by Alison Tyler
She fluttered her hands in an uncharacteristic gesture. She was not a woman who was shy about taking her clothes off. And with him, she usually couldn’t get them off fast enough. “I, ah, don’t know if I can do that,” she said.
That got her some attention. “Really?” he asked in his husky baritone, curious and interested. Jasmine blushed from her chest up to her face and back down in receding tides of heat, and his cock stood straight up. She loved his cock. It was big, and though it was another thing she felt guilty about, she wanted big. She needed big. She’d been actually terrified before she slept with him that he wouldn’t be big enough. He reassured her on that score, as on so many others, generous with room to spare.
He got close to her, placing his fingertips on her breastbone. He lowered his head to kiss her cheek, surprisingly chaste, though she could see the desire in his eyes. “Leave them on, then,” he said, as if it was no matter to him. He spread-eagled her on the bed, picking up a scarf.
“That’s a Fendi,” Jasmine said, watching him tie her right hand. “That’s a Pucci,” she said, when he went to work on her left. “That’s a Gucci,” she said, before he tied her ankle.
“Are you making these names up?” he asked her.
“That’s…oh,” she said. “My mother knitted that scarf.”
“Ooookay,” he said, untying it while trying not to touch it. “Ixnay on the mom scarf.” He pilfered the pile. “This one okay?”
“Ferragamo,” she supplied, nodding.
He tied her remaining ankle. He knelt between her legs. “How was your day?” he asked, courteous as always.
Jasmine blinked. Her day had effectively been erased. Nicholas Harvey was between her spread thighs, naked and aroused. What day? “Fine,” she said. “Good. How was yours?”
“Tell you later,” he said, leaning in to lick her belly button.
Oh, Nick, she thought. You slay me. You really do. He had a habit of doing things to her that she was wanting to do to him. Not two days before she’d been at the bus stop watching the clouds scud past, thinking, I’d like to put my tongue in Nick’s belly button. For no reason. Just because he was hers and she could. He might like it or he might not, but he would let her. Once they had a spat. A tiny little one. He had ruffled the hair the wrong way on a dog’s face and she had snagged his chin in her fingers and said, “How would you like it if someone messed with your facial hair?” He didn’t miss a beat. He was a lot quicker than he seemed at first glance. He said, “That depends on who’s doing it.” That meant, if you’re doing it, it’s okay. So he could tie her up. He could do anything he wanted to her.
He licked down her belly, then up to her bra. He put his hands on her and ran them over her limbs, out to the ends of her fingers and toes and back. His palms were broad and warm, lightly calloused. He hummed to himself from the sheer pleasure of touching her and she thought, How can I not love you?
He stretched himself out full length on top of her and it was achingly odd not to be able to wrap her arms and legs around him. He sucked on her earlobes. He bit her neck strongly enough to leave a mark. He slipped his fingers under the lacy elastic of her panties. “Like high school,” he murmured. “I’ll make you come like this.”
She wanted him to kiss her, put his tongue in her mouth, put his cock inside her. “I wasn’t doing this in high school,” she muttered. He slid down to her breasts, sucking on her nipples through the gauzy fabric of her bra. Now, of course, she wished she had taken it off. He kept going, down to her pussy, and licked her clit through the thin material, making it wet. It wasn’t enough. She pushed against his mouth. “Nicholas,” she said. “Please.”
“How?” he asked innocently. “I’m not untying you until we’re done.”
“I don’t care!” she exclaimed, twitchy and sweating. “Just get them off.”
He helped himself to the scissors in the chipped mug on her desk. He snipped her pricey lingerie carefully into pieces, kissing the flesh he exposed. He wouldn’t buy her new ones. Just the thought of going into a place that would have them would make him queasy. He would be all in favor of her buying herself new ones, though. He liked her in lingerie.
He licked her nipples, barely pausing for breath. He was more serious now, harder to dissuade from his goal. People made a mistake when they assumed he was easygoing. He was stubborn, with a tough streak. He never babied her, but there was no meanness in him. She relished that. She had a few sharp edges of her own to watch. Put a person like her with someone too soft and it only resulted in hurt. The two of them were a match. They could grind away on each other without fear of inflicting harm.
She was wet, so wet, and her fingers flexed and her wrists turned in the silk bonds. She would have put her own hand between her legs long before now. “Nicholas,” she began, but he kissed her, filling her mouth with his tongue, and she kissed him back, making noises deep in her throat because that kiss was everything she could not do with her hands. As soon as he let her speak she said, “No,” as if she was the one running things. “I want you to fuck me.”
He gave her a sly smile. “No,” he said. “I want to eat your pussy.” He put his face between her legs, separating her labia with his thumbs and exposing her clit. He liked looking at her. He loved doing this. It was one thing she never felt guilty about. He could eat her for half the night, rest, and want more. Sometimes she sat at her desk when she should have been working, wondering what a woman did without a man like him. He put his tongue into every crevice of her. He loved the way she tasted, the way she smelled. If he couldn’t put his mouth on her often enough, he got cranky.
The extraordinary thing about him was that he knew she didn’t come the same way every time. Sometimes it was quick little flicks of his tongue that did it. Sometimes the top of her clit was too sensitive and he knew to lick along the sides until she convulsed. And now, oh god, now he was figuring out that broad, flat strokes of his tongue with the same even pressure, over and over again, were going to make her fall to pieces.
She jerked against the scarves, cinching them tighter, all her muscles tensing, arching her up to his mouth. He held her down, his strong hands clenching around her thighs, holding her open to him, licking and licking until she couldn’t hold herself back anymore and went over the edge. Nick didn’t wait for her to recover. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he said, reaching to untie one of the scarves.
“Mmm,” she agreed happily. The knot stuck. He reached for the scissors and Jasmine tried to sit up and help at the same time, laughing breathlessly. “No!” she pleaded. “Not the Pucci!”
“Christ, Jasmine.” His voice was unsteady. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
“They don’t make them anymore,” she said, trying to avoid the scissors. “You can’t buy them.” He had mercy on the Pucci and switched to the other side, so it was the Fendi that bought the farm. Then there was a brief tussle while she tried to untie the Gucci before he got to it with the scissors. She gave in with a wet kiss to his face; he snipped it in two, pulled her over him and shoved his cock inside her while the last scarf still held one ankle to the bedpost. She gasped as he pushed high inside her, but she felt only pleasure. Whatever it was, with this man it felt right.
She wrapped her arms around him, glad to be tied and glad to be free. He thrust into her again and again, building toward his own orgasm, the hot, sliding friction of their bodies making him pant. Jasmine pushed her face into his neck, licking at his sweat, wanting only to be closer, closer to this man. “How was your day?” she asked him.
“You showed up,” he said, voice guttural, so close to coming he could barely speak. “So it was good.”
CHAPTER FOUR
OPEN WIDE—
FELLATIO
A man might forget where he parks or where he lives, but he never forgets oral sex.
—BARBARA BUSH
What’s that thing people say about men and oral sex? Oh, yeah. They like it. In fact, one of my friends once asked a beau his fav
orite part about a woman going down on him. His response? “When she puts my cock in her mouth.” Simple pleasures, right?
The act of being oral with a partner is so personal, so divinely connecting, that whole books have been dedicated to the subject—The Ultimate Guide to Fellatio by Violet Blue comes to mouth—and mind. So why not dedicate a night, or a week, or a year, or your whole life to getting to know what your partner truly craves? I think you can do better than parting your lips.
Start by simply savoring the concept, as my heroine does in “Connecting”:
But thinking of pie made her want to put something sweet in her mouth. And thinking of something sweet, made her think about sucking cock. She looked back at the man. He was dialing again.
In “Last Call,” my character knows everything there is to know about her partner’s rod:
I keep my eyes closed still, as if I have a blindfold on, because it’s still easier that way. I know right away that it’s Declan’s cock I’m sucking. After more than a decade together, I am well versed in the girth and the ridges that make this cock feel like home to me. I suck him on my back. He lets me work at my own pace. Then I moan—I can’t help myself—because there’s a mouth between my legs, on my pussy through my panties and my hose.
In “Strokes,” Tenille Brown delves into what a man feels like when getting a really good blow job:
Anthony liked when Beverly’s hair fell forward and covered her oval face, when he couldn’t see her expression and he had to guess what move it was she was going to make next.
Was Beverly going to dive deep with her throat or stay on the shallow end, her tongue running laps around the rim of his thick cock?
Anthony knew he was a lucky guy, standing there over his woman. Beverly loved giving head just as much as Anthony loved receiving it. Anthony could swim all day in her mouth, backstroking in it, treading water…
Beverly had a natural rhythm with her lips and cheeks that fell in sync with him rocking back and forth on his heels because her sucking on him made him unsteady that way…
He liked the swish, swish sound she made like waves, and then… the way…he felt…when he came crashing against her lips…as if…they were…a…shore…
In “I See Him Sleeping,” Molly Moore reveals how sexy it is for a woman to suck her own flavor off a lover:
I slide farther down the bed and kneel up beside him, studying his face for a few seconds before I lower my head and take his cock gently between my lips. It is soft and warm in my mouth and I hold it still for a moment, tasting him, and something else too, me I think—he tastes of me from the night before. My tongue flickers and dances around the tip and instantly I can feel him growing hard for me, his cock filling my mouth more and more with every flick of my tongue. I pull back slightly as the head of his cock starts to push against the back of my throat, but then I open wider and take all of him inside my mouth.
He groans, and the sound excites me; I know he is waking, his body coming alive for my mouth, and I reach up and run my hand over his chest, finding one of his nipples, circling the small bud with the tip of my finger. He stretches out beneath my touch, and I glance up to his face; his eyes are still closed, but I know from his breathing that he no longer really sleeps.
This previously unpublished piece called “Honeytrap,” by Tamsin Flowers, involves two work colleagues getting down and dirty in the office:
With the lightest of touches, I let my hand run up and down the shaft. Jack’s head flops back, eyes shut, and his hips push forward. The muscles deep within me tighten as desire courses through me; my mouth is no longer dry and I can feel sweat breaking out on my upper lip and between my shoulder blades. It seems weird that I am still fully dressed.
And now, finally, I stretch out my tongue to him. A tiny flick across the tip, followed by another and another. A slow march of butterfly kisses, down one side and up the other. I am gently holding the base with one hand, my other hand on his hip to steady myself as I move, oh so slowly, up and down between Jack’s well-muscled thighs. With each little kiss I can feel a response in him, a movement in his hips, his back, his gut. His legs brace against the floor, but I’ve hardly started yet.
I let my tongue wind slowly up and down the length of his shaft, cradling his balls with the softest touch. I pay particular attention to the head, watching as it darkens, feeling a steady pulse in it with my tongue as I circle it, first slowly and then faster. Feeling him buck as I lightly nip the rim of skin that demarks it from the rest of his glorious cock.
And then at last I take it into my mouth, shielding him from my teeth with my lips, just a short way at first, but still enough to elicit a low moan from above. I can taste his precome in my mouth, a little sweet, a little salty, and my guts roil with longing. I literally ache to feel his touch in return. Sucking gently, I draw his cock farther into my mouth, letting my saliva lubricate the trunk and slipping it slowly between my lips, varying the pressure as I pull back, slide forward. I move a little faster and suck a little harder, drawing out right to the end, and then suck ferociously as I pull it back into my mouth. A little deeper each time. My hand at the base of his cock gripping a little tighter, applying a little more pressure…
Fellatio can have an edge, too, as evidenced in this snippet by Julia Moore in “Pinch the Head.” A couple up on a convention-center catwalk could be caught at any moment.
There’s nothing in this world more exciting to me than meeting a cock for the first time. Each one has a different personality, and Mac’s matched his style. Rugged, thick, and finely veined, his prick fit well in my fist as I worked the tip between my lips and into my wet mouth. Mac moaned and gripped the railing for support.
“You’re so warm,” he whispered, “so warm and soft.”
I didn’t look down, but I knew about those people on the floor below us, and it made me soak my panties. My skin prickled at the knowledge that my coworkers and competitors were strolling around clueless several hundred feet beneath me. When I stared up at Mac, I saw that he was looking down at them. I could tell that the same thoughts turned him on, too.
Where you choose to spend your time (on your knees, on a catwalk) is entirely up to you. But remember the old adage that works perfectly well for this sort of sport: practice makes perfect.
TANTALIZING TIPS
•Wear mascara when performing a blowjob—or ask your partner to. My extensive research shows that men like to witness messy mascara when looking down at their mate.
•Make a blowjob the main event of an encounter rather than relegating the act to foreplay. See how long you can stretch out an oral onslaught.
•Let your partner suck your fingers while you perform the blowjob to indicate more or less pressure, suction, or sensation.
FICTION: FELLATIO
ALLOWED
CHARLOTTE STEIN
He always says no, no, no. But that just makes it harder for me to think anything but yes, yes, yes. I dream about it at night. I dream about it in the middle of the day. I look at other couples jealously and imagine how easy it is for them. They’re probably doing it all the time, in cupboards and on tables and in the middle of Marks and Spencer’s.
Though I haven’t the faintest clue why I think of cupboards and tables and Marks and Spencer’s. I suppose it’s just a symptom of this disease I’ve got, this obsession, this problem that no other woman in the world has. Other women complain in Marie Claire about how often their husbands make them do it. They have top tips on how to make it more palatable and less annoying.
But I don’t want more palatable and less annoying. I just want it any way I can get it: I just need to suck my husband’s cock.
Why does he have to be so weird about it? He’s sat across the table from me right now, carefully edging the jam into every corner of his slice of toast. He hates it when he gets a bit that’s preserve free, and I can understand why. Who wants a loaf of bread without the butter? Without the best bit, the tastiest bit, the bit that he just wo
n’t fucking give me?
Damn him. Damn his eyes. Damn his gorgeous, big blue eyes. And his lower lip, oh his lower lip that I would dance on, if I were the size of a flea and actually capable of dancing. He’s lovely, my husband. He’s as sexy as sin, and he can fuck for England.
It’s just this one thing that he falls down on. This one, tiny, unimportant thing. Though of course the trouble is—it’s tiny and unimportant the way a grain of sand is tiny and unimportant, and the longer it sits against my skin the more it itches and bothers me and just won’t go away.
I don’t know what to do. When I ask him if he’d like me to, he laughs it off and changes the subject, and the next thing I know we’re discussing the climate in Brazil. And the old slinky slide down his body doesn’t work, either. He’s six foot seventy million and built like a block heaved from Stonehenge. All he has to do is hook his hands into my armpits, and I’m suddenly flying through the air.
He could invent a new Olympic sport: wife-hurling. He’d get top marks for always landing me right on the mattress, and for his masterful maneuvering of me into a number of rather illicit positions.
My favorite is the backward pile driver.
But once he’s done backwardly pile-driving me, I’m just left with this nagging question: Why is he okay with wild sexual positions that probably don’t actually exist, and not with this? Why is it this?
I try probing him with subtle questions, late at night when he’s half-drunk from some work party and can’t seem to get his elbow out of his shirt. He’s distracted then, you see. The Crystal Maze of the material hemming him in has all of his attention. I can creep up on him on the sly.
When you were kid, did you ever put your finger in something and nearly have it lopped off? I ask, for obvious reasons. Maybe some rather large codfish scared him one time, and now he’s reluctant to put his body parts in anything that might amputate them. I’ve noticed that he’s got this weird thing with his nails. He doesn’t like them being touched, and in my head the two things are psychologically linked.