by Alison Tyler
When he flicked on the office lights, he jumped at the sight that greeted him.
“I thought you’d never get here,” Pauline purred. She wore a button-up dress that was unbuttoned to her navel, exposing a tempting slash of cleavage. She lay across the desk on her side, one hand propping up her head. Her grin was enormous.
“What the—”
She laughed loudly, pleased at her plan’s success.
“How did you get in here?” he demanded, closing the door behind him.
“A determined woman has her methods. But this is no time for details.” She lured him closer with a crook of her finger.
He approached, stopping at the edge of the desk. She moved her face closer to his crotch, which had already begun to balloon. She unzipped him with exceptional skill and had his excited member looking up at the fluorescent lights in seconds. Before he could speak, her mouth engulfed his grateful, purple head.
She crept closer to him very slowly, so that he disappeared in her hot mouth centimeters at a time. She sucked him as he entered, drawing him deeper into her throat. When she reached the base, she circled her tongue around his shaft and gradually slid him out of her mouth.
He gasped as she repeated the process, over and over again. He held her head with one hand and the edge of the desk with the other. Just as he thought he might explode between her talented lips, she squeezed his balls playfully and popped him out of her mouth.
“My pussy needs feeding more than my mouth does,” she whispered. Sitting upright, she straddled him with her legs. She hiked up her skirt in the process, revealing a panty-less cunt, already shiny with her juices. Speech eluded him. He couldn’t stop staring but had to when her furry heat touched the tip of his knob.
She guided his thick meat inside her. As her wet folds surrounded him, he moaned and closed his eyes. She supported herself with her hands behind her. He grabbed the breast that escaped her dress.
She controlled the pumping, slamming herself onto his swollen cock until he could restrain himself no longer. He gushed into her and heard her squealing her own pleasure as a key jiggled in the lock of the back door.
The couple froze but then launched into action. Pauline scrambled for her shoes and tried to smooth her hair. The door opened and in bounded Chuck, one of the company’s drivers, who was working overtime, himself.
Chuck paused, registering either the scent or the aura in the room. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He seemed more embarrassed than they were.
“No, no. Pauline was just helping me with some equipment,” David explained as the couple quickly exited.
PENANCE
Rachel Kramer Bussel
You’re late.”
He looks up at me with a contrite expression, but that’s not enough for me now.
“And not only that, but you totally canceled on our last date.” I’m tapping my foot, encased in my five-inch heel, and holding the riding crop by my side, my anger spilling out into my voice. “Strip. Yes, right now, get going, then get down on your hands and knees. You don’t deserve to stand today. Don’t even look at me like you don’t know what’s wrong or like you don’t deserve this. Being late is unacceptable. Do you think that’s any way to treat me? It’s not okay to be late and to cancel on me like that. You’re lucky I even agreed to see you today. Now crawl on your hands and knees.” I lead him along the floor, not caring about any obstacles he may encounter. I savor the view of his ass as he crawls in front of me and can feel myself getting wet as I watch him. I know I’m pushing him, and myself, but I think both of us deserve a little added excitement.
He makes his way into the bedroom and heads towards the bed. I let him, but he’s not going to climb into it as he might have had in mind. “Just stay right there,” I bark at him as he approaches the edge of the bed. “I mean it, stay.”
I walk around him, circling his body, inspecting it with care but trying to look aloof. He doesn’t need to know how wet I am, at least not yet. I’m torn between looking at his sweet ass in the air and having him meet some other needs of mine. I bring the heel of my shoe down onto his asscheek and give a little kick. I can feel my breathing get heavier the minute my sole connects with him.
“So do you at least have an excuse? Or did you just think it was okay to be so disorganized that you’d be late and I wouldn’t mind, without even a phone call? Huh?”
I poke at his ass a little more, deciding what else I’ll dish out. He looks up at me, his face contrite and childlike, and I almost give in, bring him into my lap for some cuddling. But then I remember the two long hours of waiting for him to arrive, my annoyance at having gotten painstakingly dressed up.
“Oh no, you don’t, don’t even start with giving me those puppy-dog eyes. It’s not going to work. In fact, it’s just going to make me more angry. Get up.”
I almost tell him to lie across my lap, but he doesn’t deserve that kind of contact tonight. “Lean over the bed and spread your legs.” I pick out the handcuffs we’ve used dozens of times to bind his wrists together.
I bring my hand up and smack him hard on the ass, watching his skin jiggle and redden at my touch. A shiver rushes through me at the motion, and I do it again. I look at his face, eyes closed in rapture even as he winces slightly; he wants it but doesn’t want to want it. Plus, I’ve never been this genuinely angry with him before, we’ve never mixed real emotions with play in such a way, and it’s exhilarating for me. I get to not just tell but show him exactly how pissed off I am. My next smack is harder than the others, and I stop pausing in between. Smack, smack, smack, smack! Hard enough to leave my hand stinging and make a sound that reverberates across the room. I feel another flush of arousal go through me and center in my cunt. I keep on spanking him, alternating cheeks and playing with my rhythm lest he get too used to it. He doesn’t speak but each breath comes heavier and heavier, until they are almost, but not quite, groans. He doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction of knowing how much he gets off on this, but I know, I can tell from the way his ass inches towards me in the tiniest of movements, the way his entire body forms a posture of submission. I reach again for the riding crop, lashing it against him in firm, short, sharp strokes. I feel like a machine, watching my hand rise and fall, the crop’s tip making red welts, evidence of his poor manners.
I pause and rub my hand against his hot skin, smiling at its warmth. Both of us are playing a game, neither wanting the other to know just how much we not only like this, but need this, pretending aloofness or protest, but as I caress his ass, I tell him, with the soft touch of my hand, that he is not just forgiven, but loved. My hand moves slowly, a finger teasing his asshole, a hand trailing over his weighty ripe balls, to his cock, hard and eager and warm. I wrap my hand around it and hold it there for a moment, savoring the feel of having his precious arousal entirely within my grasp.
My mouth opens of its own volition as I stroke him, telling me beyond a shadow of a doubt how the rest of our evening is going to be spent. I draw him down onto the carpet with me, rolling him onto his back and kneeling before him. I look up at him, feel his eyes on me, questioning, and I nod. He knows this means that he has taken his punishment and he is forgiven, at least for the moment. While he’s watching me, I bring my tongue out and trace a line around my lips, slowly and surely. His cock twitches in anticipation.
My eyes still on him, I lean down and lick a long, slow stroke of my tongue from the base of his cock to the head. I want his eyes on me, on us, while I perform this most intimate of sex acts. I open my mouth and slowly slide his hardness inside. This won’t be some fast, sloppy, screaming blowjob. Not that I don’t like giving those too, but this is different, special. While his cock is heavy in my mouth, in my power, my warmth and wetness surrounding him, coaxing him, we are communing on the deepest level possible. As the head of his cock presses against the roof of my mouth, then the farthest reaches of my throat, as I guide it over my taste buds, I savor every inch of flesh, every message imparted
as our bodies connect. I slide him out of me, saliva oozing down my face, and rub his cock against my cheek, tenderly and reverently. I could do this all night, and all day, forever, really, if that were possible.
Instead, I make the most of these fleeting moments, concentrating only on my mouth, the rest of me seeming to disappear. Just as he needed to be punished, to be beaten and face my wrath, I need this communion, the blessing of his cock as it plunges and plunders my mouth, finally releasing its hot nectar. I swallow, not wanting the magic of this moment to end, but knowing that it really doesn’t have to. There’ll be a next time, and a time after that, another chance to do all the things that I do best, to be cold and then hot, to bestow punishment and worship, anger and love. Much as he tries, my lover isn’t known for his punctuality. Lucky for me, and for him.
STEAM
Deborah Kelly
I don’t regularly visit my gym, although I did purchase a year-long membership in a burst of guilt last New Year’s. I guess I thought that buying it would assuage my remorse for not being in better shape. In L.A., everyone is in better shape. Better shape than me, than my friends, than the airbrushed beauties in the smut magazines.
L.A. is filled with gorgeous people. All of them attend my gym.
Wrapped in sweats from head to toe, I walk, with my eyes down, to the treadmill. I could walk outside, I know. I could forgo this humiliating experience of striding through a room of thong-wearing, spandex-clad Barbie Dolls. But then, I’d probably end up at the donut store and cancel out the effects of exercise. This way, at least I’ll be forced to sweat. To pay for my latest chocolate spree.
I don’t look at anyone while I jog in place. I look at a spot directly in front of the machine, fixate on it until I am practically meditating. This is why I don’t notice the woman at my side waiting impatiently for me to finish. It’s not until she says, rather rudely, “You’ve been on that for over thirty minutes. That’s the max when someone’s waiting,” that I turn to look at her, nearly losing my balance in the process.
She is my age, early thirties. She has straw-colored hair swept from her lovely face in a ponytail, and she looks like an actress I’ve seen on one of the soaps. I look closer as I press the “stop” button on my machine, realizing she is the actress I’ve seen. Of course she is. All of the actresses you’ve seen have memberships at my gym.
I murmur an apology for keeping her waiting, then shuffle to one of the racks of weights and start lifting. Again, I lose myself, but this time I am meditating on her, visualizing myself as I peel off her red spandex tights, cut through her black spandex thong, wrap the spandex straps around her wrists to capture her.
I have her tied and tormented before I realize that she’s staring at me in the mirror. I look at my own reflection rather than meeting her gaze. I am wearing black sweats in a sea of colored spandex. My corkscrew ringlets are free and curling wilder than ever because I’m hot and sweaty. My normally pale cheeks have circles of color, “apples of color,” my grandmother would say, in their centers.
I’m not overweight. I’m not even untoned. I simply do not look like the Malibu girls who grace the Stairmaster machines. I do not have a swishy ponytail or a face you’ve seen on TV. I don’t have to. I work behind the camera.
When I’m done with my self-scrutiny, I realize she’s still watching me. Whatever, I think, mimicking my hairdresser who accentuates the statement by making a little “w” with his fingers and thumbs. Then, because I am uncomfortable, I head to the showers, and then to the steam room.
That’s where she finds me. She comes in, wearing only a towel, but holding her leotard in one hand. She says, “You were looking at me in the oddest way,” which is funny, because this is exactly what I want to say to her. She says, “I don’t think we’ll be interrupted. There’s a step class going on and all the women are in there, sweating.”
I say, “But we’re in here, sweating...” and she drops her towel and lets me ogle her beautiful form for a moment before coming toward me and offering me that twisted rope of red Lycra. I don’t hesitate. I let her lay down on the white towel on top of the wood boards while I wrap her leotard around her wrists. I don’t have the rest of the accoutrements to trick out my envisioned torture chamber, but I like the way she looks as is. Bound, semi-helpless, her muscular thighs spread, her body arched and ready.
I climb up next to her on the wood bench, and I part those sturdy thighs and go instantly to work. She’s wet from her post-workout shower, but she’s also wet from want, and the subtle flavor of her cunt envelopes me in the same manner as the steam does. It goes to my head, but it’s too tasty to pull away from. I lose myself in her cunt. I would climb inside her if I could. I know I should practice a bit of foreplay, let her see what a dutiful and passionate lover I can be. Instead, I go for the prize in the box of Crackerjacks, fastening my lips in a circle around her clitoris and sucking on it as if it were a piece of hard candy, an Everlasting Gobstopper that gets sweeter as it melts in your mouth.
She moans and tries to use her hands to push me down on her, but they’re tied and helpless. That spurs me on and I lift her thighs up over my shoulders and impale her asshole with my fingers, never moving my lips from her cunt. She’s still as I probe her insides, she’s completely still, as if I might stop if she moves. I can see how much she likes it, likes the feeling of intrusion there, and that makes me wish I had a dildo to impale her with, instead of only my fingers.
We’re both sweating wildly now, but she’s close to coming and I bring her to the very peak with fingers, tongue, mouth, the palm of my free hand on her ass, the dig of my nails into her skin. I know the step class must be nearly over, that I need to finish this up, so I keep my busy fingers in her ass, my hungry mouth sealed to her pussy. Her orgasm is an explosion of juices all over my face and lips and sticky fingers. We’re both wrecked as we hear the door open, and we quickly hide beneath our towels, her with her bound wrists concealed.
We share secret smiles on the way back to the showers, and she says, “I’m glad I skipped ‘step workout’ today.”
I cock my head at her, and bite my tongue, thinking to myself, Heck, if it burns up the calories, who’s to complain?
HERE, IN THE MIDDLE OF EVERYTHING
John Flores
At your request, I drive us to The Hollywood Bowl, a concert hall that’s built in the basin scooped out of a hill, where we can listen to the music of the yearly jazz festival. It’s a tradition of ours. But the tradition includes much more than simply enjoying the melodious jazz. You’ve bought seats at the top of the bleachers, where nobody pays patrons any attention: the cheap seats. Perfect for our annual outdoor festivities.
We park at the base of the hill and walk up, carrying our picnic basket and blanket. After giving our tickets to the usher, we take several escalators to the very top of the Bowl. The bleacher seats up here are nearly empty. Most people have crowded down low, to watch the musicians play. You and I have ulterior motives. We want a little privacy, and we can hear the music fine even way up here. For us, the music is simply a backdrop to our own enchanted pleasures.
Once we spread out, I help you lay down in my lap, so that you’re truly comfortable. Your feet are up on the wood and your eyes are closed. I stroke your shiny hair away from your forehead and look down at your pretty face as the musicians continue to play.
It looks as if there are fireflies in the sky, but I know that heralding lights are simply picking up the white wings of moths high up in the air. Still, the scene is plenty atmospheric, and when I bend down to kiss you, I feel you squirm against my lap. You’re letting me know what I know already. I’m hard. But now, from the way you’re moving, I sense you’re trying to tell me something. You want to do something about my hardness.
Here, in the middle of everything.
I wrap us even tighter in the quilt, and then feel your body as you move down, on your knees, still fully hidden by the blanket. I sigh as your hands fumble in hazy darkness for
my fly. You unbutton the row of faded gold buttons with a quick tug, and then almost instantly your mouth is on me. Warm and soft and sweet.
I have nothing on under the jeans, and with the fly parted open, you can bob up and down almost all the way to the base. The feeling is unbelievable. Yeah, we play oral games at home, whenever we want to, but being out in public is different. Being so well cared for while among thousands of other people is almost surreal. I can’t get enough of the sensation. It’s the fact that we are here, in the middle of everything, doing this most base and private act that makes me want to shoot right now. But I force myself to stay steady, to hold the course, to not rush.
Breathing in deep, I close my eyes, then open them a second later as I feel your fingertips pushing beneath me to stroke my balls through my jeans. I’m not sure how much of this I can take. But you don’t care. You seem to move to the very beat of the music, rocking your mouth with a rhythmic cadence, up and down, sucking in hard, and then relaxing. I feel myself getting dizzy, lightheaded from the way you move.
God, do you know how to suck cock.
You have these little special tricks that you do, swirls with your tongue, designs you seem to make as if you’re trying to tell me something, or transform me into someone else. And you do. With your little moves and your special suckling kisses, you push me right over the edge, until I’m falling into the music and the pleasure of being so well treated. Falling and rising up again. No more waiting. No more holding back.
And as the music sways over me, I know that I’m going to come.
Here, in the middle of everything.
STAINED
Rhonda Lewis
I don’t know how he knew that it was my time of the month, but he always did. Crazy, wasn’t it? Most of my boyfriends have been extremely careful to avoid those five to seven days each month—or if not to avoid me, then to avoid my pussy in favor of my mouth for one-sided oral pleasures, or my ass for pleasures of a different type altogether.