Coming Together With Pride

by Alessia Brio, J Buchanan, Lisabet Sarai

  Every time I'd see his handsome cock, I'd drop in front of him and lick the tip, lapping the pre-cum that would rest at the slit. My tongue would tease the opening before encircling the purplish helmet. I'd push back the foreskin and engulf his cock, then I'd clutch his butt cheeks and pull him closer. That way I could get his dick to slide as deep as possible into my throat. The suction from my mouth would keep him anchored so my fingers could play with him—toying with his asshole and cupping his balls.

  He'd rock on his heels, and I'd know he was ready to shoot his spunk. His fingers would entwine in my hair, and he'd hold my head as close to him as possible while he fucked my face. His pubic hair would brush against my nose. He'd smell of a mixture of baby powder and aftershave.

  David roared when he climaxed, and I loved that sound. He tasted like salty almonds, and I enjoyed every drop, licking him clean. Then he'd want to go down on me. If I had been kneeling, he'd pick me up and drop me on the bed, like I was a sock. Before I could get settled, his face would be buried in my pussy. He loved my cunt. It never took long before my toes curled, and I'd chant his praises, urging him to keep it up or go faster and harder. I'd open my legs as wide as possible. My fingers would be holding onto locks of his hair, while I'd be thrusting my hips upward, driving his tongue deeper and deeper.

  He was an attentive lover. After his first climax, his penis would remain hard for ages. David always made sure I had several orgasms.

  Music drifted down the hall. I knew it came from the whore's apartment. She must be a rowdy woman, since David had all kinds of bruises on his body. He never had marks on him when we made love.

  I cradled the gun and kept the fire of revenge burning by imagining him having sex with the slut—touching all her private parts, when he should have been touching mine. I started to pace. David should not have his face buried in some other woman's crotch. Those are my kisses not hers. My caresses. He's my husband.

  When I thought I'd waited long enough, I proceeded to her door. The one part of the plan that worried me was that her door would be locked. In the trial runs I'd made, the knob had turned easily in my hand every single time. Although I'd never opened the door, I could tell the music came from an upstairs room. So, I figured her bedroom was up one of those winding staircases.

  I took a deep breath, turned the doorknob, and stepped into her apartment. To my left was the staircase. The music was coming from upstairs, just as I'd figured. I kept my right hand in my pocket and ascended the stairs. When I reached the step that put my nose level with the floor, I stopped to check out the surroundings. I almost gasped out loud at what I saw. The walls were covered with mirrors, including the ceiling.

  David and that woman had their arms around each other. I watched my husband make moves that I'd didn't know he was capable of. He was a gorgeous man to watch. She twirled, as if trying to elude him and take him with her at the same time. He tried to twirl too, but mid-spin he faltered, his legs twisted, and he fell to the floor. It was almost funny, but his groan told me he'd hit the floor hard. My poor dear man.

  She helped him to his feet.

  I decided to leave when the music suddenly stopped. The woman said, “David, I believe we have an audience."

  David turned and gasped. “Muriel! What a surprise. I wondered if you'd ever check on me."

  "You knew I was here?” It was my turn to gasp.

  "Of course. I spotted your car weeks ago, and I've seen it regularly after that. I figured you were thinking of renting one of the lofts for your dance studio."

  I was astounded. He remembered my dream. We hadn't discussed my studio idea in a year or more. “Why didn't you confront me?"

  "Because I wanted to finish these dance lessons. I figured if you didn't mention it, I wouldn't either,” David said. “And don't feel bad that the sewing lessons didn't work."

  "You knew about that, too?"

  "Some woman called the house and said she'd be sending you a refund check."

  "I'm sorry that I interrupted. Continue dancing. I'll just go."

  The woman stepped toward me. “That's okay, Muriel, please stay. I'm Rachel. Your being here will be helpful."

  "How's that?” I asked.

  "Since David will be dancing with you at the Crystal Ball, it would be better if he'd partner with you now. My technique may be different than yours. Besides, I think he'll relax more if it were you instead of me."

  I gasped and stared at David. “You're going to the Ball with me?"

  "I'm sure the hell not going with anyone else!"

  "Stay, Muriel. Toss your jacket on a chair, and we'll start the dance over."

  I slipped off my jacket and put it on the nearest chair. David and Rachel were talking, and I hadn't taken three steps to join them when the jacket slid to the floor with a clunk.

  "What was that?” David asked.

  "Keys,” I said and flew into his arms. “Let's dance, my love.” A fire burned within me, and it would take a lot of ice cubes to put it out.

  * * * *

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  Be Prepared

  © Storm Grant

  "Really, Mason. I'll drive ya home. ‘m okay. ‘m fine.” Jack lurched to the left, bouncing off Mason and almost careening into a birch, a trashcan, and a stop sign before correcting his trajectory and heading back along the sidewalk.

  "I hardly think so, Jack. Please give me the keys, and I'll drive you home.” Mason's hand reached up to smooth back his too-long bangs, but he quickly stopped himself from executing that or any of the other nervous habits he'd recently been informed were both predictable and annoying. As recently as five minutes ago, in fact, by his drunken friend.

  The same drunken friend who was now asking a fire hydrant how it would then get home if it drove Jack's Camaro.

  Stepping in for the fireplug, Mason answered. “It's a lovely spring evening. I'd merely walk the fifteen or twenty blocks to my apartment."

  "No way, José,” Jack mumbled. “Hey. Who's José anyway? José Ferrara? Ferrari? Fettuccini?” He stared at the moon a moment. “Hey, Mason, you hungry?"

  There was additional discussion around such fascinating topics as the universe; feta vs. “real” cheese; who was more annoying—Luke Skywalker or Captain Kirk; and finally, predictably, whether it would be better to puke in the bushes or the gutter. Luckily, the debate proved to be purely rhetorical.

  Eventually, they reached the car, and the argument over the keys resumed. At some point in the meandering stroll, even Jack had come to admit he was not tonight's driver of choice. Still, his alcohol-enhanced machismo refused to surrender with grace.

  "You want the keys, Mason? You wan’ ‘em?” Jack dangled the keys from one finger.

  Tiredly, and with no small amount of frustration, Mason grabbed for the keys, only to have Jack snatch them away in a moment of clarity.

  "Ha ha. Try again.” The jingling keys flashed streetlight and moonlight mockingly.

  Mason folded his arms across his chest, leather creaking like a bat in the night. “I don't want to play games, Jack. Please, just hand me the keys.” And with that attempted fake-out, Mason lunged at Jack, the momentum shoving Jack against the Camaro, pinned there by Mason's body. And the keys—the object of their mutual desire—sailed into the night, landing squarely, deftly, wetly, in a nearby storm drain. Had it been the precision diving event in the Key Olympics, even the Russian judge would have given it a 9.5.

  "Oh, shit,” said Jack, turning just his head to follow the flight of the keys, as he was still pressed up against his car by Mason's weight.

  "Oh, dear.” Mason, who now dropped his head in dismay and frustration, his forehead coming to rest on Jack's, was still shoved up against his friend, pinning him to the Camaro.

  Mason made no move to move.

  Jack made no effort to escape. He did shift a bit. Then rub a bit. Perhaps some grinding might have ensued if Mason had rubbed back at all.


  Mason lifted his head and looked into Jack's blue eyes. “What do we do now?” he asked, his voice a hoarse murmur.

  "About the keys or about this?” Jack clarified “this” by thrusting his hips forward in a very friendly manner. His point was not lost on Mason.

  "Perhaps...” Instead of finishing his sentence, Mason leaned in and brushed his lips across Jack's—just a touch, just a whisper.

  Jack had never been known for subtlety, patience or guile. He surged forward with arms, hips and lips, in that order, wrapping himself around Mason, and yanking him close, kissing, licking, biting. Telling Mason who he was, who he was with, and what they both wanted, all without saying a word.

  The side of a Chevy Camaro can be a very accommodating place, if one's not too fussy about such things as comfort. Jack nearly devoured Mason, who, while at first demure and reserved, gradually changed his demeanour until he was pounding against Jack. Jack gave as good as he got, sparing hardly a thought for the paint job.

  There were moments of clutching and moments of grappling; the soft night air was gently salted with words rarely used by either man: baby, cock, come, fuck, love, again.

  Jack knelt before Mason, the harsh asphalt cutting painfully through his jeans and his drunkenness, helping him focus, helping him regain some control.

  Spit and divine suction sped the task along, and soon Mason was coming in creamy bursts against Jack's hot, wet tongue, coming apart under Jack's clever mouth and hands.

  Breathing heavily, Mason yanked Jack to his feet, spun him around so he assumed the position: palms flat on the cool hood of the car, legs splayed wide. Mason stood behind him pressing his spent cock against Jack's denim-covered ass as he reached ‘round, unzipped him, and jerked him hard, hard, hard ... good.

  Mason staggered away, almost as high as Jack now—drunk on endorphins and hormones and light-headedness from hyperventilating, and from saying things he hadn't meant to say. And hearing them returned. His heart pounded, and his head spun with joy and pleasure beyond his wildest fantasies. Happiness not being his strong suit, Mason immediately began to seek out trouble.

  He plunked down on one of the cement dividers, dropping his face in his palms.

  Jack's concerned voice beside him said, “You okay there, buddy?” He didn't seem quite so drunk now.

  "I took advantage of you. You're inebriated."

  "Yeah. I was, and we did, and it was great. Can we do it again? Soon? Later tonight's good. Say, twenty minutes? Better make it twenty-five. I'm still a little shit-faced."

  Slowly, Mason lowered his hands, squinting up at Jack's backlit silhouette. “You mean you're okay with this?"

  "Okay? Yeah. Wanted this for just about forever. Well, maybe not forever ‘cause before you there was Julie and ... Right. You don't want to hear that right now. Got it.” He grabbed Mason's chin and kissed him deeply, feelingly, lovingly.

  Eventually, he pulled back from the kiss, breathing heavy once again. He rose and crossed the few feet to the car. “Let's go home, Mason."

  And nothing says love like the magic words: “I'll even let you drive."

  "But the keys, Jack. They went down the sewer."

  "Yeah, they did.” Jack reached into his wallet. “But I always carry a spare. I'm a good little boy scout.” From the depths of his wallet, he produced three items: a spare key to his car, an extra key to his apartment, and, with great promise, an entire string of condoms.

  * * * *

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  A Brief Discourse on the Heartiness & Symbolism of Semen

  © P.S. Haven

  We step out of the hotel room onto the tiny balcony and lean against the railing, the two of us. The water in the kidney-shaped swimming pool two stories below is lit up all turquoise and aquamarine. There's a middle-aged woman swimming in it who wasn't there five minutes ago. I ask him if he wants to go ahead and get started, and he says we'll wait.

  He's not as handsome up close, but he's not ugly either. His business suit had told me all I needed to know. I tell him that I usually just dance but that he seemed special—which is complete bullshit, and he knows it, but he's no newer to this than I am, and he plays along. He tells me his name is really Toby, not Dylan, like he had told me at first. He promised me that Dylan was really his middle name—he just hated introducing himself as Toby. He said he thought it was a faggot name, and I seemed like a sweet girl and probably didn't care what his name was. He was half right.

  He talks a lot about his job, and I don't even pretend to act interested. I tell him he'd be fun to watch bad TV with, which is true. And I tell him he's funny, which he isn't. He shows me his tattoo. He's impressed that we're up high enough to see the parking lot. He points out his car. I don't even know what kind it is, but I tell him the first blowjob I ever gave was in a car just like it, only red. He asks me if I like sucking cock, and I tell him not half as much as I'm going to like the look on his face when I'm sucking his.

  I light a cigarette and show it to him, asking if he minds. He asks if he can bum one, and then he asks if I've got a light. He says he can tell I give good head. He says he bets I'm going to give him the kind of blowjob that he was telling Dwayne about just the other night. Dwayne says a good blowjob is ninety percent enthusiasm and ten percent technique, Toby informs me. I want to assure Toby that the blowjob he's going to get from me will be one hundred percent technique, and that I don't know or care who the fuck Dwayne is, and with a name like Dwayne, he probably has to pay for his blowjobs, too.

  But I don't.

  Toby asks me if he was to come in the pool could he get the woman swimming in it pregnant. First off, I tell him, we'll be the only ones in the pool when he comes, or else he won't be coming. Not with my help, anyhow. But, for the sake of the argument, I tell him, even if he came in the water and that woman was still swimming around, she'd have to be in the fertile period of her cycle. And given that this occurs for only about five days each month, I explain, his chances just got lowered about fivefold.

  I say that his semen would then have to escape the pool's filtration system and manage to come into direct physical contact with this woman. I ask him to bear in mind that sperm doesn't survive very long outside of the body, and that the water of the swimming pool is no doubt treated with chlorine, which kills sperm cells on contact. I tell him, however, that we'll assume his sperm cells have miraculously survived the filter and the chlorinated water and are blessed with extraordinary long life. And that his amazingly hearty dollop of semen just happens to make its way to this hapless bitch. Then, it has to somehow enter her vagina—he asks me to call it a pussy because the word “vagina” grosses him out. I tell him that since our subject is wearing a bathing suit, the chance of his sperm finding their way into her pussy are slim to none.

  He's visibly dejected at his hypothetical failure to remotely impregnate an oblivious stranger, so I say we'll assume that some of his sperm cells slip through and make it inside, and—despite the elapsed time and the sterilizing pH level of the water—said sperm cells are still motile. Plus, we agree to assume that this woman is fertile. What then, I ask him, is the probability that this droplet of semen will successfully navigate her fallopian tubes and fertilize an egg?

  He's quiet for a moment, and I almost believe he's considering my points until he says, “So you're saying, technically, it is possible?” He laughs—a big, banging laugh that comes out of nowhere and disappears just as fast—and I can't tell if he's joking or being dead serious.

  An elderly couple strolls by the pool. In comparison to the previous half hour, they constitute a relative flurry of activity. And here, I admit, I begin to weigh the risk/reward factor in my head. I wonder how they would've reacted had Toby and I been in the pool, doing what Toby and I have agreed to do. She'd look, I know. The old lady. No doubt, she'd see my shape beneath the water and understand the unmistakable body language. She'd elbow the man, and he'd turn to look, too. But they'd ke
ep walking. They wouldn't even slow down. Maybe they'd be turned on. Maybe to them Toby and I would appear to be lovers who simply couldn't resist one another. Maybe they had once been like that. Maybe they knew what it was like to want someone so badly as to be heedless of time and place. And they'd give each other a knowing smile and remember.

  Or more likely, I decide, they would be quite offended, and they'd march right up to the front desk to brusquely inform the manager what they had just witnessed. Either way, I kinda liked the idea.

  But nothing like that will happen. Nothing eventful ever does. Because even though I've never met this Toby, I've met a hundred others. And I already know exactly what sucking his dick will be like—because I've sucked a hundred others just like it. And despite my wide-eyed innocence when I told him otherwise, I've even done it in a swimming pool. And that's how I know the bleachy smell of the water will instantly take me back to the real first time I gave a blowjob, back in Richie's mom's laundry room.

  It's the same way I know Toby will smile at me when he first shows me his dick, expecting me to be impressed. And even if I am, I won't show it. He'll already be at his hardest. He'll aim the shaft right into my mouth. He won't taste good, but he probably won't taste bad either, which is really all I can ask for. And I'll instantly start making all the appropriate moaning noises, and my hair will swirl all around my head in the water, like I'm caught in a slow-motion hurricane.

  He'll brush the hair away from my face, and I'll look up at him with complete devotion, my face distorted and undulating, refracted through the waves. He'll tangle his fists in my hair, and I won't resist when he sticks it in a little further than I like. I'll let him do this until my lungs feel like they're on fire, and then I'll get free and burst above the surface, gulping down a chest full of air.

  I'll stare up at him, gasping to him about how big his cock is and how good it tastes and how good it feels to suck it. I'll pretend like I need the encouragement he'll give me, act like I need his directions and coaxing and coaching. That's how it will be.