69

by Alison Tyler

  I pull away. His erection bounces angrily, trailing saliva over my chin as I stand again. I look him in the eye, seeing his torment. He’s breathing hard; he doesn’t like being interrupted.

  “Fuck my ass,” I whisper.

  “What? Here?”

  “Here. Now.” This is pretty new: I never used to do anal. It just wasn’t my thing. But Marty—he wanted it so much, and I didn’t want to disappoint. Now I love it and can’t get enough. I even dream about it. I jerk myself stupid imagining him impaling my ass with his big cock.

  He grabs the waistband of my shorts, urgent now. A couple of buttons and he’s inside—to find I’m not wearing anything underneath. He whirls me to face away and falls to one knee to yank my shorts down. His hand goes between my cheeks, and he chuckles, deep and dirty, as he finds me waxed and smooth and as soft as chamois down there, ready for him. That preparation is a ritual that helps me bear the days apart, seeming to bring our fucking a step closer. When Marty spreads my ass cheeks and plunges his face in to lick my hole, I become slippery, too.

  Jeez—his tongue on my asshole, lapping and circling and probing. It’s like magic: Open Sesame. It’s like the door of paradise easing ajar. I’m practically hearing the heavenly choir by the time he judges me ready and stands again. I lean forward and brace my hand on the rough wood. His breath is harsh. The taste of his cock is still in my mouth. He positions his glans at my entrance, and with a few careful pushes slides inside. The first time we did it, it took a half hour of hard and patient work, but now my ass welcomes him eagerly. There’s nothing I want more than this: him stretching me and filling me and reshaping my insides with every thrust. I have to force myself not to cry out.

  We can’t let Stella hear. They’re a great couple, and they’re both my friends. I don’t want to wreck anything. And that’s why I’ll never tell Marty how I feel about him. That it’s more than frantic horniness driving me into his embrace every time. That it’s his kisses and his caresses as much as the vigor of his fucking that leaves me breathless and speechless.

  He’s fucking me now. Not fast, not hard. We daren’t shake the plaster off the ceiling. Tense. Quivering with strain. Every inch of thrust counts. It is so wonderful that it’s almost unbearable. His fingers bite my hips as he tilts backward. His cock feels enormous. My ass sucks him in, burning. I reach for my own crotch and rub, and that makes my ring of muscle relax further. That rigid length is in up to the hilt now with every stroke. His hairy thighs bump against mine. His sweat slicks my ass cheeks. I’m sure I can’t take much more, and I want it never to stop.

  Dirty secret, filthy sex. In these stuffy confines he’s wringing sweat out of me. My legs tremble.

  Then I feel him swell even bigger inside me and I know he’s about to come. The strain makes me gasp. My mental picture—his cock shooting its load of cream inside my darkest depths—draws that moan out of me, against all judgment, in a soft cry. That noise is what sends him over the edge. Suddenly he is juddering into me, and just as suddenly I’m coming, too, explosively, my hand cramping with effort.

  “Fuck!” he gasps in my ear, pitching forward against me. “Fuck!”

  Afterward, when we’ve tidied ourselves, we descend. Stella, packing the car, is fretting. “We’re going to be late,” she warns Marty. “What on earth took you guys so long?”

  “We couldn’t find the bag of tent pegs.”

  I scratch my beard and don’t quite meet her eye.

  Satisfied Customers

  By Ashley Lister

  Lucy placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp of surprise. Mr. Smith and Mrs. Jones! Was it really them?

  She had been in the process of clearing away for the night. The bar was closed. The hotel’s guests had retired for the evening. She had closed the doors and turned off the room’s lights so that no one thought she was still serving drinks. A huge window at the back of the bar overlooked the hotel’s luxury pool. During the day the window provided a splendid vista that kept visitors entertained as patrons splashed and swam in the Mediterranean sun. This evening, Lucy thought, the show that Mr. Smith and Mrs. Jones were putting on would have provided much more adult entertainment for the bar’s regulars.

  She stepped closer, confident they were too involved to notice her voyeurism. They were frolicking together in the middle of the pool. Their bodies were lean, athletic and silvered by moisture and moonlight. More than that, they were both naked and clearly excited by each other’s nudity. Mr. Smith repeatedly embraced Mrs. Jones. He kept pulling her into his arms and she eagerly slid against him. The movement was so sensuous Lucy could imagine their shared pleasure from the slippery contact.

  Mr. Smith’s body was muscular and well-tanned. Mrs. Jones was lithe, slender and curved in all the right places. He cupped one ample breast in his large right hand. Her nipple was trapped between his knuckles. Mrs. Jones shivered.

  Lucy sympathized.

  They weren’t the first guests she had seen skinny-dipping in the hotel’s pool but this was more than just drunken cavorting. This was Mr. Smith and Mrs. Jones enjoying foreplay. They were regular patrons of the hotel and, she’d thought, stalwarts of respectability. Were they swingers? Swappers? Or was this simply old-fashioned adultery? Whatever the right word, Lucy had to admit they were providing an incredibly hot show. The sight of the pair embracing, touching and teasing, inspired a desire within her.

  She stepped closer to the window, kneeling down so that there was less likelihood of being seen. Her hands naturally went to her skirt, smoothing the fabric down. The pressure of her palms against her thighs was a reminder of the excitement being generated by watching the couple. She wondered if she dared to entertain herself while the illicit couple provided their exhibitionist entertainment.

  The idea was base and vulgar.

  But it was tempting.

  “Lucy?”

  She turned, blushing. Her cheeks couldn’t have burned brighter if she’d been caught in the act of doing something improper. She waved a hand at Duncan before his voice grew louder. The bar’s window wasn’t soundproofed, and there was a danger Mr. Smith or Mrs. Jones might hear and realize their discreet tête-à-tête had not gone unnoticed. Silently gesturing for Duncan to come to her side, she pointed toward the couple.

  Duncan gasped.

  He was one of the hotel’s seasonal staff. A gap-year student treating the work as a summer-long vacation. His tanned skin, good looks, and easy-going manner made him popular with too many of the female guests. But he was careful not to let his hedonistic lifestyle interfere with his work. Noticing the way his broad chest filled his T-shirt, Lucy could understand why so many of the guests found him desirable. She urged him to join her as she continued to watch events in the pool.

  “Ted and Barbara?” He hunkered by her side.

  She nodded. Ted Smith and Barbara Jones.

  “I’m not surprised,” he murmured.

  Lucy said nothing. It was impossible to drag her gaze away from the couple in the pool. Barbara Jones had taken herself out of the water and sat at the pool’s edge. Ted Smith remained in the water. His head was buried between her splayed legs. Barbara Jones tossed her head back as she basked in the obvious throes of sexual ecstasy.

  “I’m really not surprised,” Duncan said again. “Babs has been trying to get off with me for the past week.” He sighed unhappily. “Damn! That could have been me out there if I’d been more attentive to her.”

  “There, there,” Lucy soothed.

  The words were meant to be a playful tease. She reached blindly to her side, intending to pat his leg in a gesture of faux comfort. Instead of touching his leg, her fingers landed gently against his groin.

  The sight of Mr. Smith and Mrs. Jones had clearly excited him. The bulge of his arousal strained at the front of his shorts. The fabric was so thin she could feel the
rounded contours of his long, thick hardness.

  Common sense told her she should snatch her hand away. She should mutter an apology and explain the contact had been unintentional. Instead, her fingers lingered there. She traced his shape through the shorts. Squeezed.

  “Lucy?”

  “You’re enjoying this as much as I am, aren’t you?” she whispered.

  “I’m enjoying it a lot,” he agreed. “But I know what we could enjoy more.”

  It happened so quickly she could barely follow the events. They leaned into each other to kiss. His mouth met hers and their tongues intertwined in a lewd, wet exchange. At the same time they began to explore each other’s bodies with an urgency that was almost feral. His hands went beneath her blouse, searching eagerly for bare flesh. She began to tear at his T-shirt, anxious to expose and enjoy his naked body. Because they were both kneeling on the floor it was almost inevitable that they should roll together. She opened her legs for him. His shorts-sheathed erection pressed against her crotch.

  “Have you got…?”

  She didn’t need to complete the question. Duncan was already tugging a rubber from the back pocket of his shorts. Lucy snatched it from his fingers and began to tear open the wrapper. Duncan, pulled her blouse open and pressed a greedy kiss against the stiffness of her bare nipple. She trembled with mounting pleasure as he sucked and gnawed gently against the hard bud of flesh. His fingers went to her hips and smoothed their way beneath her skirt. The warm caress of his touch slipped against her inner thighs and then crept against the gusset of her panties.

  She gasped hungrily.

  The rubber was out of the packet, and she quickly reached for his erection. He was already close to bursting from his shorts, and it only took a moment to release his flesh and then sheathe him with the condom. Her fingers lingered against him, savoring the heat of his hardness and trembling with the powerful pulse that throbbed through his length.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She reached to where his fingers stroked at her panty-covered pussy. Teasing the crotch to one side she urged his finger to stroke the moist heat of her sex.

  “Do I feel sure?”

  It was all the encouragement he needed.

  Duncan was inside her with an urgency that matched her own. She bucked against him greedily, reveling in the release that she knew was about to come. Their bodies slammed together with a quickening haste that perfectly mirrored Lucy’s desperate need for climax.

  It was a brutal, swift and passionate exchange.

  She orgasmed in the same instant that Duncan came. His length trembled with a violent, satisfying pulse. At the moment of her release, Lucy bit the insides of her cheeks for fear of screaming with pleasure.

  They lay together on the floor of the bar, both breathing heavily.

  Lucy was about to speak when a noise outside the bar’s door stopped her.

  “Ted, there you are.”

  Lucy and Duncan exchanged a glance. They both recognized Mary Smith’s distinctive accent. Had she caught her husband in the act of infidelity? Would there be repercussions? As acting hotel manager, Lucy wondered how she was going to deal with the inevitable explosion of emotions that could potentially be unleashed.

  “Mary!” Ted sounded calm and relaxed. “I was just having a midnight swim with Babs. Are you okay?”

  “I’m more than okay. I was watching that young couple that work behind the bar.”

  “Watching them?”

  “They were going at it like bunnies on Viagra.”

  Ted Smith laughed. “And you were watching them?”

  “You’re not too tired after your swim, are you?”

  “Too tired for what?”

  Lucy and Duncan exchanged a glance.

  From the other side of the door Mary Smith sighed. Ted Smith groaned. And then the night grew still, unbroken save for the sounds of breathless grunting and pleasured drawls.

  Duncan opened his mouth to speak.

  Lucy silenced him with a kiss. “We’ll have to wait here until they’ve left,” she whispered.

  “What can we do while we’re waiting?”

  She chuckled softly against the side of his neck. Her hand slipped down to his spent length. He began to stiffen. “I think we should congratulate ourselves on another couple of satisfied customers.”

  Closing Distance

  By Raziel Moore

  It was all rather sudden, as these things go. A colleague at the spring International Conference invited me to a workshop he was sponsoring at the University of Technology, and I could reasonably fit it under the auspices of one of my grants. In the space of two weeks, I had a ticket to Sydney and a presentation halfway written.

  Of course I told her. How could I not? Abby lived there. I had to warn her the world was about to end.

  It had become a running joke early in our online affair: if we ever occupied the same city, much less the same room, the resulting collision would be a mutual annihilation so energetic it would take out a country, if not the planet itself.

  It sounds like an exaggeration, but we had talked seriously about how inevitably sexual, and therefore destructive, our physical meeting, in fact, would be. Potentially physically damaging, yes—the games Abby and I had played in words were often dark and ungentle. But also, the sense pervaded that if we came together, we would consume each other, turning my life and hers upside down in unhealthy ways. And, in truth, I kind of liked that certainty, that I had an opposite number, an anti-matter halfway around the world, so perfectly and dangerously matched.

  So, even though I would’ve done this workshop had I never known Abby, I still questioned my motivations for going. I wasn’t going to seek her out. I couldn’t do that. But when I arrived on Sunday night and checked in to the Mercure, I got two card keys for the room. Before even going up to change from my flight, I put one into an envelope I’d prepared, addressed to her, and before I could let myself think twice, dropped it into the mail by the front desk. Up until the moment I did, I was sure I wasn’t going to send it. I’d put a note in with the card, one I’d written on the plane. Five times. I’d ended up with this:

  Abigail,

  See me. Let me see you. Watch me. That’s all.

  Jaren

  Really, what more can you say when you’re breaking an agreement? I didn’t have to explain it. Abby knew everything about me. Yeah, everything. So she knew I was being selfish, knew what I was asking. I was challenging what we both knew—a certainty that had freed us with each other, made us safe. Was I so blinded by lust, or hubris, or nihilism? Or could I just not leave truths untested?

  Naturally, we kept in communication. Abby knew when I’d left home, and when I touched down, and we even talked—in the same time zone, no less—for an hour that evening as jetlag pulled me into a state of stupor. But I didn’t tell her about the envelope. I didn’t even know if it’d get to her by the time I left on Friday. Who knew about Sydney’s postal system? Not me. I left it to fate. I knew what I’d done was going to change things between us, and that had me both frayed and adrenaline-soaked.

  I slept like a rock that first night and woke up feeling disoriented. I’d not paid attention on arrival to the decor of the room. “Pleasantly bland” is the best one can usually hope for on trips like this—and, looking around, it was. I had to check the room number on the door as I left for the morning, to make sure I’d remember it, and though it was a matter of small city blocks to the meeting, I got lost twice on the cold, wet, October spring streets.

  The workshop was wonderful. My Tuesday presentation went well, and through it all I quipped with Abby and other online friends and called home dutifully. I was almost able to forget that Abby was in the same city—less than a few miles away. I’d purposely not mapped out a path between my hotel and her h
ouse, but my mind went wandering that way on its own, before I went to bed.

  Our correspondence had been a little strained on Monday, I realized. I relaxed only as the week continued and we hadn’t magnetically and helplessly zeroed in on each other by virtue of being this close. But then, Wednesday, during the afternoon coffee break, I picked up a private message from her, time-stamped an hour before, What is this envelope?

  After the adrenaline surge abated, I replied, Open it and see.

  It took a no small effort to pay attention to the discussions of the late afternoon, but when the panel ended for the day, and we were mobilizing for a group dinner at a nearby restaurant I checked my messages.

  Idiot.

  I had not expected that. But seeing the reaction…you reap what you sow, I told myself. I got a little drunk at dinner, perhaps overreacting, myself. Perhaps not. Getting back to my room after 10:00 p.m., I hesitated before swiping my door open. The spiny snake of “what if” slithered through me for a moment. But it was ridiculous. My room was empty. My computer…

  I didn’t go online before bed.

  We didn’t communicate at all on Thursday, my last full day in town, and although I’d known this was a possibility, my spirits were low. I made my usual social check—ins here and there, saying hi, updating status, telling a joke. Abby was there, but neither of us addressed the other. We were going to have to talk, but probably only after there was an ocean between us again. Perhaps that was now no longer enough distance.

  ‘Idiot’ was right. I knew. Fuck, I’d known it before. But I’d done it anyway. I grabbed a quick dinner with colleagues and begged off the after-bar this time. If I were going to get drunk tonight—I hadn’t decided—I’d do it privately. More self-punishment before moving into a changed world as I went home.

  I picked up a bottle of wine before heading to my room, packed and sat pillow-propped on my bed, not-watching television, avoiding the computer.