Sexy Shorts

by Kathryn Nolan

  But the pained looks on their faces stop me.

  Jack kicks the door open, shoving Cooper and I inside, and before the door is even fully closed growls, “On your knees. Get her wet, but don’t let her come.”

  And now I can really let go since Jack is in charge now, leaning against the wall and already stroking his cock as Cooper slams me against the wall. Yanks my dress up to my hips, drops to his knees, and eats my pussy with abandon. My eyes are locked on Jack, watching us with such a keen hunger it’s all I can do to not beckon him over.

  But he likes to wait, likes to let Cooper and I dance together before he joins in.

  Cooper’s talented tongue has me coming apart in minutes, and that’s when Jack stalks over, slapping a hand over my mouth and dropping his lips to my nipples. I bite his palm, trying to smother my screams, and with a hiss, he yanks Cooper’s head back, beckoning him upwards. Suddenly I’m between both of them, mouths coming together, my pussy juices smeared across Cooper’s chin. Jack’s teeth graze my neck, then he kisses Cooper passionately. I am trapped between two hard bodies, two hard cocks, and I reach down to stroke both, loving the heady power. Loving the groaning sounds they make as they kiss.

  Cooper grabs Jack’s face and there is so much love and yearning there my heart aches.

  But they haven’t forgotten about me. Suddenly, it’s Jack on his knees, licking my clit in awe, whispering against my skin. His tongue is gentle; Cooper’s fingers are mean, pinching my nipples between his thumbs. Twisting. My orgasm lingers at the base of my spine, ready to make itself known, but I’ve denied myself with them long enough to know how to hold off. To let the sharp arousal burrow beneath my skin, becoming part of me.

  And I’m proud of myself as Jack’s tongue moves more quickly, as Cooper’s fingers continue to pinch and torture. But then the head of Cooper’s cock notches right at my entrance, and his hard thrust claws a scream from my throat. His hand slaps over my mouth, and he is gripping my shoulders, yanking me onto his cock, and Jack is feathering his tongue over my clit, and I am gone.

  Floating-through-space-gone.

  I don’t so much come as explode, trembling with the shock of it, in love with the sounds my beautiful men make as they deliver my ecstasy.

  “Just like that, kitten,” Jack says, stroking my thighs. “Let go for us.” Cooper is grunting behind me, usually so fierce and stoic when he fucks. But his whispered “You’re perfect,” is so sincere tears spring to my eyes.

  Until then, he bends me in half, continuing his hot, furious thrusts, and I take Jack’s cock into my throat as deep as it will go. Wrap my hands around his waist to steady myself, letting Cooper’s thrusts push me onto Jack’s cock.

  I can’t see now—I am nothing but scents and sensation, a body being taken apart by two greedy lovers. But I hear Jack’s growling moan and Cooper’s panting breaths, and one of them—I’m not sure who—is circling my clit. The closet is nothing but masculine grunts and bodies slapping together, and it is so fucking hot another orgasm crashes over me.

  Jack comes in my mouth, drenching my throat, and I swallow every drop as he strokes my face tenderly. Holds me against his chest as Cooper continues to fuck me, his movements erratic now. Jack’s tongue tangles with mine as I lean back against Cooper, loving the feel of his hands on my breasts. Jack kisses Cooper—hard—and that’s when he comes apart against the two of us with a curse and a cry. He is so magnificent, blond hair in his eyes, cheeks flushed with euphoria.

  And later, as the three of us sit through the final, third act of the opera, it is with secret smiles and relaxed, happy bodies. Content and warm. Just three patrons, enjoying a night of art and song.

  Except not thirty minutes after we’ve fucked wildly in a closet, Jack and Cooper have their hands on my knees again. Then my thighs. Then my hips.

  And I know it’s going to be a long night.

  Seize the Day

  The student in my Poetry 301 class is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. Dark, luxurious tresses that tumble down her back. Midnight eyes that flash. A sexy smirk—because she knows I watch her, have been watching her, ever since she strode into my class in tight, ripped jeans and a tank-top that read Carpe Diem Motherfuckers.

  Seize the day. She wore it often, as if taunting me into action. Taunting me into doing the thing I said I’d never do.

  Fuck a student.

  Because, yeah, the other professors did it. My student Eva is almost twenty-one years old, and although I’ve just turned forty, the age gap feels nonexistent. Because her stanzas shock me to my core. They are raw and rough—broken shards of sea-glass that glisten in the moon-light. Dangerous but appealing. Eva is a siren on the rocks, and I’m every sailor in existence. It conceals her younger age, and at night, as I read her stark, vibrant couplets, my nerve endings sing with pleasure.

  I just don’t know if she’s attracted to me—another woman.

  I feel eyes on me often enough to know that a fair number of my students find me sexually attractive. But Eva is a mystery—her smirk possibly part of her overall act, not an invitation for me to spread her long, lithe legs and dive into the sweet mystery of her cunt.

  But I want to, and as class ends and the lights dim, it’s just Eva left in the room. Eva looking suddenly shy—for the briefest of moments—before steeling her spine and approaching my desk.

  “Professor?” she asks, sliding her hip onto the ledge of my desk, staring down at me. I am captivated by her hair and have to fight a primal urge to sift it through my fingers.

  “Do you have a question, Eva?” I ask.

  She bites her lip, glancing back at the open door.

  “I do. Well, a proposition really,” she says. “But if you take it the wrong way, it’ll… it’ll make class a lot more awkward. Or, conversely—” one distinguished brow lifts, “—it’ll make class a lot sexier.”

  My breath stills as I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs. Eva lets her eyes roam my body.

  There is a carnal hunger there.

  My nipples are tightening against the thin silk of my top. Eva notices.

  “Is what you’re about to ask me terribly inappropriate?” I ask, also aware of the open door. Our voices are soft, and if any person walked in, we’d appear as professor and student. Nothing more.

  “It is,” Eva says, sliding closer. Up onto the desk until she is sitting, knees closed, directly in front of my body. “But all the great poets of our time seized moments like this. Life. Need. Want.” Eva licks her lips and slowly, slowly, widens her legs. Beneath her skirt, her pussy is bare and glistening.

  My hands tighten on the chair, but I hold her dark, lovely gaze.

  “You’re propositioning your teacher because you think it’s going to give you inspiration for a poem?”

  Eva shakes her head. “I’m propositioning you because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because I’ve fucked a lot of women, Professor, but just your eyes on me in class is hotter than all of it. Every time, when I leave, I walk back to my dorm room. Lock the door. Slip beneath the covers and—”

  I reach forward, driven by some poetic, artistic desire to inhale her scent. She gasps as I yank her roughly to the edge, spreading her legs forcibly. I take a moment to simply breathe her in—the musky, earthy smell of her. The unique smell of Eva. Lips wet. Clit beckoning. The heady, erotic rush I always got between the thighs of a beautiful woman.

  “You know someone can walk in here at any moment, right?” I say before closing my teeth along the skin of her inner thigh. She yelps. “So you’ll need to do two things for me, pretty girl.”

  “What’s that?” she asks, eyes shining. Fingers stroking my cheek.

  “Stay absolutely quiet,” I say, giving her clit a long, flat lick. She doesn’t moan, but her entire body seems to shimmer. “And come when I tell you to.”

  “I’m not sure I can—” she starts to say, but then I let my tongue dance an intricate, swirling rhythm against her clit, and she slaps h
er own palm over her mouth to quiet a wail. We were fucked either way if someone caught us, so I let any semblance of appropriateness drain from this moment in time.

  I shove my student back until the entire length of her gorgeous body splays across my desk. Head falling off the side, her long black tresses scraping the floor. Eva’s back arches and writhes, her breath in short, panting gasps, as I lick her clit in a steady, demanding rhythm. Slide two fingers inside her wet pussy, allowing myself the softest groan at the way her muscles clamp around my fingers.

  So greedy.

  So sweet.

  There were footsteps and voices and plenty of times when I thought we were going to get caught—which only spurred me on. Made me lick her faster, harder, her fingers tangled in my hair. My other hand slid beneath her shirt, palming her breasts, her nipples. I can't stop looking up at her, wanting to burn this experience permanently into my mind. I wanted this moment for poetry, for literature, for daydreams—this gorgeous woman with spread legs and my face buried between her thighs. Body writhing on my desk. I was as close to climax as I’d ever been, and as my beautiful Eva wailed against her palm in release, I circle my clit roughly and orgasm—sharp and bright with my tongue still buried inside of her.

  We weren’t caught, and afterward Eva left on shaking legs, hair mussed and breathing unsteady. I went home with a smile that wouldn’t leave my face—captivated by my student.

  The muse I didn’t know I was looking for.

  And of course, a week later, my dark-haired goddess stops by my office again. Propped the door open as wide as it could go. Slowly lifted her shirt over her head—a daring, public strip tease.

  “What’s your proposition this time?” I ask, leaning forward to lick the edges of her hipbones. Eva dropped to her knees, eyebrow raised, and spread my legs.

  “Extra credit,” she says with a smirk.

  She’ll always know the truth

  You’re fucking tired of everyone thinking you’re the Nice Guy.

  The goofy singer with a penchant for acoustic guitars and sweetness. You know what They Say. You know what your reputation is—and it’s a fine one.

  But it’s not the truth.

  You are spending all day twirling a gorgeous woman around a ballroom for a music video that any critic would call “romantic.” But your hands on her waist aren’t romantic. Neither are your fingers in her thick, apple-red hair. The two of you have flirted all day, in take after take, her skirt flying through the air and giving you the most delicious glimpse of the paradise between her legs.

  Every time the camera’s rolling, you go farther… press your fingers more tightly. Nuzzle her neck. Let the barest hint of your lips graze her ear. She feels it, too—breathing hitched. A flush along her collarbone.

  You are not the Nice Guy. Beneath that acoustic-guitar-demeanor beats the heart of a man who would do anything to get a woman off, the filthier the better.

  And it must be sheer serendipity that leaves you and your gorgeous dance partner alone in the ballroom that night—the sudden quiet almost startling. No techs, no cameras, no makeup artists. Just you and her… still dressed in that white dress, hair wild around her face.

  She knows. She’d been picking up on your dominant signals all night, and you can barely fight a grin as she steps primly toward you. Crosses her wrists behind her back and sinks gracefully to her knees. Eyes up—wide and watching.

  “Hello gorgeous,” you say, stroking her under the chin. This entire day felt like long, drawn-out foreplay.

  “I want to play,” she says, opening her lips for your willing fingers. She sucks them, eyes bright.

  “I don’t play nice,” you say softly, verifying her interest. “Are you okay with that?” She nods, whispers her safe word. You store it away, lean down, and give her a sweet kiss.

  It is the last time you’ll be sweet.

  Using your fingers, you pry her jaw open, release your straining cock. You smile, a little, when her brows shoot up at the size of you. Your dance partner lunges forward, and you let her—taking note of her tight nipples, pressed against the sheer white of her top. The glimmer of wet between her legs. And then your cock is enveloped in wet, hot, sucking heat, and you snarl. Your fingers twist in her hair, pulling hard, and tears spring to her pretty eyes.

  You don’t mouth-fuck like a nice guy. You take her throat with a viciousness, spurred on by her abject pleasure. She purrs and moans endlessly, hips thrusting off the floor, fingers straining behind her back. She wants to touch, but you deny her. Instead, you continue to fuck into her mouth until you are mindless with need.

  There is something else you want. With a groan, you stop her ministrations. Grab her by the throat and haul her back onto the ground. With strong fingers you tear her white dress completely in two until she is sprawled out in front of you, gloriously naked with shreds of fabric clinging to her skin. Her head is facing you, tipped back, and it’s all too easy for you to crawl over her body. Her mouth lands on your cock again—greedily—but your lips are now on her clit, and with one suck, she is half-screaming around your length.

  The two of you are writhing bodies on the hard ballroom floor. Still fully dressed, you fuck her mouth and lap at her clit and twist your fingers inside her cunt. This is what you live for: the Not-Nice Guy. It’s not that you're into sex with strangers because you’re heartless or a commitment-phobe.

  It’s just that fucking, to you, is everything. The sounds, the pleasure, the raw, pulsing need. Slapping skin and panting breaths and bite marks and the delicious thrill of a tongue along the curve of an ear.

  You want to fuck strangers because you are insatiable, and the more pleasure you can bring to women, the better. If a person could be addicted to that, then you surely are—addicted without a hope for reform.

  Your dance partner comes. Once. Twice. Before the third, you roll onto your back, keeping her on your face and holding her there as your tongue continues to explore every inch of her pussy. And later, it’s all too easy to tear off your tie and shove it into her mouth. Blindfold her eyes with the palm of your hand. Fuck her in long, frenzied strokes on the ballroom floor. Your climax has you biting her neck like an animal, and she screams around your tie.

  Months later, you can’t watch that music video without getting hard. So romantic. Ethereal. A ballroom dance between a lovely couple.

  Only the two of you know what happened after.

  And your dance partner comes by sometimes—always submissive. Always ready for you to be Not Nice.

  She’ll always know the truth.

  Let It Be You

  I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom, staring open-mouthed at the boy I’d fallen in love with when I was eighteen years old.

  Except he’s no boy anymore.

  It’d been four years since we last saw each other, and the only thought that seemed to ricochet through my brain was holy growth spurt.

  The last time I saw Patrick, we were breaking up, tearfully, after spending a hot and heavy summer together before college. But he was headed back to Cork, Ireland, his home, and I was off to UCLA. It was for the best, really, but after I’d seen him off at the airport, I’d cried for weeks.

  And spent four years at college missing him.

  I didn’t tell a single soul because, deep down, it was silly… yearning for a boy I’d only spent three months with.

  But Patrick was gentle and sweet—a poet at heart, with brown, soulful eyes and a mop of curly dark hair that I loved to run my fingers through. A shy, crooked smile and that Irish accent that makes my body tremble.

  Seeing him four years later, I began to realize those feelings were more than just yearning.

  And Patrick was no longer a floppy-haired poet.

  The person sitting cross-legged on the floor with me was a man. A thick-shouldered, lean-waisted, deep-voiced man.

  A man telling me that he was still a virgin.

  “Start over,” I said. “Tell me again.”


  His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I graduated from Cork, got my Literature degree. And now I’m getting my Master’s at UCLA. So I live here now.” His accent lilted like petals in the wind.

  “Congratulations,” I said. I remembered being eighteen and talking endlessly about school. He had always been studious, a deep thinker. Intellectual.

  “And,” he continued. “In the four years since I last saw you, I’ve not had sex with anyone. I’m a virgin.” Patrick reached forward for my thighs. Gave a tug until our knees touched.

  When he said the word virgin, a swift bolt of arousal struck between my legs.

  “What did… I mean, what have you done?” I asked, tongue-tied.

  He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Same things we did the summer before I left. I dated a bit while I was back in Cork. And with those girls we did… oral. Fingers, hands.” A slight blush in his cheeks, and for a second, Patrick looked just like he did that summer, picking me up for a date.

  But then I focused on his words, and the images they evoked in me were scandalous. I expected to feel jealousy that his lips and tongue and fingers had touched other women. Except all I could remember was his shy, hesitant tongue, exploring the folds of my pussy the first time he’d ever gone down on me. How I’d encouraged him, showed him the way, and when that tongue had given me an exquisite orgasm, my blushing boyfriend had looked anything but.

  Predatory.

  Confident.

  Almost… smug.

  I thought about his dark, curly head between the legs of countless Irish girls at Cork, bringing them to release, and it felt like my own private, dirty movie.

  “What have you done, love?” he asked. I squirmed beneath his gaze.

  “I lost my virginity a few months after you left,” I said, biting my lip. There is hurt, and some jealousy, in his gaze. But also interest. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing—imagining another man’s body moving over mine.