by Alison Tyler
Brandon’s fingers lingered between my legs, stroking me casually, toying with my slick opening and venturing upward to circle my clit lazily. His touch was light and teasing—a remarkable contrast to how heavy-handed he was with the belt.
“Did he keep you positioned like this?” Brandon moved back and lowered his zipper, and I heard the rustle of fabric as he freed his dick.
“Yes,” I managed to utter. “Because he—” I stopped myself, hesitant to reveal more, perhaps because I knew where it would lead.
“What?” Brandon insisted as he ran his cockhead up and down my slippery slit—up and down, over and over, teasing me with the promise of penetration and release. I arched my back, offering myself to him silently. I was begging him with my body not to ask the question, just as much as I was begging him for satisfaction. “Tell me, Celia,” he insisted.
“He wanted to finger my asshole while he fucked my pussy,” I finally answered with a sob, feeling my face heat and my cunt clench.
As the words left my lips, Brandon shoved his cock into me in one hard thrust. “Oh, you’re such a dirty, dirty girl,” he sighed, taking one of his juice-slick fingers and circling it around my asshole as he plunged his shaft in and out of my cunt. He worked his dick in long firm strokes, jamming it into me fast and hard as I squeezed my muscles around him. As he continued pumping his hips, he slid his finger into my back hole, and I thrust toward him, impaling myself and filling both of my holes so sweetly. I moaned helplessly and wriggled in place.
“Did you take his cock up your ass?” Brandon asked, his voice a desperate-sounding hiss. I couldn’t tell if I was hearing jealousy or lust—maybe it was a mixture of both.
“No.”
“You’re not lying, are you?” he asked, working another finger into my back hole.
“Oh—no, Brandon. No one’s ever fucked me there. You know that.” My words were whispers of astonishment.
“Then it’s time someone does.” Brandon yanked his cock and fingers out of me, and I turned toward him in shock, but as I opened my mouth to argue, he grabbed me by the hair and looked me in the eyes.
“Your ass is mine—and I don’t want to hear another word about it. Do you understand me?”
I nodded haltingly, not believing what I was agreeing to do.
“Good,” he said, releasing my hair from his grip. “Now, you stay in position while I go get some lube. And god help you if you move—trust me, you won’t be able to sit for a week.”
Bound by his words, I held tight to the couch as I struggled to keep myself perfectly still. My ass was aching; I wasn’t sure I could take another session with his belt so soon after the first. Deep down, I wasn’t convinced he was serious, but I didn’t want to take a chance. After all, Brandon had already surprised me more than once this evening.
I was grateful for the break, for the chance to steady my nerves and take a few deep breaths. I was in a heady sub space, feeling everything yet nothing. My thoughts were fuzzy, indistinct notions, and the real world seemed like fantasy.
Brandon didn’t keep me waiting long, which was probably a good thing. Any more time and I might have lost my nerve. But even if I did, it was clear to me that he wasn’t going to let me back out, and I would have expected nothing less—and that’s one of the reasons I love him so much.
“Seems like you’re getting better at following orders,” he whispered in my ear upon his return. I didn’t answer him, didn’t dare look over my shoulder. But I didn’t need to see him to know that he’d stripped himself naked. I could tell his clothes were gone because of the feeling of his muscular body pressed up against me and his erection nudging my tingling asscheeks. That brief touch of his hard cock made me aware of how much I wanted it inside me. Sure, I’d had a quick, pleasant climax at Rick’s hands, but he never truly satisfies me the way Brandon does. Even as my bottom burned and my stomach fluttered with nerves, in my head I was already striving for that perfect orgasm that would shake me to my core, soothing and satisfying me until I floated away on a cloud of bliss.
Brandon snapped me back to reality with another command: “I want you to hold your cheeks apart for me so I can lube you up.”
“Brandon—” I started to protest, feeling my face heat with embarrassment. Somehow baring myself to him in this way seemed much more dirty than being taken. I wasn’t sure I could do it.
“Get your hands back here and part your pretty cheeks so I can make your hole nice and slick.” He punctuated his sentence with a hard slap to my ass, and I gasped at the impact. “Unless you want me to go ahead as is,” he added matter-of-factly.
“No! I’ll do it!” I said. My voice was so high-pitched it nearly squeaked.
Resting my head on the back of the couch, I reached back to do as he ordered. My asscheeks felt hot to the touch, and I clasped one in each hand, reawakening the burn as I clutched them, parting them for him. I had my eyes shut tight; I couldn’t believe I was doing this.
“Ahh, that’s perfect.” Brandon took an extraordinarily long amount of time to admire me, and I was mortified. No one had ever had me positioned like this: bottom whipped and cheeks parted as I waited to have my ass violated. I was indignant, angry with him for pushing me, but I also couldn’t wait to feel his cock filling me back there.
“You stay just like that,” he whispered, drizzling lube between my cheeks. The cool liquid ran down my crack and over my back hole, tickling and teasing me. He nudged my opening with a single finger, gradually working it inside my ass. It was quickly followed by a second and a third, and then he moved them in and out slowly.
“Tell me you want it, Celia.”
“I want it,” I whispered, with my eyes closed and my face buried in the couch cushions. Nerves and fear be damned, it was the truth—even though I still was having trouble admitting it.
Brandon kept sliding his fingers in and out of me, his voice sounding as patient as a schoolteacher’s. “You want what?”
“You—your cock—in my ass,” I stuttered. “Please, Brandon.”
Brandon pulled his fingers free, and I nearly sobbed when I felt the emptiness. I soon heard the sound of the lube bottle being squeezed again, and seconds later Brandon was rubbing his cockhead up and down my crack.
“I bet Rick wanted to do this tonight, to be the one to fuck your ass for the very first time,” he said, increasing the pressure of his cock against my hole. “But it’s all for me because you’re my bad girl.” I bit my lip as he pressed his dick against my back door, working through the last bit of my resistance. I grabbed my cheeks more tightly as he pressed forward and popped inside.
“Yes, Brandon. I’ll always be yours,” I whispered, my words floating away on a sigh of pleasure as he slowly sank into me.
“I’ll take it from here,” he said softly, moving my hands away and then grabbing my hips. The heady sensation of his cock plundering my tight hole overwhelmed me, and I was glad my hands were free to search for purchase amongst the cushions.
At first I let Brandon set the pace as he leisurely stroked in and out of me. But when he reached around to strum my clit, I began working my hips in little circles in a desperate attempt to increase the friction against my swollen button. My moves gradually became more frenzied, to the point where Brandon was nearly still. He let me control the action, thrusting back against him to fill my ass with his cock, only to rock forward again in order to press my clit against his fingertips. I rocked and rolled and rode the swelling wave of pleasure until I surrendered to an exquisite blast of ecstasy. Brandon soon followed suit, pumping into me as he clutched my hips and softly moaned my name as if it were some sort of orgasmic mantra.
Afterward, he clutched my sweaty body to his, struggling to speak. “So when are you seeing Rick again?” Brandon asked breathlessly, his voice tinged with hope.
“Next Saturday.”
“Good—I can’t wait.”
THREE A.M. LAST CALL
Alison Tyler
I want the bart
ender to close and lock the front door of the bar. “What happens in The Local stays in The Local” I want some wiseass to say. There will be laughter, of the nervous variety, and the men will try not to look into each other’s eyes. Because what we’re going to do here is a gang bang, and brother, when you say those words aloud, people get jittery.
This isn’t noncon, mind you. I am not asking for something from Last Exit to Brooklyn. Don’t leave me unconscious on an old vinyl car seat behind the bar. Yes, I want the abuse, but I want to revel in every moment. In fact, I want to name the lineup. That’s why we have to wait until closing time, when everyone else can leave except for the five men I’ve chosen.
Choosing was the difficult part. Which five? And even more curious—why five? Five is the number I’ve decided on tonight because I think that’s what I can take. Five guys in a line. One after the other. Or five guys in a circle, coming on my naked skin.
I won’t start out naked. I want to be clothed and mussed. I want my opaque black tights pulled down, my panties tugged until the seams give way. This outfit was purposefully chosen for the thin material that will tear easily. I would have worn a dress made of paper if one were readily available.
Closing time’s coming. I look at the clock over the bar. The boys are starting to shuffle around. I can tell that they want the rest of the crowd to leave as much as I do. Stumble home, people. Get into your trucks, shut one eye, and hope you make the ride home alive. However you do it, get the fuck out. My five are all hard. I can tell. They are about to come in their pants, and we haven’t even started.
How did I choose the team?
Number one goes without saying. He’s my man. Declan wants this to happen as much as I do. We talk about nothing else when we’re in bed, his hand on my throat, his cock to the hilt inside me. “How many can you take?” he likes to ask. “Could you do three? Four? How many could you work, baby?”
Tonight, we’re finally going to find out.
Next up? The bartender. He’s young yet, and baby-faced. He thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips. Why shouldn’t he? The girlies in town take their turns riding his cock and his pretty blond mustache. But we’re going to age him tonight.
The chef—if you can call him that, more of a fry cook—he’s third. Why? Because the big guy seems lonely, and I’ve always been a compassionate sort. He’s good-looking, with an extra solid forty pounds on his six-foot frame and a guilty look in his eyes all the time. What type of porn does he have stashed under his single twin? I’d like to know.
Fourth is a friend going through the type of divorce that makes men believe all women are cunts. Flynn is bitter and angry. I want him to take that aggression out on me. Call me her name, I plan on telling him. Make it hurt.
Five is a drifter. He’s not a local. But he’s the kind of guy who has always made me perk up and take notice. He’s lean and hard-bodied in his old buffalo-plaid flannel shirt and worn Levi’s. He looks as if he has done some serious fighting in his life—hands all scarred to shit—but he also has that glint in his eyes. Yeah, he’s done some serious fucking, as well.
The other four know that this is a gang bang. The drifter? I simply asked if he’d stay on after closing. He gave me a look of mild interest, tracing me up and down with his dark blue eyes, and said he didn’t have anywhere better to be.
How can we do a gang bang in a small town like ours? We’re all friends here. Or if not friends, at least not enemies. We all know each other. That’s my point. This could be a problem in some places. How can I sashay in next Friday night after having been spread out on the pool table tonight, whipped and fucked by neighbors?
Like I said, tonight we’re finally going to find out.
Here’s my thought on the matter: We all know each other’s secrets here. Why not add one more? Look, I don’t want to be one of those women who reaches the end of her road and thinks, Why not? What the fuck was I waiting for? I want to sit there on my front porch in my rocker and have shimmering nights like these to remember.
The regulars are starting to leave. Last call ends the show. My five are shifting. Yeah, they’re hard. All of them. The chef keeps stepping forward and peering through the doorway from the kitchen. The bartender drops a glass, something I’ve never seen him do before. My man has his hand on my waist, his mouth on my neck. He’s kissing me and telling me how fucking sexy I am and how proud of me he is. Our buddy, touching the spot where his ring used to be, looks as if he can’t wait to come in my face and make me like it. And the drifter? He toys with his half-empty shot glass on the bar, clearly waiting to take his cues from the rest of us.
Say you want a guy to tie you up, and you might win a raised eyebrow. Ask for a spanking, and there’s a pussy type of man who will raise his hand—not to smack your ass, but in protest—and tell you he doesn’t go in for that sort of thing. But confess that what you really desire, what keeps you up in the night, is to have a line of men take turns fucking you, and you’ll find out who your friends truly are.
The bar’s quiet now. The door is locked, front light out. We’re all sitting exactly where we were when Brody hollered “Last call.” Then the cook comes out to lean against the bar. He grips a beer in one big mitt and stares at me. The bartender, always so damn cocky in the past, lifts a bottle of vodka from the shelf and pours himself a shot on the largish side. Declan starts to kiss me, his mouth hot on mine, his hands roaming over my body. I’m sitting next to his buddy, Flynn, and I feel Flynn move in tighter to me. We haven’t talked rules—because how can you do that? How can you run down the rules to a gang bang if you’ve never participated in one before? I have the feeling that this is the sort of activity that grabs momentum as the event progresses. Because right now, there’s just Declan kissing me and Flynn’s hands on my body.
Oh, wait. That’s new. Flynn is running his hands along my back while Declan kisses my neck. I have my eyes closed until the scrape of a chair catches my attention. Is it the cook coming closer? The drifter taking off? No, it’s Brody, setting upside-down chairs onto the nearby tables, as if this were any other closing night on any other night of the week.
But it’s not. Flynn lifts my hair and starts to kiss the nape of my neck. A shiver works through me. The cook walks closer to us. He says, “Did you mean what you said before?”
What’d I say before? You’re wondering, aren’t you? I’d leaned in while he was cooking, and I waited until he looked my way. Then I said, “Joe, you’ve always wanted to fuck me, haven’t you?”
People don’t get to talk like that very often. Do you know what I mean? Most of the day, we walk around stifling our inner selves, damping down on the words we’d love to let loose. But I thought, Fuck that. Tonight, I’m going to get what I want or flame out trying. Joe had looked at me and said, “Hell yeah, Dina. You break up with Dec yet?”
When I shook my head, his eyebrows shot up, and I simply said, “If you’re game, stay on after closing.” Declan had a similar convo with Brody. And now we’re all here, and Flynn has moved me onto the closest table, and Declan is pushing my dress to my hips and Brody’s coming forward, clearly unsure what to do, but not so unsure he won’t make a move. He’s young, but he’s a bartender. He’s had his share of girls.
“This an every Friday night occasion?” That’s the drifter. He’s smoking even though you’re not allowed to smoke in a bar in California anymore. But we’ve got bigger secrets to keep than that.
“No,” says Declan, “Not every Friday.” And I giggle because I can’t help myself. I’m spread on a table, soft woven dress to my hips, Joe stroking my hair off my face, Flynn surprisingly gentle with his mouth on my fingertips. And this drifter wants to know if we do this all the time.
Flynn takes my hand and places my palm against the bulge in his slacks. When was the last time I touched another man’s cock? A man aside from my husband? More than ten years. I trace my fingers along the rise of his erection, and I sigh because this is happening. Finally and for real.
<
br /> I cup his balls through his jeans, and Flynn presses forward to gain more contact. I wonder for a second if I’m going to be graceful enough to figure this out. I’ve never had much rhythm. But then Brody kisses me, moving aside Flynn and Declan. He leans down and kisses me, and I think that I don’t have to worry so much after all. The guys will do all the shifting and choreographing for me. I let myself go in the kiss. I kiss him the way I have always wanted to, every time I walk into the bar. Because girls want things, too. Guys don’t hold the patent on lusting after what you’re not supposed to have. I sigh as he pulls away, and I close my eyes.
When you’re single, you can walk into a bar and pick your man. You can make eyes at the bartender. You can flirt with the chef. You can focus on a drifter and decide that yeah, maybe tonight you’ll sample a bit of strange. There’s excitement on every horizon. How will that bartender fuck you? Bent over a bar stool? In his pickup truck? Out in the woods, where nobody can hear? What does the fry cook like to watch when nobody’s home? Man-on-man porn, right? He’ll let you lick his asshole and fuck him with a strap-on, so long as you don’t tell anyone later. And the drifter? Oh, I miss my one-night stands with the men passing through. Men whose names I’d forget later, but I’d remember the connection. And maybe a flicker or two of something else. Like finding a hidden scar way up high under a shirt sleeve. Or seeing a girl’s name tattooed somewhere sacred.
But when you’re part of the old-and-married club, the tools get rusty. You’re not supposed to want to fuck anyone else, anymore, ever again. Take your libido, honey. Bottle it up in that mason jar and stick the thing on a shelf. No more surprises for you, dearie. You’re all used up.