by Retha Powers
“Neither. I’m teaching at the community college tomorrow night. Meet me there at six-thirty and don’t be a second late.” I turned and slid into my car, leaving Marcus with a look of stunned lust on his perfect face. I blew a kiss out the window and raced home, where I masturbated myself to three climaxes before I could get to sleep.
The community college was filling up for evening classes when Marcus rushed into the hallway a few minutes early. “Nicola, what the hell…?” He was out of breath and adorably disheveled.
I grabbed his hand, pulled him into the classroom, and locked the door. “Class begins at seven and my students are very prompt.” I wore a black, Mexican-style peasant blouse with no bra, crotchless panties, and a full, fiesta-type skirt that swirled around my gleaming calves. I took a silk scarf from around my waist and gently tied Marcus’s wrists together in back of him.
“Here’s the assignment, Marcus. Make me hot, make me come, but you can only use your lips, teeth, and tongue. No hands, okay?” I warmed him up with a sizzling kiss. Then he took one of my earlobes between his smooth lips, nibbling and sucking until my breath was ragged and my nipples strained against my blouse. Reading my mind, he tugged down the elastic neckline with his teeth, exposing my aching breasts to the cool air. He slurped at one breast, then the other, until they danced in jealous competition for his hungry mouth.
Sitting on the desk, I wrapped my feet around his waist, pulling him against me. The coarse fabric of his jeans inflamed my restless heat. I unfastened his belt and pants and eased him back onto the floor. Then I gently guided his long, thick muscle into my mouth. “Turn around,” he growled, directing me to hover just over his face. As I teased his velvety balls, Marcus’s tongue sucked my lower lips until my upper ones quivered. I felt the delicious scrape of newly grown beard on the tender meat of my inner thigh and stifled a moan while his probing tongue sent my hips into a grind.
Meanwhile, I took him deeper into my throat. He seemed to grow longer, harder, wider, and hotter with each greedy gulp. I heard voices from the hallway as students gathered near the door, but concentrated on first teasing the tip of Marcus’s magnificent manhood, then devouring as much as I could. I muffled a scream as he coaxed my love button to the boiling point.
We lost control at the same moment: he plunged into my mouth and I shuddered into his. I helped him to a standing position and we licked the juices from each other’s mouths and faces.
“Okay,” I gasped, untying his wrists and pulling him into the bathroom, where we quickly washed off. “Get yourself together and go out that side door.”
“Girl, you’d…” I stopped his words with a teasing kiss and nudged him into the hallway.
I relished the smell of pleasure in the air as I strode back and forth in front of my students, explaining the finer points of gourmet restaurant dining. My whole body purred, the breeze beneath my shirt fanning the embers of my nearly sated lust.
Needless to say, it was difficult getting to sleep that night. I wanted Marcus inside of me as much as he wanted to be there, but I was determined to stick to my plan.
A few days later I e-mailed him from work. “Have an urge to go dancing and it’s oldies night at the Purple Haze. Can’t wait to feel you.”
“Can’t wait to come,” he e-mailed back immediately.
The Purple Haze was the city’s mainstay club for all age groups, but on Thursday it belongs to the old-school crowd. Amar, the gorgeous young DJ, musta been schooled by his daddy ’cause he spun those jams like he’d grown up on them.
Marcus looked scrumptious in skin-tight jeans and muscle T. I wore a flirty short dress and my most comfortable dancing shoes.
We danced every dance, from Aretha to Smokey to Marvin, working up a fine glow, but at the first notes of the Dells’ “Stay in My Corner” I walked into Marcus’s outstretched arms with a wicked smile. “I don’t know how to slow-dance. Can you teach me?” I pouted, and he pulled me close. We whispered the words of the song into each other’s ears and started to swerve like teenagers learning what the p in pleasure was for. Our hands caressed each other’s backs, then ventured lower, and we moved into a sho ’nuff grind. Marcus inserted his thigh between my legs and let his hands explore my backfield, my skin rippling with pleasure at his sure touch. The Dells wailed as he marked my throat with long, hungry kisses that were sure to leave marks the next day. I gasped and molded my pelvis to his. “Come here,” he moaned, and next thing I knew we were in the DJ booth.
Amar looked up with a slow smile. “How much time left on that tape?” Marcus asked, peeling off a large bill. “Thirty minutes, my man,” Amar laughed, pocketing the bill and slipping out of the booth.
We sank down, tearing at each other’s clothes. The rough carpet against my skin excited me even more. I lifted one heel onto the edge of the console that held all the DJ equipment. Marcus trailed his lips up the inside of my left thigh, then licked around the outside of my yearning.
“Can you read my lips, baby?” I cooed. “The ones you’re licking? I want your mouth on mine and the rest of you inside me, deep inside me, now!”
Marcus laughed and nibbled his way up my stomach to play awhile with each breast, pulling at them with his fingers till the nipples moaned against his skin. He suckled them so long and hard that I nearly came from the delicious pressure alone. Then he tickled my steaming cat with his fingers, smiling as I danced on the tips. We sat facing each other, my feet locked behind his proud hips. He teased me with the tip of his shaft and I gently guided him in. He sighed as my heat engulfed him.
We rode the music, his every stroke on the one, my answering thrusts on the downbeat. He laid me gently back on the carpet, slow-grinding as though we were still on the dance floor. The bass reverberated through our bodies as we quaked and grunted with each sweet stroke. I slid my toes around his gorgeous ass, causing it to quiver each time it rose. Our sweat mingled in a cloud of sweet funk and I spread my legs wide, savoring the way his balls teased my pussy. We drank greedily from each other’s mouths and he reared back, poised to explode.
“Wait,” I said, sliding out from under him and guiding his face between my thighs. “Don’t you want a little taste of what you do to me?”
He groaned and dove in, his tongue jetting in and out of me with such power that I thought he was still inside me. My hips circled wantonly as waves of pleasure rose from my toes.
“Okay,” I gasped, pushing him back to lick my juices from his throbbing joystick. It danced wildly in the air, searching for my wet embrace. I teased the glistening head until his hips jutted upward, then slowly took his length into my mouth.
“Oooooh it’s good, so damned good, Nicola, I’m about to…” I pulled my lips away, moved up to kiss his mouth, and mounted him, moving in languid figure eights and squeezing my inner muscles around him until he roared above the music.
From the corner of my eye, I saw that Amar had reentered the booth. I pretended not to notice, but that made me even hotter. I lowered my nipples to Marcus’s mouth and he nibbled them into throbbing pleasure points. I heard Amar’s breathing quicken as Marcus and I drove each other to new peaks of ecstasy.
Back on the dance floor I trembled against Marcus with aftershocks, while he gently ran his hands up and down my back. We slow-danced to another orgasm, our tongues grooving to their own rhythm in a long, hungry kiss.
When we could finally breathe normally and speak again, I gave him a slow, appreciative once-over. “I must say you’ve surprised me, Marcus. Are you in heat?”
“Could be,” he chuckled. “Or maybe it’s just the stars.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, fighting to get my brain back into my skull and my clothing back to normal.
“Did I ever tell you my Venus is in Scorpio?” he asked, grinning wickedly and patting the front of his pants with a satisfied flourish. “And it just so happens that there’s a matching planetary alignment that swings through every now and then. Now, if you don’t know what that means, I�
�ll be happy to break it down for you…”
Roses, Red, Room 416
_________________
by Lolita Files
I never knew rose petals could hurt.
It was two days later and I still couldn’t walk straight. I semi-waddled down the quiet hall of the hotel toward the room where this last disaster had most recently occurred. That I was back again was a miracle within itself. Recovery was not even near being complete.
The door was closed. New York’s equivalent of the do-not-disturb sign was hanging on the handle: FUHGETTABOUDIT.
Cassis was in there. I could feel his presence, even through the heavy divider. He was probably lying back, propped up against four ultrafluffy pillows, languishing in the feel of the soft down-filled duvet as it draped haphazardly across his body. His left hand would be gingerly cradling his nut-brown shaft, the fingers deftly working. His right hand would be gingerly cradling the black shaft of the remote. The fingers deftly working.
I stopped just outside the door, listening to the dim hum of the television as channel after channel whizzed past. He was changing the thing with remarkable speed, much too quickly to register images. Which meant the fingers on the remote were truly fast at work. Which meant the fingers on his shaft, in turn, were just as active.
Cassis would be hard for me. So hard, it would hurt. He would be wincing when I walked in. I already knew. His dick would be a dagger of pain, fat with hot blood that boiled up within it. He would look to me for release, eyes blazing in demand that I let him stab me with the boiled-blood dagger. I hesitated as I stood by the door. Afraid to go in. Couldn’t wait to go in.
Le Parker Meridien was a dangerous place. Safe for patrons. Dangerous for me. Undeniably upscale, the hotel was nestled in the heart of Midtown Manhattan, respectably perched on Fifty-sixth Street between Sixth and Seventh. Behind door 416, however, some not-so-upscale or -respectable happenings had been jumping off for quite some time. Four months, to be exact. Amid eighteen-dollar bran muffins and twenty-dollar pots of tea, wicked acts were taking place. Things that made me sink into prayer once they were over. Things for which I was certain I would go straight to hell.
The scandalous was the norm when I entered that place. Same man, same room, same me, always so scared, always so willing once I passed through the portal. My body, soft and willowy, pliable and ready. A lamb rushing into a slaughterhouse of pure visceral joy. When I emerged, hours later, destruction. My body a mosaic of bruises artfully dressed as handprints and tooth marks, nipples braised and glazed from the heat of oft-dripped candle wax, wrists slightly achy from the pressure of too-tight fists encircling them, neck sore from acrobatic feats worthy of an XXX porn star. Ass a series of irreverent stings. The corners of my mouth tender from being stretched too wide for too long, eager to display my fellatial prowess.
Despite the initial damage, things were always intact. No skinned flesh that burned when the wind hit it; no breasts that cried out when returned to the confines of a bra. Everything had always been copacetic afterward, save for the need to drape a scarf around my neck or pull my coat tight as I passed through the lobby doors, back out onto the street.
I’d always been able to walk—no, stride—before. Happy with the glow of the überfuck. No problems whatsoever. Cassis was big, but big in a good way. Not that kind of big that ripped you apart and made pleasure an unexplorable option. Not that kind of big that men bragged about but women fled. Cassis was the kind of big that filled you up and put just the right amount of pressure on the walls that called out for it. My body shaped itself to him, my love canal a glove that hungrily enveloped his perfect bigness with delicate precision. His dick brought with it no discomfort or hurt. Just an infinite completion that made me helium-heady, giddy like a crack hoe who’d hit the motherlode—a rock so big there was nothing to do but sit and suck and smoke and suck and smoke and suck and smoke until there was nothing left of the rock, nothing left of me. No consciousness, no sense of restraint. A zombielike state where I just kept taking hits until I was swallowed alive by the thrill of sensation.
When Cassis did bring the pain, it wasn’t from the beat-down of his dick. It came from the nastily pleasurable feeling of his massive hand, like an open-faced sandwich, coming down hard and wide against the expectant curl of my ass. It was the perfect accompaniment as he thrust deep within me, like an expert cellist in perfect concert with a liquidly smooth pianist. Me, face forward, derriere airborne, on my knees, teeth gritted, eyes closed, moaning desperately into the pillows that smothered me blind. The sounds of the flat-faced blows of his hand ricocheting and snapping around the room like firecrackers as he smacked me harder with each thrust. Those same hands, with me now lying on my back, squeezing and rubbing my thighs roughly, his palms almost burning, as he pushed himself deep, deep, deep inside my wetness. Those hands hurting me, leaving purple splotches and blue stems where palms and fingers had once been, making me writhe in ways that others less indulged might consider abuse.
Cassis was a true artist. A masterful painter whose stroke would make van Gogh cut off more than just an ear. No lie. In fact, van Gogh would have gladly handed over his dick. “Here man, take it. No need for me to try to compete with your skills.”
Cassis’s hands were the hands of a builder. Cassis’s hands were the hands of a murderer. Behind that door, those hands were my source of renewal. Behind that door, his hands were my deconstruction.
Every time we coupled, I was afraid afterward to look at my body in the mirror. Things always appeared worse than they actually were. Thighs blue, back red, face flushed, hair askew. The battle scars of a sexual warrior.
How we’d met had to be one of life’s biggest mysteries. A friend of a friend at a party that neither of us could remember. Gravitation to one another without explanation. A conversation with no sentences, no words. Eyes staring. Mine curious, peering, each lash a revelation. Deep pockets beneath his, what had he been doing of late? Three hours later, me, impersonating dinner in the hallway. Him, the diner, on his knees, tongue plunged deep inside me. Me, hanging on to his hair, beautiful gentle ropes, delicate locks that were easily shaped into handlebars for me to grasp. The smell of almond oil. My head back, moans evident, his head at work like Woody Woodpecker on a pulp-ripe tree. Hush, hush. Keep it down now. Voices carry. Fuck voices. Deep tongue. Ass aflame. Explosions, screams, clit vigor, watchers in the hall. As I looked down at him, he was all wicked smiles, his visage one big smear of my wetness. He let it remain, my juices a mask of honor, rose to his feet, gave me a piercing stare that made me hostage for life. He took my hand and led me back to the party.
Once I’d had the pleasure of that tongue, it was over. Cassis owned me. I was open. Wide. Anytime, anyplace, anywhere. No reason. That tongue was enough.
An hour later, he’d given me dick.
I had a soprano pussy.
It was news to me. I’d always thought it was alto.
I stared at Room 416.
Cassis was a Slasher—an actor-slash-director-slash-screen-writer-slash-author—all careers that typically seemed to mean poor. But he’d had a fair share of success, having written, directed, and played the lead in an indie film that won critical acclaim at last year’s Sundance Film Festival. He’d been given a budget by a major studio and was filming his first wide-distribution flick on location in Brooklyn and Manhattan. No small feat, considering how expensive it was to shoot in New York. He was also at work on his first novel. He had already published—also with much critical acclaim—a collection of short stories filled with tales that were rich with rites of passage. Cassis’s advance had been fat. Six figures, high ones, for the short-story collection and novel that was soon to follow. They called him the voice of a new generation. I called him the tongue of my old one.
He spent many days writing in solitude at the Parker Meridien. Expensive, yes, but the movie studio was picking up the check. He did it all under the umbrella of working on his film (preproduction, location scouting,
yada, yada, yada, so he told the studio). We fucked all upside and downside and inside that hotel room, compliments of the big studio’s dollar. Thank you, Warner Brothers. Afternoon fucks and mini bars never felt so damn good.
Me, I was a successful author, too, but none of this was coming out of my pocket. My biggest satisfaction (other than the obvious one, Cassis’s sexual skills) was that most authors’ faces were not highly recognizable. Almost no one cared what we looked like, unless we were Slashers. Our notoriety lay in the power of the written word. Thus most authors slipped unnoticed in and out of grocery stores, high-end boutiques, movies, Kmarts, Targets, and all manner of dens of iniquity. They knew me here, although our conversations were always kept to a minimum. This would be the forty-fifth time I’d entered this door. Four months was an awfully compressed amount of time to have made forty-five visits to the same hotel. I’d go to the counter, get the card key, and make my way up.
Sometimes I averted my eyes from the clerks at the front desk, in fear that they would recognize me. Thought I was getting the “aren’t you—?” look. No, I’d be thinking. Right now I’m someone else.
Sometimes I took them head-on, flipping ghetto-fab in my posturing of defense. Yeah, I’m fucking. What you think? I’m the hot pussy woman. You wish you were getting what I’m giving upstairs.
Fuhgettaboudit.
Their eyes reading mine. The message clear. Make way. I’m outta here. There’s a tongue upstairs with my pussy’s name stamped on it.
Sometimes authors were the worst artists of them all.
I still hadn’t opened the door to go in. Deep below, my lips were throbbing, pained from the friction of walking, swollen with the betrayal of rose petals.
Two days ago Cassis had introduced something new.
When I had come into the room, I was surprised to find it swimming in a sea of endless roses, red long-stemmed thorned things covering every possible inch of surface space. The floor, the desk, the top of the TV, the bed. The pièce de résistance was the ultimate surface: Cassis, naked, awash in an ocean of red roses, his erection breaking their seamless flow, a stem clasped between the teeth of that wicked smile.