No, I did know what she was thinking.
It was seven years ago, during a production of The Pirates of Penzance. We played women in frilled bonnets and flouncy dresses, pretending to be innocent. But what woman doesn’t have a weakness for men in pirate outfits, tight pants and open shirts baring an expanse of firm chest?
We were younger then, and daring to the point of foolishness. Lust was in the air, not just for us. We probably weren’t the only ones who snuck off to the orchestra practice room, “borrowed” key clutched in hand, breathless with danger and desire.
A heady combination.
In the darkened room with barely any space between chairs and music stands and instrument cases, we pressed up against the baby grand piano that gleamed black as night. The cover slapped down over the keys, and we held our breath until the strings’ vibrations faded, and no one knocked on the door.
Wasn’t it good?
Our fingers fumbling with unfamiliar costumes, frantically groping over the fabric when the fastenings proved too difficult. Nipples so hard, so jutting that they could be tweaked and twisted even through the many layers. Muffled cries of delight at the pleasure, muffled cries of frustration that it wasn’t enough.
Shoving a skirt out of the way, reaching up underneath the heavy, draping cloth—modern underwear was easily dealt with, for both of us.
Bent over the piano, feeling it rock against the wheel clamps that kept it from rolling. Would either of us be able to play piano again without thinking of this?
But there was no thought. Only maddening sensations of stroking and probing. Juices smeared, mingling, the sharp scents filling the stuffy room. Everything slick and hot, trembling thighs and thrusting hips.
Wasn’t it fine?
There was the steady rise toward a desperate crescendo, both of us screaming almost soundlessly into the sleeves of our costumes, tearing our throats but not caring, not even thinking about our voices.
Then slinking back to the rehearsal, taking our places on stage after the break as if we’d just gone out to grab a coffee. We were certain that everyone knew—but nobody said a word, not then, not ever.
Not even us. We never dared again.
One scene, that’s all we have to get through now. We haven’t spoken in seven years—why should it be hard to keep silent now?
Isn’t it madness, she can’t be mine?
THE THINGS A WOMAN WILL MAKE A MAN DO FOR HER
Isabelle Gray
Sasha calls her husband, Tadd. She knows he’s in an important meeting. He knows she knows he’s in an important meeting. When he recognizes her work number, his heart beats a little faster; there’s an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He takes the call.
Tadd is wearing his finest suit: gray wool, bespoke. He picked it up in London on a business trip. He’s wearing a silk tie and a pure cotton shirt. He’s making an important pitch to a client, trying to persuade a hedge fund manager his law firm is the right one to steer the fund through the twenty-first century. While Tadd practiced his pitch earlier, his wife knelt before him, his cock in her mouth. He stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror next to their bed, talked about disclosure document guidance and managing quarterly filings, while Sasha performed her wifely ministrations. When he could no longer focus, Tadd closed his eyes and pulled her hair into his fists. Every time his cock reached the wet, soft back of her throat, he groaned. When he came on her face, he said, “Let it dry there. I want you to fall asleep with me on your skin.” Sasha was happy to oblige.
Tadd holds a hand up to pause his meeting. He says, “Gentlemen, excuse me,” and steps into the hallway. To Sasha, he says, “What’s up, babe?”
She is in her office. She is also wearing a fine suit, a pencil skirt instead of slacks; tight, silk stockings with seams along the backs of her calves instead of a silk tie. Sasha has locked her office door. She is sitting at her desk in her expensive designer chair. Her feet are planted against her desk. Her legs are spread wide and her skirt is hiked up around her waist; thong panties, black, pulled to the side. Sasha is breathing heavily. She has been fucking herself, stroking her clit hard; there’s a thick, black dildo filling her pussy. She keeps it in a locked drawer in her desk. She feels stretched and open.
Sasha says, “My love, there is something I need to tell you.” She shares every intimate detail of how she is fucking herself hard and dirty, how she can smell herself, how her pussy is wet and tender from making love the night before. She tells Tadd she needs his help. She says, “You’re on speakerphone, baby. Make me come.” Tadd looks into the conference room and exhales loudly. He clears his throat. He loosens his tie a bit. His cock is throbbing beneath his bespoke gray wool slacks. He tries to keep his voice steady. He says, “Wife, I’m in the middle of something.”
Sasha moans, softly. She doesn’t want her colleagues to hear her. She says, “I’m in the middle of something too.” Tadd waves to the men around the conference table and holds up five fingers. He turns away and whispers, “Unbutton your shirt. Open your bra. Bare your breasts. Take a picture for me of you sitting at your desk like the insatiable whore you are.” Sasha bites her lower lip. She reaches for her cell phone and quickly does as she’s told. Tadd chuckles as his BlackBerry vibrates. He says, “Very good, baby. You’re being bad. Good things should happen to bad girls. Pinch your nipples, hard.” Again, Sasha does as she’s told. She rolls her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers. They, too, are tender from the previous night. She squeezes until her nipples are nearly flat. Her eyes water. Tadd says, “I think you can hurt yourself better than that.” When she releases her grip, she can feel the blood rushing back to her chest, and she smiles to her empty office.
“I want you to slap your pussy for me, and I want to hear it.”
She raises her hand high and brings it down against her neatly trimmed pussy. The slap echoes through the room.
“Do it again,” Tadd says.
Sasha slaps herself again and again and again. Her pussy lips tingle. She makes contact with the base of the dildo, and as it penetrates her deeper, her cunt clenches around its girth.
“Unfortunately,” Tadd says, “I don’t have time to linger. As you well know…”
“You’re in an important meeting,” Sasha says, finishing his sentence.
“Exactly. I want you to come for me, baby. I want you to come loudly. I want you to stroke your clit so hard, you feel your fingers there for the rest of your day.”
She moans softly and rubs her clit furiously, flexing her calves as she spreads her legs wider still. She whimpers.
Tadd says, “I said I want to hear you.”
A louder moan escapes from between her lips. She can feel beads of sweat trailing along her spine and pooling in the small of her back.
Tadd’s voice grows cold. He says, “When I say I want to hear you, I mean I want to hear you.”
Her entire body flushes with heat. Sasha loves when her husband takes a firm hand.
He says, “Tell me what you are. Do not be modest.”
This time, Sasha feels the sound rising through her body from her wet, swollen pussy and out of her mouth. She moans loudly, deeply. The sound of it is vulgar and thrilling. She doesn’t care who hears. Wetness from her pussy snakes down between her asscheeks and seeps into the fine linen of her designer chair. Sasha says, “I am your dirty little slut. I am the kind of slut who calls her man on the phone to make him fuck her; I am so hungry for you, I’ll pull you from your important meeting to let you listen to me stroking my sweet pussy just for you.”
Tadd grins, waves once more to his colleagues and ignores their irritated expressions. “That’s exactly who you are,” he says. “Are you ready to come?” he says.
Sasha nods even though her husband can’t see her. Tadd says, “Come for me, baby, and tell me all about it.”
Her pussy is so slick she can hardly feel the hard nub of her clit, but Sasha rubs herself so fast her arm muscles burn. Her thigh
s tense and tremble as she feels the sharp wave of pleasure cresting beneath her fingers and spreading through her entire body. She says, “Baby, I’m coming. I’m coming for you. I wish you were here to put your hands on me, your mouth on me.”
“Later,” Tadd says. “That will come later.”
As her body grows limp, Sasha says, “Thank you, baby.”
Tadd says, “We’re not done. Take that big black cock out of your pussy and lick it clean. Choke yourself on it. And again, I better hear you.”
Sasha carefully pulls the dildo from her sensitive pussy and stares at it, glistening with her thick cum. She sets the base against her desk. She does what she’s told. Tadd listens until he’s good and ready to return to his meeting, where he successfully signs the client.
SPECIAL COLLECTIONS
Fiona Curtis
Karen returned to her desk. She had finally finished in the stacks and knew that she would have time to work on her psychology paper before her shift was over. She glanced around the room that held the Special Collections. There was just him: the guy who’d been there every night until closing.
Karen usually worked down at the main desk, but with several librarians calling in sick for a few weeks, she had been assigned, as the most senior student employee, to work the closing shift of the university’s Special Collections. The room was filled with rows of dusty volumes, including the personal papers of former college presidents. More interestingly, it also housed one of the largest collections of erotica in the nation and a large selection of Victorian pornographic photographs. During her post-closing hour browsing, Karen had been surprised to see what randy old buggers men were even back then. Some of the images astounded her, and she had never expected to see fine Victorian ladies in such poses.
It was the erotica collection that he was here for. Apparently he was working on a book about late-nineteenth-century bondage literature. Every evening, he had sat at the desk in the corner, taking notes, and each evening after closing, Karen had been sure to take a peek at what he had been reading. To her surprise, she had found herself becoming extremely turned on, and she wondered what images would confront her tonight.
He was staring at her. Lost in her thoughts, Karen had been gazing in his direction but blushed as she realized that he was returning her look. Dirty old man, she thought. All the same, she couldn’t help but feel her panties moistening. Was that a smirk on his face?
Turning quickly to her open textbooks, she spotted two books that she had forgotten to put away. May as well do it now. Glancing at the spines, she saw that they belonged on the shelf just behind where he was sitting. Doing her best to appear professional and oblivious to him, Karen walked to where he sat and climbed the ladder to reach the top shelf. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him staring up her short skirt. His left hand was covering his crotch.
The dampness between her legs making her feel mischievous and horny, Karen climbed down and made a play of leaning over the table, feigning to reach for a pen but being sure to expose a significant amount of cleavage as she did so.
Pleased with her little display, she wandered back over to her desk. A voice in the back of her head urged her to do more, but she knew it wouldn’t be long until her shift was over. She kept thinking back to the pictures she had seen. Although she had found some of them disgusting, she couldn’t deny being turned on by them. One hand slipped below the desk to feel the moistness of her pussy. Pulling out the two fingers and putting them into her mouth, she tasted her own warm, sweet, slightly salty juices.
Get a grip! she mentally admonished herself. She jolted herself back to reality. She was at work! Gazing over to the corner, she expected to see him staring back at her, knowing what she had been doing, but he was gone. He’d finished early tonight.
With only fifteen minutes to go before closing, she knew no one else would come in now. She wasted no time in making her way to the table where he had been sitting. He had left his books on the table for reshelving, and as usual, Karen found herself mesmerized by the images in front of her. She leaned over the table, resting her elbows on either side of her, engrossed in the photos of naked women bound and gagged as other women went down on them. One hand absentmindedly moved to caress her breast.
So absorbed was she that she didn’t even notice the movement behind her. Suddenly she felt his breath on the back of her neck, then his hands groping under her skirt. She gasped as a finger slid under her panties and toyed with the opening of her already moist pussy.
“Don’t turn around. I’ve seen you looking. You’ve been dying for this.”
She knew his voice instantly, the deep tone with the smoker’s gravelly quality. She knew he’d been watching her growing curiosity all week.
His fingers played with her clit, circling it, teasing it. She was already aroused. It wouldn’t take long to push her over the edge. His other hand moved up under her top where it replaced hers, kneading and squeezing her breast. She tried to steady herself against the table. God, this felt good.
His fingers continued rubbing her clit, which by now was hot and pulsing. She found herself moving slightly to meet his touch, feeling a growing sense of urgency. He carried on his steady but firm rubbing, saying nothing but breathing deeply, his warm breath sending shivers down her neck. By now she was so wet, she could feel his fingers slipping over her clit, back and forth toward her pussy.
A sudden pinch of her nipple was all it took. It was the most exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure—wet, hot, desperate. She gasped, panting heavily as he continued to rub and grinding against his hand as a delicious orgasm racked her entire body.
As the pulsing subsided, two wet fingers pushed their way into her mouth. She sucked upon them greedily.
“Make sure my books are ready for me tomorrow night.”
WONDERLAND
Madeline Elayne
The drawback to assigning thirty-page term papers was that someone had to read and grade them all. Since the faculty thought a class size of twelve didn’t merit a TA, that someone was me. I’d know better next semester; maybe I would assign a five-minute speech instead.
The grading wasn’t going quickly, either. I was over an hour in and had only finished two and wasn’t even halfway through the third. This was going to eat up my whole Saturday and maybe more. Thank god for Cara. Not only had she closed off the dining room, turning it into a study for me for the day, she’d been keeping interruptions at bay and even making sure I had a bottomless cup of tea on hand. Damn, I loved that woman.
Speaking of tea, I hadn’t even touched the last cup she’d brought. I picked it up to take a sip and noticed something on the table behind the cup—a blue and white clay poker chip with a pink heart in the middle. I shook my head. I didn’t have time for funny little mysteries, so I went back to the paper I was grading. “Why Britney Spears Should Be Included in the Feminist Movement.” Spare me, please.
The French doors creaked a bit as they always did when they opened, and I looked up to see Cara come in, looking scandalously sexy in nothing but a Femmes Rebelles T-shirt and panties. I was a bit distracted by legs long enough to belong to a dancer, so it took me a minute to realize that she came bearing gifts—a plate of still-steaming chocolate chip cookies. I shared my life with a goddess. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and headed back out to let me grade in peace.
“Let me know if you need anything, baby.”
I grinned like an idiot, blew her a kiss and went to reach for one of the cookies, and… Wait a minute. There was a second poker chip stacked on the first.
“Car…”
She stopped at the door, but she didn’t turn around. I took a second to admire her lusciously rounded ass.
“I give. What’s with the secret poker chip deposits?”
She turned around then, and her sky-blue eyes danced with mischief and glee. Her smile looked fit to split her face in two.
“I can’t tell you, but I can show you, up in the bedroom. But not u
ntil you finish the paper you’re working on now.”
She shot me a wink and left for real this time, with a tease of a wiggle. I popped a cookie into my mouth whole and rushed through the rest of the paper so I could decide if it deserved a D or an F.
Cara was waiting for me in the doorway when I went upstairs. I wrapped her in my arms, and she threw her own arms around my neck and twined a leg around my waist. We kissed and my pulse started to race. She tasted like cookies, too. She broke the kiss first and nibbled on my earlobe while she whispered to me.
“Welcome to Wonderland, sexy. This is for finishing your third paper.” She pressed a chip into my palm.
I saw what she meant by “Wonderland” as soon as I stepped into the room. She had systematically taken all of our toys from the chest at the foot of the bed and laid them out—on the bed, the dresser, the nightstands, every surface of the room seemed to be covered. Each one had a square of yellow sticky notepaper attached to it. I picked a book of erotic short stories from the dresser and read the yellow missive aloud:
“One sexy bedtime story read by yours truly = one chip. Or, for the bargain of the century, get three stories for only two chips! xoxo—Cara.” I laughed.
Everything we owned that could possibly be put to any sexy use was on display in this room with a yellow “price tag” attached. I chuckled again when I noticed that the rope we used for tying the kayak to the roof of the car was coiled on the nightstand. According to the sticky note, it only cost a single chip.
Some of the things around the room I didn’t recognize. There was a set of primary color edible body paints, complete with three sizes of brushes, that was still in the package (three chips), and a box of what looked like crayons from far away but turned out to be a safe and sexy beginner’s kit for hot wax body art! (two chips). I asked Cara how long she’d been planning this, but she only flashed me a mischievous grin.
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