by Violet Blue
As he still sat on her legs, he leaned backward to reach for something. Mara bucked underneath him, sensing that this was a chance to resist, but she could not force him off of her. His entire weight held her legs down. She felt him wind the same fabric around one ankle, then the other, spreading her legs and tying them firmly. He climbed to the edge of the bed. She felt the movement of the mattress as he stood, then nothing.
He was silent. She knew he must be standing over her, watching. She tested her bonds, pulling on the ropes holding her wrists and ankles, but they were tied too well. She couldn’t twist free.
This sensation was new. She enjoyed knowing he was looking at her as she lay there naked and helpless. She reveled in her vulnerability, but she wanted him to finish it. She arched her back and twisted on the bed, partly in an effort to break free, partly because of her pent up sexual frustration. She was wet and eager. It was freeing to realize that nothing at all was required of her. She would only have to lie there, accepting what he gave her.
It was then that she began to notice his breathing. It was faster and more labored than before, almost like panting. There was also another noise: the noise of muscles working, of skin brushing against skin.
As she listened, she realized that he was jerking off. He had tied her down and now he would humiliate her again. She would get nothing.
She went wild. She knew how hard and ready he must be. She imagined the motion of his hand stroking. With each movement on the bed, she made herself more and more excited. She tried to rub her thighs together, but couldn’t. She was so close.
From the pitch of his voice, she could tell he was close, too. As he continued, she imagined the feel of his come landing on her exposed body. It would be a gesture that was dismissive, as if he cared nothing for what she wanted.
“Are you going to give me the combination?” he finally asked.
“I told you, I can’t,” she said.
“We’ll see about that.”
Suddenly, he was on top of her again. He reached underneath her and pinched her hard on the ass. “Give it to me,” he said.
He slid three fingers into her pussy, curling them forward. She almost came.
“Please, no,” she said.
“Have it your way, then,” he said.
He was kneeling between her legs. As he spoke, he grabbed her by the hips, easily raising them up. She felt his cock brushing up against her.
Then, instantly, effortlessly, he pushed his way into her. He felt huge this time, and all consuming. Her arms and legs were held motionless by the bonds. Her hips were held up so easily against his strong body. She lay there as he took her by force again.
He pushed into her roughly twice more, and they both came. She felt it wash through her in waves as she clenched against him. Being suspended like that made her feel woozy as if she were falling, as if her stomach had jumped into her throat. He had opened her up, so utterly, like a key in a lock.
No, she thought, not like a key. Not as simple as that. It was more like a hand on a safe, slowly twisting the knob with your fingertips, listening for that muffled click as you slowly slide the lock gates into place, as you carefully divine a hidden combination.
Mara held her breath as this happened. As she exhaled, she slowly whispered several numbers.
“What?” he asked as he lowered her back down.
“The combination,” she smiled. “The safe.”
BACHELOR’S DESSERT
Alison Tyler
We have a standing date every Saturday night. I go out for ice cream with all of the fixings: chocolate sauce, whipped cream, jimmies. Even those little marinated cherries. Grayson stays home and preps the house for us—dims the lights, puts on the movie, starts the fire.
But when I get in line tonight, a man steps behind me. I feel him before I see him, sense his presence out of the corner of my eye. I scan the conveyer belt to see that he has a six-pack, a steak, and a bottle of whiskey.
“Bachelor’s dinner,” he says motioning to his groceries.
“Old married couple’s dessert,” I say, indicating mine.
He looks me up and down, slowly. I’m wearing my beat-up Levi’s and my riding boots. A T-shirt so old and threadbare you can see the color of my bra underneath—lemon yellow, with lace on the edges. I have to use a safety pin to make the clasp hold. No mascara. No eyeliner. The blush on my cheeks is for real.
Once upon a time, I dressed up for Saturday nights. I wore flirty sundresses and strappy sandals in the summer, velvet slacks and silken turtlenecks in the fall. I washed the barn smell off me at the end of the day and spritzed green tea perfume at the nape of my neck, under my long dark hair.
Now, I zip up the cornflower blue hoody so that I’m less exposed, and the man gives me a cocky grin and says, “I liked it better the other way.”
My turn to pay saves me from having to respond. I fumble with the crumpled twenty, stuff the change in my pocket, and head out of the store as quickly as I can—home to safety, to one big bowl of ice cream that we’ll share together on the sofa with two cold silver spoons, to a movie so old and familiar we can say the lines out loud. We used to fuck in front of the TV, matching the actors move for move.
Now we watch them fuck.
And we eat dessert.
But when I reach the old Buick, I can’t find my car keys. I set the paper bag of groceries on the ground so I can pat my pockets, turn my sweatshirt practically inside out. My nerves are so rattled that when the stranger comes up behind me, I bite my lip to stifle a scream.
“You left these on the counter,” he says, dangling my key ring in front of my eyes like a hypnotist with a pocket watch. I grab for the keys, but he holds them out of reach. He acts as if he’s going to hand them over, and then taunts me once more, so I go up on tiptoe, but still can’t grab the ring.
“Ask nicely,” he chides, and I catch that cocky grin once more. He’s toying with me, his groceries tucked into the crook of his arm, his body all long and lean in a denim jacket and faded jeans. He’s not breathless the way I am. This is a game to him. But I feel the wisps of hair pulling free from my ponytail, feel the back of my T-shirt damp against my skin.
“Please,” I say, as nicely as I can. I know in my head, in my heart, that what I ought to do is return to the brightly lit store and get help from the manager. Why am I playing games with a stranger? He could be dangerous. He could have a knife, or a gun. He could have dark sinister plans for me….
“Please what?”
Like that. The tone in his voice. I can hear exactly what those plans are. He wants to fuck me. He wants to take down my jeans and push me over the hood of my car, drive his cock into me so that I cry out. I know he’s thinking of the way that cold metal will feel on my hot skin, the way his hand will find my hair, tug on it, pull my face up, make my body arch.
I look into his eyes. They’re a blue that’s nearly silver, like that eerie light you see both at dawn and dusk. I can’t get a read from those eyes.
“Please, Sir,” I say, trying my own little half a smile, “Can you help a lady out? I seem to have misplaced my keys.”
I watch, a bit shell-shocked, as he slides them into his front pocket.
Does he want me to put my hand down there and reach for the keys, brush the tips of my fingers against what I can guess is the rock-hard ridge of his cock? I take a breath. I lean against the solid frame of my car. I bring one hand up to my mouth—nervous habit—and bite at my knuckles.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he says. “Your hands are too pretty.” And he takes mine in his and pulls me to him, like we’re dancing.
Jesus, I think. How’d I get here? From old married couple’s dessert, to a bachelor’s dinner? He drops his bag of groceries through the open window of the truck parked next to mine, a dark gray pickup truck that somehow suits him perfectly. Then he spins me and pushes me up against the hood. There is nothing to think about now. I know what’s coming. I know what his hands are going to
feel like as he pops open the fly of my 501s, yanks them down to my thighs with my panties in one single motion. I draw in my breath as he presses against me. He’s still clothed, but I’m exposed. His jeans rub against my ass, and I bite down on the words that want to escape my lips, begging words.
Please fuck me. Please, fucking god, just fuck me.
I push from my mind the fact that we’re out in the open, in the middle of a popular grocery store parking lot. Because we’re not really that exposed, tucked off in the corner. And it’s that empty hour, when most sane people are home or out on dates. Not shopping for groceries, and certainly not getting fucked in grocery store parking lots.
But I’m not getting fucked either. Not yet.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, and I feel his big hand close on the back of my neck. I shudder all over. I can’t speak. I’m so damn wet, and so damn scared, and every dark desire, every unspoken fantasy I’ve ever dared to have seems to be poised right here, on the tip of my tongue.
“Say it.”
His hand tightens, but I am frozen, speechless. A car sweeps by, keeps going. We’ve gone unnoticed. Or we’ve passed as a couple of lovers out kissing in the dark. Except we’re not kissing. He’s got his cock pressed against me through one layer of denim, and he’s waiting for me to speak.
At least, he was.
He’s not waiting anymore. The man pulls back just enough to pop his own fly, and then I feel the heat of him against my naked skin. I’ve waited too long to say what I want. Now, he’s going to take what he wants.
The head of his cock presses into me, and he feels the instant wetness envelope him. His groan makes me shiver. He doesn’t loosen his grip on my neck, but now his hand slips around so he’s holding the front of my throat. Oh, holy fuck, I’ve never felt anything so sexy.
He thrusts into me once, twice, hard and fast, and tears leak from my eyes. But I am not prepared for what he does next. With his cock all glossy and wet from my pussy, he pulls back, and then I feel the pressure at my asshole, and I stiffen, but he doesn’t hesitate. There is no “Tell me you want this” now. There is only his cock, driving in hard, not waiting, not going slow.
He’s fucking my ass in the parking lot of a Lucky’s and I am going to melt into an oil slick like the one right next to my feet, rainbow lit and shimmery in the halo of saffron from the streetlights.
The safety pin holding my bra together digs into my back as he slams into me. The car metal bites my skin. I am demolished as he lets go of my throat, as he grinds one big hand down my body and presses his thumb to my clit so I come when he comes, as he empties himself into me.
There is the smell of exhaust and dark wet asphalt.
No perfume has ever smelled sweeter.
“They were out of jimmies,” I tell Grayson when I get home—rumpled, breathless. Does he notice? “I had to drive to two other stores.”
He pats the sofa at his side. There in the den of darkness, waiting, fire crackling.
I breathe in deep. He’s got steak cooking. I can hear the sizzle.
EXTREME DOGGING
Dylan Reed
The sedan pulled up at about eleven forty-five to where the big skinhead sat on a bus stop bench reading a True Detective. He was about six four and burly, shaved headed, with a couple days’ growth. He was not wearing a jacket, just a tight white T-shirt, snug faded blue jeans, and combat boots.
The redhead in the backseat was packed into a loose summer dress of thin black cotton; her braless tits were halfway visible at the edges of the spaghetti straps, and with her legs held partway open, the cuckolder could see the lacy tops of her sheer black stockings where they hitched to her black garter belt. She also wore high heels, which would have looked amazingly fetching on her five-ten frame if she’d been standing up. Her pretty, pale, lightly freckled face was ringed with a cascading mane of copper hair.
“How’s it going,” he said.
She nodded. “I’m Vanessa.”
No other conversation was necessary. The guy did not introduce himself. He got into the backseat.
The redhead kissed him. It was a wet kiss on her part, and a dry one on his; he didn’t respond but kept his lips tight together. Vanessa got the message: maybe this was some kind of gay public sex no kissing rule. Either way was fine with her.
She tucked her long legs under her perfect ass and cuddled up against him, taking his hand and leaning heavily on his great bulk; she let her hand rest casually in his lap, not far from his cock, which was stiffening.
Mark hit the gas and headed for the nearest onramp. As her husband drove, Vanessa gently kissed the cuckolder’s ear, letting her tongue laze out to tease it; she let her breath come harder than it normally would have—not because she was really out of breath, but because she liked to feel the cuckolder’s cock stirring against her, and she knew from experience that one of the sure-fire ways to get a man hard in moments is for a woman to begin panting up against him. There were a thousand other ways, but she liked this one. It worked flawlessly.
“Have you ever gotten a blowjob on the freeway?” Vanessa asked.
The cuckolder shook his head.
“Hey, you two,” said Mark nervously. “None of that, now. No below-the-waist till we get to the Point. You know the rules!”
“Fuck the rules,” said Vanessa.
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Mark, chastened. The car seat squeaked as his hips worked absently up and down.
She winked in the dark at the cuckolder; she smiled and he did not smile back. He was looking at her, his eyes roving over her tits, her face, her long legs tucked under a perfect ass.
“It won’t be long,” she said.
The cuckolder let his arm drape around her, caressing the side of her breasts as she ran her open palm over his stiffening cock.
It was ten minutes before Mark pulled into the parking space. That short drive, in fact, was one of the two biggest reasons this particular cuckolder had been lucky enough to get Vanessa tonight—ease of access. The other was—
“Oh, my,” said Vanessa. “You weren’t lying.”
“Not by much,” admitted the cuckolder as Vanessa’s hand, which had slid down his pants during the ride, moved gently up and down. There was a screech-chunk sound as Mark set the parking break.
“Take a walk, Mark,” Vanessa said.
Mark looked over the back of the seat, watching his wife stroke the skinhead’s big cock.
“I said take a walk,” Vanessa said as she lowered her face to his crotch. “You can watch like all the others.”
Mark got out of the car and slammed it behind him. He clicked the electronic lock and the sedan chirped. It would keep some overzealous voyeur from trying to hop into the action, which occasionally happened, though Mark was fairly sure the cuckolder could take care of anyone who tried anything too forward—including him. Mark’s cock stiffened as he stood a few feet away; a few other guys were standing at respectful distances for now, creeping closer. One already had his cock out.
“What’s your story, man?” he asked.
“I’m watching, same as you.”
“She your girlfriend?”
“Wife,” he said.
“No kidding! That’s fucking awesome. Hey, you think I could—”
“No,” said Mark.
“Of course, man. Had to ask, man. Don’t mind if I watch, though?”
“That’s what we’re here for.”
Mark resisted the urge to pull his own cock out just yet—there’d be a long, sweet suck before he saw her riding him. He knew it from experience—always ten minutes of suck, and at least ten of fuck, depending on the guy. The Point was the only place where you could get away with half an hour in the public eye without attracting law enforcement attention. He stood a few feet away and watched as the couple in the car got down to business.
Inside the car, the windows were steaming up. The cuckolder reached out for Vanessa and pulled the top of her dress between her tits, revealing pe
rfect breasts with pale nipples, freckles dusting the former, goose bumps on the latter. He teased the dress there and held it, bent down and sucked one nipple into his own mouth. He caressed the other breast with his open hand as she relaxed into the seat and let her arms laze over the back of it. The cuckolder made love to her tits and Vanessa reached up to untie her dress at the back of her neck. The dress fell forward, giving the cuckolder greater access to her tits; he made love to them hungrily as she reached for his cock. As she ran her open palm over his bulge, she stroked the fingers of her other hand through his almost-skinhead hair; he moved from one breast to the other as his hand went up her dress.
He knew already that she was bare and wet; he could smell her, even over the lingering scent of her husband’s sweat and the chemical smell of a car too-recently cleaned. The upholstery of this bucket probably got a regular workout, the cuckolder knew.
As he put his hand up her dress, she went wide there on the seat, spreading her legs for him. His hand glided up and down the inside of her perfect freckled thigh, nearing her cunt; he got his fingers up against her, teasing her slit. He felt her melting onto his hand as he began to tease her open. She was snug, a practiced tightness, and as slick as cunts can be. He put two fingers deep inside her and his thumb against her clit. She moaned. She could feel her G-spot swelling, and if his skills at finger-fucking were any indication, he could too; he started to press against it, working the pads of his fingers over her swelling inside bulge as her cunt juiced still more.
As he finger-fucked her smoothly, he put his face right up to hers, and she parted her lips to be kissed.
But the cuckolder didn’t kiss her; their only kiss so far had been the abortive one when he got in. Vanessa loved to be kissed, almost as much as she loved to suck cock. Vanessa leaned forward slightly to press her lips to his, and he pulled back. His eyes narrowed and held hers tightly; she fell into them desperately with a sharp surge of abstract pleasure: “Whores don’t get kissed, they get fucked,” she whispered.