Down and Dirty

by Alison Tyler

  His hands trembled, and he now stared at her with an appealing mix of confusion and desire. She wanted to help him as much as she wanted to toy with him. She slid a finger over her clit and pushed it between her swollen pussy lips. “I feel certain this would be prohibited by law,” she whispered.

  With great effort, he got to his feet, using the desk for support.

  “Get on the desk.” She complied immediately, and as he helped her climb on top of the desk, he let one hand cup a luscious breast while the other sampled her dripping pussy. He positioned her so that her ass stuck up in the air, begging for a spanking. He slid her tiny skirt up over her shapely behind to expose her completely.

  After fingering her slippery folds until her moans were constant, he slapped her rounded globes gently. She felt her skin ignite under his touch.

  “You’re a naughty girl, Marianne. Making me want to fuck you right here in the classroom.”

  His warm, sensitive hands traveled over her body with a slow hunger. When his cock plunged into her wet, waiting hole, she gasped and threw her body into his thrusts, forcing him deeper inside her.

  She felt certain this was all wonderfully illegal.

  LIKE A VIRGIN…

  Maxim Jakubowski

  It never was better than the first time. Later occasions might prove more sensual, longer, more kinky or perverse, more skillful or lasting, technically outstanding or just proficient, but it just wasn’t the same.

  And every first time in initially unknown hotel rooms was the best of all.

  Years later, when the thrill of the chase had faded, or when he just couldn’t find the mental energy within his soul to embark on yet another transitory relationship that could only tread a road to nowhere, he would swim willingly through the reef of memories and vicariously treat himself to a movie of past, long-gone moments, secure in the knowledge that those times would never be his again to taste, enjoy, experience, struggle with. It would be like a private library, a unique collection where sensual, tender memories would rival the space customarily devoted by the collector within to books, CDs and DVDs. A scintillating gallery of moments, of mental impressionism.

  A hotel room near an airport where no one was likely to recognize them, the smell of ozone in the air, and the distant rumbling of jumbo jets on their approach or departure: that indefinable feeling of burning up inside because the lust is just accumulating at a rate too fast for the heart to burn it off like mere calories, the nagging fear of the unknown, the unusual surroundings of the hotel room. This is what they have been building up to for three agonizing months of on/off/on/off/on debates in city bars: “Do we sleep together or don’t we?” A tentative kiss.

  Her mouth is warm and soft. As ever. The look in her eyes. Pleading. Scared. Eager. Submissive. Defiant. They have wife and husband back home, in ignorance.

  Adultery set loose that would change their lives forever.

  His hand, finally, moving to her body, the pliant elasticity of her thigh. The undressing. The foreplay and, like a holy proclamation half an hour later, her cry of need: “I want you inside me now...” The first time he fucked Kate. The way her brown eyes watched his every movement and thrust inside her. Her sounds. The white alabaster landscape of her body and the scarlet tinge of the orgasmic flush that sometimes overcame her shoulders and chest. Memories that can never be erased.

  Then, a hotel in Amsterdam, overlooking a grey canal and parked bicycles. The awkward and slow rise of the elevator up to his floor, following their furtive, eyes down, passage by the night porter’s desk and an endless walk through the red-light district, both knowing that they are going to end up in bed, but delaying the inevitable on and on. The frantic fumbling for each other’s lips, and hands roaming freely over willing bodies, the tugging of clothes. He gets on his knees and slowly, in the semi-darkness, pulls her panties down. Her pubic hair is all curls and slightly damp. He sniffs, but all he can smell is the remote fragrance of soap. He inserts a finger inside her cauldron. She is on fire. She moans. He quickly pushes her back against the bed and she allows herself to collapse with languor over the drawn bedcover. He is hard as hell and almost bursting with a rage to tear her apart, this soft-spoken girl with the lovely accent. She is already so wet. He remembers a past conversation and guides her around onto her knees, her stated preference to be taken doggie-style. She angles her rump towards him. The view of her exposed openings is like a salutary slap in the face, unforgettable, powerful, indelibly obscene. He moves into her in one swift movement, all the while storing the memory in the safety of his grey matter.

  Or, again, this time a hotel in Paris, with exposed wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling and far wall. He has barely known her a month or so and their first meeting in the flesh, so to speak, was at the railway station just an hour ago. Their only contact prior to today was by e-mail or telephone. It’s a crazy situation, but it somehow makes complete sense. She was so much taller than he had expected, but her breasts are a wonder to behold. Fingers, lips and feelings have already played a mad dance of lust and their clothes are in disarray. “Wait,” she says and rises, divine areas of flesh exposed, and tiptoes quickly to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she returns. She is quite naked. He holds his breath back as he stares at the smooth, shaven area of her cunt. Of course, he already knew, not only had she told him but his exploratory fingers some minutes ago had certainly double-checked, but the vision is just too much. He feels as if his heart has stopped. She signals for him to lie down and her mouth envelopes him. He has to think of books and such to avoid coming inside her throat prematurely. Shortly after, she confesses she loves him. Lust and feelings, an unholy mix, just like romanticism and pornography.

  The safety of unknown hotel rooms, as anonymous as Internet forums or chat lines. The cozy coexistence of unbridled sexual excess and mundanity. The rooms, the women, the acts.

  They say that at the moment of death your whole past parades in front of your eyes, like a film on a loop, fast, out of control, out of reach.

  He sometimes wonders whether, when the moment finally comes, his own epiphany will be full of hotel room horizons and beautiful fucks.

  He hopes it will.

  ALL EYES ON HER

  M. Christian

  The city sat around her. From where she was standing, nothing but the silver squares of windows seemed to be watching. But she knew better; she could feel them sitting behind their desks, in their living rooms, in the bedrooms, in their beds, watching her.

  The gravel and tar paper of the roof was hot underfoot, but she enjoyed it. It was the totality of it, the completeness of the act, which made her nipples into hard knots and stoked the fire of her cunt. Wearing slippers, shoes or anything else would’ve made it incomplete, would’ve ruined the statement: standing naked on the rooftop, letting the city watch her.

  At first Cindy didn’t think she could do it. This was a private thing, something to lie back in a warm tub and think about—rubbing herself into a rolling orgasm. In the real world the roof was hot, the gravel hurt the bottoms of her feet and a hard wind cut over the concrete edge of the roof and blasted through her.

  Despite the pains in her feet, the chilly air and the hot tar, she stood naked on the roof of her little five-story apartment building, a fire roaring in her cunt.

  There, that little square: he watched her. Slowly, he got harder and harder till all of his few inches were strong and hard in his hand. He watched, smiling, happy and excited. When he came, he selflessly groaned and got his window messy.

  Cindy watched the city watching her. Looking at one silvery window in particular, she lifted her right hand to her left breast and stroked the soft skin and pinched the hard nipple.

  —they watched her. Taken with her brazenness, the attitude of this obvious species of urban nymph, who could say who started it? Maybe it was Michelle who first dropped her shorts and started the kiss. But then it could’ve been Stacie who started it, who put her hand between them to feel her own gro
wing arousal. Was it Michelle who dropped to her knees and started to lick Stacie’s clit?

  Or was it Stacie?

  Who came first?

  Did Stacie buck against Michelle’s mouth? Or did Michelle push fiercely against Stacie’s face? Or did it really matter? The end certainly justified the means—

  Cindy looked up at the sun. It bathed her, baked her; her skin vibrated with the heat of it, the fire it coated her with. Right hand still on left, she felt her breast, playing with the texture of it, the underlying muscle, the strong tip of her nipple. Sun on her, she moved left to right, massaging her breasts under the gaze of the warm sun.

  —sitting on their bed, she watched the woman on the rooftop across the street. The sun was almost too bright, too hot, and for a moment she thought about what she had to do: shower, get dressed, go to work. But the woman, the daringness of her, the casualness of her, kept her glued to the window. She didn’t seem crazy, but that’s what she had to be. To stand up there in the sight of God and everyone else, and rub herself like that. It turned her on something fierce. It made her horny, that’s what it did. She savored the word as she pulled herself up from sitting to all fours. Her breasts pulled away from her body in this position—they strained against her body and rolled in her housedress.

  Without thinking, she put a hand down the front of her dress and cradled one of her breasts. The nipple was so hard; it ached, it was so hard. Cautiously, she squeezed and pulled gently at it. Fire raced through her. Her legs felt like they were going to collapse. The woman across the street, touching herself, it was like she was crazy, touching herself and thinking about her nipples and between her legs she could feel herself grow wet—

  Her legs were tired, so Cindy lowered herself down till she squatted over the hot gravel roof. Her breasts were heavy and tight, her nipples ached to be touched and sucked. No thought. Not a one. Watching the city watching her, Cindy put a hot hand between her hot legs. Her thighs were wet, her cunt was a damp forest of blonde curls. Her lips were wet and hot. She ran a single finger from her clit to her cunt to her ass, and shivered in delight.

  —bent over the chair, her ass in the air, her arms down the chair back, her knees on the seat, Betty could feel Bob’s tongue playing with her cunt. He loved to eat her, and, God, he was good at it. She pushed herself back towards his face, trying to get his hard, strong, tongue deeper into her soaking cunt. Then he found her puckered asshole, and started to tongue around it. Christ! She felt like screaming. She needed cock now, right now in her soaking pussy, she needed to be filled, fucked, she wanted to come and come and come! Then Bob was at her clit, and the world seemed to boil down to the points of her nipples, the glow of her ass, the wetness of her cunt, her lover’s tongue, and the joy of her clit. She was so lost, so incredibly lost getting ready to come, that she almost forgot to look up, to look across the way to see what that chick on the roof was doing next—

  Cindy’s cunt juice ran between her fingers. She was so wet. Her cunt was soaking, her clit was a hard bead between her legs, tucked between her lips. She’d worked out a system, and it was working real good: First she’d plunge her hands deep within herself, up and deep till she could swear THERE was her G-spot. Then she’d pull out, slow and hard, pushing aside her hot, soaking lips till her fingers glided past her clit. Then she’d work it, rubbing around and around the little bead of her clit. Then back—back to her cunt, the depths of her, her hot lips, her clit, over and over again.

  Sometimes she’d use both hands, pushing all fingers into herself like some huge cock. Sometimes she’d use just one, saving the other, wet and smelling of her cunt, for the knots of her nipples, her aching breasts.

  Then she came, fast and oh-so-hard, with the whole world watching.

  LEFT OUT

  Lillian Alexander

  Sara wished she’d been invited. She knew all of them well enough so that she could visualize the person to go with each laugh she heard, tinkling up to her from the balcony below.

  There. That was the schoolteacher, second grade, she recalled, at Jordan Elementary on the corner of Main and Fourth. And there. That was the woman from the flower store, the owner, small with a dark bob. She often smiled at Sara when she walked past the shop on the way to her bus, but Sara rarely met the woman’s gaze. It was too inquisitive, too intrusive.

  The next voice belonged to the hostess of the party, a dancer. Sara had seen her long legs flash in the pool, body clad in a somber black maillot. The dancer never dressed in dark clothes to go out, always wore bright colors: red, purple, a brilliant blue cashmere coat that nearly brushed the ground when she moved.

  Sara walked to the balcony of her own apartment, built—she knew—exactly like the one below, like all the ones on this side of the building. She imagined that the dancer stood directly beneath her, with one foot turned out in a classic pose, and a glass of chilled white wine in her hand. The dancer had her head thrown back as she laughed at a joke told by, who…the boyfriend, of course, a great tall man with reddish blond hair and enormous arms that bulged with muscles.

  But why hadn’t Sara been invited?

  She wasn’t that much older than the rest of them, younger, in fact, than a few. And she didn’t appear that standoffish, did she? There was more laughter, loud enough that Sara thought it would drive her mad. She considered calling the police, reporting a disturbance. Then a more daring thought occurred to her. Quickly, without pausing to give herself time to back out, she put on her best black dress. She fixed her hair and touched up her makeup. Just as quickly, she walked down the stairs to apartment 4E and tried the knob. The door opened and Sara walked in, hoping to blend quietly with the others.

  Instead, there was a sudden silence. Sara stood, her hand still on the door, and felt the eyes of the rest of the partiers focus on her. The other people were all naked. Every one of them. They were in various positions around the room. Some were in the middle of actually having sex, others were simply leaning against each other, kissing. Or talking. But all were naked. Sara, in her black evening dress and black hose, was a striking figure against the various colors of skin.

  “I...” Sara started, but then she realized she had nothing, absolutely nothing to say. She was barging in, uninvited, and so was unable to act horrified. But how should she act?

  The hostess of the party, Serina, who was entangled with one of the other guests on the chaise longue, smiled at Sara. “I’m so glad you could join us,” the dancer said, her smile smeared with the glistening juices of her lover’s pleasure. “I didn’t know if you’d be interested in attending one of our get-togethers. But now that you’re here, please make yourself comfortable.”

  A striking redhead, about Sara’s height and size, moved closer to the doorway. The woman, whose pussy was covered with a fur slightly lighter than her shoulder-length mane, seemed to understand Sara’s desire to flee.

  “My name’s Elaine,” the redhead said. “Why don’t you come with me to the bedroom? You might feel more comfortable undressing there.”

  Undressing? Sara’s eyes grew wide. But then, because she had been left out her whole life, because she’d never done anything risqué at all, she followed Elaine down the hall. Elaine’s ass was round and firm, and Sara was captivated by it as she entered the bedroom. Once inside, Elaine waited, patiently, for Sara to disrobe. Sara took a deep breath, then undressed. Naked, she stood with her arms awkwardly at her sides and stared at Elaine.

  The redhead smiled winningly, and motioned toward the bed. “Would you like to join me in here? It might be less intimidating at first than joining the party right away.”

  Inwardly, Sara sighed with relief. She let Elaine lead her to the bed, where they both sprawled on top of the coats and clothing of the rest of the partiers. Sara felt a fur coat beneath her ass, and she liked its soft tickle. Then, as Elaine purposefully parted her legs and used her thumbs to part Sara’s pussy lips, Sara learned that she liked the soft tickle there, as well.

  She could
n’t believe that only minutes before she’d been feeling sorry for herself, alone in her apartment. Now, there was this sparkling beauty making sweet love to her delta of Venus, in a way she’d never had anyone make love to her, on a bed lined with mink and silks and satins. Sara sighed and closed her eyes, basking in the glow of Elaine’s knowing ministrations.

  Suddenly, she felt something brushing her lips. She opened her eyes to find herself staring into Elaine’s pussy. The cunning redhead had swiveled her body around so that her mouth was still glued to Sara’s cunt, but her own nether regions were in close proximity to Sara’s mouth.

  It had been an evening filled with revelations. Thinking this, Sara opened her mouth and pressed forward, tentatively, with her tongue, just gently tapping it against Elaine’s pussy lips. Elaine responded by moving back, rocking her hips toward Sara’s mouth. Sara kept her tongue poked out, stiff, and Elaine impaled herself on it. Empowered by Elaine’s hungry groans, Sara swirled her tongue around in Elaine’s pussy, bumping up against Elaine’s pussy walls, trying to find her clitoris. Sara’s had been located swiftly by Elaine, who was now generously bestowing wet kisses to it, and to the sensitive area around it.

  When, by simple exploration, Sara found Elaine’s clit, Elaine responded deliciously, groaning loudly, pressing her face even more firmly to Sara’s wet cunt. The vibrations of Elaine’s voice worked within Sara, echoing throughout the walls of her vagina, and she lifted her hips helplessly toward Elaine, not able to stop the rapid bucking rhythm that her body seemed to crave.

  Elaine’s moans grew louder, and soon, although Sara didn’t immediately notice, the door to the bedroom had opened and the dancer, her boyfriend, and two other guests stood watching in rapt attention. When she came, the bed was ringed by Serina’s guests. The applause simply added to the height of Sara’s orgasm.