I tried to wave him off. “Yeah, I was tired. I just wanted to go to sleep.”
He stepped into the galley behind me and said, “You could have slept in my room.” He put his huge hands on top of mine on the counter and, boxing my feet between his, essentially mounted me, murmuring, “Eventually.”
My body was humming through the polyester uniform, but even as I ground against his crotch, I tried to croak, “We really shouldn’t…”
“Really shouldn’t what?” he teased me, laughing at the way I tried to stammer out a plea for him to stand back. “What is this, my first day at this job? I gave the other flight attendants a stack of magazines. They won’t come back here. Nobody will see us.” He wrapped his arm across my chest and pulled me tight against him.
“But you’re straight.”
“So?”
“Aren’t you married?” It’s not like I was married; why was I looking for excuses to get out from under him?
“Yes, I am. I also like to fuck a nice fat ass, which my wife does not have. But you,” he said, kneading mine for emphasis, “have one of the biggest I’ve seen on a trolley dolly.” He pressed against it with what felt like a wine bottle in his pants, seeking out my hole even through the layers of fabric. “And I want it.”
Still I resisted. What if a passenger came back here? He was yanking on a handful of waistband, tugging at my uniform pants and my drawers, when I insisted, “I don’t do pilots.”
“Don’t worry,” he rumbled, sticking three of his fingers in my mouth. I sucked them, in spite of myself, when he said, “You won’t be ‘doing’ anybody.” Hot, dark and smooth, his words spilled over me like chocolate as he made way for himself, readying my anxious hole with my own saliva. He made one or two entreaties with his staggeringly hard cock and then cleaved my ass in two with a possessive thrust. I bleated in surprise and he laughed when he shushed me. “Do you want to wake the whole cabin?”
I did not, but as the blunt ache of surprise burgeoned into an insistent pummeling of pleasure, it was all I could do not to moan, groan and moo my encouragement. The few grunts that I couldn’t contain seemed to spur him on, and when he slammed into me like a runaway truck hitting a guardrail and froze, I was surprised that he had finished. But when he didn’t pull out, I realized with horror that he had not.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I heard him bark. “The ‘fasten seat belt’ sign is on. You can’t come back here.” I froze, not daring to breathe.
“I just need to go to the bathroom,” piped a small voice from the aisle. I burst into a cold sweat. If a passenger got within ten steps of the bathroom door, we would be on display as if in a diorama at the Mile High Club Museum; we would both be fired at the arrival gate. I struggled to wriggle free, but he pinned me to the counter, refusing to budge other than to slip himself slowly deeper inside me.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Return to your seat.” His forceful tone brooked no argument, and when he began thrusting against me again, signaling an all clear, I was even hungrier for him than before. My lungs were fairly bursting with all the Pleases that I didn’t dare yell when I felt him surge inside me, banging me harder and harder until he splashed against my insides with such force that I came in surprise in my own underwear.
I sprawled again across the galley counter, sweaty, sticky and dazed, and before I could even collect myself to say anything, he pulled out with the same lack of ceremony with which he had plunged in. He buttoned his pants, buckled his belt and asked me, impossibly casually, “You flying this trip next week?”
When I nodded a dumb affirmative, he smacked my ass like it was a basketball and headed back up the aisle. “Great,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
PIERCED
Kirsty Logan
She’s waiting at the open door when I get there, slouched against the wooden frame in tight jeans and a bra made of something black and shiny. One thumb is tucked into her belt loop, a cigarette almost burned down between her fingers. I’m breathing loudly from the six flights of stairs, wondering why the hell she has to live so high up. Then I notice the little pile of ashes by her bare feet and wonder how long she’s been holding that pose. She makes sure I’ve got an eyeful, then turns and walks down the hallway.
“Ready?” she asks, already in another room. I follow her in, clicking the door shut behind me. The hallway is full of a red patterned rug, a bristling coat stand and a chandelier made from shards of abalone shells. I can’t tell if it’s beautiful or disgusting. I stand stupidly in the hallway, staring at the ugly-gorgeous chandelier, until she comes out of the room to bless me with a look. Whether the look is of impatience or amusement I can’t tell, but it clearly means “stop dawdling.”
I follow the gleam of her shiny black bra into the bedroom. I try not to think about what this means, because the throb in my clit hasn’t stopped since I first saw her in the doorway. There’s a table in the middle of the room, covered in a beach towel with a little pile of metal in one corner. I guess she does mean business, after all.
“Up here?” I ask, even though she’s standing by the table and looking expectant. She nods and I climb up on the table. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to take off my shoes or not, but since they lace up to my knees I decide not to bother. The room smells sweet: pot smoke and girl flesh.
“Lift up your skirt,” she says. She isn’t looking at me; her eyes are on the pile of metal on the corner of the table, and I notice she’s pulled on a pair of latex gloves. I’ve always had a thing for pissed-off girls and medical paraphernalia, but I try to play it cool. I lift my skirt and pull my underwear down and off over my boots. I’m not sure where to put it, so I ball it up and tuck it under the small of my back. It digs in and I try to carry on with the deep breathing.
She’s looking at me through her eyelashes while pretending to examine the little stack of metal. I look up at the ceiling and wonder how many times she’s done this. I don’t know why I trust her like this, why I’m letting her see me laid so bare.
She snaps the edge of the glove against her wrist, which is totally unnecessary as they’re already on. She must have guessed my lust for angry nurses. My clit jumps again at the sight of her rubbered-up hands, and I hope I’m not going to leave little wet circles on the beach towel when I stand up.
With her gloved forefinger, she separates my labia. I can feel how her fingertip slips, and I stare pointedly at the ceiling. “Good,” she murmurs, “nice and firm,” and I have no idea which part of my body she’s talking about, but I’m pleased it meets her standards.
I’m still doing the deep breathing and her finger is sliding against me when I feel something cold and a clamped tightness and before I can say stop, she thrusts a white-hot line of light through my labia. I exhale fast, huffing like an old-fashioned train, and she’s saying things in the same voice you’d use to calm a jittery horse. “There you go, there it is,” she’s saying, and it feels like all the blood in my body has pooled between my legs, throbbing with my heartbeat, harder than the fiercest orgasm I’ve ever had.
Through my numbness I feel her fingers shifting and pressing, then the release of the clamp. I don’t dare take my eyes off the ceiling. In my peripheral vision, I see her whip off her gloves and ball them up.
“Is it done?” I ask.
“It looks good,” she says. “It suits you.”
She hands me a mirror, angled so I can see between my legs. My cunt looks red and swollen like I’ve just spent three hours fucking, and there is a tiny silver hoop nestled in the folds of flesh. She’s right; it does suit me.
“And there’ll be aftercare,” she says, busying her hands with the little stack of metal. “I’ll need to check that it’s healing properly.”
I lie back with my eyes closed, feeling the blood throb around my clit, and smile in the direction of her voice.
“You’d better get more gloves,” I say.
LAST-TIME LESBIAN
Geneva King
My boyfriend’
s name is Mark. He looks every bit the typical man, with his hard muscles and light mustache. The only reminder he willingly keeps is the shoulder-length hair he wears in cornrows. Everything else, he told me, had to go.
But sometimes, when I’ve taken the braids out and I look into his soft brown eyes, I can still see the woman he was. And that’s when I slip and call him Mary, which he hates. But I can’t help it; I’ve known Mary longer than Mark. I’d never admit it, because it’d hurt his feelings, but sometimes I miss the gentle butch I fell in love with.
It’s on the tip of my tongue as we wait for the doctor’s assessment. Really, every muscle in my body is tight and sore from the effort of keeping it in.
Dr. Winteger peers over his papers. “You’re a fine candidate. The psychologist thinks you’re informed and aware of the consequences. Your physical came back fine. Everything is good to go.”
Mary—Mark—beams at me and squeezes my hand. “This is great! So, we can go ahead?”
“Yes, we’re going to proceed as planned.” The doctor consults his calendar. “We have you scheduled for next Thursday, correct?”
Mark nods. “Shel’s already taken off work to be with me.”
I nod. After all, I’m a supportive girlfriend.
As if he’s reading my mind, the doctor smiles at me. “You’ve got a great girl. He’ll need a lot of care when he gets home. I’ll make sure I go over everything with you, okay?”
“Sounds good.”
“If you don’t have any other questions, we’re done here. I know you want to go celebrate.”
Mark jumps up and sticks out his hand. “Thanks, Dr.—”
“I have one.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
And now that they’re both looking at me, I have no choice. “What if we want, or have, to cancel?”
Neither one says anything. Dr. Winteger’s face wrinkles in confusion. Mark looks like I punched him in the stomach.
“What do you mean?”
I try to explain. “I just always like to know the ‘what ifs.’ Make sure all the bases are covered.”
The doctor clears his throat. “Depending on what happened, you would be liable for certain fees. Is that what you meant?”
“Yes, thank you.” I offer him my hand.
He takes it. “I know it’s a big adjustment, but Mark is in good hands. I’ll see you Thursday.”
Mark cranks the radio up in the car. When we get home, he drops me off and drives away, leaving me alone. I don’t see him until he comes back late that night and plops on the bed.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He doesn’t look at me.
I touch his leg. “We should talk.”
He throws my hand off. “I think you’ve said enough. I thought you of all people would understand and support me, not humiliate me in front of my doctor.”
“I do support you.” But I don’t understand it. How do I tell him that I don’t get his fervor to wreck his body to become a shadow of something he can never truly be? To have her breasts, already small, removed and desensitized. And her pussy, her perfectly functional, beautiful, orgasmic pussy, obliterated to build a replica of something that won’t be truly functional. Undergoing a surgery that many other FTMs won’t undergo, all to become the man he already is, that everyone else already believes him to be.
I can’t explain and I know it. I’ve tried too many times before. I cradle my head against his broad shoulder and curse my selfishness.
Instead I try reconciliation. “I won’t have to worry about you stealing my tampons. And you’ll never have to buy anything Monistat ever again.” I poke him. “I won’t be a lesbian anymore. That’ll make my parents happy.”
Mark snorts and pulls me to him. I snuggle against his chest and run my fingers over his skin.
He kisses my hair. “Maybe I’ll throw on a skirt for you from time to time, and you can be my little dyke.”
I giggle. “So you’ll be a woman who becomes a man to become a woman again. Sounds kinky.” I move my hand down his jeans until I feel the cock nestled between his legs. A familiar scent fills my nose; he’s turned on.
“Anything for you, baby. Just say the word.”
I scramble up. “Now.”
“Now what?”
“Now. Let’s play now. I’m a good little femme and you’re my girlfriend.” I tug his jeans open and reveal the dildo.
He sits up alarmed. “Shelly, what’s going on? What are you doing?”
It’s not a strap-on, so I tug it out and toss it across the room. “Stand up.”
“What? No!”
My fingers nestle in the coarse hairs. The tips graze the nub I’ve been craving, the one I haven’t touched in ages.
“You can’t… Shel, please.” He’s pleading with me even as his pelvis arches into my hand. “Men don’t fuck that way.”
“I don’t care what men do. I want to fuck you that way.”
We lock eyes, each of us silently battling the other to back down. To my relief, he nods.
“Top off.”
She removes the tight bandages she wears to bind her breasts. They spring out, nipples already hard and wanting.
I catch one between my teeth as I continue to work her pussy. My fingers slide easily, my thumb presses against her clit, spurring her close to the edge.
She’s whimpering, the soft delicate cries of a woman in lust. “Shel, oh, Shel.”
I dive between her legs. I want to taste her, feel her juices gush into my mouth as she comes.
At last she does, with an intensity I haven’t felt in a while, with my lips clamped over her clit. I suck until she’s still and then crawl up to cuddle her.
Her face is wet and she turns away from me. I wait until she’s composed herself before I pull her body against mine.
“Am I doing the right thing, Shel?” She sounds so lost, my heart breaks again.
I cuddle close until she turns and pulls me to her. “Come here.”
This time it’s her fingers penetrating my cunt, her teeth biting my swollen nipples. I open myself to her for the last time, getting all I can from my sweet Mary before she’s gone forever.
ANAL-YZED
Donna George Storey
I have no idea why I said it. Or rather screamed it, just as I was riding my husband to a cowgirl climax.
“Oh, god, I want you to fuck my ass!”
Mike didn’t say anything that time.
But a few days later, when he was on top and we were both getting close, I growled in his ear, “Oh, yeah, I want your big, fat cock buried in my ass!”
Basking in the afterglow, he asked, “So, what’s all this about fucking your ass?”
I blushed. “I don’t know; it just gets me off to say it in the heat of the moment.”
He was quiet for a minute. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I think it was that night last spring when both kids had sleepovers.”
“You wore that lacy thing from Victoria’s Secret.”
“That’s right.”
Neither of us said anything more, but my thoughts inevitably wandered back to that night—how we ordered take-out Chinese and I put on my black lace catsuit and we watched L.A. Confidential in bed. How I wrapped my legs around his thigh and humped him to a nice glow while he idly tweaked my nipples. Halfway through, we stopped the movie, and then somehow we decided he’d fuck my ass through the generous and convenient opening in the crotch of the body stocking.
I also remembered something else: that I’d never liked it so much. The tickly, stretching sensations aroused my secret muscles as he moved slowly in and out.
The next time we made love, I tried to stop myself, but it just made me too hot to say it. “Fuck my ass, I want you to fuck my ass so bad, oh, yes.”
Mike stopped midstroke and frowned down at me. “That does it. I am going to fuck your ass. Right now.”
“Not now, jeez, I was just about to come,” I protested.
&
nbsp; “Listen, you’ve been leading me on so long with your dirty talk, you’ve got me wanting to fuck your ass pretty bad myself. So put up or shut up.”
I was indeed speechless as he rolled off and walked over to our sex-toy drawer.
Eyes wide, I watched him pull out a condom and the bottle of lube. The whole lower half of my body was a riot of sensation. My clit and cunt still buzzed from the normal fucking, but now my asshole tingled and throbbed, as if his cock were already inside. The very idea of being skewered back there had my pussy drooling onto the sheets with envy.
“Turn over on your stomach,” Mike ordered.
Still in shock, I obeyed. He lay down beside me.
I thought he might just stick it in my backside then and there, but he surprised me by running his palm slowly up and down my back, occasionally dipping farther down to circle over the soft flesh of my buttocks.
“So tell me why you’re so hot for me to fuck your ass.” His tone was softer, but still determined.
“I don’t know,” I murmured into the pillow.
“Come on, what do you like about it?”
It took a moment to put it into words. “Well, when you fuck my ass, I can feel every movement. It’s so there. Like your cock is sliding all the way in up to my throat.”
“And that feels good?”
“Sometimes it hurts, but most of time it’s…tingly and nice. And I like the way I feel afterward. All loosened up. And proud. Like I’ve done something special.”
“Interesting. I have another theory, though.” As he said this, his finger dipped between my asscheeks to stroke my tender pink valley.
I shivered and arched up into his touch. “Theory?”
“Yes, that anal sex is an unnatural act, so it makes you feel like a dirty slut to do it.”
My muscles down there—belly, cunt, asshole—immediately went into spasm, prickles of shame mixed with sweet twinges of pleasure. He was right. It was a turn-on to be a naughty girl who let boys in the back door. But I suddenly realized something else, too. Having him talk about fucking my ass—actually analyze it like this—was making me incredibly hot.
Gotta Have It Page 17