69

by Alison Tyler

  “I’ve fucked you in Valencia, I’ve fucked you in Lisbon, I’ve fucked you in Marseilles, I’ve fucked you in Sorrento, but I’ve never fucked you here,” he says, one night beneath stars and beside miles and miles of deserted plain.

  “Here?” I settle closer into his arms, enjoying the way his palm is stroking my nude bottom cheeks. “Yes you have. This morning before we went to find the supermarket.”

  “No, not here,” he says, and the side of his palm bisects my cheeks, resting rudely in the cleft. “Here.”

  I inhale sharply. “You mean…?”

  “Have you ever?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Shall we find out?”

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Remember that shop in Barcelona? I made a purchase.” He is reaching for something in a backpack pocket, a bottle of purplish liquid. I clench my sphincter, thrilling with pleasurable dread. This is a line further, a fantasy I’ve never articulated to anyone, even myself.

  Under that stark Spanish sky, I lie on my stomach as his slippery fingers press their way closer and closer to my tiny secret pucker. He says soothing things, like a horse whisperer faced with a temperamental mount, and his soft meaningless words conspire with his kneading fingertips to relax those tight muscles, easing me open until I am ready to be penetrated.

  “What do you think?” he whispers, using his other hand to work between my legs, getting me wet, getting me used to the double sensation.

  “It’s…nice. I think,” I whisper back, still nervous. This is only one finger, after all.

  He takes it slowly, the finger testing me for space and flexibility and then, when he is sure I am ready by the squirming of my hips, he slips in a second. Now I feel invaded and a little uncomfortable; I try to withdraw but he pats my flank, holds me still, ups the pace of his devilish work on my clit, waits until my moans are of helpless pleasure once more, then he begins to thrust and pull back the fingers.

  “You’ve done this…before?” My voice is unlike my voice, breathy and thin.

  “It’s been a while. But yes.”

  My face, close to the ground, smells baked earth mixing with my own thickening aroma of excitement. I cannot see what he is doing, I can only trust and give in to him. I am done to, not doing, and the feeling of submission, while unfamiliar, is not unwelcome. All the same, it is difficult not to tense my muscles and clamp around his fingers when the third glides in.

  “Oh! Feels funny,” I mumble into the dirt.

  “It will,” he concedes. “Relax into it. Accept it.”

  “Is this still illegal? Technically?” He ought to know, being an ex-lawyer.

  He laughs. “Actually, no. The Buggery Act was repealed in the U.K. in 1967. I don’t know about the Spanish position though.”

  I sink into my own Spanish position, turned on as I always am when he starts quoting statutes of criminal law.

  “Though I must say,” he whispers, holding the three fingers quite still inside me for a long moment. “I like to imagine it’s still illegal. Gives it a bit of an edge. Don’t you think?”

  “You like to flirt with taboos?”

  “Oh, yes.” His fingers are out, and I hear the rubbery snap of warning that he is coming for me and I had better be ready. I don’t feel ready. How does one feel ready for back-door penetration?

  “It’s allowed,” he says, pulling me up and repositioning me on the picnic rug, on my knees with my head braced in my forearms, my back sloping down to the ground from the heights of my gloriously presented backside. “It’s permitted.”

  I let him in. I can’t quite stop myself closing around him at first, but his gentle persuasions and legalese chatter about the Sexual Offences Act 2003 put me at ease and there, under cover of night, on the stark Spanish plain, I am taken in that most intimate of ways.

  The feeling is both fuller and more painful than I anticipated, but the pain does not last, even though the fullness does. I give myself to him, feeling that we are crossing the Rubicon, that what is done now can never be taken back.

  The lubricant helps, and he builds to a slippery rhythm. I am stretched and used, worked hard, but when Nick reaches for my clit, it is more than I can bear. I will have to come, quickly and hard, and he will know that I like to be used like this, and he will judge me accordingly.

  I am a slut who loves it. I am his slut who loves him.

  The orgasm is like madness, and I am thankful for our solitary layby, far from the tourist campsites in the valleys. My hands beat against the hard ground, and I jolt backward, pushing down on his cock, wanting it all inside me, always.

  His hands take bruising pinches of my hips, and he holds himself in at full length, pouring his heat in, sealing the deal.

  “You needed that,” he whispers harshly into my ear. My neck is weak but manages a nod.

  Perhaps we should visit the Rubicon. It’s in Italy somewhere, I think.

  Hot in the City

  By Saskia Walker

  Too hot to wear knickers, she’d thought that morning. It was a sweltering August in London, and the city streets were almost unbearably hot. When she got dressed, she cast her underwear aside. It was only a little bit deviant, she reassured herself, and envisaged standing up against the air conditioner in her office to let the cold air tackle the damp heat between her thighs.

  But now it was midafternoon and she was on her way to a meeting on the other side of the city. On the platform of the Tube station, the atmosphere was both still and sticky, and the handful of people standing along the platform fanned themselves with magazines.

  Too hot to wear knickers. The thought echoed around her mind, but the omission felt rather deviant now. She began to wonder if anyone could see through the fabric of her summer dress. It trailed to her shins but was made of ultrafine cotton. Who knew how see-through it might be—something she wished she had checked.

  Increasingly aware of herself, her pulse rate lifted and she glanced over her shoulder. There was a man directly behind her. He was leaning up against the tiled wall with one shoulder. He held a document dispatch bag in one hand. The other was hooked over his jeans pocket. A tight black T-shirt clung to his torso, making her notice how fit he was. What struck her most of all was the way he looked her over with undisguised appraisal, from her stacked heels all the way up to her pinned-up hair. There was a twinkle in his eyes and his mouth lifted on one side.

  She glanced away quickly, her skin tingling.

  Surely he couldn’t know she wasn’t wearing knickers? No, he couldn’t. The very thought of it made her horny, though. She shifted from foot to foot and squeezed her thighs together. The action only made her hotter. She fanned herself. Where was the train? The notice board indicated that there were three minutes until it arrived.

  When she glanced back over her shoulder a few moments later the guy gave her a cheeky grin. Once again she glanced away along the platform toward the notice board, attempting nonchalance. It was hard to achieve because the pulse in her pussy throbbed wildly in response to the man’s scrutiny. Surely he couldn’t tell?

  Two minutes and counting until the train arrived.

  Hot air wafted down the tunnels, the result of a distant train on an adjoining line. The gust lifted the hem of her skirt. Startled, she quickly eased it down, cursing beneath her breath. Heat rose in her face when she realized the potential for public humiliation.

  One minute until the train arrived.

  In the adjoining tunnel the distant clatter of wheels and brakes was followed by the sound of doors opening and closing, and there it was again—a sudden draft. Instinctively she held her skirt down, her hands pressed hard to the front of her thighs. The gust of air, even though hot, felt good.

  But the
n she felt her skirt cling to the back of her thighs, and she held her breath. It lifted on the currents and sucked away from her body, riding up. The hot air rushed over her bare buttocks, tantalizing her flesh. She gasped and shifted, her hands moving around to her behind. Too late. Her skirt had wafted right up in the air before floating slowly down into place again. She didn’t really need to look his way to find out for sure, but she did.

  The man held her gaze while he licked his lips and nodded approvingly.

  For some reason she wasn’t ashamed. Something about the expression on his face? Maybe. He made his way toward her as the train pulled in. Would he speak to her on the journey? She smiled his way, suddenly proud of her minor deviance. Besides, it really was too hot to wear knickers today.

  Add it Up

  By Nikki Magennis

  If I could count, none of Saturday would have happened. Or things would have happened in the proper order. I wouldn’t be lying here now, in the middle of this great awful big messy situation, wondering what the hell to do next.

  I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

  Rewind.

  I’ve never had a head for numbers. I failed remedial math three times. I’d be mesmerized by Bobby Thomson’s dandruff and start to wonder whether he had pubes yet, and before I knew it I was failing standard grade and making out with bad boys behind the swimming pool.

  They call it dyscalculia. It’s a bitch. I don’t know honestly how I’ve managed to get through life without being able to add, subtract, multiply or—the one with dots. Generally, I bluff and hope someone else will figure out the sums.

  I’m not stupid. I’ve a good job, I read, keep up to date with the news. I can even hold a conversation and remember not to leave my mouth hanging open when the other person’s talking.

  That’s part of what I’d planned for Saturday. First, we’d have lunch in my kitchen, and afterward I’d take Marcella to bed and eat her sweet pussy for dessert. We’d fuck all night, because the next morning she had to leave for Madrid.

  I’d worked out that I’d be able to drop Marcella at the airport and make it across town for a movie with George, where we’d share popcorn snogs in the cinema before retiring to his place for lazy sex with opera playing in the background.

  George likes opera. He’s odd like that. And a little bit kinky. It’s his fault I was two-timing him, really. All those conversations about challenging my desires and trying out new stuff. I know he meant handcuffs and spanks and a bit of role play, but after a weekend of all that I’d be so hyped and full of the horn that I’d find myself gazing at my Spanish teacher, Marcella, with sex-colored glasses. When she came round to decline some verbs with me on a Monday I noticed myself starting querer queriendo querido her beautiful cocoa skin and full Latin pout.

  So, yeah, I picked up more than language lessons, and if George noticed anything, it was maybe that I was even more charged up when I saw him, ready to fuck at the slightest hint of an available opportunity. I stopped wearing knickers and started wearing skirts. George could shove me up against the kitchen table while we debated the economy—or rather while he debated the economy and I tried to change the subject. Or Marcella could go down on me, suddenly, swiftly, flicking her tongue over my hot and ready clit as easily as she rolled her Rs.

  I was on a steep learning curve, those heady weeks while I danced between the two of them. Yeah, sometimes I felt a guilty twinge, but it wasn’t like anybody had made any promises. Nobody had used the word “exclusive.” Marcella probably didn’t know the word “exclusive,” but that’s beside the point. As far as I was aware, we were all adults having a wonderful time. No es para tanto.

  But something about the mathematics of two lovers swelled my head. I got reckless. Multiple orgasms addled my brain. I divided my days wrong, lost a date somewhere.

  Long and short of it is, last Saturday while giving Marcella a deep, involved half-naked kiss on the sofa, the doorbell rang.

  It was George—bottle of wine in one hand, cock in the other.

  His large, seriously erect cock pointed at me while George looked from my mussed-up hair and pinked mouth to Marcella on the sofa and back again.

  For a long minute there was silence while we all did calculations.

  “Who is this, mi chiquita? And why is his pinga hanging out?”

  “Izzy? You’re fucking a woman?”

  As ever, my mental arithmetic took a little longer than everyone else’s.

  “Is this…Saturday?”

  And then things got complicated. Everyone started talking at once.

  “Okay, I know it sounds crazy, but—”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe what? I didn’t even tell you my excuse yet.”

  “You know him? This guy is your lover, huh.”

  “So this is why you got so wild. I thought I’d awakened your kundalini. And all the time you’d been revving your engine with this—”

  “Hey, careful, señor. Do not forget you have a gentle part of yourself out in the open right now.”

  “Gentle?”

  “She means delicate. Marcella, put down that chair. There’s no need—”

  “Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Well come on then, señora.” George tugged his trousers together and swaggered into the room, thumping the bottle of wine on the table and turning to face Marcella. She stood up, lace vest slipping from her shoulder and eyes as hot as a cup of scalding black coffee.

  “I’ve been fucking Izzy since November,” George said.

  Marcella lifted an eyebrow.

  “You can’t have been enough for her.”

  “Oh, I’ve been plenty.”

  “Guys,” I said, flapping ineffectually at them. “Please don’t fight.”

  “Fight? We’re not fighting.”

  “No. This is discussion.”

  “Discussing what, exactly?”

  George shrugged. “Who has first dibs.”

  “And I don’t get a say in the matter?” I asked, cheeks flushing as I saw things spiral out of my control. Marcella had her hands on her hips and a deep frown line between her black eyebrows.

  “Sí,” she said. “We got the whole night. We can—what you say—thrash it out.”

  “Yeah, well. I don’t have anything else planned,” George said, bitterly. “Unlike some people, I don’t keep a reserve on ice. Maybe I should have a backup lover, eh?” He turned to me. I winced.

  “Up to you,” I said in a small voice. “I mean, I don’t mind sharing.”

  “Ha,” said Marcella. “Yes, that is obvious, chiquita.”

  I dropped my eyes. Silence had fallen in my cozy, overcrowded little sitting room. It was far worse than fighting. I was about ready to cry.

  George sighed, and dropped into the armchair.

  “I need a drink,” he said.

  “Me also,” said Marcella. “What is that?” She nodded at George, her mouth tight.

  “This? Wine.”

  “No, really?” Sarcasm wasn’t hard to translate. “What wine?”

  “Chianti.”

  “All this, and I have to drink Italian wine. Jesus. Bring me Coca-Cola, Izzy.”

  “Coke? Nobody’s mixing coke and wine,” George said. “That’s fucking crazy.”

  “And fuck you, too. Calimocho is a traditional Spanish drink. We toast to fucking crazy mixtures.”

  I brought glasses, Coke and salted peanuts. I don’t know why I thought nibbles were in order—maybe I sensed low blood sugar would add to the potential for a screaming meltdown. George sat on the armchair, crunching nuts and glaring at Marcella, who sat with her spine straight, sipping her weird Calimocho. I cowered on the floor and tried not to make too much noise.

  “So, what we do? Draw up a rota?” Marcella leaned he
r chin on her fist. George snorted. Watching the two of them, I noticed again just how fucking hot they were. I know, not the time or the place. I’m bad at that, right?

  Anyway, too late. George has great bone structure; it distracts me. He’s far too good looking for an academic. All stubble and long, chestnut hair. And surprisingly muscular, under all that cord and flannel. I don’t know how, he doesn’t exercise. Unless it’s the fucking, of course—

  “Izzy.”

  “Huh?”

  Marcella looked at me like I’d neglected my Spanish homework. Wow. When she’s angry, she’s magnificent. Her nipples even go hard; I could see them poking through her blouse. And even though I knew the exact cocoa and sugar flavor of her kisses, I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth, like I’d never noticed before just how soft and perfect it was, a dark red rose.

  “So that’s a deal.” George said. He had a smile on his face, an angry smile that curled up tight at the corners of his mouth. He drummed his fingers on his knee.

  “Sí,” Marcella said, and she smiled, too, smoothing the silk of her blouse over her breasts and putting her glass down with a click.

  And me, I’m lost. Back in fourth-year math class, just snapped out of a daydream and the class is laughing, and I’m facing a row of numbers and wondering where the hell I am and how I can bluff my way out of this one.

  So when Marcella got up and came over and bent down to kiss me, I was way confused. I started to speak, but she laid a finger on my mouth.

  “No talking.” She shook her head. “Just this.” She kissed me deeper, and in the background I heard George make a moaning sound.