by Alison Tyler
“Oh, Nick,” I gasp, unable to help myself. Even thinking about him punishing me makes me almost hornier than I can bear. That, and the pleasure that always, but always follows afterward, when he touches me the way no other can.
8:50
Ten minutes to go, and I’m already too close. I must hang on, even if my pussy is aching for some contact.
How shall I prove to him I’ve come at nine? A photo of my face, contorted as I climax, teeth gritted, lips drawn back, ugly but truthful. Or maybe I should make a little movie of my crotch as I come? So he can see my clit jumping beneath my fingertip? I don’t know, but I’m going to have to make a decision soon.
8:55
I scoot down in my seat and try and position my phone. It’s tricky, but I think it’s in the right place. Hoping for the best, I press the shutter and start recording. Then holding it steady against the seat, I attack my tender clit with my other middle finger.
Oh, Nick…
I’d love to close my eyes, so I can better imagine him with me, but I have to keep a watch on the time and the phone, so it doesn’t slip. Doing my best, I try and see him on the screen of my mind, and feel him, by proxy, on my body. I masturbate myself roughly, the way he sometimes does me. I love it that he’s so dominant, so masterful, playing at “using” me, when really, underneath it all, I’m so cherished. If he were here, he’d be beating at my clit with one hand and maybe tweaking my nipple with the other. He’d have my blouse open and my breasts exposed, too. Maybe he’d even put little clamps on my teats, too, to plague me with wicked pressure while he fingers me. I seem to feel them there now, the relentless ache there feeding the ache, down below, between my legs.
“Oh, God, yes…”
8:58
Oh hell, this isn’t quite working. I need three hands!
Pulling my panties back up to my thighs, I wedge the phone in them as best I can, pointing in the general direction of my sex, hoping for the best. Then I pull open my blouse, push down my bra and unveil my breasts, and start tweaking my nipple and my clit in a relentless rhythm.
Pinch, pinch, pinch.
Ah, ah, ah!
9:00
I’m almost there. I twist and pull harder, the pain silvery and transcendent, not really pain any more, but some dark kind of inverted pleasure now.
Before 9:01 clicks over, I’m coming like a freight train, panting and grunting and making uncouth squealing noises, my pussy clenching and pulsing like a vortex of liquid heat…while my cell phone tumbles forgotten into the footwell.
* * *
“What on earth is this supposed to be? This proves nothing.”
Nick’s right. A blurred picture of the underside of my car seat, complete with mud and fluff and toffee papers, gives no indication whatsoever that an orgasm was taking place a foot or so above it at 9.00 p.m.
“I suppose not.” I lower my eyes, trying not to look at myself, spread out across Nick’s lap for his delectation. He’s pulled down my knickers and bunched my skirt around my waist, so he can see me, and my blouse is open and my bra is tugged down to show my breasts.
I’m his creature, a body to play about with, on display for him. And I love it.
“It’s not what I asked for, is it?” His blue eyes gleam. He looks like an angel with his wayward blond curls, but his expression is pure devilment, pure lust. “I think I’m going to have to punish you, Emma. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Yes.” The way he runs his tongue around his lips makes me squirm as if he were masturbating me furiously. That’ll come later, but it feels like he’s doing it now.
“Thighs?”
I nod, beyond speech, but still shifting around as if there’s a motor in me. He knows I want it, and want him, and if he couldn’t sense it from the way my cheeks are pink, he’d be able to tell from the damp spot I’m making on his jeans with my arousal.
Adjusting my position for a better angle, he gives my nipple a sly tweak in the process. A groan slips from my lips and my sex flutters. Lord alone knows what’ll happen when he slaps me. I’ll probably come on the spot, I’m so ready.
Long, elegant fingers glide over my trembling thigh, testing its texture and resilience. The very tips of them skirt my bush, but don’t dip in. My crotch seems to flirt of its own accord toward the contact.
“Naughty, naughty…bide your time, or you’ll get double.”
I don’t care. I push my sex at him anyway.
Slap!
The first strike catches me unaware, but does make me still. God, it hurts so hard, like a slab of fire against my flesh. I yowl, shocked by the heat, hating it yet craving it. My steady moment is over…in a moment. As the redness burns, I’m all a-wriggle again immediately. I clench my fists, because if I don’t my fingers will fly to my clit.
“Be still, you wicked girl!” he abjures me, but there’s laughter in his voice, and affection. The slaps continue, very evenly, metronomic. My thighs turn crimson, each one flaming in a uniform, matching pattern.
Beneath me my arousal trickles, drenching denim and no doubt soaking through to skin.
Eventually, Nick stops, reaching right around me to rub his own reddened palm. Serves him right. “Oh, you’re such a little sex-pot, aren’t you?” he whispers in my ear, his voice gruff. Then he kisses my neck while he dives his fingertips between my sex-lips and starts to rub me. He barely manages a flick or two before I’m panting and growling and bouncing on his lap, coming furiously. He presses steadfastly on my clit, sealing in the explosive pleasure, doubling its force.
I swear my eyes go crossed I’m so out of it. I’m flying high.
He taxes me so rigorously with orgasms that I’m barely conscious when he rocks his hips and draws my attention to his own needs. Half sliding, half falling, I slither to my knees, wrench open his jeans, and find him free of underwear and his lovely cock at a mighty stand.
“Oh, hell, yes!” he snarls as I take him in my mouth and begin to suck him as furiously as he fingered me moments ago. He grabs my hair, and holds me there, his pelvis lurching up, thrusting as best he can while in a seated position.
It doesn’t take him long, either, to reach his peak. He’s probably been ready for it as long as I have. Maybe longer. I’m not the only one who gets high and horny on the joys of simply anticipating.
As semen drowns my tongue, I’ve almost forgotten my thighs are stinging.
* * *
Later, in bed, there’s no pain. Well, just the faintest echo of it as I lock my legs around him and we fuck. It’s long, and slow, and sweet, and loving, and yet as exciting in its own way as our sex and pain games.
I sigh out his name at the pinnacle of pleasure, as he sighs mine in turn.
“You’re a wonder, love,” he breathes as we settle down afterward, to rest. “You put up with all my nonsense, and all my kink. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I don’t have to tell him I feel the same, because he knows.
“How about trying something else?” He leans in close, and whispers something in my ear. It’s outrageous, and unexpected and perfectly wonderful. I didn’t realize I wanted it until he suggested it, but now, well, it seems inevitable, as if it’s been coming a long time.
And it’ll work so well. Once we’re married, I can come at nine every single night of every single week, of every single year, if I want to.
And come at ten and eleven too, in my husband’s arms.
The Eskimo Game
By Donna George Storey
We call it The Eskimo Game, although at the beginning I worried the name was politically insensitive to Native Americans.
“Shouldn’t it be the ‘Inuit Game’?” I asked.
He just laughed, indulgence with a touch of scorn, as if to remind me the whole point is to break the rules.
The truth is we’d already wandered into these polar regions of erotic terrain before we learned the legend behind it. Apparently, the Eskimo (as the Alaskan branch still prefers to be called) prided themselves on their hospitality to the extent that a man would even make a temporary present of his wife to warm a male visitor’s bed. I later read on the Internet that European missionaries had misrepresented the custom. In fact, the Eskimo engaged in ritual spouse sharing as a way to appease the spirits for good weather or better hunting. They were not in the practice of lending out their wives to any old freeloader who showed up at the igloo door.
Not that the real story matters. My husband need only whisper “Eskimo” in my ear, and that little pilot light flickering between my legs bursts into red-hot flame.
My husband is a generous man, which is why he has so many friends. High school and college buddies crash at our place when they’re in town on business. Former colleagues come for the weekend to take in an A’s game followed by one of my famous gourmet champagne brunches the morning after.
But the butter-drenched waffles and slabs of roasted pepper frittata are nothing compared to the sensual indulgence of the night before.
It starts out respectably enough. I show our overnight visitor to the guest room, already equipped with towels and toiletries, a bouquet of fresh flowers. Then, my husband and I both wish him good-night and head to our own bedroom. As I go, I make sure to glance over my shoulder and smile warmly. This is all treatment you might expect in any gracious home in the lower forty-eight.
But once we close our bedroom door behind us, we’re in the land of the Eskimo.
Under my husband’s steely gaze I change quickly into my fanciest nightie: a gown of translucent fabric that barely covers my lace thong. Then I take my assigned place by the closet door, eyes lowered.
“I suspect your hostess duties aren’t over yet, my dear,” he says. “Did you see him staring at your ass when you bent over to serve the coffee and cookies?”
“No, but…” I swallow, blushing as I imagine our guest’s eyes caressing the curve of my buttocks.
“But what?”
“Well, I’m not sure, but when I asked if I could do anything else for him, he looked guilty, as if he secretly wanted something he couldn’t say out loud.”
My husband laughs. “I’ve no doubt he’s hot for you. So the rest is up to you. Do you want to be a good Eskimo wife?”
As often as we’ve done this, that question always give me pause. According to everything I learned growing up, a married woman who has sex with other men is by definition a bad wife. However, I was raised in sunny southern climes.
“I always want to be very good.” I keep my head bowed, but with that simple admission of desire, a thrilling power courses through me.
My husband grunts his approval. “Did you put condoms in the nightstand?”
“Yes. I bought the variety pack. Mint Tingle. Twisted Pleasure.”
“And an extra towel? You get juicy and we wouldn’t want to make the poor sucker sleep on a big wet spot afterwards.”
“That would be rude to our guest,” I agree.
“Then let’s go over tonight’s agenda. We’ll go knock on his door and say we have one more thing we want to discuss before we all hit the hay.”
I’m keenly aware of my nipples hardening, the growing dew moistening the narrow strip of cloth between my legs.
“After a suspicious pause, he’ll invite us in, and we’ll find him in bed already, a little flushed, because he’s been jerking off thinking about your cute little rear end.”
I take a deep breath. I can see it so clearly: our guest stretched out on the bed, the telltale bulge under the sheets growing as he gazes at my rosy nipples poking up through the sheer gown, then the tiny triangle of lace covering my shaved mons.
“I’ll explain I have some Eskimo blood,” my husband continues, “and as my wife you’ve agreed to honor my family’s venerable custom. Naturally, it’s his decision whether he’ll participate in this pleasurable ritual. But who could resist this sweet piece of ass for one night of pleasure, no strings attached?”
My husband steps closer and gives my buttock a squeeze. He brings his lips to my ear. “Shall I just leave you at his mercy then, or do you want me to give him operating instructions?”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment and arousal. This part is the worst. My skin prickles at the very thought of my deepest desires exposed to a stranger—but I still manage to choke out a “Yes, please…teach him exactly what to do to my body.”
“Shall I tell him your nipples are sensitive, so he should start out slow, kiss and tongue them, then twist them gently between his fingers? Shall I tell him to wait until you start to rock your hips and open your thighs invitingly, all shame forgotten, before he rubs you between your legs?”
Now I do squirm and twist, the itch down there almost unbearable. “Yes, oh, please.”
“Shall I admit that when my wife gets worked up, she’ll do anything? Suck his cock like a pro. Come on his face all night if he’s still hungry after that big dinner. Even get on her hands and knees and take it from behind like the horny bitch she is?”
I let out a low, strangled sound.
“Well?” he presses. “Shall I tell him the truth about you?”
“Yes, please,” I beg, fighting the urge to slip my hand into the thong and diddle my clit.
“Shall I tell him you’ll shoot off like a firecracker if he fingers your ass when you’re fucking?”
I gasp and my knees begin to quiver. It’s as if I’m already in the guest room, straddling another man’s broad hips, one large paw cupping my breast, the other kneading my ass cheek, his thick, foreign finger creeping into my tender back furrow.
My husband takes me in his arms to steady me. His erection feels huge against my thigh. “Admit it. You like being an Eskimo wife. You like fucking other men because I tell you to.”
It is then I allow myself to look into his eyes, a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of lust, jealousy and love so deep it makes my cunt ache.
“I’ll do anything you want me to. Anything.”
My husband lets out a groan. “I’m going to fuck you first. I’m going to send you to him wet and ready. Lie back on the bed and spread your legs.”
I tear off the thong and fall back on the mattress, parting my thighs wide so he can see how wet I already am. Eyes narrowed with lust, he unzips, kicks off his jeans and enters me. My pussy makes hungry, slurping sounds as he moves in and out.
“You’re going to come for him, that’s only polite, but I’m taking you for a practice run. I want you to come on my cock and milk me, so he’ll have a nice wet pussy to fuck.”
I bury my face in his shoulder to muffle my cries—we do have a guest right down the hall—but the bedsprings creak as I buck up against him, grinding my clit against his belly. His balls drive into my ass crack with each thrust, tickling my tender flesh deliciously.
Be a good wife. Be a good wife.
The words pound in my head like a drumbeat. And I can do it. I know I can. Come on his cock. Share my body with his friend. It’s my duty…my duty…to come…oh, yessss.
A scream rises in my throat, but I force it back and down, to collide with the orgasm exploding in my belly. My husband’s deliberate strokes suddenly quicken. His breath is harsh and ragged in my ear. He climaxes with a grunt, as if someone’s punched him. I grab his ass, pushing him in deeper, harder, so he fills me to my depths with his cream.
He collapses onto me and we hug—hard—then laugh, like kids who’ve gotten away with something very naughty.
I’m still wearing my Eskimo Game nightie as we twine our bodies together under our blankets. We both know there will be no tapping on our guest’s door, no detailed descriptions of the best ways to arouse me, no invocatio
n of Native American customs of hospitality. Not tonight at least.
It’s too warm in here to be Alaska.
Reflection
By Saskia Walker
The mirror is full length, freestanding, and displayed in an ornately carved wooden frame. I focus on its design rather than look at my reflection, even though Gianni has put me there for a reason—to make me look at my reflection while I am aroused, to make me see everything he sees.
He’s close at my back and the heat of his breath on my shoulder sends a shiver through me. I glance back, meeting his gaze. His eyes are dark and inscrutable, and the sensual set of his mouth makes me crave his kiss. I won’t get it, not until I earn it. I already know that.
“You’re missing the great view.” There’s a teasing tone in his voice, and as he speaks he lowers my shoulder straps and pulls my dress down as far as my waist.
My bare breasts bounce free. The action stimulates me intensely, the tug of material over my bare nipples making them knot and tingle. Then he nods where he wants me to look, and I brace myself and turn to face the mirror.
At first I can’t bear it. It’s shameful, the way he’s holding me there, making me face up to my reflection. But Gianni cups my chin from behind, turning my face from side to side. “Look at those eyes.”
As embarrassing as it is, I can see that he’s right. My lips are parted; there’s a hungry look in my eyes and a high flush on my cheeks. When he runs his fingers down my throat to my chest, I whimper. I know what’s coming. With his fingers locked on my nipples he teases the peaked flesh, making it painfully erect. My core clenches in response to the intense stimulation, desperate to be filled.
“You’re beautiful.”
“I’m embarrassed!”
He laughs softly. “Even more beautiful than usual, but you always are when you’re begging for it.”