by Alison Tyler
“Good boy. Now go back to your corner while I say good-bye to our guest.”
Barb returned to the bedroom, after ushering her fucktoy out the door, to find Bob kneeling on the bed, cock rampant and his eyes burning for her. Letting her robe fall by the door she said, “It seems that got your attention. Not bored anymore, are you?”
She wrapped her hand around him and Bob moaned. He grabbed her head and kissed her roughly; he tasted the other man on her tongue and his cock jumped.
“Baby,” she said, “I think we found the magic formula.”
COOKIE
Sharon Wachsler
Renata climbs the stairs from the dungeon, brushes aside the leather curtain, and looks around. Tonight she doesn’t need a fancy station. She only needs a quiet corner and a chair. This room will do nicely.
She takes a seat against the wall. Like a lioness crouched by a watering hole, she watches the snack table across the room. People come, people go. Then her patience pays off. Vicki’s red latex minidress and stiletto ankle boots identify her. She’s trying to drink a Coke with one hand while holding a chocolate-chip cookie with the other. It’s awkward with the cuffs. Renata strides over and presses herself against Vicki’s back.
“When’s your break over?”
“Now.” Vicki lowers her snack.
“Good. Keep the cookie.”
A hand on Vicki’s biceps, Renata propels her across the room. Vicki’s ass and boobs jiggle under the low-cut latex. The ankle cuffs mean she has to shuffle quickly to keep up. By the time they get to Renata’s chair, Vicki’s breathing hard.
Renata drops Vicki’s arm and sits, facing her. “Are you hungry?”
Vicki’s eyes jump to the cookie, Renata’s crotch, Renata’s eyes, away. She licks her lips. “Yes?”
“Is that a question or an answer?”
“Both.”
Renata allows herself a small smile then erases it. “Get on the floor. Don’t break the cookie.”
Vicki bends her knees and waist until she can gracefully go no lower. Renata offers no help. Cupping the cookie as if it were a fledgling, Vicki tilts, landing on her ass, the cookie aloft.
“Well done,” Renata nods.
“Thank you,” Vicki lowers her head.
“Come closer.”
Vicki rises to her knees, inching forward, wincing at the rug burn. When her knees are on either side of Renata’s right boot, she stops. Renata’s boots shine with perfection—gleaming black, they show no scuff-marks or nicks. The laces are tied in perfect symmetry.
“Crumble the cookie on my boot.”
Vicki jerks as if slapped, stares.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” Vicki whispers, but hesitates.
Now Renata does slap Vicki across the face. “Do it,” she says.
A tear slides down Vicki’s cheek as she crumbles the cookie over Renata’s right boot. The chocolate has melted. The crumbs are sticky. Elbows on the floor, she rubs her palms together until her hands are dry and the boot a mess. She sits back, tears continuing to slide down her cheeks as she looks at the ruined boot.
“Good. Now, clean it,” Renata says.
Immediately Vicki bends over Renata’s right foot. Renata watches the back of Vicki’s head bob. She feels Vicki’s hair brush her pants leg, the girl’s breath on her arch, her tongue caressing her toes and massaging her instep. She imagines the taste of Vicki’s lower lip, coated with the sweetness of the cookie and the tang of polish.
She laces her fingers behind her head and leans back, eyes shut. Vicki’s warm tongue strokes her through the leather: heel, ankle, arch, instep, big toe to small. Renata relaxes into Vicki’s mouth massaging her boot, a sense of peace and power filling her. She feels twice her size, breathing slow and deep.
Then, the rhythm shifts, becomes urgent, repetitive. Vicki’s overworking where the laces start. Renata’s peace punctured, she slides her foot free of the girl’s mouth, pressing the toe hard into Vicki’s chest. Vicki stills. Renata moves her foot back.
Carefully, delicately, Vicki again licks where the lower laces cross at the bottom of the leather tongue. Renata now sees the crumb her submissive’s been struggling to dislodge—a large piece stuck between the boot’s laces and tongue. Vicki’s eyes dart up to Renata’s face every few seconds as she keeps trying to move the crumb without raising Renata’s ire again.
Finally, Vicki sits back, brow furrowed, face flushed and beaded with sweat. There is chocolate at the corners of her mouth, cookie dust on her chin and nose. Renata could eat her.
Vicki nods her head once, apparently having come to a decision, and turns and crawls toward Renata’s left foot. Renata sees sweat gleam on the sub’s bare upper back and shoulders. That crumb is still stuck in her right boot’s laces. A cold fist clenches in her chest. The crumb is like a burr inside her boot—rubbing, raw, insistent. She has misjudged Vicki. She’s so disappointed, she has half a mind to stand up and walk away.
From this new vantage point, Vicki stops and sits back on her heels, her hair sticking to her face, lips rubbed red and plump. Both stare at the one remaining crumb, brown against black.
Vicki scoots back and lowers herself between Renata’s boots until her breasts, belly and cunt rest on the floor. Legs sticking out, her heels point toward the ceiling. She lays her cheek against the right boot, her head resting on it like a pillow, and Renata feels shivers down her spine at the sight of that soft, pale skin resting on the hard, dark toe of the leather encasing her foot.
Her mouth against the laces, Vicki pulls back her lips, like a doe nibbling at a leaf. Gingerly, she picks at the crumb with her teeth. She nibbles at it, bit by bit, until she swallows the last dot. She sighs and kisses the spot where the crumb had been. Lifting her cheek off Renata’s foot, she inches back, rising to her knees. She sits on her heels, back straight, facing Renata with shining eyes.
A ball of heat expands in Renata’s belly, zinging fire to her cunt as she sees the adoration and pride in Vicki’s upturned face. She takes a moment to savor the pulsing power, rubbing her hand over the dick she’s packing, feeling the warmth spread between her legs.
Closing her eyes to slits, she leans forward. She runs a forefinger all along her boot, searching for cookie crumbs or dust. She finds none—no grit, no smears—just soft, warm, supple leather, warmed by Vicki’s mouth. Her finger lingers on the place Vicki kissed. A slow grin spreads across her face.
Standing up, she pulls Vicki to her feet and settles the girl in the chair she’s just vacated. Vicki leans forward, head lowered, until the top of her head is just an inch from Renata’s abdomen. Renata strokes her hair, and Vicki leans in, resting her head against Vicki’s belly. Vicki allows it. They stay like that for a few minutes, Renata quietly stroking the girl’s hair. Then Renata eases away, and Vicki straightens.
Renata goes to the snack table and finds a Coke, opens it, pours it into a cup, adding a straw. She brings it back to Vicki and, making sure the trembling hands are wrapped around it, places the straw between Vicki’s bee-stung lips. As Vicki sips, Renata reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a key and unlocks the cuffs at Vicki’s wrists and ankles, then hangs the cuffs on the key chain that goes from her pocket to her belt loop.
She takes one of Vicki’s hands and rubs the wrist.
“Are you ready to go home?” Renata asks.
“Mm,” Vicki says, nodding sleepily.
“I’ll get our coats,” Renata says, walking to the coatroom. She stops by the snack table and bites into a cookie. It’s rich and buttery, but then, she reflects, everything Vicki bakes is delicious.
EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
Stella Harris
Jason left for work the same way he always did, but instead of following his normal routine he came home two hours later and slipped back into the house. Sneaking through his own house like a criminal felt absurd, but he did it anyway.
When his best friend told him he thought their wives were more than just fr
iends Jason hadn’t believed it. Things like that didn’t happen in real life. So when Rose told him that Miranda was coming over that day to help her in the garden he knew what he had to do.
As he creeps upstairs, he hears soft voices and sees that the bedroom door has been left ajar. He leans forward until he can see into the room. And there they are, Rose and Miranda together in bed.
Jason watches them. He can’t help but appreciate how beautiful Rose is like this, her head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open. Sure, he’s seen her like this before, but it’s not the same when he’s the one moving above her, when he’s focused on what he’s doing, what he’s feeling.
Now he can just watch.
He’d expected to be angry, jealous, but they are just too beautiful together, they look too right with their limbs entwined, moving, shifting against each other.
Miranda leans forward to whisper something in Rose’s ear and Rose smiles. Next thing he knows, Miranda is sliding down Rose’s body, disappearing below the sheet tangled around them. Rose’s hands flail about for a moment, seeking something to grasp, before settling on the headboard above her.
Even from here, Jason can see her white-knuckled grip, the way the muscles in her arms stand out as she pulls against the headboard with all her considerable strength. Her whole body is writhing now, her knees coming up and then lowering again when her feet fail to find purchase.
Rose’s mouth is opening and closing, forming silent words that soon take voice, her oohs and aahs and yesses falling from her lips just as they do when Jason does this to her. He finds that thought strangely comforting.
Her volume increases; she always gets loud right before she comes, and he loves the way she sounds, how unselfconscious she is in her pleasure. Her screams send a shudder through his body, settling deep in his groin. But these cries are not for him. This is not for him.
Jason looks back up, not having realized he’d looked away, just as Rose lowers her still-shaking arms, reaches for Miranda and pulls her up, pulls her close and captures her mouth in a long kiss. Miranda is brushing Rose’s hair away from her forehead where it sticks to the light sheen of sweat. The gesture is sweet, tender, and it is this—more than anything he’s already witnessed—that makes Jason feel like he’s intruding.
He takes a careful step away, then another, then moves more quickly when he’s reached a safe distance.
He’s changed his mind. He’s not going to say anything. He can let them have this.
STRESS RELIEF
K. Lynn
After a tiring day at the office, my plans for the evening included very little aside from falling into bed and staying unconscious for ten hours straight. But, met with the sight in front of me, I was ready to admit plans could be changed.
Wendy was laid out on the mattress, her head propped up on both of our pillows, and the bed made up with what she deemed our “good sheets.” The eight-hundred-thread-count set was a gift from her rich aunt and she refused to bring them out for daily use, instead saving them for only special occasions. Apparently a Tuesday night in the middle of January qualified.
She was wearing a matching set of baby-blue underwear: bra, panties, and garter belt to hold up her white stockings. The colors reminded me of Alice in Wonderland and I felt like I had just fallen down the rabbit hole myself. What had brought on this midweek show? I couldn’t think of any special occasion I might have missed.
“What’s all this?” I asked, my voice low, trying not to break the haze of fantasy she had created.
“Just felt like it,” she said, as she ran her fingers along the straps of her bra. “You sounded tense on the phone, so I thought this might help.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything. My body was no longer locked in shock and I could move forward, closer to the bed. I slipped off my shoes on the way, loosening my tie and throwing it aside, too. I was unbuttoning the top of my dress shirt by the time my knees hit the side of the mattress and Wendy just looked up at me, amusement evident in her gaze.
“I’ve never seen this before,” I said, waving a hand over her body. “New?”
“Bought today, just for you.” Her breath stuttered as I knelt on the end of the bed, beginning to crawl up over her body, between her legs.
I ran my hands up her stockings, my thumb pausing on the clasps where the garter belt held them in place. I could tell she was getting worked up, ready for me. My hands continued their exploration up the straps until they rested on the blue panties she was wearing. The front was completely lace, not hiding a thing underneath. I could see the hair of her pussy pressing flat against the material. She once offered to shave for me, but I forbade it. I didn’t want to fuck some prepubescent teenager; I wanted a real woman.
She was wet for me, a circle of moisture already formed on the cotton strip covering her pussy, making the baby blue turn dark. I leaned down and nosed at the material before running my tongue over it. The sweet tang of her scent filled my senses, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my cock. I shifted back, resting with my knees on either side of her legs as I reached to the clasps of her garter belt once again. With a flick, first one and then the other released, snapping back against her skin and causing her to flinch. I didn’t give her time to speak, instead pulling at her panties and trailing them down over her hips, thighs and finally off completely.
I took a moment to consider whether I should strip her the rest of the way, but gave up on the thought. She looked good spread out for me, half-clothed and ready for whatever I was willing to do to her. My cock was straining for release now, pressed against the seam of my pants and aching, as I started moving up her body again.
When I reached her splayed thighs, I gave a kiss to the inside of each one before I lifted up and began undressing myself. When my pants were unbuttoned and unzipped, I could push them down, along with my boxers. I didn’t need to take them completely off, and it would seem unfair if I weren’t in a disheveled state to match hers. With the hindering material pulled to my knees, my hard cock was ready for her. I leaned down again, draping my body over hers and seeking out her entrance.
She was so wet that I had no problems sliding right in, warm heat enveloping me as I began to move my hips forward and then back. The rough lace of the garter belt rubbed against my stomach every time I pushed into her, a faint irritation that fought against the waves of pleasure I was feeling. Our bodies were in tune, perfected motions from years of practice. Her pussy pulsed around my cock, squeezing me and pulling me back in whenever my hips bucked up. It didn’t take me long, already so close to the edge that my body was soon shuddering as I came. Her moans kept time with mine and I could feel her fluttering around me as she neared completion, too, squeezing me until my spent cock slipped from her warmth.
I collapsed to the side of her, gasping to get my breathing under control. I reached out and lay my hand on her covered breast, the rough lace and silky material in direct opposition to each other. I could feel the faint pounding of her heartbeat under my fingers as she turned to look at me.
“So,” she said, still panting. “Am I a good stress reliever?”
I hummed, tightening my grip on her breast. It was all the answer she needed.
IF YOU KNOW WHERE TO LOOK
Giselle Renarde
I hate being here.
I hate sleeping in this bed, Clark’s marriage bed, sleeping on his wife’s side while she’s away on business and waking up face-to-face with the knickknacks and nail polish on her bedside table.
And the baby oil! Why wouldn’t Clark have put that away before I came? Why the hell would I want to be reminded that he has sex with her too? More puzzlingly, why do I jump at every opportunity to stay the night?
Well, that question has an easy answer: it’s the wake-up call that keeps me coming back. It’s his arms circling my body before the sun comes up, when I’m still warm with sleep. He kisses my shoulder, walks his fingers down my belly, and I’m sold. I’ll put up with any amount
of heartache if it means getting fucked first thing in the morning.
My pussy’s never wet when he finds it, so Clark burrows under the covers to turn me on in the most efficient way possible. Spreading my legs, he situates himself between them and dives at the apex of my thighs. I don’t know how he finds my clit in the dark, but his tongue zeroes in on it so fast it makes my head spin.
I’m dizzy with sleep, wanting the pleasure without the work, and he knows that. He licks my pussy languorously at first, careful not to hurl me over the edge too quickly. Every slow, wet caress makes me moan, mumble, like I’m talking in my sleep. I’m telling him, “More, more,” and that’s what he gives me.
His saliva drips down my crack, wetting my asshole before dripping against the sheets. He’ll have to wash them before his wife comes home, but I don’t want to think about that right now. I wish I hadn’t thought that thought at all, and I close my eyes, focus only on the sensation of Clark’s hot tongue against my pussy.
He sucks my clit and I arch off the mattress, gasping, astounded by the depth of pleasure that action presents every single time he does it. There’s no preparing for a sensation like that—you just have to take it. The outline of his head between my thighs, like a crystal ball draped in bedcovers, makes me laugh, and that feels good too. My laughter becomes conflated with the orgasm sitting like a buzzing weight in my belly, and pushes me closer to the edge.