by Alison Tyler
’Course you can. Stand up and stare down at his gorgeous cock. Tell it to behave or you won’t kiss it. Then kneel in front of him and let him feel your hot breath against his naked skin. He’ll be harder than hard at this point. He’ll be doing a passable imitation of steel. So break your own rules now and kiss the head. Just the head. Give it any kind of kiss you like: sweet and chaste, wet and sloppy. He won’t complain. I’m telling you that from experience. He won’t say a word. He’ll be too afraid that any movement will stop the pleasure from continuing—and believe me, he doesn’t want that.
When you feel that he’s earned it, bob your head once or twice. Go on and do it right. You know how. Remember that you have a goal here. You want the shaft to be nice and slippery wet for when you climb on board. What I’m saying is that you’re doing yourself a service here by getting him ready for your sweet pussy. Think about that as you glide your tongue down to his balls and then gracefully bring it back up to the tip. Think about that as you finally pull off your own clothes—or at least as much as you need to in order to expose yourself—and slip your body on top of his.
Now, tell him what to do. If you want him to touch your breasts, or kiss your collarbone, or bite your bottom lip, you tell him. If you want him to firmly hold your wrists together over your head, or grip your hips, or kiss your neck, let him know. He won’t let you down. Ride him at your favorite speed. Pump your thighs and work him until you feel your own wetness glossing your inner thighs. Then stand up and have him take his spot behind you. Doggie-style is always best at this junction of the game. Place your palms flat in the seat of the chair, raise those pretty hips of yours, and tell him that you’re ready. He’ll grip you as he slides in deep, and then he’ll probably use one hand to pull your long hair, keeping you in place as he takes control.
It’s okay if he takes control now—or if he thinks he’s in control. Because you’re about to come, aren’t you? Oh, yeah, you are. You’re getting so close. Super close. So use one hand to tickle your own clit as he fucks you, and as you get closer, start to moan. Let him know it’s going to happen. Let him know it’s going to happen soon!
Do you have all that? Does it all make sense?
Great—because once you’ve mastered this, I’ll be more than happy to teach you Game #2, which is this: Try this in the backseat of your car. I’m serious. The backseat...
DOOR TO DOOR
Jessica Dondershein
Being a door-to-door cosmetic saleswoman isn’t easy. More women work out of the home these days, so fewer are around when I stop by. Cosmetics are one of life’s pleasures, and these same working women often buy their favorites at the mall, choosing chic, expensive name brands. But I have my own route, my own loyal customers, and I’m happy with them.
Sometimes customers recommend their friends, and I decided to do a few cold calls one afternoon to some of the suggested future customers. My first stop was in the high-end neighborhood of Atherton. I knew in my heart that I wouldn’t make a sale as I walked up the cobblestone drive. This lady could afford to bathe in champagne. She wasn’t going to want my champagne-scented bath beads for $6.99. But I’m not a quitter. I walked up the path and rang the bell.
The door was opened for me by an impertinent maid in one of those outfits I thought creatively kinky people wore on Halloween. It had a tiny skirt, puffed out around her by crinolines. She wore a lace apron over the whole thing. All in all, she had on about an ounce of fabric.
“Can I help you?” she asked, looking me over with dark eyes that made me momentarily forget where I was, what my name was, what I was trying to sell.
“I’m here to see Ms. Jackson,” I finally managed to tell her.
“She isn’t available,” the maid said. I thanked her and started to leave. “Would you like to wait?” the woman called out to me. This brought a smile to my lips. I turned back and entered the mansion, following the maid down the long marble hall to a woman’s bedroom.
“Shouldn’t I wait in the living room?” I asked, looking around at the huge bed, the white rugs, the velvet couches.
The maid shook her head and led me to one of the sofas, then sat across from me on the bed. Smiling, she parted her legs, wider and wider, revealing the fact that she didn’t have on panties and she did have a beautiful, freshly shaved pussy.
She motioned to me. I took a breath, smelling her fragrance from where I sat, and then (making a quick decision), walked over to the bed, got down on my knees, and began to eat her. She had a rich, dark flavor that I lapped at, and as I worked her, she made the sweetest noises, moaning as she pulled open the front of her uniform to paw at her own breasts. I got one hand up there, too, helping her out by pinching her nipples slowly, first one and then the other, brushing them with the ball of my thumb until they stood out hard, like tiny jewels.
I used my tongue and my other thumb on her clit, fanning out my fingers to place two in her pussy and tickling her ass with the other two. She was making a huge wet spot on the bed, but it wasn’t my bed. I didn’t care. When she asked me to undress, to get on top of her, I hesitated. “When’s Ms. Jackson due back?”
“Don’t worry,” she said again. I took another deep breath, looked at her waiting for me, and stripped, climbing on top of her in a perfect sixty-nine. She had the mouth of an angel, using it just right on my sopping cunt, nipping at my lips and nibbling at my clit until I was rocking my hips hard enough to shake the bed. I returned the treatment in kind, fucking her with my mouth and fingers, biting her thighs, spreading her asscheeks and impaling her with two fingers at once, getting deep in there where she was all warm and wet and sticky. I liked that feeling, fucking her asshole, because as she started to come, she squeezed her asscheeks tight around my fingers, as if trying to milk me.
We came at the same time, came again, and I got off her and sprawled out next to her, panting.
“Wow,” she said.
I echoed her, then stood and began to dress.
“Don’t do that yet...”
“I don’t want to be caught in Ms. Jackson’s bed...” I started, very aware of my just-been-fucked appearance.
The smile on her face turned into a laugh. “I don’t mind losing the sale,” I said. “But I don’t want to get arrested.”
She laughed harder, then caught herself and grinned at me.
“Trust me, you won’t,” she said, peeling off her uniform and tossing it aside. For a moment, she stood, naked, letting me see the whole of her beautiful body as she walked to the closet doors and opened them. Inside, neatly hung, were dozens of different uniforms: maid, nurse, doctor, police officer, naval officer...
She walked back over to me, tossing her hair out of her face and extending her hand. “I’m Veronica Jackson,” she said sweetly, “pleased to meet you.”
AMORE
Luke Artell
I was eighteen when I went to Italy with my parents. It wasn’t altogether a dreamlike trip for the three of us. We ended up getting on each other’s nerves at every turn. They were still in the “we can make you do whatever we want” mode and I was in the “like hell you can” mode. In the end, we spent a lot of time apart, sightseeing on our own, which I believe saved everyone’s sanity.
It was while doing my best to avoid the folks that I met a raven-haired Italian waitress at the café near our hotel. All I knew how to say in Italian was “La Fenicci,” which was the name of the hotel, “grazzi” (thank you), “prego” (please), and “San Marco” (San Marco, obviously, the lovely pigeon-strewn square in Venice). The only English word the waitress knew was “Levi’s,” which she pronounced adorably, “Leveees.”
But she smiled at me in a very seductive way, and somehow we made do with our lack of verbal skills. Made do on the bed in my hotel room, her skimpy summer-weight black dress balled up on the dresser, my “Leveees” and white T-shirt in a heap on the floor. We sat on the bed together, stripped completely, her legs over mine as we worked to become entwined like human pretzels. She moan
ed when I kissed her neck, which is my all-time favorite part of a woman. She let me kiss her neck for what seemed like hours, lingering on the pulse point, spending much time at the base of it, that sultry spot between her collarbones. She had long, dark, straight hair, and she tilted her head way back to let me get at her neck, and her hair tickled my fingers, which were holding on to her back.
I loved her smell. She wore a musky perfume, but she also smelled like the café in which she worked. Her skin had the flavor of the coffee that she served, and a bit of the spices that they put in the pasta sauce, and some of the wine, as well, as if she took a drink from some customer’s half-empty glass every once in awhile. She tasted dark and rich, but I didn’t get down to her pussy until I spent a good, long time drinking in all of the scent and flavor from the skin of her neck, and arms, and belly.
When she lay back on my bed, her hair spread around her head like a blanket, and I would start at the tips of it, running my fingers through it. Then I would work my way to kissing her eyebrows, which were thick and dark and amazingly sexy. Her eyes were the brown of the coffee she served, and she’d close them so that I could kiss the fair, translucent skin of her eyelids. She had a strong nose, which I traced over and over again with my fingers, and she had a slight cleft in her chin which I believed would make her a movie star if she came to America with me. By the time I made my way down to her breasts, she’d be breathing hard, but it wouldn’t make me work any faster. I spent time on her nipples, because they deserved my time. I kissed and licked them, held them between my lips and sucked them to make them stand out. They were brown, like milk chocolate, and small, but her breasts were also small, so they suited her.
I worked my way down her ribs, not missing one, to her belly. She had a little belly, a small swell of a belly, even though she was a thin girl. I liked to cup it in my hands, to kiss all around it, and this made her smile. She wasn’t self-conscious of her body the way American girls sometimes are. She seemed pleased with the amount of lust and energy I bestowed on each part of her. But each part of her deserved it. Every inch of her was divine.
Her pussy was covered in a thick mat of silky dark hair that I liked to lick. I lapped at her fur with the flat of my tongue, parting her lips at the same time and tickling her between them. She responded delightfully, grabbing at me, pushing me down, demanding (I could understand the tone if not the words) that I satisfy her.
I would do nothing less. I would make her come slowly, specifically treating her to the many ways my tongue could bring her pleasure. I taunted her with nips to her pussy lips between caressing circles of my tongue. I took her bursting clit between my lips and sucked it gently, flicking my tongue between my lips to tap on it, rap on it, until she could take no more and she exploded with orgasm and more liquid than any other woman I’d been with. She ejaculated in my mouth, and her taste was as pleasing as the perfume of her skin. It was my desire, my duty, to make her come as many times as I could.
Supposedly, I’d been brought along on this trip so that I could see the world, appreciate my small status within it. But I felt as if I’d been brought to Venice to learn the geography and topography of this one stunning woman. That was my goal. While my parents viewed every artifact, every ancient edifice, I viewed my waitress from every way I could conceive. Upside-down. Bent over. From behind.
We pleasured each other in many positions, turning topsy-turvy on my bed, head-to-tail, bucking against each other like animals. And near the end of my visit, we stole into the square late at night and made love against the base of one of the ancient statues, kissing and fondling in the white-gold moonlight.
When it was time to part—when, sad though it was, we had to say good-bye in the only way we could—I made love to her a final time, memorizing the lines of her lovely neck. Remembering her taste for eternity. I promised to come back and she promised to visit... at least, I think we did. Grazzi, prego, and San Marco don’t get you very far in the language of long good-byes.
But I did give her my Leveees as a token of my “amore.”
THE PORN DATE
Rachel Kramer Bussel
I’d had a crush on Scott for almost a year, but thus far hadn’t been successful in really catching his attention. He knew me, sure, he even said hello when we saw each other in class, but other than that, I was nothing to him. One day after our Contemporary Film class, where we’d been discussing erotic movies, I heard him and his friends talking about their favorite porno flicks. I was a bit surprised with myself when I jumped right into their conversation and said, “Have any of you seen ‘Dirty Angels’?” They all looked at me in shock, but Scott’s eyes gave me a pretty thorough once-over before meeting mine and smiling right into them. His stare was magnetic, drawing me to him, and neither of us needed to say much more. It was as if he were seeing me for the first time. His friends ambled away, and he put his hand on my arm and asked if I wanted to come over that night to check out his porn collection. I’d been angling for just such an invitation, but while my heart flip-flopped in delight, I just smiled coolly at him and agreed.
That night, I dressed carefully. Even though it was obvious that the entire night was engineered, on both our parts, for us to wind up in bed together, I didn’t want to hit him over the head with my eager intentions. I wore a pleated grey skirt, tight white T-shirt, denim jacket, and black stockings and tennis shoes. I completed the outfit with a choker and some red lipstick, grabbed my purse, and headed over to his apartment.
He answered the door and played the gentleman, taking my coat and purse, and offering me a drink. I chose a beer, and then he led me over to the TV case where he kept his videos. I stopped myself from clapping in delightful glee; it was like I’d hit the porno jackpot! One entire drawer featured all porn; the others were devoted to animation and endless hockey and baseball games. Most of my girlfriends had three or four regular movies, tops, and no porn whatsoever, but I guess with boys it’s different.
I peered into the case, fascinated by the choices arrayed before me. Some were slick store-bought tapes, with shiny, colorfully lurid boxes; others were plain black tapes that had handmade labels with titles like “Girls Who Suck Cock” and “Anal Sex.” My eyes lit up when I saw one I’d heard lots about—the one with the heavy metal rocker and his well-endowed model/actress wife. “Where’d you get this?” I asked, picking it up.
“From a friend, you know, we tape them for each other.” I nodded and marveled at the difference between the access guys and girls have to porn, grateful to this well-connected (and hopefully well-hung) guy.
“Let’s watch this one,” I said with an eager grin. We settled onto the couch, me cradling my beer, sitting near him but not touching him directly. I was quiet during most of the movie, trying to take in all the scurried sexual activity: sex in the car, sex on a boat, sex in the living room, sex anywhere and everywhere. When the film focused in on her lips closing around his enormous cock, I couldn’t take my solitary arousal anymore. With my eyes still on the screen, I reached over and felt for Scott’s cock. Sure enough, it was nice and hard. I squeezed it through the fabric of his shorts, squirming as I heard his sharp gasp. I squeezed harder as my hand found its way down to his balls. His own hand wandered over to my lap, creeping up my thigh to the edge of my panties, then reaching underneath. His fingers played with my wetness, teasing me by entering me slightly, then pulling out. I stood up and pushed his hips back against the couch, the video now all but forgotten. I straddled his lap. His cock felt even harder now, pushing through our layers of clothing towards my cunt. I ground myself against him, leaning my head back and feeling the ache inside of me. He pulled me to him, his hands urging my hips closer and closer.
I could hear moaning coming from the TV as I sat up again, leveraging myself against the couch long enough to take my panties off. I rubbed my clit hard and then stuck my first two fingers inside me, slicking them, then put them into his mouth. He suckled them, reveling in my juices. I lifted up my skirt so he
could see my pussy. At that, I could see his cock straining to get inside me, jerking inside his briefs. I stood up and pulled him up with me. I led him into the bedroom, discarding my clothes as I went. I reached the bed and lay down on my stomach, naked, bent over. “Mmm,” he said, groaning as his own clothes quickly fell to the floor and his cock jumped forward. He grabbed a condom and I heard him unroll it as I continued to rub my clit, my face pressed into a pillow.
Then I felt the head of his cock pressing into me, and I lifted my ass in the air. He slid into my wet cunt and kept going, filling me as I lifted myself to get closer to him. I relaxed into him, letting myself go. I squeezed his cock as my muscles contracted, and felt myself getting wetter and wetter. He pulled my hair, lifting my head up slightly, and I looked back at him briefly. I knew I was very close to coming. He let go of my hair and leaned forward on the bed, thrusting faster and faster inside me. I rubbed my clit as fast as I could, thinking of Scott, the video, the way his cock felt as he pushed all the way inside me. I felt myself start to come, and gripped the sheets tightly as I shook. I felt shivers move through my whole body. His orgasm followed soon after. He collapsed on top of me, breathing heavily. I smiled.
This had been a very successful porn date.
CHRISTMAS MORNING
N. T. Morley
Before she even woke up on Christmas morning, Christelle felt that she was alone in the bed. When she opened her eyes and saw the indentation that her lover had left, she rolled over onto his side of the mattress, feeling his lingering warmth and inhaling deeply of his scent. She had forgotten that it was Christmas until after she had realized that she was horny. As thoughts filtered through her mind, she felt the pressure of her stiffening nipples against the sheets, felt the familiar pulse between her legs, a heat and hunger that always came when she wanted sex. She wished Aaron was here against her, climbing on top of her, or perhaps guiding her down under the covers to take his cock in her mouth. She ran her fingers lazily up her thighs and touched her smooth pussy, feeling how wet it was. She rubbed her clit lightly and gasped at the sensation, moaning softly. If Aaron were here, he would fuck her. She wondered where he’d gotten to.