by Alison Tyler
“We’ve got to take a picture,” she said, pulling the sports car over to the side of the little highway before motioning me toward a crude wooden fence, about chest high, made of split logs.
I leaped over a couple of puddles, climbed up the fence and perched on one splintery log.
She clicked a photo with the disposable camera and smiled.
“Now take one of me,” she said. “Quick, before it goes away.”
I glanced behind me and saw the rainbow hanging above us far away, brilliant as ever. I climbed down and took my place in front of the car as Lindsay clambered onto the fence and settled on a big thick log. She threw her arms up in a cheerleader-style “L,” which she did a lot when posing for pictures. “L” was for “Lindsay,” but in this case it also served to frame the rainbow. She flashed a big, bright smile.
I stood in front of the car and looked at her through the viewfinder. Her white T-shirt was still a little damp from when we’d gotten caught in the rain an hour before. I could see the contours of her firm tits and the peaks of her nipples, showing through the thin bra she wore. The spirals of lace accented the small mounds. Her khaki shorts, reaching to mid-thigh, were similarly damp, revealing the outline of her body as they hung low, beltless, on the swell of her hips.
“Any day now,” she said.
“Just a sec,” I said, savoring the view of her with the shape of her nipples exposed, her strawberry-blonde hair damp with long-ago rain. I smiled.
“What’s the holdup?” she asked.
“Take off your shirt.”
Her skin, pink at all times, grew pinker still. “This is a public road.”
“Exactly. Take off your shirt.”
She thought about it for a moment, then whipped off her white T-shirt. Her perfect tits looked incredible, their curves revealed through the thin mesh with its spray of opaque lace at the bottoms.
I snapped a couple of pictures. I could see Lindsay blushing, but after the first few I could also tell she was enjoying herself. When she flashed her smiling “L” again to capture the rainbow, the white T-shirt slipped from her hand.
“Now the shorts,” I told her.
“What? You are crazy.”
“You have to change your shirt anyway. Might as well change everything.”
“I don’t have another clean pair,” she said.
“I do,” I told her. I moved the camera to the side and mouthed, “Please?”
After a moment, she hooked her feet between the split logs of the crude fence and, without unzipping them, snugged her shorts down over her hips. Underneath she wore the skimpiest thong I’d ever seen. White mesh, totally see-through, showing her strawberry-blonde pubic hair.
“Very nice,” I said as she spread her legs just enough to pause the shorts around her knees. “I especially like the fact that you’re still wearing your hiking boots. That’s sexy.”
The shutter clicked.
She went to pull the shorts up, and I said, “Uh-uh. Take them all the way off.”
“This is getting ridiculous,” she said.
“What have you got to lose?” I asked her.
“A couple hundred dollars for an indecent exposure citation?” she said.
“I’ll pay it,” I told her. “Please?”
Her hands were quivering as she lowered her khaki shorts further, slipping them over her ankles. She looked awkwardly at the shorts.
“Toss them to me,” I said.
Looking guilty, she tossed me the shorts and I caught them neatly, tossing them through the open driver’s side window without looking back. I clicked the shutter and Lindsay made movements like she was starting to get down.
“I’m not finished with you,” I said. “Take off the bra.”
Maybe she had passed the point of no return; maybe her arousal was clouding her judgment. She didn’t argue, just looked at me with a need for reassurance.
“You’re sure?”
“It’ll be all right,” I said. “Show me your tits.”
She glanced back at the rainbow. It was still there, gleaming brilliantly.
“Quick,” I said. “Before the rainbow goes away.”
She unhitched the front clasp of her bra and peeled the moist see-through mesh away from her gorgeous tits. Her nipples were very hard now, and very pink. Like her face. She smiled and made her “L,” and I could see her hands were shaking a little. It wasn’t that cold.
“This is turning you on,” I said, before I looked through the viewfinder and clicked.
“Yeah, I guess,” she said, looking embarrassed. She thought about it for an instant, and I saw her eyes dart back toward the rainbow.
“Enough to get you wet?”
“I’m already wet,” she said, running her hands through her dripping hair.
“You know what I’m talking about,” I said, clicking the shutter.
“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Touch your pussy and find out.”
Again, the eyes flickering toward the rainbow. Her legs inching open, her fingers traveling tentatively up her thighs, then slipping down the small triangle of her thong. Her lips parted and she drew a sharp intake of breath as she touched her pussy.
“Are you?” I asked again.
She seemed beyond words. “Uh-huh,” she said. She hadn’t taken her hand out of her underwear. On the contrary, she was rubbing her pussy slowly, up and down, obviously not wanting to stop. “I’m...I’m going to get splinters in my butt.”
I took four or five pictures in rapid succession of Lindsay rubbing herself with her hand tucked deep into that skimpy thong.
“We can’t have that,” I said. “Come down off the fence.”
She still clutched her wet bra in her hand, and she didn’t even notice when she dropped it as she climbed down. I tossed the camera into the car. Lindsay inched toward me, nervously, her eyes locked on mine. She didn’t seem to mind that it had started to mist again. The rainbow began to wash away, but still hung there through the descending haze.
“Hi,” she said shyly, as if she wasn’t sure exactly what I intended to do.
When she was in grabbing distance I seized her, spun her around, and pushed her up against the hood of the car with her mouth molded to mine. She whimpered as my tongue slipped inside her mouth, and her arms went around me for just long enough to pull me close—then she was groping at my belt, pulling it open, unzipping my pants.
I placed her firmly on the tiny hood of the sports car and spread her out, legs wide as I plucked her thong out of the way. She got my cock, hard and ready, in her hand and guided it to her pussy. She moaned as I entered her.
The mist was really coming down now, soaking us both and making Lindsay’s naked flesh glisten with droplets. Her eyes flickered toward the remnants of the rainbow and then closed tight in hunger as she opened her mouth for mine, our tongues twisting together savagely. Her hands slid down into my pants and past the waistband of my shorts. She gripped my ass firmly, her nails digging in as she drew me deeper into her cunt.
The mist became a downpour. Lindsay spread her legs further and cinched her thighs around me, capturing me firmly. I leaned fully onto her, so much so that the car sank into the mud. I didn’t care. I fucked her in long, quick strokes, making her pull me closer and sigh. Her hands gripped my hair as she sought purchase to lift her hips and meet my thrusts. Soon she was whimpering again, rhythmically this time, and I knew she was going to come.
It was a cloudburst now, great, warm droplets pumping onto us. There was so much water running down my face I could only see Lindsay through a great, blurry mass in flashes of brilliant lightning. She was moaning loud, really loud, her sounds shrouded in the roar of thunder and the rush of water.
My mouth seized her nipple and she arched her back as I began to suckle it. My fingers pressed ’round her face and she sucked desperately at my fingers as I plunged into her again and again. When
she came, I felt her nails digging into my flesh—there would be marks. As her orgasm took her, her face exploded in a shimmer of lightning, illuminated by the flashing of the clouds. She screamed at the top of her lungs, a bestial release of energy that the storm and the thunder swallowed up like nothing. When I let myself go inside her, she whispered, “Yes, yes, yes,” close to my ear, and for some reason I could hear that over the rain.
We were both as wet as if we’d been swimming. Me in my clothes, Lindsay in the smallest and most see-through thong bikini the law would allow and a big pair of tomboy hiking boots.
“Shit,” I said, having difficulty talking because water was running into my mouth. “We’d better go before the mud swallows our car.”
She ran to the passenger’s side, forgetting her bra. She reached for the blanket we kept in the backseat, curling up under it, water and mud running everywhere. I jumped in and started the car, spinning the wheels before managing to pull out of the mud.
“The rainbow’s gone,” she said, looking sadly up into the sky where our patron saint had been suspended a half-hour ago, watching and tempting us.
“It’ll be back,” I said.
“Yeah,” Lindsay answered thoughtfully. Then she smiled. “I think it will.”
TOO SHY...
Ayre Riley
Josh works the register at the local grocery store, and I can’t get my eyes off him. Dark hair, dark eyes, a goatee on his chiseled face. That face—like El Diablo—is hard as stone. I picture him staring at me as we fuck, those deep eyes watching me, those full lips parted and ravenous. I can see exactly the way it will be, but I don’t know how to get us there.
He wears leather, black jeans, Docs. He has piercings and wristbands and everything about him screams danger. In fact, he’s just my type. Each time I see him, I feel that leg-weakening shudder start from deep inside me, and I have to hold on to the edge of my cart, or simply stand still and breathe deeply, which can look odd when you’re in a rush-hour-packed supermarket filled with people in a hurry. I don’t care. I only have eyes for him.
But when, after weeks of staring, I finally get up the nerve to hand over my phone number along with the money for my groceries, he blushes. What’s up? I wonder. He looks tougher than tough, yet I’ve managed to confuse him somehow with my scrap of paper and unlisted digits. He doesn’t say a word as he tucks the paper into his front jeans pocket. Doesn’t say anything as he hands over my change. Is he all looks and no play? I hope not. Back at home, I wish desperately that he’ll come through for me. And my wishes are answered. He manages to call.
Yet even though he says he’s been watching me as much as I’ve been watching him, waiting for me to choose his line with my cart of groceries, we find ourselves in an awkward situation, one that I’ve never experienced before. After work, he brings over a movie to watch with me, and I’m desperate to forget the onscreen action and create a little sofa action of our own. But the thing of it is this: We’re too shy to act on our arousal. Can you believe that? I’m the girl who has actually picked up another date while on a date. I’ve done threesomes and foursomes, and yet with Josh I’m a virgin. I can’t even remember how to kiss. What the rules are. Who goes where. How to get from up at bat to a home run. So fucking—well, that’s so far out of the question that I can’t even comprehend the concept.
This doesn’t mean there isn’t fire between us, because there is. Sparks. Heat. Volcanic lava. I come that night with my fingers against my clit, imagining what it will feel like when we ultimately do it. I know he has it in him. I can sense the passion waiting—repressed, but waiting. I make a promise to myself that the next time we’ll just get down to business. Screw awkward pauses. Screw polite conversation. Screw each other.
Doesn’t happen.
When we get together at his apartment, an innocence takes over that is so cute I can’t stand it. He holds my hand and powerful trembles work through me. He runs his fingers over my jeans-clad thigh, and I think that I just might come from that touch alone. But that’s all there is. Gentle, through-the-clothing stroking while our eyes remain focused on the TV screen.
The next weekend, another night goes by when all we do is sit side by side on his battered old sofa and watch films. Maybe he’s not really into me, I decide. Maybe his looks are a facade. All toughness on the surface. Nothing beneath. But this time when I get home, there’s a phone message.
“Hey, lady,” he says, “when you come over tomorrow night—and I want you to come over tomorrow night—don’t be bringing no movies—”
So he feels what I feel. And even though we start off too shy, we get through that initial barrier. His hands on me, his arms around me, naked bodies pressed to bodies. He rips off his own clothes in record time, tosses me down on the bed, and I experience the fantasies I’ve had for weeks all together in one fresh rush of power and pleasure. His cock is so hard, and so ready, but he doesn’t give in to his own needs right away. Instead, he slides his way down my body with the full softness of his open mouth, and when he reaches the split between my legs, he goes to work.
I’ve never felt pleasure like that. Not ever. He moves his face gently back and forth between my thighs as his tongue traces designs up and over my clit. His soft goatee tickles my most tender skin. I grip into his thick dark hair and push him down on me, but he shrugs off my hands, not wanting to be rushed. “Hold on to the bed frame,” he tells me, “or I’ll have to tie you.”
And now I’m getting everything I want, everything I knew that he had to give. With his leather, and his laces, and his wristcuffs, and silver rings. With his tattoos and his dead-eyed stare for customers who are annoying him. He is all that power, confined in one beautiful body, and he bestows every cell of himself to giving me pleasure. He holds onto my waist as he brings his tongue up and down between the split of my lips. Then he goes back and forth again, and I’m lost.
I come twice on his tongue, and then, just to see if he means what he says, I let go of the railing. In an instant, he has me bound to the bed frame with leather thongs, and my hips start to thrash on the bed. I want him inside me, and he’s finally ready to give in to me. Climbing on top of me, he fucks me hard and steady, his thumbs parting my nether lips as he slides in deep. He tricks his fingers over the split of my body, and he makes me come again. Come until I am whimpering, until I can do nothing but sigh.
“Don’t know what happened to me,” he whispers afterward, face pressed into my long black hair. “I’m usually so take-charge. But you had me off balance. Didn’t want to rush. Didn’t want to ruin it. Couldn’t even get up the nerve to ask you out, so I’m lucky that you forced the issue.”
Crazy, right?
Too shy to talk to me, but not—thank God—to fuck.
MADE TO ORDER
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Touch yourself for me, make yourself come.” She barked it out, in her haughty British accent, with nary a thought as to what my reaction would be. She said it with total assurance and coolness, no “I want you to” or “Please” to preface the statement, the way I would have. This tone suited her though, and I should’ve expected it after picking her up at a sex party—she was all decked out in slick, shiny, black rubber and spike-heel boots. She looked like a dominatrix, partly because of the clothes, but even more so because of her posture and the sneering look on her face. The way she sat and surveyed the room, and then me, told me that she was the kind of girl who could get anything she wanted, and usually did.
She was my type though; I liked feisty women who could throw me off guard, titillate me into confusion. I didn’t want someone meek like me; the pair of us would probably never get past holding hands. Though I was drawn to her, I was a little afraid of her, or maybe I just wanted to be afraid of her. Either way, I wanted to please her.
There was something in her tone, the way she commanded me like she knew without a doubt that I’d obey, that made me want to obey. Her request made me reconsider masturbation as a one-woman show. S
ure, other lovers had asked that I do the same, but they’d always followed up their request with a girlish set of giggles, letting me know that it was as amusing to them as it sounded to me. They seemed to make the request just to hear the words echo in the air, presuming they’d set off a sudden erotic chain reaction. But she succeeded, turning me on with the idea that my pussy was enough to get both of us off.
I did as she requested, lying back, closing my eyes in an attempt to be slightly less aware of her direct gaze, which spared me nothing in its appraisal. I wouldn’t have chosen this form of sex, would’ve preferred something a bit more mutual, more sensual. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to come, that touching myself wouldn’t be the same with her watching. Maybe I could fake it? No, that wouldn’t do either; I was too on edge.
My index and middle fingers worked my clit, parting the hood and rubbing, rubbing, gently, then faster and faster. I tried up and down, then a circle, rocking against my fingers to increase the pressure. I tried to relax, to let my whole body sink into the bed, to focus all my energy on my clit. My breath started coming out in quick pants, almost getting stuck in my throat. I didn’t have energy to waste on breathing, only on my restless, relentless fingers.
I resisted the urge to move closer to her, to rub myself against her, to cuddle in the warmth of her skin. There’d be plenty of time for that later. I shut my eyes harder and shoved my fingers inside my pussy, then pulled them out and returned to my clit.
“Do it the way you do when you’re alone, at home.”
I almost laughed at that, because at home I rely on my trusted vibrator to do this work for me, and all my hand has to do is make sure the toy doesn’t fall. I’d stopped using my hand the moment I found my first vibrator and hadn’t returned. So this was a bit of a reacquaintance for my hand and my cunt. I tried to go back to the pre-vibrator times, when my fingers and imagination had been my sole guides.