by Alison Tyler
“I thought I told you to get on the couch.” Eve snapped out of her voyeuristic fog and sat down. “Lean all the way back, arms out by your sides.” She obeyed him. “Spread your legs for me, baby.” And she did that too, though after a brief hesitation.
He walked toward her, not letting his rhythm falter. The tug was serving to bring his boil down. If he could reach more of a simmer, it would keep him from tearing her apart. He could smell her, and standing between her open knees, he reached down with his free hand to feel her.
“Do you remember the first time, Eve?”
“The bonfire.”
“I had to eat dinner with your parents that night too.”
She smiled. “We were so young. Just kids, really.”
“The way I felt that night, when I finally talked you out of your skirt and those little panties with the bows. I swear to god that’s how I am going to feel tonight. When I push into you. When I split that gorgeous little slit of yours.”
She flushed at his words. Mal couldn’t see in the near dark, but he knew it, just like he knew how much she liked it when he talked to her this way.
He released himself, and she licked her lips, watching that very male part of him bob against his belly. He was enamored by the way she did that. Looked at him there. “Let’s reflect on our day, shall we, Eve?” Her wide eyes flicked to his face. “Eleven a.m.,” he said, then bit the curve of her neck. He felt goose bumps break out on her skin and licked the spot.
“Noon,” he told her, then knelt down to the carpet, raising her left foot to kiss each toe, then her right. “12:02.” He repeated the attentions to her feet.
“One p.m.” He stood up and leaned over her, placing his hands on the couch, flanking her head. He kissed her mouth, slowly at first, but building until she parted her lips for him. He thrust his tongue inside twice. He bit her lip as he pulled away. She cried out. They were both reeling.
“Two.” Mal licked the tattoo at the inside of her right elbow.
“Three.” His mouth briefly skimmed her belly button.
“Four.” He was becoming impatient and breathed the word into her inner thigh before moving to “Five.” He squeezed her breasts together, making sure to tweak her nipples, then paused for dramatic effect before soundly motorboating her. They both laughed, full-body, racking laughter. That felt so good too. He said, “5:12,” and barely touched his smiling lips to hers.
“Six.” He slowly began tracing the seam where her leg met her torso, delicate, pale, private skin being caressed by rough, callused fingertips.
“Seven.” He took her left nipple into his mouth, the steady sweeping movement of his fingers unrelenting, just the same as the stroke on his own cock before. He felt her gasp and shiver beneath his touch, his tongue. Sucking and licking and biting. He pulled back, stretching her nipple as he held it between his teeth. She cried out in pain, pleasure, impatience. She wiggled, grabbing his head with both hands, tunneling her fingers through his hair, pressing his face, his mouth closer. Another time he might have made sure she put her hands back on the couch. Not now, though. Not tonight. It felt absolute to know how much she needed him.
“Eight. It seems we need to keep those hands busy. Pinch your nipples.” She did, and her eyes were starry, so glazed and fuck-drunk. “You want nine, don’t you, baby?” She nodded, but he shook his head. “Say it, and don’t you dare let up on those pretty, pretty tits.”
“I want it. I want nine.” He stared at her, and she stammered, “N-n-nine o’clock. Oh god, Mal, please put your mouth on me.” His gaze remained steady, but he cocked his head slightly, so she nearly shouted at him, “My clit, my vagina, my pussy, Jesus God, Mal, please put your mouth on me!”
He did, and she jerked, jolted at the swift contact. “Where’s your phone?” he asked into her warm, slick folds. She didn’t respond until he repeated the question, licking her in long, slow strokes between each word.
She answered him, but incoherently and in between soft, wet sex sounds. He circled her clit and tapped it twice with the tip of his tongue, then put his fingers there, playing, parting, exploring. He licked a trail up her body to her mouth.
“Eve, reach over to your purse. Get your phone,” he said. She did, but with difficulty. When she finally had the $600 wonder in her hands, her arms went limp beside her. “Good. Now. I am going to put my mouth back on your warm”—he kissed her mouth—“starving”—he kissed her again—“wet little cunt, but you will not come.” He kissed her longer this time. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she told him, drawing out the s and lolling her head back onto the couch, eyes closed. He stroked indolently inside her and felt her inner muscles clutch at him. He had to keep his pace easy, quiet. That was the only way to keep a rein on himself, keep him from breaking the sound barrier…or something. “Open your eyes, Eve. I want you to pull up your camera.” She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion or maybe concentration. He couldn’t tell which, but she was doing as he asked, so he slid back down her body to taste her again.
“I have it,” she told him.
“Be ready to use it when I say.”
She nodded, and he jerked her hips to the edge of the couch, positioning his penis at her entrance. The swiftness of his movement seemed to shock her a little, and she stared wide-eyed, open like the universe. His member seemed to strain toward her like it had a mind of its own.
“Oh god, yes,” she said as he gently parted her folds with the point of his prick. Wanting to shove and thrust but gritting his teeth and inching forward instead, he seated himself fully, then pulled out in the same controlled, measured increments. Her hips were pumping off the couch in a gorgeous, graceless rhythm, so he had to hold her more firmly down. She took him so far beyond anything, everything, vast like space itself.
He checked the clock on the wall. It was time. “Now, baby, now.” Ten p.m. “Take the picture, Eve. Take it now.” And she did.
ELEVEN P.M. STRIP POKER
Ashley Lister
Strip Poker. The words tightened a knot in Amanda’s belly. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Frank. It was eleven o’clock and she didn’t know if her excitement came from fear or euphoria or a combination of both. She only knew that as soon as Carl suggested the game, the air in the room was charged with electricity.
Becky sneered. “Do you ever think about anything except sex?”
Carl shook his head. “No. Are you playing?”
There were six of them in the lounge: the last members of a college reunion party that had started four hours earlier at seven o’clock. The table was littered with empty wine bottles and the memories of a pleasant but otherwise unexceptional get-together. Now only the six friends remained.
Carl leant back in his chair and held up a deck of cards. He glanced expectantly at each of them. “Who’s in?”
“I’m game.” Debbie’s enthusiasm didn’t surprise anyone. She pulled up a chair next to Carl.
“Deal me in.” Eddie took the seat facing Debbie.
Amanda watched Frank take a chair. She sat down at the table at the same time as him. She could see they were both trying to feign the same air of nonchalance. They had both assumed the studied pose of a person saying, “What the hell! It’s only strip poker.” As though they played the game every night of the week.
“Becky?” Carl prompted. “Are you playing?”
She rolled her eyes with disdain. “You’re never going to grow up, Carl. Are you?” Despite the contempt in her voice, she squeezed between Frank and Eddie.
Amanda tried to quell her excitement. The table was small. They were all sitting so close her knees touched the men on either side. She wondered what that closeness would feel like when they were all wearing less clothing. The idea made her shiver. Her nipples hardened inside her bra. The knot in her stomach tightened.
“Strip poker.” Frank grinned. “I can’t remember the last time I played.”
“It was probably back in college,” Eddie chimed in. “M
aybe the night of our graduation…”
The anecdotes began as Carl dealt. They exchanged tales of games they had previously played, each more outlandish than the last. Carl’s story centered on a girl who had to sit on the laps of all the male players. In Debbie’s story the loser was a guy who got rudely fondled by each of the female players. Becky talked about a lone woman who lost to five hung and horny members of the college football team. The salacious tales, each bolder than its predecessor, fueled a fluid longing in Amanda’s loins.
She cast a sly glance in Frank’s direction.
Their eyes met.
Hurriedly, they each looked away.
Debbie lost the first hand. She shrugged as though the matter meant nothing and peeled off the skintight T-shirt that had been hugging her lithe torso. She wore no bra. Her breasts were bare and her nipples were stiff and dark. The room changed instantly. The air was suddenly too heavy to breathe.
Eddie and Frank whistled. Becky made a disparaging comment about Debbie’s lack of a bra. And Carl dealt again.
Carl lost his shirt. Frank was soon down to his boxers. Becky sat in a matching set of expensive lingerie. Eddie remained fully clothed whilst Debbie was down to a thong that hid nothing. Amanda felt self-conscious in her bra and pants. Frank kept glancing at her. His gaze made her squeeze her thighs together, sparking a frisson of delicious sensations.
“What’s the loser going to forfeit?” Carl asked.
They all studied him in silence. The anecdotes about previous forfeits had made for heady listening. Amanda swallowed thickly when she realized she could soon become the loser.
“The loser has to kiss a person of the winner’s choosing,” Eddie suggested.
Carl shrugged. Frank nodded agreement. Debbie started to say that she liked Carl’s idea, but Becky interrupted with a suggestion of her own.
Amanda had stopped listening. She thought: I hope I lose and I have to kiss Frank. The prospect sent a shiver coursing through her sex. The inner muscles of her pussy clenched with a slow, languorous need. A kiss sounded like a simple enough forfeit, but if she was naked and kissing Frank, she knew the experience would be sensational.
She put down a pair of twos. A losing hand.
Everyone clapped encouragement as she stood up to take off her bra. Exposing her breasts in front of her friends was an odd mixture of liberation and raw, sexual excitement. Eddie, Debbie and Carl all grinned with approval. Frank graced her with embarrassed glances. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Her cheeks colored bright crimson as she sat back down wearing only a pair of frilly tangas.
“This could be the last hand,” Carl announced. “Are we all okay going with Becky’s idea for the forfeit?”
Amanda nodded, even though she couldn’t recall what Becky had said. And, when she lost, her head pounded with the dizzying adrenaline rush of stepping out of her panties to expose herself naked to her friends.
Carl and Eddie wolf-whistled. Debbie and Becky clapped with approval.
Frank beamed. “You look ready to make the forfeit.”
“What is the forfeit?”
Becky rolled her eyes. “You weren’t listening?”
“I must have missed it. What was it?”
Carl laughed and clapped Frank good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Enjoy your prize.”
Debbie retrieved her clothes. Eddie stood up and bade everyone a soft-spoken good night whilst Carl helped Becky to dress. Frank was the only one who remained in his seat. He was nearly naked.
“Isn’t someone going to tell me what the forfeit is?”
“That’s why we’re leaving,” Carl said. “We figured you and Frank would like some time alone to enjoy that.”
Amanda said nothing. Dwelling on the fluid warmth that rushed through her loins, she figured whatever she had to do for Frank, it would be a forfeit she wouldn’t mind suffering. Standing coolly to say good night to her friends, no longer troubled by the fact that she was naked, she casually kissed each one good night and wished them a safe journey home. And when they were finally alone, she turned to Frank.
“What forfeit are you expecting?”
He smiled. “You’ll like this.”
MIDNIGHT: MOVIE DATE
N.T. Morley
Marie drew not stares but glances as she entered the porn shop.
Even so, she detected the shamed heat of lust radiating from the men who furtively sized up her lithe form in the tall, tight trench coat—tall because she was wearing high heels; tight because she had it buttoned to her throat and belted snugly at her waist.
About a dozen guys browsed the stacks—a pretty thin crowd for a shop this big. They tried to ignore her as she browsed. Marie tried not to rubberneck at the dark, dank corridor at the back of the shop—the one with the giant sign on one side that said No UNACCOMPANIED WOMEN IN THE PREVIEW SECTION EVER, and the one on the other side that said YOU MUST BUY $5 IN TOKENS EVERY TIME YOU ENTER THE PREVIEW SECTION! She tried not to look, but she could barely take her eyes off it. To distract herself while she waited, she cruised easily among the men, who tried not to look at her and peered uncomfortably into giant wooden bins filled with shrink-wrapped dongs.
She wandered between racks of cheap, stinky sex toys and wire-frame shelves packed with DVDs under signs that said things like ANAL, GIRL-GIRL, DOUBLE PENETRATION. They’ve got a double penetration section? Marie found herself thinking. Why can’t every business be so lucky? She couldn’t stop glancing back at the “preview section,” parts of her going slick that really had no business going slick just yet. But it wasn’t her moistening pussy that really bugged her, it was the feeling of energy that coursed through her body. She’d expected to be scared; she really wasn’t. She felt like she had these guys by the balls; they seemed far more afraid of her than she did of them. The chance of her getting groped or something—which had seemed so real just moments before she entered the store—now seemed ludicrous at best. Perhaps more importantly, any minute, Aidan was going to walk through that front door. Any errant hand that made its way to her posterior would not be a happy hand if Aidan saw it doing so.
He would show up, wouldn’t he? Of course he will, she told herself. Didn’t that son of a bitch talk me into this?
She thought about it; she honestly couldn’t remember. She figured they’d talked each other into it; that was good enough for her.
As far as she could tell, no one was really using the preview booths. Maybe it was the exorbitant price—$5 in tokens? She remembered the first porn shop she’d ever been to, it was like $1 or something. Or maybe it was just a slow night—after all, it was a Tuesday, about to be a Wednesday. She looked at the clerk, a twenty-something retro kid with chopped-up Sting hair wearing a SILENCE=DEATH T-shirt and paging through an Entertainment Weekly. She felt sympathy for the poor bastard; working the graveyard shift at the 24/7 porn shop must get tedious when you were twenty-three or something and queer. Well, she figured, she and Aidan were about to do their part to make the kid’s life slightly more interesting. Only slightly, but hey, it was something.
Cruising the sex toy section, Marie spotted something she didn’t expect—one of the smoothie-style vibrators came with batteries already installed, a fact proclaimed on the package in hot pink type with multiple exclamation points. Why the hell didn’t I think to bring one? she thought, and snatched the vibrator up. She felt simultaneously disgusted that sex toy industry copywriters were so lame they’d get that excited about the batteries already being in the damn thing, and excited because now she had a vibrator that was ready to go. Why hadn’t she thought to bring one, after all?
Well, now she had one—and none too soon. The ancient wall clock over the bored clerk’s bleach-blond shrub clicked down to exactly midnight just as Aidan walked through the blacked-out glass door.
Damn, he looked good. Six feet of man in leather pants and engineer boots. Shoulders broader than usual—which was saying something—because he wore his padded jacket. He’d locked his helmet to
the bike, so his big, spanky hands were free-range. Marie quivered a little as she wondered whether people ever got spanked at glory holes. One step at a time, she told herself. Blow job. It made her sweating knees feel weak and her moistening pussy feel tight. She licked her lips and felt the sticky-smooth slime of her bright red lipstick. Damn, I always do that, she thought. She wasn’t used to wearing lipstick—or for that matter, makeup of any kind. She wasn’t especially good at it. Fixing it seemed kind of silly at this point—not to mention obvious.
Especially because Aidan had already sized her up with his big brown eyes—as if he didn’t know her, yum—and ambled to the counter.
She heard his deep, rich voice intone the magic words:
“Twenty dollars in tokens.”
The clerk changed Aidan’s bill and counted out twenty $1 tokens. Aidan shot another look at Marie—a wicked look, up and down, the bastard. She felt so objectified! It made her nipples hard. How was it the big dumb lug was so unbelievably good at that?
She walked toward the counter, her high heels click-clacking on the cheap linoleum floor. As she passed the preview area, she couldn’t resist peering down the hallway. Aidan hadn’t gone in yet; he was making a show of reading the movie listings mounted on the wall next to the booth at the end of the hall. But she saw, to her amazement, that the booths that were occupied—maybe three out of the twelve or so booths—had little red lights blazing just above the doors. Holy shit, she realized, groping after an ancient memory. Confession. They’re just like confessionals.