Fall in Love

by Anthology

  Attached to the leather strapping, a dildo faces outward. A shorter, curved, insertable plug rides high on the interior, intended to pleasure the woman wearing the contraption. I rise onto my knees so he can fit the tip of my end to the opening of my pussy.

  He works the blunt instrument into my channel bit by bit, making my head fall back as I welcome the thick intrusion as deep as it will go. His wife moans then shifts beneath me, urging us to hurry. He buckles the flat, black leather around my waist, tightening the straps until the bullet vibrator embedded in the center tucks against my clit.

  A heavy rubber cock juts from between my legs. The weight of the appendage tugs on the segment buried inside me. I want to fuck as never before, but I hand a condom and the lube to the husband first.

  He groans as he rips open the package with his teeth as though he’s done it a million times before. The rubber is rolled down the artificial length of my cock within seconds. I wait for him to drizzle lubrication on the shaft, but he dips his fingers between my hips and his wife’s instead.

  He brings the glistening digits to his mouth and cleans her arousal from them. “She doesn’t need this.”

  The tube is dropped to the floor, forgotten.

  The man grabs hold of the strap-on more roughly than I would have. Guys have a way of knowing their limits when it comes to the hard flesh between their legs. Even I am not as bold as a fully aroused man when he touches his own cock.

  He guides me to his wife, fitting the broad, plum-shaped head to her saturated folds. The resistance of her clenched muscles drives the portion of the device inside me deeper, making me shudder and moan.

  I can’t help but push again and again until I work the strap-on inside her even as I grind myself on the solid intrusion. Soon we are both moaning and wriggling together. Her husband alternates seductive kisses at her mouth with love bites on her neck and breasts.

  When I am lodged as far as I can be in her pussy, our slick tissue is separated only by the thin panel of leather our toys are riveted to and the metal sphere it also holds. Oh God. The vibrator! This experience has me so carried away I almost forgot.

  I grab the remote from my pile of supplies and hand it to the husband. He grins when he sees what I’ve given him. The ability to control our ecstasy now lies in his grasp.

  I begin to fuck with steady strokes—slower, deeper and more gently than any man has made love to me. The motion highlights every nerve ending, caresses every pleasure point and arouses with every decadent glide. Focused on assuring our pleasure, I lose track of the husband.

  Moans and sighs fill the air. I can’t say if they’re mine or the wife’s or both. Just when I think I have to move faster or kill us both with unfulfilled longing, her stare flies to mine. I cry out with the intense rapture assaulting my clit. But as quick as it appeared, it vanishes.

  My mouth hangs open as I turn to face the husband. He now reclines with a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat, his hand idly stroking his half-hard cock. With no pressure to perform, it seems he’s able to regain some ground. His wife’s hand has meandered up his thigh. Her fingertips manipulate his shriveled scrotum, making his balls roll between her fingers.

  I’ll have to remember that trick.

  It sure as hell seems to drive her husband wild.

  When he catches us staring, he blasts us with pulses from the vibrator. The riot of sensation washes over me, shocking me back into action. I buck my hips, glad to see his wife doing the same. We fuck each other, grinding into the vibrator between us when we need more stimulation or away if it becomes too much.

  Between us, the balance is perfect.

  With the control in hand, her devious husband keeps us suspended on the brink of orgasm for longer than I can keep track. Time slips away in a haze of pleasure, surpassing anything I have known tonight. Maybe ever.

  We continue our dance, one of us leading while the other follows before our roles reverse again until—finally—the wife cries for mercy beneath me.

  “Please, please.” She cries, her body shaking. “Make me come. Fuck me harder.”

  Her gaze leaves mine, focusing only on her husband. “Make us come.”

  The buzz between us reaches a fevered pitch and neither one of us can resist his control. The soft flesh beneath me, cradling me, convulses. It jiggles and cushions my tense muscles. My hardened nipples leave an impression in her warmth and my pussy smothers the object within it as I explode.

  The husband places a hand on my back, rubbing soothing circles when I begin to come down from the peak. He kisses his wife as he drinks in her fulfillment.

  I lay shivering and spent, completely wrecked, over the beautiful, limp woman beneath me. Together we snuggle, getting comfortable as we turn our attention to the man who made our experience possible.

  I’m surprised when he kneels over us, tall and confident, a full erection in his grip.

  I start to get to my knees, already reaching for the last condom behind me, but it’s too late.

  He bellows as his orgasm slams into him. His wife and I watch as cum arcs from the slit in head of his penis. She sighs when he paints her breasts with the pearly liquid. Line after line splatter across the mounds of her chest, decorating her in a decent imitation of a Jackson Pollock painting.

  His orgasm is impressive, unleashing months—if not years—of unsatisfied lust. And when it is complete, his wife reaches for his hip then draws him near. She laps the last drop dangling from his shrinking organ and savors the taste. The moment.

  I feel like a trespasser violating their intimate success. I avert my eyes and stir, but the wife redoubles the embrace of her arms around my shoulders. Her husband joins us in a pile of boneless limbs, soft words and lingering caresses that outlast our prescribed hour.

  When we finally rise, gather our clothes and head downstairs, I’m exhausted.

  The husband kisses my cheek then exits the tight space, waiting for his wife on the cobblestone street outside.

  “Thank you for saying what I couldn’t find words for. I think that made all the difference.” The wife leans forward to kiss me—soft, slow and sincere—before parting with a smile. “I’ll always remember you.”

  “Same here. Good luck.”

  I am many things—whore, lover, teacher, psychologist, nurse—but, above all, a woman like any other. Watching the couple depart, their bond strengthened, cemented, does my heart good. Knowing that I had a tiny part in their happiness warms my soul as much as it clenched my pussy.

  Sharing their joy is a benefit of my position I could never quantify or adequately explain to someone who has never experienced it before.

  I smile to myself as I realize they never asked my name. And that, had they wondered, I would have told them.

  To them, I am not important. Not me specifically.

  The anonymity makes the encounter perfect and my night complete.

  Daybreak

  Through my window, the dawn is approaching.

  I don’t see the trampled fliers advertising women who fuck dogs on stage, the empty drug baggies or the condom wrappers littering the streets—flotsam and jetsam of another stormy night in Amsterdam—as I lock my window behind me. I choose to watch the halo building over the row houses and the elegant swans gliding along the canal in the reflection on the pane instead.

  I stretch my tired muscles as I turn toward home, prepared to crawl into bed—alone—and dream of the next time I’ll be so connected to the heartbeat of life.

  I smile at the promise of another night to come, another series of adventures.

  From the outside, looking in, I know there are more lessons to be learned about myself and the world surrounding me.

  Through my window is my destiny.

  Jayne Rylon is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. She received the 2011 Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Indie Erotic Romance. Her stories used to begin as daydreams in seemingly endless business meetings, but now she is a full time author
, who employs the skills she learned from her straight-laced corporate existence in the business of writing. She lives in Ohio with two cats and her husband, the infamous Mr. Rylon. When she can escape her purple office, she loves to travel the world, avoid speeding tickets in her beloved Sky, and–of course–read.

  My First

  by

  Melanie Shawn

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  Chapter One

  Welcome home. Katie thought, sardonically, to herself as she sat, eyes closed, in her rental car on the side of Highway 90. She had a paper bag pressed tightly against her mouth with one hand, a picture in her other hand, and a mantra running through her brain on repeat.

  You can breathe. Just breathe. Breathe in and out slowly. You can breathe.

  Katie had been back in Illinois for less than an hour and here she was, smack dab in the middle of her first panic attack in years. Concentrating on the feeling of her thumb running across the smooth cool surface of the photo, she tried to soothe her racing heart, to anchor herself to reality. Her tongue was tingling as she forced the rapid movements of her chest to be slow and deliberate.

  This seems to be working, albeit slowly, she assured herself.

  When the overpriced therapist, who taught her the breathing exercise and mantra, had laid out his plan of connecting to an object or smell that calmed her, Katie had wanted to roll her eyes. She had wanted to tell him that he clearly had no flipping idea what a panic attack really felt like if he thought that repeating a little magic spell in her mind about breathing and spraying a calming scent, or holding an object in her hand, was going to have any effect at all. She had wanted to tell him that panic attacks didn't feel like nervousness or butterflies you could just calm with the power of your mind. They felt like you were having a heart attack, like you were dying. Seriously, had anyone ever heard of someone having a heart attack curing themselves by simply telling themselves to breathe while holding a knick-knack or sniffing some aroma therapy that miraculously calmed them?

  Of course, Katie hadn't said any of those things. She had smiled politely and kept her judgment of his professional aptitude (i.e., that he was a total quack.) entirely to herself. Then, like the good student she was, she’d gone home and practiced with the bag and tried spraying a few scents, but, found they never made her feel any sense of calm and happiness, like holding the picture she’d had since sixth grade did.

  After that visit, the panic attacks had stopped and so she hadn’t had the opportunity to test out the technique and prove his quackitude with rock-solid evidence. Now that she was in the middle of one, and, the exercises actually seemed to be working…

  Well, I'll move his status down to 'Jury's Still Out on the Level of His Quackosity' but I'm not nominating him for the Nobel Prize just yet, Katie thought. Of course, this wasn’t even close to a bad attack. This one was fairly mild.

  But, that’s exactly how they had started ten years ago. They had begun as hyperventilating episodes; and, over time, had developed into severe attacks resulting in her being rushed to the emergency room—twice—both times having truly believed she was having a heart attack. Which had not been the case.

  The E.R. docs were the reason she had ended up lying on the overpriced therapist’s couch (metaphorically speaking; in reality she had sat in a plush leather chair). Once the doctors at the hospital had ruled out the possibility that anything was physically wrong with her, they had strongly recommended that she delve into the possibility that it was her psyche, not her body, that needed medical attention.

  Even now, as the panic attack was subsiding, Katie was still feeling some of the physical symptoms. Her head felt as if it were floating away, her fingers were tingling as if they were being stabbed by a thousand tiny needles, and she was being bombarded by an obnoxiously loud ringing sound. She forced herself to anchor to the sensation of the paper bag digging into her lips and the glossy feeling of the photographic paper beneath her fingers to ground her in reality as she looked down into the large brown eyes staring back at her from the picture and repeated the mantra (which, she had to admit, was kind of growing on her.)

  You can breathe. Just breathe. Breathe in and out slowly. You can breathe.

  Slowly, bit by bit, she drifted back to the present and into her body. Closing her eyes, she let herself appreciate the little sensations she was now aware of—the leather of the seat pressed cold against her back, the icy breeze from the air conditioning blowing refreshingly on her face.

  Leaning her head back against the headrest, she felt the weight of her chest rising and falling. Her arms felt heavy. Lowering them to her sides, Katie was vaguely aware that the paper bag had slipped from her hand and landed on the console beside her, but she’d maintained a firm grip on her picture.

  After several minutes, her breathing returned to normal and the ringing sound in her head grew sporadic. Katie searched her memory in an attempt to identify if ‘sporadic ringing in the head’ was a normal side effect post-panic attack. She hated that these horrible attacks used to occur with such frequency that she actually had a personal database of experiences to check her symptoms against.

  Nope, she concluded, the sporadic ringing is new.

  Turning her head to take in her surroundings, she saw cars whizzing by on the interstate. She squinted against the glare of the sun, which was shining brightly down on the pavement and bouncing off the car windshields speeding by.

  Setting her picture carefully on her lap, Katie retrieved the paper bag and folded it up, returning it to her purse. She didn't love the thought that she might need to keep it handy for future use, but better safe than sorry. Katie had always dealt in facts, and the fact was it had been less than an hour off the plane and barely starting down the highway towards Harper's Crossing and she’d had a panic attack. Did she really think she’d be getting through the rest of the weekend unscathed? Not likely.

  As she placed the paper bag inside her gigantic 'in case of emergency' carry-on bag, she discovered the source of the ringing.

  She felt like an idiot. On the bright side, at least she didn’t have to add tinnitus to the looooong list of symptoms that characterized her panic attacks. On the flip side? Apparently, she no longer recognized her own cell phone's ring tone.

  Picking up her iPhone, she swiped the screen to answer, saying warmly, “Hey Sophiebell!”

  “Katie, where are you? I just called the house and they said you weren’t there. I’m running last minute errands with Bobby, but I thought you would be here by now. Was your flight delayed? I can’t wait to see you,” Sophie squealed, the words tumbling out of her mouth one over another.

  Katie smiled to herself. She had always thought that Sophie Hunter could paraphrase that old Army motto to adopt as her own. 'I say more before nine a.m. than most people say all day.'

  “The flight was fine. I am on my way, and I will be there in less than an hour. I can’t wait to see you, too.”

  “Okay, hurry,” Sophie pleaded but then followed it up with the firm command, “but drive safe.”

  “I will. See you soon, bride-to-be.” Katie tried to cover the stress in her voice with ebullience as she said goodbye and hung up the phone.

  After replacing the phone in her purse, she gently lifted the picture she’d chosen for her object of security. It was of her and Jason Sloan, both eleven years old, at science camp. A knot formed in her throat and she bit her lip.

  Why? That was the one word question that always filled her mind when she looked at this picture or her thoughts drifted to the boy whose big brown eyes belonged to the scrawny kid with his arm thrown around her as they posed in front of Whisper Lake the summer before she’d met Sophie’s brother Nick. Before she’d been Nick’s girlfriend. Before Nick’s accident. Before Nick’s funeral. Before the night of Nick’s funeral.

  Why?

  Why had that night happened? Why had she done what she had? Why hadn’t she been able to face up to, and own, her actions? Why had she let
one night define the last ten years of her life? And considering all of those things, why did this picture bring her the comfort that nothing else could?

  Taking a deep breath Katie tried to mentally prepare herself for the fact that this weekend, whether she wanted to or not, she was going to have to face her past and the brown eyes that had haunted her for a decade.

  Jason Sloan.

  Jason had been her friend. Her best friend. At least, until ‘the incident’ had happened that fateful night that she’d made the biggest mistake of her life. Jason had also been Nick’s best friend. The entire town had lovingly nicknamed them The Three Musketeers.

  The same town that she hadn’t been back to since the day they buried Nick.

  It had been ten long years since Katie Marie Lawson had set foot in Harper's Crossing, the town of her childhood and her youth. She had never meant to stay away this long.

  When she originally left for school in California a decade ago, her plan had been to come back at Christmastime. Sitting at L.A.X., waiting for her flight that first holiday away from home had been her first experience with a bout of hyperventilation. She never got on the plane. The next episode occurred as she merely booked her flight that same year for spring break. That time, she hadn’t even made it to the airport. Then, they’d started to happen more frequently any time she was under stress. It took several years to get the episodes under control, during which she refrained from making travel plans.

  Then, after she graduated from law school at Pepperdine University, she immediately started working at Wilson, Martin, Gregory, and Assoc., a very prestigious law firm in San Francisco.

  The first three years at the firm flew by in a blur. Katie worked 80+ hours a week and even worked every holiday, including Christmas. She'd barely had time to breathe, let alone go out of town.

  Last year, even though she was on the fast track to make Junior Partner, she had taken a vacation. The plan had been to take a few days for herself—to decompress—and then head back to her hometown. She had booked her flight and the experience had been incident free.