by Alison Tyler
Jason stilled my hands when I reached for my panties. He pushed my hands back behind my hips and said, “Keep them there.”
I held my hands back like that, stiff armed and alert as he hooked his fingers in the sides of my purple satin panties (busted along one seam and sporting a hole in the back below the waistband) and pushed them down. I sucked in a breath as he kissed each thigh. His lips worked a wet line from kneecap to hip on the right and then, when I was shaking with arousal, the left.
He unhooked my bra slowly so that I held my breath and became lightheaded. I prayed for him to suck my nipples, bite them, nibble, but no. He kissed a mad circle around each until I gave an irate little exhalation.
Jason chuckled darkly and held his undergarment choice out for me. “Step in, please.”
I stared at them. So big. So prim. So proper and white and large and smooth. The gusset seemed enormous. The small bits of lace along the legs and waist almost bridal. Or matronly. It was a toss-up. “God, Ja—”
“Come on, now. Trust me.”
I sighed, feeling silly and horny and vibratey all at once. I slid one leg in and then the other and let him work the vast amounts of smooth fabric up my legs, over my hips, finally tugging them so they were all the way on. Resting just below my belly button, my legs enclosed all the way to the tops of my thighs.
I blew out a longer sigh and shook my head. “Dear God. Happy now?”
He dropped down, knees on the red bedroom throw rug. “Yes.” That was all he said before he pressed his humid mouth to the crotch of my new old-lady undies. He breathed out and the heat bled through the fabric like magic. A fine tremor started in my tummy, and my fingers were shaking when I ran them through his hair.
He sucked gently and moisture seeped into the fabric, touching my skin so subtly I wasn’t sure I felt it. Jason’s teeth clamped down gently, capturing the small nub of my clit, and I gasped.
He sat back on his haunches, icy eyes on me. I stared back.
“Like them?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“They’re ugly.”
“They’re wicked.”
“They’re huge!”
“They’re modest and sexy and tempting.”
“They’re white.”
“As snow.”
My heart raced so fast I felt giddy. Jason leaned in and put his mouth back to the panties. He licked and licked until my stomach fluttered with nervous energy and want. “They’re mysterious.” Lick. “And proper.” Lick. “And as sexy as hell.” Lick.
On the last one, he pushed his finger, hot and long and rough, up under the elastic leg hole. He pushed it deep inside of me and flexed.
“Oh,” I said. Brilliant.
“And see, I have to work to see your arousal here. It’s so easy—too easy—in tiny panties meant for a seductress. These make me work. They’re secretive. I see the moisture in the crotch that’s not from me.” He traced it with his finger, and I shivered. “I see the small bump of your brazen little clit poking out at me.” He pressed that brazen little clit, and a rush of moisture slid from me. “I have to work to see it and that makes me insane. Crazy with lust. It means…” He sighed like a man with a burden.
“Yes?”
“That I must have you now,” he growled and tugged me so hard I buckled down to the floor next to him. I was shocked and laughing and making sounds like an angry bird until Jason kissed me silent and pushed me back. “Now, off with the giant knickers,” he said.
“Gah! I knew they were big.”
“Fabulously big,” he said, wrestling them off me after having just gotten them on.
“Horribly big.”
“Fantastically big!”
He pushed the head of his cock into me and thrust once. I was so wet he surged forward with no effort, just a sweet easy rush of pleasure. “Perfectly, wonderfully, superbly big,” he said and pushed my hands high above my head.
He crushed me to the cherry-colored rag rug with his bulk. I wrapped my legs around his waist, opening my body to him more, feeling the length of his cock fill me completely so that I gasped as his pelvis raked my clit with each thrust. His mouth was on my throat and he said “Bran, your gigantic panties have done me in. I’m—”
His movements became wild and chaotic, and he nipped my throat with his even white teeth and I came, my granny panties still hooked around one ankle. Jason thrust once, twice, three times more and came with his lips sealed to mine and his heart banging out a countertempo to my own crazed heart.
“I have to go back, I have to go back…” I was babbling.
“For what?” Jason asked, kissing my lips, my nose, my cheeks and my forehead, tiny little butterfly kisses that made my nipples go hard and pebbly.
“I need a pair in black. Maybe taupe. Maybe red…”
Touchless
By Alison Tyler
“What do you think that means?” She pointed to the words on the sign across the street. “A ‘touchless’ car wash.”
They were sitting in a café on Pico Boulevard, traffic rushing by in a steady stream that reminded her of a science film she’d seen as a kid—Hemo the Magnificent. She’d hoped they would be able to pretend they were in Paris. So far, the situation hadn’t worked out exactly as planned.
He shrugged. “I guess the water does all the work.”
“But touchless would imply that other car washes touch, and that touching is bad.”
“I don’t agree.”
“You don’t think touching is bad?”
“I don’t think that’s the implication. I think the company is simply saying touchless is better.”
Served her right for going out with a professor. He would choose to argue each point.
“Well, what’s your theory?” she asked. She’d been trying so hard to act grown-up, to make believe that they were on the same level. Even though he was a professor and she was fresh out of school. Even though he had twenty years on her, and a shot at being head of the literature department. She was making believe they were equals.
“Why don’t we go back to your place, and I can show you rather than tell you.”
“You need visual aids?”
“Something like that.”
“Why my place?”
He smiled at her. When he smiled, she knew precisely what it would be like to fuck him. “Because I haven’t been to a studio in years.”
How had he known? She lived right off Wilshire in a tiny apartment. She’d put the futon in the closet, to pretend she had two rooms. The details from the ‘50s had won her heart, and she liked having a Beverly Hills address, even if the building had been originally intended to house the working class, the maids and doormen and majordomos who served the wealthy.
“It’s so small,” she said, embarrassed.
“We won’t need much space.”
* * *
When he found out that she’d walked to their meeting spot, he drove her home. He had a Jaguar. She’d never been in one before. “You must get a car like this washed every week.”
“A student comes by,” he said. “He washes all the cars on the street.”
“Touchless?”
“No.” He laughed. “Plenty of touching.”
“So what are you going to show me?”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
* * *
In her apartment, he didn’t say a word. He walked around. He observed. She had seen him like this at the university. The look on his face. The intensity. It was why she’d asked him out in the first place—she’d wanted to see that look up close. All her nerves were rushing in her head. Had the fear been worth the payoff?
“Do you have a dictionary?”
“You stand there,” he said finally.
She was in the center of the room.
“Don’t move.”
She bit her lip.
He handed her the dictionary. “Read me the definition.”
She began to flip through the pages. Then she stopped. “I don’t think ‘touchless’ is actually a word,” she said.
“Did you imagine what you saw on the sign?”
“I mean, I don’t think the word is in the dictionary.”
He walked around her one time. “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll have to come up with our own definition.” He took the dictionary from her. She wondered if he’d notice that her hands were trembling.
“We could have sex,” he said. “I could take off your clothes. I could fuck you.”
She didn’t know grown-ups talked like that. She’d only been with boys her own age so far. No men. No real men. She’d thought the seduction would be different.
“But we’re not going to. Not today.”
“Why not?” Was it okay if she asked questions? Was that question okay to ask?
“You’ll understand in a moment. Trust me.”
She’d never sat at the front of his class, because his gaze felt too strong, too invasive. His was her favorite class, but she’d only managed a C. Concentrating was almost impossible when all she could think of was sleeping with him.
“Take off your clothes.”
She thought about how much effort she’d put into her outfit. She had wanted to appear flirty and intelligent, youthful yet mature, sexy with a hint of savoir faire. She’d ended up in this print sundress with a raspberry-hued cashmere cardigan and patent-leather flats. Part of her thought she looked ready for church. But the other part knew that the innocence of the outfit managed to balance her obviously hedonistic intentions.
“Take off your clothes.”
She dropped the cardigan on the floor, let the dress fall, stepped out of the shoes. She was in knickers, stockings and a bra. He seemed to appreciate the matching set—she’d chosen these as carefully as she had her vintage sweater. “The rest,” he said gently.
She’d never done anything like this before, stripped while a man watched, stripped while a lover stayed dressed. She undid the clasp on the bra and shook off the flimsy bit of satin. Her breasts were small. They didn’t require much support. She pulled down the stockings one at a time, then put her hand on the waistband of her panties. This felt shocking, moving in reverse. She took a deep breath, then pulled down the pale pink panties and stepped free. She was nude.
He started walking around her again. She wondered what he thought. She knew she was pretty, with her caramel-colored hair, soft as spun sugar from one hundred brushstrokes a night. She had a faded scar from an appendectomy on her flat stomach. No tattoos. No piercings.
What was he seeing when he looked at her?
“You’re beautiful,” he said, answering her unspoken query. “I can’t wait to stroke you. I know what your skin will feel like under my palms. I know what your cunt will feel like around my cock.”
Had he just said “cunt”? And “cock”? She blushed.
“Another time,” he said. “Right now, I simply want to admire you.” He took a step closer, and then he surprised her. He blew against her nipples. They hardened immediately,and she moaned.
“That’s cheating,” she said.
“Why?” he held up his hands. “I didn’t touch you.”
She felt dizzy. He dropped to his knees and breathed against her pussy. She clenched her thighs together.
“Relax,” he said. “I promise, I won’t touch you.”
It was the worst thing he could have said. She was desperate to feel his hands on her body. She could sense exactly how wet she was. Did he know? He moved on his knees around her without being subservient in the slightest. There was no doubt in her mind that he was still in charge.
He blew against the small of her back. She felt the air tickle her, felt his breath against the cheeks of her ass. She had never been so exposed.
Then he was in front of her once more. “Spread your legs.”
She obeyed immediately. She knew he could see the wetness clinging to her pussy. She’d shaved before their date, on the chance (oh, please, oh, please) that he’d make love to her. When she’d spread the shaving cream over herself, she’d had no idea that he would be this close to her, inspecting her in this way. She was glad that she’d gone slowly, been careful.
He got on his back between her legs. This shocked her even more. He was on the floor, staring up at her. She shut her eyes and felt herself start to shake. How long did he expect her to stay like this? She felt herself growing more turned on by the second. What if the juices from her pussy actually dripped onto him? She couldn’t bear the thought.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to. Not today. But on our next date, I will. I’ll take you to my place.” She opened her eyes again and looked at him. He moved once more, so he was sitting in front of her, his mouth so close to the split of her body. “I’ll tie you down on my bed. I’ll spread you wide.” She was shaking. “I’ll lick that sweet pussy of yours until you’re right on the verge of coming, and then I’ll fuck you.”
She felt the muscles inside her clench down, hard, as if he were fucking her right now, or as if she could fuck the hard words he was saying.
“I live up near Griffith Park,” he said, and now he seemed to be making sure that his very breath was forceful against her pussy. “My bedroom windows overlook the Hollywood Hills. You’ll stare out my windows while I do you. You’ll come while the sun sets.”
Maybe. Maybe that would happen. But something else was going to happen, too. If he kept talking to her, she would come now. She wondered if he could tell.
“I can taste you in my mind,” he said. “I know exactly what you’ll look like when you come.”
Her whole body started to tremble.
“Do you touch yourself at night?”
She nodded before she even realized she was confessing a secret.
“Every night?”
A smaller nod.
“I like that. You crave pleasure. I can tell. Have you ever been tied down before?”
This time, she shook her head.
“Would you like to be?”
One more nod.
“I know. You’ll give yourself over to the sensation, won’t you? You’ll bask in being fastened into place. I’ve bound you now, without any ties, without any cuffs. And you’re obedient, aren’t you? Doing exactly what I’m telling you.”
His eyes glowed at her.
“Come.”
She couldn’t believe he’d chosen this second to give this command, because she was, coming without being touched, coming from his words alone. This had happened to her once before—when she was sleeping. She’d woken from a dream realizing that she’d climaxed in her sleep without any assistance at all. The images had been enough to send her over the edge.
He stood and looked down at her. He wasn’t smiling now, but his eyes seemed warm. He reached down and handed her panties back to her. His fingertip brushed her hand and she shivered.
Touchless.
No, the word wasn’t in the dictionary—but he’d given it a definition all his own.
Cast Party
By Jeremy Edwards
A week before the show opened, she told him she didn’t wear underwear with her costume—her peacock-blue flapper dress.
It was a funny thing about theater peopl
e. Sometimes you didn’t know whether a fellow cast member was sharing intimate details as a way of coming on, or whether it was just an expression of that individual’s extroversion and openness. Some of Georgie’s theater buddies would pretty much share anything with anyone. After all, it stood to reason that a theater group—especially one that gravitated to sex comedies—did not, for the most part, attract people with a lot of inhibitions. There were exceptions, of course; but clearly Lauren wasn’t one of them.
So now, for Georgie, each rehearsal was largely dominated by thoughts of the naked treat between Lauren’s skinny, freckled legs. Thoughts about how it would breathe when her character stomped manically around the stage, and how it would nestle when she perched on the period settee, knees together, everything squeezed juicy tight.
Her ass, heartily round on an otherwise slight figure, had looked delicious enough in early-rehearsal jeans, then twice as delicious in the grip of peacock smoothness, even before Georgie knew how unequivocally the dress was acquainted with her derriere. Now, enchanted by her self-declared underwear skimping, he saw the flapper’s bottom even when it wasn’t in the room with him, and he feasted his eyes when it was. He spent his offstage minutes hoping, in vivid detail, that the dress felt pleasant and sexy on her sweet bareness. And when he heard Lauren deliver her lines through the greenroom audio monitor, her intonation seemed to Georgie to be not only full of charm but also full of buttock: a smart, crisp, lilting voice with a scrumptious arse attached to it.
Preshow week was one long hard-on.
At home, in front of the bathroom mirror, he practiced his drawing room comedy-character voice while pondering Lauren’s revelation, neatly holding up both ends of the conversation.
“What d’you suppose she has in mind?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
“I say, perhaps she intends to flash me when she does her kick steps. I shall stand in the wings during the dance numbers.”
“My dear fellow,” he reminded himself condescendingly, adding an extra dollop of West End sauce to his fake British accent. “There are no dance numbers.”
“Blast!”