H Is for Hardcore

by Alison Tyler

  When I was satisfied that she was well kissed, I moved down to capture one rosy nipple in my mouth. She gasped with pleasure. I suckled gently, teasing her, not giving her the pressure she really wanted. I blew on the wet flesh, watching it pucker. Emily would have loved to thread her hands through my hair and pull my face against her, encouraging me to bite and twist her nipples, but I held off.

  Then Emily asked, “Am I allowed to talk?”

  I grinned. “Did I say you were gagged?”

  “No.”

  “Then talking’s fine.”

  “I want you to play with my nipples harder,” she said.

  “What’s the magic word?” I trailed my fingertips across her breasts, circling her areolas.

  “Please. Oh, God, please. I can’t stand it!”

  I did play with them harder, but gradually, working my way up to nibbling and grazing my teeth against one while I pinched and tweaked the other. And I stayed there a good long time. I was giving Emily exactly what she wanted, but to the point that it was getting her so aroused that she was going insane. She was reduced to babbling and imploring me to lick her, to touch her clit, to do something.

  I let her beg for a few minutes, because it was turning me on something fierce, before I left a trail of kisses down her abdomen and turned my attention to between her spread thighs. She was so wet, her lips swollen and her clit pouting, I wanted to dive in and lick her, taste her, feel her quiver and hear her scream as I brought her to orgasm again and again.

  Instead, I slowly slid one finger into her. Her inner muscles clenched around me, but it wasn’t enough to make her come, just drive her a little more crazy. I removed my finger, caressed her gently from pussy to clit to ass, leaving a glistening trail. I slipped inside her again, gave a little teasing crook of my finger, and pulled out to the sound of her hissing breath. I used her own moisture as I played with her anus, just around the opening.

  Then I pulled out my next items: a bottle of lube and a string of anal beads.

  Her eyes widened.

  Coating my fingers, I carefully slid in and out of her, making sure she was relaxed and comfortable before I slid the beads in, one by excruciating one. I swear the hair on her forearms was standing up by the time I was finished.

  I tugged on the string, just a little, as she got used to the feeling of the beads stuffed inside her. I swear her clit was twitching. I’d never seen Emily so aroused, so on edge.

  Bondage, even only verbally enforced, was very, very good for her.

  Finally, I indulged my own desires and bent forward to lick her. I ran my tongue between her lips and all the way around her before flicking lightly against her clit. Her hips twitched, but she kept her butt firmly on the bed, as much as it must have been driving her crazy not to push against the fleeting pressure and find her release.

  “You’ve been very good,” I said. “Here’s your reward.”

  I fluttered my tongue against her needy clit and at the same time, as she started to pitch over the edge, I pulled the anal beads from her.

  Emily screamed.

  Her hands were clenched, her wrists pressed against her thighs as if they were actually trapped there. Her hips rocked up a little, but no more than they would if her ankles had been tethered to the bedposts. Her face contorted, her head thrashed back and forth, and the muscles in her neck stood out in relief from the force of her orgasm and her efforts not to move with it. Just as I’d imagined when we’d talked a few days ago, her hair was a wild tangle around her, and her body glistened with a light coat of sweat.

  Gorgeous. Wild and lustful and just plain gorgeous.

  My cock ached from want, and after that performance, I saw no need to hold off.

  When I thought she might be able to answer a simple question, I asked her, “Do you want me to come in your pussy or your mouth?”

  Emily licked her lips. “My mouth. Please.”

  She twitched, started to sit up. “Hold still,” I said. “I’ll let you know when you can move.”

  I shifted position, lifted her head so I could stick a pillow under it. Then I more or less knelt down over her face, stuck my cock into her mouth and began moving it in and out—slowly at first, a tease for both of us. “I’m fucking your mouth tonight,” I said. “Hold still and suck. I’ll do most of the work.”

  Keeping the patter up was tough enough with her hot little mouth around me, my cock moving between her lips, feeling the slight tug of her teeth now and then.

  But as I started moving faster and she caught the rhythm, sucking harder, caressing me with tongue and lips and pressure as I pushed in and out, talking coherently became out of the question. I was holding back as best I could, trying not to gag her, making myself resist the urge to fuck her mouth as hard and fast as I would her pussy.

  It wasn’t easy. I was close, so close. I needed just a little more stimulation.

  “Move,” I growled. “Use your hands…please…”

  One hand fluttered up to play with my taut balls, sending waves of sensation that almost pushed me over the edge.

  I couldn’t see her dip into her dripping sex, but she must have, because the finger suddenly circling my anus was slick with moisture.

  She didn’t need to press inside. That did it, that sure, delicate touch.

  I lost touch with the planet and pretty much everything on it except my dick for a few delicious seconds as I filled her mouth. It was all I could do to crawl a little forward so I didn’t actually land on her face when I collapsed.

  “May I move?” she asked. I nodded—talking was still beyond me.

  “Love you,” she muttered. “That was…wow.” She squirmed so that, lying more or less on her stomach, she could throw one leg and one arm over me.

  She may have said something else, but I couldn’t be sure because the next thing I knew it was almost dawn and we were still tangled together, her body holding me immobile as my words had held her.

  CHRIS COSTELLO

  THE GUY YOUR MOTHER WARNED YOU ABOUT

  HEY, COULD I GET A HEFEWEISEN over here?” I shouted at the top of my lungs, trying to be heard over the music blaring from the speakers. To me, my voice sounded squeaky, girly, too feminine—but the nasty look I got from Karita told me I was doing fine.

  I drew more dirty looks as I waited for my drink, which gave me a thrill. I could practically feel my cock throbbing in my pants as I leered at all the beautiful girls—and I felt like I should be embarrassed for having a hard-on. How long would it take them to make me, I wondered? Longer than I thought, as it turned out, because nobody came over and sat next to me.

  Fuck, I thought. I did it.

  Looked like nobody I knew well had decided to show up that night; that was probably part of the reason nobody spotted me. But I guess I still must have looked pretty convincing to get that kind of negative attention.

  Karita was a twentysomething punkette like me, only way more femme than I could ever hope to be (or want to). She was wearing a tight pair of leather pants that laced up the sides and a tight, low-cut, bright-red tank top that said, “I’M THE GUY YOUR MOTHER WARNED YOU ABOUT.” It was cut off just below her breasts. She looked even better than usual, and my practiced male swagger made me want to leer at those full breasts, the pretty face and bee-stung lips in a weirdly entitled fashion. I felt as if I had every right to walk up to this distant acquaintance and bury my face between her breasts, just because I wanted to, which was something I had never felt in my life.

  Feeling like that was making me incredibly wet.

  It was an empty night at the CoCo Club—maybe twenty women lounging about in various stages of festivity, a few of them dressed up, but most in their casual Sunday clothes—jeans, T-shirts, sharkskin jackets, leather, the uniform of mostly-under-thirty San Francisco dykes on the make.

  Sexy, tough, rugged, hip.

  There in the corner, though, sat the girl of my dreams. She was pale and gorgeous, femme and curvy and more than a little slutty look
ing, an impression she obviously cultivated. She always dressed up—I’d never seen her without heels, makeup, and her hair done up with that messy just-fucked look she liked to work. Tonight the girl was wearing a tight little red dress that would have been a slip on a more proper girl, and just barely that. I could see her breasts, braless, and her panty lines through the tight red slip, which my inner lech found incredibly sexy. She was also wearing a red feather boa casually draped around her shoulders, a trademark I’d seen on her more than a few times. Her stockings were black fishnet, the lace tops and garters visible just under the hem of the slip, and she had what must have been four-inch heels—wearing that kind of heels would have given me a broken nose if I was lucky.

  Karita had told me her name was Danielle, but we’d never been formally introduced. Still, we’d flirted more than a few times, and how I’d never managed to even get an introduction was beyond me, especially now that I was pumped up on imaginary male hormones. I resolved to walk up to her and introduce myself, then suddenly felt the butterflies in my stomach that had taken me over the last three times I’d tried. It’s not like Danielle hadn’t given me more than a few smoldering looks, but I was supposed to be the butch here, wasn’t I?

  Not that I was a real butch, most of the time—oh, I tried for that hard-edged swagger and a sneering chuckle, but a perky, boyish bounce and a red-faced and vaguely unfeminine giggle was the best I’d been able to manage. Tonight was different, though—I wasn’t just butch, I was a sexist pig and itinerant male oppressor, so Danielle could bloody well blow me. I’d barely had that thought when I saw her looking at me with a dreamy expression, a smirk on her face—had she made me? Or was she just so impressed by my cojónes in walking in here that she figured I was cool even if I was a party-crashing straight dude?

  God, she was fucking gorgeous—big brown eyes and long black hair that contrasted hard against her pale skin, lips painted the color of blood. I wanted to taste those lips so bad it hurt.

  Karita took her time with the beer, finally sauntering over well after I’d cracked the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue I’d brought along— the finishing touch, in case I had failed to piss anyone off. When Karita came over, she told me, much colder than the beer, “Three-fifty.”

  I handed her a five. “Here you go, doll face,” I said in my gruff voice, and patted her ass. “You can keep the change.”

  That’s when she made me—lucky thing, too, because her fist was already balled up. Dykes like Karita don’t slap.

  She bent forward and peered into my face.

  “Trey?” she asked tentatively. Then, “Tracey?”

  “The name’s Chad,” I told her. “That’s a great pair of pants you’re wearing, honey. Nice top, too. And I like what’s in it. You know, I really am the guy your mother warned you about. What time do you get off?”

  “Oh, I’m getting off right now,” she said, smirking at me. “Don’t worry, I won’t blow your cover, but you’re about to get lynched on the dance floor if nobody but me takes a closer look.”

  I crushed out my cigarette. “Thanks, sweet cheeks,” I said, hoping she didn’t see me go pale. “You need a big comfortable lap to sit in later, you know where to find me.”

  “Oh, I’ll find you,” she grinned. “But I have the feeling Danny’s going to find you first.”

  A chill went down my spine. Some leather fag bouncer they’d hired, maybe?

  “Danny?”

  “Danielle,” said Karita. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the way she’s looking at you, Chad.”

  Danielle was staring, her chin propped on her fist, her eyes roving over me from across the bar.

  I reddened.

  Karita disappeared and I drank half my Hefeweisen in one gulp. I tried to light another Marlboro and found my hands were shaking. I told myself this was too crazy—I couldn’t just walk over there and turn on the charm like some tough guy. I couldn’t even change the fucking oil on my Kia Sephia, for God’s sake. All right, I would have two more beers and then I’d go up and introduce myself to Danielle as Trey, she’d recognize me, I’d take off the mustache, I’d slip off the sharkskin suit and the suspenders, unknot the tie, and take off the dress shirt so she could see my slight breasts in the white undershirt I wore, know it was really me. Then we’d have a laugh over it and maybe I could ask for her phone number, take her to a film festival week after next. That was always good for a first date. No way was I going to play this charade of drag-king swagger with a girl I actually liked—that would be stupid; she’d never go for it. That sort of thing would seem silly to an accomplished glam queen like Danielle.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  I looked up from my beer and my ears popped; all of a sudden I felt dizzy and nauseous.

  “Y-yes?”

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” said Danielle, standing closer to me than I expected—so close I could smell her perfume even over the cigarette smoke and beer and sweat of the bar. What was it? Something I recognized, something my older sister Candace had worn to her junior prom.

  “I’m Danielle.” She put out her hand, palm down.

  I remembered my manners and stood. “I’m Chad,” I said, touching my lips to her hand and lingering a bit too long. “Chad Cooper.” I found myself taking a deep breath, sniffing up her arm like some character from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. I turned her hand over and smelled her wrist, finally placing the scent.

  “Chanel No. 5,” I said. Now that’s femme. “A beautiful scent for a beautiful woman.” My heart was pounding and I felt like I was about to faint—or throw up on her. That wouldn’t have been very butch at all.

  “Oh, Mr. Cooper,” said Danielle, making a show of hiding her face and even blushing a little bit—how the hell did she manage that?—even while her eyes showed a wicked sparkle and she licked her lips sexily. “You’re flattering me. I always get so embarrassed when men flatter me!”

  “I’m sure it happens a lot,” I said. “And please call me Chad.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said. “We’ve just met. I don’t want to seem, you know, that way.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with being that way,” I said. “And besides, we’re going to get a lot more familiar, you know.” Fuck, had I actually said that? Impossible. Feeling drunk with power and fear, I said, “Please sit down.”

  She moved to sit in the chair across from me, and I gently grasped her arm. “Not there,” I said, hardly believing I was doing this. I patted my lap. “It’s much more comfortable over here.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” She managed to suppress the smile that played at the edge of her mouth. I could see her nipples through the thin silk of her slip—harder than before? Was this turning her on? I knew I was so wet I could have slid right out of my chair.

  “Please,” I said, and Danielle didn’t have to be asked a third time. She slid into my lap and draped her arms around my shoulders, her breasts just inches from my face and straining to get through that lacy slip. Playfully, she twined her feather boa around my neck and tickled my nose with the other end. I breathed deeply of her scent and felt my cunt respond, my nipples pressing against the Ace bandage I’d used to bind my breasts. I knew from the way Danielle was sitting that she could feel the bulge of the precariously-arranged dildo strapped to my body and stuffed into my jockstrap—and in case I had any doubts, she began to squirm against it, rubbing her ass against my cock as if casually—but there wasn’t anything casual about it.

  I looked up into Danielle’s gorgeous face, hoping I didn’t look too much like a schoolgirl in love. To cover it up, I let one hand fall unceremoniously to the place where her ass rested on my knee, and brought my other hand up to her thigh, placing it where her garters met her lace-top fishnets, right at the lace hem of her slip, so much so that my thumb even went underneath the garment. I smiled up at her mischievously, like an adolescent boy doing something bad, which is how I felt—the part of me that wasn’t terrified she’d slug me and my chance
s would be ruined.

  But she didn’t slug me, didn’t pull away. Instead, she snuggled closer, letting her breasts hover ever closer to my face while she ran her fingers through my hair. She cocked her head and breathed seductively into my ear.

  “Waitress,” I shouted. “Get this lady a drink!” Then, softer, “What’re you drinking, Danielle?”

  “Cosmopolitan.”

  “One cosmopolitan,” I shouted to Karita. “You must have watched that HBO show with all those women.”

  “In bed with my clothes off,” said Danielle with a smile. “Every fucking week.”

  Karita brought the cosmopolitan and another beer, and I held up a ten.

  “On the house,” said Karita. “Dykes with balls get special consideration.”

  “Then go buy yourself something lacy, doll face,” I said, holding out the ten.

  Karita smiled. “Oh, you mean it, Mr. Cooper?” She set down the tray of drinks on an adjacent table and put both her hands on her tits, pushing them together and bending forward until she could pluck the bill away with her cleavage. She did exactly that, and I didn’t move the bill to make it any easier for her. A couple of women across the bar hooted and applauded as Karita came away with the bill stuck between her breasts at the slight V of her tank top. I guess by then they’d figured out I wasn’t a tourist. Karita bent forward and gave me a kiss on the lips.

  “Whore,” said Danielle, putting her hand on my cheek. “Get your own man.” She kissed me, too, her full lips meeting mine and her slender tongue teasing its way into my mouth as Karita made a snide comment—“That’s what I was doing, slut”—and danced away.

  Danielle’s lips parted with mine and she smiled.

  “You don’t know what a thrill it is to get a man in here,” she cooed. “I mean a real man.” She squirmed some more against my cock.

  “I guess you don’t get many guys,” I said gruffly. “I mean, in this kind of a club.”