by Alison Tyler
She had that pale yellow hair that looks like duck down, soft and fine as baby’s hair. For the event, it was braided against her skull, but a few of those wisps had already gotten free. I longed to undo the braids and let loose her tresses, pictured myself sitting behind her on a bed—any bed, my bed—and drawing a boar-bristle brush through her long mane.
I almost missed my cue when I was supposed to pass over the rings, lost as I was in the vision nearby. Then, in answer to my unspoken wishes, the service was suddenly over and people were rushing forward to offer their congratulations.
My lush miss was lost in the crowd for a moment, but I found her, being hugged and kissed and having her hand shaken in the reception line.
“Can I borrow you for a second?” I asked, disregarding the looks from those around me. “Important wedding business,” I added, trying to sound dignified.
She gave me one more of those “melt-me-please” looks and then followed me to the back of the church.
“Who are you?” I demanded. She hadn’t been at the rehearsals.
“Cousin of the bride,” she said, softly, sweetly, tilting her head down in that adorable way many subs do, and pulling gently on the lace of her dress.
“Aren’t you hot in that?” I asked next, steering her, as I spoke, to the room where the bride had gotten ready.
She nodded, still in that bashful way, allowing herself to be led to the room, and then further back, to the bathroom. It was in speeded-up motion that I freed her from the off-white fluff gown and got her down to her lace bra-and-panty set. She had an incredible figure, once revealed, curved where it was supposed to be curved, slender in the slenderest places. Her breasts were full and lovely in my mouth. Her scent wafted up around us until I couldn’t wait anymore and peeled her panties down her thighs, plunging my hungry tongue deep into her wet pussy.
There was a mirror on the back of the bathroom door, and I angled us so that she could watch me eat her. I checked to make sure her eyes were on the mirror, that they never strayed, and she, understanding my desire, obeyed.
She had drenched her thighs during the service, and I spent a good long time licking her clean, then parting her thighs even wider and dipping my head to get a taste of the split between her legs, to reach my tongue back to tickle her asshole.
That made her moan and grab my hair, and I quickly turned her so that she was bent over the sink and began reaming her with my thumb and forefinger. The noises she made were divine, and loud, and before I could stop her, before I could remind her where we were, she was moaning, “Yes, oh, yes, oh yes.”
That little voice in the back of my head, that little sane voice that I often try to stamp out, was saying, “Hush. Get back in the receiving line. Fix her up and get her out before you’re caught.”
But I couldn’t. Instead, squashing that sane little voice, I undid my slacks and freed my cock and said, “Do you want this, honey?” Rubbing it up against her moist slit, probing her with it. “Do you want this, darling? Do you want this?”
And she bent over further, offering herself to me completely, as she moaned, over and over, in a voice that grew loud enough for the entire congregation to hear... “I do!”
TESS NEEDS A SPANKING
N. T. Morley
Tess needs a spanking. She really, really needs a spanking. She needs it so bad she keeps wriggling her ass back and forth, asking for it, begging for it. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it; it’s like her ass has a mind of its own, squirming and fidgeting under that tight skirt as she walks past me or bends over within sight of me. She needs it so bad she’s wet under her skirt; her pussy is swollen and tight, aching and hungry to feel the sting on her ass as she shakes back and forth, sobbing and crying. She needs it so bad she keeps messing up, bringing me the wrong file, the wrong document, spilling my coffee, forgetting the cream.
But I don’t need an excuse to spank Tess.
Tess doesn’t even know how bad she needs a spanking. She never does, not until I grab her by the waist and tumble her over my lap—not until I grasp her by the hair and push her face into the crook of my arm and tell her to pull her skirt up over her round cheeks and take down her panties. She never knows how bad she needs a spanking until after I’ve pulled her skirt up myself, found out how wet she is under her tight lace thong, discovered the squeals that come out of her mouth when I rub her wet pussy and slide two fingers inside. She never knows how bad she needs a spanking until after I’ve given her one, open-handed, spanking her ass rhythmically, first one cheek and then the other, right on the sweet spot and occasionally in the middle, right over her pussy. She never knows how bad she needs a spanking until after she’s started to lift her ass in the air, pump it hungrily in long, slow circles, shake back and forth and wet my suit with tears. She never knows how bad she needs a spanking until after she buries her face in my arm, spreads her legs, and grips the legs of the chair tightly to steady herself as I beat her. She never knows until after she’s cried, whimpered, cajoled, tried to bargain, tried to threaten, tried to wriggle her way out of one. She never knows until after she’s started to moan. She never knows until she’s felt it building deep in her cunt, felt the blows driving all the way into her luscious little snatch and punishing her throbbing clitoris. Still, until that very last moment, no matter how many times it happens, she clings to her resistance, adheres to her passionate belief that she’s done nothing wrong, that she doesn’t need a spanking and if she whines and cries and complains, I’ll see the light and just stop. But I don’t, and it’s a good thing for her, because the only time I give her one is when she really, truly, desperately, urgently needs a spanking.
But Tess never knows how bad she needs a spanking until after she’s thrown back her head and pushed her ass high into the air and come, overwhelmed by the profound satisfaction of having her need satisfied, the deep need for what, if she had been allowed to have her way, she never would have gotten.
But luckily, Tess has me to tell her when she does need a spanking. And once she’s had one, she always does exactly what she knows she needs to do.
Which is pull down her panties and put her ass in the air, and await another spanking—this one for saying no.
And afterwards, she takes a moment to fix her hair, put her soaked panties back on, straighten her skirt. Then she returns to her work, and for the rest of the day, she never, ever brings me the wrong file or forgets the cream in my coffee.
Because she’s forgotten, the moment she finished, how badly she needs a spanking.
But she’ll remember. Oh, she’ll remember. And each time she’ll forget most deliciously.
THE RUNNER
Barbara Fields
You’ve seen us before. I know you have. We’re difficult to miss, clad in our shining, skintight outfits, pumping our taut muscles as we cut through the cool air of the morning. You’ve watched us from the safety of your car during your early morning commute, watched rather lecherously as our thighs power up the hilly trail that winds along next to the highway. And I’ll bet you’ve even touched the black leggings in the sports store, running your fingers over that lightweight fabric, imagining the blue swash of color poured down the center of a pair of particularly fine female legs. Never thought sports gear would turn you on, did you?
It’s okay to admit it. It’s okay to state the obvious. You can’t hide from me. I’ve seen you watching me, seen you, with your traveler’s mug filled with some high-end designer coffee, your eyes still partially glazed with sleep, watching me and my friends climb the trail. Route 280 is a gorgeous drive through California countryside, but you have eyes only for my calves, my ass, my thighs.
I have a job, same as you do. I could be in the car next to yours, my own java mug in hand, my own eyes heavy with lack of sleep and lack of exercise. Instead, I get up early and power the hills. Then head to work and stay there late, the energy still riding in my bloodstream from my early morning run. I do it because it’s healthy and it gives me energy.
And, since you admitted your addiction to my thighs, I will admit my addiction to your eyes. I like to be watched when I wear my work clothes, my finely cut suit adhering perfectly to my toned form. I don’t dress in a risqué manner; it wouldn’t be appropriate to my occupation, but I do choose my attire carefully, knowing my legs are my strong point.
And you like them, don’t you? As you sip from your mug and wait in the stifling boredom of the morning traffic. You like the way my honed form keeps you entertained. You’ve picked me to watch, out of my female companions. You’ve picked me for my wave of cinnamon hair that floats behind me like a banner. You’ve picked me because I sometimes turn and meet your eyes. There’s not so much distance separating us. Asphalt, chrome, dirt. Not much separating us but my sleek seal-like Lycra and your expensive black power suit. Not much separating us but my naked skin and my long hair, which picks up the scent of the morning air, and your body, slim and hard and ready.
I would like to touch you. I would like to run my hands along the tight flatness of your body, would like to learn your form the way I know my mountain, almost mindlessly moving my feet along the track I’ve run so many times before. I could memorize the map of your body to that extreme. I could learn where to touch you to bring you the most pleasure, where to put my hand, cupping it around your cock, my fingertips floating butterfly-light against your balls. I would like to curl up against a body that is so much different from mine.
I have muscle beneath the Lycra leggings you see me wear. But I’m still curved. I would like you to cup my sweet breasts in your hands and touch your lips to my rosy nipples. Would like you to spread me out on the mattress and learn the dips and curves of my body. The indents. The places where I am soft, where I am wet. With your hard, action-ready body and my athletic shape, we could fit together easily. I know this. Easily as two pieces of a well-used puzzle. I have seen it in your eyes, as you peer out your windshield, wanting me.
I have wants, too.
SOMETHING SWEET
Alison Tyler
Food is Jesse’s life. When he cooks, he creates works of art. The reviews of his restaurant say that. It’s not just me. I watch him shop. He buys for the color and the texture, as well as the taste. At home, he arranges fruit in white porcelain bowls. The cherries are ripe, so dark they look black. He puts one in my mouth, pulls the stem, and smiles as I suck the sweet fruit away from the pit.
Often, he cooks for me. I sit at the counter while he cuts purple bell peppers to add to vibrant green salads, sprinkles crushed red cayenne over adobe-colored tortillas. He sets out our meals the way an artist would arrange a collage, moving and adjusting, creating the perfect array, an intense blend of food and art.
Jesse plays with me in the kitchen. He sets a bowl of cream on the black-and-white tiled floor, watches me crawl to it, lap from it. Lifting my thin, pink nightgown, he enters me from behind, pushing my face forward, getting my lips, tongue, and chin wet with the cream. A fist wrapped in my dark hair pulls back so my head comes up, and he bends forward to lick away the wetness. Then he lets me go, lets me bend on hands and knees and drink with tiny flicks of my tongue, taking in droplets of the sweet cream.
Cream. It’s all about cream. He doesn’t buy half and half. He doesn’t buy powdered. He buys cartons of cream. The way most people buy milk. It’s thick and rich and he pours it into a bowl for me, a blue glass bowl that he places carefully on the cold tiled floor.
“Make like a kitty,” he says, coming around to kneel by my side, moving the bowl so that he can dip his cock into it, coat the tip of his cock and then sit back on his heels and let me lick it clean. “Be a good little kitty and drink it all up,” he says, dipping his cock again and then waiting for my pink tongue to bathe him, to catch every drop. I don’t suck him, I lick the cream away, lick each bit and watch him strain for it, yearning for my warm mouth.
Dip and lick. This game could go on forever. The cool cream on his cock followed by the warm wet lick of my tongue. He dips his cock deeper into the bowl, pushing down on it with his fingertips so that the head and shaft are coated with the rich liquid. I wait for him to grab my hair again, to pull me down on him. This time I suck him. I take his cock down my throat, swallowing and tasting the cream and then the liquid that comes from him.
He grabs the bowl, moves it between his legs, dips down so that his balls skim the cream, stands up so that I can raise myself on just my knees to lick. I open my mouth and let him dip his balls again, this time coming to rest against my outstretched tongue.
When he’s back on his knees, he takes my hair, pushes my face into the bowl, brings me up so he can kiss the cream from my lips, lick each drop as I have done. He pushes me down on my back on the tile floor. He lifts my nightgown to reveal my shaved pussy, pours the bowl of cream between my legs, holding my pussy lips open with his fingers so that the stream of liquid falls in a rush over my clit.
He’s the cat, now. Not a kitty, but a tomcat, on hands and knees licking the wet milky-white cream away, then making a different kind of cream rise to the surface. The bowl is forgotten. The pool of cream on the floor is slick and cool. My ass is wet, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is his tongue, the flat of his tongue against my cunt, running the length of it, from the opening between my legs to the pubic bone. Wetness forms on my inner lips. He holds them wide, licks away the moisture, the wet of his tongue making me wetter.
His mouth against my cunt, his lips around my clit, he sighs, pulls back, says, “You taste like cream.” Licks again, mouth open, hungry, eating from me. I feed him. This pleases me. From my body, the juices of my body, I feed him.
BELLA’S SECRET GARDEN
Antonia Paris
One of my favorite things about staying in a hotel is the maid service. I can’t tell you how luxurious it is to know that I won’t have to pick up after myself, won’t be required to fold the towels and place them on the rack when I’m through. My girlfriend, however, cannot get the hang of hotel life. She actually cleans our room before the maid arrives.
“I don’t want her to think we’re slobs,” she says.
“That’s her job,” I tell her.
“To think we’re slobs?” (An intentional misread. I want to smack her for it.)
“To clean up,” I say through clenched teeth.
Amber shrugs, then makes the bed. When she’s finished, she writes a note to the maid, places it with a five dollar bill on the dresser, and gets ready to go. I watch her but don’t say anything. There’s no point.
When we return from sightseeing, our maid has left us a note of her own. It says, “Thank you very much for the tip. You don’t need to make the bed since I change the sheets every day.” She’s signed it Bella. I show the note to Amber who announces in her haughtiest tone that she doesn’t care. She’ll make the bed anyway.
The next day, it’s raining and we stay in. Part of our vacation is just relaxing, which means we don’t have to sightsee each and every day. Part of my vacation, that is. Amber takes her camera, despite the rain, and leaves. I snooze until the maid knocks on the door. Then I stumble to the latch and open it. In the hallway stands Bella. She’s a pert and perfectly adorable blonde with short curly hair and clear, blue eyes. She takes one look at me and says, “You’re not the one making the bed each day, are you?”
I shake my head and invite her in. Something in my look must let her know what I want, and she obliges. She’s easy in my arms, a sweet 105-pounder with a lithe, athletic body. I kiss her mouth, then her freckled cheeks, then nibble on her earlobes. I move her with me into the bathroom and we take a shower together, getting warm and wet and soapy. Laughing as we dry each other off.
We leave the towels in a soggy heap on the floor and make it halfway to the bed before I grab her and throw her down on the plush, crimson carpeting that Amber has picked lint off on her hands and knees. I climb on top of Bella in a still-damp sixty-nine. She knows how to use her tongue, and probes me expertly with it while stroking my ass and
lower back, rubbing in small circles, dragging her nails against my skin.
I follow her lead, running my short nails the length of her inner thighs while keeping my mouth busy on her cunt. I like the way she tastes, clean from the shower, of course, but musky beneath it. Earthy and real and delicious to my taste buds. Her fragrance is rich and heady and entirely unlike the antiseptic flavor of Amber’s well-douched vagina. Amber doesn’t really like it when we sixty-nine. She can eat me for hours, but she doesn’t like me to go down on her.
I lap now at Bella with no thought of what she’s doing to my own cunt. I am lost within the walls of her pussy, drinking each drop of her nectar. Finally, I pull away from her, lying flat on the floor between her legs, and concentrate totally on giving her pleasure. She wraps her thighs around me and lets me work, whispering what she wants, how she likes it. “Harder,” when she needs that, “faster, ohhh, please, faster,” and I make those spiraling little circles as quickly as I can until she presses her hips forward and drenches my lips with the juices of her climax. The taste is pure sweetness.
By the time Amber arrives, Bella and I are on our third beer. Amber doesn’t know what to make of the scene, so I tell her. “You’re doing Bella’s job. Cleaning. Folding. Running around. So I invited her to do yours... kick back, hang out, make love.”
Amber leaves with her very neatly folded clothes packed in her immaculate suitcase. Bella and I have another beer, then climb beneath the tightly tucked sheets and relax.
WORKING OVERTIME
Sage Vivant
David turned into the DermaCare Inc. driveway that Sunday with more than a little irritation. He could think of seven thousand things he’d rather be doing than picking up some equipment for a patient.