Richard coughed suddenly, twisted and headed for his desk. As he’d always paced in front of the class before, I was fairly certain what exactly he wished to hide behind the thick wooden panels. The glimpse of a thick bulge filling his pants as he slid into his seat was just mouth-watering confirmation.
He continued to speak, though I wasn’t following anything he was saying anymore. I heard his voice caressing the individual words and felt them falling on me like gentle touches after he said them.
I heard “…No doubt incredibly…hard…” and smiled at the pointed look Richard cast my way.
My fingers were sunk to the second knuckle now, and I shifted, unable to sit still as heated ecstasy radiated from my pelvis up to my breasts and down to my knees. My nipples were hard against the thin fabric of my shirt and I lifted my shoulders, drawing his attention to the peaks.
His hands were beneath the desk. Was he touching himself, I wondered? Was he rubbing himself while I fucked myself with my fingers?
The image was thrilling. I thrust my fingers faster and pressed my clit with my thumb. I felt my climax welling, sitting right within reach, but I didn’t want to come yet.
Richard hesitated momentarily, then he pressed on with the lecture, peppering the room with how the stock market “plunged deeper and deeper,” and how some women just had to “take matters into their own hands” to survive.
I tilted my head back, unable to take any more of the driving pleasure, and let the sensation rip through me. I bit my lip, shuddered and finally exhaled a long breath and let my fingers slide free.
While he watched with hungry, intent eyes, I brought my wet fingers to my mouth and licked them one by one.
Richard looked pained. I found the expression oddly charming. I carefully rearranged my panties and slid up in the seat, bringing my legs together. The air smelled of musky sex and my pulse was pounding. My face had to be brilliantly flushed.
My timing was perfect. Within five minutes Richard had wrapped up the class—I half listened, more watched as he gave the class a flash of a smile and then stood up. His pants weren’t tented, and I didn’t know if I was disappointed or curious as to what had happened behind the panels of the desk.
Richard’s eyes caught mine. “If anyone is interested in further…exploration…I do hold other sessions throughout the year. Feel free to email me,” he paused and turned away to write an email address on the board behind him, “if you’re interested.”
I took a moment to write the address on my hand, winked and walked from the class with a bounce in my step.
MEET ME IN THE KITCHEN
Giselle Renarde
She padded down the stairs like a cat in pink slippers.
“Where the hell have you been?” Armando called from the kitchen. “I’m up to my ass in asparagus!”
Unscrewing the base of her vibrator, Jenny tried to sneak in behind him, but he intercepted her at the junk drawer. “Six of your friends, and I’m the one cooking dinner? You guaranteed you would help this time!” His rant dropped off when he noticed her satin slip and the sex toy in her hand. He couldn’t conceal the look of curiosity in his eyes. For a moment, he simply stared. Shaking his head, he snapped, “Why aren’t you dressed? Or do I have to do that for you, too?”
She stood before him, unfazed by his hysteria. He always got that way before parties. He just needed to relax. “I came down for new batteries,” she said, holding up the open vibe.
“What?” His voice was high and frenzied. “What the hell have you been doing all this time?”
“Watching porn,” she replied without breaking a sweat. It was bold of her, she realized, to tease a man with a carving knife in his hand, but she was not afraid of Armando. “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t be watching it alone, but I guess you have better things to do.”
“Better things…?” Choking with disbelief, he slammed his sharp blade against the wooden cutting board. “Better things, she says! Yes, I have better things to do. I have a dinner to prepare!”
With deliberate nonchalance, she looked to the junk drawer and fingered the knob. Pulling it open, she dug for spare batteries among take-out menus and grocery receipts. “Gay porn,” she went on, popping two double-As into the vibe. “I don’t know why, but the sight of two guys together really turns me on.” Switching it to medium setting, she handed the sex toy to a glassyeyed Armando. She didn’t so much as glance at him as she dragged the cutting board forward on the kitchen counter. After chopping the woody bases from the asparagus, she slid a clean stalk into her mouth and chewed. “So, I’m going at my clit and I’m right on the brink, then—would you believe it?—the damn thing runs out of batteries!”
The vibrator buzzed. Armando held it upright and away from his body as Jenny scooped the asparagus into a ceramic bowl. He reminded her of a husband holding his wife’s purse outside the women’s washroom—insecure and hoping his embarrassment would end soon. She started in on the peeled potatoes. “I was so close. God! I could taste that orgasm when the damn thing died. Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
Without a word, she hiked up the back of her slip. Leaning her elbows on the counter, she spread her legs and smiled at the potatoes. Armando took the bait. He held her silky skirt above her ass with one hand while he sent the vibe on an exploratory mission. “You were close?” he asked. His voice was hot honey drizzling across her powdered-sugar skin. “If I do this, you’ll come fast so we can get cooking?”
She wanted to laugh, but she knew that would piss him off, so she pinched her lips between her index finger and thumb until the urge passed. “Yup,” she said. Did all women have to fight so hard to get a man’s attention?
“What do you want me to do with this?”
Setting down the heavy-duty knife, she held her slip tight around her waist. “Run it along my pussy lips. They’re superwet. Run it headlong between my thighs.”
Indiscreetly, he reamed the plastic shaft between her thighs, smacking it up against her engorged lips. They screamed wetness. The sting of the buzzing toy slapping her cunt again and again went far beyond any wrath she would have aimed at herself. She was always so loving with her body. Armando obviously didn’t care. He had no investment in the experience beyond getting her to come so they could put dinner on the table.
With a flick of the wrist, he struck her lips with the vibe. The thick shaft whacked her wet pussy lips and ricocheted off her clit. Spasms brought on by the pain of being smacked got her rattling all the way down to her bones. Again. She could barely stand. Again. Her knees felt weak. Her sensitive tissues glowed with hurt at one more slap in the cunt. Again. The last time was one too many, and the muscles in her pussy, thighs and ass all tightened at once. “No more,” she cried. “Stop! It hurts.”
“Fine,” he said, drawing the wet vibe away from her. “Let’s get cooking. They’ll be here in half an hour.”
“No!” she whined. She didn’t care if she sounded like a child. “I’m not finished yet. You’ve got to fuck me with it.”
He let out an irritated sigh. “Fine,” he snapped, his voice rising in pitch as he grew more annoyed. “But you’d better come soon. I need to sauté the shallots.”
She spread her legs farther apart and bent forward a little more. “Just fuck me, damn it! Fuck me hard!”
Without another word, Armando rammed her with her own dildo. He must have cranked up the power, because the second it was inside her, she felt its vibrations all through her body. They centered in her cunt, of course, but as he drew the vibe back and then plunged it deep inside, the buzzing sensation took over her ass as well. Bundling her slip into one hand, she reached around and petted her grasping asshole while he pounded her slit. She turned to watch his chiseled jaw clench. He stayed well away from her, bending at the knees and lunging like a fencer with each stab. He battled her slit like it was the enemy, and it turned her on to no end, watching the skirmish.
When she pushed the pad of her finger inside her asshole,
the vibrations took over her body. She was possessed by the buzz. Squeezing her thighs together, she thrust back against the sex toy and the man who held it. When she opened her mouth, a scream came out. She released all the tension built up over the course of the workweek. She came loud and proud. She clamped down on her vibe so tight that when Armando let go of it, it stayed firmly in place.
Sticking out of her body, the sex toy buzzed like a delirious animal. Stealing her finger from her ass, she pulled the shaft from her spasmodic pussy.
“Wash your hands,” Armando instructed from the sink. “And then tell me more about my companion for the evening.”
“Okay,” she said, smirking as she turned the vibe from high, down to medium, low and then off. “Tim works with me in client relations. When I told him I had a hot gay roommate, he was all over me to get a date with you.”
OVER THE LINE
Helia Brookes
Over the Line” could begin in the airport. As Lydia strolled with her obedient rolly on a tight leash, she sought the slight heat from a distant gaze, the spark floating across the gap between bodies. But the best Line would be drawn along the armrest separating her from a male seatmate. Old, young, short, tall, fit, doughy… that didn’t matter. She could take the slightest pull, the slightest lean in her direction, and strengthen it into a cable, drawing him unwaveringly to her.
Playing on an airplane required luck. On assigned seat flights, she reserved a window on the two-seat side and hoped for the best. She liked carriers where you picked your own seat. She’d scan the men sitting next to empty seats, giving each a chance to reveal interest, as she sauntered onto the plane as late as possible.
As she entered the aisle of 2120 to Chicago, her pussy tingled in anticipation. Like a hand squeezing deep inside, desire flamed up. She added a touch of undulating swagger to her stride. The overhead bins were engorged with luggage, all part of the plan. There—22D—perfect. She passed his seat and felt his eyes fixate on her ass with a glazed sheen. Lifting herself onto her toes to plump her calves, she peeked into the bins, finally pushing her bag in with luxurious leisureliness. She managed to slip her knee against his leg. Warm and firm. Her breath quickened but she stayed outwardly calm.
“Window seat free? Sorry to make you get up!”
Squeezing past him should cement his interest, but the game would lose savor if she let her eagerness surface. The point was to exude obliviousness to her sexiness and to its effect on him… yet torque both to the maximum. She avoided eye contact and kept her expression neutral. But with her jersey-clad hip she brushed his thigh as he stood up; her body strained against fabric as she squeezed over to her seat. All her motions slowed, to maximize their “accidental” touching. Ideally, 22D would be so hypnotized that time would stand still for him anyway and he wouldn’t notice how long she was taking. She carefully bent over to place her bag under the seat, adjusting it, as she adjusted her ass, letting some of the warm molecules of scent that had been gathering in her naked crotch make their way to his nose. She went commando on airport days.
Finally she settled into her seat, covertly monitoring 22D’s interest. Yes, his handsome face was flushed, his eyes had gone beyond glazed to slightly bugged out, and she could feel heat radiating. He sat back down, too. Was he brave enough to engage her in conversation? She’d be perfectly pleasant, but her voice and expression should reveal only neutral friendliness, while her body language seduced him as overtly as cartoon fingers curling come-hither from pies cooling on windowsills.
While Lydia flipped through a magazine, she turned toward 22D and subtly cocked her legs apart, wafting him with more scent. She stretched and yawned, letting the lift of her breasts tighten the fabric further. After letting him simmer, she got up to go to the restroom.
She came back, then apologized and departed again. Lingering even longer on the way to and from, she relished the deliciously awkward place-exchanging dance. 22D’s arousal grew—she could see it in his trousers. This time she accidentally-on-purpose brushed against the bulge as she squeezed back to her seat, eliciting a barely-perceptible groan. Progress!
She curled up in her seat, facing the window and letting her ass press into the armrest. Sometimes she wished she had eyes in the back of her head for these moments, but she could only visualize 22D’s forehead dotting with sweat as he resisted looking over at the shape of her bottom molding itself around the hard plastic. Go ahead and look, she told him silently, smiling, then take the next step…. Her ass tingled, sending stronger pulses up the crack between her legs to her very center. She felt it charging up like an electromagnet, drawing her seatmate closer. Finally—the touch of a warm arm, lying along the armrest, grazing the fabric warmed by her skin. She made a slight sound of nestling for a nap and adjusted her position slightly, firming the contact on her side.
22D had powerful self-control: it took almost a full minute before his arm started moving. As she’d hoped, it slid back along the armrest, drawing his hand closer. The side of his hand felt a little cooler than the arm, but the side could so easily turn to bring fingers into play. Imperceptibly, the hand rotated until it was gently cupping her cotton-covered bottom. She reveled in the feeling, hoping it would last—he seemed like the type who wouldn’t lose control and start groping wildly, but instead would explore as far as he could without drawing notice. Sure enough, the hand and its warm fingers moved a little up, then a little down, until most of the territory near the armrest had been caressed. For a moment the hand retreated, and then it reappeared under the armrest. Ahhh…moving more freely now that it was out of sight, the emboldened hand crept into the notch between her warm body and the slightly cooler seat. Time to act.
As though she were stretching in her sleep, Lydia turned to face 22D, eyes carefully closed but senses hyperalert. The wandering hand was temporarily trapped as her knees curled up the opposite way, touching his pant leg. She sighed and dropped her head onto her shoulder, letting her chest gently curve her breasts out, while her legs relaxed slightly apart, the edge of her skirt hiking up just a bit to reveal a small dark cave entrance. She relished the delicious moment, the crest of the roller coaster when the swoop down becomes inevitable.
His right hand was still wedged beneath her, gripping one hip. It was the left that advanced this time, fingers walking up her thighs to that magic triangle where the hem of the skirt began. Gradually the whole hand eased under the skirt, extended fingers approaching the ultimate goal. She felt the jolt flood through him as he touched her juicy snatch and realized how open and ready she was—no more obstacles. Lydia opened her eyes wide and stared into his. She smiled with the joy of winning. Now they would play a different, more urgent game: how quickly could they find a place to couple, how fast would their passion climax, how long could they go? But this one was in the pocket—she’d pulled him over the line.
NOT JUST A MYTH
Heidi Champa
I heard the rumor my first week on campus. It was backstage in the theater, hidden behind years of sets, props and costumes: a glory hole. The other side of the portal was a locked closet in a lonely hallway, kept safe by a huge padlock. We always wondered who had the key. It was a titillating thought, even if the whole thing was most likely a load of bullshit.
I had only seen glory holes in the pages of the skin magazines I bought on the sly years ago. Pictures of giant cocks pushed through perfect circles were almost too kinky for my solo fantasies when I was younger. They had moved to the forefront of my mind, filling my thoughts as I pretended I couldn’t care less.
The glory hole was said to be active only on Tuesday nights, after ten o’clock. That information distracted me most often during my Tuesday evening class, when as the clock moved slowly toward the magical hour, my cock would start to harden. But it couldn’t be true. Of all the people who told me the urban legend, not one of them had actually used the glory hole. It was always a friend of a friend who had done it; some drunk at the bar who heard it through the grapevine. M
y curiosity was piqued with every new twist on the story, but I continued to declare it all a lie.
All my misgivings, all my logical reasoning, didn’t keep me from walking past the theater one Tuesday night after class. I stopped in the hall, staring at the hands on my watch ticking toward ten o’clock. The rest of the building had grown quiet, the squeaking and clicking of shoes a distant sound. My throat was dry as I pulled open the door, my nose bombarded by the familiar scent of drying paint and dust, remnants of the drama club’s earlier work. I followed the path up to the stage-left stairs, trying my best to walk softly. If this whole thing turned out to be a joke, I didn’t want to be discovered falling for it.
The backstage area was pretty dark, but a single, bare bulb was on. Walking toward the back corner, I saw it. A few feet away was a hand-cut hole in the black wall. At least that part of the myth was true. Still in shock, I walked slowly toward it, keeping my footfalls as quiet as I could. Stopping right in front of the partition, my naïveté was suddenly overwhelming. I had absolutely no idea what to do or how to find out if there was anyone on the other side of that wall. I was frozen, my brain torn in two trying to decide how to proceed.
Just as I was about to turn tail and get back to the dorm, I heard it: the sound of movement behind the hole. I put my hand up to the wall and tapped lightly with my forefinger. It seemed like such a bold gesture, even though I could barely hear it over the blood pounding in my ears. Whatever I did seemed to do the trick, because I heard more noise right in front of me. My mind was whirling, and the only thing I could think to do was sink to my knees. My cock grew harder in my jeans, pushing painfully against my zipper as I waited.
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