by Alison Tyler
I laugh. “I’m heading for the taxi rank. My feet are killing me.”
He asks where I live and when I tell him, he says, “That’s not far. Hang on.”
He stoops for me, tells me to grab his neck and then he scoops me off my feet and into his arms. I cling to him, laughing hard. He grunts, hitches me higher and starts walking fast, chest puffed out.
“Crikey, how much do you weigh?” he says.
“Fuck off,” I reply.
Twenty minutes later, his coat is hung up in my hallway, his boots are by the door and his cock is in my mouth. His groans suggest this is beyond belief. I like them, the ones who sound as if they’ve never had it so good before. I’m on my knees by the bed and he’s standing with his feet apart. He’s like a colossal, hairy statue. He wraps his hands in my hair and draws me onto him, holding me steady as he fucks into my throat, picking up speed.
He pulls out and tells me to get onto the bed on all fours. When I clamber up, he whacks my arse once, a perfect, stinging hit.
On the way home, I’d asked, “Are you dom now you’re not security?”
“No,” he’d said. “But I fuck hard.”
He rubbers up and slides into me, prizing my easy flesh open with his thickness. His hands grip my hips as he starts to drive, slowly at first then faster, faster. I moisten my fingers and rock my clit till I come. I feel weak, but he slams on and I complain I need a break.
“No, you do it,” he says. “Fuck back at me.”
I grip the headboard and do my best, banging backward onto his cock. However hard I try, I can’t match the power and depth of his thrusts. “You do it, please,” I wheedle. “You’re better at it than I am.”
He laughs quietly, withdraws and flips me over because by that point I’m extremely pliant and flippable. He pushes my legs back and fucks me as if his life depends on it. He’s making huffy, spittly noises and he claws my tits, practically using them to gain purchase. Sweat from his forehead sprinkles my face. I wish I could lick him. Inside me, he’s enormous, relentless, ferocious, and I’m loving every second because, as I said to the lady, sugar upsets my vagina. I need it nasty and brutal, and this guy’s got it in spades. I swear, he’s more aggressive than some men I’ve been with who identify as dom. When he comes, it sounds as if his lungs are being ripped out by a gigantic fist.
Later, we lie in silence until he says, “I like it here.” I’m not sure if he means in my flat or in the postorgasmic languor we’re sharing. He holds me close and prints a kiss by my ear. It’s almost dawn. We’re sleepy. I start to drift off, happy to feel the slab of his chest beneath me and his strong arms around me. Our bodies soften, and I listen to his breathing grow low and slow.
The circle is complete. Because even though I like it rough and I go home with strangers, I adore those confident enough to hold me tight and soothe me, those rare creatures who afterward can give me that sweet sense of security.
CLEMENT
Sommer Marsden
He lets me run through the rain. I feel his eyes on me, soft and approving like a hand stroking my skin.
I dart between raindrops, at least that’s my attempt, but the deluge is insistent and so I end up driving my body through silver sheets of water that slip from the gun-metal sky.
He wants to be fucking, but he’s patient and kind with me, letting me have my moment. Tempting lightning, inciting thunder, feeling the cold air on my skin like the kiss of a benevolent frost god.
I’ve come from dark and tight and brittle times. I’ve come from a man who smothered and hid me and silenced me with his disapproving looks. Once or twice with irritated hands.
I’ve come from bad.
Guy has brought me good. He’s brought me quicksilver thunderstorms and light laughter. He cuts me tall, orange tiger lilies and short, squat bouquets of wildflowers he plucks from his back garden.
He let me live in his house a week after we met at a party. He let me deny him my physical company while daily offering me a comforting hug, a listening ear, an accepting heart. Until I healed.
Above me thunder booms and I slide on the slick-ening grass. We are close and I reach up to touch his nose and he reaches out to touch my breast. Speckled with warm rain, a pregnant drop hanging from the tip of my nipple. He smiles and I kiss him, fast and full on the lips before darting away again.
Out here in his yard, shielded by six-foot fences and dogwoods mixed with bamboo mixed with fruit trees, I am an invisible nymph. His own personal lawn art. The girl who will kneel in cool mud to suck his cock the moment I let the joy that now lives in me burst free.
A fork of lightning tongues the sky, and he says softly, “Bernadette.”
He’s only worried about me being electrocuted, that much I know.
I hold up a finger and remember the first time he kissed me. The warm curl of his tongue over mine, the velveteen crush of his lips to my lips. The way he’d pushed me back softly, somehow restraining and cradling me at the same time. The way he’d dragged his cock along my soaking wet split and then slipped into me a patient inch at a time until I was gasping his name and urging him faster with clutching fingers.
I remember him being so…good. He is so good. And the lightning shoots a message to my heart about how much I love him.
Another flash in the fattening sky, and he says again, “Bernadette.”
“Coming,” I say, and run toward where he stands under the deck on the patio. I don’t slow, simply leap against him, all long limbs and flying hair and a distinct absence of grace. But that’s okay. I am the ugly duckling who is more brilliant and beautiful for having met this man.
“Coming?” he says, catching me up in his arms.
My momentum carries us down to the chaise lounge and I’m yanking at his belt, straddling him, putting him in me so I can sink down and be full of him. My body flushed and swollen and slick with need. I start to move and his hands come up to touch me. Thick fingers stroke my nipples, touch the freckles spattered across my chest like a fawn-colored constellation.
“I love fucking you,” I say.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you too. Good weather, bad weather, rain, sun, shine.”
“You like to fuck more in inclement weather,” he says.
I grin, lean over him to kiss him, grinding my hips until that first sunshine-yellow burst of pleasure sounds inside of me and I am coming, his fingers digging into my flesh. His teeth nip at my lower lip and make my orgasm that much brighter, that much sweeter.
“True,” I say. “Maybe it’s the danger. Inclement weather turns me on. Almost as much as a clement man.”
“Is that what I am?” Guy asks, his eyes going suddenly serious.
“You are that and so much more,” I say, my throat going a little tight as I watch him surrender, his body growing rigid with his release. He’s panting under me, his skin hot and wet beneath my fingertips. “You’re everything,” I say.
And I mean it.
HEART ON THE DANCE FLOOR
Stella Harris
They’re lucky no one looks twice at two girls standing close together, whispering and giggling. People just accept a higher level of intimacy between female friends and Danielle intends to take full advantage.
They move together, not quite dancing, not quite on the beat, but just swaying, their bodies brushing against each other. Danielle guides their movements, repeatedly getting so close that Jen takes a step back. Danielle herds Jen, one step at a time, until her back is against the wall in the darkest corner of the club.
The flashing colored lights swing their way a couple of times a minute, but when the frantic illumination moves on they are plunged into near darkness once more.
Danielle has never been more grateful for Jen’s preference for short skirts. She’s such a petite thing, she can get away with it.
“Dani, what are you doing?” Jen asks, pretending to be scandalized as Danielle slides a hand between her thighs, fingers playing against the
soft, tender flesh. Jen bites her lip and glares, but the effect is wasted when she’s bending her knees and thrusting her hips at the same time, trying to guide Danielle’s hand to where she wants it. Jen likes to act coy, but she’s got an exhibitionist streak a mile wide.
Danielle’s fingers creep higher as she angles her body just so, making sure no one in the club can see exactly what they’re up to. It’s only another inch before her fingers reach the crux of Jen’s legs. She’s glad their heights complement each so perfectly.
Danielle knows exactly what Jen likes; she also knows exactly what works, even when those things are not the same. Jen claims to hate being teased, and yet nothing gets her hot faster than a touch that’s not quite enough. Not quite where she wants it. Jen will moan and beg and demand. Danielle thinks Jen just likes the sound of her own voice, that she likes to put on a performance. But she can’t do that now, not here. No, now she needs to be content with the softest utterances, speaking with her body.
But Danielle knows her, knows what makes her tick and what makes her purr. She doesn’t need direction.
When Danielle’s fingers finally slide across Jen’s panties she finds them already soaked through. Jen always gets wet fast and Danielle loves that. Loves that her mind and her body are both so unapologetic about their desires. The wetness of the fabric makes her panties a nearly insignificant barrier; they cling to her every curve and fold as Danielle’s fingers gently explore.
In some ways, these first touches are her favorite. She loves exploring every inch of Jen’s body at a leisurely pace. Sure, she loves getting her off too, making her scream and come—but she loves these moments before she’s working toward a goal the most.
“Dani, goddammit.” Jen whispers into Danielle’s ear, biting down on the lobe to make her point.
“Take it easy, sugar. I’ve got you,” Danielle whispers in response, but all the same she tilts her head, saving herself from a more vicious bite.
She’d love to draw this out all night, but eventually someone will notice them, or more likely one of their friends will come looking for them. And while they wouldn’t be surprised to find them like this she’d just as soon keep this their secret. So she works her hand in the side of Jen’s panties, tugging until she has enough room to move the way she wants to.
Even though she knew how wet Jen was, she still gasps when her fingers slide into Jen’s slippery wet heat. She feels too good to be real.
Jen’s head falls back to rest against the wall behind her just as the club lights point their way. Jen’s long, exposed neck is illuminated with all the colors of the rainbow, making the sight of her throat moving as she swallows surreal.
Jen has gone weak in the knees; she’d crumble to the floor completely if it weren’t for Danielle’s body pressing her into the wall. Danielle knows Jen can’t usually come standing up, but she’s determined to make Jen come apart, right here, right now.
Danielle uses her foot to kick Jen’s legs apart, granting her more access. This wider stance allows her to easily sink her fingers deep into Jen, filling her up as she presses forward just so, making Jen shudder.
She picks up her rhythm, fingers sliding and exploring, circling Jen’s swollen clit before dipping deep inside of her and then pulling out to start again. She rests her free arm on the wall beside Jen, leans in close to whisper filth into her ear, just how she likes. Jen says she loves to watch dirty words spill from her pretty mouth, but right now she’ll have to be content with just listening.
“You gonna come for me, baby? Right here in the middle of the club?” Jen says something in response to that, but Danielle’s not sure she’s using recognizable words. “God, you feel so good. I love fucking you.” Jen just whimpers, beyond words and beyond thought; her arms encircle Danielle’s neck, desperately holding on for the ride.
The next time Danielle’s fingers sweep across Jen’s clit she keeps her focus there, rubbing fast and hard, drawing insistent little circles. At the same time she bites down on Jen’s neck, right below her jaw. When they’re alone this never fails to draw a deep moan and although she’s mostly silent now, Danielle is pressed close enough that she can feel her body shaking.
The shaking increases until her whole body’s rocking back and forth in the small space allowed between the wall and Danielle’s body. She’s panting and murmuring, Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Danielle can feel Jen shaking against her fingers too, her body pulsing, and she stokes her until her breathing starts to slow, then pulls her hand away, wiping it on her jeans before tugging Jen’s skirt back down.
“How’re you feeling?” Danielle asks, wondering if Jen can speak yet. In answer, she just says fuck one more time.
“Perfect, wanna dance?” Danielle asks, eyebrow raised. Jen glares at her, takes her hand and follows her onto the dance floor.
THE NOT-SO-BLUSHING BRIDE
Lucy Felthouse
I never, not once, ever thought that it would actually happen.
Until it did.
And now I can’t get it out of my mind.
I’m a chauffeur, and the majority of my work is driving wedding cars. You know, taking the bride and her wedding party to church. Then taking the newlyweds to their wedding reception and sometimes, later, on to the airport or a hotel.
So you can hardly blame me for having weddings on the brain. As a bloke, though, it’s not the wedding itself that I think about. I don’t get all gooey and gushy over the church, the rings, the flowers, the cake. That would be weird.
It’s the bride that occupies my thoughts. Now, before you think I’m some kind of creepy pervert, let me explain. It’s not like that. I don’t paw at the brides that ride in my car, flirt, or make inappropriate comments. In fact, I don’t do anything that would make them uncomfortable. I am the epitome of professionalism and respectability at all times.
Until they get out of the car and go on their way, that is. It’s the times that I’m left to my own devices that my mind starts to wander down its naughty path. And, given that I’m generally employed for entire days with long periods of time where I do nothing but sit around, you can hardly blame me for doing something to occupy my time.
So I entertain myself by sitting in the car. It’s not as boring as you might think. I have an eReader, therefore I have plenty of reading material at my fingertips, and if I’m hungry or thirsty, I can jump into the back of the limo and grab something that the company has supplied for the wedding party. Naturally, I don’t sample any alcohol—I’m not an idiot.
I don’t think dirty thoughts every time I’m sitting alone in the limousine—despite the statistics, men don’t think of sex constantly. A lot, yes, but not constantly. Usually, it depends on the bride. If I don’t find her attractive, then I tend to do lots of reading in my periods of downtime. However, if she’s hot, then my imagination fires on all cylinders.
Which brings me neatly back to my fantasy. You know, the one that recently came true, in spectacular style. So, here goes:
I have always wanted to fuck a bride on her way to her wedding.
Despite knowing that the majority of brides these days aren’t exactly pure and innocent, I’ve always really fancied screwing one of them senseless in the back of my limo before dropping her off at her destination, where she’ll commit herself to someone else for the rest of her life. There’s no need to start psychoanalyzing it—I know it’s because it’s taboo, forbidden, corrupt. And therein lies the attraction. And, as I said, for a long time it was just a harmless fantasy that nobody knew about.
Then Tilly came along.
Usually, the bride is accompanied from her house—or wherever she got ready for her wedding—with at least one other person. This, naturally, has always made my fantasy completely unattainable. I could hardly see the father of the bride turning a blind eye while the hired help lifts up his little girl’s dress and fucks her, could you?
Tilly bucked the trend—in more ways than one.
First, she was ready w
hen I knocked on the door. Usually I turn up a little early in order to spur preparations on a little. I know brides are meant to be fashionably late—but often, if it weren’t for me, they’d be pushing-their-luck late.
Second, she looked nothing like a bride. When Tilly answered the door, I looked past her into the hallway, about to ask where the bride was, when she pulled the door shut behind her and said, “Shall we?”
I promptly shut my mouth and held out my arm to escort her to the car. All the while, I was discreetly checking her out. I’d seen a lot of different wedding dresses in my years as chauffeur, but Tilly managed to surprise even me. For starters, I’d never seen a bride wear black before. She looked like a goth, particularly with the crazy purple stripe in her black hair, heavy makeup and platform boots.
Third, she wasn’t remotely nervous. She was full of happy chatter from the moment she walked out her front door, even asking me to open the partition between the cab and the rear of the limo so we could talk on the way to the registry office. I didn’t mind—it certainly made my job more pleasant and besides, she was really interesting to talk to.
Not to mention completely gorgeous. She may not have looked like a typical bride, but she was still stunning. Even as we were yakking nineteen-to-the-dozen, I was imagining what she was wearing under that slinky dress.
As it happened, though, I wasn’t the only one with sex on the brain. When she first gave me directions to somewhere other than the registry office, I didn’t think anything of it. I just thought perhaps her nerves were finally kicking in and she needed a little breathing space.
As I followed her next command, I asked, “Everything all right, Miss Tilly?”
“Oh, yes, Bradley. Everything is just fine.”
I shrugged and carried on driving. It was only when she directed me down a quiet country lane that I finally started to think that something wasn’t right. My overactive imagination began to wonder if I’d been duped—perhaps Tilly was part of a gang, and they were going to knock me out, leave me for dead and make off with the limo.