“That’s a tough one,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I’m having trouble.”
“I can teach you.” I lean my leg into his touch, a soft push. His hand tightens around the thinnest point of my ankle, wrapping it in his grip. I close my eyes, breathe in the sweet boy scent of him, that intoxicating I’m-good-I’m-bad combo of cheap bar soap and almost-hidden cigarettes.
The office door is still open. Someone could walk by at any moment.
I would never fuck a student in my office, no matter how much I might want to. No matter what he does to me behind my closed eyes, the way he would push his hands past my bare knees, slide them beneath the fabric of my skirt, up to the curves of my hips. How he would sound when his fingertips discovered the wet heat of my center, pantyless and opening for him. I want him under my desk, hidden from view, his hands on the side of my chair, his lips and tongue pulsing and pulling at the tightening point of my clit. I want him behind me, pushing my head down so that it meets the wood of my desk, lifting my skirt with his hands, sliding his cock into my wet heat.
We stay that way a long time, the beginning of intertwining, the start of a beautiful story. He grows braver, his touch more firm, his gaze beginning to fill with a slow-burning fire.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
In answer, he strokes the inside of my ankle, then shifts forward so that he can arch his palm beneath the curve of my calf. I murmur low in my throat, a sound of pure appreciation, and his eyes respond: hungry, wanting. He is learning so much already.
“Come tomorrow night,” I say. “We’ll study over dinner.”
He takes the paper with my address on it, then stands. He thinks he is disappointed in having to wait. But he just doesn’t yet understand the power of seduction, of promises, of desire delayed.
There is so much I have to teach him—to teach all of them.
SERIOUS MOONLIGHT
Michael A. Gonzales
The moment Tracy Ellison walked onto the rooftop terrace of the Strand Hotel, she saw lean-machine Michael Steranko leaning against the railing next to their table. Feeling a warm sensation between her legs, she thought, He’s as fine as his pictures.
They had connected on Facebook, a fate Tracy once swore would never befall her; however, when he friended her, there was no resisting his gray eyes and naturally curly hair. A pudgy cinnamon-skinned girl who thought of herself as fat, she was reassured when Michael told her he preferred women who were “pleasingly plump.”
“I’ve never even joined Match.com; what do I look like dating some guy from Facebook?” she asked her best girlfriend, Cindy, back when Michael began sending her silly teddy bears and poking her constantly.
“Oh, get with the program,” Cindy snapped, waving her hand in the air in a mannered Holly Golightly style. They were lounging on a small couch in Cindy’s bakery in Brooklyn, a little spot called Voodoo that smelt of fresh coffee and red velvet cake. “This is the postmodern age, and we’re busy girls with careers and no free time. Who cares if you meet the guy on the Internet? Believe me, it’s not that creepy.”
Coming from Pittsburgh, perhaps the biggest embarrassment of Cindy’s young life, she had spent her geeky teenage years studying New York movies, wrapping herself in a cocoon of cinematic classics that included Pillow Talk, The Apartment and, of course, Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
“And he lives in Battery Park City, which is a good sign.”
“You see good signs everywhere, because you’re a romantic from Pittsburgh. I was born in this crazy city with perverts touching my ass on the subway and men pissing in the street like dogs. I think my view of the opposite sex is a lot more realistic.”
“Well, you can be realistic and alone or you can take a chance and let this dude call you.”
Two months later, with Cindy’s words echoing in her head, Tracy strutted into the roof bar with all the confidence of Lady Marmalade. Dressed in a simple black dress and silver mules that Cindy had extracted from the back of her closet when she came over to help Tracy get ready, she looked at Michael and slowly bit her lower lip.
Overhead, the clear sky was darkening and somebody up there switched the full moon on. Without a saying a word, Michael turned around. Perhaps he felt her admiring his stylishly cut suit, retro silk tie and black wing tips. Holding an empty martini glass, Michael grinned devilishly.
Putting the glass down on the table, without warning he gave Tracy a big hug. Casual observers might’ve thought they were old friends. “It’s so good to finally see you in person,” Michael said, sounding genuine.
Gently grabbing her wrists, he pulled her closer; the heat of his sudden embrace caused her to shiver. Inhaling deeply, she admired the woodsy scent of his cologne; she hated men who wore fragrances that were sweeter than her own perfume.
Michael pulled out the chair and Tracy sat down. “It’s so good to see you, too,” she answered, her words coming out slower than usual. “My friends were beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination.”
When Michael laughed in that hearty way that was familiar from two months of phone conversations, two months of silly jokes and midnight phone sex, Tracy instantly felt safe in his presence.
A investigative journalist by trade, Michael was supposed to have met with his new editor from Blur magazine earlier that day, but it wasn’t until after the fashion-model-frail waitress brought out their ginger vodka martini that he told her the meeting had been pushed back a couple of hours.
“I’m so sorry about this, but I swear it shouldn’t take longer than an hour. We just need to talk about this cover story I’m doing.”
Pissed off, Tracy sucked her perfect teeth. “And just what am I supposed to do for an hour?”
Slow as Billy Dee Williams in Lady Sings the Blues, he reached into his pocket and passed her a hotel key for the penthouse. “Order room service,” he said, iceberg smooth.
Tracy slowly stood up. “Only if you walk me to the room,” she replied.
As the New York Post often pointed out, a man with an unlimited expense account can be a danger to himself and others. “Please send two bottles of your best champagne to the penthouse,” Michael said to the waitress, passing her the black American Express card.
As the elevator swooshed toward the fortieth floor, Michael leaned over and whispered in Tracy’s ear, “I’ve wanted to make love to you since I first saw your picture.” The warmth of his breath tickled; Bacharach Muzak gently streamed from the mono ceiling speaker.
What has gotten into me? Tracy thought as their lips met and her tongue slipped into his juicy mouth. She closed her eyes. Obviously, Cindy had brainwashed her with all her talk of romantic notions flavored with naughty actions, convincing her it was socially acceptable to fuck some stranger she might never see again.
“I have to be back downstairs in fifteen minutes,” Michael protested weakly as they entered the majestic bedroom suite.
“Text him you’re running late,” Tracy purred, slipping out of her dress. She kept on the heels and silently spread out on the king-sized bed, staring at Michael’s crotch hardening beneath his suit. He walked closer to the bed as though Tracy’s fleshy, full-figured body was working a mojo on him.
“I suppose he could wait,” Michael said. Kicking off his shoes, he crawled up on the bed, loosening his tie as he inched closer to her hairy pussy. Spreading her smooth legs, Michael gently kissed the insides of her thick thighs. With his pretty eyes closed like a blind musician, he had the perfect rhythm of a skilled virtuoso.
Gently opening her like an oyster, he sucked with the skill of a connoisseur as she massaged his erect penis through his suit pants. Arching her back, Tracy breathlessly murmured, “Please,” digging her nails into his back.
As he slowly licked her glistening clit, Tracy felt as though she was drifting through heaven. Pushing her legs back farther, Michael sweetly stuck his tongue in the black hole of Tracy’s ass until she finally came, screaming loudly. Opening her eyes
, she was surprised to see so many stars twinkling in the sky beyond the large window. Seldom so high in the air, Tracy rarely saw the stars in Manhattan.
Minutes after she’d come, squirming on the sheets, Michael washed his face. Fully dressed, he stood beside the bed. “I’ll be back soon,” he slurred, as though her pussy had made him tipsy. “Promise me you won’t leave.” Without her saying a word, Tracy’s goofy, sexy smile reassured him as the serious moonlight shone through the window.
TOO WONDROUS TO MEASURE
Salome Wilde
Does size matter? is a question that only makes sense when relative dimensions are not so skewed that a single inserted claw tip fills you like the biggest cock you’ve ever taken and you have to use your entire body to jerk him off.
Now, if you let pass the question of exactly how Godzilla and I became lovers, how we overcame that first, seemingly insurmountable obstacle of proportion—not to mention communication beyond the most animal level of need and desire—the actual specifics of day-to-day lovemaking are rather fascinating. Well, they are to me, anyway.
First, let me clear up any misunderstandings and state, once and for all, that he’s male. Always has been. Always will be. Male. Very, very male. All the movies after the original got it wrong. The first one was him, real and beautiful as he could be—except for the ending where he’s reduced to bones and then vanishes. Wishful thinking back then, but untrue. I just laugh watching it. All the rest? Actors in costumes, miniaturization, computer-generated imagery. Obviously. We don’t let the bullshit bother us. He knows who he is, I know who he is, and that’s all that matters to us.
Anyway, about the sex. After a few mishaps requiring stitches and a bit of psychotherapy, turning me on and getting me off was relatively simple to achieve. The Zen of utter lightness of touch and the smallest of protuberances is basically it. I mean, hell, I’m so damn turned on by the very sight of him rising from the ocean and heading straight for my condo on the beach that I could come even if he hadn’t learned to work that claw or tone down his heat-ray breath to a gentle clit stim that makes pulsing showerheads pathetic by comparison.
The gratitude of the masses, of course, adds to the pleasure. I’ve got so many medals and letters of thanks from the Japanese government I’ve had to devote the entire back closet to them. And they pay all my bills so I could quit my day job and do this full-time. Best career move ever. I also enjoy the fruit baskets and bento boxes and cases of Pocky the locals leave outside my door. The public shrines with their graphic images of Godzilla’s cock with me riding it? Not so much.
Knowing I’m saving the world from loverboy’s mighty destructive powers goes a long way, too, in coping with the paparazzi. They’ve got plenty of pictures of me sitting in his scaly palm and even of his arm reaching inside my sliding glass door (it’s the whole front wall, really, and made of some special plastic to keep him from breaking windows like he did about a hundred times before the government figured out a new plan). But no lens to date has been able to zoom in on his actual foreplay technique. Which is how I like it. I wouldn’t mind the puss shot, but who wants her “orgasm face” splashed all over the Tokyo Times?
For his turn, though, we go to his place. I’m not shy by any means, but when you’re slathered head-to-toe in coconut oil, shimmying up and down a cock the size of a hundred-year-old oak, you want a little privacy. And lounging in enough come to fill a public bath isn’t the kind of thing you need to see on the evening news, either. The big lug just loves to watch himself spew. “Drown the human” is a favorite pastime for both of us, hence the goggles.
Probably the most exciting gossip—and the reason I’m finally spilling all our secrets this way after three years of silence—is that I may be pregnant. I swear his sperm are so huge I can actually feel them knocking on the door to get in…and recently I think a few did. I’ve been having the oddest dreams of little lizards skittering across my bed and newts in my bathtub. And I like my food so spicy now I need a whole tube of wasabi for a single piece of fish. Medical evidence? Hardly. But a woman knows.
So, we’re off to his island for the time being. Neither of us trusts the government or the scientific community not to intervene. We just need to ride it out and see where love takes us. Stranger than strange, I know. But then, all of life’s a miracle, isn’t it? Too wondrous to measure.
HORS D’OEUVRE
Stan Kent
We don’t have enough time,” Ceyenne says, slapping my hands away from her pert ass.
Time the spoiler, time the archenemy of sex; time, fucking time. Not enough time! We’ve all heard it. We’ve all said it. Not enough time! Fuck it! There’s always enough time for a quickie, for a stolen fuck in the face of an impending deadline.
Honestly, what else was I supposed to do when the woman I love and fuck comes into the kitchen wearing black ankle-strap stiletto Louboutins, white seamed thigh-high Wolford stockings and nothing else but a fine set of small perky breasts and her long black hair all wet and freshly tousled from the shower, her little patch of pubic hair still glistening damp, droplets of water sparkling on her soft, inviting skin? Yes, there’re only thirty minutes until guests are supposed to arrive for our dinner party, but seeing the woman I lust after come running down the stairs looking like sex-on-legs, can you blame me for wanting to fuck the salad preparations in favor of letting my hands stray over Ceyenne’s firm little Asian body?
She slaps me away again.
“Not enough time!”
“Fuck me.”
“The guests!”
“Fuck ’em.”
“No! They’ll be here in thirty”—she looks up at the clock—“twenty minutes. I haven’t finished dressing and we haven’t started the pasta sauce.”
She struggles to get an apron over her voluminous damp hair. A black apron! What a tease. Over her whiteseamed Wolfords and black high heels with their sexred soles, her firm asscheeks peekabooing through the slit at the back, the apron makes Ceyenne look like an ooh-la-la, fuck-me-now, monsieur French maid, but she acts like a virtuous nun, believing that the simple black cotton shield is supposed to be an antisex condom, that I’m supposed to get instantaneously soft from its mere unfolding. Not fucking likely. Nun or maid, Ceyenne looks hot enough to cook on.
Her protestations about focusing on food, not fucking, don’t deter my desire as I set the table. I lay six places, Veuve Clicquot bubbling, hard-on tenting my trousers, as Ceyenne hurries around in the kitchen, emerging to place a freshly tossed salad glistening with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and cracked pepper onto the center of our glass table. I grab her wrist. She twists away. I hold tight, pulling her to me. She spins into my face. We kiss, deep, our tongues wrestling. My hard cock presses between her thighs. There’s a slight parting. I sense an opening. I reach down to cup her pussy through the apron.
“We don’t have enough time!” Ceyenne slaps my fingers away from her cunt, retreating into the kitchen, treating me to the sight of her naked behind swaying through the part in the apron as she walks. She returns with an appetizer plate, leaning over to place it next to the salad. Bare ass peeks through the apron slit; pussy lips pout. Appetizing, indeed. I press Ceyenne’s bentover body facedown into the table, parting the apron—and her legs—fully. Dropping to my knees, I bury my face in her ass, licking her tight little butt and snaking my tongue down to her pussy lips.
“We—don’t—have—enough…”
My munching steals her tongue away. She doesn’t say the T word. She moans a slight “No,” but her body speaks volumes as her hands grip the sides of the table, her legs spread, her high heels anchoring her long tensed legs, the stocking seams pointing the way to her ass. I follow their direction, parting her asscheeks with my hands, tonguing from butt to cunt, probing, thrusting, licking, tasting her juices now flowing, giving her assent to go farther. I slide an arched finger inside her, pressing against her G-spot, massaging the pulsing flesh as she grinds her clit into the table. She’s shaking.
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She bends her leg at the knee, kicking backward, the spiked heel prodding my back like I’m a horse she’s riding, spurring me on to go faster. And I do, curling my tongue tightly to fuck her ass as I finger her pussy. She’s shaking into the throes of orgasm, thighs quivering. Her juices drench my hand. I stand up, unzip my trousers, push them to the ground and pop my cock out of my underwear. Ceyenne spins around onto the table with the grace of a skilled cabaret stripper, legs spread into the air, arms flailing, knocking one full champagne glass almost over. I steady the drink, then pour some into her mouth and bend over to kiss her, the bubbles tingling as my cock slides into her juiced cunt.
We lose the apron. I pull it over Ceyenne’s head and toss it to the ground. Ceyenne’s pert tits shake with every thigh-pounding thrust of my cock. Her hair pools backward around the appetizer plate like a spilled drink. Ceyenne clenches her pussy tightly around my cock, dropping her legs downward, arching her pelvis forward to meet me, pressing my upward-thrusting cock into the roof of her cunt. The voyeur in me imagines the view under the glass table of Ceyenne being fucked, her ass pressed tight against the glass, her tight little cunt gripping a cock as it slides in and out, pussy lips sucking along the cunt-wetted length. It’s a position to make us both come, and in a few more hurried strokes I do. My head thrown backward, I bellow my release to the world, feeling my come spurt inside Ceyenne as she enjoys a shuddering, screaming climax—interrupted by the ding-donging of the doorbell.
Oh, shit.
I pull out, stuffing my cock into my underwear, almost falling over as I pull up my trousers, hopping ridiculously to gain my balance. Ceyenne slides off the table and runs up the stairs, grabbing the apron to wipe between her thighs as she retreats to the safety of our bedroom.
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