simon moaned with pleasure, enjoying the new sensation, and then stopped. Something was different. He opened his eyes and gasped. He stepped back suddenly, almost pulling his dick off in her hand, or as he saw it, in his hand.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in a baritone voice. The deep vibrations of her vocal cords tickled her throat. She tried to recognize her own voice, but it was a man’s. She looked into the mirror on the living room wall.

Sun baked in from outside, as Simon stood in front of a football player, who had a raging hard-on straining against the front of his sweatpants. It took Jessica a few seconds to realize that she was the linebacker. She smiled inside, but he smiled back at her in the mirror. “Man, am I gorgeous.” She pulled her sweatshirt over her head. Her sculpted chest and abs were furry and perfect. “Come here, Simon, and give me a kiss.”

Simon’s erection started to shrink, as he stepped backward and held up his hands.

“Oh, come on, honey,” she said. “You’ve never…”

“No way.”

“What if,” she pointed the remote at him, “you were a woman?”

“No!” he screamed, but it was too late. The beam shot out of the remote, and his body seemed to melt. His muscle mass shrank and softened. Square corners smoothed to sensuous curves. The hair across his body sucked inside like spaghetti. His waist narrowed and his boxers slid to the floor. His shrinking erection continued internally, reforming as it retracted.

His crew cut flowed into a blonde cascade down to his shoulders, as his razor stubble disappeared. His scream raised several octaves as his throat narrowed and tightened. His hands grabbed his chest, which swelled and blossomed under his touch. Two voluptuous orbs grew and increased in sensitivity. Simon could feel the tenderness increase as his nipples hardened and rose up erect. In the mirror, he saw the perfect woman, looking back at him with his own eyes.

Sun shone through the window on their new naked bodies. Simon stepped into Jessica’s arms. Her hairy body tickled his soft skin, and goose bumps arose across his body. Moist heat burned between his legs. He rubbed his hand over his new organ of pleasure. “So this is what it feels like to be a woman.”

Jessica grabbed her penis, stroking it against Simon’s thigh. “I guess it does have a mind of its own.”

Desire rose as their bodies accepted the changes. “Kiss me.”

Jessica’s mouth came down on his. She drew him into her mouth, tasting cherry. Her thicker tongue hungered for more.

Simon’s delicate tongue sought out the damp heat and was sucked into Jessica’s mouth. His neck tipped back as Jessica’s tongue trailed down his neck, licking, working to his nipples. He tensed as her teeth caught one bud and rolled it. Her tongue teased the erect flesh. Never had he imagined the pleasure such a simple act could evoke.

Jessica knew, and Simon would remember forever. The urge to thrust into him started at the base of her spine, driving her pelvis forward. Her erect cock sought entry into Simon. She ran her glans up and down Simon’s folds.

He welcomed the pressure. A hollow ache needed to be filled. He wanted to know what he did to her. He wanted to feel what she felt. “Go slow,” he said.

She found the spot and slowly entered him, filling him.

His body welcomed her, drawing her in deeper than he thought possible. They looked into each other’s eyes as Jessica pulled out.

Simon pressed forward. Starting slowly, they increased their pace until Jessica’s body slammed against his. A musky, intoxicating aroma arose.

Waves of pleasure soared across them. Tension mounted, as it sought release.

She fell into him, feeling the sun’s rays on her back. She increased her rhythm, curled her toes and plunged deeper.

Simon’s body matched hers stroke for stroke. Kissing turned to biting, as the ecstasy threatened to consume them.

Her body shuddered as it expelled an eruption of electricity into Simon. She felt his body pulsate underneath, welcoming and matching the release, absorbing the multiple waves of pleasure.

They collapsed against each other, trying to catch their breaths. As their heart rates slowed, the same thought came to their minds. What would happen if…? They dove for the remote at the same time.

WEATHERING THE STORM

Salome Wilde

You just need to get back on the horse,” Jen said with a grin, followed by an enormous bite of her ham sandwich.

Evie shrugged and looked out the window at the darkening sky. Jen was her favorite office mate and meant well, but neither the message nor the metaphor satisfied. Of course, horses were better than fish, as in the “plenty more in the sea” line her mother kept dangling in her still-too-frequent phone calls. True, she’d remained dateless in the almost six months since Marcus had left her for the job at the Weather Channel, ruining not only her plans for happily ever after but messing with her former pleasure in all things barometrical. How many times had he practiced his forecasts for the local news with her as a devoted audience of one? How dedicatedly had she learned at his side about tornadoes and hurricanes, earthquakes and tsunamis, so they’d be ready when he got the call? She’d learned to love the weather, and then, when the call came, Marcus had taken it, and taken off.

Though the pain of abandonment still haunted her, Evie was on the right path now. Neither dating services nor advice from well-meaning friends and family was the solution. Reclaiming her pleasure was the answer to weathering this heart-storm, she was increasingly certain. She smiled and nodded at whatever Jen said, watching the clouds close in. It was only unfortunate the details of her healing method just weren’t something she could share.

Lying on her back in the dark of her bedroom, legs spread wide beneath a plush comforter, Evie pressed the vibrator gently beside her clit with one hand and tuned in to the local weather forecast with the remote in the other. Though it was taking its time arriving, the storm was going to be enormous. The wide slash of heavy rain and wind over her neighborhood was slated for 12:24 a.m., then moved to 12:36, then to 12:49. She followed the report on the channel she never used to watch because it was in competition with Marcus’s, while she teased herself. She removed the vibe, then pressed it down again, enjoying little flashes of pleasure as the screen filled with tiny zigzags representing lightning bolts, spreading across the widening red-orange band of heavy thundershowers one county to the west. When the image switched to a clip of intense winds blowing down a huge tree, she took the opportunity to grind her ass into her bed to make sure the anal plug was in deep enough to stay put.

She felt the rumble of thunder, far off, and shuddered. She couldn’t yet see the lightning out her window, but the wind was picking up. It rushed through the trees, making the leaves shimmer and dance. She sighed in harmony, her body awash with pleasure, climax looming. She had to stop; she knew she’d come too soon if she didn’t pace herself.

Keeping her eyes from blurring with arousal was one way to concentrate against the rising gale inside her. She fought the swelling of her labia by focusing intently on the reporter’s discussion of the difference between a tornado watch and a tornado warning. The material was too basic and his voice was monotone, but it sufficed. She battled the wetness that trailed from her slick pussy to her plugged ass by attending to the intricacies of the map on the screen, its little rotating circles of color indicating that circumstances were likely for a tornado. But her clit was humming and the vibrations were moving through her entire body. It was impossible to concentrate on anything else: she was ripe for the deluge.

She was nearly to the point of giving in—muscles clenched, pussy engorged, breath held—then crash! A flash of lightning was followed by an exploding clap of thunder so loud it made her scream. The perfect time for orgasm, for shattering and releasing with the wild and uncontrollable storm.

But Evie hadn’t come. She’d clamped her legs shut, letting go of the vibe and losing it between her legs when she’d screamed. She laughed at herself. This was part of the fun. Reaching for her toy and peeking out the window, she saw the storm hadn’t yet come either. Just a prelude. She lay back and turned up the volume on the TV. A flash flood warning had been announced. It was going to be so big. She fingered the anal plug then brought the vibrator back to her clit.

Changing to another local channel, she watched a familiar, perky female forecaster explain how winds colliding from multiple directions and at multiple speeds were worrying for several counties. The lists of neighborhoods and times flashed on the screen, and there was hers: not 12:49 now but 12:41—just two minutes away. The announcer advised her to get to a place of safety. She shivered, though she wasn’t worried. She’d been through this many delicious times now. She might get scared witless, but she wouldn’t get scared climax-less. Dropping the remote and switching the vibe from left hand to right, she reached for the dildo. Already lubed as part of her storm prep, she slipped the slick shaft inside, listening to the wind increasing. Pussy and ass now deliciously full, clit swelling again, she waited for the next thunderbolt.

As she grew closer to release, the storm finally hit: a tremendous sheet of water so heavy it drowned out the sound of both television and vibrator. She humped into the dildo while the buzzing vibe continued to tease her until she was panting. A streak of lightning flashed bold and white through the sky, lighting up her room, and her body swelled, every inch of her filled yet open wide to receive the eruption. She held her breath and fucked herself harder, knowing the thunder couldn’t be far off.

“You’re really getting it hard in Silver Springs,” the announcer proclaimed, and Evie moaned in agreement.

When the thunder came, so did Evie. Her body was wracked with ecstasy. She shattered as the rumbling peaked and ebbed both within and without, the power in her apartment flickering and dying. She cried out with pleasure until she was hoarse.

There was no denying it: nothing healed like nature.

HELLFIRE

Valerie Alexander

I know you,” he said. “I saw you at the Fetish Ball. You came to my Hellfire party after.”

It’s never a good sign when a man’s opening words are a lie. Or in this case, a half lie. I had been at the big public Fetish Ball. I most certainly hadn’t been at this guy’s Hellfire Club after-party. As a sexual dominant, the last thing I would do is dress up like a giggling nun and submit to a bunch of men dressed as monks. Not to mention, as theme parties went, the Hellfire Club was a bit played out.

But when I turned around, my liar was handsome. Tall, fair, gorgeous mouth, hooded eyes languorous with his own self-assurance. So I decided to have some fun.

“Sir Francis Dashwood, I presume,” I said and extended my hand with a smile. As if I found his bullshit disarming.

He laughed with delight. “I’m impressed. But you can call me Dash.”

Dash. How cute. I recognized him as a major player in our local scene; he gave a lot of parties and trained a lot of subs. No doubt he was in demand, because many of the local doms weren’t that attractive, whereas he was a tall, roguish drink of water. Which meant he probably liked a challenge, which meant he probably found me a worthy contender, since he’d noticed me at the Fetish Ball and now had taken the trouble to game me.

But he also probably thought he could outfox me, since he was surprised I knew who had founded the Hellfire Club.

I brushed my red hair out of my eyes. “I know who you are. But I wasn’t at your Hellfire party.”

“Too bad. You would have made a beautiful nun.”

“I’m told I make a beautiful domme.”

He laughed again. Yes, he enjoyed the sport. “How about we split the difference and call you a beautiful switch?”

I smiled at him. “You first.”

“I don’t do that,” he said just as easily. “But hey, you should come to my next party.” He took my phone from me and began punching in his information. “It’s this weekend. No special theme, just a play party. You won’t have to serve any monks unless you want to.”

There were girls stripping, showing off, everywhere at the party. They were kissing on the sofa and gyrating by the stereo, competing for the attentions of men I simply could not find attractive. I remembered why I rarely went to play parties. This wasn’t one of those events stiff with titles and protocol, everyone a Lady So-and-So and Master Such-and-Such. But the stone-faced men all seemed thuggish and surly, and all of the women seemed submissive, and the only “scenes” were a blow job going on in the kitchen and what looked like a gang bang in one bedroom, a thin body on the bed lost under hairier bodies straddling her head and hips. In short, the party was everything I found repellent in BDSM. I liked my men kneeling at my feet, cocks hard and thighs flexed, bodies trembling with the desire to serve and adore and fuck me any way I demanded.

I’d been a fool to think Dash and I could work out, even as a quick tumble.

A fist curled in my long red hair, gripping me just above my nape. “You don’t have permission to touch me,” I snapped at the offending dom and made my way down the hall.

And there was Dash, leaning against the wall and smiling his arrogant, lazy smile. My heart jumped like an idiot’s. Goddamn him for being so handsome. His hooded eyes fixed on mine. “You made it.”

He loomed over me, standing a bit too close to impress me with his height. I knew that trick.

“I just stopped in. This isn’t really my kind of party.”

I glanced around disdainfully so he wouldn’t see the ache in my eyes. Just looking at him made me wet. What a hopeless, misguided fever to catch. I never reacted to anyone like this.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

I could have objected to his hand on my back as he led me through other bedrooms filled with people being spanked or tied to chairs or photographed, but the heat of his fingers burned through my dress and I could barely breathe by the time we entered the backyard. We were alone at last and my blood was rising even though my brain reminded me shrilly this wasn’t going to work. It was just temporary madness, I told myself, an itch to be scratched. I didn’t want even a one-night stand, just mindless relief for the cannibal inside me. But I had no idea how to start feasting on another predator.

“Sorry you’re not having a good time,” he said, stepping beyond a massive oak tree. “I feel like a bad host.”

We looked at each other for a long moment. Then he knelt so fast that my blood roared.

“No one’s going to find out about this,” he said, looking up at me.

“Agreed.”

I lifted my dress and his tongue lashed over me in feverish desperation, licking my pussy with mindless, voracious hunger. He sucked my clit, worked his tongue inside my dripping cunt, growling with pleasure. My fists curled in his dark blond hair and I rode his face in a rapid, undulating rhythm, mastering his tongue before I let it master me. Clutching his hair, I tilted his head back and held it tight, pushing my pussy all over his face in a signature of ownership. I slapped his cheek. “Suck me,” I ordered and he worshipfully wrapped his lips around my clit until I ejaculated on his beautiful mouth.

Then I was going down on all fours in the dirt, his fingers digging into my hips as his enormous cock pushed into me from behind. I moaned. He was rough and demanding, slapping my tits just before he pulled out, then plunging in deeper. He was fucking me as hard and ruthlessly as an animal, leaves and dead twigs crackling under my hands. I bit my arm to muffle my screams, hot, dirty, shameful lust rolling through me in wave after wave like a tsunami. It had been years since I’d fucked outside the rules like this, and my pussy felt electric. Then Dash flipped me over and pinned me to the ground, laughing evilly as he teased me with just the head of his cock.

“Beg me,” he said.

“Hell no.” But my hips did as I tried to capture his dick and failed.

“If you want to come again…”

“I’ll take care of myself in the car.”

He growled and forced my legs open wider to push inside me again. He needed this as much as I did—I could almost have called him enslaved, I thought with a smile. The idea of him in chains pushed me into a hot and drenching explosion that never seemed to end, even after he had come too and was looking at me with something like awe.

HER LOVER IS A FLAME

Cecilia Tan

Her lover is a flame and this is both joy and pain.

There are advantages. She can see him almost anywhere, anytime, so when they are apart she is never truly alone. A woman unaccompanied in a tavern is the object at times of unwanted attention, but at the Black Tabard the whispers keep her safe, about the time Tall John’s boots caught afire or that burn that kitchen boy received, what was his name?

The disadvantages come on lonely nights, when he is away, though. When the only chance for his touch comes with the single candle burning on the stones in front of the hearth. She sheds her clothes, baring a sex unencumbered by hair, meticulously shaved in his absence. She kneels before the candle, a delicate finger spreading her folds, exposing herself to the heat of his gaze. The fire roars.

She builds up a sheen of moisture, sweat across her skin and dew gathering between her thighs, spreading it over her pleasure, whispering his name. And then she rears up, the tongue of the candle flame licking at her wetted sex, until it becomes too much and she settles onto her heels again, her finger starting its travels through the wetness once again.

The fire roars.

Eventually even the slowest pace brings her to the inevitable peak, though, her desire consuming her, her edges curling in the heat, until it takes only one last swipe of her finger, or, if she has truly held back long enough, just the barest flicker of the candle near her nub sends her into spasms and gasps of ecstasy. She grinds her wetness against her palm then, igniting that heat again and again, until at last she lies sated before the hearth, soaked with sweat, her skin aglow.

And still the fire roars. He will be home soon.

ME VENGO!

Mistress Kay

College. I’m getting a bit sick of it, to be honest. Here I am, yet again, stuck in a roomful of people attempting to learn Spanish for the first time. It’s a familiar sight; I’ve retaken this class four times, and it’s the only thing I need now to graduate. I just suck at attendance, so I keep failing. This semester though…this semester has been different.

It all started on the first day of mi clase de español. He sat next to me. This handsome, attractive guy with long, brown hair and the deepest blue eyes. He was a little bit sweaty from the summer heat, but it only made him look better. And every day, when I come into class, this hunk of a guy sits next to me. Every day. Then, as luck would have it, the professor assigns him to be my compañero, my partner for vocal practice. We get to be off in the back corner of the room where the professor rarely bothers us.

And his voice! I don’t know if his Spanish or his English gets me more, but I’ll gladly take either. He rolls his r’s so perfectly, and suddenly, I’m finding that Spanish doesn’t seem so boring anymore, especially when he and I are exchanging flirty looks, and his leg keeps crossing its invisible boundary to touch mine under the desk. It’s exciting, it’s thrilling, and I absolutely love it.

A review day rolls around for las verbos, our verbs. We have to learn to conjugate them and whatnot. After an extremely boring lecture about them, we get split into our compañero groups to practice.

My dream boy gives me a smirk that says he’d rather be doing anything else but practicing Spanish as he starts off our exercise.

“Hola.” Oh, that voice of his.

“Hola! ¿Como estas?”

“Muy bien, gracias.”

Without an explanation, he pauses to flip through a couple of pages in his textbook, and he smirks as he looks right up at me. “¿Te gusta venir?”

Venir? Huh? That doesn’t sound familiar. A quick check in the book will fix that. Do…you…like…to come?

Oh my god. That must have been a mistake, right? I bet he doesn’t even know what he just said! It doesn’t stop my cheeks from turning three shades redder as I try to get him to realize his mistake.

“¿Venir?”

“Si, chica. Venir. ¿Te gusta venir?”

This is way beyond what we’d flirted about in the past, but I’d be lying if I said my body isn’t responding to his proposition. Those blue eyes of his just keep looking me over, waiting for an answer.

“Umm… Yo nunca vengo.”

Diverting my eyes to a discolored spot on the desk, my cheeks feel like they are on fire. Why did I just confess to him that I’d never had an orgasm? Oh man, he’s not going to talk to me for the rest of the semester. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

Then his hand finds its way to rest on my forearm. “¿Quieres venir?”

“BREAK!”

When our professor calls for break, we get twenty minutes to stretch and eat something. The boy’s eyes meet mine. I cover his hand with my own, and nod. Yes, I do want to orgasm.

He returns my nod, and then he stands up, taking my hand, as he walks us out of the classroom in the flurry of other students. Continuing down the empty hall, he walks us into an empty classroom. The desks have been pushed to the side, and the room looks as though they’re cleaning it for the summer.

He gives me a reassuring smile as he pulls me toward the front of the classroom, out of the way of the door’s view.

With a gentle push from him, I’m backed up against the classroom wall. His lips find their way to my neck, and he starts to softly nibble the skin that he finds there. It feels so amazing. I’d been this way with boys before, but he seems to really know what he is doing, and before long, my hips are desperate to press up against something, wanting more. I feel his smile on my neck as he gives a low chuckle, wraps his arm around my waist and pulls up my shirt.

The air feels cold on my exposed flesh, and as I study his face out of nervousness, I see that the look in his eyes is one of pure admiration. His lips trail down from my neck to the voluptuous curves of my cupped breasts, and his kisses near the edges of the cups of my bra send shivers down my spine.

Just as I’m realizing that we may not have the time for much body exploration, he seems to read my mind. His hand snakes between us and starts to unzip my jeans. Trying to make it romantic and smooth, he quickly gets frustrated as the button won’t unsnap and laughs as he brings his other hand to get my jeans undone. He looks up at me with a smirk as he slides one of his hands into my jeans, then into my panties.

His touch is cool, but I’m certainly not complaining. He knows what he’s doing with his fingers, and his first few strokes bring small gasps from my lips. His hand quickly warms as I feel the throbbing in my panties start to intensify. He doesn’t stop even when my body starts squirming on its own, and even when I start whimpering uncontrollably, his fingers keep moving.

It has never been this intense before! As I start begging him to continue with my arms wrapped around his shoulders, my body starts to tighten, and I’m sure this is going to be it. My thighs grip his wrist, and I interrupt my gaspy whimpering to try to warn him.

“Oh god, I’m comi—”

“Nope. Not like that, you don’t! Our professor would be ashamed. Say it in Spanish!”

My breath comes even quicker, and I try desperately to pull the words from my mind as my hips continue to gyrate against his hand. Pushing even harder against him, I gasp out what he wants as the most amazing sensation I’ve ever felt courses through my body.

“Me vengo!”

The contractions continue as I ride out my orgasm with my arms gripping tightly to his strong shoulders and my legs starting to give out underneath me. I feel his arm grip me around the waist to support me as my gasping slowly turns into something that resembles regular breathing again. He holds me up against that wall with his face buried in my neck as I come down from my orgasmic high. I feel sweaty, and the empty classroom smells of sex.

With a quick check to his watch, he gives me a cocky grin. “Well, lovely, time is up. So…best way to spend a break or what?”

COUNT OUT THE STROKES

Virgie Tovar

Count out the strokes.”

I was sitting next to him on the tiny, pale-pink leather sofa. The cushion was long and firm, and I could feel him flexing his ass. Each time he flexed I would feel a nearly imperceptible movement of the cushion—down when he squeezed and then back up when he released. I imagined each flex made his dick twitch with momentary pleasure. He counted: “One.”

One was quiet and slow. His fist as far down his shaft as possible, his wrist facing up. I could see his taut blue veins. His mouth was open a tiny bit, just enough that I could smell his breath. It was that leftover fruity, fermented smell from beer or maybe vodka. I’ve loved the smell of alcohol on a man’s breath since I’d lost my virginity to that thirty-eight-year-old guy who worked at Sotheby’s.

“Two.”

His voice quavered when he said “two.” He had squeezed the head so tight on the first stroke that a shiny, translucent drop of precome glistened, sitting precariously on the tip of his dick. There was a quiet moan at the very end of his exhalation. It was accidental—maybe.

We met on the train on my way home from work. He was eavesdropping on an impassioned conversation about xenophobia I was having over the phone with my friend Alesia. When I hung up, he told me he agreed with me. I’d seen him before, but we’d never spoken. He asked me if I lived around here.

“Three.”

His jaw was tightening. His mouth was open wider. His chest muscles were constricting. He was topless, with tight black Calvin Klein boxer-briefs on. His nipples were hard, one of them pierced, and his right bicep—the one he was using to jack his dick—was flexed, a tattoo of a hot-pink Jesus Christ covering his entire shoulder going down his arm to the elbow. Apostasy. Hot.

He went past his stop. Usually he got off at 37th. He managed to parlay our conversation off the train and onto the pavement. He had walked me to my apartment, asked me if he could use my bathroom. “Yes, but you’re sure as fuck going to have to earn it.”

“Four.”

Four was labored. He had a hard time with four. I could feel the cushion go down, stay down for a long time. He was trying to hold the come that was building up in his balls. He squeezed his shaft low on the base, held his breath and then let it out between pursed lips. He was starting to sweat.

He had smiled when I told him about the bathroom. I walked up the stairs ahead of him, taking it nice and slow, letting him look up my little dress at my fat ass. I was wearing black, see-through tights and red cotton boyshorts underneath. They were jammed up my ass, up my cunt. I hated those boyshorts with the fucking seam up the cunt, but now that I had someone to stare at them I didn’t mind them so much.

“Five.”

He loosened his grip, knowing he was close and that he should be careful. There were just three fingers around his dick now: thumb, index and middle finger sliding up his foreskin. He was hissing out his breath. I saw him shiver.

When we got to the top of the stairs I opened the door. It was dark in my apartment. “You still need to piss?” I asked him. He could hear me smiling and I heard one husky smart-ass laugh. I closed the door, pushed him against it, grabbed his face. “Open your mouth.” He did. I licked his tongue, his teeth. I put my mouth against his ear. “I bet you’re used to good little girls who let you fuck them real hard while they beg for that fat dick. I’m not a nice girl and I’m not little, and you’re going to be the one begging.”

“Six.”

I slid closer to him, the side of my big, full breast pushed against his arm. One short exhale turned into a groan. He confessed that he’d masturbated thinking of my tits bouncing in his face while I rode him. “I’ve dreamed of what your ass tastes like.”

“Seven.”

“My ass is like a little vanilla meringue tart.” Seven was a fast, hard pump. I took his pants and shirt off. I had let him eat my pussy there on the leather sofa. He’d slid my tights over my ass, kissing down my full thighs as he pulled them all the way to my toes. He grabbed a fistful of my panties and wedged them up my pussy, letting the seam rub my clit. “Let me lick that pussy clean.”

“Eight.”

I put my finger on the top of his nose, slid it down the sweaty bridge. He looked at me, my lips, my cleavage, my belly. “Please. Please. Please.” His entreaties were staccato; he held number eight halfway down his shaft. His free hand was bearing into his thigh, the sweat from his palm matting down the hair on his leg, thinking that might save him.

“Please what?” I asked him. My pussy was throbbing.

“Please can I come?” he said with urgency. I shook my head with a little pout of feigned sympathy. His face was so perfect with just the light from the street coming in through the venetian blinds.

“Nine.”

Nine was so, so close. He almost lost it. He was squirming, shaking. I could see the head of his dick becoming that tiny bit firmer, plumper.

I had finally let him take my panties off, and he stuck his tongue all the way up my cunt. He moaned into my pussy like he was relieved, like it was all he needed, pushing my thighs back. “You like that creamy pussy?” I asked him as I stroked his head, coming on his tongue over and over until it cramped. He nodded his head up and down. “Can I stroke my dick?” he asked over and over. “You can pump it ten times. Ten is all you get and you’ve got to count out the strokes.”

“Ten.”

I could hear ten coming in his voice. He held the soft e, making the tiny word so big. He was holding his cock right below the head, looking at my face, lips puckered. He was right on the very edge. I stood up and sat on top of him. I wanted him to come on me. I leaned in to kiss him and when my mouth touched his he began to spasm. His mouth was so wet. I was licking up his saliva and tasting his salty lips. Ten ushered in an enormous, wet, full, sloppy load all over his belly, his chest, his chin, my pussy, dripping down my cunt hair, my belly, my tits. I sat on top of him, kissing him for a long time, his come between us cooling our bodies, feeling his aftershocks, muting his moans.

STEAMY

Tess Danesi

It must be the day, with its brilliant sunshine, cornflower-blue sky and cool gusty wind, compelling me to find release. Or maybe the wind is just blowing in that direction. Or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t come in over a week. Even though I can’t grasp how, time just seems to get away from me. Or maybe it’s the slippery, smooth feel of my spandex bike shorts against the seat of the spin bike making me linger a bit too long in the saddle even though the rest of the class is standing in second. Not any release will do. Getting off, and getting off soon, is exactly what I need.

Does anyone notice that my position is just a bit off as I strive to have my suddenly needy clit make contact with the seat? Probably not; everyone is focused on his or her own ride. Plus, it’s a task so surprisingly simple that it makes me ponder if the allure of the always-packed spin room is actually fitness. Perhaps it’s fitness with benefits. I stop my brain from going off on tangents and focus on the sensation that travels from my cunt to my throbbing clit every time I contract my muscles. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Sigh. Hell, it’s still exercise—it’s a Kegel. I take a moment between sweating from my dual exertions to marvel at my complex anatomy, so capable of bringing me the most intense pleasure with just a touch in that special spot or an obscenity whispered in a low, gravelly tone into my ear or this, the rapidly increasing tempo with which I squeeze my muscles tight and release them, all while imagining a thick, hard cock pulsating in synch deep within me.

Sensing my need for stress relief today, I’ve packed my gym bag thinking how good it would feel to partake of the gym’s usually underutilized steam room after spin class. Now, I gaze at the clock and pick up my pace, as if exerting myself more will make the time pass faster. I could get off my bike, slip out, and no one would beat me up for it, but I persevere. I’m rewarded when the instructor says, “Two minutes to the finish line, let’s all finish strong.” I fully intend to do just that.

Hopping off my bike, I take the time to stretch, loving the feeling of the tensed muscles in my calves, hamstrings and quads releasing. A deep breath in, a hard exhale and I lean more into the final stretch, sighing out loud before I grab my towel, wipe down my bike and make my way to the ladies’ locker room.

I head to the childfree zone; my tolerance for noisy kids, cute as they may be, is markedly low. I strip down in the empty room, grab a few still-warm towels, press them to my face and inhale the unique scent of freshness that only comes from repeated bleaching. It’s a scent that I love, one that conveys cleanliness in a way nothing else does—or perhaps I’ve simply seen one too many Clorox commercials. Slipping on my flip-flops, I head to the steam room.

Opening the door, I’m instantly enveloped in a lush, rich mist so thick it takes a moment before I realize I’m not alone. Another woman lies sprawled on the tile bench. I pause and orient myself before finding a place. Laying out one towel, I roll another into a pillow and open the one that was hugging me, letting the steam caress the curves and planes of my body. Breathing deeply, I let the eucalyptus-scented vapor fill my nostrils with a welcome astringent twinge. I settle in, letting my body melt into the towel. Through closed eyes I sense movement. I open them to see the woman headed toward the door. She opens it and the air cools momentarily, but the steam vent quickly starts up again, making the room seem alive with swirling swaths of mist.

I’m quick to take advantage of this reprieve. My hands make their way over the swell of my large breasts, lingering on my hardening nipples. My palms slide smoothly over my slick skin, making me shiver despite the heat. The dual feeling is sublime. As my nipples respond to the grazing of my palms, so do my palms tingle as the stiffening skin prods at them. I slowly let my hands fall lower, cupping the underside of my breasts, enjoying their heft and suppleness. Slick palms glide over flesh decorated with pearls of moisture that drip down my lush curves, over the swell of my belly, a belly I can’t decide whether to embrace or abhor depending on how kind I’m being to myself. Today I embrace the voluptuousness of my body, consciously choosing to revel in the pleasure it gives me.

My hand moves lower and lingers over the convex contours of my hips and ass. Each new touch makes my breath come a little faster and I allow a soft groan to escape my lips as my nails roughly grip and scourge my sensitive flesh. Parting my thighs as much as I dare in a place that with the opening of a door can go from private to public, my fingers are softer and gentler. Another hiss from the vent deepens the illusion of privacy and makes it seem safe to sink my fingers into my pussy. The warm, moist walls of my cunt echo my surroundings; the dual heat makes me light-headed and woozy. I squeeze my muscles tightly; my ass tightens and raises slightly off the bench, my cunt pulsating and throbbing around my fingers.

Withdrawing my fingers, I bring them to my lips and lick off the salty sweetness before letting them slide down to the sensitive spot where my thigh meets my sex. The slight prickle of hair starting to poke through the skin reminds me to shave once I hit the shower, a thought that’s quickly pushed out of my head as my fingers alight on my swollen clit and with just that touch, my need escalates. Another blast of steam swallows me in its embrace, caressing my entire being while my fingers alternate from pinching and pulling at my silky, smooth labia to circling my slippery clit. As my desire increases, my fingers dwell on my clit, focusing on the one spot that is just a tad more sensitive than any other.

Hips rise and fall, breath comes shallower, faster, muscles tense, teeth clamp onto lower lip too hard, a giant wave tosses me high and then higher. Muffled yet ecstatic sounds escape before I tumble down, spent yet bathed in serenity. The glow I feel is no longer just from the hot, steamy room.

I stay there a bit longer, afraid that the combination of heat, mist and orgasm has left me too unsteady to walk. When I finally hit the shower, turned as cold as I can stand it, the tension between the chilled water and my hot skin arouses me yet again. Greedy girl that I am, I’m happy to linger in the shower and come once more.

PAYBACK

Emerald

I drove by slowly, running my eyes over the nine-story hotel less than six months old. Its staunch exterior brimmed with newness, solidity, progress. My gaze dropped to the ground floor, the foundation of the building that covered the worn abandoned parking lot where I’d sucked him off so many times those years ago, on my knees on the pavement as he panted in the driver’s seat.

Before I knew better, I thought.

It had been six years. Six years in which a lot had happened.

I’d been eighteen then, in almost no possession at all of any understanding of what I wanted sexually…much less that I had the right to ask for it. It wasn’t that I hadn’t enjoyed our one-sided exploration—still today, giving head is one of my favorite activities.

No, what struck me as I pulled my gaze back to the road was that it hadn’t occurred to me to even want any more. Wistfulness tinged with sadness flitted over me as I ached for that girl I’d been, who didn’t know enough to demand her part in the rendezvous pattern that summer. Who instead jumped out of her car night after summer night and ran giggling over to his, dutifully sucking him off as he moaned blissfully, his heavy hands tangled in her hair.

Phillip had been more experienced than I at that time. Whether my own pleasure hadn’t occurred to him or he exploited my lack of knowing, I didn’t know. It had occurred to me since then that it was probably the latter. Looking back, it admittedly fit the rest of the impression I had of him.

I knew his voice even before I turned.

“Hello, Phillip.”

I knew I would see him while I was here—it was too small a place to avoid it. Granted, the parking lot of the ice-cream shop directly across the street from a certain new hotel wasn’t the most inconspicuous place I could have hidden, had I wanted to hide.

“I heard you were in town. Glad I ran into you.” Phillip’s eyes flicked to the building I’d just been staring at, and I could hardly imagine he wasn’t recalling the same things I had when I’d driven by the night before.

He was still hot, though the swaggering “bad boy” demeanor didn’t do as much for me now as it had back then. His dark hair fell almost to his eyes, and the athletic frame he’d sported in high school was still intact.

His gaze ran up and down me as his grin grew a little wider. He walked in front of me and leaned against the wooden fence along the edge of parking lot, resting his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.

“So. How’ve you been?”

I suspected his thoughts were on something other than the question as I joined him against the fence and faced out toward the hotel. I felt a strange relief standing near him, an absence of the needy pull I had experienced back then that had made me feel powerless whenever someone wanted something from me—even if it was something I was willing to give. I tossed the question back at him and noticed as he adjusted the crotch of his jeans. I couldn’t help a tiny smile as I wondered if it was because of me.

Phillip turned around to look across the street with me. Deep blue was replacing the pink-orange shades of dusk in real-time increments. It would be dark in a matter of minutes.

“They plowed over our place,” he said.

I almost laughed. “Yep.”

And I had plowed over a lot of who I had been then. The poignancy of the realization probably showed on my face, and I was glad he wasn’t looking at me.

Barely realizing it, we had left the fence and started across the street, none of the rush that used to accompany our sneaking out there six years prior accompanying us. The street was unoccupied as we crossed it slowly, almost automatically, not stopping until we reached the far side of the hotel. There we stood, behind a new structure hidden in old shadows.

Phillip stepped toward me, his eyes darkening with an oh-so-familiar desire. “So what do you say?” His voice was low, tight with lust. “One more for old times’ sake?”

This time I let the laugh out. “Old times’ sake, Phillip?” The words came without hesitation, no part of me feeling unsure about what I said, what I was about to do. How he responded, of course, was up to him. “How about payback?” I planted my hands on his shoulders and pushed him abruptly to his knees. Phillip blinked up at me in surprise, a response I ignored as I slid up my skirt and pulled my panties off to the side. My eyes stayed on his.

After a pause Phillip leaned forward, lifting his hands tentatively to my thighs as his warm breath joined the coolness of the night that surrounded my naked pussy. I sighed as his lips touched me, holding back a groan as his tongue slid its way over my clit. In short order I forgot anything but sensation as he delved into me, his earnestness rivaling that which I had shown him years before.

My casual air disappeared as I started to care what he did, the heat in my core eliciting a fervent hope that he wouldn’t stop, that he’d finish this job as well as I had always finished it for him. Every nerve ending in my body fixated on little more than his tongue as I realized just how much power someone in his position really had.

He squeezed my ass hard as my body began to contract. I bit back a scream and came against his tongue, grabbing the back of his head and grinding against him with animalistic abandon, a true reversal of roles.

I panted as I came back down, regaining the wherewithal to drop my skirt and square my shoulders as he stood up.

“Thanks.” I smiled and turned to walk away, just like he had all those times after I’d given him what he wanted.

“Melissa.”

I turned. His demeanor was tentative and vulnerable, a tempered version of the thoughtless cockiness that had infused him the summer I’d last seen him. I realized suddenly that he’d seen six years of experience since then, too—and like his ignorance of mine, I had no idea what any of it was.

With a crooked smile, he said, “You’d need a couple dozen more to make it even.”

I met his eyes. Something more than heat and desire lay behind the gaze that lingered on mine, and I realized he was saying he was sorry.

My lips pulled in another smile—involuntarily this time. I shrugged, a gesture of acknowledgment, of agreement, of surprise and interest and assent. I gave him a nod as I pulled out my keys.

“Fair enough. See you tomorrow.”

COME ON

Raziel Moore

I want you to come on me.”

Nica knew how to put things in my ear to make me hard.

“You want what?” I’d heard her clearly enough, but this was new, strange. I pulled back from our embrace to look at her. Nica looked back, eyes hooded and lusty. She tugged on my stiffening cock.

“I want you to jack yourself off. And when you come, I want you to come on me.”

Stereotypical bad porn scenes flashed through my mind.

“Isn’t that…degrading?”

She gave me her you’ve got to be kidding look.

“If I ask you to do it, do you think I’d think that?”

If I didn’t know her, I wouldn’t have guessed an answer. After six months, did I yet know her well enough? When do the surprises in a relationship stop? They’re never supposed to, are they? Still, I had to ask: “Why?”

Her expression grew, if anything, more carnal. Hungry.

“Because, Daniel, I want to feel you on my skin. Because I want to see you do it. Because I want to be the one you do it to—the one who makes you want to.”

I still didn’t really understand. My favorite thing in the world, quite literally, was coming in Nica. It was the holiest of pleasures to let myself go deep inside her cunt, the darkest of thrills when she swallowed me down her throat or, when we were feeling truly bestial, I took her ass. This seemed…such a waste. Like jerking off with her there.

Maybe that was it—or part of it. She said she wanted to watch me, but it seemed unequal, objectifying. If that was something Nica got off on…I didn’t know how I felt about that. Not yet, anyway. Frankly, however, any objections would be empty protests. I couldn’t deny her request. She’d made me curious, after all, as well as turned on.

“Okay.”

She smiled and pirouetted out of our hug. She moved to the bed and methodically propped up some pillows, bending over with the obvious intention of giving me an eyeful. Watching her undress always made my hands itch for her, but then she reclined like a queen, bare and dusky on our white sheets. She opened her legs, planting her feet wide apart and patting the space between them.

“Right here.” She said it sultry. Slutty even. I moved, kneeling on the bed. Nica drew her hands to her feet and slid fingertips up the insides of her legs. By the time she reached her knees, I had my cock in my hand. When she arrived at her inner thighs, I was jerking myself. When she traced the outside of her cunt and moaned, I echoed her.

When I jerk off, usually, my eyes are closed. I’m usually imagining, well, Nica—her face looking something like it did right then. I imagine her sweet body open for me—like just then. I imagine, usually, fucking deep inside her. But there, then, fantasy and reality diverged. With open eyes shifting from juicy cunt to rising and falling chest, to the rising blush on her face, I wasn’t imagining anything. Nica’s living image laid waste the visions of fantasy.

I wondered how I would keep myself from launching forward and fucking her brains out.

“No touching, Dan. Not this time.”

My eyes caught hers. Of course she knew what I was thinking. Her expression was pure heat; surely some part of her wanted me in her as badly as I wanted to be, but the rules were different this time.

Nica tweaked her clit and cooed. My cock twitched in my hand, a shiver of pleasure flowing up my spine. I wasn’t going to have any problem doing this for her. Coming for her. On her. I found I liked the idea. A lot.

“I’m…watching…you,” she said between breaths. My hand was much rougher than hers when she would sometimes jack me off. I think many women don’t know how rough a cock can take it. I made a mental note to show Nica. Later. Just then, that hot pooling began at the base of my spine.

“Where?” I asked. The word was more of a bark—curt, bitten off. Nica let her knees fall farther open, stroked up her belly to her breasts and back down, drawing an outline with her wetness.

“Here,” she said with a sigh, returning her hands to their work of self-pleasure. Every move she made was seduction. “Tell me,” she breathed.

“Oh god, Nica, I…” I shuddered, cock as stiff in my own grip as I’d ever felt it.

“Watch me,” she said.

Nica arched, presenting herself to me, a perfect, wanton target. Her eyes smoldered, boring into me like an imperious whore’s. I didn’t have time to think about that impression as my orgasm came fast and hard, nor did I have the presence of mind to aim. It was blind luck where I ended up pointing as pleasure took over; my first ejaculation made an audible splat just above her belly button.

I’d never taken the effort to scientifically measure how much I come. There, then, I felt like the most clichéd fire hose, like a geyser. I jetted right onto her quivering stomach, the sound of liquid hitting skin quite clear. Spurt after spurt as the automatic reflex took over, landing higher and lower on her body, splashing thick over clean skin, some of it already dripping downward.

“Yesss.”

Nica’s eyes were half-closed as my pulsing cock ebbed, dripping its last onto her mound. Her hands slid up over her rib cage, smearing my stuff, pressing down to meet at her cunt, to push come-coated fingers inside. That’s when she went off.

Nica cried out, back bending sharply, head snapping back. I couldn’t help myself; I laid my hands on her, feeling her shake, her muscles clench. I wiped my spunk over her like finger-paints; belly, breasts, pinching her nipples with sticky fingers as she screamed. I worked my cream into her skin. I don’t think I’d ever smelled my own ejaculate so strongly, but mixed with Nica’s sex it was dead hot.

Nica beamed as she came down, lowering back to the bed. She was a fucking sexy mess.

“Is that what you wanted?” I asked.

“Mmm. Yes. It’s…hot on the skin when it first lands. Like lava. I think you scalded me.”

I nearly said, “I’m sorry,” but she giggled maniacally. And hell, I wasn’t sorry. Watching her rub her coated skin, maybe I began to see a little more what she saw in it. My hands still caressed her slowly; her skin had a slippery-sticky quality to it now.

“I’ve painted you with my own color, haven’t I?”

“I think you liked it, too,” she said, moving a hand to my half-hard shaft and pulling gently. I growled.

“Come here, Dan. Put the next one where you want it.”

I smiled, showing teeth, moving my tacky hands to her knees to open them. Her gentle, coaxing touch made me shiver.

“We’re going to get stuck together.”

“Would that be so bad?”

It wasn’t bad at all.

THE PINK TEAM

Kelly Rand

Lisa looked through the clear blue water of the swimming pool and saw a hot pink ring at the bottom of the deep end.

They’d been playing a ring-toss game earlier. Lisa had been on the pink team. They’d lost to Craig’s blue team. Now it was night, and she hovered in the shallow end, staring down at the evidence of her loss.

The party had moved inside, but Lisa couldn’t bring herself to get out of the water yet. She hadn’t swum all summer. She’d felt sheepish when she’d stripped off her T-shirt to reveal pale shoulders compared to everyone else’s golden tans. She’d been even more sheepish when she noticed Craig looked like he’d spent a weekend baking in the sun.

In the pool, alone, with long shadows overtaking the backyard, she didn’t have to worry about that. She liked the slow, gentle song of the crickets. The scent of hot dogs and hamburgers still wafted from the cooling grill. Inside, the dining room lights created a yellow glow.

She bent her knees and let her legs whoosh through the water. It felt like going against some broad current, like when she put her hand out the window of a moving car and cupped the wind in her palm.

The patio door opened and Craig headed down the steps, lazily holding a beer. “Are you coming in?”

She shrugged. “What are they doing?”

“They’re about to play poker. Not your favorite thing, I know.” He walked to the side of the pool and sat on the edge, dangling his feet in the water.

She bobbed for a moment, glancing down at her white stomach through the rippling water. She moved slowly backward toward the opposite wall of the pool. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“I knew you’d be surprised,” he said. “But it seemed like a good way to get you to talk to me.”

Lisa couldn’t help but smile. Craig had always been persistent. They’d dated since they were sixteen, nine years off and on. They’d been apart two months this time.

She dipped back in the water until her hair was submerged, forming a long wet fan over her shoulder blades. She reached the side of the pool and felt the water jet against her tailbone, explosive and insistent.

“We’re here then,” she said. “Talk.”

Craig smirked. “You’re mouthy since that ring-toss game.”

“No. I’m mouthy since you made out with some other girl at the bar.” She moved her fingertip against the water-jet nozzle and it sucked at her skin. When she pulled away, the thin stream gushed against her.

“I told you it was a mistake. I was drunk and stupid.” He took a swig of his beer and his gaze drifted to the deep end of the pool. “One of your rings is down there.”

“I know.”

“Want me to get it?”

“No,” Lisa said quickly. “I can get it.” She’d never been the strongest swimmer. She hated the temporary disorientation of being underwater, but she bristled at the notion of needing Craig’s help.

She felt his eyes move over her and looked away, letting her legs float outward. Earlier, as a water volleyball game had gone on around her, she’d held her breath and closed her eyes, seeing how long she could float on her back before she felt that sharp fear of sinking. She’d focused on her own tentative breaths. The sounds of the game through the water had been muted and foreign.

Craig set down his beer and stripped off his T-shirt. His shoulder bore an already fading tattoo he’d gotten at eighteen. He smirked as he lowered himself into the water and waded toward her.

Lisa kicked to a standing position and covered the water jet with her hand, feeling it gush against her palm. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

The smirk stayed. “Like what?”

She looked back at the ring through the darkened water. A breeze whistled through the bushes and caught her damp shoulders. Her water-wrinkled fingertips felt like parchment when she rubbed them together.

“Don’t come over here,” she said. She wasn’t returning the smirk, was she? She didn’t think so until he kept advancing, bobbing buoy-like, his eyes the same blue as the water.

“Really?” he said. She remembered that voice. She remembered it from when she was sixteen and snuck the phone into her room to talk to him in bed. She remembered its whispered late-night hush.

“Really,” she repeated, her back against the side of the pool as she listened to the gurgle of the water filter and the steady hum of distant crickets.

When he reached her, his warm arms encircled her. She closed her eyes, knowing she was about to be kissed, and tasted chlorinated water on their lips.

She didn’t want the air to rush out of her lungs. She didn’t want to push her hips forward. She didn’t want the kiss to grow fervent, to deepen until it seemed his tongue was licking her heart, but she found herself slipping her arms around his submerged shoulders. When he grabbed hold of her hips and lifted her, she felt the water jet rush between her legs, and she broke the kiss to suck in a breath. “Wait,” she mumbled. “We shouldn’t…”

“I know,” Craig whispered. “We shouldn’t.” When he let go of her legs, she thought he was going to slip away, but he grabbed her hips and turned her to face the water jet.

His arms slid around her from behind, fingers clasping her bikini bottoms to tug them down. She squirmed in Craig’s embrace, head falling back on his shoulder, but he spread her open with his fingers to keep her tight against the flow. The jet gushed an insistent stream on her clit.

She bit her bottom lip, and it matched the tight white bite of his teeth on her ear. “Hold still, baby,” he mouthed, and she hated that she did. She hated that the heat of him against her felt so comfortable. She hated that the slipperiness of their bodies made her think of cock.

He pushed closer to the jet, keeping her spread with two solid fingers. The tickle became anxiety, a need so desperate a noise escaped, and her thighs trembled in helpless orgasm.

“Stop,” she said, nudging against the overstimulation. He shifted enough that the jet hit her hip, and she yanked up her bikini bottoms.

It covered her just in time for Beth, the party host, to open the patio door. “Are you guys coming?”

“Yes,” Craig said, arms still around Lisa’s waist, and pushed her wet hair to the side to kiss the back of her neck.

Beth watched them curiously, walking to the edge of the patio and craning her neck to look in the pool. “Is that one of those rings in there? Can you grab it?”

“Sure,” Lisa said, wriggling out of Craig’s arms. She dove deep into the water, moving her limbs with solid strokes, submerging into the private darkness where the bottom was slick and the water enveloped her like a warm, safe place.

HEADACHE

Sherry Reid

Last year, Karen started getting migraines—bad ones. The pain would be so bad that I’d come home to find her curled up in our bedroom, which was as dark and quiet as she could make it, crying into the pillow. My wife had never had this kind of headache, nor the other symptoms, before. Because we were in our midtwenties, that didn’t surprise anybody, not even the two neurologists we saw.

“They’re stress related,” the second doctor had said after reviewing the first expert’s charts and asking Karen dozens of questions about everything from her diet to whether or not she drank. “Try yoga,” he’d added, as if Karen weren’t already doing that three times a week.

When we got home after that appointment, I told her I’d be back in a little while. She had no idea what I was up to until a few days later, when a couple of guys pulled up with a hot tub.

“This is perfect,” she’d whispered, hugging me tightly.

“I just hope it helps.”

“It will.”

Frankly, I’m not entirely selfless; I knew that putting in a hot tub meant sexy time in the privacy-fenced backyard. In my defense, though, I really was thinking of Karen’s head first.

When I got home last night, Mittens, Karen’s Siamese, was waiting for me by the door. Instead of her usual, constant chatter, she walked up to me, her tail down, and started pawing at my shoe.

“Bad day, huh?”

Mittens sat down and looked up at me.

“I understand, girl. You can go off duty now.”

With that, Mittens hopped on the couch and turned around, several times, in circles. Her self-assigned job was to let me know, before I started making noise, that Karen was having a bad one. During times like that, gently closing the front door sounded, to her, like firing a cannon next to her head.

Kneeling down, I untied my shoes and slipped them off. As I made my way to our bedroom, I quietly stripped, letting my clothes hit the floor as I went. When I cracked the door and peeked inside, Karen was curled up in the fetal position. She moaned softly.

Without saying a word, I crossed the room and peeled the comforter off my wife. She wore only her bathrobe, untied, which meant that she’d already tried soaking in the tub. Sometimes, that worked well; other times, like yesterday, it made her feel worse.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Hey,” I replied, my voice as quiet as hers.

She cringed. “Hurts.”

“I know, baby.” During a follow-up with the second doctor a couple of weeks ago, he’d told us that orgasms sometimes help—something about blood vessels. The only reason we didn’t immediately go to that remedy—it worked almost every time and didn’t make her feel dopey, unlike the medication—was because my consulting firm was still struggling to survive. Calling me to come home early just wasn’t an option most of the time; in the future, I hoped to be able to do just that whenever she asked.

“Help me.”

“I am, honey.” I pulled the blanket and top sheet the rest of the way down. Karen’s bathrobe was open, revealing most of her body. Typically, I would take my time, starting with a kiss that explored her entire mouth. Last night, though, she needed to come.

Instead of ogling her some more, which wasn’t helping, I put my hands on her ankles and slowly straightened her out. She shifted from her side to her back and spread her legs. Through all this, she kept her eyes closed, probably because there was some light in our room despite the heavy-duty curtains.

Kneeling at the floor by the foot of the bed, I kissed the inside of each silky knee. I could smell her pussy, which was starting to dampen just a little. As I kissed my way up each leg, being as quiet as possible, her smell wafted my way. The bright-red pubic hairs that made up her neatly trimmed bush glistened even in the almost-nonexistent light.

“Please,” she said, almost whimpering.

“Anything for you,” I replied, deliberately breathing on her pussy. My reward, a soft moan, escaped her lips.

I parted her lips with my thumbs and flicked my tongue across her clit. When she sharply inhaled, I knew she was focused on my tongue; better not break contact. Slowly, I licked my way down to her hole, so warm and wet.

“Yes,” she whispered.

When she felt better, she was as enthusiastic as could be; what they say about redheaded women in bed is true, at least in my wife’s case. If she’d been in the mood to jump me at the front door—something that happened on a semiregular basis—she would, at that moment, be sitting on my face, grinding her clit into my lips while telling me to lick harder.

Last night, though, she could give only subtle responses when I wrapped my lips around her clit and suckled it like it was one of her nipples. Now her breathing quickened, but just a little; that was enough to encourage me.

While I sucked and licked her, I trailed my first finger down to her hole. Slowly pressing into her got a “God, yes,” so I sped up just a little.

One of her hands ran through my hair. Light pressure pulled my face tighter against her. “Just like that,” she whispered. “I’m so close.”

Nothing made me happier—or hornier—than those words. As I kept fingering and sucking my wife, she grew wetter—and louder. One thing I’d learned, rather early in our marriage, was that she loved when I crossed two fingers inside her. I pulled my finger mostly out and crossed it over the middle one before I thrust forward again. She gasped and tightened around me.

“Oh,” she groaned. “Oh god.”

I withdrew my finger, but kept lapping up her juices until she stopped moaning and writhing. When her orgasm tapered off into the occasional, satisfied moan, I crawled into bed and pulled her close. She curled up against me, her head on my shoulder, and sighed.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“Glad you’re feeling better.”

“So am I.”

For several minutes, we just lay there. Her breathing slowed and deepened.

“Still awake, babe?”

She didn’t reply; she’d drifted off to sleep. I closed my eyes and smiled because, when she woke, her headache would be gone—and she’d definitely show me her gratitude.

PUSHING BOUNDARIES ON PUBLIC TRANSPORT

Victoria Blisse

Kev likes to push boundaries. He spanks me to my limit, ties me so I can’t move and teases me until I beg him for relief. We have a safeword but I’ve never used it. He pushes me, but he never takes it too far. I only fall further in love with him.

He’s the affectionate type; he loves to hold my hand in public, to caress and kiss me. I enjoy it most when our embraces draw attention, so part of me hopes someone will look up and notice that his hand is down the front of my skirt as he kisses me. It’s not too likely—we’re sitting in the back row of seats on the top deck of the bus—but if someone walks up the stairs and glances this way they might see my flushed cheeks as I try desperately not to cry out with pleasure.

The bus is pretty full; the sun has tempted people out and now they’re packed in together, fighting to feel the relief of the fresh breeze slipping through the small slits that pass for opened windows on public transport. It smells of petrol and plastic, old chips and cheap body spray here at the back where the young and rebellious usually gather. I am neither one and feel like I’m trespassing in my sensible skirt and my plain V-neck T-shirt.

When he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me in for a kiss I should have said no, should have pushed him away, but I didn’t. It’s hard to say no to Kev. His free hand reached up and squeezed my breast as we kissed. My breath hitched and my pulse raced off like a thoroughbred horse on derby day. I’d think of something more original but his touch drives all inventiveness from me. Hell, I find it hard to think at all. I just feel.

“Someone might see,” I hissed but his fingers continued to meander down over my curves then dipped below the waistband of my skirt.

“So?” he replied with a wink and a smirk and I found myself incapable of thinking of a measured response as he glided the pad of his forefinger up and down the damp crotch of my knickers. All I managed was a solitary moan that I clamped between my teeth before it drew attention to us.

And so I’m here, trying so hard not to scream, pretending to be a good girl while wickedly sexy urges take over my thoughts and movements. He doesn’t content himself with teasing outside the barrier. Oh no— he nudges the material out of his way and strokes over my plump cunt lips. I bury my head into his shoulder to hide the pleasure and the shame that lights up my face. I luxuriate in the cool cotton of his top. It eases the warmth of my flushed cheeks. It’s a sharp contrast to the heat generated by his knowing fingers on my pussy. I shift my head slightly and kiss his neck. It’s an expression of my pleasure as his fingers continue to probe between my wet folds. I increase the pressure of my lips on his skin as he rubs my clit up and down with a rhythm he’s sure will push me to my climax. He lets out a deep purr of contentment, heightening our pleasure as his fingers push harder.

“Don’t look up,” he whispers, “but there’s a guy watching us.”

I freeze but he continues to tease me. He’s not going to stop until I come. I can’t look up in case it breaks the spell. I don’t want to panic and pull away from him, because I want this orgasm. I want to be his bad girl; I want to break free of the monotony of my life and enjoy the risk, but if I open my eyes and see disapproval I know I won’t be able to carry on.

But I can’t help peeking. I turn my head slightly and look through the gap between his arm and my curls and I see him, a few rows in front of us to the left. He’s stretched out over the whole seat, body cocked toward us. I don’t see disgust written on his face; I see lust. The breath I’d unconsciously held blows from my lips and the pleasure brewing inside me intensifies.

“You like being watched, don’t you?” Kev’s velvet whisper elicits the slightest nod from me.

“Fuck, you really are a slut, Violet. Letting me finger you like this on a bus of all places with a man watching us and getting off on it, too. I hit the damn jackpot with you.”

His words, his touch and the situation pool in the bottom of my stomach and weigh heavy there. I need to let it all out. I need to liberate the ecstasy that is cranking up inside me to the uncomfortable level where I can feel it thudding like my favorite rock song on full blast.

My legs twitch as I strain to keep them in the same place. My hips thrust up and down in time to Kev’s beat even though I’m trying not to move, to be discreet. I can’t suppress all this energy though. It’s buzzing through me, tightening my skin and constricting my insides, making me pant and gasp as I struggle to breathe through the pleasure. It builds to that point of pain, the precise moment when you know it’s all or nothing. I throw my head back as Kev’s thick, hard finger rubs that one crucial time and plunges me into bliss.

It’s funny how two things happen when I come. First, everything else is blocked out as my body eats up the orgasmic energy shooting through me. Then my senses are heightened and everything comes back to me and slaps me back into reality.

I can smell my delight, feel Kev’s hand backing onto my thigh, his other arm still casually around my shoulder, his lips tickling the flesh of my neck. I open my eyes and the sunlight hurts me. I blink and blow upward over my top lip to flip the light curls from my face. It’s a delightful blast of cool against my hot skin.

I notice the guy; he’s looking right at me and smiling. I dither for a moment. He seems pleased by my disorientation because his smile lengthens and lights up his face. I eventually manage to curl my lips and return the unspoken greeting.

“Thanks,” he mouths and reaches out to press the stop button. “He’s a lucky bastard.”

“I am,” Kev says, and makes me jump. The watcher laughs and swings himself out of his seat.

“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” I mutter as I snuggle into my lover.

“I can make you come anywhere though, can’t I?” There’s that smirk again. I return it because I know he’s right.

RUNNER’S HIGH

Sam Angioli

Trish was breathing hard by the time she finished the fourth mile, but she pushed on, imagining how it would feel to jog the final distance to the apartment and up the steps. Her lungs and legs burned and her arms felt like jelly, but she gritted her teeth and told her body to keep moving. She was zoned out and moving on momentum by the time her apartment building came into view, but the sight of the familiar bricks sent a jolt of ecstasy through her.

She took the last half a block at a quicker pace and moved up the steps, adrenaline and endorphins flowing at full force. “I did it!” she shouted when she came through the door. “Ry! I ran all five miles!” She took a couple more steps before she had to resist the urge to drop into the nearest chair. “Oh, crap,” she muttered. “I need to shower before I drop dead.”

She peeled her sweaty top over her head and dropped it into the laundry basket on her way to the bedroom, then shimmied out of her running shorts as the water heated up. A couple of minutes later she was stepping ecstatically into the hot spray. The water beat down on her, massaging her sore muscles and renewing her sense of pleasure. She sighed and leaned against the shower wall for a minute, then stepped her feet apart, stretching her leg muscles before they could freeze up on her.

She was bent over when she saw a pair of hairy legs step into the shower behind her. “Congratulations on your run, super-lady,” Ryan said. She grinned at his feet and was about to straighten to greet him when his fingers traced the line down her exposed ass and into her wet folds. She grabbed her ankles and sighed as Ryan gently forced two fingers inside her.

“Thanks,” she gasped, letting him pull her hips back against him. A surge of pleasure spun through her, making her dizzy. She raised one hand to help her balance against the wall and moaned as he slid his fingers out, over her clit, and back inside.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good!” She had expected to be more focused on the sore muscles after a run like that, but the ecstasy and the endorphins were still swirling through her and her whole body quivered with pleasure. Ryan seemed to capture and stoke the pleasure that already flowed through her, redirecting it from her limbs to her pussy as he stroked her inner walls.

“You’re sexy all bent over like that,” he whispered, and he rocked his hips forward to let his thickening erection brush over her ass. Trish moaned as it pulsed against her flesh and grew harder.

When she lifted her free hand and brought it to her clit, Ryan moaned and curled his fingers inside her to hit that place that made her squirm and cry out with pleasure. “I fucking love it when you do that,” she gasped out, and shuddered as she brushed her fingers lightly over her sensitized clit.

Ryan’s laugh caught at her nerves and sent ripples of pleasure up her spine. “I love it when you have a good run, baby. You come home so ready for me, I hardly have to do anything.” He chuckled again, and Trish gasped in surprise as he slid his thick cock inside her. His invasion pressed her forward and into her stroking hand, and her gasp turned into a moan as her fingers and clit met again.

“Oh god,” she moaned. She spread her legs to give him better access and braced herself more firmly against the wall. The water pounded down in a sensual massage across her back as he shifted and began to thrust, his cock sinking into her again and again. Her fingers danced across her clit as the sensation of being filled and possessed made the pleasure rise like a tide.

A whimper seemed to fill the shower stall in counterpoint to the rush of water, and she realized that the noise was coming from her. She stopped briefly, then Ryan tilted his hips and adjusted the angle, and she let go, her pleasure singing through her and out in a constant stream of that erotic noise that Ryan called “her music.”

Her entire body sang with sensitivity, from the spot on her hips where his fingers dug into her, to her nipples, where the water flowing over her back gathered in a tickling stream. The pleasure seared through her nerves and she began to push back against him, meeting his thrusts with her own and clenching around him as she stroked and teased her clit.

Her orgasm took her suddenly, ripping through her from her clit to her toes and back again, making her tired muscles quiver and clench throughout her entire body. She screamed and bore down, soaking up the pleasure of the moment. Distantly, she heard a moan and knew she had milked Ryan’s orgasm from him as well, and she shuddered again, her pleasure redoubled by the knowledge that he was filling her with his come.

He had to help her, shaking, to an upright position a moment later. She grinned as she leaned back against the shower wall in the cooling spray. “Almost makes me want to go for another run.”

HIS THREE CONDITIONS

Medea Mor

Please fuck me, Sir. Please. I can’t bear it anymore.”

He shook his head, flashing her the sadistic smile he saved for those rare occasions when he denied her himself just to watch how she’d respond.

She groaned. He’d been feeling her up for the last hour, and she needed him inside her, needed him to bring her to the orgasm that had been building inside her for what seemed like an eternity. The throbbing between her legs was getting painful, and she needed a release, now.

“Please, Sir,” she begged him. “I need your cock.”

He shook his head. And then, more cruelly, he withdrew his hand.

She nearly wailed in frustration, but somehow she resisted the urge. She had learned the hard way that he hated whining. She was allowed to beg on occasion, but whining or whimpering was punishable by caning, and god, she hated being caned.

“You want to come, you dirty little slut? You want me to allow you to come? Fine. Have your damned orgasm. But on three conditions.”

She looked up at him, clenching her thighs, trying hard to hang on to the intense arousal that was pulsing between her legs. She wondered what was coming. Knowing him, his conditions would be anything but straightforward.

“One,” he said, flashing her that horribly sadistic smirk again, “I’m not going to help you. If you want to come, you’ll have to pleasure yourself, you insatiable hussy.”

She nodded. She could do that. It wouldn’t be as good as his cock inside her, but it would be something.

“Two,” he continued, “I get to watch.”

She nodded again, a little more impatiently this time. Being observed while she got herself off wasn’t a novelty for her. She didn’t like masturbating in front of him, and had once upon a time had great difficulty bringing herself to orgasm in his presence, but she’d had so much practice at it lately that it wasn’t much of an issue for her anymore. She had almost gotten to the point where it didn’t embarrass her anymore. Almost, but not quite.

“And three…you can’t use your hands.”

This one was new. New and worrisome. How was she going to relieve this maddening throb between her legs if she wasn’t allowed to use her hands? How could anyone be expected to manage that?

“Can I use a vibrator?” she asked, hoping against hope that he’d be generous enough to grant her that.

He shook his head. “No. That would come under the heading of ‘using your hands.’” He grinned at her, inviting her to see the truth in his words, and challenging her to come up with a better solution.

A host of ideas flashed through her mind, all at once. She could try humping a pillow, she thought, or the edge of the couch, or even a table leg. She’d never tried the latter, but she’d done both of the former as a young girl, before she had discovered that a hand in her panties was more effective. But no. None of those things would do. It was his body she craved, not some inanimate object. She needed his skin, his scent, the feel of him.

Then it hit her. His legs. Those strong, muscular, hard-but-yet-soft legs that were currently peeping out from underneath the shorts he was wearing. If he’d allow her to hump one of them, she might just be able to finish herself off, provided that he didn’t pull back at the last minute.

“May I please hump your leg, Sir?” she asked in the most deferential tone she could muster. Her heart pounded as she spoke the words. She didn’t think she had ever asked him anything this bizarre, nor anything quite this humiliating. Not for the first time, she wondered how she had come to this, how he had reduced her to this and how he kept her coming back for more.

He took his time considering her request, which shouldn’t have surprised her. He loved keeping her in suspense. Of all the cruel mind games he liked to play, keeping her in suspense was probably his favorite.

“Are you really so needy that you require the use of my leg?” he asked eventually, his dark eyes glittering with mirth.

“Yes,” she answered simply.

“Very well, then. Hump away, you little slut. But keep your hands behind your head.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she whispered, a little shocked at the depth of her own gratitude.

She got off the couch and kneeled in front of him, as she did so often. This time, though, she didn’t kneel between his knees, but rather in front of one. She felt intensely embarrassed as she inched forward, her hands clasped behind her head as he had commanded, and pressed her throbbing pussy to his shin. With a burning face, she lowered her eyes, only to be told to keep her eyes on him. Of course. He wouldn’t pass up such an opportunity to watch her squirm. She hated him for humiliating her so, but at the same time she had to admit she was oddly aroused.

No sooner had the tender flesh of her thighs met the coarse hair on his shin than she forgot her embarrassment. A chill of pleasure ran up her spine as she began to buck her hips against his leg, seeking the solidity of the bones beneath his flesh.

Minutes passed as she ground herself against his shin, which seemed to get a little more slippery every time she slid down on it. As the tension grew inside her, moving over her, building to a crescendo, she stole a look at his crotch. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the bulge that was straining against the confines of his pants.

Of course, she thought. He would get off on this.

The realization that she was making him hard spurred her on even more. She inched farther forward, until his knee was poking into her belly and she could clench her thighs around his leg, thus increasing the friction between his shin and her pussy. Up and down she went, her legs quivering with the strain, until a shudder ran through her and release erupted through her, wracking her body with spasms of pleasure. With a piercing cry, she arched her back and surrendered to the pressure that had been building up for ages. Then she collapsed onto his knee, spent and exhausted.

He allowed her a little time to recover as she lay slumped over his knee. She felt his hand stroke her hair and the hypersensitive skin of the nape of her neck, tenderly and ever so softly. Then he cupped her chin in one hand and forced her to look up at him.

“Hop on the couch,” he ordered. “On your knees, ten inches apart, hands on the back of the couch.”

She stared at him, a little confused, still reeling from her climax. She wondered if she was going to be punished, and if so, for what. “What… what are you going to do, Sir?”

“I’m going to fuck you silly,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Just like you asked.”

THE MORNING AFTER

David Salcido

Normally I hate weddings, but then, this hadn’t been your ordinary wedding. Nothing mundane or commonplace about it, which is just exactly what one might expect from a couple like Todd and Shan. Music, nudity, dancing under the stars: pagan weddings were always much more fun than your average, run-of-the-mill Christian event.

I stood in the doorway and surveyed the damage. Not bad, considering. Bodies, in various stages of undress, were strewn about the floor and on furniture. The odd wine or cocktail glass, here and there. Small piles of clothing in corners. No more than should be expected the day after an all-night bacchanal. My guests were nothing if not conscientious and polite.

The happily wedded couple was upstairs, in the spare bedroom. They’d be leaving for their honeymoon later this evening. Even so, I shouldn’t let them sleep too late. I set about making coffee and boiling water for tea in the kitchen, while bodies stirred beyond. There would be a few hangovers to tend to, but first, the guests of honor must be serviced.

I loaded a tray with carafes of hot water and coffee, cups, saucers, spoons, cream, sugar and some biscuits, then made my way across the obstacle-strewn floor, toward the staircase at the far end of the room. Two pairs of pleading eyes met mine and I gestured back toward the bar with my head, while continuing onward.

I encountered another couple, which had made a little love nest on the first landing, and stepped gingerly over them. Second floor attained, I tiptoed through the hallway and knocked lightly on the door. A languid voice murmured something that sounded like, “C’min.” I turned the knob and pushed the door open, stepping through.

“Good morning, lovebirds. Coffee or tea?” I asked.

“Mmmm…tea for me,” Shan said. She had the sheets pulled up to her chin and was, judging from the smile on her face, in a postorgasmic haze. Chestnut curls foamed around her head and languid brown eyes gazed up at me.

Her husband Todd lay next to her, only his lower half covered by the crumpled sheet, his arm thrown over his eyes. Blond hair fanned out across the pillow and dusted his lean body, shimmering like gold in the morning sun slanting through the blinds.

“I’ll take coffee,” he mumbled, not removing his arm from his face. It was obvious that Todd was suffering the same aftereffects of the night before that the downstairs guests were.

I sat the tray down and closed the blinds, casting the room into a more comfortable dimness. “It smells like sex in here,” I offered.

Shan giggled. “It should. We just finished, like, fifteen seconds before you knocked.”

I turned and smiled. “Really?” With what I knew to be an impish grin, I walked around the bed and lifted the sheet to reveal Todd’s naked body. His tumescent cock still glistened with come and pussy juices.

“Yummy,” I said. “Mind if I sample?”

“Please do,” Todd said, smiling.

I dipped my head and licked at the underside of his cock, making it jump. Then I took the head into my warm mouth and sucked it slowly down my throat. After thirty seconds or so, I let it slide wetly from my mouth.

“Mmmm… It tastes like both of you.”

Shan giggled again. “My husband fucked me good.”

“Apparently,” I replied, standing once again. My own cock tented outward beneath my sarong.

Shan eyed the tent and smiled. “Looks like someone else could use a little, too.”

“You inviting?”

She threw back the sheets and spread her legs to reveal her cream-drooling cunt, still swollen from Todd’s attentions. I loosened the knot on my sarong and let it fall to the ground. Shan lifted her hand. I took it and she pulled me down toward her. In one smooth move, I eased between her legs and slid deep into her well-lubed cunt.

I settled down on top of her and she sighed. Soft, creamy breasts cushioned me.

“Good morning,” I said, lowering my head to kiss her softly.

“Mmmm…good morning,” she replied.

“Hey,” Todd said, rolling over toward us. “Where’s mine?”

I turned my head and met his bearded face coming in over my right shoulder. We held that kiss for a good thirty seconds, while I slid slowly in and out of his wife’s cunt. That was one thing Shan and I wholeheartedly agreed on; Todd was a gifted kisser. We broke and I kissed Shan again, harder and deeper this time.

The thumb of my right hand found a hard pink nipple and grazed it softly, making Shan shiver. I licked it, teasing it gently with my teeth, then planted soft kisses in the hollow of her throat. Todd responded by placing equally soft kisses on my shoulder and arm as he watched. “This must be why they call you the ‘best’ man,” he said.

“Mm, I don’t know about that,” I mumbled into Shan’s throat. “You ended up with the girl.”

“Shhh,” Shan shushed. “More fucking, less talking.”

I happily complied.

It didn’t take long before Shan’s breath was coming in ragged gasps and her pelvis was thrusting up against mine. The woman loved to be fucked. I slowed my movements and let her do the thrusting.

Meanwhile, Todd had risen up onto his knees and offered me his still tumescent cock to suck on. One of my favorite coital positions. He never got completely hard, but his cock definitely reacted to my ministrations and that got my juices boiling. Shan moaned into her first orgasm and I thrust deeper, grinding my pubes against her clit, just the way she liked it. She shuddered and another wave hit her.

My own orgasm was building, but I was thrusting in and out in time with Todd’s cock sliding in and out of my mouth. I reached around and grasped a handful of his tight, hairy ass and he ground his cock down my throat, just as my own orgasm overtook me. I sucked hard and pushed deep into Shan as she rode the crest of yet another orgasm. This one had been loud. I was sure the other guests had heard it.

We stayed that way for a few blissful seconds, then Todd pulled his cock loose with a wet plop and dropped back down into the bed. Looking up at me, he kissed me again, then turned and kissed his wife. Her eyes were closed, but she responded. I slid out of her well-fucked crotch and stood.

“Messy,” I said, reaching for my sarong.

“Hold on,” Todd instructed, sliding down to take my cock in his mouth. I shuddered. My cock is always very sensitive after orgasm. He licked gently at it until all sticky matter was gone. Then, when he was satisfied, he handed me the sarong and swung his legs over the side of the bed, into a sitting position.

“Now, about that coffee…” he said.

“You just let me take care of that,” I replied.

I knotted the sarong and set about serving my newlywed guests coffee and tea in bed.

LOOK AT YOURSELF

Maxine Marsh

Look at yourself.”

He stands behind me, just out of sight. It is not unusual that he’s tied me up to a chair, that he’s put a live vibrator in my hand. What is unusual is that the tone of his voice makes me cringe. Nerves crumple through my entire body.

He repeats his order. I look at myself. There in the reflection of the body-height mirror, which he’s positioned against the wall just before me is, well, me. And not just me, but the real me. Me, freshly out of bed this morning, having been summoned by a shake to the shoulder and the cringeworthy timbre of his voice.

What I see makes me wince: hair messy as a mop, my face covered in the sheen of oil, my eyes a little droopy and red, my lips dry. And the wrinkles. I turn my eyes away, to the wall beside the mirror. I have to.

“Look at yourself.”

With some hesitation, I glance up again.

He keeps talking, a disembodied voice over my shoulder. “I know it’s been a while, but you seem to have forgotten your lessons. So, look at yourself.”

He’s right. We’ve grown older, busy. We still satisfy each other, but it’s been a while since we focused on just us in this way. It’s been a while since he tied me up.

So I look at me in the mirror. I have just enough presence of mind left to put the vibrator to my clit; it seizes against the stimulation. I’m going to come quickly. Soon, I’m shaking. It crests, the explosion of pleasure radiating through my pelvis.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says in my ear.

I don’t like what I see, but I obey. As I watch, the distaste for my flaws gets swept into the climax. Something inside me breaks. I shake like the earth shakes when she’s releasing pressure from her core. Those “wrongnesses” embedded deep down in my gut, or in the part of the mind where ugly things are kept, shake along with me, their roots tearing loose. I groan, long and hard, my teeth grinding down.

He hasn’t told me to remove the vibrator. My eyes water, a couple tears falling loose in the postorgasmic aftershocks. My thighs squeeze together, trying to shield my clit from the continued, furious buzzing of the vibrator. Still, he doesn’t tell me to move it, so I don’t.

“You said it twice last night, so…again.”

I realize why he’s doing this. The conversation over dinner last night had featured mostly mundane topics. I could have sworn it was a normal conversation, but deep down I know what I said somehow bothered him.

“I noticed these wrinkles this morning—I hate them. We’re getting to that age now…” Sip of wine. “Lisa said it only took a couple minutes at the doctor, and the shots barely hurt. And now her forehead’s as smooth as silk.” Pointing to the lines in my cheeks, and the three crossing my forehead. “You see them there? I hate them. I could get them fixed.” He had stared at me for a moment, and then swallowed his bite of food. “Do you really think you need to do that?” he asked. I noted his question with a shrug.

It’s been a while since he tied me up, made me come to his command. My thoughts are chaotic, but I know better than to protest. My body protests instead, the thrilling, rolling vibrations becoming painful to my over-swollen clit. I gasp, but make myself take it. There I am in the mirror, a blurry haze.

Suddenly my mind joins him in wanting me punished. Well, maybe not punished, but disciplined. I’ve seen the ugly pieces, they’re flowing freely through my liquefied body now, and they make me angry. So much so that I want to come again and blow them away, shatter them until they disintegrate into nothing. But then the rebellion fades. The pieces maintain their hold.

He’s close behind me again. “This is how I see you,” he whispers into my ear.

I’m not sure what he means. The vibrations of the toy are forcing me toward another orgasm, although this one feels like it will crush me. It looms, excruciating, and part of me is afraid I won’t be able to stand it. I tell myself that he knows I can stand it, and through my doubt that is at least a little comforting.

I refocus my eyes on myself to find a furious aspect on my face. I see my subtle but ever-deepening wrinkles are exaggerated in my straining. Should I hate them? Should I fill them with falseness? More importantly, is this what he sees—my flaws?

My clit is screaming, and I release a long, drawn-out whimper. It’s so strong, it feels so good, but it isn’t progressing.

“I can’t,” I whine.

“You will, or we’ll start from the beginning.”

I know he’s serious.

“Look at yourself until you come.”

I try again. I watch my struggle in the mirror. Waves of pleasure wrack me, I tremble in expectation, but my climax lingers just out of reach. I blink. Frustration boils over and I take the vibrator off my clit with a grunt. This is ridiculous. I’ve come over and over again with this toy, climaxing only minutes apart in trysts past.

He sighs. I know he’s disappointed in me. “I’m giving you a gift,” he says.

“I don’t understand.”

“I want you to see what I love so dearly.”

It hits me. I am a selfish person, selfish and self-centered, so much so that I have only been thinking about my own role in this most torturous of little lessons. It is a truth I have not considered. Spending nights obeying him, adoring him, caught up in trying to prove how much I love him. But I’ve taken his love for me for granted, I realize.

“I want you to see what I see when you come. How beautiful you are.” A hunger rolls off his voice that makes my pussy convulse.

I put the vibrator back between my legs and I force my eyes to look straight ahead. This is awful, but so wonderful all at once, like staring directly at the sun. I remember he’s there, remember I don’t want the control. When I’m in control, big iron doors slam shut and parts of me disappear. I want him in control so that my body and my mind can open up to everything they are capable of feeling.

My pupils find themselves in the reflection. The longer I stare, the more the keening arousal grows, the nearer I draw to orgasm. The imperfections I saw just moments ago disappear. They’re still there, but they’re not imperfections anymore. They’re just…me.

The bubble bursts. I seize, nerves utterly alive. The climax rolls through me, powerful and smooth, sweeping away the strangling insecurities with it. It’s impossible to see myself as anything but beautiful just then. I know it won’t last forever, seeing myself like this. But for now, I direct the adoration inward. Look at yourself, I think.

DO IT AGAIN

Sinclair Sexsmith

Kristen gets off easily. When we were discussing it last night, she said there’s a point after we’ve been fucking for a bit where she can simply tighten and it happens, so after a while she can basically come on demand. I start murmuring, “Do it again, come for me, do it now,” and she does, almost every time.

I love that she comes like that. It is one of the things I crave most about sex: being able to give someone else that feeling of orgasm, of momentary loss of control, of la petite mort. I love the power of that exchange, the way she wants it from me, the way I keep her poised on my fingers or tongue or cock. I have tried to keep track, but I always get distracted, or lose count, or can’t tell when one ends and the next begins; sometimes she just goes and goes. I have asked her to count, telling her I’ll let her out of the ropes after she gets to ten.

Some days just the memory of her is enough to drive me wild.

I’ve been holding on to the image of her in my bed last Sunday all week, rolling it over in my mind like I roll my ring on my finger.

We’d already been fucking, all day really. From the time we woke I couldn’t keep my hands off her, stayed in bed until hunger forced us up after one. Back home, I wanted more. I cradled her, fucked awhile, until I wanted to watch.

I’m perhaps more of a voyeur than even I know. And she is such an expert at her own body. I love watching her as her skin flushes, fingers move, hands hover above her own pussy as she shakes, then opens her eyes to look at me: “Want me to do it again?”

This time, she was on her back, on my bed. I wished aloud for a spreader bar and then made one, makeshift, from a white-tipped straight black cane and black rope, her ankles as far apart as they could go, so she couldn’t close her knees.

Then, clamps on her nipples. Tighter than I expected, but I know she likes the pressure, likes it when I bite hard.

Then I got a cock out, a big one, the widest I have—I can’t even get my thumb and forefinger all the way around the narrowest part. It is short, so it’s hard to strap on. I keep it in my hand as I watch her writhe for one, two orgasms on her own, as she can’t take something that big until she’s warmed up. I tug at the chain of the nipple clamps, twist them around for more of a pinch. She moans. She likes it. I watch her come, and lube up the cock, slide it in without much resistance, watch her face change, her hips open, as she starts working her clit again right away.

And these are the images that flash in my mind: that thick red cock shoved all the way in; both her hands between her legs, upper arms pushing her breasts together as the clamps and chain accent her nipples and swollen areolae; knees up and rocking back and forth, straining against the bar holding her ankles apart.

I’m kneeling at the foot of the bed, knees apart, stroking my cock, still strapped on, watching from slightly above as she writhes and moans.

Then I’m next to her, my hand working the cock in and out, my mouth at her neck, shoulder.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, as I refuse to close the distance and keep her straining to reach my mouth.

I grin, and slap her instead, six times in rapid succession. She moans. I hit her again. “Or slap me, that’s good, too,” she breathes, nearly under her breath, as I continue to make her cheek pinker, and I do, again, and she starts coming, harder, so I slap her a few more times before leaning in to kiss her, until she starts jerking as she comes and nearly knocks me in the nose with her forehead.

“Fuck me, please.” She is unhinged like this and asking for just what she wants, and I love that.

I shift between her legs, the bar holding her ankles apart now behind my knees, and I keep some pressure on it so she can strain against it. I slide inside easily, wrap my arms around her, kiss her hard, and we lose ourselves in it, rocking against each other, going deep, as she comes again, and again, and again.

UNDER THE TABLE

Elizabeth Coldwell

I’m going to make you come.”

The words are mouthed, rather than spoken—after all, it’s not the kind of thing you say out loud in the middle of an expensive restaurant, while your boss consults the dessert menu and struggles to decide between the profiteroles and the tiramisu—but the look on your face suggests you’ve understood them all too well.

I know exactly what you’re thinking. Here? Now? How can he? How dare he? But you’ve been with me long enough to know I can and I dare, no matter where or when, or how risky the circumstances. It’s all part of the game we play, seeing just how much we can get away with in public. You’ve gone out without your knickers enough times, only the two of us, knowing there’s nothing but fresh air caressing your pussy as you walk. And you’ve “accidentally” flashed that pussy on more than one occasion, sliding casually out of a taxi and offering a lucky passerby an eyeful of wet, pink girl-flesh if only he’s quick enough to spot it. Not to mention the way you love to press up against me on a crowded Tube train, rubbing your bum against my groin until I’m hard and aching to come.

But now I’m raising the stakes, and I’m waiting to see how you respond. You arch an eyebrow, mouth back confidently, “I’d like to see you try.”

There’s no seeing; this will all be feeling, believe me. Easing off my right shoe under the table, I make a show of consulting the menu a final time. I reach out my leg, using my stockinged foot to nudge at your thigh, indicating I’d like it a little wider, to give me the access I crave. Briefly, you attempt to resist, then you give in and do as I ask, almost as if you can’t believe I could really be so foolhardy to as to attempt a spot of X-rated footsie at the dinner table.

Maybe you think a big toe doesn’t have the same power as a fingertip to tease and stimulate, but the moment mine settles on your cunt—and how nice that you chose to make my job easier by leaving your underwear at home tonight, my naughty, knickerless minx—you realize you may have misjudged me. I stroke up and down with my foot, tracing the contours of your oh-so-familiar sex as your juices dampen the woolen fabric of my sock. Maybe the touch doesn’t have the finesse of my fingers, but what it lacks in accuracy it makes up for in intent. Despite your attempts to remain cool, to thwart me in my game, your eyes widen and your breath comes just a little faster than before.

No one’s noticed what we’re doing, despite the slouching posture I’ve adopted to make best contact with your most intimate places. Your boss has finally decided on his choice of dessert and beckons over the waiter. “The profiteroles for me,” he declares. “What about you, Mike?”

I don’t pause in my slow, circling movement, now concentrating solely on your clit. “The cheese plate, please.”

“Elaine?”

For a moment, I think you’ll wave the prospect of dessert away, but you love your sweet treats too much to resist. “Tiramisu.” The final syllable comes out as an extended, breathy “oo,” as pleasure ripples through you. Your carefully cultivated façade of control is crumbling, brought down by the steady, relentless pressure of my big toe. I’m sure part of you thinks I’ll stop here, having proved my point, but I’m determined to take you all the way to the finish line.

And it’s not as though I’m getting nothing out of this. Just watching you fight the urge to surrender, feeling the heat and wetness of you through my sock and knowing that I’m doing it, I’m actually bringing you to the verge of orgasm in such an unorthodox fashion, is making me hard. My cock is a rigid bar, trapped in the tight prison of my suit trousers. If I could, I’d take you off to the toilets, so swanky they have their own attendant to hand out soap and towels and spray you with cologne, and fuck your brains out in one of the stalls. But that’s not realistic, not now that your boss has made his order and wants to engage in small talk. If he’s aware that I’m the one responding to his questions while your part of the conversation is limited to nods and noncommittal grunts—all you can manage as you do your best not to reveal the pleasure you’re feeling—he says nothing.

I know your body so well that every little change in your breathing, every deepening of the flush that crosses your cheeks and the creamy upper slopes of your breasts, revealed in that daringly low-cut dress, lets me know just how close you are.

I never embarked on this game intending to bring you to your peak just as the waiter arrives with our desserts, but fate decrees that’s what happens. He sets the plate down before you at the exact moment your body gives a strained shudder and you grab at the edge of the tablecloth so hard your knuckles go white. If I pushed my toe up into your hole right now, I know I’d feel it being clutched tight as your cunt convulses. The little squeak you let out as you come goes unremarked; maybe it passes as nothing more than an exclamation of delight at the sight of the rich, creamy confection you’ve ordered.

I can’t help wondering if your orgasm is all the sweeter for being so constrained, without the volley of joyous shrieks and cries that usually accompany your climax. And as you mouth, “Thank you, you bastard,” before smiling sweetly and reaching under the table to squeeze my cock through my trousers, I get the feeling it won’t be too long before I find out the answer for myself.

LIGHT SLEEPER

Mina Murray

I’m not what anyone would call a light sleeper. Thunder won’t wake me, nor hail, nor snoring bedmates. Once I even slept through a fire alarm meant to rouse the residents of my entire floor. But every rule has an exception.

The list of things that will wake me up is short, but very specific. Namely, almost anything to do with sex. Last week I was woken up at five in the morning by the couple next door going at it, her faint moans rising in pitch until she sounded like a trilling soprano. The week before that it was the woman downstairs, who wailed like a cat in heat as she came, every half hour for the two hours before dawn.

Tonight it is Dylan who wakes me, or rather the furtive motions he makes under the covers beside me, no doubt thinking I’m asleep. We haven’t been living together that long, so he doesn’t know about my little quirk yet.

To give him credit, he is being quiet. Not completely silent—I can hear the hitch in his breath and the swishing sound of skin on skin as he rubs himself—but quieter than I thought was possible. So it’s not the noise that wakes me, but rather the vibrations rolling through the mattress and under my skin.

I pretend to be asleep: I know he doesn’t like to be caught. But if I’m honest it’s less about sparing his feelings than it is my desire to observe such an intimate and private act. This is only the second time ever I’ve interrupted him masturbating. The first was a few months ago, and I promised it wouldn’t happen again. The thing was, it had been sort of intentional on my part, me catching him. I’ve always had a voyeuristic streak, and the thought of seeing Dylan with his hand wrapped around his cock, of watching the way he stroked himself, had proved too difficult to resist.

It had been one of those rare afternoons when I’d left work early. So early, in fact, that I felt giddy with freedom and naughty, too, like I was getting away with something. I was halfway home, and about to call Dylan, who’d had the day off, to see if he wanted to meet for a drink, but at the last moment I thought better of it. It was nearly four, and Dylan would be realizing he’d only have the house to himself for another hour. There’s nothing like an empty house to make you want a wank.

I still replay that scene in my mind sometimes. The betrayed look on his face, the blush firing under his pale skin as he tried to cover himself, the way he groaned when I spun the chair around and demanded he finish what he started. The way he looked at me, almost as if he hated me, when he came all over my boots. And then again when I made him clean them off.

I guess I could understand his point. It was an invasion of privacy, and truth be told I might have felt the same if our positions had been reversed.

But this is my bed, too.

Dylan is moaning softly now, his movements speeding up. As much as I want to hear whether he can out-master me in the art of the utterly silent orgasm, I also want to have some fun with him.

So I fidget a little, as if trying to find a more comfortable position. I roll onto my side, facing him. He’s lying on his back, one knee tenting the covers. If I open my eyes just a little wider, I could see rather than just sense the rapid rise and fall of his chest. I make little whim-pery noises, as if I’m having a nightmare.

Dylan reaches out and smoothes a hand over my hair, a soothing gesture he’s performed countless times before. With burning lips, he kisses me on the cheek and gently on the mouth, then rolls me firmly onto my back.

So that’s how it’s going to be, I think.

Within moments he’s at it again, harder. I let him build up a solid rhythm, then toss feverishly before finally rolling over so I’m facing away from him. The covers have fallen down around my waist, exposing my bare breasts. Dylan swears softly under his breath.

It’s at least a full minute before he feels like it’s safe enough to continue, that I’ve settled down under the covers for good. I have settled down, in a way, with my hand nestled between my legs, as if for warmth. Surreptitious masturbation is all about the setup. I suppose it is easier for girls, though. All I have to do is to move my index finger slightly and I’m circling my swollen bud, to uncurl my middle finger and let it slip up and down my wet crease, to breathe just a little more deeply so my rib cage rises and my nipple scratches against the top edge of the coverlet.

Oh yes, I’ve done this before. But it’s never been such a delicate dance of pretense and awareness.

Does he know I’m awake? I wonder. Does he know what I’m doing?

He’s murmuring to himself now. I’m pretty sure it’s dirty.

His voice gets louder as his strokes get faster. He’s talking about me, about how he wants to pull my nipples taut and fuck my perfect tits, how he’d like to stick his dick anywhere I let him and that one place I won’t, how desperate he is to take me while I’m asleep, when I’d be warm and wet and open and pliant and just that little bit dazed.

My clit pulses at his lewd words, and I try not to hump my own hand, try not to give myself away, but it’s all too much. The mattress is trembling and I can’t say whether it’s because of his movements or mine.

When Dylan groans and says, “Fuck, yeah, gonna come soon,” my self-restraint shatters and I duck under the covers in one swift move. He cries out in surprise as I take him into my mouth, swirling my tongue over the head, down the sides and back up again to fuck that weeping little slit.

I try to deep-throat him but his fingers are still wrapped around the base of his cock, so I lick them, too, and he seems to like that as well. I pull his other hand down on his leg and grind against it while I’m sucking him.

His knuckle bumps my clit once or twice and that’s all it takes. I keep him in my mouth the whole time I’m coming, even though I can barely hold myself upright, even though he’s spurting his own release so far down my throat I feel like I could drown.

When at last we’re sated and still, I curl up next to him and kiss him good night.

“Sweet dreams,” I say.

“Sleep well,” he mumbles.

THE BIG CAT

Cecilia Duvalle

Josh climbed into the cab of the 385CL Hydraulic Excavator, affectionately called the Big Cat by his crew, thinking some alone time in the comfort of the air-conditioned cab would clear his head. He had sent the rest of the crew offsite for lunch to keep him from spending the entire time telling them what fuckups they were. That never did anything but piss them off and mess up the rest of the day even more. After the fiasco of the morning—broken gas line and ensuing emergency shit that followed—he needed release. He pulled out his Droid and opened his favorite free porn app. He hit PLAY on a nice piece of girl-on-girl action and fumbled for the ignition on the rig.

Just as he was about to turn the key, he noticed movement in the yard next to the project. He’d avoided paying attention to the poor slobs whose houses backed up onto the new four-lane road he was in charge of building. It was more than a pleasant surprise to see a woman on her knees weeding her flower garden. This alone wouldn’t do much for him since gardening wasn’t something he found exciting, but the rounded bikini-clad ass sticking up in the air practically begged for a spanking and a cock buried in it. His own cock was suddenly more than eager for some attention, and he clicked off his phone. Real life was so much better than a four-inch screen.

Rather than risk alerting her to his voyeuristic presence by cranking the engine, he cracked the door open to let some air in and fumbled with his zipper. Settling back into the deluxe seat, Josh began to stroke himself while he imagined being positioned right behind the woman’s sweet bare ass, his cock digging in deep and his hands taking turns slapping her ass until it was red. He could almost feel the cool milk-white of her skin.

She shifted to the left, spreading her legs and opening up the view so Josh could see her bare labia. The bikini fabric was buried into her pussy and asscrack. He was sure the bits of fabric he could make out were dark from her juices soaking into them. He raked his thumb over the top of his cock and circled it, pretending she was giving him head and it was her tongue swirling around the tip.

She shifted again, this time sitting up to a full kneeling position and shaking her hair off her shoulders. She pulled off her gloves and grabbed her long hair into a ponytail, looped it around itself and tied it into a knot. A new image of grabbing her by the hair and guiding her mouth on and off his cock to his own rhythm almost got him off, but a loud clunking on the ladder of the Big Cat made him practically jump out of his skin.

He looked over the edge and saw Sam, one of his crew, climbing the steps up toward the cab. Panicking, Josh scrambled to stick his still rigid and oh-so-painful cock back into his Carhartts. Josh was still fighting to pull his zipper up over his dick when Sam poked his head in the cab.

“Everything okay, boss?” Sam said, but his eyes went wide when they landed on Josh’s erection.

Sam didn’t say anything else for a second, and Josh was immobile, as if he’d been turned to stone and struck mute. His body ached with the need to come. He turned back to look at the near-naked woman who was again in her kneeling-ass-up-in-the-air position.

Sam followed his gaze.

“Ohhhhh…shit…” Sam exhaled.

And then, Sam said something Josh did not expect.

“You know, I can help you with that. You can look at her and pretend my mouth is hers if you want.”

Josh hesitated. He started to shake his head, but Sam reached out and put a hand on Josh’s cock. He had been so close to coming just seconds before. The following four hours would be painful if he didn’t let Sam suck him to completion.

“No one knows I’m gay, Josh, and it can stay that way. Let me give you head, and I won’t tell anyone, including that hot bitch over there, that you’re a Peeping Tom,” Sam said.

Josh looked back over at the woman. She was struggling with a big weed and moving back and forth as she tugged at it. The motion was just the same as if he were pushing her on and off his cock doggie-style. He groaned.

Josh nodded. Sam stepped down a couple of rungs on the rig. Josh hadn’t had a guy give him head for a long time, not since he’d been in the service and had found himself alone with a cock-loving corporal in the middle of fucking Iraq. Damn. He liked women, but getting head from a man who enjoyed giving it was about the best thing on the planet. A flat, full tongue and a deep throat were hard to resist. An experienced mouth on his cock would make him come in no time. Without moving his eyes from the woman’s fine ass, he nodded his assent to Sam.

Sam released Josh’s still-hard cock from the tan canvas work pants and went to work. Sam’s tongue danced around the tip and dipped into the tiny hole of his urethra, teasing him. Then his warm wet lips circled the head and slid ever so slowly down the length of Josh’s cock. Josh let his hand rest lightly on the back of Sam’s neck as the younger man went to town. The woman swayed while she worked, and Josh imagined his cock buried deep in her pussy, then deep in her ass, and back in her pussy. Back and forth from one hole to the next until he finally exploded his thick hot spunk into Sam’s mouth. Without thinking, he let out a loud, “Fuck yeah,” as he came. Josh froze mid–hip thrust as he realized how loud it had been, eyes still glued on the woman.

The woman sat up at the sound and looked around her backyard as if expecting to see someone nearby. She didn’t even lift her head above the fence toward the Big Cat, just shrugged and went back down on her knees.

Josh let out the breath he’d been holding and released his hand from Sam’s head. Sam gave Josh a few more licks and stood upright on the ladder.

“Thanks, boss,” he said, wiping a bit of stray come from his swollen lips.

Josh grunted and looked down at the erection between Sam’s legs.

“You know I’m not into helping you with that, right?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s cool. I can handle it myself.” Sam climbed down the ladder and disappeared into the woods near the worksite.

OPENING DOORS

Thea Landen

The elevator doors are closing. “Damn it!” I yell, and try to run in my pumps. Just as I’m about to give up hope, it miraculously reopens. The man holding the door for me is wearing a zippered hoodie and baggy cargo pants, a stark contrast to my tailored skirt suit. Several days’ worth of stubble peppers his cheeks, and he flashes me a smile.

“Thanks for waiting,” I say breathlessly.

“No problem.”

We begin our ascent. As we pass the eighteenth floor, the lights go out in our small enclosure, and the car grinds to a halt.

“What the hell?” I scream.

“That didn’t sound good.”

“Shit! I cannot miss this meeting!” Time seems irrelevant as the darkness threatens to suffocate me. I can feel the walls closing in on us. Death is imminent, I’m certain of it. I yell for help. There is no response.

“I pressed the emergency button. I don’t know if it did anything.”

My companion is calmer than I am. “We’re stuck?” I try not to hyperventilate. “Great.”

“Claustrophobic, are we?”

“Shut up. You’re wasting oxygen.”

He laughs. I feel a hand on my shoulder and jump. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re going to be all right.” His touch soothes me. “It’s okay,” he repeats, rubbing my arm.

My lungs continue to fill with air. That’s a good sign. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean to freak out on you.”

“No worries. Can’t say I’m thrilled about being stuck in here, either.”

I step closer to the reassuring stranger. His arm snakes around my waist in another comforting gesture. “I’ve just been under so much stress lately. If I die in this elevator, it’ll all be for nothing.”

He laughs again. “Morbid much?” He gives me a squeeze.

I relax against him. His sweatshirt smells of sun-kissed grass with a hint of fresh soil. I really should get out of the city more often. For a moment, I am jealous of this carefree man. I don’t know what he’s doing in this building, but it’s evident he is not a slave to fluorescent lights and stale coffee. I may bring in six figures a year, yet he’s probably smarter than I am.

I focus on keeping my heart rate at a healthy level, and lean my head on his shoulder. He strokes my perfectly bobbed hair, still murmuring words of encouragement. I realize I can’t remember the last time someone touched me other than a formal handshake.

The lights haven’t come back on. The car isn’t moving. I decide that if a malfunctioning elevator is going to kill me, I’m not going to go out in a sniveling ball of weakness. If I only have minutes left, I’m going to make the most of them.

I raise my head. Though nothing is visible in our ominous cage, my mouth finds his in the darkness. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, and he doesn’t pull away. His lips are soft and warm, and the velvet of his tongue fills me with a newfound energy. Our exploratory kiss grows more frantic with each passing moment. I need to know more of him.

A thin shirt waits below his zipper, and I press myself against him. I want him to feel the hardened nipples poking through my silk blouse. His fingers are running through my hair while my hands skim everything available to me. Impulsively, I yank his shirt out of the waistband of his pants.

The car doesn’t crash to the basement when he slams me into the wall. I suck his lower lip between my teeth as my fingertips finally reach bare skin. A groan escapes his throat, and he pushes against me even harder. I can clearly feel the bulging erection straining to break free.

I rub myself against it, trying to judge its size. My attempts to unbutton his pants are thwarted by his hand slipping beneath my skirt. He reaches the emanating heat, and runs a finger along the wetness that has formed on my panty hose. I suddenly can’t breathe again.

I kick off my shoes, shrinking three inches. He all but tears the hose off me, and his hands glide up my legs before he disappears. I’m about to protest, when I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Maybe he’s more conscientious than I thought.

I finally liberate his engorged cock. It feels amazing in my hands, and all I can think of is getting it inside me. The condom slides over its impressive length. It seems to take hours. I’m blazing with anticipation.

I bunch my skirt in my hand as he grabs my thighs and easily lifts me up. I guide him into the drenched opening, locking my legs around his waist as the swollen head penetrates me. He pushes forward at an agonizingly slow pace, and I moan as he embeds himself in the soft folds.

I am full. I am impaled, pinned against an elevator wall. The cable could snap, and we could die enmeshed in the most intimate of embraces. The doors could open to a crowd of people watching in shock. I do not care about either of these outcomes. I beg him to fuck me hard.

This time when I scream, it’s not for help. It’s a primal exclamation, a song of joy. He thrusts into me repeatedly, and the scent of our sexes mingling wafts upwards. With every jerk of his hips, he passes his vitality into me. He frees my passion. I’m wildly soaring through a gust of fresh air, running from everything that’s been chipping away at my soul. I am ready to come all over him.

His lips assault my neck. Every nerve in my body is aching for release. I can’t catch my breath. I can only cling to him as we approach our mutual climax, and I urge him on. His teeth sink into my flesh as he pounds into me with a brutal strength, nearly tearing me apart.

The pleasure is unbearable. I am no longer in command of my body. My muscles are convulsing uncontrollably, and I’m writhing around his erupting cock. If I died at this moment, in the throes of the orgasm he incited, I would be a satisfied woman.

The tremors cease, and he slips out of me. All I can hear is my pulse in my ears and our synchronized panting. Almost on cue, the lights come on, and I’m staring into his eyes. I struggle not to blush beneath the intensity of his gaze.

The car moves. I slip my shoes back on and shove my panty hose into the purse I’d tossed aside. The doors open, and I try to smooth down my wrinkled skirt. I mumble a farewell as I bolt in the direction of my destination.

I can’t believe what just happened. I can’t believe I’m about to walk into a meeting like this. I can’t believe I forgot to ask his name. I can only believe I was meant to be in that elevator. Maybe he’ll be waiting for me when I get back.

BAXTER’S BOY

Xan West

He was a legend. Baxter. The first to transition in my college town. (At least, the first anyone knew about.) In 1994. Before the generation of FTMs that started T the instant they finished their degrees in women’s studies. Before the genderqueers and the trans-gressively gendered. Before bois spelled it with an i and anyone talked about cisgender. Before the trans revolution hit my dykey college town, there was Baxter. Antisocial. Determined to enjoy his faggotry, in a time when it was frowned upon for FTMs to name their desire for cis men…or each other.

Baxter had been a softball butch, dated high femmes, fucked other butches in secret. Then he left town. When he came back, he was a fag. He brought out FTMs and butch boys, teaching them to celebrate their faggotry, to own their desire for pain. He was so good with a cane that he had experienced leatherfags begging to submit to him. Robert had been his boy for over two years now. They were a happy pair, rarely going out, except to cruise fresh meat. Boys who were full of bravado, who needed to be shown their place. These boys would emerge from that house with their heads high, their leather immaculate and a pride of fresh marks on their backs.

He mesmerized me. I ached to be boy enough for him. Except I wasn’t a boy. I wasn’t even butch. This high femme dyke ached to play with queer boys. I jacked off to gay porn. I knelt to suck butch cock, dreaming of alleys and piers, glory holes and bathrooms. I had fantasies about Baxter, because he was a fag…and had dated femmes. Might there still be desire in there, for a femme in seamed stockings, her deep red lips on his cock?

I cruised Baxter and his boy at leather events long before we were introduced. Then one night, after we’d been introduced and had exchanged pleasantries at the New Year’s Eve play party, his boy busy blacking boots, Baxter’s eyes traversed my body. His lips parted slightly as he took me in.

When it hit midnight, I found myself next to Baxter somehow. He reached toward me and gently touched my neck, watching my eyes as I trembled. Seconds later his hand was fisted in my hair, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, the other hand cupping my ass as he dipped me low. I opened to him, putting everything into that moment, all my submission, all my desire. He gently placed me back on my feet and smiled into my eyes, lightly chuckling. “I like to keep them guessing,” he said, indicating the crowd of shocked spectators. I smiled, heart pounding, and watched him walk back to his boy, his strut clearly showing he had done what he had come to do, and was proud of himself. He backed Robert into the wall and began to devour him.

I hadn’t seen him since. I spotted Robert watching me bottom a couple of weeks later, as I fell in love with the rawhide cane. I’m not a masochist, but there are some toys that reach into me. That kind of pain is a joy to submit to, in its relentless invasion. I loved that cane so much I ached to kiss it afterward. When I opened my eyes to beg for that privilege, Robert was gone.

I went home that night with Robert and Baxter in my head, a fresh set of cane marks on my thighs. I lay in bed playing with the marks, taking off my combat boots and grinding the soles into them. I imagined Robert’s eyes watching me, Baxter’s boots on my sore thighs. I wanted them both so much. Wanted them inside my head, filling up all my holes, giving me pain. Wanted to be between them, a conduit for their pleasure in each other. I got so turned on thinking about it my whole body felt electric.

I pulled out what I needed to sink deeper into it, let myself feel it. First, the plug. I lubed it up, and slowly sank onto it. I arched my head back as I imagined Robert under me, the familiar ache as it entered my ass, the twisting feel of it reaching up into my stomach. It belonged there. I belonged on his cock, his hands gripping my sore thighs, holding me right there. I trembled. It felt so good to hold myself right there, aching, full of him.

I pulled out my clovers, imagining Baxter placing the clamps on my nipples, holding me with his gaze. I gasped as he put them on, trembling more intensely. I wanted to cry, in that way that makes me come. No wait, not yet. He said you couldn’t come until he was inside you. You need to wait so he can feel you come around his cock.

My hands trembled so much I fumbled with his cock as I tried to slide it in. I needed them to both be inside me, needed to be the holes that they fucked each other through. Finally I got his cock all the way in. I clamped down on it, staring into his eyes as he told me to wait. I had to beg for it. Tears began as I begged him to let me come; I had been waiting so long to be used by them. It was exactly what I needed and I was so grateful but could he please please please let me come. He listened to me beg with a small smile. Then he picked up the chain, placed it in my mouth and ordered me to bite down onto it as I came.

The orgasm moved through me in bursts of electricity, jolting as I sobbed, trying to hold onto it, never wanting to let it go. I clamped down onto their cocks, so full, so precisely used, as I saw them lock gazes over my shoulder, and lean into a kiss. I kept coming, imagining their beards rubbing against my shoulder as they devoured each other.

Baxter reached down and took off one of the clamps. I screamed as the burning began, cutting into my nipple, wrapping round my throat. Tears mixed with the orgasm in this deliciously painful ache in my chest. I held on tight, throbbing around their cocks, their arms wrapped around me. The sobbing subsided. They were still so hard.

Baxter grinned wickedly at me and pulled off the other clamp, ordering me to come. I responded without thinking, slid right into a heart-wrenching orgasm so quickly that I stopped breathing for a moment. My chest felt like it was going to burst open, my head went all dark and sparkly. I felt my eyes go wide as it hit me. Finally I let the air out, and a new wave of tears hit. I rolled onto my side and wrapped my arms around myself, his cock slipping out of me, my ass still stuffed so full. I cried for a good long time. It was exactly the orgasm I really needed, one that was washed away with tears.

SUDS AND A TWO-PIECE BATHING SUIT

Brantwijn Serrah

Ryan had been outdoors all day, mowing the lawn and pulling out the cars for a wash. I watched him from the kitchen window as he stripped off his shirt and started spraying down his black F-150, a bucket of sudsy, soapy water sitting beside the wheel. He had the CD player on high volume playing from the open garage, good classic rock.

On a whim, I slipped into the bedroom and went searching through my dresser. I thought I might join him. Who doesn’t like to get a little wet and wild?

He didn’t notice me until I’d come up behind him and tapped on his shoulder; the truck was thoroughly wetted down and he’d just started to spray my little red Chevy. When he turned, I playfully took the hose out of his hand.

“I’ll help,” I said. “I love washing cars.”

He grinned, seeing I had donned my little black bikini and a pair of short cutoff jeans.

“Be my guest,” he said, and bent down to grab the sponge out of the bucket.

And of course I sprayed him, wetting his dark-gray shorts.

Ry spun around with a mischievous grin. As he came toward me, I laughed and sprayed him again, splashing his bare chest just as he grabbed me and pressed me against the hood of my car. At first I thought he would just put an end to my playfulness, but he paused, giving me a careful, teasing glare, before spraying me back. I shrieked as my bikini top was soaked. Almost immediately, my nipples were at hard attention, poking up under the dark material.

“Come on now, Catie,” he said, tossing me the sponge. “Get busy.”

I smiled at him and obediently turned around to start sudsing up my car. Ry put down the hose and grabbed a second sponge from the bucket, joining me.

As we met over the bumper, he squeezed out his sponge over my head—I gasped and straightened, hitting him in the chest with mine. He laughed and pressed me against the slippery hood again, crushing his sponge against my collarbone and letting the soapy, sudsy water trickle down between my breasts.

I rolled my hips against him. “We’re not going to get the cars finished like this.”

“We’ll finish,” he murmured, running the sponge down to my bare belly and rubbing it up and down my skin. “But I think you’re more interested in playing games than doing chores.”

“You caught me,” I purred. “Want to go inside before somebody sees you grinding me on my hood?”

He laughed, and backed away. I stood up to follow when he suddenly grabbed the hose again and turned it full force on me, backing me onto the hood as I screamed with laughter, my jeans soaked, slippery water running down my body and the bright red car.

“No fair!” I shouted. He laughed, and before I knew it he was slipping off my shorts, leaving me only in the bikini. He slipped a finger underneath the bottom, sliding it into my pussy.

“Not gonna make it inside,” he whispered. He slid his finger in and out of me, kissing my ear as he did, and I raised up my legs, resting them on the bumper to give him full access. He slid a second finger in and started stroking my G-spot with lovely precision. With his free hand, he pushed aside the material covering my breasts, exposing my pink, sharply erect nipples.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “I like that.”

I sat up a little, leaning forward as he fingered me to slip my hand into his shorts. His cock was hard and throbbing, wet and slick—I slid it free and gave it several eager, vigorous strokes.

He slipped his fingers out of my pussy, tucking aside the damp crotch of my bathing suit. I scooted down on the wet hood and offered my cunt. From the garage, the rock music played on; I hoped none of the neighbors would take that moment to peek out their windows.

Our wet bodies were thrillingly cool as he slipped his cock into me. He ran his hands along my slippery, soapy body and brought both up to squeeze my wet breasts together as he invaded me. I moaned, welcoming him deeper and squeezing my pussy around him.

He kissed me and settled into a rhythm matching the Black Sabbath pouring out of the stereo. I gasped with every thrust. After only a few moments, though, he stopped and pulled out.

“Over,” he said. I obliged, slipping off the slick hood and turning to bend over it, putting my hands squarely on the car and raising my buttocks. I lifted one knee to rest on the hood and groaned happily as he slid in.

Ry grabbed my hips, rocking me against his cock and fucking me hard and fast. With another moan I leaned down against the car, pressing my naked tits against the cold, wet metal and lifting my pussy a little higher, letting him bury himself in it. I felt the wet fabric of his shorts right up against my thighs and a stray thought went across my mind that any second now, the sweet older woman across the street was going to decide to come out.

“Oh, Ryan, hurry,” I gasped. “Someone’s going to see—”

He grunted and I let out a short cry as he banged me even deeper. My pussy was so wet he slipped in and out with ease; I was unable to think of anything but the raging cock plundering my wet cunt.

I came hard and fast, an explosive clanging of bliss and rapture closing down around Ryan’s erection and bursting through my body. I leaned back, wanting to take him as deep as he could go as I orgasmed with brutal intensity.

He pulled out of me almost too quickly and I gave a little cry of disappointment—then I felt him push aside more of the bathing-suit bottom, and I shuddered at the cool touch of lube dribbling down my crack just before he slipped into my ass. I gasped at the brief shock as he prodded me open, and then he was humping like an animal, practically splitting me on his cock.

I wondered if any cars were coming—I heard the slow sound of traffic one street over but none turned onto our little lane. Ryan’s cock felt huge in me; I could already feel him ready to come: his thrusts were shorter, harder, like small bursts of desperation. I bounced back on him, slipping one hand down to my still-quivering pussy and fervently teasing my clit.

“Over again,” he gasped desperately, slipping out. “Over, Catie.”

I did as told, flipping quickly and laying myself at his mercy on the hood. He tugged at his cock, aiming for my naked torso as it started to spurt. Hot come splattered on my belly and my wet, slippery tits.

“Oh, Ry,” I murmured happily, lifting my hands to squeeze my tits together. “That’s a chore I really like.”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, leaning over to kiss me, pressing his palm gently against my pussy. “My favorite, too.”

THE JEFFREY FACTOR

Stella Harris

You’re such a slut for this.” Shane heard Jeff’s dark chuckle, knew he was leaning close. The side of Shane’s face tingled, waiting for the brush of Jeff’s beard that never came. Jeff said he loved how responsive Shane was, how easy it was to tease and torment him because his reactions were so immediate and obvious. Shane’s body couldn’t keep its secrets.

Shane’s attention had achieved the laser focus that resulted from hours of teasing. There was only one thought he could hold in his mind and that was how desperately he wanted, no needed, release.

A cold intrusion brought Shane’s mind back to the here and now, the chilled, sleek metal of Jeff’s favorite new toy sliding into his ass, its curved shape and knobbed head perfectly designed to drive him mad. Shane writhed on the bed and felt a puff of air against his thigh and sensed Jeff’s silent chuckle as he enjoyed Shane’s discomfort.

Jeff let him adjust to the sensation for a moment, sliding the vibrator in and out slowly, twisting and rubbing it against his inside walls, but only teasing the spot where he really wanted it.

The vibrator switched on and Shane moaned around the gag in his mouth; even on the lowest setting the sensations lit up his nerves. His nipples peaked and tightened and he thrust his hips upward, hoping against hope for friction he didn’t find.

Jeff laughed again. He claimed not to have a sadistic side, said he didn’t enjoy dishing out pain, but Shane considered this cruelty all the same.

Shane knew Jeff would reward him for it later. He would be held and gentled, stroked and comforted as his body shook and he recovered from the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. But the safety of that relief was a long way off yet. Jeffrey was just hitting his stride and this night was far from over.

Jeff angled the vibrator so that it pressed against Shane’s prostate and Shane wailed, the sound muffled by the gag. “So pretty like this,” Jeff said, the fingers of his free hand ghosting along the length of Shane’s engorged cock.

Shane whimpered at the not-enough touch, his hips stuttering forward seeking more contact, but this only encouraged Jeff. His fingers trailed up and down, tracing the raised veins, the ridge of his head, his sensitive glans. Shane felt everything so acutely he thought he could even feel Jeff’s individual fingerprints, and the occasional scrape of a callus made him flinch.

Jeff’s grip tightened, and without being told Shane knew it was too good to be true. Jeff counted; ten strokes and then his hand would disappear. Shane’s hips thrust upward repeatedly, making his cock bob in the air, untouched. Then Jeffrey’s hand returned, his low gravely voice counting out the strokes once more, the sound of his voice as much a torment as his touch.

This teasing would be bad enough on its own, but this particular torment had started days ago when Jeffrey had asked just how far he’d be willing to go. Shane had been so eager to please Jeffrey that he had readily agreed to all that was asked of him, without really thinking it through.

But then Jeffrey had expected him to pay up, to go through with everything he’d agreed to, and that had brought Shane here, tied securely to his bed, enduring hours of torment, all after going a week without coming.

Shane choked back the sounds fighting to escape from his throat. He wanted to beg, but the gag would allow no words, and he knew from experience that begging only incited Jeff to further cruelty. Shane could tap out—give the nonverbal safeword they’d agreed on—but Shane wanted to prove that he could do this, that he could be everything Jeff wanted him to be.

“So good for me,” Jeff said, once more seeming to read Shane’s mind. It was unnerving, the way Jeff knew him so well, knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, how to push his buttons.

Jeff’s fingers trailed lower, his fingernails gently scratching against the taut skin of Shane’s balls. “You’re so full,” Jeff said, wrapping his fingers around the base of Shane’s sack and squeezing ever so gently. The muscles of Shane’s abdomen clenched and he moaned, long and deep. Jeff’s torments were getting playful and when his mood turned like this, Shane never knew what to expect.

Jeff gripped the vibrator and angled it, and Shane arched his back in response, not sure if he was trying to get closer or get away. He was so close to coming that it hurt. He tried to remind himself that he wanted this, that it would all be worth it in the end.

When he was first asked to go a week without jacking off, it hadn’t sounded like such a big deal. It wasn’t as if he was a chronic masturbator; he regularly went days without. What he hadn’t counted on was the Jeffrey factor. Just because Shane wasn’t allowed to come didn’t mean Jeff planned to refrain from sexual activity. Every day of Shane’s abstinence held a different trial. Jeff’s favorite was to order Shane to go down on him, to use Shane’s mouth roughly and then not return the favor, not even let Shane hurriedly finish himself off while still kneeling at Jeffery’s feet.

Jeff knew how hot it got Shane to have his face fucked, to be used for Jeff’s pleasure. How it made him ache within the confines of his pants, how his hand actually twitched with the urge to grip himself and blow his load.

With a quick tug, the blindfold was ripped from Shane’s eyes. Even the dim light of the room was blinding for an instant. As his vision came into focus, the sight that greeted him was Jeff kneeling between his legs, gripping his own cock and stroking it the way Shane wanted to be stroked. His own cock ached in sympathy. He could almost feel the sensations he knew Jeff was experiencing and he thrashed in his bindings, no longer able to help himself.

“Look so fucking hot like that. So fucking desperate,” Jeff said, barely coherent as his hand moved faster. Shane knew what it felt like to have that hand working him; he wanted to be touched like that now.

Jeff let out a long, strangled groan. His hand, so recently a blur of motion, stilled. His spend splashed onto Shane’s aching cock and Shane sobbed, tears of frustration slipping from his eyes and dampening his cheeks.

“Don’t make me give you something to cry about.” Jeff’s voice was dark, used, but far from worn out.

Jeff had his release, but Shane knew his own would be a long time coming.

CHAINS OF LOVE

Lily K. Cho

I take my time as I dress for you. Black thigh-high hose with red patent stilettos, red satin panties and bra. I love the way the stockings hug my legs, making me so aware of my body. I love the feel of my thighs swishing against each other, the slick nylon making little whispery sounds. My nipples are hard by the time I finish putting the bra on. I pick up the collar, black patent with Swarovski crystals, fasten it around my throat and clip the chain to it. I experiment, letting the chain run down my back, the cold links slithering down my spine and between the cheeks of my ass. I look in the mirror to admire my work, and decide that the chain would look better down the front, so I carefully twist the collar around. Now the chain falls gently down my chest, down my tummy, lightly brushing my panties. Already it is picking up the heat from my body. Yes, I like this. I play with it, letting the silvery links brush against my nipples through the lace of my bra. I want to touch myself, but I don’t. Tonight my pleasure is not for me to take; rather, it is my gift to you.

Now that I am properly attired, I settle myself on the couch, smoothly waxed legs folded beneath me. I wrap the chain around my wrists so my hands are bound in front of me at chest level. I will receive no pleasure until you allow me to. I close my eyes and wait.

I hear your keys at the door and my eyes fly open. I smile at you, a little shyly. Your shocked expression changes to a grin as I get to my feet, trying to keep my balance in the high-heeled shoes. I present my bound hands to you, your gift to unwrap if you so choose. Suddenly you grab the chain at my neck and pull me to you, bracing me with your body as I stumble forward. You force my mouth open with your tongue, dropping the chain to rub at my crotch through the fabric of my underwear. I squirm and whimper, and you laugh at the heat you feel through the thin satin.

You tell me to go upstairs, and I turn and carefully mount the stairs. I have to go slowly to maintain my balance, bound as I am. But I know you are watching me, wanting me, and for now I am the one with the power. So I walk slowly and seductively, putting everything I have into it.

I reach the bedroom and feel you come up behind me. Your arms go around me, crushing me to you, and you pinch my nipples just hard enough to be painful. Your hands wander lower to my hips, pulling me back against your erection as your mouth bites at my neck. You push me forward onto the bed and pull my panties and bra off. You grab my legs and pull me to the edge of the bed, and I expect you to fuck me now, but instead you flip me onto my back and kneel between my legs. Your hands caress my legs through the silky smoothness of the nylons, sliding up and down my thighs, and I gasp as you take my rigid cock into your mouth. I moan as your finger, a little too rough, finds my ass. I cry out and beg you to stop, but I am secretly disappointed when you do.

You stand and pull me up off the bed. I taste my precome on your tongue as you kiss me deeply then force me to my knees. I barely have time to breathe before you push between my lips. I have no choice but to comply as you fuck my mouth. I work you as best I can, but it’s difficult not being able to use my hands. My cock is painfully hard, and I can feel the slick drops oozing from the tip. I wonder if you will come in my mouth, letting me swallow your salty seed, or spurt it onto my face, but you stop.

You raise me up again and unhook the chain, freeing my wrists, then wrap it completely around me. My arms are pressed down against my sides, the warm metal snug around my waist. I am bound again as you lay me back, helpless again, and I wonder what is next.

You bend over me, sucking hard on my nipples, and I cry out and thrust my hips up at you, too proud to beg, not knowing what it is I would beg for. I ache from your touch and from my own need. Finally, you kneel over me and lower your cock into my mouth, even as you tease my erection with your kisses. I try to wrap my legs around you to pull you down, I buck and thrust in an effort to make you suck on me. I try to beg, but I can barely breathe around your cock in my mouth. My frustration gives way to pleasure as you finally relent, and soon we are deep-throating each other. You can tell by the urgent noises I am making that I am getting close, but you climb off of me before I can come.

Startled, I open my eyes as you roll me onto my stomach and once again pull me to the edge of the bed. I feel your tongue on my ass, licking first and then plunging, making me tremble. Your fingers come next, widening, demanding. Then you swiftly enter me, thrusting so deeply that I cry out in shock and pain. You take me mercilessly, setting a bruising pace, forcing my breath out in a sharp cry. I want to protest, stop you from hurting me, but my body betrays me. Denied its pleasure once, it catches your rhythm and responds, but all I can do is frantically rub myself on the bed beneath me. Finally your hands reach under me to grab my cock, slick with precome, and you work it in time to your frenzied thrusting. We are both crying out now, and I know you are trying to hang on until I climax before you release your own. The thought of that pushes me over the edge, and my body shakes as my hot, sticky come floods your hands. You can feel my ass contract around your thick cock, and you fuck me wildly, forcing my climax to endure, until you match it with your own spasms, pushing deep into me with each release of your seed. Finally, you collapse on top of me, breathing hard. You kiss me softly and gently, and I giggle uncontrollably.

We have one hell of a mess to clean up.

BY THE BEAT

T. Fox Dunham

Play the piano, Ms. Peacock. Beat the keys hard for me. Break your fingers on the ivory. Then touch me.”

He gazed at her behind his furry wolf mask with wild eyes. She looked back with peacock-feather eyes. They’d promised to hide their faces until they were sure.

Ms. Peacock played her chords, flowing through her song. She’d composed it in her head last night when Mr. Wolf had her bent over the bed, arms lashed to the posts with long guitar strings slicing into her wrists. He drove into her, her juices smearing down his thighs, building. She moaned in melody, writing the song. The song built, crescendo, weaving with her moans. They built together, and he grabbed her hips, forcing his shaft in deep. He groaned as he filled her, clutching her lower back. Her song stopped, orgasm slipping away, dying. She sighed, sweat glistening down her back. He plucked her damp, auburn curls.

Mr. Wolf slit the guitar strings and cut her down. She tumbled onto the crimson sheets and curled into a ball. He lay next to her, stroking her spine, playing at the musical-note tattoo on her shoulder. He nipped it. She hummed to sleep, and he pulled her body to his—the flesh so recently filled with his come, which was dripping out along her thigh. Their sweat cooled in the bedroom air, and they shivered in their sleep.

In the morning, she sat in her little cutoff boy panties on the piano bench, breasts wrapped tight in a silk bra, a blue ribbon dangling at her sternum. She’d not brushed her hair, and the curls tangled and frayed. She played the keys, beating the taut strings into melody. She paused and set the metronome ticking. The thin arm swayed pendulously to the right, renewing to the left, keeping time. She still wore her peacock eyes. The green feathers glittered in the dawn sunlight.

Mr. Wolf walked out of the bedroom, a bedsheet wrapped around his slim torso. He adjusted his wolf mask. They’d met online two years ago, when Ms. Peacock was still married. Finally, she could take no more of her need, so she bought a plane ticket and flew to live with him three weeks ago. They’d made love several times, and each time she’d failed to climax, just like she had throughout her life.

She played the chords.

“I should leave,” she said. “I’m an illusion. I’m not what you thought I’d be, what you wanted.”

Mr. Wolf grabbed her shoulders. She tensed up, playing her song faster, slipping her fingers along the keys. She cried out.

“I get close when I sing,” she said. “When I compose in my head.”

Mr. Wolf reached over and slowed the tempo of the metronome. It flowed in time to their pulse. He kissed down her neck and reached to her sternum, releasing the clasp. Her breasts flowed out and opened like wings. He reached down along her chest, smoothing the curve then touching her brown nipple, brushing it with his fingertip. She felt herself soak through her panties, wetting the piano bench.

“I just lose the beat,” she said between sighs.

Mr. Wolf moved his hands down her breast, feeling her ribs, pacing his motions to the tempo. He slipped down to her thighs, brushed his fingers along inside the hip. She squirmed on the seat and stopped playing.

“Play!”

Trembling, swallowing against a lump in her throat, she continued to play, finding a song to match the tempo. She found herself improvising, composing a new melody as he reached under her panties, feeling along her wet cunt. He rubbed her juices along her belly, and she shuddered. He brought his hands to her face, and she licked down his palms, tasting herself.

“Feel the beat,” he whispered.

He grabbed her hips and lifted her off the bench. She played. He ripped the seat away. It hit the marble fireplace, chipping the stone, snapping free a leg. He reached and increased the tempo on the metronome. She matched the beat.

He tore the elastic band on her panties, ripping them apart. He tossed the soaked shreds and reached between her legs, petting her cunt, stroking the pert pink lips then slipping a finger deep within the juicy mound. He stroked inside her, reaching to her G-spot, rubbing it to the tempo of her song. She squealed, lifting her hands away, losing her concentration. He pushed her forward, leaning her down to the keys, lifting her ass higher into the air, making it easier to stroke. He set the metronome faster, and she matched the beat.

He stroked her faster, and she moaned to the song, beating the piano until her fingers numbed. Her orgasm built, growing from the song she played, kept in time by his hard finger stroking her cunt.

“It will be one. Synchronized. Match the beat of my body.”

“I’m losing it,” she said. She clawed at the piano. The climax built so close. She drowned his hand with her juices. They dripped down her leg, staining the carpet. She moaned, thrashing her head, so close, just on the edge. He let the sheet fall, and he rubbed his cock, touching along her ass, along the hip. He dribbled precome on her skin and smeared it with his cock’s head.

He grabbed the metronome and set the arm to turn faster. She kept playing, scared to stop, to let go. He’d leave. She’d remain broken. He aimed the point of the thin wooden pyramid between her legs, rubbing it along her clit. She sensed each tick strumming her tiny strawberry, the vibration so light, matching to his finger rubbing her G-spot.

“Play to the rhythm,” he said. “Think only of the beat. Fill your flesh with it.”

The orgasm swelled closer, just on the edge. Her cunt twitched in pleasure shocks, ready to burst. He slipped his finger on her clit and rubbed it in time to the song. Then he shifted the metronome and drove the tip between her lips and deep into her cunt. She groaned as it spread her wide, pushing her apart. It stroked the outside of her cunt, and the knocking vibration pulsed up inside her. He matched his finger to it.

She played, and the song merged with the beat, with the pulse of the metronome stroking her. Her cunt clenched the smooth wood, gripping it tight. He let go, and she held the pyramid with her pussy contracted, suckling it, pulling it in tighter. The song burst, filling her with waves of pleasure, nerves tingling, traveling up her spine. She howled. Her body quaked. He shot hot come down her thigh and the curve of her ass as he pumped his rod.

She collapsed, and he slipped the metronome out of her. Then he laid her on the floor. In the final moment, she pulled away his furry wolf mask. He took away her peacock eyes.

ICING ON THE CAKE

Lula Lisbon

I knew she had something devilish planned, but I couldn’t imagine what it might be. It was my birthday, and she’d baked me cupcakes; I was to report to her on my knees at her door as per usual. She loved to toy with my orgasms, denying them, forcing them, coming up with any number of ways to make them humiliating for me and exciting for her. For two full weeks she’d denied me release, and it had been hard—very hard. Teasing me, testing me, she’d sent me pictures of her body, described in detail what she wanted to do to me, how she wanted me to please her. I wasn’t allowed to touch my cock, because she wanted me ready to celebrate my birthday.

I’d unintentionally disobeyed her around the one-week mark. In a vivid dream, she fucked my ass hard with her purple strap-on, something she only did as a reward when I’d been very good. Her fingernails dug into my hips, and when I felt her starting to come inside me, screaming her delight, I couldn’t hold myself back.

When I opened my eyes, still feeling the delicious pulsing in my balls, there was a pool of creamy come on my abs and chest. My heart sank. I wanted to call her and immediately confess, but I already knew what her orders would be. Filled with guilt, I dipped my fingers in, a kid stealing a taste from the mixing bowl, once, twice, again, until it was all gone. It was salty and a little bitter, but at her insistence I’d developed a taste for it.

I did confess, that night. Her eyes turned to ice, and she yanked me by the arm across her lap, pulled my pants down, and spanked me mercilessly. Tears of pain ran down my cheeks and I tried not to struggle, even as my cock throbbed against her leg with every blow. I might have come again like that, her bad little boy, but she knew, and pushed me off onto the floor without ceremony before I could.

She spread her legs, and she didn’t need to tell me how else to make it up to her. Her pussy was naked under her skirt, and I dove into her like a starving man at a banquet. She was already dripping, and her taste was peach honey, sea salt, sweet musk. I needed her all over my face, to have her mark me as hers. I slid two fingers inside, my cock jealous of the hot slickness they found deep within her. My tongue wrote love letters on her clit, and my fingers beckoned her, pleaded with her. Soon I felt her body tensing, then rewarding me with the flood of her pleasure. It gushed hard into my face, and I pulled back to catch it all in my hungry mouth. I missed some, and I felt it dripping down my stomach, the shaft of my cock, my balls, and into the cleft of my ass; the torture of it was exquisite.

Since that night, she’d denied me everything. When at last my birthday came, when at last I was on my knees for her, she greeted me with a smile, wearing a ruffled apron and heels—and nothing else. My eyes followed the swaying of her round ass as she led me into the kitchen, the delicious scent of chocolate cake fresh from the oven almost as tantalizing as her luscious body.

“Your cupcakes are waiting,” she told me, a naughty smile playing on her candy-red lips. But I saw there was no icing on the petite chocolate cakes, and I love icing. I looked at her quizzically, trying to hide my disappointment. She caught my thought and laughed. “Oh, I didn’t forget. I thought I’d let you have the fun of helping ice them instead. Have you been a good boy?” she demanded abruptly. “No more little accidents?” I nodded, feeling myself blush. My cock twitched eagerly as if on command, and my blush deepened. “Well,” she continued, “I’m afraid I made them a little too dry, but you can help amend that. Strip now, sweet birthday boy.”

I obeyed, watching as she set the cupcake pan on the floor, sat down and spread her legs. I moaned, my cock rock hard; I knew what she had in mind now, and I loved her for it. She lifted the ruffled hem of her apron delicately with a red-lacquered thumb and forefinger. I admired the beauty of the deep pink petals of her cunt, like a honey-dipped rose, before I kissed her softly. From between her thighs, my eyes met hers, and I ached to tell her. Instead, I painted my love on her sweet pussy, taking my time with her, enjoying her little whimpers and sighs as my tongue flicked against her hard little clit. I delighted in pleasing her, tasting her sweetness, always putting her before me—as it should be. I thrust into her; her taste was darker and more pungent inside.

My fingers followed my tongue, joined, replaced; her hips quivered as my hot tongue wrote lengthy devotions on her delicious clit. Fingers digging into my hair, she ground her cunt on my face, a moan in each gasping breath. When her pussy clamped down on my fingers, I knew what was coming. This time, instead of catching her come in my mouth, I moved quickly aside to see her squirt across the smooth, shining tops of the little cakes. I watched her essence soaking into the confections, possessing them, infusing them with the most secret part of her, and I felt a sense of communion with them. I knew what it was like to be so deliciously full of her.

I withdrew my fingers and leaned forward to kiss her there, but her stiletto heel caught me on the chest and pushed me back. She arched a haughty eyebrow at me.

“Have you forgotten they still need icing?” Sitting back to watch, she slipped one hand beneath her apron.

My cock throbbed in reply, eager to obey her. I stroked it with the same hand that had been inside her, her wetness ample lube for the task. My own bitter musk, the sweet chocolate and her intoxicating lust combined in my nostrils, an unusual and irresistible aphrodisiac. Her apron fluttered as she played with her cunt, her eyes intent on my glistening cock. My strokes got faster, harder, and though I wanted to make it last, the sight of her, the sound of her, the scent of her was too much. I cried out, and my cock exploded, sending pearly strands of icing across my birthday cupcakes. My whole body shuddered, again and again; there was more than I would have thought possible. Distantly, I heard her cries of ecstasy joining mine, an intimate gift I cherished.

I opened my eyes to see her offering a newly decorated cupcake to me. I took it, and she whispered, “Happy Birthday,” in my ear as I took my first delicious bite.

THE MASSAGE

Lady Cheeky

I found him on Craigslist. It was difficult not to think about the week of Nancy Grace shows I would undoubtedly be featured on should this man be a sociopathic, sexual sadist. The Craigslist ad had seemed very perfunctory and the ensuing email exchange quite professional. Yet for this Type-A personality, the website seemed the only option to find a “special massage.” I quelled my paranoia with the reassurance that most sociopathic, sexual sadists would not couch their special services with phrases like “yoni worship” and “sensual release,” but I knew I was just rationalizing.

The masseur was very respectful, which for me is huge. I find it unseemly to be crass when you hardly know a person even if you both know what you’re there for. He explained he was a professional licensed massage therapist and had been doing this for more than fifteen years, which put me at ease.

As I began to take off my robe, he stopped me. He had me stand in front of him as he took my glasses off and put them on the coffee table. He then took my hair down from my ponytail, untied my robe and slipped it off my shoulders. He helped me onto the table, put a sheet over me, sat behind my head and began to give me a great firm back and head massage, slowly moving down my body, just like a regular massage, but—oh!—now he was massaging my ass. He got in the crack and was so close to my very wet pussy. I loved the tease, the drawn-out taunting of what was to come. He massaged my body, yes, but after a while he made his way to my thighs. Then, while working them, he brushed his fingers past my slit. Just the graze made my body twitch. He did this off and on, each time getting a little deeper into the folds of my pussy, sometimes even tapping his finger on the edge of the mound just above my clit. This was making my body even more curious and expectant; all my attention was on my pussy. The sensuality of this complete stranger massaging my body completely was like going skinny-dipping for the first time—freeing.

When I flipped over, he began slowly massaging my head, neck, shoulders and breasts, playing with my nipples, running his hand sensually over my stomach. This was all part of the buildup. His touch made me want to touch my nipples myself, so I did, while he massaged my feet and moved up my legs. Then, while massaging my inner thighs, he grazed my slit. Now, my heart was beating fast. I found myself writhing a bit on the table. I was dying for him to just maul my pussy but he was in control…and I liked that. I opened my legs for him so he knew I wanted it.

He spread open my swollen lips with one hand while softly rotating his other hand’s index finger around my hole. He began to rub, circle and pet the area around my clit, sometimes making his hand shake, not unlike a vibrator. His fingers continued circumnavigating and polishing my hole and then the opening to my ass, gently probing a bit inside both spaces. During all this, his fingers descended on my clit and surrounding area. He was doing this softly, but with purpose, getting a bit firmer. One finger entered my crevice and he began to massage my G-spot, tapping without a specific tempo. With the pressure and expectation building, my hips ground in the air. I moaned, tweaking my nipples, massaging my tits, arching my back.

Then he did something no one had done before, and it felt extraordinary. He took his left hand away and began quickly finger-fucking me with power and precision. At the same time, the palm of his hand slapped the top of my pussy, hitting my already swollen and sensitive clit. The combination of him hitting my G-spot and stimulating my clit with his palm was so intensely pleasurable, I nearly flipped off the table. Soon both his hands were totally concentrated on my pussy.

He was in no rush, changing speeds, pressure, intensity, sensations. One set of fingers moved as if playing a flute on the area around my clit. The other set explored my hole and the outside of my anus in the same way. I responded audibly; he knew he’d found the sweet spot and began to concentrate his moves on my clit while supporting that sensation with the advances of the other fingers around my hole and my anus.

My hips were canting upward, grinding to meet his finger, asking—begging—for more pressure, which he supplied. He seemed to intuit what I needed. “Faster,” I whispered, and he complied. And then, an orgasm that started off so gentle, so releasing and so satisfying washed over me and I moaned loudly as my body twisted and my head bent back on the table. As I came, he lightly brushed his fingers over my slit, as if petting it to calm it down. He stuck his fingers inside me again, very gently rubbing my G-spot while using his thumb to massage the outside of my opening.

I felt like I could come again, and he knew it. He went at me again. My eyes were tearing up from the intensity and the desire to come again. My body was moving against his hand as if to say, “Fuck me,” and then, he did that combination finger-fuck/palm-slapping-the-clit maneuver once again and…it hit. A rush of rippling and Dionysiac tension and release washing over my entire being. My clit was pumping as if fueled by another source outside of my control. The cooling down was just as pleasurable as the orgasm itself, gently swaying me into a relaxed heap of flesh and bones, unable to move or speak.

When it was over, like with a regular massage, I lay there for a bit coming back to this world. He then assisted me up, put my glasses on me, helped me into my robe and walked me to the couch to sit with a glass of water. The masseur had fostered this self-proclaimed Type-A personality into a full release. Not just a physical release but an unleashing of my inhibitions, my control and my body. He had also given me the gift of a new type of orgasm my body hadn’t known before. He left as professionally and as quietly as he had come. I slept like a baby.

FEAST FOR THE SENSES

Riley Shane

I shift a bit in my seat, enjoying the slight burn of the rope that binds my hands and feet as I do so. I strain my ears, listening for any sound aside from that of the ticking living-room clock, but there are none; my Mistress excels at being quiet when she wishes.

How long have I been waiting? With my eyes blindfolded, it’s impossible for me to tell. It feels like hours, but likely has only been a matter of minutes.

I don’t particularly enjoy being blindfolded, but have agreed to it this night. Anna insists I’m becoming too dependent on the visual; she wants all my other senses engaged when we play.

A slight movement to my right alerts me. Anna is on the couch.

Despite my objections to the scarf covering my eyes, my cock is hard as a rock. I can picture her on the sofa, watching me squirm. She’ll be growing wet by now. Is it my imagination, or can I smell her lust from here?

“Derek.” Her voice is husky but firm, with an unspoken warning. How does she do that? Know when I’m not completely focused? A sigh comes from closer by, then something touches my lips.

“Open. Take a bite.”

I do so, my teeth breaking through the soft skin of the fruit. Tartness floods my tongue, a hint of sweet following.

“What do you taste?”

“A raspberry.” Almost my favorite dessert.

She sighs and I realize I’ve not passed this test. My mind works frantically as I try to come up with the words she wants to hear. There is no right answer, but my Mistress demands description, thoughts.

“Tart. Juicy. Underlying sweetness.”

Her fingers brush the side of my face in soft praise and my dick twitches in answer. I can feel precome start to leak from my dick and have to grind my teeth to keep from asking for more. My Mistress knows that teasing and delaying orgasm always pleases us both more.

Anna’s soft tits brush the side of my arm as she leans over, no doubt checking my bindings. The hardened points of her nipples are a brand against my skin and I want to tease them in the way that makes her moan. I’m so focused on the feel of her that I almost miss her next question.

“What do you smell?”

Smell? Not feel? She’s distracting me and she knows it. Another challenge. I breathe deeply, recognizing the faint hint of perfume over her pulse.

“The perfume I got you for Valentine’s Day. And musk, the scent of your cunt, your enjoyment.”

“Very good.” Her lips brush mine once, twice, her teeth coming out and nipping my lower lip on the third pass.

When she pulls back, I flick my tongue over the light indent her teeth left. Then I smile.

“Your breath caught, I heard it. You love it when I do that—touch your mark.”

She pauses for a second. I’ve surprised her by beating her to her question.

“Mmm,” she says. In my mind’s eye, I can see her wicked smile. There’s no warning before Anna drops down and runs her delicate hands along the inside of my spread thighs.

“Now for the real test.”

Mentally, I list the five senses: sight, taste, smell, sound…touch.

“Tell me what you feel, Derek.”

“What? I—”

Her hand has wrapped around my dick before I can even finish the question. With her thumb, she smears the precome over the head of my cock, then lets go. I whimper, but don’t protest.

“Pleasure,” I manage to grind out.

For a moment she pauses, though she hasn’t moved away. I listen carefully and hear the popping noise of her thumb leaving her mouth. More precome leaks out of me at the sound and now I can clearly smell the scent of sex.

I anticipate her climbing onto me, straddling my thighs, then taking me deep inside her. But she surprises me again, moving away to sit on the corner of the couch closest to me. I turn my head, straining to see, though I know it’s useless.

“Listen,” she whispers. “What do you hear?”

The slide of flesh against the suede of the couch. “You, spreading your thighs.”

“And?”

I gulp, sweat starting to drip down my temples as I hear her gasp softly. Faint, wet sounds.

“Your fingers…pushing into your pussy.”

“Mmm,” she murmurs again, then rises from the couch and crosses the few feet to me. Something wet and sticky is placed against my mouth and I open eagerly, the flavor of Anna mixed with raspberries ratcheting my overworked senses higher. “My favorite. Thank you, Mistress.” I want another almost as much as I want to see what she has planned next.

I find out soon enough. Her thighs bracket mine and I let out an involuntary groan as her hand grasps my cock, positioning it at the opening of her cunt. She sinks down, and all I can feel is the warm slide of her pussy along my dick. I try to pull against my bonds, but Anna has me tied well and good. I can do nothing but enjoy the feel of her riding me.

Normally I love watching her while we fuck; just the sight of her breasts bouncing or her juices coating my cock can set me off.

And that was her reason for blindfolding me, wasn’t it? To take my sight and give me so much more in return. I’m drowning in the feel of her, the scent of her, the taste of her that lingers on my tongue. I hear the soft noises she makes and know she’s close to coming.

It’s the best kind of torture, wanting to finish, yet needing more. I need to feel her flooding over my dick, need to feed my deprived senses before I can finish.

I hear her call out my name and she comes, squeezing my cock in rhythmic contractions as her orgasm slides out of her, dripping onto my sack. Now I pull harder at my bonds, needing the bite of pain to distract me until I have permission to let go. It isn’t working, and I fear losing control and ruining the moment.

But my Mistress knows how much I can take. “Come, Derek. Now.”

My release shoots out of me the second that last word leaves her lips. I grip the chair, arching up as much as I can while I fill her with my come.

Suddenly the blindfold is off and I’m staring into the dark green eyes of my Mistress. Her eyes are wide, her face flushed and she’s smiling.

“What do you see?” she asks.

I smile in return. “My Mistress. My lover. My wife. I see you, Anna. Hear you. Smell you. Taste you. Touch you. Love you.”

Pleasure washes through me as her eyes light up. I’ve learned my lesson. In a minute she’ll untie my bonds, and we’ll take our play to the bedroom. But for now, we stay as we are, enjoying every sensation the moment has to offer.

SQUIRT

Evoë Thorne

We’ve been trying to get each other to squirt for almost a year, ever since we watched some queer porn and saw butches and femmes alike come like fountains. I researched female orgasms online and found a book about female ejaculation. Since then, Moira and I have been trying to get each other to gush, but it hasn’t happened yet. I have a good feeling about today.

Moira and I have lived together for twelve years. I’ve heard that lesbians don’t have much sex after being together for a while. I’m still waiting to see if that happens. She’s older than me, starting menopause, so her libido is not as strong as it was when she first pursued me. I know she worries about how her body is changing with age. I think she’s gorgeous. I love Moira like the seasons: constant in her changes.

Today we hiked up into the mountains, where we have a cabin. I built a fire and uncovered the furniture while Moira unpacked the food from our packs. Just watching her makes me horny. I love the curve of her ass as she bends over, silver and brown hair curling around her ears and brushing her smooth shoulders. Rain still dots the delicate skin above her breasts. I want to lick it off.

The food is all put away, and now Moira has gotten to the sex toys in my pack. She makes a big show of laying them out on the table: dildos of varying sizes, a leather harness, our favorite vibrator, a gleaming steel wand, a butt plug, a paddle and some nipple clamps. Everything is black, red or silver. It’s not that we’re kinky, we just like to accessorize. Moira is posing like a game-show hostess, back arched to draw my attention to her breasts and bottom, arms spread wide. I’m thinking about how much I want to see her naked, and she grins when I blush. I adore this woman who can still make me flush when I’m checking her out. I used to be suave.

To cover my discomfiture, I take her in my arms. We’re about the same height, so we look right into each other’s eyes. My work-roughened hands cup her ass and the back of her head. The energy between us is electric, even after all of these years. I think it’s our heat that’s making our clothes steam until I realize that the fire in the woodstove has really taken. I say, “Hey baby, how about we take off our wet clothes and I’ll rub all of the places that got sore on our hike?”

Moira kisses me, her tongue darting into my mouth. I open for her, feeling my cunt start to open as well. I lightly trap her tongue between my teeth, and she breaks away laughing. Suddenly we’re both like teenagers, scrambling to get undressed as soon as the parents leave. Moira is leaving a semi-neat pile of clothes, but I’m tossing my things around the tiny cabin as I tear them off. When I’m down to my briefs I turn to see her fully nude.

My breath catches in my throat. Yes, her body has changed some over twelve years, but she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She lies down on the bed in front of the fire. For just a second I watch the play of light on her flesh, and then I grab the massage oil and join her.

My hands are strong. I make my living working with them. Sure, there are a few calluses, but I can rub my girl forever. I work her over good, kneading her shoulders where her backpack sits. Moira groans. I work my way down her back, following the snake that’s tattooed there, to her butt. I massage her cheeks, my thumbs slipping into her crack as my palms apply pressure. She begins to lift up to meet me with her incredible yoga body. Slowly, I let my fingers graze her pussy.

Moira freezes, ass in the air, while I softly trace her outer labia. Her lips part while I run my fingers back and forth. Her cunt glistens wetly in the firelight. Even so, I stop to pour lube all over my hand. I cup her with one hand, palm finding the hard nub of her clit. My other hand makes a fist against her opening. I slide two fingers inside her, stretching against her walls. Moira grinds against me and lowers her pelvis back down to the bed.

I’ve been feeling like we have all the time in the world, but suddenly I really need to give her an orgasm. I move both of my hands, one outside, one inside, working as though I am making spirals on my palm. Moira is writhing, her thigh muscles clenched tight. She’s moaning, little gasps and groans. I can feel her cunt start to squeeze around my fingers, slowly and spasmodically at first, then rhythmic, rolling contractions. That moment seems to go on forever and not last long enough.

I love Moira so intensely, and I always want more. I roll her over and pin her arms over her head so I can kiss her face, whispering to her about how beautiful she is and how much I love her. I move down her body, burying my face in the soft hair of her armpits as I go. I sniff and lick, her unique scent and taste making me wild. I’m brutal with her breasts, grasping, sucking, pinching her nipples. I need more of her.

I kneel between her legs, freshly lubed hand ready. Moira meets my eyes. “Let’s make you squirt.” I say. She nods.

My fingers find the spongy area inside her cunt. I thrust them in as deep as they will go and lift up while rocking my arm back and forth. She seems to go inward, as though meditating. I get lost in the rhythm of my movement, her pussy, and our breath.

When her breathing speeds up a bit, so do I. Her spot is feeling very swollen and prominent. Random spasms and her flushed face tell me Moira is close. She starts to panic, “I feel like I have to pee but I want to come!”

I rub harder, “That’s just right, baby. Come for me. Let go. Let it flow.”

Rivulets of sweat meet between her breasts and I tweak her nipples. I am so deep inside her. I am willing her orgasm with all of my being. Moira gasps and cries out, “I’m going to come!”

“Push my hand out, baby, bear down.” I let my hand slide out of her as her cunt starts to contract. As soon as I’m free, a stream of clear fluid arcs into the air from her pussy! “You’re doing it! You’re gushing!”

Moira comes in spurts, my beautiful fountain of a woman. She looks transformed, freed, radiant in the firelight. She’s laughing. I know I’ll be next. And she does wicked things with her tongue.

PIANO MAN

A. M. Hartnett

His name was Flynn, and he’d been giving her come fuck me eyes all night.

Ruby had flirted with her share of musicians and she’d been to bed with most of them. The bodhran drummer who had come all the way from Dublin, the classical guitar player from Vancouver, the lead singers of a half-dozen local bands: Ruby’s bed was as diverse as the small stage at Consequences.

It wasn’t that she had a thing for musicians. There was just an element of fantasy and anonymity to it all. At night she was just some smoky-eyed hostess who, some would discover, wore black stockings under her long skirt. She ceased to be Ruby Monroe, who worked in an office for eight hours a day before coming to her night job.

She had no story and neither did they. There was just the now: the intake of breath, the pinch of teeth, the hard and the wet coming together.

Ruby didn’t know Flynn’s story and she didn’t care. He could have been a bus driver or one of the suited men who worked in the glass towers on the waterfront. None of it mattered. All that mattered was that the kitchen staff had cleared out and they were alone.

“That was interesting. I’ve never heard that song done so mournfully before,” she said as she lifted the last chair and placed it seat-down on the table’s surface.

“It doesn’t matter. No matter how it’s played, people always picture Freddie Mercury in fishnets.”

He was seated at the piano, sipping ice water through a straw. He’d been coiffed when he’d performed, but his brown hair was now mussed beyond repair from running his hands through it.

His pretense was waiting for a cab. She knew he hadn’t called one, but she played along anyway.

She returned to the bar. “Cabs are getting scarcer on weekends. A lot of them are getting up early for the airport calls now. It’s safer than driving out into the boonies in the dead of night. You live far out?”

“About a twenty-minute ride.”

She mentally counted to ten before she turned off the satellite radio and extinguished the lights over the bar. “You could come home with me.”

There was no surprise come to life on his face. No sheepish stammering. Nor did Ruby avert her gaze and blush as she came around the bar.

The moment she was in arm’s reach, he grasped her by the waist and dragged her between him and the piano. Chaotic notes yelped all around her as her ass bumped the keys.

He scrunched two fistfuls of her skirt and lifted it, then slid her panties down.

“I like these basement bars,” he murmured. “No one can see in, especially not with the stained glass on the windows.”

Ruby braced both hands on his shoulders, eager to drive, but Flynn planted his legs between hers and pinned her in. It was a simple movement, but a definite shift in power.

Her juices ran along her crack as she raised her eyes to the ceiling, following the topography of the beams above while Flynn assembled her skirt around her waist. He bunched the fabric at the small of her back, where it stayed, and she was completely uncovered from the waist down.

Throughout, music jangled as he brushed the keys.

“What’s your name?”

Her tongue stuck at the roof of her mouth, that single word ready to topple over, but what escaped was a groan when he brushed his thumb around her clit.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Ruby.”

“Ruby.” The way he said it was different, fluid and meaningful and full of promise. I’m going to fuck you, Ruby, it said, and you’re going to be this wet all night.

Flynn slipped his hands beneath her ass and lifted her until she was balanced on her toes. She stretched her arms out, flattening her palms on the polished surface of the piano lid, and rested her feet on the piano bench.

His pink tongue struck out at the corner of his mouth, maddening with intent as he circled his middle finger around her clit. He wet his lips slowly, and Ruby experienced a violent contraction pass through her cunt.

She hung her head back and fought for a breath. “Fuck me with your fingers.”

Two fingers eased into her, deeper and deeper, to the knuckle. With his withdrawal, he twisted his wrist so that Ruby whimpered with the pressure on her G-spot.

She arched her back with the hot current that zipped through her abdomen, then spread her legs farther for him. Pressing the balls of her feet to each end of the piano bench, she began to roll her hips as he rubbed her clit.

The backs of her thighs brushed the keys beneath them, their crescendo mounting as her momentum grew.

Then came a moment of disappointment as he withdrew his fingers, but this vanished as he pressed his face between her legs and thrust his tongue into her, taut and pointed.

A sweat had broken out between her shoulder blades and at her hairline, but the heat was everywhere. His fingers worked the slippery, swollen flesh above her clit while he tongued the underside. It should have been criminal the way he ate her pussy, the way he made her whole body sing inside and out.

She clung to the piano lid with one hand and slid the other over her breasts, tweaking where her nipples strained against the fabric, then skimmed her fingers lower to twine through his thick hair.

With hunger in his eyes, Flynn’s attention was hers. Her gaze flicked from the determined crease on his brow to where his thumb warred with his tongue around her clit.

Beneath the curve of her ass, the instrument sang and so did Ruby.

Just as the muscles of her pussy squeezed around his fingers, he pulled the tender skin back and sucked her.

She came apart. That glorious onslaught of her orgasm filled the bar. Desperation crashed against euphoria. In one breath she felt heavy; in the next there was weightlessness. She closed her legs, trapping his fingers within her slick and throbbing inner walls as the sound of the piano keys ceased, overcome by the rush of blood in her ears.

Ruby remained sated, panting and sprawled before him. His tongue mercifully ceased but his fingers continued to work her.

When the pounding in her head came to an end, she looked down at him with a sleepy grin.

Flynn stood and wiped his own grin with his sleeve before taking her around the waist. His hand was warm at the small of her back, supporting her wobbly frame.

“Come on,” he muttered, his mouth close to hers. “I’m parked around the corner. I’ll drive you home.”

OUT OF CONTROL

Crystal Jordan

Touch yourself.”

She’d already come twice, but that would never satisfy him. He wanted her to climax four or five times before he was through with her. But not tonight. Tonight, she called the shots.

“Touch yourself,” he demanded again. “Play with your clit for me.”

Even tied to the bed, he tried to be in charge of their sexual experience. The man was a total control freak. Just this once, he’d agreed to do whatever she wanted. Including let her tie him up. Having a man like him at her mercy sent a thrill through her. Cupping her palms over her breasts, she twisted her nipples while he watched. Slipping her hand down her torso, she circled a finger around her navel, teasing him for just a moment before she gave him what he wanted. She dipped into her sex, flicking her clit. The look in his eyes was hot enough to burn. She was already slick with cream, primed. Arching into her hand, she shoved her fingers into her pussy, pumping hard and fast.

He licked his lips, staring at her stroking hand. “Come for me.”

Yes. Her inner muscles contracted hard in a swift orgasm. It thrummed through her in an incredible rush, and she moaned loudly.

“Come here.” It was an unmistakable order.

“You don’t have to always be in control.” She grinned and shook her head, but she couldn’t complain about the view. His tanned skin was a gorgeous contrast to the white sheets, and his muscles strained against the silk scarves she’d used to bind his arms and legs to the bed.

Normally, she didn’t mind letting him be in control. He always made it good for her. But tonight she’d wanted something different. She hoped he enjoyed it as much as she intended to.

Silence stretched on for a long moment. His throat worked. “I like being in control.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Every second of every day?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation, no doubt. That was him. She approached the bed, kneeling beside him. “I can change your mind.”

He snorted. “I doubt that.”

Well, they’d see, wouldn’t they? She reached a hand down until she could encircle his rigid shaft with her fingers. She squeezed just hard enough to make him hiss in a breath. “You don’t get to come until I say so.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she lifted her torso to brush her nipple against his lips. “You know what to do.”

Sucking her nipple, he batted the tight crest with his tongue. Sensation bolted through her, a lightning strike from breast to loin that made her pussy clench with need. She was so wet. He bit down on her nipple, and she jerked. Releasing her, he chuckled. Always wanting the power. Well, she was on top tonight. Time to prove it.

Reaching for the bedside table, she pulled out a bottle of lube and a long strand of anal beads that he often used on her. She popped the lube open and drizzled some on the beads.

His gaze turned wary. “Are those for you?”

“No. They’re not.”

His pupils dilated, his skin flushing with lust. “I…I don’t think—”

“Whatever I want tonight, remember?” She set the lube aside, trailing her fingernails up the inside of his thigh. His feet were tied to each corner of the bed, spreading him wide. “Ready?”

“Oh, Jesus,” he groaned, but didn’t protest further. When she pressed the first bead into his anus, he choked on a breath. She worked the whole strand into him, tugging on it to remind him how he’d been filled. He shuddered, twisting against the scarves.

She bent down to flick her tongue over his dick, catching a bead of precome that escaped. “Are you all right?”

The only answer was a sharp nod.

“You hate this, right?” She taunted softly, swirling her tongue around the head of his cock. “Not being in control?”

“I love you,” he rasped, closing his eyes. A muscle ticked in his jaw, his body jerking under her touch.

She laughed, loving every moment of this. The power, the intensity, the sweetness of how nicely they fit together. They understood each other well enough to know just how to get a reaction. She blew a cool stream of breath over his hot cock. “I love you, too.”

Straddling his waist, she pressed her weight down on him, knowing from experience how that would emphasize the way the beads penetrated his ass. He’d done the same thing to her many times. She eased back until his cock probed for entrance within her. He jerked against his bonds, tried to push himself into her, but she lifted away just enough so that she controlled how and when he entered her pussy. With a growl, he subsided against the mattress. She slipped into place over him again and sank down on his dick in one swift motion.

They both cried out, and the feel of him stretching her made her heart pound. Damn, the chemistry between them was amazing, no matter who was in charge. She loved it, loved him for giving her what she desired tonight. Rolling her hips, she lifted and lowered herself on his cock. She picked up speed and force until their skin slapped together each time he filled her.

He moved with her, thrusting as deep as he could go. The sounds he made told her exactly how close he was to orgasm.

“Don’t come,” she gasped. “Not yet.”

He grimaced, but dipped his chin in a nod.

She ground her hips down on him, stimulating her clit and pushing on the beads in his ass. Her sex spasmed, and she could feel the climax building like a tidal wave inside of her. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to resist.

“Please…” His movements beneath her became frantic, and she knew she’d finally broken his vaunted control.

Pistoning herself up and down on his dick, she gave in to the need for her own orgasm. Her sex fisted around his, tingles exploding over her skin. “Now. Come now.”

The sound he made was like a human volcano erupting. His body bowed in a hard arc, and he spurted fluids inside of her. An aftershock of climax went through her, and her pussy clenched again and again. When it finally ended, she shivered, collapsing forward onto him. She could hear the thud of his heartbeat under her ear, and contentment rippled through her.

His chest bellowed as he sucked in air. “Okay, I changed my mind.”

Still floating on the high of orgasm, she barely registered his words. “About what?”

“About being in control every minute of the day. There might be certain times I can give it up.”

A slow grin curled her lips and she lifted her head to meet his gaze. “So…you want to do this again some time, huh?”

Chuckling, he winked at her. “Every now and then, just for variety.”

Setting her hands on the mattress, she pushed herself upright. “Well, my time isn’t over yet. You promised me all night.”

“You’re the boss.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Have your way with me.”

TANTRIC HOME

Dominic Santi

Tantric sex was a cornerstone of my marriage. The bonding Karen and I shared when we were connected—physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually—was beyond anything I’d ever imagined. The ecstasy I felt when I was buried balls deep in her pussy, holding myself motionless, staring into her eyes and sharing her breath while she slowly, rhythmically milked my cock to the brink of orgasm was worth every bit of the sheer terror I sometimes felt when I lowered all my defenses and gave myself to her, knowing she was doing the same. It wasn’t just about sex. It was about trust and love and sharing energies. To us, it defined our marriage.

But tantric sex takes time, a commodity in short supply these days. Stereotypical hipsters, we’d bought our house in Los Angeles just before the bubble burst, and we were choking on school debt. When a friend’s recommendation led to the offer of a corporate directorship in New York, I jumped at the chance. It meant being separated from Karen during the week, but she had to take care of the totally unmarketable house we loved, and the nonprofits she ran—eco-friendly organizations to which we were both committed—didn’t have offices in New York. I had friends who’d commuted bicoastally for years. We figured maybe two years before the economy improved and I could transfer back to L.A. How hard could it be?

Pretty damn hard. The powers that be didn’t care where the hell I lived, so long as I was in my office by nine Monday morning and stayed as late as I was needed Friday night. That meant red-eyes home and late Sunday evening flights back to my lonely studio apartment. I was so fucking tired I could hardly see straight. Karen and I were snapping at each other over every petty annoyance. Sex? Hah! We were lucky to catch a quick fuck Saturday morning before we started all the crap that had to be crammed into too little time. Tantric sex wasn’t even on the horizon.

The fight about who was going to clean the gutters opened our eyes to how much trouble we were in. Karen clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes filling with horrified tears, like she couldn’t believe she’d just screamed, “Are you saying you want a divorce?”

“No,” I said, hauling her into my arms and holding her close. “God, no. I want to be married to you, more than anything else in the world.” We spent every minute until my plane left talking and desperately making love. Karen and I needed to connect again. We had to find a way to get tantric sex back on the menu—now.

I should have known the community organizer half of our team would be better at that than I was. Her nightly Skype calls were bossy in ways I was stunned to admit turned me on. I lay naked on the bed, massaging sandalwood-scented oil into my chest, neck, arms, gut, thighs and genitals. Oh god, my genitals! The internal knob of a prostate massager filled my ass, the one outside pressing hard into my perineum with each involuntary clenching of my pelvic muscles. Slow streams of dick juice leaked down my shaft as I breathed in tandem with my wife, drawing air in deep and letting it resonate out as I obediently matched my strokes to hers, kneading my cock and balls as her fingers slid into her pussy and circled her clit.

“Don’t come,” she murmured. “Concentrate on your breathing. I know your hand feels good, but my pussy will feel better. Squeeze!”

The command was hard and sharp. I squeezed the base of my cock, keeping my eyes locked on hers as my thighs clenched and my hips raised, shudders rolling through me as my body begged to let what felt like oceans of semen erupt through my cocktube. The pressure on my prostate caused a slow stream of precome to leak down my shaft.

“It will be my pussy muscles squeezing you Friday night.” Her voice shook as her hand pressed hard and motionless against her vulva. “I want you so much. I don’t want to wait to feel your semen pulsing into me.” She smiled and rocked her hand just the tiniest bit. “At the same time, I do.”

I groaned and squeezed the base of my dick again, letting her watch me shake as I once more kept myself from coming.

I didn’t get a helluva lot of work done on Friday, but I put in the time. Thank god no one was next to me on the plane. I kept the reading light off, pretending to be asleep, obediently massaging everything I could hide under the blanket as I inhaled the scent of the massage oil I’d rubbed into my chest and listened to the recording Karen had sent of her breathing, just breathing, the way she did when we were having tantric sex.

She picked me up in a limo. We were kissing before the door was locked.

“Drive!” she ordered. The privacy screen rose, and her coat came off. She was wearing nothing but her wedding rings. I was naked before we were out of the airport loop. Karen tipped me to the side, stuffed a towel under me, and slid a lube-drenched prostate massager up my ass. I gasped, feeling my cock juice rise as she sat me up and the knobs pressed deep.

“Breathe.” She straddled me, her eyes never leaving mine as she guided my throbbing cock into her hot, wet pussy.

“Don’t move.” She tightened around me. I held myself perfectly still, letting the sensations take me as our breathing synched, the scent of her pussy and sandalwood oil and my precome filling my nostrils. She slowly rocked against me, milking me with her pussy.

Semen was being pressed up from the place where my orgasms started, rising as my balls drew up. I looked down at where we were joined, watching her pubes move ever so slightly against mine, feeling her pussy milking me.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

It was like looking into joy. I watched her eyes go wide, her pussy shuddering around me. Semen rose like lava through my cock, erupting in long, slow, never-ending pulses. Our orgasms sparked like pure energy between us, fusing us together as we offered all of ourselves to each other: body, heart, mind and soul.

“I love you,” I whispered, feeling my own eyes heat as tears streamed down my wife’s smiling face.

“I love you, too.” She leaned forward and snuggled into my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her while my cock softened and gradually fell free. The lights of downtown passed brightly by outside the windows. The lights of home. Come Monday, I was sending out resumes for L.A. again. My life was with Karen. I was going to spend it with her.

QUEER FOR MIKE

Shane Allison

I feel Mike’s eyes on me when I walk out of the break room to our usual meeting spot. I’m scared shitless of getting caught, but more excited by the way my dick is twitching in my pants. It’s been so long I was starting to forget what his dick tasted like. I fish the keys to the storage closet under auditorium seven out of my pocket, then push the big, gold-plated key into the doorknob and turn. I pull the white string hanging from the single lightbulb. The smell of rot and rust infiltrates my senses. The room is disgusting, yeah, but it’s the only place we both feel safe enough to go. We know that if we get caught, it will be both our asses, and Chris, our meathead of a boss, is the type that’s itching for you to give him a reason to can you. He can’t stand gay people. He hasn’t come right out and said, “I hate fags,” but I see the way he looks at me, like I’m something nasty he wants to scrape off the bottom of his shoe.

We can’t do anything at my house, ’cause I live with my folks, and Mike has a roommate and a girlfriend. He’s so deep in the closet you couldn’t find him with a search warrant. I don’t care what he does one way or the other. I just like sucking his dick. I’ve asked for more hours, so I can start saving up to get my own crib; Mike could come over whenever he wants. He said he would if I had an apartment.

I have only thirty-five minutes until my break is over, so he better hurry up. I can’t wait to get his dick in my mouth. At work sometimes I can barely contain myself from checking him out, thinking about what he looks like without clothes on, but I keep it together for Mike. I don’t want to fuck up what we have. The thought of sucking on his big, low-hanging bull balls keeps my dick thumping against the cotton wall of my underwear. He loves getting his balls worshipped. Fuck, I’m horny.

He knocks three times to let me know that it’s him. Jesus, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. My palms are sweaty. I crack the heavy, black door open slightly.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Did anybody see you?” Mike asks.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, nobody saw me. I was careful.”

“Come on, let’s go through here.” Mike starts to make his way through another part of the storage room where cleaning supplies and paint cans have been stored.

“There’s more head room in this part,” he says. Mike starts to undo his belt.

“Let me do that.” I fuss with the silver-plated buckle, the black, genuine leather strap. My dick is so hard it hurts. Mike’s pants plummet to his knees. Silken strands of blond hair coat his thighs. I wish we could get naked. If only there was more time. I can’t wait to get my own place.

“Hold up. You have the only set of keys, right?”

“Got ’em right here,” I say, holding them up. I can tell Mike is nervous. That makes two of us.

A hint of skin shows itself from the slit of his boxers. It’s the head of his dick. I work the rest of it through lovingly with my fingers. It’s fat and the perfect blush. His piss-slit is like a teardrop. I start to massage his dick, pushing a tender layer of foreskin up gently toward the head, forcing a pearl of precome to pool at the teardrop tip. I catch it with my tongue. It tastes sweet and salty. I take the head past my lips. He’s about seven inches, cut. I don’t care for dicks longer than that. I suck, hugging it tight, squeezing him with my big juicy lips. Fuck yeah! I drop to my knees and tug his boxers and black pants down to his ankles. His thighs are so firm. I cup his ass in my hands for leverage as he fucks my mouth.

I want Mike to fuck me, but every time I bring it up, he says, “I don’t think so. That’s for Danielle.” She’s the girlfriend. She used to work here at the movie theater. That’s how they met. She’s pretty. I’m jealous, but what she doesn’t know, right?

If the musk from his golden thicket of crotch hair was a drug, I’d be addicted. I take his balls into my mouth. I bet Danielle doesn’t do this. Mike slaps his spit-wet dick against my face. I want to eat his ass, but he says the idea grosses him out. “Not if you’re clean,” I tell him, but it’s not enough to convince him. He pushes his dick back into my mouth.

“Danielle doesn’t like sucking cock,” he once told me. Yeah, she doesn’t look like the type. What she won’t do, I will.

I stare up at him with watery, red eyes through wire-framed glasses, lenses smudged from grazing against his belly. Mike puts his hand on my head like he’s about to pray for me. He skull-fucks me harder. The muscles in my face are on fire, like my jaw is going to pop out of place, but I don’t protest. His pubes tickle my nose. Mike’s belly presses into my face until it hurts. I can’t say anything. I don’t do anything. I don’t want to piss him off when he’s this deep in. Mike knows I can take whatever he’s got. I hold onto his chubby ass as he fucks my mouth nice and hard.

“Take that cock!” he says. Yes, Mike. Yes. He holds me by the back of my head and presses my face into his crotch. Warm tears trickle down my fat face. He’s so deep down my throat, but I don’t gag. Mike likes it when I don’t gag.

“Fuck, I’m coming…I’m fuckin’ co—”

Mike holds me as he spurts down my throat. He pauses and then gently slides his dick out. A web of come stretches from my lips to his slickened dickhead. Spit and come travel hot down my throat. Mike likes it when I swallow.

Sweat burns my eyes. I wipe them with the sleeve of my shirt.

“What time is it?” he asks.

I pluck my cell phone out of my pocket. “Nine twenty-five.” I have ten more minutes until my break is over.

“We gotta get back. Chris is probably wondering where we went.” He takes a few paper towels from a stack on the shelf and wipes his dick clean of my saliva. Mike pulls up his boxers and pants, tucking in his dick.

“I’ll walk out first,” he says, “make sure no one sees you.”

I walk out when I think he’s far enough away. I head to the men’s room to relieve the strain in my pants. I think of Mike fucking me, as I sit in the stall jacking off. I want to taste his ass like his come on my tongue. The butterflies are gone.

MEETING CUTE

Vanessa Madison

You don’t see a lot of single guys at midnight romantic comedy screenings. I prefer that hour; I’m a romantic, but also a loner, one of millions in the Big Apple. The theater is usually almost empty, even when the movie stars Justin Timberlake, and I can sit wherever I want with my popcorn and dirty dreams. Yes, I have them; I’m a film buff, but usually have to see them twice to make sure I know what happened; there comes a moment when I insert myself into the fantasy, when my desire overtakes the heroine’s. Maybe that’s ironic because in real life my desire has never overtaken anything except my vibrator—or rather, vibrators, a rotating cast, leading men and women who take on personalities of the kinds of lovers I want to have…someday. I’m twenty-three but sometimes feel like an old maid.

I’m snug in my seat with my medium popcorn and large Coke when the credits start and someone sits down next to me. I stare straight ahead at first, but my right arm betrays me, its hairs standing on end as the stranger settles in. Can he feel what his presence is doing to me? I know my skin is flushed with color and warmth; I feel the heat in other places as well. I’m wearing jeans and a simple yellow top. It’s an everyday outfit, for an everyday movie. I go every week, because that’s how I get my fix. Today, though, my panties are so wet I can barely focus. If you asked me either character’s name, I wouldn’t know. I reach for my popcorn but when the man’s arm brushes every so lightly against mine, I spill it all over us.

“Let me help,” he says, rescuing the almost-empty bag and giving me my first glimpse of his face. He’s looks younger than me, but his voice is all man, no hint of boy. He’s definitely flirting with me—even I can tell that—but it’s a silent kind of flirting, as befits our location. I’d be mortified to get kicked out of a theater where the staff greet me by name. He kicks aside the kernels as best he can, then switches bags so I get his full one. “You can have mine,” he says, and I blush again, my dirty mind betraying me. Of course he means his popcorn, but suddenly I wonder what else of his I could have if I wanted it.

“Thanks,” I whisper, taking the bag and shoving some salty popcorn into my mouth before I overthink what I’m doing. I could move away, pretend I haven’t seen him, pretend my nipples aren’t hard. But I don’t want to; all of a sudden I want to be this new split-screen me, half of me watching the drama unfold before me and half of me living a drama that has my heart pounding so loudly I’m having trouble deciphering the onscreen dialogue. Who am I to behave this way? I think, before I catch myself. What way? I’ve barely done anything except admit silently, secretly, that I’m wet, from a five-second interaction with a stranger’s fingers, tangling over popcorn.

But I can’t deny it. I am. And it’s not just my pussy that’s excited. My nipples are hard, my mouth is dry. I bite my lip to remind myself that this is real then try to figure out what to do. He’s coming on to me, isn’t he? Because if he isn’t, I can only imagine what happens when this guy gives a girl his full attention. My body wants him—okay, I want him—without knowing the first concrete fact about him. He could be Justin Timberlake for all I know—well, another quick peek confirms that though he’s indeed incredibly hot, he is not, in fact, Justin Timberlake.

But that peek is what gives me away, because he turns to look at me and winks, followed by a grin that further melts me. I stare back, both of us aglow from the screen, trying to smile with my eyes because I’m sure my face is burning up. He lifts a piece of popcorn, just one lone kernel, and holds it up to my lips. I open them, and he places it on my tongue, watching my mouth the whole time. This is even bolder, because anyone could see us. It’s just popcorn—except, of course, it isn’t.

My proper side wants to look back at the screen, but I can’t bring myself to turn my head. I want more—not popcorn, but him. He pulls out a Twizzler, smirking at me when I smile. How have I never noticed the erotic nature of my favorite licorice before? Suddenly I’m picturing him slapping it against my ass, or twining together the extra-long ones and tying me up. I blush, grateful once again for the dark. He dangles the candy in front of my face before holding it out toward my lips. I open them and he slips it inside; it feels sacrilegious to eat it like this, slow and sensual, the red coil’s sweetness practically melting against the heat of my tongue. I should be chomping it, sinking my teeth into the dye-brightened candy, tearing if off with gusto. Instead I’m slowly letting my teeth dig into the suddenly soft, chewy morsel, reluctant to let go because it will disconnect me from this stranger with candy.

I eventually force myself to take a bite, letting my eyes close; by now I’m fine with him knowing that the movie has ceased to be at all relevant to our rendezvous. I’m chewing when I feel the light stroke of the Twizzler against my lower lip, and my whole body shudders. If he can do that much with just a whip made of candy, what could he do to the rest of me? Tears spring to my eyes; I’m just so overwhelmed by what’s happening. He leans closer and simply breathes into my ear, the rushing sound the perfect complement to the one that my body has already created.

He keeps his hot lips there while pressing the candy between mine again, this time shoving more than a mouthful inside. He pushes the end of the Twizzler into my mouth, followed by his fingers. I wrap my lips around them and squirm in my seat, rubbing against the fabric almost involuntarily. The movement is slow, but it’s all I need. I clamp my teeth down on his fingers as I come. It’s not the crashing wave of a giant O, but the gentle sigh of the water brushing up against the sand, a prelude of what’s to come.

As my teeth sink into his flesh, he shifts, and I hear the popcorn fall to the floor, but I don’t care about making a mess anymore. While his tongue dabbles at my earlobe, I tremble. When I open my eyes, I could swear Justin Timberlake winks at me. I hope he’ll forgive me for not following the plot; as I turn my head for our first kiss, I’m too busy making my own.

CHERYL

Andreas Amsterdam

It had been a while since I smoked pot. Six years? I used to say I’d only smoke it from a source I trusted, and I didn’t know what Cheryl’s source was. So that was one rule violated. Pot makes me very uninhibited. Apparently it had the same effect on Cheryl.

It was a muggy July night and her air conditioner was old and finally gave up the ghost. So we had another reason to disrobe. She stood up, took my hand and walked me into her bedroom without a word, only a smile.

Cheryl shimmied out of her jeans. She was wearing black lacy panties beneath, neither everyday nor bringing her A-game. She took off her tank top and lay on her stomach on her bed. My jeans felt too warm so I took those off. I had taken off my shoes and socks in the living room while we smoked. I wore a black polo and matching cotton briefs.

There was some massage oil on her night table. Sandalwood. I kneeled by her side on the bed and started at her shoulders and neck, my progress being measured by her mmms. I went down her back, taking care of muscles on either side of her spine. I resisted the impulse to kiss and nibble. Cheryl jumped when I hit a juncture near the base of her spine, just above the crack of her round ass.

I apologized; she said she had just been startled. I resumed my ministrations along her lower back then briefly hesitated before adding some more oil and gently but firmly massaging her ass under her panties. Cheryl grunted slightly. I noticed she tensed up a little but didn’t say anything, so I continued rather matter-of-factly down the backs of her firm thighs, then her calves.

At her feet, I got off the bed and applied broad strokes with the palm of my hand to her soles, trying not to tickle her. I applied a little massage oil to each toe and stroked each one out. Then I went back up and did the back of each arm, very slowly. Cheryl didn’t say very much other than, “Mmm,” or some other small noise of approval.

My erection pressed against my briefs. I said softly, “Back’s done. Turn over, please.”

“Sure.” Cheryl rolled over and smiled at me. Her areolae were about an inch in diameter and her nipples were hard. She sat up and put her thumbs into each side of her panties and pushed down, then raised her legs and kicked them off. They landed somewhere on the floor. Her dark-blonde pubic hairs had been tamed but not shaved. I felt beads of sweat on my brow.

She lay back and closed her eyes. I knelt near her head on the bed and stroked her forehead gently, then her temples, neck and collarbone.

“Forty-two-D,” Cheryl said suddenly, opening her eyes to gauge my reaction. I was having difficulty maintaining my composure. Nice way to play the game.

“Oh.”

“All evening you were trying not to stare. Just thought I’d answer the question.”

I cleared my throat. “I was going to measure them some other way.”

“I see.”

I straddled her stomach, keeping my weight on my legs. I applied more of the oil to my hands and began massaging her breasts. We kept our eyes locked on each other. I gently teased each nipple with my fingernails. Remaining in the same position, I diligently massaged each shoulder, then made my way down each arm.

“You have a lot of self-control.” Her words were just above a whisper.

“I thought you’d appreciate that,” I said to her in a deadpan fashion.

Her cobalt-blue eyes narrowed. “You’ll see…”

I sat back a little, still keeping most of the weight on my legs. I took each hand and massaged it, stroking each finger. I moved back and straddled her legs and massaged her abdomen. Then I got to her waist and massaged to within an inch of her pussy lips. Her ass rose off the bed suddenly, as if the action had been contained by force, then released.

“Problem?”

Cheryl shook her head. “Not yet.”

I nodded. I didn’t touch her pussy but massaged her hips before shifting to the top of her thighs. I massaged the tops of them, then along her inner thighs. She allowed herself to gasp. I pretended to ignore it.

I moved back along her legs and continued the massage down her thighs to her knees and calves, which seemed to have been freshly shaved. The hairs of her pussy were glistening. I’d maintained a small smile during all of this, as if I had a private joke, but now I chuckled.

“You’re a tease,” she accused me.

“Yes.”

I sat on the edge of the bed with my back to her and massaged her ankles and the tops of her feet, then her toes again, which elicited a low moan. My cock was throbbing. I looked back at her. She half-sat up and, with a feral look on her face, gestured for me to join her. I crawled up the bed toward her, and she met me halfway with a kiss. We knelt like that for a bit, alternating between nibbles on each other’s lips and tongues working each other. Her heavy breasts were warm against my chest. Cheryl broke from the kiss to tell me, “You have too much on,” and pulled the polo off me, revealing the lightning-bolt tattoo on my left bicep.

“It’s your turn to lie down,” she said quietly, and I did as she asked. She pulled my briefs off and licked a drop of precome. “I’m glad you like to keep things trim,” she said, indicating my shaven balls. With one hand on my shaft, she took my balls into her mouth one at a time and sucked hard. “You’ve been holding back all this time—don’t you need some release?”

I nodded and said hoarsely, “Yeah.”

Cheryl smiled wickedly and started stroking my hard cock. As she sensed my orgasm, she opened her mouth and milked me onto her tongue. All that restraint of the past half hour (and the fact that I hadn’t masturbated in a few days) resulted in a long stream of come. Some of it wound up on her neck and upper chest, some on her cheeks, but most she directed into her mouth and swallowed. Greedily, it seemed.

I sat up and our tongues met again. She moved up the bed and joined me. We lay face-to-face, our legs entwined. One of her hands rested on my ass, one of mine around her waist.

“If I asked you to call in sick, would you?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she replied.

BEER AND ORGASMS

Jeremy Edwards

Kenny showed up promptly at nine with the six-pack.

“Okay,” he said with a smile, after they’d kissed hello, “I brought what I was supposed to. Now I’m ready for you to deliver on your half.” He gave her ass a promising squeeze. “When do we start?”

His playful but earnestly enthusiastic manner was just what Lauren needed—and the fact that he was so invested in things going right for her tonight made her more certain than ever that this relationship was a good one.

On their previous evenings together, Kenny had tried so hard to help her come that she’d had to insist they stop when she was too exhausted to go on.

“Are you sure?” he’d said the last time. “I’d be happy to stay up all night, if it will get you off. Don’t be afraid to ask. Don’t be afraid to ask anything.”

But she had a better solution than exhaustion, and she’d decided she knew him well enough now to be confident he’d go along with it. “Don’t be afraid to ask anything,” she’d quoted aloud to herself, as she got her nerve up for the phone call—the call inviting him here for “beer and orgasms.”

“Works for me,” he’d laughed. “But what’s the connection?”

“I’ll explain when you get here,” she’d said softly.

The connection was that Lauren’s one surefire way of getting off was to let her bladder fill to a point where, under normal circumstances, she’d be running, not walking, to the nearest bathroom. But when the circumstances were “Lauren needs an orgasm without further ado,” the full bladder was where the fun began. She’d discovered years ago that escorting herself into a state where she could barely hold back the flood automatically brought her into a state where she could barely hold back her climax—which was quite a contrast with her usual recalcitrant mechanics. Her clit, normally temperamental, became a wild thing whenever Lauren was so primed she had to jiggle or dance or cross her legs, or squeeze her thighs around her hand to keep from leaking.

She would relish the tension and the tickle and the sexy pressure between her legs, getting more and more aroused by the sensations—and by the secret erotic flavor of what she was doing—until she had to give in. And when she gave in, a fingertip on her button as she soaked her panties over the bathroom tiles, the ineffable ecstasy of pissing charged through her like a sports car while the stratospheric fuck, yeah of coming screeched like twin jet planes in her ears.

And up until tonight, she’d always done it alone.

One beer, two, two and a half, all chased with gulps of water…it was a lovely private party with this man who kissed with passion, fondled with fire and kept her grinning every minute. The series of drinks had reliably started her squirming here on the couch, and her cunt was slick with the anticipation of what was to come—and who would be participating. She was glad she’d covered the explanations during the first round of beers. Now she could enjoy unadulterated excitement, knowing that Kenny was on board with no misgivings.

Things were reaching a point where she could hardly sit still. Clamping her thighs together corralled the urgency but made it sizzle all the more sensually, and the indirect pressure on her clit made it buzz with alertness.

“Come with me,” she said, when even dancing in place astride the couch arm was no longer adequate to the situation. With a wiggling ass she led him hurriedly to the bedroom, where she’d dressed the futon in special rain gear for the evening.

Lauren had also dressed herself with care: thin peach panties stretched tight across her flesh, under a clinging minidress that she wore without a bra. She was barefoot, and Kenny tickled her toes fleetingly when she lay down with her right hand wedged into her crotch.

“Ohhhh, I have to pee,” she chuckled, rolling onto her side. She’d said this out loud, in exactly this sensuous fashion, many times in the past—but never for an audience.

Kenny’s cheekbones seemed to glow with lust. She watched him shed his shirt while she rocked there for him, then squealed when he dived for the bed and positioned his face by her knees.

She felt his hand under her ass—right on the taut peach cotton that pulled across her tight-lipped, pee-holding pussy. She wriggled against his palm, so close to leaking, and so moist with the juice of her excitement. His fingers teased the panties subtly down the blushing smoothness of her bottom cheeks: just a few inches down…then back up.

With his other hand, he gently pried her knees apart. She thought she might lose it here and now, but suddenly the warm wetness of his tongue was on her gusset, bestowing a nurturing, rolling contact that made her cunt lips tingle while it coaxed her waters temporarily into submission. She moaned into her pillow.

The beauty of it was, she could let nature take its course. Kenny was licking her vulva through the fabric, and she was letting each velvety shiver of pleasure flicker through her, while hanging on for all she was worth. There was nothing to be anxious about: she would, when the moment was right, drench her panties, drench them right in Kenny’s beautiful face, kissing him lavishly with her intimate stream. He’d sworn to her that he was looking forward to it, and the bulge in his jeans backed him up.

It was the inevitability that made this work for her, she realized in her fever of anticipation. When you had to go, you had to go, and letting go was not merely the path of least resistance, it was the certain outcome. Not like the way it was with her “ordinary” orgasms, which demanded so much effort and then didn’t even consistently reward it. With a tank full of beer like this, it took major effort not to just open wide and pee like a river. That was why holding it was such a scrumptious game, and by the time the inevitable, mind-blowing piss finally occurred, the mind-blowing orgasm would have earned its inevitability as well.

Kenny’s crotch-pleasing tongue cruised over the elastic to lap briefly at naked thigh, and Lauren shrieked with giggles. And then it was happening. She was convulsing with release, wetting and wetting as his mouth pressed itself even more firmly to her than before, his upper lip pulsing lovingly against the answering hyperbeat of her clit. It all felt so good, she almost couldn’t stand it; she screamed and grabbed fistfuls of air, pumping her hips while the warm bath of her freedom mingled with the tremors of coming.

Kenny’s hands found her breasts, and he pawed hot icing onto her orgasmic cake as she twitched into aftershock mode.

The song in Lauren’s nipples echoed the last exquisite spurts into her underwear.

SULLIED INNOCENCE

Neve Black

The grocery store where I shop recently added a new and exciting feature to their produce section: his name is Joel. Joel is a lanky but muscular nineteen-year-old who stands about six feet tall, with sandy blond curls and piercing blue eyes. He has a look of innocence about him and I daydream about tarnishing his innocence more often than I should probably admit.

Joel makes my head spin, my stomach flip-flop and my pussy tremble whenever I see him. Ever since Joel’s titillating presence appeared in produce, I’ve spent a lot of time perusing the aisles of fresh fruits and vegetables. I’ve been known to revisit the produce department several times during a single trip to the store, feigning to have forgotten a much-needed juicy melon, lip-smacking lemon or zealous zucchini. The truth is I want to get another peek at Joel.

It’s important that I mention to you that I rarely have any time for myself at all. Actually, I’m probably a lot like you—juggling several responsibilities all at the same time and hoping not to drop a single one, or else they all might tumble down on top of me. So, on those rare occasions when the planets align just so and I’m blessed with some priceless alone time, I’m always prepared. Along with various other necessary items that I carry in my handbag, like my wallet, checkbook, pen and keys, I also carry a very discreet but powerful vibrator. It’s my secret weapon for a quick and easy orgasm just about anywhere imaginable.

It was a late Saturday afternoon and Joel was working. The store must have been short staffed that day, because Joel wasn’t at his normal station amongst the thick cucumbers and curved bananas. He was bagging groceries.

While I stood in the checkout line and placed my items onto the conveyor belt, I could see the dimples in Joel’s cheeks as he chatted with the customer just ahead of me. I could already feel my pulse start to trot and then canter watching his body move in his store uniform; tight-fitting jeans, white T-shirt and his green apron that fit snugly around his sexy waist, while the vertical strings that tied around his neck seemed to nip and tease his erect nipples. My pussy stirred.

It was my turn. I moved farther up in line and closer to Joel. I watched as the checker scanned each of my items and the belt moved them down and into Joel’s large, strong hands.

“Plastic or paper?” his husky voice dripped with temptation, sex, innocence and good customer service.

…Oooh, plastic would be really nice with some vegetable oil and you, too, raced through my mind. “I brought my own,” was my response as I pointed to the canvas bags in my cart. I smiled and felt my cheeks blush hot over my lustful thoughts.

“Good for you for helping with the environment,” he offered.

His bright smile was the kind Hollywood producers look for when creating their next blockbuster hit movie—inviting, knee trembling and sexy as hell. My clit pulsated, causing the slickness in the crotch of my panties to grow.

After I paid for my items, I tucked my wallet back in my handbag and caught a glimpse of the silver case of my vibrator. I looked at Joel standing there, still smiling sweetly. I knew he couldn’t have possibly known about my little secret tucked inside, but I grinned back at him just the same.

“Do you need some help with these?” he asked, holding onto my cart. My heartbeat drummed in my ears. I was speechless.

“Uh…uh…yeah…that would be great!” I finally blurted out.

“Okay then. I’ll follow you,” he said, the virtue shining over his head like a halo. Little did he know that I would have so easily led him astray, if I thought I could.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” the eager beaver inside of me responded. Joel smiled again. My pussy clenched.

I unlocked my car and stood there with the keys in my hand. I’m sure my mouth was gaping open and my pupils were dilated. Sweat formed on my brow as my clit continued to nudge me with pulsating urgency. Joel effortlessly placed each bag into my car. He was just doing his job, but he had no idea the effect he had on me.

“Well, have a great day,” Joel said, while he offered yet another heart-stopping smile before spinning away with the empty cart.

I felt a little abandoned and disappointed. I was hoping for some serious face-to-face flirt time with him. I was horny, too. I gently patted the side of my handbag, before driving my car about one block away to a quiet and semi-empty residential street. I parked my car under a large tree, seeking a little privacy. I dug inside my handbag for my silver bullet of salvation—my vibrator. I scooted the seat back, slid my hips down to the seat’s edge before lifting my skirt and pulling my panties down. I spread my legs and turned the power switch on. I placed the vibrator up and under my skirt, pressing the vibrating tip against my swollen, wet clit. The pulsations drove into me hard. My head fell back against the seat. I closed my eyes and let visions of Joel’s tight ass, muscular arms, rapturous voice and the thought of sullying his innocence with my lustful need take over. Before the vanilla swirl ice cream in the bag behind me had any inclination of softening, my orgasm spilled over me with great urgency.

Minutes later, after basking in the afterglow of the Joel-induced orgasm, I tucked my secret weapon back inside my handbag. And before long, I was headed home with a backseat full of groceries and a sweet smile across my face.

THE RUB

Jon Fulton

Turn over,” Tara instructed Ian. She didn’t growl; it was a request as much as it was a command, a test, a dare, and when he obeyed, she couldn’t help the smile that curved her reddened lips, a smile that was just for her, since his eyes were closed. He nuzzled deeper into the bed, his heft settling into the soft sheets, meaty hands folded beneath the pillow. He was beautiful. She’d known that—of course she had—but it was like looking at him for the first time as she climbed on top of him, familiar parts of her body—her pussy, her inner thighs—pressing against unfamiliar parts of him—his lower back, his hips.

She had always found the back the most sensual part of the body, and on him, that sensuality was expanded into infinity. It wasn’t just because he was so much bigger than the guys she usually dated—and she liked big guys. It was that his back spread before her like a canvas, in a way he’d never been for her before; it was an invitation into another world, one where she was in control. He needed her to touch him in just the right way, the perfect blend of hard and soft, like the mix of pleasure and pain she got from him. She’d always been the one splayed wide, open, there for the taking, and she’d loved every second of it, loved it so much she hadn’t thought much about what it might be like to be on the other side of that equation.

Before she could stop herself, she lay her head down against his left shoulder, turning so her right cheek met his warm, slightly hairy skin. Her hard nipples sank into his flesh and she again turned to kiss him lightly, forcing herself to rise lest she lay there all night. Tara ran her hands through Ian’s soft honey-blond hair, smiling as her fingers sank through its fineness. Such delicate wisps for such a strong, serious man, one who liked to hold her down, to make her beg, to hear her promise him every part of herself. You wouldn’t know his hair was so silky soft when he curled his belt around his fist and lashed it against those same breasts she’d just pressed into him, or against her ass or inner thighs, or wrapped it around her neck. His hair was the last thing she was thinking about when his teeth were sinking into her skin, bite marks blooming, or when he took her over his knee, a place she never got tired of being.

Then she got to work, tucking those memories away into the corners of her mind where they nestled, burrowed down, just below the surface, to a place she could access at will, yet one that allowed her to go about her day and not be in a permanent state of arousal. She leaned not her breasts, but her elbows, into his back, working them gently at first, then more firmly. She knew it hurt, and a thrill rushed through her at the realization that she liked hurting him like this, on the path to pleasure. That did make her growl, and she shifted to rub her wetness against his skin before digging her palms deep into his shoulder blades, leaning down with all her might. He let out a noise that was far from English, a sound of surrender and desire, allowing her deeper inside. She curled her fingers, scraping her short nails hard enough to leave light red marks.

This time when she reached for his soft hair, she grabbed it more tightly than she ever had, tugging gently as she worked her teeth into his neck. She knew the rules—no marks—but a little biting never really hurt anyone, did it? She could tell how much he liked the feel of her teeth clamping down on his flesh, without having to feel his cock. His reaction lived in the purrs coming out of his mouth, the press of his face against the pillow, the shudder he couldn’t deny.

Tara was suddenly overcome with the desire to touch him everywhere, to touch herself. Should she turn him over, let him see her face, let him reach for her? She longed to run her hands through the hair on his chest, to pass over his nipples, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from heading lower, from taking his cock in her hand, her mouth.

She wanted to savor this moment, where she held Ian in the palm of her hand. She lay down on top of him, sucking on his earlobe as she stroked herself. “Do you feel how wet I am?” she asked, knowing the answer, and knowing he knew she knew. “Should I let you touch me, or should I just touch myself and let you feel me?” He didn’t answer, since it wasn’t really a yes or no question, or much of a question at all, kind of like the ones he asked her when her wrists were tied behind her back, panties gagging her mouth, questions like “Should I spank you with my hand or a paddle?” They weren’t the kinds of sentences that needed answers, because any answer would do the job.

Since she only had his silence to go by, Tara said, “I’ll just touch myself then, and maybe you can lick my pussy later.” She turned around, so she was facing his ass, her legs wrapped around his sides. She reached for the vibrator she’d placed on the bedside table, the one she’d been planning to use to press against the base of his cock, to hold it there as she licked the tip. She’d told him about this plan, and remembered his groan of encouragement as she’d packed it. “I guess I’ll have to use this on myself instead,” she said, turning it on to its highest setting. “But don’t worry, I’m still going to take care of you.”

She put the toy down against him then positioned herself so it buzzed right against her clit. Then Tara resumed her massage, this time focusing on Ian’s lower back, pressing her thumbs upward as she rocked forward and back. She soon reached his ass, as glorious in its own way as his back. She took each cheek in one hand and massaged, then held them apart. His grunts were quieter, but still audible. Tara edged her thumbs closer to the center, her pussy tingling from the toy and the rush of exposing him like this.

Soon Ian was rocking back against her, matching her motions, their bodies a circuit board of excitement. She lifted her left hand, swept her tongue up her index finger and pressed it lightly against his hole. He shuddered again, so she pressed harder, her right hand holding the vibrator hard against her clit. “That’s it, that’s it,” she whispered, to him, and herself. She made her own unintelligible orgasmic noise before moving aside to turn him over and finally taste what she’d been craving. She held his cock tightly as she drank his come.

THE PARK

Elise Hepner

Favorite time. Closed for the night.”

Libby ambled down the gravel path, watching the lights of the amusement park flare out. Her nipples went hard against the lick of the harsh, cooling wind. End of summer. End of sticky fingers, muggy heat and shrill screams—not the lusty kind. But not quite empty—there were still bystanders winding somewhere throughout the park.

“Perfect.” She threw off her apron with GAMES emblazoned on it and tucked her strawberry-blonde hair in a tight, purple scrunchie.

The shiver took her breath. Not time yet. No palming her silky wetness through her panties until darkness.

One. Two. Three.

“Gotcha.”

Plunged into heady blackness.

Boss was here among the rides. Her step fumbled and righted toward the Tilt-A-Whirl. A jerk of the heavy lever. A hop over the fence. Silver wire pressed tight against her clit. Her stomach bottomed out racing up the steps into the violently spinning car.

Back against the squishy plastic. Square iron bar snug over her lap, wrapping her long legs along either side, until her thighs were spread wide to the world.

A hand down her pants. Fresh air kissing her cheek. Beneath her khakis, finger pulsing against her clit. A whip of pleasure with each thrust in the twirling car. Flying. Hips tilted, thrusting, a swirl of the car.

Her low moan calling him out.

A squeeze of her pebbled, pierced nipples. On display. Spine bowed with ecstasy.

“What the fu—” he cried out.

“Oh, Christ!”

Orgasm.

COMING TOGETHER: THE ELUSIVE SIMULTANEOUS ORGASM

Jade Melisande

As she usually did, Amy woke well before the others. She lay still for a moment in the gray morning light, letting the sense of their presences fill her, the sound of their rhythmic breathing soothe her. She wondered if, as women’s cycles often do when they live together, breathing patterns also synched up when one slept with others. Martin, lying farthest from her, snuffled a little in his sleep. Nora, to Amy’s immediate right but cuddled against Martin’s back, sighed and stretched one bare leg, lacing it between Amy’s. On Amy’s left, Roger breathed evenly and deeply, his arm slung loosely over Amy’s waist.

Amy marveled for a moment that they were all there, together, and all managed to sleep comfortably in one bed. A year ago she would not have thought such a thing was possible, even in a king-sized bed.

She chuckled inwardly at that thought. Ever the practical one of their little group, of course she would ponder such mundane details as the logistics of their sleeping arrangements rather than the logistics of their emotions. And yet, aside from a few bumps here and there, natural to any relationship, it really seemed that the logistics of their emotions were not something she needed to worry about.

Neither was their sex life.

Amy felt a familiar ache between her legs at the thought of the spectacular sex she shared with her partners, and she stirred restlessly. She considered waking her bedmates to assuage that ache, but took pity on them. Yes, they would certainly respond favorably, but it seemed a bit unfair to wake them at dawn to satisfy her lustful urges. Instead she carefully disentangled herself from their arms and legs, climbed out of bed and made her way downstairs to make a pot of coffee, pour herself a cup, and retrieve her book.

Having procured them, Amy returned upstairs, but not to the bedroom, instead heading into a small sitting room connected to it, and settled herself into the large papasan chair that resided in the corner of the room. She was soon engrossed in her book.

An hour later she was pulled from complete immersion in the novel by a sound—a sigh, a creak of the bedsprings, a low rumble of laughter. Her earlier lustful thoughts returned with a vengeance.

By leaning over the side of the chair and tipping her head back, Amy could peek around the doorframe and into the bedroom. What she saw there made her catch her breath. Nora lay stretched out languorously between Roger and Martin. Her naked body with its deep-bronzed tan was a striking contrast to their paler skin. Martin held both of her wrists above her head in one of his hands; the other cupped, kneaded and squeezed her breasts. Roger lay between Nora’s legs, his face nestled in the V between her thighs, his hands under her hips as though serving himself from a bowl. The bowl of her sex, from which he was eagerly feeding.

As Amy watched, Nora thrust her hips upward against Roger’s mouth. Nora’s eyes were closed and her mouth parted, the sounds of her panting filling the room.

All thoughts of reading fled, and Amy lay back and closed her eyes. She knew she could easily join them in bed, but she settled back into the chair instead. The sounds of her lovers making love aroused her almost as much as being part of it; they were not something she got to enjoy from a distance very often. She slid her hand down the length of her silky nightgown. In her mind’s eye she saw her lovers again, saw Nora’s head tipped back in pleasure and Martin’s hands on her full, round breasts. She could almost taste Nora’s musky morning flavor, could feel Nora’s legs around her head, squeezing as she always did when she got excited. As Amy’s fingers began to dance over her clit, she heard Nora moan again, and a moan of her own slipped from her.

She knew both of the men’s touches. She could feel Martin’s hands on her own, smaller breasts, could feel the way he always grabbed, pinched and pulled her nipples just the way she liked. She could feel Roger’s mouth between her legs, the way he sucked in her clit, extending it, pulling on it until the sensation was almost unbearable, before releasing her to lap at her cunt, filling his mouth and nose with the scent and taste of her arousal.

Amy brought her fingers to her lips and tasted herself. Dropping her hand down between her legs again, she began to stroke her clit harder, in circular motions, the way Roger’s tongue was surely circling Nora’s clit, because she knew that was the way Nora liked it. She heard Roger lapping at Nora’s juices, heard the suckling, slurping sound he made, heard Nora moan and then whimper, and knew that Martin had increased his pressure on her breasts just the right amount to put her over the edge.

They knew each other so well now.

She felt her own orgasm building as she heard the funny little whining pants that Nora always made as she approached orgasm. Her belly tightened and her breath matched Nora’s. She stroked her clit faster and felt the curious feeling of her hips widening and spreading, splaying herself open, and open, and open, her body’s private language communicating its need to be filled, to be fucked, and she was going to come, she was going to come…

In the other room Nora gave a high, keening cry. At the same moment Amy felt her climax explode inside her as well, and she too cried out, an inarticulate babble of nonsense words and sounds as the orgasm rolled over and over and over her.

When she came back to earth and opened her eyes, she realized she had turned herself completely around and lay with her head over the side of the chair, facing into the bedroom. Three smiling faces stared at her from the bed.

“Good morning,” she said. “I think we just managed a simultaneous orgasm.”

MEETING MYSELF

Anya Levin

I place the mirror carefully, prop it on a pillow, adjust the angle, squint a little—old eyes—to make sure that I can see what I want to see.

I think I’ve got it.

Now to get to it.

My blood’s suddenly run cold, that burning curiosity that had propelled me this far having died an unnoticed death.

But I’m determined.

Taking a deep breath, I unbutton my pants, the pull and give of the motion taking forever, seemingly brand new and fully attention grabbing. I pull them down slowly, taking care not to catch my underwear. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that step yet.

“You’re beautiful,” he used to say. He’d stare at me down there, eyes locked on that secret part of me that I’d never seen.

Despite his assurances, I’d never considered that part of me particularly interesting, or impressive, let alone beautiful. We’d had an active sex life; it had been beaten and stretched more than it probably should have been—two children, and my younger son wasn’t a lightweight when he passed that way.

He’d loved to touch me, to caress me, to give me pleasure and watch how I moved as orgasm swept through me.

I’d loved him but life moved on, and now I was alone and I found myself curious…

I lifted my shirt, pulled it off. Reached around to detach my white cotton bra. The garment fell heavily in my hand, the underwire weighting it down. I let it tumble to the carpeting beside the rest of my discarded clothes. The big one, my underwear, was a little more of a hurdle to overcome.

It felt wrong, or at least very odd, to strip down to nothing for sex. By myself.

It felt like a betrayal, though it really wasn’t.

The air was cold, pulling goose bumps to the surface of my skin. I climbed into the bed, with a small grunt of effort as I slid across to where I’d left the mirror propped on its pillow. Of course, just getting on the bed had knocked it flat. I grabbed it and started to replace it, and was startled by the flashes of skin that I saw as it moved.

My skin.

It didn’t really look like my skin. It was pink and peach and freckled but the mirror blurred it, took out the blemishes that I was all too aware of when I looked at myself.

I could barely look at my skin in the mirror. Was it going to be impossible for me to look at those parts of myself?

Now it came down to how brave I was.

I found myself settling my hips into the bed, settling the mirror into place almost without realizing what I was doing.

I saw a flash of darkness—pubic hair. Through it peeked the rosy flush of flesh, mostly obscured. I reached a finger, stirred the hair aside to reveal the hidden inner planes, felt the dampness there.

Dampness.

When had I last been wet? Hot? When had I last come?

Before Andrew had passed, but even some time before that.

My fingers felt odd, foreign almost. I had to tilt my hand at an angle in order to see past them. I slid my fingertips deeper, felt heat, and parted my fingers in order to see more clearly.

The colors were odd, dark pinky-blue purple. And browns. I hadn’t expected browns.

My heart thudded in my chest. I felt like I was doing something dirty. Maybe I was.

I could just see glimpses of my clitoris. The skin was tight around it; my body had tucked it away and out of sight. Just brushing my finger over it made me jump.

My fingers weren’t like Andrew’s. I slid them over my flesh again, let them linger. Pleasure shivered through me.

The mirror showed the moisture inside me, when I angled it properly.

I wondered—did it look old, like my face? What had it looked like when I was younger? Did it have fewer wrinkles, all those years ago? Less folds, firmer lips? Was I looking at an old-age vagina?

I brushed my fingers against the hooded button of flesh and started. It still felt good; that was unexpected, and delightful.

I hadn’t expected to want.

I’d wanted my desire to die with Andrew, and I’d thought it had, but those words had haunted me. “I want you to see yourself…”

So I was, and I was finding more than just another way to see myself.

I slid a finger in, then pulled it out, and watched it all in the reflective surface I held so carefully. It still seemed foreign, like I was watching a movie. But I could smell sex in the air, feel the blood pulsing in my body. I knew it was myself I was watching.

My finger moved and was joined with another. When I pulled them out they were slick. Inside was hot, nearly burning. I shifted my attention, dropped the mirror showing the hills and valleys of my sensitive flesh, focused on the pleasure that one finger inside gave me. I thrust, closing my eyes and picturing Andrew in my mind. My thumb brushed my clitoris, settled on it, pressed like Andrew had occasionally.

I rocked into the motion. In my head, behind my closed eyelids, the world changed. I was younger, the air was younger, and beside me, inside me, was Andrew.

“Do you see yourself?” I heard him ask in that gravelly drawl. “Do you see yourself as I see you?”

I saw myself, hips rocking on the bed, head tossed back. My nipples were drawn into tight peaks.

The orgasm that moved through me wasn’t one of those that shot through you like a rocket, pulling your muscles tight across your entire skeleton, so tight that sometimes afterward you wondered if you’d pulled something.

No, it was a slow wave of sheer, unbridled pleasure. Starting at that heated place and moving out, from my hips to my feet and up my torso to my breasts and shoulders and then my face. I groaned, let the feeling move through me, let it shiver and shake me.

When it finally faded, my cheeks were wet with tears and my breath heaved in my chest. I sobbed, but the emotion that filled me was a good emotion. It lifted and supported me.

I curled on myself, let the feelings work their way through me, acknowledged that I missed what we had been and realized that I had become something— someone—new in the catalyst of my own pleasure.

The mirror’s edge pressed against my buttock, reminding me of the goal I’d had at first. In my mind I saw the colors and contours of my sex, for myself, through my own eyes. And for the first time, I wondered where I was going to go next…and knew there was going to be a next.

I AM NOT CRUEL

J. Sinclaire

I am not cruel.

No. My intention is not to cause discomfort, unease or torment.

Well…perhaps a bit of the latter but only the sweet torment of anticipation, of what is to come, of what has been and what has subsided for the time being. Only to be renewed, reawoken in a flurry of sensation that elicits gasps and shudders and moans of encouragement. The long pause between strokes, the lingering of my lips around your adamantine, silken cock.

Oh, your cock. It is a velvet-wrapped, turgid mast of arousal, a beacon for my hands and mouth, an incitement to action, to pleasure, to torment.

I am content to oblige but more so, I am content to fulfill and exceed these expectations.

I am the image of subservience, on my knees before you, at your beck and call. My mouth engulfing you, lips encircling your shaft, it seems you determine the next steps.

And yet, my movements still and you are the voice of frustration. My tongue traces the curve of your head at a snail’s pace, and your cock twitches inside me. Your hips arch, an attempt to restart the motion, but I do not comply. My hand rests against your abdomen, firm and resolute. Almost imperceptibly, I glide you farther inside me until you reach the back of my throat.

I take a moment to consider the possibilities.

Make broad, sweeping motions with my tongue across your head, swirling with constant pressure? Pepper your cock with kisses, lips pursing and butterfly soft against your rigidity? Trace the juncture of your shaft and head with the tip of my tongue lightly, occasionally lifting upward to your slit, already dripping with precome? Keep you firmly pressed against the back of my throat, muscles clenching around you as I moan from the ministrations of my free hand on my clit? Grip you firmly, hand at the base of your shaft, sucking you between my lips and dragging my tongue past your head as you slip inside me? Dance my pussy-juice-soaked fingertips across your dick, palm curved around your head as you fuck my hands?

Oh, these are only a few of many options at my disposal. I decide to peruse the list at my leisure, adding in new sensations as I see fit. Building you up repeatedly to the edge, to where it seems the next step is inevitable, before coaxing you back down to a more muted level of pleasure.

Until.

Until I am sated. Until I have filled myself with your flesh and fluids and moans. Until I can bear no more without your hot release spilling into, onto or over me.

You see, I am not cruel.

Just thorough.

COOLING AGENTS

Marina Saint

I knew the moment I said the words, “I just can’t take this heat anymore,” that my husband, Clyde, was going to be pissed. We were in the middle of a heat wave, stuck without air-conditioning until we could afford to get ours fixed. Money was tight, and it was nobody’s fault. I wasn’t mad at him about that—I’ve never been the type of woman who expects to be supported—I was just hot and sticky, wanting some relief. Well, be careful what you wish for!

“Oh, really, Lara? You think I’m handling it well? It’s summer, it’s a heat wave. Complaining isn’t going to make it any better. But I know what will. Go upstairs and get out the cuffs,” he said in a huff. “Now.” The last word let me know he was dead serious. In the bedroom, he likes to tell me what to do—and, lucky for me, the act of being ordered around sets me off like nothing else.

I know for some people kink is all about being a brat, defying their master and getting “punished,” but even though I can be annoying, I love being praised and following commands. Knowing that whatever action Clyde tells me to do is one he’s picked out just for me, makes me willing to do pretty much anything for him. He’s tested me on more than one occasion, ordering me to enter a banana-cream-pie-eating contest so he could see me smeared in sticky white cream—like sploshing in public—to going panty- and bra-less through the TSA security check.

So I knew whatever he was going to do was ultimately going to get me off, whether by dint of simply following his lead, or because he was going to get me so worked up I’d have no choice but to come. I was sure he had my best interests at heart, even if he did want to teach me a lesson about making do with what we have. I set out the wrist and ankle cuffs, then took off all my clothes and neatly folded them, placing them on the chair in the corner. My man is a stickler for neatness, and tossing my panties on the floor or even leaving a hair tie out of place is enough to get me taken across his knee—not that I really mind.

I sank into the luxurious softness of our bed, our most prized possession, grateful he hadn’t taken out our blindfold. We scrimped and saved so much to be able to afford this adjustable bed that I often don’t want to leave. As I lay on my back against our extremely soft sheets, I smiled to myself. Clyde hadn’t tied me up in a while—we tend to save bondage for special occasions—and I could practically feel the restraints working their magic. “Very good, Lara,” he said as he entered the room. Simply hearing his voice made me wet. “Hands above your head.” I heard something rattle, but was too distracted by the sensation of the fur-lined cuffs clamping around my wrists to ponder it further. Soon I was tethered to the headboard, my legs spread and cuffed to the bottom of the bed. “Now you’re right where I want you. I’m going to cool you off but good,” I heard as he stripped off his clothes.

I didn’t dare ask, “With your cock?” I shivered with anticipation, wishing for a moment I could run my fingers over my hardened nipples. I yelped as I felt an extremely cold droplet of water drip onto my neck, followed by more along my chest, before he started rubbing a slippery ice cube against one of my nipples. “Cold enough for you, princess?” he asked. I whimpered as he ran the cube over my erect nub, while pinching my other nipple with chilled fingers.

“Yes, it’s amazing,” I said, straining upward for more contact.

“Open that sweet mouth,” he ordered, and as soon as I did, an ice cube was placed on my tongue. I had to suck on it to make sure it didn’t slip down my throat. The heat of my mouth not only helped melt the ice, causing a trickle of welcome water down my throat, but ensured it didn’t give me freezer burn. Soon it felt like the ice was everywhere, slipping and sliding along my formerly hot skin. Yet when Clyde took his cock and rubbed it against the slick, cool wetness between my legs, I was aware that not everything about our encounter was cold. His hardness was hot, in both senses of the word, and the contrast made me contort as much as I could. I bit into the ice, the crunch loud as he entered me.

At first, he didn’t press his body down against me. No, he gave me just his cock—his amazingly hard, perfect cock, pushing it in and out, not so much fucking me as teasing me with its length, with its promise. He knew I wanted it the way I always want it—hard and deep. I couldn’t do much more than squeeze him with each pass; I knew well enough that begging would simply draw out my frustration. Clyde loves to tease me, but he had already done enough of that.

“Cold enough for you now, Lara?” he asked.

“Yes,” I hissed, and he granted me a particularly hard thrust, but just when I started to thrust back, he pulled out.

“Well, it’s not cold enough for me, yet,” he said, and soon he was tracing my sleek lower lips with the ice, making me squirm even more. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to get away from his fingers holding what felt like two cubes, or wanted to beckon him to make me truly drip. I also knew it didn’t matter; he would do whatever he wanted to do. Apparently, what my man wanted to do was press the ice cubes inside my pussy. I whimpered, then clenched around his invading fingers as the ice tickled me with its chill. “After you make those melt, you can have my cock in your pussy. Unless I come first,” he added, just when I started to obey him.

He straddled me so his dick was right above my breasts, and began beating his cock. Being able to see him but not touch him made me convulse. “Where do you want my come, Lara? In that pretty mouth of yours, or on your tits…or in your pussy?” he asked unfairly, since I wanted it everywhere. He pinched one nipple and beat his dick and soon there was no choice, only him spurting all over me.

Clyde made up for it, though, by shoving four cubes into my pussy, and holding them there with his fingers while he sucked my clit until I screamed and almost pushed him off the bed with the force of my orgasm. He kept going until the cubes were all melted, then wrapped me in his arms. “No more complaints about the weather, right?” I simply smiled. If this was my reward for complaining, that wasn’t a promise I could make.

SEEING IS BELIEVING

Heidi Champa

I’m telling you, it’s him.”

“And I’m telling you that there is no way it’s him.”

“Fine, I’ll just send you the link to the video and you can decide for yourself.”

“Great. Then you can pay me the fifty bucks you owe me and we’ll have a good laugh about what an idiot you are, Tom.”

“Afraid not, my friend. If that isn’t your roommate in that video, then I’ll give you fifty bucks and I’ll literally kiss your ass. But I’m right.”

Just then, a new email was delivered to my inbox. From Tom.

“Happy viewing, Joe. Tell me what you think of Jake’s performance when you’re done watching. Personally, I think he’s a natural. It’s really hot.”

“You watched the whole thing?”

“Of course. And I’ll bet you an extra fifty bucks you do, too.”

My phone beeped as the line cut off. I moved my cursor to the email icon, but I hesitated to double click. I knew in my head that Tom had to be wrong. It had to be someone who looked like Jake, but I had to concede there was a possibility that my roommate would actually be in the video. I sat at my computer, having a debate with myself. On the one hand, I was dying to prove Tom wrong. On the other, if it was true, things might become very awkward between Jake and me. In the end, curiosity won out and I clicked open the email. The video link was right there, highlighted in green.

Before I could think better of it, I clicked on the link and up popped a new window with the video. At first, when the video started, there was no picture, just muffled sounds. Suddenly, the picture clicked to life, and there he was. Jake. Sitting on the end of a bed with his hard cock in his hand and an adorable smile on his face. Damn. Tom was right. I didn’t have time to worry about that as a voice from off camera piped up.

“Hey, man. You ready to suck my cock?”

Jake nodded, licking his lips as the camera zoomed in on his gorgeous face.

“Hell, yeah. Get over here.”

The unsteady camera work finally adjusted just in time for a thick cock to come into view, right in front of Jake’s mouth. He winked at the camera before closing his eyes and wrapping his lips around the head, slowly taking the whole thing into his mouth. Fuck, he looked good. My own cock stirred in my shorts as I watched Jake go to town on the cameraman’s dick, his muffled moans reminding me of the time I’d heard him jerking off in the bathroom last month.

Jake pulled back and the camera guy took the opportunity to rub and slap his cock against Jake’s face. He looked like he was loving it. I knew I was. Tom had been right about that, too. Pulling my shorts down my legs, I took myself in hand, stroking in time to Jake’s bobbing head. The cameraman wrapped his free hand around Jake’s neck and started fucking his mouth faster, but my roommate didn’t seem to mind at all. I leaned back in my desk chair, trying to get more comfortable. Just then, the camera guy spoke again.

“Look at me.”

Jake did as he was told, peering up into the lens with those big, brown eyes of his, tears brimming at the corners.

“That’s it. God, you look so hot sucking my dick.”

He really did. The other guy wasn’t wrong about that. The cameraman moved his hand up into Jake’s hair, grabbing a healthy handful and pushing himself even deeper into his throat. I could hear Jake slurping and gagging, which sent a jolt through my whole body. Jake’s eyes fluttered closed again, his face flushing from his exertion. The guy off camera was groaning like crazy, the picture once again shaky as he was clearly having trouble keeping still. My own cock was aching by this point, the whole situation overwhelming my senses. I started to jerk myself harder, my toes curling into the soft pile of my carpet to keep my chair from rolling away from the desk. The voice behind the camera sounded just as unsteady as the shot was.

“Fuck, man. I’m gonna come.”

Just like in a regular porn movie, he pulled out of Jake’s mouth suddenly. He gasped for air as the hand that was twined in brown locks now jerked the disembodied cock on the screen. I watched with my mouth open as the cameraman came on Jake, coating his cheeks and lips with spunk. The cameraman then proceeded to run the head of his cock through it, until he’d smeared himself all over the rest of Jake’s face. When he opened his eyes and smiled, my balls tightened.

“Fuck, you taste so good.”

By this point, Jake wasn’t talking to the camera guy, he was talking to me. When my fist reached the head of my cock, I started to come, my whole body wracked with pleasure my roommate had caused. The power of my orgasm shocked me, the ecstasy far beyond anything I’d experienced in a long time. When my eyes could focus again, I noticed the video had ended.

I’d just finished cleaning myself up when I heard the front door open and slam shut. Jake walked by my room just as I managed to close the browser window that contained his video. When he came back, he stopped at my door and looked at me.

“You okay, man? You look a little flushed.”

“I’m fine.”

I tried to keep my gaze focused on his eyes, but when I looked at him, I could still see the last scene of the video and Jake’s face covered in come. I shook my head, trying to clear my mind, but it wasn’t working.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason.”

“Whatever, dude.”

After he walked away, I called Tom. When he picked up, I didn’t even get a word out before he spoke.

“I’ll take my hundred dollars in twenties, by the way, Joe.”

THE VELOCITY OF ROACHES

Michael A. Gonzales

It had been years since forty-year-old comic-book artist DeCarlo attended a convention. Unlike his fame whore contemporaries relishing the roar of prepubescent enthusiasts, DeCarlo’s idea of a good day had nothing to do with a roomful of rabid fanboys. Dwelling upstate in a renovated barn, he usually spent Saturday afternoons lounging in his studio, smoking weed and painting.

Yet with the release of his latest graphic novel Roach, an angst-ridden book DeCarlo wrote and drew about a young woman from the Lower East Side who becomes a superhero, the marketing folks at Upstart Publishing insisted he attend a few geek gatherings. Wearing black jeans and a button-down shirt, DeCarlo stood inside the ballroom doorway where the chatter sounded like a million cicadas mating.

Shepherded by Upstart’s overzealous promo man Brad Brod, he strolled to the artist’s area and sat behind a table where copies of Roach were stacked. “There are more women at this convention than when I was a kid,” DeCarlo noticed. “Used to be only miserable mothers and girlfriends, but some of these women actually look happy.”

“Yes, the comic book chickies are out in full force,” Brod replied, leering at a group of Asian women dressed as their favorite manga characters. Brod excitingly stared at the costumed cuties, not caring if they were heroes or villains.

“I’ve seen animals more civilized than you,” DeCarlo mumbled.

“Yeah, but do they get as much pussy as me?” Brad laughed. “Maybe if you got a lil’ trim, you might be less depressing.”

Since the sudden death of his girlfriend the year before, DeCarlo hadn’t had much contact with women. “Lil’ Trim?” DeCarlo asked. “Who is that, a new rapper?”

“The New York Times might’ve compared you to Kafka, but you’re really more like Charlie Brown. Still existentialist, but good grief. It’s time to forget about the celibacy and come a little.”

Back when DeCarlo was a boy, he too went to conventions to buy back issues and show off his promising portfolio samples to the pros. That was in the late 1970s, when most of the artists were bored guys who believed illustrating comics was just another job, comparable to fixing refrigerators.

In most cases, the older artists didn’t care about their work being returned or the companies buying all rights to their billion-dollar supermen for a few coins. Nevertheless, the new school of comic-book authors thought of themselves as serious, savvy, smart and special. Following in the stylistic path of illustrator and art teacher Barron Storey, they combined hallucinatory fine art techniques with their sequential skills and became rock stars with India ink instead of guitars.

Roach told the tale of a young biracial sexy nerd named Margo Roach. An electronic musician creating “incest symphonies” with old Yamaha synthesizers, a Buchla and a Moog, she lived in the damp basement at 222 Bowery. One night, while working on music dressed in Elvis Costello glasses, a black T-shirt, black skirt and black Doc Martens, she didn’t notice a plump cockroach crawling across the filthy floor. Contaminated by radioactive bug-powder dust, the insect crept up a thick wire and bit the oblivious Margo on the hand.

Minutes later, the bug died and Margo transformed into a superhero. Possessing powers beyond the average mortal, she had a stylish brown cowl with long antennae and a matching formfitting costume. Utilizing her last name, she adopted the moniker “the Roach.” Fighting crime in Alphabet City, she kicked crack dealers to the curb, scared housing-project predators and punished slimy slumlords. “It’ll take more than that to squash the Roach,” was her catchphrase when capturing downtown desperados.

When not being a superhero, Margo lived a bohemian lifestyle, tending bar at an Avenue B punk club, making music in the basement, talking to her arty friends, digesting good drugs and dealing with bad boyfriends. What began as DeCarlo’s serious satire of female superheroes, with their massive breasts and sexist costumes, became a sensation praised by leading feminists, hipster writers, four-color critics and the 1999 Rolling Stone Hot List.

“For those who see women as the cockroaches of society, Roach will cause a metamorphosis of the mind,” Time magazine proclaimed. Sitting at the convention table, DeCarlo signed books, drew sketches for fans and saw more than his share of young women clad in cockroach costumes. Big broads, wiry women and acne-faced adolescents stopped by to meet the creator of their inspiration.

“It’ll take more than that to squash the Roach,” they playfully chanted as they slid him books to sign. Standing up a few hours later, DeCarlo stretched.

“My medicine wore off,” he told Brod. “I’m going up to the room to smoke a joint.” One of the benefits of being a special guest of the convention was the fortieth-floor suite they gifted him. “Just be back in an hour,” Brod reminded him. “You’re doing a panel discussion with Howard Chaykin at six thirty.”

Surprised by the emptiness of the carpeted corridor, DeCarlo walked to the elevator banks. Stepping into the steel box, he was surrounded by the sound of strange electronic music streaming from the ceiling speaker. Listening closely, he was struck by the music’s similarities, at least in his imagination, to the Roach’s incest symphonies.

As the cascading doors slowly closed, a black Doc Marten boot slid between them and a costumed figure silently stepped inside. Even with the cockroach cowl covering half of her cinnamon-hued face, DeCarlo knew the shapely stranger was stunning. Standing a few feet away, a wicked grin crept across her full lips. The stranger’s intoxicating smell made him dizzy as both the elevator and his cock began to rise. Slowly gyrating to the weird music, the young woman looked to be six feet tall. Raising her shoulders as though they were wings, she moved closer, touching DeCarlo’s face lightly with her antennae.

“Please, don’t turn on the light,” the Roach muttered as they left the elevator, he opened the door, and she scurried into the suite. As though shedding her skin, she slowly slid out of her costume in the foyer. Taking DeCarlo’s hand, she guided him through the darkness and into the bedroom.

Leaving on the cowl, she walked softly across the floor, her footsteps confident as a ballerina. For the next hour, the passion between the Roach and DeCarlo was smoldering. One moment there was pure tenderness as he licked her honeyed clit and the next minute she was slapping his ass harshly. Groaning loudly, he mounted her from the side as the heat of her hairy pussy made him sweat.

In over twenty years of fucking, he had never been able to make love to a woman for longer than seventeen minutes, but almost an hour later, it was as though their genitals were linked. Turning over, the masked mulatto jumped on top and rode his cock as DeCarlo pumped furiously.

Feeling a tingling at the base of his balls, a lustful sensation he hadn’t experienced in a long time, DeCarlo erupted into her sticky snatch as the costumed crusader screamed loudly. Exhausted, she tumbled off his still stiff dick and lay silent for a few minutes. “You squashed the Roach,” the heroine murmured. Laughing softly, she rolled over on her back.

AFTER THE FUNERAL

Jeanette Grey

I’m staring at the ceiling of his guest room when he knocks. Illuminated by the streetlight’s glow, he’s pale, almost ethereal. I’d say he’s like a ghost, but I know better what those feel like, now.

“You awake?”

“Yeah.”

I scoot over toward the wall and lift the covers. He hesitates for just a second, as if it’s not what he came here for in the first place. We both know better. Finally, he pads across the room and slides in beside me, close but not quite touching.

He’s dressed in a T-shirt and boxers, both black. Because even in his pajamas, he’s mourning.

For what seems like the longest time, we both stare at the ceiling. Sensing motion in my periphery, I turn my head to look at him. He’s on his back, too, gazing at me. He lifts his arm in silent invitation.

It’s a dangerous proposition. We’ve been lovers before, but it’s been a long, long time. There’s still a little raw spot in my heart from when he ended it, and with everything else we’ve been through today, I’m afraid to tear it open. I’m more hurt, though, and more scared. More needing of comfort—both to give it and to take it.

I curl into him and give a little shudder at the warmth, sighing against him. Wrapping his arm around me, he pulls me in nice and close and strokes the spot above my hip where my tank is riding up. It feels good, relaxing and familiar.

I rest my head on his shoulder and my hand on his heart. “You want to talk about it?”

“Nah.”

He shifts beneath me and widens the arc of his palm on my side. When he tips my head up, fingertips beneath my chin, I know what I’m going to find.

Him. Staring at me. His mouth so close.

It’s a question; he’s clearly giving me a choice. But there’s something so achy and needy in him, something echoed so deeply inside of me that I know I’m going to give this to him. I’m going to give it to us both.

I palm the side of his neck and breathe out a low sigh of relief when my fingers tangle in the hair at the back of his neck. It’s as soft as I remember, as thick. Seconds later, his head dips, lips brushing mine. For the first few passes, it’s tentative.

And then it’s not.

His chest seems to crack open, his groan leaking out around the edges as he opens his mouth to mine, begging entry, and I give it to him willingly. The kiss is teeth and tongues and a shaky feeling that escalates so quickly. Before I know it, he’s on top of me, panting, sucking hard at the skin beneath my ear, and I’m grasping at him, pulling him close. I spread my legs and he slides himself between them, shoves his hard-on against my hips and I feel it everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, pawing, pushing fabric up and away. Together, we get my shirt off and his, and when we’re skin to skin, it’s electric. He nips his way up my throat as I arch my head back. “I just…I need to…”

I groan. “I know.”

“I need to feel alive.” He palms my breast, shaking, but then finds a reserve of strength as he buries his face against my hair, grinding hard. “I need to come.”

“I know.”

It should make this feel cheap, having it so plainly stated, but it’s the opposite. The numbness of the past few days all seeps away, the door I’ve barred so tightly against my grief suddenly holding itself closed, and I’m all movement and sensation and life. I’m alive.

We’re both still here.

“Come on.” He hooks his fingers in my shorts and pulls them down. My underwear is next and his, and then he’s sliding, naked and hard against the slick-hot space between my legs. With one hand grasping tightly to my hip, he growls and lifts and flips me over. I find my balance on all fours and drop my head as he nudges my inner thigh. “Wider.”

I shift as he asks, sucking in a deep breath as his fingers are replaced by his lips. It’s a strange position for him to go down on me, but no one’s ever eaten me the way he has, like my pussy is the only thing standing between him and starvation. Tipping his head, he slides tongue and lips along my skin and to my clit, nose against my opening and hot breath everywhere. I tense and feel. When my limbs all start to shake, he kisses back up to the spot between my cunt and my asshole, where he pauses, then rises.

Hot cock pressed against my backside, he rubs my hip with a gentleness I wouldn’t have expected. I look over my shoulder at his lack of words to find him chewing on them, thoughts everywhere on his face, eyes burning again. He slides his fingertips down my thigh.

“I want…I want to fuck you.”

The words seem to stick in his throat, but once out on the air, I appreciate their bluntness. He purposely didn’t say he wanted me. I don’t know if I want him either. But fucking…fucking would be okay.

“Yeah.” I tilt my head toward my suitcase. “Side pocket.”

He finds the condom I keep there just in case and rolls it on. Once covered, he slides the head of his cock up and down the length of my sex and it feels so good. I drop to my forearms and push my forehead to the mattress, arching my back for the moment when he takes me, fills me, fucks me.

When it comes, it’s long and slow, one gradual slide of his body into mine. And that connection is nothing—it’s everything.

He fucks like a man possessed, hard full strokes that rock the bed and my body, and as he gets close, he’s all filthy words and need, tensing, and then his hand on my shoulder. “Touch yourself.”

I don’t hesitate. Fingers on my clit, I bite my lip and push back into him. He holds my hips to steady me.

When he says, “I need this,” it’s with a choking sound.

It shoves me over. “Take it.” I repeat it over and over, “Take it, take it, take it.”

And I take everything I can. Comfort. Pleasure. Companionship and connection.

I don’t know if I’ve ever come so hard or felt such release.

He fucks me through it, but when he comes, it’s silent. I look back at him to see his head thrown back, shoulders tense as he pulls my ass flush against him, emptying. Pouring out grief and the feeling that some part of us has died as well.

It hasn’t.

As he drops to the side and pulls me close, breathing hard through the afterglow, I know.

It hasn’t.

And it won’t.

THERE

Sommer Marsden

These stolen fifteen minutes are flying by. I have a mouth full of his cock and his warm pout is latched onto my slick pussy. Breaking free, I gasp, “There!”

I swallow him down, feeling his hips thrust forward just enough to get more friction, not enough to be rude. These lunchtime throw-downs in his van are the stuff legends are made of—hot, dirty, sweet, salty. All the flavors of fucking are represented. I mean, how clichéd are we: van sex?

Chad moves his mouth a hair to the left and I moan, the vibration surely shuddering through his body. “There?” He’s teasing me, that ass.

“No, not there. Over. Stop torturing me.”

I feel his finger slip into me, flex in my wet depths, tickle at a tender bundle of nerve endings. My nipples peak, and I touch the tip of his cock with the tip of my tongue so he groans this time.

“There?” This time he moves his tongue just above my swollen clit. He’s so fucking close and yet not there.

“Hurry, we’re running out of time.”

His tongue drags slow and lazy over the sweetest spot where that little knot of flesh is most sensitive. My body sings, my cunt flexes, my heart pounds. I suck the tip of his cock hard enough to make him hiss. We’re locked in this grappling sixty-nine on an old blanket, and we have maybe seven minutes left.

This is better than a quick coffee or a fast-food burger. This is the kind of sustenance that gets me through the day.

“How about…there ?” Chad licks my inner thigh and shoves another finger inside of me. He moves the two in unison and my body grows warm from head to toe despite the frigid air in his cavernous van.

“No…but…”

“Hmm, no,” he says, ignoring me. His lips skim my thighs. Even as he kisses me so gently it’s a mind-fuck, he thrusts so that my mouth and throat are full of his shaft. The musky wood and spice scent of him fills my head.

I can’t speak, so he drags his soft lips over me enough to make me dance. I’m his puppet, his plaything, the girl he can drive mad with a lick and a smile.

“How about there, Shelby?” he whispers, and captures my clit with his lips. He’s serious now; we really are running out of time, so I get his eager wet attention. He’s fucking my mouth hard enough to make me damn near mindless but not hard enough to hurt me. I arch up to meet his mouth with my sex, one hand pinning his head hard as my orgasm rockets toward me. Pink and white lights swirl beneath my closed lids. My head is full of my own heartbeat. I trap him and he gives me what I need, finally.

“Yes, there,” I sigh, but no one can understand my utterance. Not even me.

I come just as he comes; we’re good that way. We synch up nicely when we can. We’ve had lots of practice with our pilfered moments of perversity. Chad’s cries are shouted against my skin, my pleasured sounds cut off by the stopper of his cock in my mouth. We roll together. My face and hair are sticky-streaked. I lick the tip of him once more just to watch the shiver that bolts through him from my mouth on that sensitive skin.

Our laughter is quiet and conspiratorial. It’s a rush to get dressed, a dash back to work, my body still pounding from release and stolen moments.

FORCED ORGASMS

Shoshanna Evers

He’d been turned on by images of women all tied up since his teenage years. As far as Ivan was concerned, his sexual predilection toward kink was as natural as his lesbian friend stated her orientation had been; his had been ingrained since puberty. No trauma made him this way. No Freudian issues to resolve.

It was just that if he was going to get hard, the girl had to be tied up. And if the pornography he was viewing ended with the girl tied up with a vibrator still buzzing away in her pussy, he’d practically come in his pants. Forced orgasms. His fetish. His kink.

Tonight, he was paying to make his dream a reality, a reality that would last for exactly one hour once his doorbell rang. The escort service called the woman “Genevieve,” although as far as Ivan could tell she seemed more like a Jenny trying to look worth her sticker price.

She seemed very friendly, and calm, although Ivan was looking forward to seeing the desperation on her face he knew the evening would bring. Was that sick? Probably. But she’d love it. At least the first fifteen minutes of it, anyway. His cock hardened, straining against his slacks.

“Jenny,” he said cordially, kissing her cheek. She didn’t correct him on the name. Maybe he’d been right about her, or maybe she was smart enough not to start off an evening with a client by correcting him. Maybe she’d let him call her whatever he wished.

“Take off your clothes, please,” he said.

Jenny gave him a saucy smile and pulled her expensive dress over her head, leaving a matching black-andred-lace brassiere and thong.

“Beautiful,” he said appreciatively. “But those need to go, too.”

“Wow, you get right down to business,” she said, laughingly complying. “I’m surprised.”

She sat down on the couch, but he shook his head.

“I have a special chair for you. Why are you surprised?” He nodded over to the corner, to the bondage chair he’d pulled out of the garage and shined with leather cleaner and stainless steel polish. The chair had cost more than she had.

“I was told you weren’t interested in sleeping with your escorts,” Jenny said, eyeing the leather straps attached to the chair, but getting up from the couch, stepping over to the chair, and sitting in it anyway.

“No, I’m not,” he replied. It was the truth, after all. “I just want to watch you be pleasured with my vibrator, over and over. Does that sound good to you?”

She laughed. “Sure! I never get to come during these—” Jenny stopped speaking suddenly, as if someone had pressed the mute switch on her. More likely, she’d remembered a rule the escort service had given her. Ivan imagined it went something like: Don’t complain about other clients. It makes the man you’re with now feel like he’s not the only one, and it makes him wonder if you’re complaining about him to the other men.

“Good. Spread your legs.”

Jenny complied, spreading her thighs wide so that her ankles touched the straps on the bottom of the chair. Ivan made quick work out of restraining her.

“Hands behind your back, gorgeous,” he said, and she obeyed, silent now. He used fuzzy red cuffs to handcuff her wrists. The cuffs looked cute and playful, but their bondage was real.

“I’m going to make you come until you pass out. Does that sound like a good idea?”

She laughed again, and Ivan recognized it for what it was—nerves. “Yes. I’m yours for the next…” she looked up at the large metal clock ticking above the fireplace, “forty-three minutes.”

Ivan stifled a groan of desire. Forty-three minutes. Forty-three minutes to watch her come, and come again, and squirm, and scream. Then beg…and beg. And come again.

The memory of this evening would fulfill all of his masturbatory fantasies for the rest of his life. Which was good, because after this he’d probably be cut off from this particular escort service.

Ivan plugged in the long white vibrator and pressed the thick round head against her pussy. Frowning, he dipped his fingers down and spread her nether lips until the vibrator nestled directly against her clit. His fingers came back shiny.

“This turns you on?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes,” she admitted shyly.

He flipped the switch to LOW and watched her face and her reaction as the vibrator buzzed to life.

“How’s that feel?”

“Amazing.” She tilted her head back, a look of ecstasy on her face.

Ivan settled on the couch opposite her and stroked his cock through his pants. He was so hard now it was almost painful. The restraints, the sight of her open mouth, lips contorted with pleasure…

“Oh god, I’m coming, I’m coming,” she gasped, and her body shuddered, spasming as the orgasm wracked her body.

“Good,” Ivan said. “You’re going to come again. I bet your little pussy feels very sensitive right now, doesn’t it? And you can’t close your legs. Can’t get away.”

He unzipped his pants, pulling his cock out, stroking his length as he watched her writhe under the Magic Wand. Her muscles clenched and unclenched, and she moaned, but she was grinding her hips against the vibrator, melting into her second orgasm.

“I don’t want to get away,” Jenny said. “More. Give me more.”

“You’ll have all the orgasms you can handle,” he promised. This woman was his fantasy come true. Would she still be saying the same thing in half an hour, when her tender clit had popped out of its hood and her pussy felt like it was on fire? When her womb ached from the constant orgasms, and her thighs were tired from trying to close and being unable to?

Ivan leaned back and stroked himself harder, almost reaching his peak when she came again, shouting at the top of her lungs.

He looked up at the clock. She was his for another twenty-eight minutes. He flipped the vibrator on HIGH, relishing her shocked expression, and pulled on his cock relentlessly, catching his come in a towel he kept handy for just that purpose. Breathless, he sat back and watched as the vibrator continued to buzz. He could come again if he watched her.

When she finally passed out from the overstimulation, his own orgasm hit him so hard he felt sick, as if someone had kicked him in the testicles.

He uncuffed her, unstrapped her and pulled her onto the carpet next to him where they both lay panting and sore. Tenderly, he wiped the perspiration from her forehead.

She turned to him, groggy-seeming, as if all the screaming had kept her from being fully oxygenated.

“I’d like to call on you again,” he said softly, “if I may.”

“I’d like that,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

BLUE JEAN BABY

Eleanor Proctor

I slide my left leg into the stiff, dark new pair of designer jeans, then the right, easing them up and up and up. This is my first time wearing them, but I know they’ll fit, because I own at least a dozen identical pairs—I’m not sure exactly how many. I haven’t counted lately. Whereas some women wear wrap dresses or miniskirts to feel sexy, for me, it’s jeans, with a twist—no panties. I almost always wear panties, either lacy or light, sheer silk, with a skirt or dress, but when I slip into a pair of jeans, it’s all about how they feel pressed right up against my pussy.

I slide the metal button into its hole, zip them up then admire myself in the mirror. I’m not a tomboy by any means, but I feel sexiest in jeans like this, and can either dress down in a soft, slouchy T-shirt or dress them up with a top. Today I choose a red silk blouse that falls to just below my elbows, and leave it unbuttoned. If I were wearing a bra, you’d be able to see it peeking out, but why bother with a bra when I’m not wearing any panties? I like to match, after all. My silver dragon necklace dangles between my breasts. I add my favorite black heels, the ones so perfectly worn they wrap around my feet like they were made for them, grab my clutch purse, and I’m off. I drive to my favorite mall, about thirty minutes away, blasting my favorite old-school heavy metal bands, Poison and Guns N’ Roses, as I go. I make sure to shift in my seat as much as possible, so the seam presses against me, right where it belongs, the arousal building slowly. I’m the kind of girl who always uses her vibrators on the lowest setting, preferring a gradual rising tension that eventually detonates through my limbs rather than a rocket’s fast blastoff before its blaze of glory, so the rubbing and rocking, the pressure and friction of a perfect pair of jeans suits me just fine.

Plus, with a dress, if I were to go commando, I’d always be afraid of it flying up and revealing just a little too much. I’m a more subtle kind of exhibitionist; I like to make anyone who might be watching work for his reward. If someone cottons to my ecstatic way of walking, it can be our naughty little secret; if everyone knows, it’s less of a thrill. I park the car, deliberately avoiding the rush near the entrance to give me a greater distance to walk. I can’t speed walk in my heels, but again, that’s the point. I want to savor every step, feel the jeans encasing me, clinging to me, letting my most private parts know they are in for a reward if they can just be patient enough.

As I walk, a man getting into his car almost stumbles. I give him a dazzling smile and keep walking. My jeans are tight enough that it’s clear there are no panty lines, but even if there were, they would have been eye-catching. My ass is plump and curvy, which means it can take a pretty good walloping, something else I enjoy building up to before my big release. I stroll inside, smiling as the air-conditioning cools me off, making my nipples stand at attention. My breasts are big enough that I usually wear a bra, and in fact I have a rather large collection of lacy yet sturdy ones. But there’s something about letting my breasts play peek-a-boo that makes me feel like I’m defying yet another social convention, not to mention letting them brush against the silky fabric of my top. Going braless lets me envision a man like the one who almost fell in the parking lot reaching his hand in and squeezing each nipple in turn, twisting and tugging just hard enough to make me gasp, to make my jeans that much wetter than they already are. They’re a calling card, of sorts, leading me forward as I head to the food court.

It’s still early, just after ten, so the breakfast crowd who arrive when the mall opens is mostly finished, and the lunch rush hasn’t begun. Those who remain have nowhere else to be; they’re here just as much to people-watch as eat, which means I add a little oomph to my walk to make sure my ass gets noticed by as many eyes as possible. I don’t overdo it, but between the tightness of the jeans and the red of my top and lipstick, it’s pretty easy to be the center of attention. I lean over the counter of the otherwise empty ice-cream booth, thrusting my ass out behind me. “A soft-serve swirl cone, please,” I request, fishing a five-dollar bill out of my jeans pocket. I have cash in my purse, but the effort of tugging the money out of my pocket makes the jeans rub up against my pussy.

“Keep the change,” I tell the man who hands me the cone, then close my eyes as I take my first bite, edging the pointed tip between my bright red lips. This is my breakfast, and I make sure to savor it. After another bite, I open my eyes and see the man from the parking lot staring right at me. He must have come back in and followed me, and that knowledge makes me lick my lips in a most provocative way. I walk over to him and without saying a word, sit next to him, slide my seat right next to him, and hold out the cone. It’s white and brown and red with the remains of my lipstick. He opens his mouth and lets me push the creamy dessert in. We share it silently. I shudder when he holds the cone and pushes just a bit more of it into my mouth than an average bite would be. When we’re done, my mouth is still hungry, ready to devour him.

He raises his eyebrows at me. I turn my chair toward him and spread my legs enough for him to see what I’m sure is a dark spot between my jeans. I want to climb onto his lap, but even I wouldn’t do that right here. He offers me his hand as he stands. I let him lead me out of the mall to the parking lot, and into the backseat of his car. Instead of unzipping my jeans or undoing my buttons, his fingers press firmly against the seam that’s now very warm and wet. He knows just where to put the most pressure, and though part of me longs for those fingers deep inside me, together with my fingers pinching my nipples, it’s enough to make me come hard. His thumb is heavy on my clit as his knuckles dig into my slit, working the denim like a sex toy. I am breathless when he pulls away.

We still don’t speak. Instead, we shift and I reach for his hardness, bulging beneath his own jeans, hot and hard against my eager hand.

LEARNING EXPERIENCE

Kathleen Tudor

Liz sighed as she stepped out of her clothes, tossing some into the hamper and hanging her skirt and jacket up to be dry-cleaned. Her neck was kinked and sore, and she twisted her head this way and that to relieve the pressure that the knots had built up. It was stupid, having to sit there in her office all day, being frowned at by upper management if she tried to walk a couple of laps around the cubicle farm or go outside to stretch out in the sun. “You don’t smoke,” they’d say, “why do you need to go out every hour?”

Maybe she should take up smoking to shut them up. It could save her life! Or at least her back.

She sat down on the bedroom floor and tried to stretch out, bending forward over her legs, then to each side, thumbs digging into knots and sore spots behind her. Shit, was that a knot or a boulder under her shoulder blade? She shifted onto her knees and clasped her hands behind her, stretching her arms straight and arching her back a little as she struggled to force those tortured muscles to release.

The door opened in a flurry of sound and motion, and Ben stepped in, whatever he had been saying lost completely as he gazed down at her, kneeling in front of him, hands behind her back and breasts thrust forward, her eyes wide and startled. She blinked, and Ben swallowed. He was topless, wearing a pair of dark slacks that couldn’t conceal the sudden bulge that swelled their front.

Liz dropped her arms hurriedly, and stood, brushing herself off. “Um, what were you saying?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He moved forward and grabbed her arm, gentle but firm, and pulled her to the side of the bed. She’d left a silk scarf draped over one bedpost, and he pulled her arms back behind her and began wrapping the soft fabric around her wrists.

“Ben, what are you doing?”

He shushed her, and Liz felt her body grow hot with arousal. Wow, where had that come from? He cinched the knot above her hands, and her clit seemed to twitch in response, sending a rush of warmth through her belly. Her chest felt tight, and her breath was quick and shallow. What was happening?

“Get down on your knees, like you were before,” Ben said. She glanced up at him, and he shrugged. “Please?”

Liz sighed and knelt, confused by his actions and even more confused by her own response. He unfastened his belt, and she let out a tiny whimper on her next breath. Ben smiled at her and cupped his cock, still encased in its fabric prison, with one broad hand. “You like this as much as I do, don’t you?”

Liz didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. Her body answered for her when he bent and looped the belt around her ankles, making it three times around before he could buckle it to keep her legs in place. She shuddered in anticipation, her hands and legs bound, helpless.

When Ben stood again, he dropped his slacks and underwear and kicked them away. His cock stood full and heavy, nearly brushing his belly, and she whimpered as she imagined him forcing it into her mouth and using her. Dear god, where were these thoughts coming from?

Ben ran one hand through her hair, then did so again, this time clenching a fistful of it. He pulled her head back slightly, and she moaned and let her mouth fall open, her chest heaving as she fought for air. She was dizzy with arousal.

“Do you like that?”

The hair pulling? Being tied up? Knowing he was about to shove his cock into her mouth, and there was nothing she could do to stop it? “Yes…”

“Good.” He gave her hair another gentle tug and took hold of his cock with his other hand, bringing it to her lips. She sucked it into her mouth with no more persuasion, eager to please, more desperate than she had ever been to suck him off and make him come like a geyser. He groaned and his hips began to work, his hands still tugging gently at her hair as she sucked greedily.

He came in record time, shooting his hot come into her mouth. She swallowed and felt it slide into her belly as if it left a trail of fire. Fuck, yes! Her entire body was trembling with arousal, and she whimpered when she tried to shift and was brought up short by her bonds.

“That was amazing,” Ben said. He bent to kiss her, and one hand tweaked at her nipple as he plundered her mouth. He smiled. “You look so turned on.” He slid one hand between her legs, and gasped like his breath had been knocked out. “Holy shit, Lizzy, you’re soaked. Your thighs are wet.”

But she hardly noticed his words. Her entire body rocked toward him as his fingers slid between her folds, and she clamped her thighs around his hand when his palm met her swollen clit. She rubbed against him, and he pressed back, sending her soaring toward a release that she hadn’t even known was so near. She screamed as she bucked against him and then went limp, her body folding into a ball as Ben eased her as far down as her bonds would take her.

She distantly felt him release her arms, then her legs, and lift her up to set her on the soft bed. “Ben?” she murmured, her world still hazed with the purple fog of pleasure. He hummed some acknowledgment. “Promise me we can try that again this weekend?”

A TEACHABLE MOMENT

Walter Pratt

I could tell that Evan had never watched porn like what was unfurling on my TV screen before by the way his mouth hung open. He was young, having just turned twenty-one—at least, from my just-turned-forty vantage point. He still had a wide-eyed innocence about him, the kind that made him not just scream in ecstasy when I deep-throated him but gasp in awe, like he couldn’t quite believe the pleasure he’d just experienced. “They’re… coming on his face,” he said now, stating what would have been eminently obvious to anyone watching alongside us.

Yes, the lucky young man in the center of the circle jerk was getting splashed with come left and right. I couldn’t tell from Evan’s expression who in that scenario he envied. He remained riveted until the screen faded to black; I noticed that his dick had recovered fast, reminding me again just how youthful he, and his body parts, were. Mine was only at half-mast, rendered so after coming ferociously from fucking Evan as hard as I could, something he’d requested, growing more and more vocal as my condom-covered cock plunged in and out. When I’d dared to slow down to observe the delightful image of my shaft disappearing between the curves of his perfect ass, he encouraged me to keep going.

But where my dick wasn’t quite ready, my mouth definitely was. “We could try it…if you want,” I said, aiming to sound as casual as possible. I didn’t want to push him to do anything he wasn’t ready for, though if he’d been a bit older, I’d have asked him to strap me down with the cuffs I keep attached to my bed. But coming on my face was something I was pretty sure even a gay-sex novice could handle (Evan had confessed I was only his third lover, and certainly the oldest and most experienced).

“You mean, you’d want…that?” he asked, his voice going high and soft on the last word. “That” meant his hot come all over my face, and I assured him that yes, I most definitely wanted it.

“I want you to slap your cock across my cheeks. Shove it down my throat. Fuck my mouth,” I said, my dick responding to the words despite our relatively recent encounter. Saying them made me realize it had been a long time since anyone had done that, and it hadn’t gone so well. The guy was a little too mean, too rough, or rather, it didn’t seem like an act. He was rough, literally, with a graying beard and hard, beady eyes, and, it occurred to me later, looking to take out his anger at the world on whoever joined him in bed. That wasn’t what it was about for me; this was my playground, my escape. I worked out my issues with therapy, with art. Having a cock shoved down my throat and my face covered in come was, well, fun.

Evan’s eyes were wide, questioning. “Yes, really,” I said, gingerly touching his cheek. “I’ve done it before and liked it. Like the guy in the video.” Sure, he’d been acting, but there were some things you couldn’t fake—at least, that’s what I liked to believe. I certainly wasn’t faking it when I stared back at Evan, raw desire whipping through me.

He responded by pushing me back onto my bed with a ferocity I hadn’t expected of him. Maybe he just needed permission, needed to know how much I wanted it, because there he was, pinning me down with his knees on either side of my head, his impressively large cock seeming even bigger as he stroked it right in front of my face. “Do you want to taste this?” he asked, his thumb tight beneath the head, fist wrapped around it.

“Yes, please,” I moaned, straining upward toward him. He pinched my cheek and held my face just far enough away that I could see how hard he was, see his dick straining to connect with me. Evan maintained control, though, feeding me just the head of his cock.

“Lick around the head,” he ordered. “Don’t suck it or you won’t get it down your throat.” I did, delicately laving the engorged tip, going around and around until he pulled it out and told me to stick out my tongue. Evan beat a rhythm with his dick against my tongue, the slapping sound echoing in the room. Then he slammed it against my cheek, leaving my skin wet. “Open wide,” he said, before gliding his shaft down my throat. I hungrily swallowed him, my own cock aching to be touched as Evan fucked my mouth. I was so wet for him that he could easily move in and out, easing back until just the head was between my lips before surging forth.

Just as I was getting really into it, he stopped, depriving my mouth of what it craved. He pulled out, and I angled to see that beautiful dick in all its glory. “You got my cock so nice and wet, didn’t you?” he said. I thought I’d have to tell him what I wanted, give him a little more guidance, but Evan didn’t need it, and neither did his cock. He had his fist wrapped around his shaft, pressing tightly, his face contorted in concentration. I breathed deeply, relishing the smell of his arousal, soaking up the heat of his legs surrounding me, his body preparing to release. “You want my come all over your face, is that right, Bruce? You want me to leave you wet and sticky, then shove it all in your mouth?”

“Yes,” I panted, unable to touch myself but not caring. My cock was leaking by then, wet and oozing, and not stroking it only prolonged my arousal.

Evan was half in his own world, half in ours, his hand moving faster and faster until it was almost a blur, before a rush of hot cream blasted my cheeks, dripping down over my lips, chin and neck. Evan thrust his still-spurting dick between my limply parted lips, and I eagerly sucked his salty seed. True to his word, when he was done, he pushed much of the rest into my mouth, then moved aside so I could administer the two strokes I needed to come.

I’d never liked the idea of being in front of a classroom, having students eager to follow my every word. But this kind of teaching, with such a fast learner, I truly enjoyed. I hoped my horny pupil and I would have future teachable moments.

THE FLOGGER

Jade A. Waters

Katie had bought the damn flogger thirteen years ago, in the final throes of a souring relationship. She’d thought she’d have plenty of opportunities to use the suede leather contraption. Instead, the thing had ended up in the closet, only used as a dust collector.

Then she met Julian. He was as proper as they came: his suit jackets were always pressed and his ties neatly tucked; he got his hair cut every three weeks; he meticulously folded his papers after he read them. Brilliant, handsome and patient, he never faulted her for her ways. Instead he picked up after her and the chaos that was her collection of art supplies, her endless piles of clothes and even her oft-wild hair—which is why she froze when she found him standing in their living room, holding the flogger perpendicular to his hips, as if measuring it against his semierect, naked penis.

“You never told me about this.” Julian waved the flogger around, and it almost looked as if his shaft hardened.

She had to be imagining this.

“I did…once.” It was five years ago, when they’d just started telling each other their fantasies—long before they’d moved in together. She’d hidden it in the back of the closet since she’d never imagined it as Julian’s sort of thing.

His brow furrowed as he swung it, the tassels tapping his thighs.

“Hmm,” he said, reasoning. “Well, I suppose you should come here. And take off your clothes.”

Katie chuckled, but beneath her shirt, her nipples peaked. She walked over and dipped in for a kiss, except Julian held up his free hand. “No.” He rapped the rounded steel cap against her sternum and she jumped. “I mean it. Take them off.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Julian could be an animal in bed, but he never gave her orders.

“You heard me, Katie.” He grinned. “Do it now.”

She unbuttoned her blouse while Julian watched, and he swung the flogger back and forth, the suede leather slapping his skin. She kept her eyes locked on his pelvis, noting that his cock had indeed stiffened with the movement.

“Faster.” Julian tapped her hip. “All of it.”

A spasm rippled through her inner walls. She dropped her shirt to the floor, and Julian plucked her nipples through the sheer lace of her bra, nodding.

“Bra. Skirt. Now.”

She stripped them off.

“Good. Now take off your panties.”

Katie leaned again to kiss him, but he put a hand over her lips.

“Nope. Panties off.”

She hooked her thumbs under the waistband, her crevice already drenched before the cotton hit the floor.

“Spread your legs.” Something in his voice sent her pulse racing. A little part of her remembered her ex; while he’d tied her up sometimes, their flogger encounter hadn’t gone particularly well. Julian’s tone came harsh to her ears, but in his eyes she saw years of love, of patience. He snapped the flogger and she trembled. “What are you waiting for?”

Katie gasped and threw her foot out to the side.

Julian’s eyes twinkled—clearly, he was enjoying himself. She tried to shake off her giggles and he walked behind her, running the cap down her legs. He sidled right behind her, grazing her folds with his cock.

“Oh wow,” Katie muttered.

“I didn’t tell you to speak.” She could practically hear him thinking, deliberating over his next move. He kept the head of his shaft against her and her knees began to shake. “Touch yourself.”

Katie closed her eyes, Julian’s cock taunting deliciously against her. She slid her finger down, no longer giggling when she cupped her slit with her whole hand. She folded slightly at the waist and let one digit slide all the way in.

“Yes. Shove that finger deep inside you.”

Her wetness drowned the length of her finger and she moaned. Julian cracked the whip in the air.

“Julian?”

“Shh. No talking.”

Katie bit her lip and Julian nudged her back, guiding her down until her head nearly touched the carpet. He fondled her ass, caressing her left cheek with a few fingers then cupping it with his whole hand.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful your ass is?”

Katie quickened her movements, surprised how fast her arousal had snuck over her. Julian noticed, sliding his hand over hers and growling.

“Oh my. Another finger, Katie.”

She shoved in a second finger, clenching as her walls began to quake.

“ Julian… ”

“Shh. I’m going to hit you while you touch yourself.” He paused. “Okay?”

Katie thumbed her clit. “Yes.” She didn’t know where this side of Julian came from, but the hard crank of the flogger against her bottom didn’t give her much time to think about it.

She yelped.

The suede strands were soft against her cheeks, but all of them at once brought the darkest pleasure out from within her. This was the memory of thirteen years ago, but better—coming from this man, her love, the one who ordered her now.

“Yes, stroke yourself,” he said. He whipped her backside.

Katie moaned. Julian rubbed her ass with his free hand then struck again. He proceeded like this for a few minutes, and her whimpers came heavier as he whipped and rubbed harder. The tassels grazed her upper thighs and cheeks, and when a stray piece hit her wetness, she sighed in delight.

“Well, well!” Julian changed the angle of his swing so that the flogger smacked her ass and slit. Katie wobbled on her feet.

“Julian, Julian, please…fuck me!” The pleasure coiled through her, a magnificent pulsing that made it impossible to see straight. Julian hit her once more, but he was eager—quickly, he slid inside her, right up against her fingers.

Katie’s orgasm rocketed, her walls convulsing against the fullness, and a moan poured from her throat as Julian rode her waves of excitement. He clutched the flogger against her side so hard it bit into her skin, but she didn’t care as he hit a place at the back of her tunnel that she could swear he’d never reached before. Katie cried out while he pounded her wetness, and Julian started grunting, losing control in the only way she ever saw him lose it—but it didn’t matter because she was lost too, her body quivering again as he drove deep and exploded with a groan.

“Oh god!” he called.

Katie teetered with his weight against her, dropping her hands to the floor to steady them. The living room was silent save for their panting, and the gentle pat Julian gave her ass after he recovered and stood upright.

“Stand up, baby,” he said.

She did, staring into his eyes.

“How was that?”

Katie blew the hair out of her face. “Amazing.”

“I’ve never seen you like that—so out of control.”

“Ha. I’m always a mess.”

Julian kissed her. “That’s why I love you. But this,” he said, waving the flogger. “If I’d known there was something that did this to you…”

Katie blushed. “You take such good care of me.”

“Always,” he said. Julian rested the flogger against her breast, smiling. “Now turn around.”

BOOK LOVER

Donna George Storey

I told Tyler to meet me at the Black Swan Bookstore. That way if his meeting ran late again, the waiting would be pure pleasure.

Exchanging a friendly nod with the proprietor, I headed back to my favorite part of the store. For beyond the displays of glossy new books on the theater, Shakespeare, and Elizabethan England stretched a warren of little rooms, each crammed with hundreds, maybe thousands, of used books. My pulse was already racing as I zigzagged along the corridor to the back room where the pocket paperbacks were shelved. I loved to browse the canyons of ancient bestsellers, dog-eared sci-fi series and steamy romances.

Tyler would know where to find me.

The fragrance of old paper and binding glue filled my lungs, bringing with it memories of summer afternoons spent on the daybed in my grandparents’ cottage on the Cape with my “nose in a book,” as Gran used to say. The daybed was tucked away in an alcove surrounded by built-in shelves bulging with books. Left behind by uncles and aunts, family friends and friends of friends, most of them were racy “beach reads” of yore, by: Jacqueline Susann, John Updike, Erica Jong, Mario Puzo. While I might have looked like a studious bookworm to Gran, what I was really doing was floating in an erotic daze, devouring the naughty bits like Popsicles on a hot day. When I brought my college boyfriend to the Cape, I insisted he make love to me right there on the daybed one moonless night in July. With all my favorite paperback fornicators cheering me on, I had an orgasm that shattered my skull.

In honor of my misspent youth, I picked up a familiar title by Updike and leafed through it, looking for a salacious scene. I wasn’t having much luck. On a whim, I pressed my nose to the inner crease of the binding. To my surprise, a sharp jolt of arousal shot straight to my pussy. Had some previous owner doused the pages with an aphrodisiac? I closed my eyes and took another hit. My cunt muscles fluttered and my knees melted like the inside of a roasted marshmallow. Cruising on the sexual high, I tilted my head back and sighed.

“Ahem.”

My eyes shot open and I blushed furiously. Fortunately it was only Tyler standing in the doorway, a curious smile on his face.

I rushed over and gave him a lingering soul kiss, pressing my body against him. Now I was rather hoping we could skip dinner and go straight back to his place for sex.

His eyes twinkled. “Sorry to interrupt a private moment.”

“I just like the scent of old books. It’s nostalgic.”

“It looked to me like you were having an orgasm. It’s a dirty book, I assume?”

“It has sex in it, but all pulp novels do. Actually what gets me is imagining the stories beyond the story, the people who got turned on reading the sexy parts, the untold erotic pleasures. Maybe some of the lucky ones were so aroused, their lovers took them straight to bed?”

Tyler lifted his eyebrows suggestively. “Perhaps they did. Stay right here.”

I frowned in confusion as he disappeared down the hallway, but he was back in a flash, waving the restroom key. Then he took my arm and led me to the ladies’ lounge at the very back of the store.

“What are you doing?”

He nudged me into the bathroom. “Hang tight another minute. But while you’re waiting, take off your panties and put them in your purse.”

My jaw dropped, but I was too flustered to disobey. The panties were off and tucked in my shoulder bag when Tyler returned with a low stepstool, which he positioned a few inches from the white-tiled wall. Turning the lock, he grinned and said, “Face the wall, put one foot up on the stool, and lift your dress for me.”

By this time I had a pretty good idea what he had in mind.

“What if we get caught?” I hissed.

“You know this place is as quiet as a church in the summer. Besides, we’re only finishing what you started.”

“I’d be too nervous to come,” I protested.

Tyler eased the paperback from my hand. He opened the pages gently, as if he were parting a woman’s legs, and held it out to me. “I’ve observed this to be effective for you.”

I grabbed the book and sniffed it disdainfully. I meant to show him he was being presumptuous, but instead, the scent of the paper flooded my nose, my chest and my pussy with a tingling, erotic heat.

Tyler watched my dismay with a smile.

Properly chastened, I turned toward the wall and propped my foot on the stool. A cool breeze brushed my naked slit, but this was soon replaced by Tyler’s hot fingers snaking under my sundress. He began to strum. “My god, your clit’s as hard as a diamond.”

I closed my eyes and imagined my little nub transformed into a jewel sparkling between my labia. As Tyler rubbed me patiently, my cunt swelled and grew shamefully wet until anything seemed possible. Maybe I could climax in a public restroom, my boyfriend impaling me from behind?

A zipper rasped. His hard-on probed me, pushed deep inside. With his cock angled straight into me, I felt skewered, completely filled.

Tyler’s lips brushed my ear. “While I’m fucking you, I want you to hold that book right up to your face. Keep breathing it in. Nice and slow.”

Hands shaking, I pressed my face against the splayed pages. The damp, close sensation reminded me of nuzzling Tyler’s open thighs to lap the sensitive spot behind his balls.

I took another deep breath. My cunt walls opened out like a flower, then contracted sharply around the thick shaft lodged within me. How could an old paperback possess me like this, as if ghostly fingers were stroking my most tender places? Yet books had always held me in their thrall. From their pages, I’d learned my first lessons about sex, about bringing secret pleasure to my own body, about the mysterious lusts of strangers.

Two more deep inhalations and my whole torso was burning. I knew then I was going to come. Like the faceless others who had clutched this book, their pants bunched around their knees as they pumped their straining cocks or clawed their swollen clits desperately. With a soft grunt, I exploded on Tyler’s cock, milking him with my walls. He grabbed my hips roughly, thrusting with abandon, filling me with his cream.

Grinning in triumph, we smoothed our clothes back to respectability and slipped out of the restroom one at a time. On the way out, I dutifully stopped in the paperback room to return the book to its proper shelf.

Tyler snatched it from my hand. “Oh, no, I have to buy this for my nightstand. My girlfriend’s a book lover. Never as happy as when she has her nose buried in a novel.”

I used to hate it when Gran said that. But now it made me smile.

TIED BY RED

Kay Jaybee

Pulling at the ropes, I tried to create some slack, but the red bindings at my wrists and ankles remained incredibly tight as I lay spread-eagled and naked on the iron-framed bed.

It had been at least an hour since Red had left me helpless, with no option but to wait for her. My mind raced between erotic anticipation at what would happen when she came back, and fear that she would never return.

Although Red had said nothing, I was sure she’d left the house. The eerie stillness of the air betrayed no tacit partner watching me suffer.

I wriggled in a vain attempt to get more comfortable as the red feather boa she’d wrapped around my thighs, balls and dick caressed me, keeping me in a permanent state of arousal.

What the hell was Red doing? Before disappearing, she’d simply appraised me with her wide green eyes, smiled mischievously and walked from the bedroom.

Red had done this before—tied me, brought me to the edge of ecstasy and then left—but never for this long.

Perhaps she’d gone to see someone else. She’d never made any secret of the fact I wasn’t her only lover. But would Red really go and fuck someone else when she’d got me so nice and convenient?

I visualized her lingering tongue playing over a woman. I closed my eyes as the image became stronger. Maybe the girl was blonde, her nipples clamped, as she was tortured with whips, as I’d been so many times since meeting the girl with the startlingly red hair.

The muscles in my shoulders spasmed as a wave of lust tightened my stretched body. I could almost feel Red’s fingertips as they ran over someone else’s skin, almost taste the cunt she might be licking. I could so nearly smell another man’s spunk as it shot across her…

The click of the front door wrenched me from my musings.

There was a rustling of carrier bags. I turned my neck toward the sound, but couldn’t see anything beyond the room.

My resolve was cracking. The need to beg her to fuck me was rising fast in my throat.

Finally, she appeared in the doorway. She stood in scarlet underwear that matched the color of her hair. My dry throat sealed shut. The words of desperation I’d been on the brink of uttering died away.

Red said nothing, but I guessed from the long thin bag she held that she hadn’t been with another lover, but shopping.

My breathing snagged as she approached. Checking my restraints, and finding they remained firm, Red took the end of the boa, and with a yank, pulled. I screamed as it ripped between my legs, burning the tender flesh of my balls as it came away like a sandpaper plaster. Unbidden moisture gathered at the corner of my eyes as I howled, a howl that turned to groans as she leaned down, licking my tears away.

“Would you like to see what’s in here?” Red brandished the bag like a trophy. I nodded, not actually sure if I wanted to or not.

Reaching her hand inside, she pulled out the contents with deliberate slowness.

I thought I’d been tense before, but now my muscles became rigid as delicious fear crept up my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled as I considered all the things she could do with the two blood-red roses she held so reverently.

Her eyes shone. I knew she was getting off on my reaction to her purchases. She stared at me for another minute, knowing full well that my imagination was working overtime.

Laying one rose on my chest so that the petals were lined up exactly between my nipples, Red took up the other one. Kneeling between my outstretched legs, she stroked the petals over my face. I tried to relax, but I’d already guessed what lay ahead, and my pulse hammered in my ears as I shivered against the flower’s cool touch.

Red moved the flower head to my shoulders, before stroking my arms, paying particular attention to where the bindings encircled my wrists. All the time I was aware of the other rose lying on me. Each minor shift in my body caused me to be lightly prickled by the thorns.

Moving away, my girl put her flower down and eased her knickers to the floor. Then, leaning tantalizingly close to, and yet annoyingly far from my mouth, Red undid her bra, letting her breasts hang invitingly before me. I wondered how badly she wanted me to grab a nipple between my teeth, but as controlled as ever, she kept out of reach.

Taking up both flowers this time, she increased her pace, sweeping me with the petals, making my flesh tingle. I closed my eyes in order to concentrate on the glorious sensations. The first strike therefore took me by surprise, even though I’d always known it would come.

My eyes flew straight back open as a flower head smacked against my torso. Red struck again, and then again, building up a rhythm, treating me like a drum, with the roses as drumsticks.

The outer petals crumpled as she continued to batter me. My skin stained with burgundy blotches of petal dye, and flushed with blossoming bruises as my yelps turned to guttural whimpers.

The beating ended suddenly. Standing back, Red allowed me to catch my breath, and my imminent explosion subsided a little. Her eyes narrowed as they regarded me. I could smell her sex and knew that if I’d been allowed to touch her, she’d have been slick beneath my fingers.

Retrieving the roses, my lover ran the denuded heads over her own chest, teasing her erect nipples. I licked my lips, feeling a wave of irrational jealousy for those flowers, as they gave Red the attention I wanted to apply myself. I moaned helplessly as I watched her bring herself to a juddering climax.

Every inch of my body ached, my dick was fit to explode and the sight and sound of her was edging me closer to release.

Suddenly, Red sat astride my head, lowering her pussy to my lips. Wasting no time, I lapped at her, swirling my tongue until moisture poured from her, bathing my chin, nose and cheeks.

That was when she acted. When Red did exactly what I’d assumed she’d been longing to do.

I cried with exquisite pain as she pushed the thorns against my arms, causing me to bite her, making her cherry lips squeal. With each sharp shock, I nipped her pussy harder.

The pin-like pricking moved to my chest. I could feel the thorns threaten the surface of my skin. Her hungry mouth licked at my sore flesh, easing the punishment as quickly as she administered it, while I fucked her with my tongue.

With one last beautifully cruel move, Red trailed the stems’ barbs across my stomach. I yelled into her depths, as she jacked against my mouth, tipping me over into an orgasm by the application of pain with a hot fountain of dark pleasure.

Ten seconds later, Red was ready for more….

AFTER-PARTY

Drew Griffiths

We had just come offstage and my ears were ringing. The set was tight and she was all smiles backstage. I loved watching her play, the muscles in her arms and shoulders flexing as she worked the strings. She had impeccable rhythm, untamed red hair, and her pogo-stick jumping owned the stage. It helped that she had to bind herself to stop from falling out of her cocktail dress. I watched her unwrap the Ace bandages from her breasts, her dress hanging off her hips, her hair soaked.

I was trying to get the tape off my split fingers and keep from getting hard as her nipples grew tight. She started laughing, hands on her hips, barely covered by the last piece of binding pinned between her tits. “Do you want help with that?” She took the small scissors from her makeup bag. I told her no. I couldn’t take being any closer to her right now. She made the same noise she makes in rehearsal, a teeth sucking, pouty-lipped noise that meant I am going to do whatever I want.

She knelt down at the chair and picked up my hand. Still slightly damp from the stage, her breasts pressed against my bare leg. She took the scissors and began cutting away the white tape. “I can’t believe you still do this.” I blamed it on tradition, then smiled and said, “Have to make sure I keep up with you out there.”

She laughed, her mouth wide open, and I felt her hand on my thigh. “Oh, I think you’ve proven you can handle me out there.” I smiled but did nothing. I sat there, ignoring how turned on I was. Suddenly she got up from the floor and grabbed her bag. “I’m going to get cleaned up. Are you coming out with us tonight?” I climbed out of the chair and grabbed a towel. “Not sure. I’m pretty wasted.” She took a towel from the stack and gave me the look that had made me powerless.

She was drinking her usual vodka and lime on the rocks. I watched the tight green skirt hugging her as she leaned into the bar for another round. She caught my attention and all I could think about was kissing her. She leaned in and put her arm around my neck and I was nearly paralyzed.

She had done it to me over and over again. Last winter after a show she pulled me close, her lips right against my ear to tell me something, but her tongue lingered in my ear and I was instantly dripping in my boxers. This time she had me pressed up against the bar, her arm around my neck and her face nearly touching mine before she asked me, using her sexiest voice, to buy the next round. It was after two. I told her I was leaving. She pleaded for me to stay and drink but my dignity finally said no. I smiled and she kissed me on the cheek. I walked for a block toward a small park where kids were playing bicycle polo. I found a bench and searched for my cigarettes. I never even heard her approach. She handed me my cigarettes and said, “You left these on the bar.”

She sat down next to me, placing herself under my arm. I felt her hand on my thigh and couldn’t stop my cock from getting hard. She continued to stroke my thigh and then slid her palm up against my balls. I didn’t dare look at her. I didn’t want to ruin anything. She struggled slightly with my zipper. I cursed my pants a thousand times until I heard the familiar sound and I felt her warm hand massaging my balls, then moving up my shaft. Her lips slid up my neck and she whispered in my ear, “I think you’re wetter than me.” I stared out at the guys playing bicycle polo, not wanting to explode in her hand as she massaged my hard-on.

She took her hand out of my pants and kissed me hard on the mouth, then stood up. I followed her around to the stone wall on the other side of the park. She pulled me into her, and we started kissing. I could still taste vodka on her lips. Her hands were pressing against me, nails digging into my skin through my shirt. I held her breast, hard nipple against my palm, and she moaned into my mouth through our kiss. She pulled on my hair hard enough to stop me from kissing her. “I want you to eat my pussy.” I didn’t know what to say. My cock was throbbing. I couldn’t speak. She slapped me hard and my mouth fell open. She slid her hand down the front of her skirt and fingered herself before tracing her wet finger around my lips and repeating, “Eat my pussy.” She pulled up her skirt to reveal her shaved sex. I stood with my aching hard-on, staring at her. She slapped me again, leaving my face stinging, then again.

I grabbed her hard around the waist and lifted her up onto the wall. I slid my shoulders under her knees. Her heels were digging into my sides and back. I had my hands under her ass, lifting her to my lips. She spread herself open for my tongue. I could hear the bicycle kids in the background as my tongue darted in and out of her pussy. I took her clit into my mouth and sucked hard. She tasted fantastic. When she came, her entire body shook, and I nearly lost my grip on her body.

She slid forward until her heels found the pavement. Her mouth pressed against mine, her tongue searching my mouth for her own come. Her hand was pressing hard against my cock now, pulling and rubbing on my aching shaft. She asked me if I was ready, and I said nothing. She slapped me across the face and repeated herself. I still couldn’t speak, so she clamped her hand around my neck below my jaw as her other hand was squeezing my balls. I grunted and nodded my agreement. Her legs slightly straddled my thigh as she pumped my cock several times. I could barely see; I felt dizzy; I felt amazing and then I felt my legs almost collapse as I heard the sound of my come landing on the pavement. She continued to stroke my cock and the rest of my come filled her hand. When she was done, I licked her fingers as she moaned eagerly in my ear.

She lit me a cigarette and we shared it, leaning on each other and the wall. I took a long pull on the cigarette and joked, “The rest of the band is going to be jealous.”

I’M ON FIRE

Rachel Kramer Bussel

Who doesn’t like a little hot wax drizzled on them? Okay, I know plenty of people don’t, but I say, more candles for me. I’m lucky to have a girlfriend with a perfectly complementary kinky mind. Ciara’s an artist, so it makes sense she’d love to decorate my body. We’ve even been photographed for a local art gallery, me coated in swirls of color, painted by her with the special candles we buy just for wax play.

Last Friday night, she surprised me. Monday is usually our date night, a way of reclaiming a normally mundane weeknight. But it had been a long week for both of us, and she knew I needed something special. In our house, that meant she texted me on her way home telling me to shower, get naked, spread the tarp out on the bed and wait for her. I did all that, although I couldn’t resist making myself come in the shower in anticipation.

I dried off and lay on the bed, goose bumps forming. That’s what Ciara does to me, even when she’s not around. I’ve never had such an explosive connection with anyone, which is what’s allowed me to go so far with her. She’s tied me up and “made” me come using a Hitachi Magic Wand, and used a butt plug and vibrator on me at once. She’s fisted me and felt me up in public. She’s done what feels like just about everything—and trust me, I reciprocate and love every minute!—but whenever I start to think there are no more sexual frontiers for us to forge, she finds a way to let me know there are.

That’s what she did last Friday. She entered the room and told me to spread myself out in an X. “I’m not going to tie you up, because you don’t need to be tied up or down, you just need to learn to take it. You can take it, can’t you, Amanda? Because if you can’t I might have to go find a girl who can and make you watch me play with her.” She wasn’t serious—or at least, she’d never do that without my permission. Once in a while, we invite another woman home with us, but it’s always on a case by case basis. Talking about it, though? Teasing each other with the naughty possibilities ? That’s a surefire way to get both of us off. I’ll send her photos of naked women I find online and she’ll tell me all the things she wants to try with them. It’s our favorite form of foreplay.

I followed her instructions to the letter, smiling as she approached me, running her hands up and down my body. That alone was enough to send chills through me. “I got your favorite color,” she said, revealing a long candle, followed by a few others in various shades from light violet to deep purple. “I’d put one in your pussy, but then I wouldn’t get to coat you.” I moaned, but when I reached for her, she clucked her tongue. “Did I tell you to move? Only good girls get what I’m going to give you, and this time I have a surprise.”

I have a love/hate relationship with surprises, but I sometimes have a love/hate relationship with submission. Obeying is an innate part of my makeup, and yet I also like to be a brat, to defy, talk back, push the limits just to see what will happen. I’m usually the girl who asks what the surprise is, even though I know no true surprise gift giver would ever give away their secret that easily.

“You’re going to have to stay still, or you might get hurt,” she said with a serious tone. “Do you understand, Amanda?” She likes to repeat my name when we’re playing, like repetition in poetry where the same word pops up over and over, in her case a linguistic trick designed to make it stand out in sharp relief.

I knew a nod wouldn’t suffice, so I said, “Yes, I understand.”

Ciara leaned down and looked intently into my eyes. “Are you ready?” Another trick question, because how could I possibly consent to being ready for something if I didn’t know what it was? But her simple-sounding question went deeper than its surface meaning. She was asking if I was ready to submit fully to her, to trust her to keep me safe, to place my body literally in her hands.

“Yes, Ciara, I’m ready,” I said. She stood and walked toward our dresser and in those few moments I put all my mindfulness practices to good use, focusing on the sensation of being bound not with tape or cuffs but with words, with trust, with love. I was going to stay still and she was going to do…something that involved purple candles.

Ciara returned with a glint in her eye. “Kiss it,” she said, offering my lips a fat purple candle. I puckered up and gave it a kiss, and was rewarded with one from her lips. Then she was pouring a liquid over my skin. It wasn’t thick like lube or massage oil. I shut my eyes and focused on the sensation and heard her say, “Now remember to stay still, okay? Close your eyes and you can open them when I tell you to.”

I shut them and waited. I heard the click of her Bettie Page lighter opening and the sound of her starting to ignite it. I thought I detected the sound of the candlewick catching fire. I definitely felt the pinpricks of heat as the wax began to paint my inner thighs. Even after dozens of scenes like this, my first instinct is still always to close my legs, but I waited, knowing the best was yet to come. I waited as the wax crept its way up my thigh, dripping onto my hip, falling along my pubic bone, dancing so close to my most tender point. The heat came close and soon the drops were landing right near my clit. I bit my lip and clutched the sheets, willing myself to relax. I breathed as deeply as I could even as tears formed. Ciara moved on to my breasts, first streaking them then coating them with layers of wax.

I was still processing that when I felt a whoosh of something new. “Open your eyes,” Ciara commanded, and when I did, I saw the flames dancing across my torso. It seemed like an optical illusion; they were there, and then they weren’t, seeming to race across my body.

“I’m on fire,” I said, dumbfounded, incredulous that what I was seeing didn’t feel like I’d thought it would. My skin’s fire dance ended moments later, and soon a vibrator was buzzing against my clit while Ciara’s fingers slammed into me.

“Move as much as you want.” I did, turning all the way over on the tarp to shamelessly fuck her fingers, to greedily grab them and sink them deep inside me. I screamed as I came, set ablaze in a completely new way, my heart engulfed by the kind of flames nothing can put out.

SHOULD YOU EVER BE ALLOWED TO FEEL THIS GOOD?

Lillian Ann Slugocki

I’ve always loved the virgin. She’s so easy to perform. The text is so secure. It is unchanging. Predictable. But it’s rare when I play the whore. You ask yourself: should you ever be allowed to feel this good? You’d think the choice would be easy, but it’s not. It’s not an easy choice.

It’s not easy dressing up in high heels and waiting for your lover. It’s not easy pacing around your small New York apartment, candles guttering in every room. It’s not easy knowing that tonight is the night—the mask of Lilith, like a shadow on the bed.

I picked it up. I put it down. I tried it on. I took it off. I fixed my makeup. I put on music. I avoided the bedroom, the mask, the other, but not for long. When the buzzer rang at ten p.m., I swept the mask off my bed and put it on. Done. My heart was pounding.

When he walked in the door he said, “Turn around.” And so I did. He said, “Turn around again.” And so I did, but more slowly, with more grace, more panache, more sex. It was starting. It was beginning and I couldn’t stop it—the roller coaster before it begins its fatal drop. He smelled like cotton candy, like sweat, like aftershave. Lilith appeared, and I fell in love all over again.

Should you ever be allowed to feel this good?

I didn’t notice or care that I was stripped down to just high heels, that he had placed a mirror next to the bed. I wondered. I wondered who we were looking at. I wondered if we were voyeurs, a sideshow for ourselves. I saw calves and thighs, tangled up with black boots and blonde hair. I saw us dangling at the top of a carnival ride, complete with screaming woman, gaudy lighting, and a man desperate for orgasm. Dante finally meets Beatrice, but alas she is a witch.

We came at the same time.

He jumped out of bed, threw open the bedroom window, his chest heaving—“Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ!”—his naked body covered in sweat. And me? I was a dream of a girl. I was a girl inside of a girl. I was no one. I was nothing but black sky and blue stars. The shoes had flown off, but was that still my smile in the mirror? He blew out the candles, jumped back into bed and we both passed out. The next morning, I only knew one thing: Do not look at your body.

He got up to shower. Even when I was alone, I still did not look. I lay hidden beneath the sheets. I knew I was wounded. He knew this, too—don’t look. He knew this because after his shower, he threw on his clothes, kissed my cheek and left. I heard my door close. I heard his footsteps in the hall, going down the stairs, out the door, then onto the street.

When he was gone, I finally looked at myself—and saw that my legs were tattooed up and down with bite marks. As if a rabid dog or a wolf had gotten control of me, sunk his incisors deep into my flesh, and wouldn’t let go. I needed a rabies shot, antibiotics and cold compresses. I needed to see a doctor, a shrink, a priest, a shaman. I needed to call my mother but she was dead.

I couldn’t walk for a week. He never called. I washed the sheets, put away the mask and threw out the candles. Life went back to normal except for this: I know she’ll be back.

Should you ever be allowed to feel this good?

Yes.

THE FINAL CHALLENGE

Heather Day

The list Jason had left for me was on the fridge, curling slightly at the edges after a week of handling. Triumphant lines were crossed through nine of its ten items.

As I read through it once again, I thought it was just as well that no unexpected visitors had dropped round since Jason left on his business trip the previous week, or they would have gotten quite a shock. No innocent list of groceries or chores here, this was a ten-point list of sexy challenges for me to complete in my lover’s absence. Every time I completed one, I was to text him. I loved to think of him furtively checking his phone during important meetings; Task 5 completed, he’d read, and know that I’d just had a wank to one of his porn DVDs. The thought made me smirk; naughtiness is such a turn-on.

It had been a great game and, not for the first time, I was very impressed by Jason’s imagination and sense of adventure. We were ridiculously sexually compatible and, three months into our relationship, the honeymoon period had shown no signs of slowing down. We were both upset that he had to go away for work, but the list I’d found hidden in my underwear drawer after he’d left made me feel closer to him than ever. I’d achieved the first task, watching myself masturbate in the mirror, the very night he’d left and it had been unbelievably hot.

Most of the tasks had been relatively simple; I’d enjoyed a slippery orgasm in the shower, worn crotchless panties all day at work (leading to a highly inappropriate, almost permanent state of arousal around the office) and there were some very compromising shots of me on my digital camera, waiting for Jason’s return. I desperately wanted to cross that final item off the list and make it a full set before his return the next day, but I wasn’t convinced I could do this one. No matter how much I stared at them, the words remained the same, daring me to try to carry them out: Make yourself come without using your hands.

I’d already considered using my favorite vibrator—not technically my hands—to make myself come, but had decided that cheating would be against the spirit of the game. I would give it my very best shot and, even though I wasn’t convinced the task was actually possible, if I failed it would be with my honor intact. I took a deep breath and marched into the bedroom.

I drew the curtains, shed my clothes and set some rock music playing quietly. As I sank into our comfy bed, the sheets cool against my bare skin, I started to touch myself, everywhere but between my legs. I caressed my sides, my stomach and my breasts, all the while sighing dramatically and arching my back as if I had an audience. I’d never done it this way before; I like to get straight down to business and usually give in to the urge to stroke my clit straightaway.

I started to get more turned on as I gave my sensitive nipples some attention, rubbing them in tiny circles with my thumbs. The trouble was, as my nipples came to life, so too did my clit. It pulsated with a desire that was incredibly difficult to ignore and the longer it went on, the harder it was to stop my hands from sliding down my thighs….

No. I wasn’t going to give in; I was going to do this properly. I lay with my hands behind my back so that I couldn’t touch myself and wondered what I could do to build the nagging tickle in my pussy to an orgasmic crescendo.

On impulse, I tried some deep breathing that I’d once learned at a relaxation class. Instead of visualizing a lotus flower opening, however, I imagined warm, soft hands stroking me all over—two, three, then even four pairs of hands. The tactic seemed to work. I felt less frantic and started to enjoy the experience of feeling massively turned on without being in a rush to come. I decided to slip on my eye mask so that I could imagine the hands were really there, one pair massaging my feet and tickling my soles while another pair stroked the skin of my inner thighs. Pretty soon, my imagination took over and I swore I could actually feel delicate fingers toying with my clit the way Jason does when he’s in the mood to tease. I heard myself make breathy noises of pleasure.

In my mind, I added a phantom tongue to the phantom hands and as it lapped energetically at my nipples, the very real arousal in my body became more overwhelming than I ever thought possible without an actual touch. The pleasure coursing through my veins grew and grew as the imaginary assailants worshipped my body….

But I couldn’t come. I was right on the edge, desperate to orgasm, but it seemed imaginary touch would only get me so far. In desperate horniness, I ripped off the eye mask and grabbed my vibrator from the bedside table. It was no good; it might mean I’d fail the task but I just had to come. However, just as I was about to thrust the buzzing toy between my legs, I had a better idea and held the vibe against my nipple instead. As I’d hoped, the stimulation was just enough to send me over the edge without touching my clit and I found myself gasping and moaning in the midst of a beautiful orgasm as real and powerful as any I’d ever had. I couldn’t stop myself from rubbing my legs together for just a little extra friction in my ecstasy but I didn’t feel too guilty—I wasn’t using my hands, after all!

As I came down from the orgasmic high, I felt totally satisfied and very pleased with myself. I now had a perfect ten to boast about and a great story to tell Jason when he got home; I was sure we’d both enjoy me recounting the experience.

I reached for my phone and lazily composed a message: Task 10 completed. And by the way I’m butt naked.

A naughty smile spread across my face as I hit the SEND button. I wondered where he was and whether reading my message would make him hard. The thought made me horny all over again and I started to think that it might be interesting to compare manual orgasms with hands-free ones.

I set the phone to VIBRATE, slipped it between my legs and, sliding it back and forth across my wet clit, waited eagerly for Jason’s response.

ABOUT THE EDITOR

RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL (rachelkramerbussel. com) is an author, editor and blogger. She has edited over fifty books of erotica, including Anything for You; Baby Got Back; Suite Encounters; Going Down; Irresistible; Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex; Obsessed; Women in Lust; Surrender; Orgasmic; Cheeky Spanking Stories; Bottoms Up; Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica; Fast Girls; Smooth; Passion; The Mile High Club; Do Not Disturb; Going Down; Tasting Him; Tasting Her; Please, Sir; Please, Ma’am; He’s on Top; She’s on Top; Caught Looking; Hide and Seek; Crossdressing; Rubber Sex, and is Best Sex Writing and Best Bondage Erotica series editor. Her anthologies have won eight IPPY (Independent Publisher) Awards, and Surrender won the National Leather Association Samois Anthology Award. Her work has been published in over one hundred anthologies, including Best American Erotica 2004 and 2006. She wrote the popular “Lusty Lady” column for the Village Voice.

Rachel has written for AVN, Bust, Cleansheets.com, Cosmopolitan, Curve, The Daily Beast, TheFrisky.com, Glamour, Gothamist, The Hairpin, Huffington Post, Inked, Mediabistro, Newsday, New York Post, New York Observer, Penthouse, The Root, Salon, San Francisco Chronicle, Time Out New York, xoJane 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 (inthefleshreadingseries.com), featuring readers from Susie Bright to Zane, and speaks at conferences, does readings and teaches erotic writing workshops across the country. She blogs at lustylady.blogspot.com.

BARBARA CARRELLAS (barbaracarrellas.com) is the author of Urban Tantra: Sacred Sex for the Twenty-First Century, Ecstasy Is Necessary and Luxurious Loving. She delights in helping her Sex/Life coaching clients, her students and her readers create expanded orgasmic experiences of all sizes, shapes and flavors.

Copyright © 2013 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, Inc.,
2246 Sixth Street, Berkeley, California 94710.

eISBN : 978-1-573-44982-3

eISBN : 978-1-573-44982-3