by Alison Tyler
I wanted her close as possible to naked.
Bridget’s a little shy. More than a little, actually. She’s also a shameless exhibitionist. It doesn’t sound like those two traits can go together. Well, they can—in fact, they’re deliciously adapted for each other.
My beautiful girlfriend is embarrassed about the fact that men look at her; even more embarrassed about the fact that she wants men to look at her. That it makes her wet. That’s why she lets me pick out her clothes. Because nothing makes me hotter than knowing every guy who lays eyes on Bridget is eating his heart out, wanting her.
Bridget’s a little uncomfortable with her large, full breasts, her slender belly, the smooth swell of her hips. She’s a little uncomfortable with her long, glorious legs, and with the fact that just by showing them off as she walks down the street she can have a man tripping on his tongue, running his car into a fire hydrant, wishing to God he could have those legs wrapped around his face.
If it wasn’t for me, Bridget would wear loose sweats, baggy jeans, bulky sweaters. And spend her whole life longing to show off. With me, she gets to show off all she wants, and even if she feels a little nervous about it, even if she says “I can’t,” or “Don’t make me,” the first time, she gets to do it anyway. She gets to be shameless—and I never push her past the boundaries of “tasteful.”
Well, almost never.
Because the outfit she’s wearing now, it’s anything but tasteful. When she tried it on for me, she had on a pair of cotton underwear beneath the spandex sliver of fabric, in accordance with state health laws.
“If you make me buy this,” she whispered into my ear, her face hot against mine as she blushed, “I’ll have to get a Brazilian wax.”
“That’s right,” I told her. “I already made the appointment.”
Right now, she’s reclining on her beach towel, her long legs pressed together, the sun caressing every inch of her almost-naked body. The white spandex string bikini clings so firmly to her double-D breasts that the swells at the sides are clearly visible, as is the slope leading to the valley of her cleavage. The fact that her nipples show through the damp spandex is a testament to the fact that showing off turns her on.
This beach is known for being one of those naughty ones, you see. Sometimes girls take their tops off. Especially on the end of the beach where we are, because it’s a little cove protected by a ridge, invisible from the highway. So sometimes girls take their tops off here. Sometimes girls take everything off here.
It’s not, strictly speaking, legal. But nobody ever seems to get caught.
And nobody ever gets caught or cited for standing up on the ridge overlooking the protected cove with a digital camera and zoom lens. Before we came here, I took Bridget to those websites, paid the $20 monthly fee, showed her all the digital snapshots of women just like her at this very beach.
Now, there’s four or five beach beauties, scattered around us, all semi-clothed. In bikinis, mostly, though one of them is wearing a one-piece. None of them are topless. Bridget is the best-looking one here, and her bikini is by far the skimpiest. Therefore, she’s got their attention. Every last one of them. The guys on the ridge, I mean.
The eight or ten guys on the ridge are topless, their tacky Bermuda shorts their only clothing as their zoom lenses caress Bridget’s body. They rove over her pretty face behind her mirrored glasses. They delve deep into her cleavage, tease her nipples beneath the spandex. Ease down her tanned belly and touch the top of her thong, less than an inch above her clit, which I know is swollen and aching.
When she rolls onto her belly, they take pictures of her glorious ass, zooming in closer as she spreads her legs. The other girls watch, fascinated, some perhaps tempted to put on their own display—but most of them disgusted with the men on the ridge. None of them knows how wet Bridget is getting.
But I know.
I reach out and tug at the knots of Bridget’s bikini top. She looks up at me, a little frightened, her skin reddened by the heat of the sun and the heat of her excitement. I undo the first strap, the one around her back. Then I undo the one at her neck.
The guys snap pictures, never taking their zoom lenses off of her.
I rub suntan lotion into Bridget’s bare back. I sweep her long dark hair out of the way, caress her neck. I bend down low and whisper, “Sit up.”
“I can’t,” she says. “I’ll be on the web in fifteen minutes.”
“That’s right,” I say. “Those beautiful tits for every guy to see. Jerking off on his computer screen. All over your tits. Thousands of guys coming on your tits.”
That does it. Breathing hard, Bridget sits up, and now every guy on the ridge is snapping pictures of her bare tits. Her breath comes quicker, nipples hardening visibly as I kneel behind her and reach around, not wanting to spoil the view of the lechers up on the ridge. I spurt sun-warm suntan lotion onto her tits, and she starts to rub it in. I spurt more, shooting virtual cumshots for guys to watch, each one adding his own as he leers at Bridget’s gorgeous breasts. We get nasty looks from the other women as Bridget rubs suntan lotion into her nipples.
“Let’s go to the van,” I tell her. “I think they’ve seen enough.”
Bridget covers up with her bikini top, clutching it to her tits but not putting it on as we walk up the path.
When we make it to the van, the guys on the ridge start to clap for us. I push Bridget into the car and pull the curtains, bending her over the backseat. The bikini top falls away, and I reach under Bridget to fondle her tits. She moans as I pinch her nipples, and I see camera lenses trained on our window.
I pluck her thong out of the way, tuck it to the side, and enter her smoothly. She moans as I fuck her. Her hand works into her bikini bottoms and rubs her clit until she comes. I pull out of her and Bridget rolls onto her back. I mount her with my cock between her tits, and she pushes them together as I begin to fuck her, her breasts slick from suntan oil and my cock slick from her pussy. She cradles my cock and I pump her until I’m ready to come. She looks up at me as she jerks me off, and my hot streams of come join the remnants of the suntan lotion. She smears my come over her breasts, moaning softly. The men are still taking snapshots outside, but they can’t see Bridget, sprawled on the floor of the van, covered in my come. That’s the greatest thing about it: as much as they want this particular snapshot for their websites, it’s reserved for me.
Bridget says, “We’d better get going. It’s a long drive home.”
“Let’s get a motel and stay another couple of days,” I tell her, smiling.
CLEAVAGE IS A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND
Rachel Kramer Bussel
I’m in my room, getting dressed. First, I pick up the purple, lacy bra, the one I know is slightly too small on me. I like the way it pushes my tits together, creating cleavage out of empty space, forcing my breasts to curve outwards. I like my body okay, as much as the next girl, but for me, my breasts are my prized possessions, and I try to show them off whenever I can. I adjust the bra to my liking, then put on a low-cut black sweater which reveals just the right amount of skin, and an occasional peek at the bra beneath, if I move the right way. I squeeze into my dark blue jeans, add my black open-toed three-inch heels, and after making sure it all works in the mirror, I’m ready to go.
When I walk out the door, I know that the first thing people will notice is my cleavage, jutting forth beneath my shirt. Even though there’s a slight chill in the air, I don’t wear a coat. Tonight, it’s all about getting noticed, by anyone and everyone. I want my efforts to pay off, with appreciative glances and roving eyes as my prize.
I head over to my local bar, knowing that this being Friday, it will be a busy night. I get a cold beer and sit down at my favorite spot at the end of the bar, where I can watch all the goings on without seeming like I’m all that interested. I sip my beer and try to decide whose eye I want to catch.
I scan the room until I come to Her. She’s wearing a leather jacket, dark jeans and bl
ack boots, and looks like she’s never been afraid of anything or anyone in her life. I stare at her, hard, until she looks up and notices me. Even from across the room, her eyes graze my body, up and down and back, settling upon my noticeable chest. I smile, ever so slightly, then look away. I finish my beer and order another one, trying to find something to do besides fidget and stare.
Then I feel someone behind me, and hear a slight commotion. I turn around and there she is, in my corner. “Hi,” she says, her voice husky and deep.
“Hi,” I reply, faltering slightly, my bravado fading into nerves and the reality of my heart beating triple-time.
She leans over, her chin on my shoulder, invading my space because she senses that I want to be invaded. “What’s your name?” she whispers into my ear, and that mundane, age-old question suddenly becomes the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.
“What’s yours?” I ask, running my hand down the length of her leather-clad arm, until I reach her hand. Because she’s been so bold with me, I figure it’s my turn. I lift her hand and put her first two fingers in my mouth, sucking on them. I press my tongue up against the underside of her fingers, dancing along the sensitive skin while my eyes meet hers. I’ve never done something like this, and I know anyone in the bar could see us, but I don’t care. Tonight’s my night and nobody’s going to stop me from having fun.
I give her fingers a last good suck and pull them out, and she slides them along my cheek, the wetness cooling against my skin. We still don’t know each other’s names, but we know something much more important—that we’ve each found who we were looking for tonight.
She slides her still-wet fingers down my chin, past my neck, over my expanse of cleavage until she reaches my bra. She peers down to see her fingers wend their way under its lace, reaching until they hit my already-hard nipple. I gasp at the feel, her rough fingers squeezing my nipple and sending ripples of pleasure throughout my body. I lean my head back a little and look at her as she delights in making me squirm. She’s standing in front of me so we’re slightly hidden, but I’m enjoying myself too much to really care who sees me. She takes her hand away, then brings both hands to my waist, then under my shirt. She covers my breasts, and I feel the lace from my bra rubbing against me, getting me even more excited. I wrap my legs around her, locking her in. She stays there, feeling me up, working me into a frenzy, and I wish we could just strip down to nothing right here.
The agony of waiting, of having her near and wanting to show off my body for her, is driving me crazy. I try to smile coyly, but it comes out as a moan as her thumbs press hard against my nipples. “So, could we maybe get out of here?” I ask, trying for nonchalance even though I’m sure she can feel my urgent need for her sizzling through me.
“What’s your rush?” She smiles, and makes me wait for an hour, as she toys with my nipples and teases me in an unbearable yet unstoppable way. She pinches my nipples until I am contorted in agony, my pussy dripping and my total focus on the magic of her hands. She knows it, too, as she surveys the room and orders a drink, continuing to pinch and pull just enough to let me know she’s in charge. I don’t bother asking again to leave; it will only encourage her behavior. When I start to reach under my skirt to try to provide my pussy with some relief, her hand grabs mine. She frowns at me, massaging my hand. “Not yet, my dear. You’ll know when it’s time. I’m just making sure you’re nice and ready for me.” I know that I’m ready for her this very minute, but I can’t say that. So I wait, as she works my nipples into points so sensitive I can feel their heat even when she takes her hands away.
As we finally leave the bar, she puts her arm around me, pulls me toward her, and says, “You have the most amazing breasts. That’s the first thing I noticed about you, although the rest of you is pretty amazing, too. I’m going to play with them all night.” I smile. And with her words, I know the truth; with all due respect to the femme wisdom of Marilyn Monroe, it’s cleavage that truly is a girl’s best friend.
LA DOLCE VITA
Sage Vivant
No, I’m sorry. We do not have a reservation for you,” the slickly handsome maitre d’ announced slowly as he perused the reservations list.
Stephen had called Da Mimmo two weeks earlier to plan this evening with Brenda. The restaurant had even phoned him yesterday to confirm. As he explained this to the condescending Italian who was already eyeing the next party in line, he clenched his fists and his jaw simultaneously.
“I will see what can be done,” the stuffy host promised. “Anna, would you take these people to the special lounge?” Stephen and Brenda were told to wait in the richly upholstered but dimly lit room where no other patrons kept them company.
“Why can’t we just wait at the bar like everyone else?” Brenda whispered to Stephen as Anna smugly sauntered out, shutting the heavy wooden door behind her. The fireworks in Brenda’s eyes blazed so brilliantly when she was inquisitive.
Stephen grinned and slipped an arm around her waist. “I’m wondering why he called this the ‘special’ lounge.” His mouth met hers softly, their familiar tenderness now laced with a new excitement.
To his surprise, her palms immediately found their way to his firm butt and she pushed her perky breasts into his chest. He’d expected her to protest, even if she wasn’t convincing about it. Instead, her heat burned through his suit and her tongue sought his.
“We could be interrupted at any time,” he warned between kisses.
“If we’re good enough, maybe dinner will be complimentary,” she chuckled softly.
He undressed her reverently. She never took her smoldering eyes off him. When she stood in her stockings, heels and black lace bra, he carried her to the oversized sofa and lay her down so she could watch him strip for her. Their fondness for each other mingled with sudden lust, resulting in that single-mindedness that virtually guarantees great sex.
She cupped her hands at the base of his cock and pulled him to her mouth, sucking him in slow motion, rubbing his cock over her cheeks and neck as if he were a high-priced cosmetic. He caressed her breast through her bra until her nipple pointed at him like a fingertip.
He didn’t have to mention his gratitude for her lack of panties. His cock’s dreamy entrance said “thank you” quite nicely. Minutes passed without either of them knowing how he started on top of her yet ended with her on all fours, pushing her shapely, ample ass at him while he cleaved it in long, loving thrusts. Her scent filled the room, overcoming the delicious aromas from the distant kitchen.
As her juices coated the insides of her thighs and slicked up his balls, the couple found themselves on the expansive, white marble coffee table, he on his knees and she with her feet on the cool stone surface, riding him with sweet relentlessness. Her eyes rolled backwards, followed by her head, until the muscles of her cunt squeezed him and her shouts filled the room. Her pleasure triggered his own and the liquid heat between his legs shot skyward, filling her, mixing with her cream for a concoction all their own.
“Tandy, party of two,” floated through the room from well-hidden speakers. Giggling, they dressed for dinner.
CANVAS
Renee Roberts
Rose says her body will be completely covered by the time she dies. She says this while she files her short nails. She’s seated behind the counter at the bar, and I steal longing glances at her. Fantasizing.
Sometimes, when I touch myself at night, I imagine that I’m the one covered with ink. My body, a canvas, blank and ready for a master artist to decorate with the scenes from my dreams.
Before I go to the Radiant Room, I stroke gold-dusted blush along my cheekbones, arch my thick, dark eyebrows with pencils, fill in my full lips with a black-cherry gloss. My reflection mocks me from the mirror over the sink. I don’t care. I play with my thick, peasant hair, whipping my vibrant ebony wisps until they stand, glossy and high, in a ’50s-style ’do. I turn myself into the opposite of my love, ending up looking like a Puerto Rican Elvira.
I s
care all of the boys away. Don’t want them. Don’t care.
I want her.
She is my opposite in appearance. Her platinum hair is short and straight. Her eyes are a blue opaque. Her skin, what you can actually see of the flesh, is translucent white. I am dark skinned with black, shiny eyes and a trembling hand that reaches out to hand her the money for my drink. She is a dom. She doesn’t even look at me.
I want her.
I dream of her inking me, of her using a silver-tipped needle to draw along the lines of my back, to turn me into a work of art. I envision the designs that would cover my skin, the clichéd images: a heart with a scroll that says her name; a dragon whose wings would beat whenever I flexed my muscles; a snake with rippling, iridescent scales on its belly.
I get just drunk enough to confess these desires to Rose one night, late one night, when she’s ready to go. I catch her before she pushes through the exit, catch hold of her arm and whisper these things to her. Crazy visions. Lustful needs. She looks at me without recognition. Then she smiles, grasps my hand, and leads me after her.
We ride her sportster to her apartment. We climb the wooden stairs in silence. We undress with only the streetlight illuminating our bodies. She laughs at my nakedness. She is always clothed; her body is always kept warm by the pictures on her skin. But her laughter isn’t mean, it’s gentle, ribbing. She pushes me onto her bed, heats my skin for me with her generous weight, rubs herself on me like a cat. I swivel my hips beneath hers, wondering how we’re gonna do it. Wondering if she’s got toys, strap-ons, dildos. She doesn’t make a move to get anything. She uses her mouth on me, but not on my pussy. She uses her tongue to bathe me, to lick my naked skin, to kiss the soft places on my body: under my arms, under my breasts, the backs of my thighs.
Then, when I think I will go mad if she doesn’t fuck me, she brings her mouth to my cunt and spreads warmth there, tickling me with her tongue, plunging her fingers into both my holes, telling me to make noise for her, telling me that she likes noisy girls.