by Alison Tyler
She kept me pinned with her eyes, with her spoken request that I not get up before I come. She didn’t try to climax herself or even appear visibly moved by my actions, but I could sense that her pleasure lay in her power to command me to come, to make me make myself get off, to fall apart and resurrect myself while she calmly looked on.
“That’s it, now come for me. I need to watch you, to see your face when you reach that magic moment. Come!” She was close to screaming the last word, and sounded like she needed the release more than I did. Her voice carried such force, like she was the Queen of the Universe, or at least, my bedroom. She spoke like she was made to order me around, to command me to come. In turn, I was there to obey, to fulfill her every wish.
I rubbed my clit even more frantically, calling out as I reached the point where I couldn’t stop even if I’d wanted to. My fingers moved almost of their own accord, in a race with my clit to push me over the edge, into the fiery chill of orgasm, when my body barely knows what direction it’s going in and I could be anywhere on earth. My eyes closed and small teardrops formed at the edges, mimicking the liquid that began to build inside me. As I teetered, she must have been staring, close enough to judge my arousal. All of a sudden, she yanked sharply on my hair, sending a wave of heat and pain and pleasure from my scalp shooting down to my cunt. As she pulled, I came, the liquid evidence pouring out of me.
I quivered and shook, loving the way my orgasm led itself throughout my body, leaving me tender and aroused. She kissed my pussy gently, like a pat on the head for a job well done. I wrapped my legs around her meaty thigh, burrowed into her neck, and went to sleep.
TWO THUMBS UP (THE PERFECT DATE)
Iris N. Schwartz
It was to be their third date, and Therese had said, “I want you to remember it always.” Gerard had asked her where she wanted to go that night, and had readily agreed to her less-than-scintillating suggestion: dinner and a movie. He’d agreed because of who Therese was: it didn’t matter if they sucked down soup at a local grease-o-rama—he was always at ease with and excited by this woman.
Gerard didn’t want to assume tonight would be the night he’d score: He’d enjoyed too many years and too many women to assume anything. Oh, she was sexy, this Therese, this sister-in-academe, with black hair that brushed strong shoulders, full, always-lipsticked lips, and eyes as dark as the chocolate she’d licked off her fingers near the end of last Saturday’s date. Plus, she talked as well as Gerard, sometimes employing words he’d never heard, and had divulged feelings that rivaled the deepest he’d ever felt. Gerard understood Therese was no one to toy with. This left his desire only slightly tainted with respect.
When they’d first started flirting, at a restaurant five blocks from the campus where they both taught, Gerard had imparted to Therese several fantasies—role-playing in a doctor’s office, escapades involving paddles or whips—and she’d lowered her eyes twice but then asked him for more. Gerard had been drunk when he’d waxed lascivious, but Therese hadn’t been, and as the night lengthened, she’d responded with fantasies of tickling with emu feathers, restraining limbs with silk scarves, and other scenarios he deemed mild but inviting.
He longed for her to open up even more. They’d been on two dates since that evening at the restaurant, and had kissed four times altogether, but what kisses: penetrating and moist, exquisite affairs of melding lips and conjoined tongues.
Gerard got hard each time he closed his eyes and remembered.
He wondered if she would pull back now, scared by this earlier sex talk, thus returning them to the start of the game. The thing was, Therese would be good company even if she didn’t put out, and he knew damn well she knew it.
So he picked her up at seven and they scurried off to a romantic Italian inn, the kind women love and, frankly, the kind Gerard himself favored, with linen tablecloths and artful floral arrangements, suffused lighting and a fireplace in the rear. Hell, if Therese weren’t here, he’d romance himself. This place was good. Gerard felt he had much to offer: as a sociology professor, little money; nonetheless, he spilled forth wit, intelligent conversation, stamina and generosity in bed. He was in his early forties, and still handsome enough to turn heads. Certainly his own, in his mirror, at home. Certainly Therese’s. And when he enjoyed a woman, as he did Therese, he might get down on his knees and thank God for a chance to please her.
Gerard was getting serious. He didn’t want to get serious. He felt buoyant and hopeful right now. He didn’t know how he’d do tonight, but just in case he had worn his new briefs, his royal blues, the ones that made him feel studly. The ones that accentuated his compact, taut-muscled buttocks that highlighted a winning penile profile, that afforded a woman full frontal royal blue bliss. Ah, King Stud. Professor Stud. And women liked him in this color, said it complemented the grey streaks in his head of still-thick brown hair, Gerard’s next-to-finest feature.
Tonight, Therese was sipping wine with dinner. She hadn’t drunk wine with him before. Maybe Therese would loosen up more, maybe she’d giggle again. Gerard enjoyed the way her eyes narrowed when she laughed, the way she lowered those eyes and nibbled her lips when she talked with him about sex.
They were discussing a study he was reading, about the effects of broken parental bonds on later forms of intimacy, as well as the ramifications for society as a whole. He didn’t mind the topic—truly, it was one of his favorites—but it made for an ever-so-slightly scholarly time here at this candlelit joint. Still, Therese seemed at ease, even playful, at one point buttering and feeding him his bread, and he didn’t want to push her.
When they arrived at the theater, Therese insisted on seats in the back, on the left next to the wall, though there were many empty rows ahead. Well, Gerard had no reason to object. Maybe she wanted to make out and didn’t desire a crowd. He was sensitive enough to appreciate that.
Previews appeared and Gerard offered popcorn from the bag in his lap. Would Therese dive in or ask him to pass the popcorn? This dating litmus test proved almost 100% accurate in predicting success or the lack of for the night. Therese, however, declined the snack altogether. Was she watching her weight, turning cold, or—smart woman—on to his lecherous ways? Could be it was time to stop interpreting. Could be it was time to sit back and relax.
A minute or so into the movie, with the titles still rolling, Therese whispered that she had a surprise. Why now? The theater was quiet. He didn’t want to speak. Gerard squinted at her and cocked his head, but she simply smiled and took his left hand with her right. The sociology professor stared at the figures onscreen but his thoughts were with Therese.
Just as the last filmgoer settled in, Gerard felt her glide his hand up her leg. Oh, this was nice. He met sheer nylon, the bone of her knee, then more ample, still-stockinged flesh. With Therese’s hand guiding his, he stroked her full lower thighs.
Damn, give him a lifetime of surprises. He heard the beating of his heart, like his own movie score, and it heralded the heat in his loins, a private sense-a-rama in blue briefs. Suddenly, there was skin—bare, cool, soft skin—and without looking Gerard knew she wasn’t wearing panties. Before he could say heaven, his hand was cupping dewy folds of flesh, lips as luscious as the full ones on her face. Slowly, slowly, his middle finger circled, caressed, enveloped her clitoris.
For all the talk, all the music, all the light emanating from the screen, all Gerard knew was that his hand was centered in this one perfect place. All he heard was her husky breathing beside him. And, of course, the never-quiet voice of his own royal-blue enclosed cock, straining to be set free.
The professors turned to one another simultaneously, the words of the first almost eclipsing those of the second.
“I’m usually not one for surprises,” he breathed into her ear.
And from her, “I thought you might like this surprise.”
They laughed quietly. Therese’s eyes were shut. For the first time Gerard turned to see if anyone was looking their way. The
theater doors were closed, most rows ahead still empty. Everyone else seemed content with the film. Fools: just last week he would have felt the same, but nothing, not even “9 1/2 Weeks,” rivaled the action in their seats.
With that, Gerard removed his hand and stood up slowly. “Don’t worry,” he said sotto voce, “I’m not going anywhere,” and with that he knelt in front of her seat. She opened her lovely eyes wide and stared.
“Hey, baby,” he spoke into her pink, “you started.” Too bad he couldn’t get an usher’s flashlight. Excuse me, he’d say, I believe I dropped my keys.
Gerard slid a finger inside, moved it amidst her softness, slowly. She was slick, as slick as he himself was hard. When he removed his finger and inserted it in her mouth, she licked it, thirsty puppy, and asked him to do it again. He put in two fingers then, and the next time, three. Each time she sighed and opened wider, each time sucking her juices off his slippery digits.
Inside Gerard’s pants lived an elephantine bulge, and he hoped she’d relieve him soon. Who knew where the relief would come—in a parking lot, perhaps, or if that was too empty, by the salad bar in a delicatessen?
Therese held Gerard’s head in place. He hoped there’d be no one cruising these aisles anytime soon. Now he had his thumbs inside Therese and both pointers lightly flicking her clitoris. She was writhing in her chair—he’d bet she’d soaked that goddamned chair—but was so quiet he didn’t need to cover her mouth. Still, he kissed her a few times, both to maintain that silence and to feel his tongue inside another receptive orifice. He wished he’d had a larger part of him inside her, but this would do for now.
He was still kneeling before her and with his tongue began to flit around and then atop her clit. That’s when he felt her buck. That’s when he saw her squeeze her breasts. And that’s when he thought he heard feet in the aisle, but it was her, kicking the chair in front. Someone yelled “Shush!” and someone else said “Hey!” Gerard asked Therese to stop, but she couldn’t. He grabbed her legs before they made contact again.
“I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry,” she panted into his ear. Gerard didn’t know which he liked more, making her come or hearing her address him as a higher power.
I’m not sorry. From now on, I’ll beg for surprises. He saw Therese bite her lower lip, then grin. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.
Gerard kissed her on the earlobe. “So, where do we go for dessert?” Therese grabbed Gerard’s still damp hand and slowly rose from her chair. “I don’t care,” she shook her head and smiled, “as long as it’s you.”
SHAVED
Christopher Wilson
She knows it’s going to happen tonight. It scares her, the idea of having a sharp instrument so close to her pussy. But what scares her excites her.
Years ago, I invested in an old gynecological table I found at a junk sale. I replaced the badly-designed stirrups with better ones that would accept restraints. I bought a metal drill and put eyebolts in the sides for wrist restraints. I covered it in black leather. I added an eyebolt, too, for a collar, for when I want to keep Kathleen really immobile.
Now, the table is in our playroom, in the basement. I’d turned the heat on in the afternoon so it’ll be nice and warm. After dinner, I tell her to go down and get dressed.
Whenever Kathleen enters the dungeon, she can expect that I will have laid out her clothes for her. Tonight they’re something very special. She’s still wearing her work clothes, so I know her businesslike white lace panties will be moist from anticipation. And they’ll only get wetter when she sees what I’ve chosen.
It’s slutty: the kind of slutty outfit that will fit perfectly on a shaved whore. Except she’s not shaved yet.
She strips off her business clothes, piling them neatly in the corner. She climbs into the see-through leopard-print camisole, no doubt noting how stretchy it is, how it cradles her firm D-cup breasts. Her nipples poke straight through. She puts on the matching leopard-print G-string and obediently sits on the table and waits.
When I come down, I’m holding a basin of hot water and a straight razor. Her eyes are wide as she looks at the razor. I set the tools down on the table next to her; then I padlock her wrists and ankles to the eyebolts of the table. Her legs are spread very wide.
Kathleen looks at me, frightened and aroused. I lean forward and kiss her neck beneath her blonde hair, then kiss up to her mouth and plunge my tongue into her. I reach down and feel her cunt through the thin, stretchy material of the G-string. It’s very wet, the G-string soaked already.
I take the digital camera from the table. I snap a few pictures of her cunt, untouched and covered in fine, dark hair underneath the see-through panties. The fine hair tufts out around the edges of the panties’ crotch. I don’t get her face; that’s our agreement. I can photograph my slave’s pussy, ass and tits all I want, but her face remains hidden.
Kathleen’s pussy hair is thick and black, a silent testament to her Italian heritage and the fact that she bleaches her hair. I was partial to brunettes when I met her, and she was a pale-skinned brunette, her hair coal-black and lustrous; the moment she bleached her hair blonde I developed a preference for goldilocks. Still, I have to admit that seeing her naked makes it painfully obvious that she’s a bottle blonde.
But that’s not why I’m shaving her. I actually like the black hair, reminding me every time I see her pussy that I know a secret about my willing submissive, my obedient slave, my wife.
No, I’m shaving her for a simple reason. I’ve never fucked a bare pussy, and I want to try one out. A sharp blade so close to Kathleen’s pussy makes her incredibly wet; that’s just the icing on the cake.
Kathleen moans as she feels the cold metal of the razor against her thigh. As I kiss her on the lips, my tongue savaging her, I neatly slit the sides of the G-string and pull it off of her cunt, its meshy material rubbing her clit as I lift it and then I run the panties over her face. She smells herself, smells how wet she is.
I take two more pictures, these of her naked cunt, its hair unkempt and full.
It’s time. I pump the hot lather dispenser and feel the warm, soft gush flowing into my palm.
I lather her up and look into her eyes as the hot soap covers her pussy.
She holds very still, her lips trembling as she watches me softening her pussy hair with the soap. The first scrape of the razor against her upper thighs makes her hold her breath. The second makes her bite her tongue. When I tug her labia out and gently start to shave them smooth, I see her eyes go wide.
When I’m finished with her labia, I move to the untrimmed thatch above her pussy. I tease her opening and feel how wet it is. I bend forward and kiss her.
I slowly draw the razor over Kathleen’s pubic thatch, scraping her clean. I dip the razor in hot water and add more hot lather between each stroke. I’m very careful not to slip at all.
When I reach out for the hot towel and rub it over her pussy, she moans.
When I draw the towel away, she looks down and sees her pussy bare and smooth. Hairless.
She’s breathing very hard. I hold up a mirror and she stares, as if she can’t believe it’s her pussy.
I dry my hands, take up the camera again, and take new pictures of my wife’s pussy, revealed utterly. I show Kathleen the pictures of her shaved pussy on the digital screen. She stares, amazed. I feel her pussy and find it still quite wet.
I unzip my pants and take out my rock-hard cock. I know she’ll be extra sensitive, and that the sensitivity will excite her.
Kathleen struggles against her restraints as I insert my cock into her shaved pussy. The bareness makes it smooth, slick, and I feel her wriggle as the ultra-sensitized flesh of her cunt reacts to each stroke. Soon she’s whimpering and gasping, each thrust bringing a noise of surprise from her lips. That makes me fuck her harder, which makes her moan.
The whole length of my cock feels alive, teased into vibrant sensation by the new smoothness of Kathleen’s shaved pussy. I bend forward a
nd kiss her as I sense her getting close to her orgasm, and then she twists and pulls against the bonds; I hear her come as I pump her faster, bringing myself closer to my own climax. When I come, she pulls violently against the bonds, thrashing as she tries to pump her hips up harder to take my cock deeper. I flood her freshly shorn cunt with my come, and she nuzzles her face against mine as she surrenders her newly smooth pussy to me.
I take several more pictures as my come starts to leak out of her shaved pussy. She looks at the camera and I sense something special about the way she’s looking. Slowly, I turn the camera up to her face. She looks right into it, smiles, and nods.
I pull the viewfinder back so I can get her come-dripping, shaved pussy, her gorgeous leopard-print-clad breasts, and her breathtaking face so fetchingly framed by her blonde hair. All in one shot. I can see her smiling wickedly, her wrists and arms bound and her pussy shaved, as she crosses this one last boundary, letting me photograph her face and pussy in one shot.
I know she could ask me to erase the picture later—and I know I will comply. But something tells me she won’t, that I’ll have this photograph of my wife to savor forever. Her face, her tits, and her cunt—shaved and filled with my come. A picture of love, cherished forever. My wife, shaved not just of her hair, but of her last inhibitions. Surrendering to me, totally.
And it’s the most beautiful picture I’ve ever taken.
“I DO”
Eric Caldwell
I was best man at my friend’s wedding. Standing there, dressed in a tux and tails, sweltering in the heat of the non-air-conditioned hall, I couldn’t think of a place I’d less like to be...until I realized that one of the bridesmaids was making eyes at me. These incredible, baby blue goo-goo eyes. I stopped praying for the thing to be finished and started paying attention to the beautiful doll all dressed up in creamy taffeta.