by Alison Tyler
But that’s okay, too. I know it is, because it’s at moments like this that I understand our relationship completely, and what it is, and what it’s not. I understand every part of him, as though we’re not two people at all. We’re one, and I’m inside him, and he’s inside me, and even if every other person in the entire world sees me and doesn’t know who I really am it’s all right.
Because he does. He does.
Translation
By Sommer Marsden
I stared at the spot on my white blouse. My brand new, very expensive, pristine white blouse. And then I wondered what had possessed me—the messiest woman in the world—to wear white to the big barbeque at Cheryl and John’s.
“You know a dab of hand soap right on that spot will almost take it away. And it will make it wash out later.”
I smiled at the hostess’s mother, Miss Pearl. “For real?”
She put her withered hand up. “Girl Scout’s honor,” she laughed. “One messy woman to another, the stuff in the back powder room will work best.”
So, see, I was sent back there. It is so totally not my fault. And I reminded myself of that when I heard the first gasp and rustle in the adjoining laundry room as I dabbed clear hand soap onto my ketchup stain.
“Hello?” I whispered and I don’t know why I whispered. Why didn’t I just say it? Something in the hushed and hurried tones told me that I was not to be hearing them. That I was not to know.
That made me want to know that much more.
I wiped my hands on a guest towel and smoothed my blouse. “Hello,” I whispered again, knowing damn well that I didn’t want to be heard.
I pressed my face to the crack of the restroom’s second door. A quirk of Cheryl and John’s house that I had always loved. Two doors opened onto the small bathroom that was right off the huge country kitchen. The door I’d entered through was pushed shut, but the adjoining door was not—something I had failed to notice. I blinked, not seeing anything, but then a blur and a flash and our host and hostess locked in an embrace. Laughing.
John tugged at Cheryl’s bright yellow tunic, pushed down her lacy white bra, captured one pink nipple in his mouth, and when Robert said in my ear, “Who are you spying on?” I damn near had a heart attack.
I clamped a hand over my mouth and my heartbeat thudded in my ears. I found my voice, barely. “No one. I was…it’s not…I…um…”
But my husband had stopped listening to me. His chest pressed to my back, he had me wedged between my gateway to voyeurism and himself. I was flushed and mortified and wildly turned on.
“Oh…” Robert snickered in my ear as John ran his hands along his wife’s waist, and then pushed them up under her skirt as she tried to dance away from him. But not really, anyone watching could tell she didn’t really want to get away. I could only hear the dips and swells of their voices. The actual words were lost to me, but I could very much hear my own ragged breath, and I could very much feel the hard erection pressed to the crack of my ass as Robert’s arms locked around my waist.
“What are they saying?” he asked, his lips pressed to my ear. His hands cupped over my mound, his thumb whispering over the fly of my shorts. I held my breath, wishing he’d undo the zipper. Watching John shove one hand up under Cheryl’s skirt. I watched her head tip back.
I managed to say, “I can’t hear them. I don’t know.”
“Allow me to translate,” Robert said, pressing his hard-on to my bottom so my throat felt tight and tickly. “Oh, you dirty, dirty girl. Wooing me at a party this way.”
As he spoke, John convinced Cheryl to hold her short summer skirt around her waist so it ruffled and puffed like a ballerina’s tutu. His hands smoothed over the front of her hot pink panties, his thumb pressing to the slit of her sex. I hummed low in my throat because Robert had worked my button and then my zipper. His hot fingers dipped low under the waistband of my own blue panties and his mouth closed on my ear.
“You’re such a dirty girl I think I’ll have to taste you. I bet you taste sweet and red and ripe like the watermelon on the picnic table,” Robert said in my ear, as John dropped to his knees in the laundry room, oblivious that we were watching and ignorant of Robert’s soundtrack.
Robert pushed at my panties and my shorts, and I wiggled to help him out. They fell in a whispery pile at my feet and he pushed a finger into my pussy. I swallowed a sound that would have been a moan.
“You do taste like watermelons. Sticky and sweet and wet,” Robert whispered in my ear. John ate his wife’s pussy, taking his time. He licked at her and pushed a finger deep inside as my hostess and friend, Cheryl, clutched the folding table that held big stacks of clean, neat laundry. When a pile tipped over, Robert laughed, “Uh-oh,” he said.
He tipped me forward just a bit and I was even closer to the door. The thought that they could turn, spot us, find us, discover us—perverse and nosy—watching them fuck…doing our own fucking! The thought was too much, and I felt a warm rush of moisture as my husband ran the tip of his cock along my slit.
“Oh, she’s not the only one who’s wet and ripe and red,” Robert said.
He slipped the head of his cock inside me but froze there, torturing me. He resumed his translation over my shoulder as John stood, kissing Cheryl, walking her back in a charming stumble-step until her bare hips hit the washing machine.
Robert whispered. “Spread your legs for me, baby. Let daddy in. You’re so ready, so perfect. Open wide for me, part those pretty thighs.”
He was being bad. Filthy. Dirty. Ornery. It only served to make it worse—my want and my need. And as John slid home—hooking one of Cheryl’s pale freckled legs around his waist so he could bury deep—my husband thrust into me on one smooth slide. He fucked me slowly, holding the long tangle of my hair in his hand as we continued to spy.
I felt twin spots of heated blush on my cheeks. Cheryl moaned loudly, and Robert bit my earlobe, the pain stirring an echo of pleasure in my pussy. “Now you,” Robert said.
I blinked, confused. But then I understood. It was my turn to translate Cheryl’s unheard words.
I blinked again, the words tripping off my lips as Robert gripped my hips tight, so tight his fingers bit my flesh almost painfully hard. His teeth found the back of my shoulder, and I whispered. “Just like that daddy. Oh, that’s good. Get deeper now.”
Robert laughed raggedly in my ear. We were pushing each other. Spying and spurring and pushing each other to the brink. “I like when you’re deep inside me. I like when you fill me up making me all wet and tight.”
“Jesus,” he said in my ear.
I grinned, gripped the doorjamb and tried to keep my voice down because the coup de grâce had come in the laundry room, and the couple hosting our shindig were coming and moaning and kissing like this kiss might be their last.
“Oh, that’s so good, daddy. I love your big…” My heart fluttered, and Robert’s fingers bit deep. “Stiff…” His teeth found me, and he latched on, the blips of pain shooting through my skin and amping up the pleasure uncurling slowly in my pelvis. “Cock,” I sighed, and his fingers found my clit. One swirl of his fingertip, and my pussy gripped tight, the orgasm rolling through me.
I bit my tongue and even as Robert came, whispering, “Uncle” in my ear.
I pushed the door shut as softly as I could. Cheryl and John were hurriedly getting themselves together and now we would, too. When I turned, Robert caught me up and pulled me close. “Filthy, dirty little voyeur,” he said.
“It was an accident. I swear. I came in to treat a spot.”
“Either way—it was still hot.” He pushed his hands into my hair and kissed me deeply and sighed.
I ran my finger over the front of his zipper and cupped him. Was it possible that I wanted him all over again already? Our little secret spurring my lust for him? I sque
ezed and Robert moaned deeply. His dark green eyes flashed in the bright bathroom fluorescents.
“Translation?” I asked of his throaty groan.
“I love you,” he said. “That one’s simple to figure out.”
“Wanna go again?” I whispered, but he was already unbuttoned my just-buttoned shorts.
“I do, I do, but just one thing…”
“What’s that?”
“Lock the door, would ya?”
Dessert
By Sophia Valenti
I hissed through clenched teeth as the leather strap landed across my rear cheeks. He struck me again, and my eyes fluttered closed as my lips parted in a silent gasp. Each lash of the belt was sharp and intense—but its sting rapidly morphed into a glowing heat that radiated from my red-striped cheeks to my throbbing cunt. And that warmth only continued to spread, making my pussy ache and drip as my arousal spiraled higher.
Long ago I’d realized that I couldn’t control how my body reacted to the kiss of a whip. That was the day I finally understood true surrender and knew it was my path to bliss. Submitting in this way is never easy, but it satisfies me like nothing else ever has. The pain makes me feel alive. It grounds me and clears my mind, bringing me peace—and ultimately pleasure. Not everyone understands, but I do. And that’s all that matters. Especially when I’m submitting to Jason’s will.
The doubled-up leather snapped against my flesh again and again, and I lowered my head and moaned softly, feeling my empty sex pulse with a hunger that grew more intense with each passing second. The rhythmic snapping of leather filled my ears as the bursts of pain instantly transformed into nonstop waves of pleasure.
A few short minutes ago we’d been entertaining friends. Now they were all gone, and the detritus from our dinner party was scattered around us. And I was standing in the kitchen in only my high heels, bent over as I clutched the edge of the counter. My back was arched, and I thrust my ass toward him, begging for more with my writhing body.
I’d noticed the gleam in Jason’s eyes all night and knew that he had something dirty in mind. He must have planned this whole encounter when he’d dressed that morning, slipping that thick strip of leather through his belt loops as he envisioned what he’d do with it later that evening. It must have been in his head throughout the entire night—as we sipped cocktails, savored the main course, and chatted over coffee—because the second the last guest left, he’d ordered me to strip and bend over.
There were no more words as he methodically whipped my bare bottom until both of my cheeks were hot and I was panting, very nearly overwhelmed by all the feelings coursing through me. Jason sensed that subtle shift. Whether he judged by the pitch of my cries or the movement of my body, I didn’t know—or care. He simply knew how to read me, knew when I’d had enough, and that I was ready for his cock.
Jason stroked my shoulders, letting his fingers trail along my sides, and then teased my nipples as he cupped my breasts. I wriggled against him impatiently, even though the friction of his clothing against my ass made my flesh burn anew. He took his time, exploring my curves, leaving my flesh tingling in the wake of his touch.
“Please,” I said softly, the whispered word escaping my lips before I could think to silence myself.
“You sound so sweet when you beg,” he replied, stroking my hair away from my face. “So sweet—when you’re begging for something so naughty.” The menacing edge had disappeared from his voice, having been replaced by a much more affectionate tone.
Jason reached between our bodies and lowered his zipper, and I sighed when I felt him finally slip his dick between my slick pussy lips. That first sweet moment of penetration was a contradiction: It temporarily quenched my impatient lust, but ultimately served to make me hotter. I wanted more of him, and I wanted it harder, faster, deeper. I was rocketing toward a quick-building climax that I was unable—and unwilling—to fight. I gripped the edge of the counter more tightly, powering my body back toward his. Without another word from me, Jason answered my carnal cravings. He stroked in and out of me, rapidly increasing his pace until he was pounding his cock into my slick sex, making me delirious with pleasure.
“Touch yourself,” he whispered, his words hoarse and laden with lust. “I want you to feel you come around my cock.”
Keeping one hand steady on the counter to brace myself, I reached between my legs with the other, rubbing two fingers against my swollen clit. The pressure and friction suffused my body with a warm, tingling pleasure that I felt all the way down to my toes. I was close, so close, but I wanted Jason to come with me. I could tell he was nearly there but needed a little help. On each downward stroke, I parted my digits and slid them along the sides of his shaft, making him thrust his cock into me more forcefully. The touch of my fingers seemed to totally unravel him. His breath escaped his lips in a sizzling hiss, and the faster I worked my fingers, the faster he fucked me, until I gasped and shivered as my climax finally hit.
Seconds later, Jason sighed loudly, grabbing my hips firmly as he slammed into me one last time. I felt his shaft throbbing within me as his orgasm overtook him, and then he hugged my body to his, taking deep, raspy breaths until he could finally speak again.
“I’d say dinner was a success.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “But my favorite part was dessert.”
Skill
By Aisling Weaver
Middle of the night, absolute silence. Here I feel the absence, the chill in the bed beside me, seek to chase loneliness away. Fingers graze and slide, thighs open. Lips part, heartbeat takes over in the emptiness. Naked flesh, warm and soft, silken sheets a ghostly substitute.
This I know how to do; how to swirl and press, dip and thrust. How to erase the craving, temporarily; how to fuck away the ache to see, touch, hear, taste. My desperate learned skill, necessary to hold on to sanity.
Serenity won’t last, but maybe it will linger enough. And I’ll sleep. For once.
Attic Moment
By Janine Ashbless
An hour before they’re due to leave, Stella asks Marty to go up into the attic and fetch the tent.
“I thought we were going to buy a new one on the way to the festival?”
“What if we can’t find one? They might be sold out. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
Marty sighs, puts down his stubbie of beer and looks over at me. “This’ll take a while. Want to give me a hand?”
Of course I do. I’m here to help, after all—to keep an eye on the house and feed the cat, while Stella and Marty are away reconnecting with their inner youth. We climb the stairs, and I watch as Marty pulls the extending ladder down from the attic hatch. I watch Marty, to be exact. His big arms braced, his shoulders taut, his little grimace as he maneuvers the ladder into the right footing. I want to fuck him already. I can feel the familiar clutch of desire inside me.
He gives me a knowing smile before he ascends. He knows what’s on my mind.
Upstairs, the attic is lit by dim bare bulbs. It’s been boarded, but it’s a bit rough and ready, and it’s full of junk. Stella’s a hoarder. We clamber carefully between the angled joists connecting the roof overhead and the ceiling beneath our feet.
“I think it’s in that corner over there,” he says.
He starts handing me boxes to clear the path. I’m setting one down when he puts a hand on the small of my back, and as I straighten up he turns me into his embrace. The rush of my relief is almost as fierce as the rush of heat. In a moment we are kissing, his hands locked around the back of my head, his tongue thrusting into my mouth. He’s fierce and rough. I taste hops. His body shoves up against mine, and he presses me back against a beam. He’s bigger than me, and I yield easily. God, but I’ve ached for this for too long. It’s so hard to snatch these moments together—Stella’s nearly always home before
he is and she doesn’t like him going out without her of an evening. It’s difficult to find excuses, and we have to steal our chances.
“Marty,” I gasp as I come up for air, groping for his cock and finding it already straining at his chinos. He puts his hand to my white T-shirt and captures my nipple with a pinch that nearly makes me collapse at the knees. He knows my nipples are exquisitely sensitive. He knows I like it a bit rough.
“Christ I need to fuck you,” he mumbles. “I’m so fucking horny for you right now.”
“Shh!”
“She won’t hear. We’re over the spare bedroom. Suck my cock....I’ve been needing this all week.”
I don’t need asking twice. My mouth is wet with anticipation of his beautiful big dick, and I slide to my knees, pulling down his zipper as he unbuckles. His cock springs out, as thick and hard and meaty as I remember, and I wrap my mouth around it and take it all the way in. My groan is muffled but he can feel it, and he matches it with one of his own.
My hot lover. My neighbor. My dirty secret.
This is all my fault, this stupid fucked-up furtive situation. I’ve been friends with Stella and Marty since they moved in here. Nearly six years now. I fancied him the moment I saw him, and I had a good idea the interest wasn’t all one way; I noticed him watching me over the fence when I mowed the lawn. When Stella was out of town just before last Christmas, I asked Marty out for a drink. I got reckless. Instinct told me I could do it. Instinct was right. He was horribly guilty afterward, but that hasn’t stopped us from grabbing every opportunity since.
Now his cock is down my throat, and I’m fondling his heavy balls and he’s clinging to the joist over my head, easing in and out of my mouth with jagged movements of his hips. I can smell the fresh sweat gathering at his crotch. I can smell the fabric softener Stella uses. I can taste his precome. And I need him.