by Alison Tyler
The subway platform sizzled with the vitality of horny humans, frisky organisms who had bundled their hormones into workaday clothing but who nonetheless represented pure erogenous energy. The women’s thighs, bare below flirty summer dresses, sang desire to me, and their naked, friendly shoulders seemed to invite unseen lovers.
And yet not all lovers were unseen that morning. On the train, I was presented with an excellent view of a couple standing halfway down the car from me, who wrapped themselves into an erotic embrace as I watched with art-history-trained eyes. Their faces were blocked from my line of sight, but the woman’s skirt, taut where her pelvis pressed against her guy, was beautifully framed for me by the surrounding passengers, giving the scene an aesthetic quality that enhanced its arousing essence.
I realized I wanted this, today, too—or something very much like this.
It had been four years since I’d abandoned small-town life in favor of urban society. Many of my peers who’d moved to the city around the same time were becoming blasé by now: the initial magic had faded. But I’d had the opposite experience. The city had been unexpectedly dull and dreary to me when I’d first arrived—a place weighed down by my goals and ambitions, I realized in retrospect—and only later had it flowered into something exciting, a place of fresh experiences and unanticipated thrills.
A place to keep my eyes and ears open, and my libido idling at the ready.
Out on the sidewalk, there seemed to be so many enchanting women everywhere I looked that I couldn’t even glance at all of them. To be thorough I would have had to break stride, and thereby risk causing offense—and meanwhile, of course, I’d inevitably miss my chance to see another lovely individual or two. It was hopeless, wonderfully hopeless.
At the café, a bright, graceful figure with an impish smile added sugar to her coffee while I was putting milk in my own. She hummed uninhibitedly, at a volume so low that only I could hear it. I liked that.
Then, not so gracefully, she dropped some sugar packets. They fell in my direction.
“Sorry,” she said pleasantly.
Perhaps it was just the fever of that day, but I sensed an opportunity.
“Are you throwing sugar at me?” I teased.
My heart raced and my cock pulsed when she responded in kind. “Of course I’m throwing sugar at you. You have a problem with that?” She smirked right at me, looking so smart and bratty—and so happy to have accidentally discovered an ad hoc bantering partner.
“I feel it only fair to warn you,” I retorted with pretend stuffiness, “that flinging sugar packets in my general direction will get you nowhere.”
“Aww,” she pouted.
“Well…okay. Perhaps we can work something out.”
She laughed.
“I’m Nina,” she said, as we exited.
“Philip.” We both shuffled our coffees leftward so that we could shake hands.
“Which way are you walking?” she asked casually.
I explained that turning either right or left to walk around the block would get me to work with equal efficiency, as my office was directly behind the café.
“That’s fascinating,” she said, with a stage yawn and a wink. “But if there’s more to that story, you’d better save it.” She pointed at the face of her watch and raised her eyebrows at me. Then she nodded left, and together we proceeded in that direction.
“Do you drink coffee after work, too?” I asked her on the side street, in front of her workplace.
“No.” She paused. “But I throw sugar.”
“Now, there’s a coincidence. After work, I catch sugar.”
“Five thirty?” Nina suggested.
We acquired our evening coffees—my habitual one and the unaccustomed one that Nina ordered in my honor—and took them out into the downtown maze.
The weather was, if anything, even more admirable than it had been in the morning. And, without overtly conferring, we began walking away from the center of town, joking about office life and volleying flirtation-soaked verbal tennis balls, served with plenty of teasy spin.
“I had a feeling you were leading me to the park,” I kidded as we passed through the gate. We both knew we had chosen this destination together, by unspoken consensus.
“Yes. Now you can tell everyone I took you ‘parking.’ Hey, you actually laughed at that!” She seemed genuinely gratified. “I’m more used to getting groans with my puns.”
“No groans from me on your watch, I promise. But you may hear some moans, at the appropriate juncture.”
“I insist on it. I’m just hoping you’ll find my, uh, juncture to be an appropriate one.”
This time I laughed so loudly that heads turned our way. Nina beamed possessively and guided me past the gawking passersby.
I wasn’t usually much for outdoor sex. But there was something special about this day—and something very special about Nina—and it could not be denied that I yearned to fuck her standing up and as soon as possible, in some semisecluded pocket of summer evening. I was already imagining her blissful face in the barely slanting, near-solstice light; I could practically feel her mischief-tinged sweetness painting me up and down.
At a spot where several paths diverged, she stopped me, resting a possibility-charged hand on my elbow.
“I know an ideal place for…throwing sugar,” she said. Her eyes momentarily lost their glint of playfulness and looked hopeful; sincere; vulnerable.
I kissed her coffee-sultry lips before letting her guide me down the rightmost branch of the path. Her fingers maintained their grip on my arm.
Nina knew the way to the little building used by park staff as a home base for summer children’s programs. She also knew that these programs would not be starting until July. Though the building was locked, there was open access to a small patio behind it, which was largely shielded from the path by a vine-covered latticework wall. At the moment, this wall looked like nothing so much as a vertical bed.
And there wasn’t even a bedspread to turn down.
I nibbled Nina’s ear as she pulled my torso close. Her breath, like everything today, was sweet. “Perfect,” she whispered, her voice belying the vigor with which she was pawing at my shirt buttons.
My hands floated under her skirt, and Nina ground her crotch against me. “I don’t know what it is,” she confessed with a frantic titter. “I can’t remember the last time I wanted to fuck so desperately.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I murmured into her neck.
“Ever since I woke up, I’ve been ready to crackle into flames.” Her hand was on my zipper. “All day, Spark.” Thus she nicknamed me, just as my cock found a temporary home in her palm.
After quickly donning a condom, I found my handholds on the waistband of her satin knickers. With sensuous slowness I escorted them down, letting the cool fabric tickle the hot flesh of her hips and thighs. When they fell to the patio, she stepped out of them, and without further ado she split her engorged pussy lips with my hard-on—wiggling on my tip so as to delight me with her softness and moisture, and herself with my stiffness.
“Share my pussy, Spark,” she breathed, as she hugged me tighter to drive my cock home. Her voice was rich with complex layers of pleasure. The word share echoed in my mind.
As I started thrusting, I glanced down to notice the shine of girl-come smiling up from the inside of her discarded panties. Even her underwear is grinning, I said to myself.
But all thought vanished when Nina began to really move our coupling forward. Her body took every bit of energy from the air and transmuted it into thrashing, primal electricity. I held on to her ass for dear life as she churned on me.
When she made me come, I came in response to the moment, the day, the summer—and Nina, Nina, Nina. I pinched an asscheek while fondling her clit, and the irresistible climax claimed her as well. She bathed me, titillating my aftershock-twitching shaft with her ecstasy, and dampening my shorts into the bargain.
“Are you t
hrowing sugar at me?” I growled passionately, and her cunt giggled spasms of happiness in reply.
BOUND TO SERVE
Mina Murray
Kellan will be here soon. It’s time. When he demanded my secret from me last night, I thought first of lying, but he held my orgasm ransom until I told him what he wanted to know.
“What’s the one fantasy you’ve never told anyone?” he asked.
I was on my back, spread wide before him, open to his gaze. His arm stretched out across my leg, hand gripping me right at the juncture of hip and thigh, while his elbow pinned me to the bed. I would’ve said it made me feel uncomfortable, but it didn’t.
Kellan’s other hand played between my legs, his thumb rubbing my clit, his middle finger teasing the entrance to my sex, but it was his mouth, his voice, his words that devastated me and set my senses reeling.
“I want you to tell me the one thing you’re too afraid to tell anyone, even me. I want all your secrets, Angie”—I tried to thrust my hips up at him, but he pulled his fingers away—“and I won’t let you come until I have them.”
He’d been teasing me for what felt like hours, bringing me to the brink and then retreating. I was desperate for release, but I didn’t know if I could pay the price he’d set.
“You want to come, don’t you, baby?”
His fingers ghosted over my clit, and I bit my lip and nodded.
“I want—” Oh, please, don’t let him laugh at me, I thought.
“Yes?” he asked encouragingly, increasing the pressure of his circling fingers.
“I want to serve as your table…” I was mumbling, and Kellan leaned in closer, a quizzical expression on his face.
“You want to sell me a fable?”
“No.” The words tumbled out of me and I thought I would die of mortification. “I want you to use me as your coffee table.”
Kellan went stone quiet. He knew how to honor a bargain, though, so he recovered quickly and stroked me just the way I needed and all of a sudden I was coming. The tides of sensation crashing over me; the shocked look on his face; the admission, out loud, of something I’d tried so hard not to acknowledge even to myself; all combined into a perfect storm of feeling and I burst into tears.
He kept stroking me until the trembling stopped, then took me in his arms and kissed me.
“That sounds hot. Let’s do it.”
And so here I am, on all fours and naked except for some fuck-me shoes and the rope I used to tie my thighs and ankles together. I hear Kellan’s key in the lock and my breath catches in my throat. Wiping all expression from my face, I let my gaze fall to the ground.
He drops his bag at the door, shrugs out of his clothes and leaves them on the floor. Clad only in boxer briefs, he wanders to the fridge and swigs directly from the carton of juice. He then proceeds to scratch his balls, and readjust his junk.
Kellan is the most fastidiously tidy and dignified man I’ve ever met. He has to be putting this Neanderthal show on for my benefit. He ambles over and flops down on the couch, puts his feet up in the small of my back and pops the cap off the beer he’s holding. He fumbles clumsily for the remote and flicks on the TV.
To give him some credit, he’s only slightly startled when the porno he thought I didn’t know about starts playing. It’s definitely one of the filthier titles he owns, no high-scale production values, no artfully conceived plot, just pure fucking. A blonde woman with pneumatic tits is getting drilled onscreen, and the devil’s threesome she signed up for has soon turned into an unstoppable, all-out gangbang.
I feel Kellan shifting on the couch and his heels dig into my back as he wrestles down his underwear so he can tug at his cock with one hand. I glance to the left and almost moan when I see how hard he is. His hand is gliding furiously over his erection, rubbing over the shaft and twisting over the head in a circular motion while he makes these little groaning noises.
He moves his feet, places the bottle of beer squarely in the middle of my back and starts to palm his balls with his now-free hand. I manage to hold the bottle up for nearly half a minute, but I get a mad itch in my foot and that one second of inattention leads to an upended bottle and a stream of liquid trickling over my back, between my buttocks and along the seam of my sex. It’s so cold I almost yelp, but I bite my lip hard and manage to stay silent.
“Aw, shit,” Kellan says, then goes to the kitchen to get a cloth.
His hand is still on his cock when he comes up behind me and starts cleaning me with the cloth, polishing over the long line of my back and down between my legs and up again, as if I truly were made out of wood and he wanted to maintain my finish. His breathing is shaky, and when he leans forward I can feel the rhythm of his wanking behind me.
It’s not long before he’s focusing solely on my pussy, polishing my pearl. When my pleasure overtakes me, I feel like I’m going to pass out. A keening wail rises from my throat. Kellan falls forward onto me, his head resting in the small of my back, and soon his groans are joining mine. With a hoarse little cry, he spurts his seed all over my upturned ass.
Kellan is the first to speak, once he’s caught his breath.
“We’ll try this again tomorrow,” he says, “and next time, darling, don’t make a sound when you come.”
NAUGAHYDE
Sommer Marsden
Seriously. What is this stuff?” Jeff rubs his fingers over the top of my cheap-ass, dime-store mule.
“Naugahyde,” I say, pushing my shoulders back, showing off my conical boobs and my pink fuzzy sweater.
“Nauga-what?” It does not escape my notice that his finger briefly slips beneath the band of fake plasticine leather to stroke my bare skin. His touch sizzle-pops up my calf, burns a line of fire behind my knee and tickles slowly up my inner thigh. The sensation lands with a lazy, warm flex in my pussy.
Nether lips fat with blood and slick with juices are forcing me to straighten my legs and sharpen my focus. We have a costume party to get to. We have a hopefully future-boss for me to woo. We do not have time for…dirty things.
“Naugahyde.”
“Never heard of it.” His hand circles my ankle like I’m made of matchsticks. It never fails to startle me how big his hands are.
He’s dressed like a greaser so when he waggles his eyebrows at me, I pretend to swoon. Only I don’t have to pretend so much.
“I guess nowadays we call it pleather. But back in the day…” I have chosen to dress as a ’70s housewife, picking out a very Mrs. Kravitz ensemble à la “Bewitched.” “…they called it naugahyde.”
His hand has meandered up my calf and is cupping the back of my thigh. Lightning stabs my skin, electricity skitters in my blood. He strokes me with a single finger and I fear I might come.
We haven’t even left the house and I’m coming undone.
“I think my grandmom had a chair covered in this stuff.” He says “this stuff” but is not touching my shoe. He is touching the tops of my thighs, having raised my navy-blue polyester, elastic-waisted skirt. It is a hideous skirt. It is a horrid skirt. And it is now shoved around my waist like the world’s thickest belt as my boyfriend presses his face to my oversized white panties.
“Oh, fuck,” I say.
“You seem nervous,” he says.
I swallow hard and hear my throat click. We should be going…leaving…on the road. Instead he is eyeing up my grandmom knickers like they’re from a fine department store.
“I am,” I admit.
“You’ll do good. You’ll do great. You pay attention to detail,” he says and pushes a finger under the leg of my panties. His fingertip skates along my outer lip and I hold my breath. His fingertip pushes into my slick folds and he touches me for real. That breath slips free of me like sinuous smoke.
“Why do you think that?” I thread my fingers into his slicked-back hair, messing it up, liking the half grin he gives me. That half grin punches me right in the gut. It puts me right on edge, the bad-boy, you’ll-pay-for-that gaze he gets
when I’ve been bad.
“Because you pay attention to detail. And you’re good at what you do. You’ll make him proud. The man is no dummy. You’ll get the job.”
“I don’t know…”
“Hush up, Jill. Listen to the voice of wisdom. I mean, you’ve even put on the giant old-lady panties to match your hideous ensemble.”
I snort, but the laughter turns to a sigh when he tugs said underpants down and parts me with his tongue.
“We have to go. We have to go.” I say it like a chant.
“We will, we will…” he answers, mocking me. Covering my pussy with his hot mouth. He nudges the split of me with his tongue and my knees sag a little, threatening to dump me out of my inferior footwear and onto my now bare ass.
“You’re mean,” I say, not meaning it.
Jeff grabs my hand and tugs, pulling me slowly to my knees. My top half clothed, lower half bare. He presses his mouth to my mouth, pushing his tongue against mine so I taste myself. “Not mean.”
I grab his now mussed hair, my fingers greasy with hair cream. I tug and he groans and my tummy flexes with that wanting sound. “Okay,” I say. I’m making no sense, but neither is he, so we’re even.
“Turn around, lady,” he grates, and spins me on my knees. Twisting me up more in my own hosiery, my own scratchy skirt, my own giant bloomers.
I’m on my hands and knees, high-teased hair not moving. It’s stiff with hairspray and poked through with two pencils. Cat’s-eye glasses I don’t need to see blur my vision, but not as much as the feel of his rough hands grabbing my hips. He’s teasing me, pressing the tip of his cock to my cunt. And then he drives into me, scootching me forward so I have to put out a hand so catch myself.
“For a woman with fake plastic shoes you have a fine, fine ass,” he says. A burble of laughter bursts out of me and I sag against the arm he loops around my middle. His thrusts are fast and short and brutal. Stealing my breath, scratching my knees, making me feel like I’ll tumble over my messy clutch of clothes and yet…it’s perfect. It erases all my nagging fears and worries and my internal you’re-not-good-enough-for-this-job monologue.