Any Day of the Week

by Cathryn Cooper

  ‘Won’t you join us for lunch?’

  Jim couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

  For some reason this made the old man laugh. ‘I’ll set another place!’

  He left the two of them alone.

  Jim looked at the bag Xia held.

  ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied.

  He stood with the bag in his hand and watched as she removed her blazer, revealing a gossamer sleeveless blouse.

  Suddenly, Jim’s mind reeled. It wasn’t the way her blouse clung to her high, upturned breasts and the way the silken fabric hinted at the sublime yet generous outline of her erect nipples. It was the gold, leaf shaped band she wore on her left arm and the way it seemed to glisten with a light of its own.

  She noticed him staring.

  ‘It used to belong to my mother. Some people think it’s too provocative.’

  She stepped a little closer, a coy, playful look on her delicate face and gave him a delightfully questioning smile, the inviting contours of her body now inches away.

  ‘What do you think?’

  He smiled while gazing into those two dark pools.

  ‘I like it very much.’

  Any Day of the Week

  by Jeremy Edwards

  ‘You’re obsessed with my ass, aren’t you?’ said Nadine, as she scooted the aforementioned attribute onto the passenger seat of my car.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked this question knowing, of course, exactly what she meant.

  She gave me a perfunctory, after-work kiss. ‘I mean that you look at it the way most people look at a sunset.’

  ‘I can take or leave sunsets,’ I explained. Her ass, tonight, was wearing the lime capris within which it looked more mesmerizing than a hundred sunsets: in my humble opinion.

  ‘I can take or leave my ass,’ she shrugged. ‘I don’t see what’s so special about it. Even when I stand totally nude in front of a three-way mirror, all I see are six boring buttocks.’

  A punctual erection challenged my ready-to-drive-the-car posture. As I answered Nadine’s observation, I grasped the parking brake – classic displacement, if you’re of the Viennese school.

  ‘That’s why it’s my job, and not yours, to appreciate this ass we speak of. Furthermore, I defy you to find anything in our vehicle more deserving of my obsessive fascinations.’

  She smiled. ‘Always the logical one, aren’t you. I guess I’m just blasé.’

  I patted her hand and attempted to put things in perspective. ‘You’re not blasé. You’re just ass blasé. And not even consistently. For example, you weren’t blasé about your ass last Saturday night, when I was squeezing and tickling and patting and fondling it ... and, if I recall correctly, you emphatically urged me to keep doing all of the above.’ I recalled correctly, all right.

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember.’

  ‘It certainly looked like you, anyway.’ I put the car in gear.

  ‘Fine. So I’m un-ass-blasé on weekends. I’ll collect my prize at the door. But this is Monday, and we need to get groceries more than we need to talk about my ass.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. But I concede that we do need some groceries.’ I always try to meet her halfway in these situations.

  We pulled out of the parking lot of Nadine’s workplace. I had picked her up here almost every weeknight for years, and I’d learned that the post-work decompress was not the time to catch her in a sexy frame of mind. She was tired, preoccupied … and unnervingly practical. She was hot stuff from 5 p.m. Friday ’til midnight on Sunday; but it was as if all her sexual mechanisms shut down during the work week – as if the hormones went into hibernation and the libido went out of town on business.

  As we drove the two miles to the supermarket that evening, I realized that I wanted desperately to seduce Nadine on a weeknight. We’d been together for three years, sleeping in the same bed every night and rocking each other’s socks on weekends. Now I was intent on coaxing the socks-rocking side of her personality out of its dormancy on a Monday night. Everyone needs a hobby.

  In the weeks that followed, we observed our accustomed rhythm – hectic activity and quasi-platonic companionship during the week, capped by abandoned sexual indulgence on weekends. I relished the weekends as much as ever, but my desire to carry our lust across the weekday threshold was becoming increasingly strong by lingering unfulfilled. Nor had I neglected the task of trying to fulfil it. Every Monday, I hinted, I caressed, I teased ... but her response always extended to affectionate appreciation, and no further.

  Spring turned to summer. When we got home with the groceries one Monday night in late June, we were both drenched with what the meteorologists quaintly call relative humidity. I made a gambit.

  ‘Whew! I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to put on some fresh clothes,’ I prompted. Nadine concurred.

  ‘Since you have to change anyway, how about wearing the blue skirt?’ Though I tried to sound casual, the significance of this suggestion was clear to us both. She owned several blue skirts, and she knew precisely which one I meant. My favourite. The mini. Iridescent peacock blue. Always, by household custom, worn without panties.

  She spoke tenderly but decisively. ‘Bernard, I’ve absolutely got to work on that presentation this evening. I’ll be up and down from computer to printer to fax for the next three or four hours. Do you really want to see my cunt every time I sit, stand up, and bend down?’

  Hmph. She wouldn’t have asked a question like that on a Friday. ‘Of course I do.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘You know,’ I teased, ‘you’re not only ass-blasé, I think you’re also c–’

  ‘Shh! I’m getting the skirt, OK? We sincerely hope you’ll enjoy yourself ... but don’t take it as a commitment on my part.’ Her eyes twinkled – playfully but not, I had to admit, lasciviously. Not yet. She smiled indulgently at me before bopping briskly into the walk-in closet.

  I got myself a microbrew and a Wodehouse, made myself comfortable on the loveseat that faced her workstation, and settled in for a challenging evening. Was I correct in surmising that she could not go sans panties all evening without becoming aroused?

  Nadine had been at the computer for about 45 minutes when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hand dart between her thighs and her hips subtly pivot.

  I’m the kind of person who is not above saying ‘Aha!’ This I now did.

  ‘Aha! It may be Monday ... but you, my dear, are getting horny.’

  What I’d phrased as a fact was really just optimistic speculation, and I cocked a hopeful eyebrow her way as I awaited confirmation.

  She gave me a weary but tolerant look. ‘I have to pee, if you must know.’

  ‘Indeed, I must.’ I am nothing if not adaptable, and I was right behind her as she headed toward the powder room. ‘Mind if I come with?’ Nadine has pointed out that I have a tendency to drop objective pronouns when aroused.

  She paused outside the door, turned, and shook her head dismissively. ‘I’m right in the middle of what I’m doing. I was hoping to make it quick in there.’

  It was hard to believe that this was the same woman who – only a couple of Saturdays ago – had phoned me from a toilet seat in Nordstrom’s ladies’ room to tell me she was having the best piss of her life, and that she wanted me to listen. ‘Wish you were here,’ she’d giggled, like a kinky postcard. Now I was here, but business was just business. I waited just outside the bathroom door as the brief auditory parade of waterfall, paper-tearing and flush marked her efficient absence with musical precision. Her efficiency made me all the more aroused.

  She settled back into her work, and I bided my time. Apart from studiously including her in my field of vision, I did not intrude on Nadine’s agenda while she worked at the computer, dashed to the printer, and ferried documents to the fax machine. But every time she rose, sat, or even shifted positions, I got a glimpse of cunt. And I began to notice that her eye
s usually met mine, just instantaneously, after such a moment. It was as if she were silently asking, ‘Did you see my cunt that time? Did you see it?’ It was driving me wild to know that she knew, all the time she was working, that she had an exposed cunt, and that I was watching, waiting for it to wink at me. And that, somewhere beneath her conscientious attention to her all-absorbing business presentation, she was, I could sense, turned on by this.

  I began to hone in on her rhythm. Her fingers tapping on the keyboard, her legs shifting position, her papers rustling ... these themes interacted to establish an erotic beat that was punctuated by her unconscious flashing, which was becoming more frequent. Tappity-tap WINK rustle-rustle WINK shift-rustle-rustle-shift WINK.

  And, every time she flashed me, I looked for the first hint of wetness. At last, at the moment when she momentarily parted and closed her legs in conjunction with a particularly emphatic click of the mouse, I was sure I saw lips that subtly glistened. I put down my book and gave her my full attention, waiting for the next development.

  When I seemed to see her hand flit once again between her legs a few minutes later, the motion was so quick that I wasn’t sure of what I’d seen, despite my unwavering focus.

  ‘Horny now?’ I asked, in a tone falsely calm, as though my interest were mere idle curiosity.

  ‘Um, I–’ She was actually blushing. My pulse began to race.

  ‘I thought I saw you touching yourself.’

  ‘I don’t remember. I was concentrating.’ She tried to get back to work.

  I stood and walked toward her, meeting her eyes and offering what I hoped was my most seductive smile. ‘Concentrating or not, you can at least tell if you’re getting wet, can’t you?’

  ‘Fuck!’ she suddenly said.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  ‘It wasn’t a request, Bernard, it was a garden-variety expletive. I just lost a contact lens.’

  ‘Oh. Well then, let me help you find it.’ I began to explore the carpet at her feet. I didn’t see the lens. I looked up, about to relay the bad news. But, as I raised my eyes, I found it. It had dropped onto the edge of her skirt. And, just as I spied it, it toppled a bit further and came delicately to rest on her person, nesting exquisitely in her bush. I grinned from ear to ear.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘I won’t. Where is it?’

  ‘Where indeed. Hold perfectly still.’ I kissed her ankle.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said involuntarily, and her legs twitched. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Kissing your ankle,’ I specified.

  ‘I thought you were picking up my contact lens.’

  ‘I’m multi-tasking.’

  ‘Perhaps you should do a little less multi and a little more tasking,’ she suggested. ‘Ohh ... that feels good,’ she added.

  I kissed my way up her right leg, as far as the inside of her knee. I paused there to note the effect of my attentions on what a meteorologist might call the ‘glisten index’ above. I was gratified by what I saw. I began anew on the left leg, beginning once again at the ankle.

  ‘Bernard ...’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘No, I’m busy. You’re distracting me. Ohhh, wow ...’ I had just reached the back of her left knee, where I lingered. Her legs were definitely indulging in a hip-driven swivel now, and her cunt was morphing from a pair of tight, glistening lips into a moist, yawning creature that wakes up hungry.

  The contact lens was still resting safely in her thatch, so I knew I could stretch this out a little longer. I kissed upward along the inside of her left thigh.

  ‘Bernard…oh…the lens, Bernard.’

  ‘Got it,’ I said. And I had. It was between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. The other fingers were now pressing gently on Nadine’s mound.

  I offered up the contact lens, which she claimed, and I immediately returned my hand to the place where I’d found the lens. You never know, I thought – there might be another lens, or something else of importance, lost in her garden. I duly explored the area with gentle motions of my hand. She began to purr, so I inserted the forefinger of my left hand just within her moistening lips. She parted her thighs a bit further and shivered sensuously. I intensified my intimate caress and resumed kissing the most delicate parts of her leg.

  Her groan told me that she had psychologically passed the point of no return, had finally resigned herself to a toe-tingling sexual release on this busy Monday night. As I sped up the motion of the finger that tickled her insides, I cooed my admiration.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ I told her. ‘Gorgeous,’ I repeated. ‘GORGEOUS,’ I said an unnecessary third time, at a slightly higher volume. By now she was dripping, and I knew that she would want my articulate tongue. I eased my finger out, gently clenched her knee joints, and began to smother her delicate core with wet tastes along every bit of her exposed femininity and within its invisible depths. Every squirm of her ass pressed her hot spots sensuously against the earnest mouth that titillated and sizzled.

  As she ground her pussy compulsively against me, her groans intensified and shaped themselves into a consonant. ‘Mmm, mmm, mmm,’ she intoned, with rhythmic insistence.

  My tongue worked harder, and her thighs began to tremble around my ears. Her ass cheeks were hot as fresh-baked rolls. ‘Mmm…mmm…’ She was trying to say more. As she gasped between the incipient cries of urgent, orgasmic bliss, a word emerged, belted with ecstatic surprise:

  ‘Mmmm ... m–m–Mmmonday,’ she crooned, shaking, her song diffusing into tender, rapturous whimpers, her cunt kissing me wetly, her arms flopping weakly, gracefully onto my shoulders.

  I stood up, and she led me to the loveseat, where she collapsed on her flank. I had managed to remove only one trouser leg before she reached into my shorts and pulled me toward, on to, and into her. She was so slick that I slid in effortlessly. She was still wearing the peacock blue skirt, and it tickled my belly as I rocked languidly through the few, short moments it took for me to spasm giddily into her slippery, tingling embrace and fill her with sticky weeknight distraction.

  Rock Hard

  by Kristina Wright

  The stadium was packed with thousands of screaming fans as rock star Damien belted out a song with lyrics that seemed meant only for me. I squeezed my husband Eric’s hand a little tighter as Damien sang, feeling fuzzy from drinking at the pub before the concert and the one hit I’d take from the joint someone smuggled in. I was so caught up in the sexy voice that I didn’t realize that my friend Lydia was waving something at me.

  I leaned closer and yelled over the music, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘How would you like to meet Damien in person?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Backstage passes,’ she said. That’s what she was waving. ‘Jeff doesn’t really care about meeting the band, but I thought you might.’

  I nodded enthusiastically. Just the thought of meeting Damien made my heart race.

  Eric leaned in from the other side. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  I nodded. ‘Lydia has backstage passes!’

  Eric pressed his lips to my ear and whispered, ‘Isn’t Damien on your list of celebrities you’d like to fuck?’

  I smacked his arm, even though he was right. We each had a list of celebrities we wanted to have sex with and, of course, Damien was on my list. It was one of those things that couples joke about and never really happens. Still, the alcohol and pot in my system, combined with Damien’s incredible voice and Eric’s hand on my ass had me fantasizing about the possibilities.

  Lydia’s husband Jeff noticed where Eric’s hand was and winked at me. Eric and I have speculated that Lydia and Jeff might be swingers, though Lydia has never mentioned it. It didn’t really matter to me since I couldn’t imagine having sex with someone other than Eric and I’m not interested in women. I smiled at Jeff and Lydia, feeling excited and anxious about what the rest of the night held in store.

  While the band was doing an encore, Lyd
ia grabbed my hand. ‘Let’s go before everyone starts leaving.’

  Eric gave my ass another squeeze and said, ‘Have fun!’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I nodded. ‘See you back at the hotel.’

  Lydia gave Jeff a quick kiss and a knowing smile before tugging me toward the backstage entrance.

  The next couple of hours were a blur. One minute we were showing our backstage passes to two burly bodyguards, the next we were backstage with the band, and roadies. We couldn’t get anywhere near Damien at first because of the crowd of people around him, but we talked with the rest of the band and had a few drinks. I watched Damien from a distance and decided he was just as incredible in person as I had imagined. He was a little rough and wild around the edges, but with a bad boy’s charm that made me giggle like a teenager every time he looked in my direction.

  Finally, the crowd cleared a bit and Lydia wasted no time in getting close to Damien I was almost jealous when I saw her hand on his arm, running her fingers along his tattoo as she introduced herself. She smiled and held her other hand out to me. ‘Come here, Carly. Damien doesn’t bite.’

  Damien gave me a long, slow look that made my toes curl. ‘Unless you want me to.’

  ‘I’ll let you do anything you like,’ I said.

  I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth until I saw Lydia’s eyes widen. I laughed. I didn’t know what had come over me, but I blamed the alcohol and excitement of finally meeting Damien in person.

  ‘Where are you girls staying?’

  Lydia told him the name of our hotel and he grinned. ‘Me, too. Let me give you a ride.’

  It was like a dream, riding in a limousine with Damien on the way back to our hotel. Lydia and I sat on either side of him and he had an arm around each of us. It should have felt weird since he was a stranger, but I felt like I knew him. He put his hand on my thigh and, instead of pushing him away, I snuggled closer.

  I expected him to disappear with his bodyguards and bandmates when we got back to the hotel. Instead, he walked us to the elevator alone and asked what floor we were on.