by Alison Tyler
“There,” Brandon said when he had finished kissing away her words and her breath. “Now, you did like that.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “But…”
“But…?”
“I feel bad.”
His hand moved down from her breast, trailing over the shallow curve of her stomach, stroking in circles as it approached her pubic mound. “You feel fucking marvelous.”
“That’s not what I meant.” But her voice was uneven, and her hips tilted in response to his caress.
“Come on,” Erik murmured. “You must have thought about it. Two guys. Both focused on you, both trying to outdo each other—giving you everything you ever dreamed of. It must be a turn-on.”
“That’s just dirty,” she said, and whimpered as Brandon’s finger tickled the thin cotton shielding her swollen clit.
“Too fucking right, it’s dirty. Dirty is good. Dirty is his cock up your wet pussy while mine slips in and out between those amazing lips. Dirty is him licking you out from the front while I do it from the back. Dirty is both our cocks rubbing all over your beautiful tits. In fact it’s so dirty,” Brandon said, butting softly up against her, his arm wrapped right round her waist, “that the thought of it is making both of us hard as rock. And I bet it’s making you wet.”
She arched her back, pushing her breast into Erik’s cupped hand. “I’m not wet.”
“No?”
“Shall we prove it?”
Brandon gathered her skirt with his fingers, lifting it until he could slip his hand into the front of her panties. “Oh, you liar,” he admonished, grinning, finding her slit swollen and slippery. “Dirty little liar.”
“Oh!” Her clit sparked with the brush of his fingertip.
“You owe both of us a kiss for that,” said Erik. As his mouth claimed it, his hand joined Brandon’s down between her thighs. Between them they easily took control, their fingers light but insistent. The frictionless, tormenting pressure of their caresses on her clit and labia and the mouth of her cunt soon had her uttering stifled urgent moans against Erik’s tongue.
He pulled away—then used a hand in her hair to turn her to Brandon. “Now kiss him.”
Her lips were parted already, open. His tongue slid into her as easily as his fingers. But when she started to come she pulled abruptly away and jerked from one man to the other, rubbing her face against their skin and sobbing with pleasure as orgasm danced through her. She had to be held upright as she came, spinning down from her climax.
“That felt good, didn’t it?” Brandon’s voice was thick, like the hard cock pushing against his clothes and into her hip. Erik’s palm cupped and squeezed her pubic mound, rousing her again.
“Oh…yes. Good. Dirty. Good.” Her heart was hammering.
“You want more?”
“Yes.”
“Both of us?”
“Yes. Please, yes. Both of you. I want both of you.”
They both smiled. “Well,” said Brandon. “If you insist.”
Pulse
By Vida Bailey
Back me up against the wall, lean in, babe, your mouth close to mine, but don’t kiss me yet. Just out of reach. Breathe in the air that catches in my chest, the wanting.
Touch me. Catch a breast maybe, and push, and squeeze and fix me there, nailed to the wall with desire. Skirts pushed up, your hand between my thighs, firm, insistent, fingers working, finding the warmth, where I’m swollen against thin layers of Lycra and lace. Waiting for you.
Your mouth on mine.
Your mouth on me.
My hands in your hair—my heart in my mouth.
Speed Mating
By Sophia Valenti
Bars are totally not my thing. Yet that Friday night I found myself standing in one of the most popular watering holes in town. I’d arrived straight from the office, feeling just a little uncomfortable in my white silk blouse, black pencil skirt and pearls while everyone else in the jovial crowd was dressed so casually.
Why had I agreed to this? Damn that Michelle. She can get me to do almost anything. After much cajoling—and flat-out whining—she had convinced me to go with her to this speed-dating event. Yeah, I was single, but that wasn’t a problem for me. I was happy with my life, I’d argued. But when that stance didn’t work, she played the pity card, telling me that she was looking for a boyfriend and needed me there for emotional support.
Call me a sucker—I went. And that’s how I wound up in a crowd of murmuring singles, each of us sporting a numbered sticker. Michelle, with her bouncy blonde curls and blushing cheeks, looked beautiful and eager and had already caught the eye of several gentlemen. Meanwhile, I leaned back against the bar, trying to remain unnoticed by potential suitors for as long as possible while I sipped my cocktail and listened to the moderator give a rundown of the rules: The women would sit at one side of the table and the men along the other. Each couple had five minutes to chat, after which a bell would ring, signaling for the guys to shift down one seat. Sounded simple enough. I could pull off being friendly for a couple of minutes at a clip. Sure, I wasn’t interested in hooking up with anyone, but I didn’t plan on being impolite. I could smile through this for my friend’s sake.
I downed my drink and turned to place my empty glass on the bar, and that’s when I saw him. Chatting people swirled around me, but their noise and movements faded into the background. He commanded my total attention. With thick black hair and piercing blue eyes, he looked like he’d stepped off a movie set. I took note right away of his broad shoulders and muscular arms. He certainly filled out a T-shirt better than anyone else I’d ever seen. The cotton fabric clung to his toned frame in just the right way, giving a tempting hint of how well cut his muscles were. My gaze traveled down his flat stomach with unabashed slowness, wandering along his torso to his jeans.
I instantly got lost in a fantasy of what lay hidden beneath that worn denim. The man’s lips curled into a smile when he noticed my interest, but it wasn’t a cocksure expression. It was more of a friendly acknowledgment that made my heart beat a little faster. The look on his face gave no doubt that he was checking me out, too. I was pleased to see that he was donning a number. That meant our paths were definitely going to cross before the night was over—and I couldn’t wait.
A bespectacled woman holding a clipboard—clearly one of the event organizers—grabbed my handsome admirer and seated him halfway down the wooden table from me. I counted the seats—figuring that I had to struggle through at least forty minutes of chitchat before I could have the only one-on-one that I was truly interested in.
I have to admit that I barely remember my conversations with Misters One through Eight. I think there were a veterinarian and an accountant somewhere in the mix, but one well-meaning man blended into the next. I did my best to feign an appropriate amount of interest; they couldn’t really hold my attention. Whenever the bell rang and it was time to switch partners, the stranger would toss another smoldering look my way. Each flash of his eyes made my panties a little more damp, and arousal was swirling inside me with an ever-increasing intensity. I’d never before had such a profound attraction to a complete stranger. But I wasn’t going to waste any time overanalyzing the situation—who was I to argue with fate?
It was the longest forty minutes of my life, but eventually, I found myself face-to-face with the object of my barely concealed desire.
The stranger smiled broadly and extended his hand as he greeted me. I took his hand in mine, enjoying the feel of his strong grip.
“Hi, I’m—”
“No names—numbers only,” he interrupted, his words laced with a teasing tone. “Rules are rules.”
I laughed at his faux concern for the event’s regulations. “You’re absolutely right. Nice to meet you, number nine.”
“The plea
sure’s all mine—” he glanced down at the number perched on my chest, “—twenty-seven.”
He sat down and held my hand as we exchanged playfully flirtatious banter. His fingers casually stroked the base of my palm, sweeping downward across my wrist as he spoke, keeping his eyes locked on mine. The sensation of his fingers against my skin sent tingles up my arm and straight to my pussy, which was very nearly molten by that point. I could have listened to him talk for hours; his voice was deep and sensual, and lulled me into a sexy stupor. I tried my best to keep up my end of the conversation when the only thing running through my head was I need your cock inside me. In truth, there wasn’t much that could be discussed within a five-minute time span. But by the time the bell rang, I knew for sure that I wanted him—and I wanted him badly.
This time around, the moderator announced that since we’d reached the halfway mark, we would have a fifteen-minute intermission. Number nine continued to hold my hand as he tossed his head toward the back of the bar, his eyebrow quirked up in an unspoken question.
I could barely contain my own wicked smile as I nodded, and together we left the table. Most of the crowd stayed up front, clamoring for the bartender’s attention, while he and I slipped into one of the restrooms, completely unnoticed.
I locked the door behind us and backed him up against the tiled wall, bringing my lips to his. He tangled his fingers in my long, brown hair as he returned my kiss with an eager passion. My hands roamed over his body, enjoying the feel of his hard muscles. Pulling his shirt out of his jeans, I slid my hands up his chest,and he groaned into my mouth as my palms glided against his flesh.
I wrapped my arms around him, stroking his back and bringing our bodies closer together. Grinding my hips against him, I felt the erection that was hidden beneath his clothes—so hard, so perfect, and all for me. Number nine broke our kiss to speak, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright as he held me at arm’s length. “Don’t you even want to know my name?”
“Rules are rules,” I answered breathlessly, and he chuckled in response. I grabbed the waistband of his jeans to pull him close again. “We only have fifteen minutes, so you’d better make them count.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, returning his lips to mine. We made out furiously as he reached behind me to unzip my skirt. As soon as it dropped to the floor, he spun me around and placed my hands on the sink. I looked into the mirror in front of me and saw the reflection of our lust-filled faces, which gave me thrill. Number nine pushed my hair to the side and trailed a line of sensual kisses down my neck, making my eyes flutter closed as another rush of wetness flooded my pussy.
“God, I want you,” he whispered, his voice hot in my ear as he ground his erection into my satin-covered ass cheeks.
“Then take me—before we run out of time.” I was so turned on that I was practically panting. From behind me I heard the rasp of his zipper being lowered and the rustle of a condom wrapper. Then, seconds later, I felt him pull the crotch of my panties aside and thrust his hard cock inside me in one firm, smooth stroke.
As he hit bottom, he sighed into my mussed hair. “You feel so good,” he whispered, pulling out and then rocking his hips against mine to slide his dick inside me once more. I bucked back toward him with every inward stroke, loving the feeling of his thick shaft stretching me and filling me. My body was acting of its own accord in response to my sexual hunger, my hips circling and grinding against him. I was so hot and wet that I was halfway to orgasm before we’d even started. But when he reached down the front of my panties to stroke my swollen clit, I let out a helpless whimper that I barely managed to stifle. My excitement was rapidly reaching its peak.
“Are you going to come for me, twenty-seven?” His words were interspersed with gasping breaths as he continued to take me higher and higher.
“Uh-huh,” was all I could utter, writhing against him and letting my body speak for me.
“Good—I’m going to watch every second of it,” he said. I looked into the mirror once more, focusing on his handsome face as his fingers and cock took me over the edge. I cried out loud, staring into the reflection of his ice-blue eyes as I shivered through my climax.
Seconds later, he moaned softly, and I felt his cock pulse within me. His hips jerked erratically as he came, holding me tightly in his arms.
Just then, we heard the warning bell sound from the bar, announcing that intermission was over. Breathless and laughing, we rushed to make ourselves presentable and rejoin the crowd.
It didn’t matter what his tag said—he was definitely number one on my list.
Permission
By Justine Elyot
Now that I am in the middle of this long-term dream, alone with my
campervan and a card deck of differing possible futures, I am not sure how to deal with it. Perhaps there are too many years of asking permission behind me. Perhaps I need someone’s permission to pursue the adventures I never had and be the person I never was. The freedom is strangely terrifying—just me, my cup of tea and the open road. Or rather, the open golf course, which stretches out beyond this car park, all twee and trim with its scissored grass and perky little flags.
And suddenly it is just me, my cup of tea and the golf ball which has splashed rather neatly into it, covering my jeans with milky stains.
The golf ball seems to be my guide. It is telling me something. Expect the unexpected, perhaps, or Don’t park near a golf course.
I fish out the unassuming oracle and frown at it until it brings me my fate, in the shape of a man wearing-trousers and a shirt and a sheepish expression.
“Sorry, sorry, oh God, did it fall in your cup?”
“It’s fine. Tea from a flask tastes like plastic anyway. Here. Go back and swing, or drive, or whatever you golfers do.”
“Swinging and driving both sound like more enjoyable alternatives.” He loosens another shirt button and pops the ball in his trousers pocket. “Swear not to tell anyone, but I hate golf.”
I laugh. “I don’t blame you. Why play then?”
“Friends thought it would cheer me up. A few rounds after my last day at work before I go home to my empty house.”
“Christ. Life has it in for you, eh? I know the feeling.”
He shuffles his feet inconclusively. He wants to stay but he feels he ought to go. He has a handsome, open face and gorgeously tanned forearms. For the first time in my life, I see that I am in a position to give, rather than seek, permission.
“I’d ask if you fancied a cup of tea, but that was my last. I’ve got half a bottle of whisky in the van, though.”
He smiles, edges a little closer to my folding chair and leans on the van bonnet.
“That’s a very handsome offer. Don’t suppose you have ice?”
“Alas, no.” I stand, and I am very close to him, close enough to feel his warmth and smell a mannish combination of toil and aftershave and breath mints. The base of his throat, disappearing down inside the loosened collar, is flushed. He has full lips but his eyes are tired. I forget what I was going to say. “Um.”
“As it comes is fine,” he prompts, and I galvanize my sluggish self, heading inside the van to the coolbox.
Something has happened to me, I think, trying to put my finger on what it might be. Everything seems to have moved slightly, my perception of my surroundings smudged like a charcoal drawing. Is it a paradigm shift? I keep having those. I think it’s something to do with him. Whoever he is.
When I pour him his double measure of the spirit my hand shakes, and he has to keep moving the cup around underneath the glugging neck of the bottle.
“Sorry,” I mutter. I can’t look at him.
“You’re nervous.” He puts a steadying hand on my forearm. I drop the bottle.
“Shit!”
In my panic I simply stare up at him, breathin
g in jagged arrhythmic gasps. The thought comes to me. I can have you. If I want to. Nothing stands in my way but your permission.
“What’s the matter?” His voice is gentle and his fingers are still on my sleeve.
“I’ve never been—” I stammer, trying to frame the thought and failing. “I could do anything,” I finish lamely.
He blinks.
“I mean, I’ve been trapped for years and now I’m not, and there are things I want to do, but I’m not used to doing things I want to do, and when I look at you, you make me realize I want to do them…”
“Things like this?” He bends his head and kisses me.
I hold the breath, hold the kiss inside me, stare at him in wonder. He understands.
“Exactly. Exactly like that.”
“Then do them.”
Yes. I put my hand on his cheek, hold his face still and cover his lips with mine. He tastes better than whisky, smokier, more fiery. I want to drink him up, explore him inside and out, take and lock that man shape and size of him in my memory. It’s a lush, fat feeling, and I grow lush and fat between my legs with each new collision of mouth, teeth, tongue. His hand fits the small of my back perfectly, and I mold myself around him, maintaining and deepening the connection until our bodies are so close there is nowhere else to go, no other border to cross except that final, ultimate line. And that is the one I want to cross the most.
“I want to be bad,” I tell him, wrapped up and coiled around him, my lips against his ear. “I’ve never been bad. Will you be bad with me?”
“You don’t need to ask me.”
We manage a four-legged tumble into the van where my narrow bed lies white and neat, ready for mussing. I am on top of him, horizontal, pinning him down, having my way with him. The novelty of being near an attractive man who wants me spurs me on, makes my hands unbutton and stroke, makes my mouth nip and lick and kiss, makes my legs spread and rub. Lust chases nerves away, and I seek and find his weakest spots, relishing the throaty sounds of abandonment I win from my passionate stranger. He likes pressure behind his ears and gentle sucking bites on the soft flesh of his neck. He likes my palm, flat against his hot chest, jumping slightly with each thud of his heart. He likes my pelvis, nudging the hard mound in his trousers, grinding and teasing it until I have to take pity and unbuckle his belt.