by Alison Tyler
“You sure are ready. Wet and ready and in need of a break if I’m not mistaken…”
“Yes.” I move back just a hair before catching myself. But I’ve broken the code, I’ve prompted him and that is a no-no. Derrick stills completely.
“You looked very tense.” His hands are sliding along my bottom, his fingers tickling at my skin. He’s not thrusting his cock or his fingers in my bum. He’s making me suffer. Delicious suffering.
“I was.”
“You’d probably like to blow off some steam.”
“I would.”
“Have some pleasure.”
“Yes.”
“Can you stand the waiting?”
“No,” I sob, and he laughs again.
“Fair enough.” He cracks me one good blow on my tingling bottom and I jump a bit. It all fades away, though, on that one blow because he’s finally moving. Thrusting deep and hard, filling me so swiftly that I lift up off the floor but for my very tippy toes. I grip the edge of the sink and watch my hair swirl around the drain like a mermaid’s hair swirling in ocean water.
I’m going to come, but I want him to know how much I needed this. How good this is. How much I love him, so I say softly, “May I?”
His voice has gone to a growl, his fingers pushed to the very top knuckles in my ass. I can feel his fingers and his cock sliding along each other through the thin barrier of my internal flesh. Just beneath the surface. There is always something just beneath the surface, isn’t there?
“You may,” Derrick says and I come. My eyes leaking thankful tears as my body shudders and plucks at him. Wrapping around his driving flesh like I can keep him close and hold him inside.
His free hand grips my hip and his fingers dig hard and deep into the thicker flesh there. I will wear fingerprints for days I’m sure and god, that is the best thing I can think of. The knowledge makes me come again.
“I don’t know, are you wet enough to come twice?” he chuckles, but I can hear the barely there control in his voice. I can hear the cracks in his mental foundation. I can hear how much he wants to join me.
So I prompt him. I squeeze my pussy tight, and I say, “Come with me, please.”
He’s given me something I didn’t even know I needed, and now I want him to have his. I squeeze again and again and trip myself into yet another small release.
“Fuck. Dirty fighting, sweetheart,” he grunts and he’s looped his arm around my waist and he’s holding me close. His teeth on my shoulder making sparkles of pain bloom there and when he empties into me, his whole big body goes taut and I can feel his muscles tremble.
It’s the most gorgeous feeling. The feeling of energy and release moving through the human body. Humming along in the blood, swimming under the skin. Just beneath the surface.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FANTASIES FIRST—
ROLE-PLAY
You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.
—ALBERT EINSTEIN
I’ve been a waitress, a nurse, and a bombshell. I’ve been a stripper, a streetwalker, and a dancer at the Crazy Horse. Trust me, I am no actor. I stutter and stammer on stage. Public speaking is my personal hell. But I love role-playing. Why? Because role-playing gives you permission to be anyone you want. And as you might have predicted, I have a wicked imagination. I’m an ace at thinking of new characters to be in the bedroom…and beyond. When I’m not creating ones from scratch, I’m embodying the characters of strangers I’ve seen in my travels.
Happily, you don’t need much to start this sort of game: A fantasy the two of you have shared. A movie scene you’d like to make real. A passage in a book—you only need to be on the same page.
Maybe in real life you’re pretty experienced. When you role-play, you can be a virgin, like the character in my story “The Girl of His Dreams”:
He was shaken. He said, “I’ve never seen you…” then lost his train of thought, “never seen you so…”
“What?” I asked, liking being in charge of the scenario, having no problem age-playing with him. I thought of the minidresses that I’d worn in college, still boxed up in my attic. I thought of the cheerleader outfit at the back of my closet, the one I’d worn in high school and at several Halloween parties since then. If Jonathan wanted young, I could give him young.
“You’re just so sweet,” he said again, running his fingers over my lips, bare of their normal dark raspberry shade of gloss. I had on no lipstick, no eye shadow, my face clean and fresh. He kissed me, taking my face in both of his hands, kissing me more passionately than ever. I basked in it, relaxed against him, felt the buckles of my overalls pressing into my skin. I said, “You really like this, don’t you?” leaning my body on his to feel his cock pressing against me.
He swallowed hard. He was having a difficult time admitting it.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little role-playing,” I said. “I can be the girl next door, outside gardening in my overalls.” I bent forward so that he could see my naked breasts beneath the denim bib. I undid the buckles again and let the front of the overalls fall open. He reached forward and touched one of my small, pert breasts, and then the other. He looked like he was going to pass out.
In “A Quick Ten,” I show how spanking and role-playing go hand in hand. Well, a hard-backed brush goes in one hand, but role-playing goes in the other:
He gave me two more strokes, raising the number to nine. I could tell he was going to make the tenth count, and he didn’t let me down, giving me the hardest stroke of all for the finale. Tears filled my eyes and a moan rose in my throat. Then, without a word, he lifted me from his lap, threw me down on the bed on my stomach and went on his knees on the floor behind me. He kissed my reddened asscheeks, kissed along the crack between them. He thrust his tongue between my thighs and lapped at the honeyed nectar that had collected there.
And then he fucked me, opening his fly and freeing his cock, fucking me from behind so that his clothes rubbed against my hot ass. He made me come like that, the feeling of being filled complemented by the coarseness of his pants rubbing against my skin. He said, “You liked that, bad girl. Only a really bad girl would get off on that,” still playing along. Still in the role.
One of the best things about role-playing is the fact that nobody is trapped. You can be one character one night, and someone new the next. Samantha Mallery writes in “Spring Cleaning”:
Eleanor nodded her immediate approval. She stood on our patio, a tissue-wrapped bouquet in her lovely hands. I let her in, feeling shy, as I always do when she’s in charge. It’s fun taking turns this way. It gives us both the opportunity to play different roles. When Eleanor is in charge, her very appearance seems to change. She has light honey-colored hair, and freckled skin. Her eyes are a deep brown, and they seem to glow when she’s in charge. They have a heat to them, and they flicker like the purple-gold flames in a campfire.
Elise Hepner’s “A Shot” takes the fantasy of role-playing to a new level—outside of the bedroom.
“A shot. Tequila.”
A glass slid across the bar, amber liquid coating the glossy-topped wood.
“Thanks,” Hattie shifted her black curls behind one ear and glanced down—back toward the man in a black muscle-tee and low-slung jeans.
His gray eyes appraised, full mouth inching up into a half grin. The nape of her neck burned, a blush flared up her pale cheekbones. His stern nod to the half-spilled shot. With a deep breath, she knocked it back. Now the burn inside matched the heat on the outside.
“Another,” she croaked, waving a ten.
He saddled closer, snatching her wrist in his icy grip. His bruising fingers wrenched a low gasp out of her lips, breasts inching forward across the bar, scraping her extra-sensitive nipples across the wood. Tender, aching, full. A shudder licked down her spine.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Get back there. I’ll come for you.”
His other hand caressed her c
heek and her pulse skittered. Their eyes locked. Her mouth watered, pussy slick, mind blank. He was sweet-scented—and devious. So right.
Did he have to say anything else?
Why not?
Hattie waited, fingers tapping the bathroom door frame. Nipples pebbled with anticipation.
Before she composed her thoughts, he shoved her back against the door. A rough clap—stung her back and ass. Her hand palmed his thick cock. His breath, a sensual tease.
“I’ve always wanted to fuck a bartender. Glad you hijacked your best friend’s job.”
“Your wish, my command, wife.”
Sharon Wachsler’s “Alternative Medicine” is a twist on the doctor/patient fantasy that many couples share:
I entered the dark bedroom. She was lying in an oversized T-shirt on her back with a black mask over her eyes and a cold, wet cloth on her forehead. When the sleeve of my white coat grazed her thigh, she sucked in her breath.
“You’ve had this migraine all day?” I asked, placing my black bag on our nightstand.
“Yes, doctor.”
“The medication hasn’t helped?”
“No, doctor.”
“Now, because you’ll try anything, you’ve asked for my help?”
A whisper. “Yes. I’m desperate.”
“Pain specialists,” I said, opening my bag and taking out gloves, lube and a small purple butt plug with a remote vibe, “have found that providing an alternative focus can distract the patient from her pain.”
“Mm,” she said, unmoving.
I snapped on the gloves—loudly—and she jerked. I lubed up the plug, lifted her legs and slid it in her ass.
“Oh!”
I slapped her ass. “If you relax, it will be more efficacious,” I instructed, turning the vibe to low.
A soft moan.
“Lie still and focus on the stimulus,” I directed. “I have to make rounds. I’ll be back later to finish your treatment.” I dropped a leather paddle and a condom next to her. Her hand found each in turn, and a slow smile spread across her face.
I turned the vibe to medium, eased the door shut, and whistling, headed for the shower.
Andrea Dale’s “His Lady’s Manservant,” plays with roles in a delicious manner:
Melina tended to be a screamer, and her orgasm solidified our roles: she as the lady of the manor and I as her manservant, the besotted lover kept secret because of class boundaries.
When she rode me (of course she’d take the dominant position), my thoughts truly were for her pleasure. My hands at her breasts, my hips bucking to her rhythm, it wasn’t until she was falling over the edge again and gasping, “Yes, come for me,” that I was finally allowed—that I finally allowed myself—the relief I’d craved.
She didn’t banish me to the servants’ quarters that night, although for the remainder of my weekend she stayed in character.
As I loaded our suitcases into the car, I could only think ahead to when we’d reprise our parts…in private.
Cora Zane’s “Bad Kitty” shows that you don’t even need to be human when you’re playing a part.
She watches me unzip my pants, and I recognize that look of majestic indifference. Sasha meows and stretches her sleek body across the unmade bed. Her red-vinyl claws rake the black satin sheets as a proper pussycat is wont to do. The little bell on her studded, leather collar is a soft chime marking her every movement. I step to the edge of the bed, hard cock in hand, and in defiance, she lies on her side and flicks her cheetah-print tail at me.
“So that’s how it is, is it?”
She lifts her chin in dismissal.
“Bad kitty.” I slip my finger under the edge of her collar, and pull her toward me, the motion forcing her to her knees.
Annoyance flickers in her emerald eyes.
“You know master wants his cock sucked.”
To soothe her, I stroke her black hair, and reluctantly, she nuzzles her face against my hand. That’s when I press the head of my dick to her lush mouth, smudging her wet, red lipstick.
She bathes my cock with the tip of her tongue then sucks me in deep.
I fuck her mouth for what feels like hours. When I’m close to coming, I tighten my hand in her hair, and Sasha digs her claws into my thighs. Moaning, I explode into her mouth. Good kitty, she licks up every drop. When she finally releases me, I’m shaking and weak—and she’s grinning at me. My smug little cat who got the cream.
CJ Lemire takes a page from a fairy tale in “Princess Games”:
Sleeping Beauty lies sprawled across our canopy bed, dolled out in ruby-red corset, long black skirt, and fuck-me shoes.
Acoustic guitar plays from the speakers. An orangey scent wafts across the room. Reflected candlelight tangos across the bedroom walls.
I set the ice bucket on the dresser, kiss her, take in her perfume. Boyfriend. The one that makes her smell like she’s just come from some other man’s arms.
My hard-on strains against my suit trousers. Wait till my mouth gets to your other lips, sweetheart.
From the hope chest at the foot of the bed I select four lengths of rope, the blindfold, lube, peppermint oil and a pair of nipple clamps, which I toss into the ice bucket.
Anything else I might need? Once the lid’s closed I can’t go back, my selections are made. Perhaps the vixen has panties on, cleverly tucked under her garter straps? I add a pair of EMT scissors to my pile.
I have an hour to get Sleeping Beauty to rouse and respond. Fail, and I’m hers for the night. But if I win, and I intend to win, she’s all mine.
Game on, Princess.
Now ask yourself: Who do I want to be tonight?
TANTALIZING TIPS
•You don’t need anything in order to role-play, but costumes and other accoutrements (say a sex toy or two) can definitely ratchet up the pleasure. If you open that door in your mind, you’ll find all sorts of unusual uses for rubber gloves, ties, ace bandages, spatulas…
•If improvisation is difficult for you, play out an erotic scene from your favorite book or movie. You might even be inspired to change the plot along the way. This can be your own fan-fic come to life!
•Play at being each other. Even without costumes or crossdressing, take a turn…
FICTION: ROLE-PLAYING
AFTERNOON STRIP
N. T. MORLEY
It was a big house, so it wasn’t totally unprecedented when Jackson’s phone buzzed on the coffee table and he discovered it was his wife texting him from the top floor. There were a lot of stairs; sometimes she saved herself the trip.
About an hour ago, he’d left Helene napping in the bedroom while he came out to read. His book had taken a turn for the boring, and Jackson had just been sort of vegging out for a while. Truth be told, he was getting a little horny—as he tended to on Saturday afternoons—and so he was thinking about mounting those three flights of stairs and paying his napping wife a visit in any event; there was nothing he or she loved more than an afternoon fuck when she was good and sleepy.
But then he’d heard the telltale whine of the old Victorian’s pipes that told him Helene was taking a shower. Helene’s showers were legendary; they could go on for upward of half an hour, so he thought maybe he would join her—but when he went back and tested the door to the bathroom, he discovered it was locked.
His wife wasn’t in the habit of locking the door to the bathroom, but hey, that was her prerogative, right? So Jackson figured he was on his own for the time being. He returned to the living room and toyed with the idea of calling up some porn. But he decided to nap himself, right there on the couch. When he was awakened by the phone buzzing, he saw it was Helene texting him.
The text said: Do u have ur wallet?
Jackson’s wallet was on the table by the front door, where he always ditched it when they entered the house. But why would he need it? Did she want him to order a pizza?
He texted back: Y.
Helene answered: Small bills?
Ye
ah, of course he had small bills. He always did; he was a cabdriver. It went with the territory.
He texted another Y; Helene responded, Close the curtains.
Jackson texted back: OK, but he was thinking, WTF? The curtains were already closed.
Helene had recently rigged the living room speakers to her office computer on the second floor. That was one of the many reasons Jackson hadn’t been bothering to watch TV or listen to music in the living room much. Now, the speakers blared to life with Rhianna’s “S&M”—the extended, extra-dirty mix.
The throbbing rhythm echoed across the hardwood floors. Even above it, he could hear the deafening click-click-click of very high heels on the hardwood stairway—so he was watching for her when she entered.
Those heels were loud, all right, in more ways than one. The heels were maybe eight inches; the balls of Helene’s feet rested on two-inch, clear-plastic platforms, strapped in by bright red leather that also criss-crossed all the way up her perfect, freshly shaved calves almost to her knees, where they gave way to just the white stockings with the lace tops maybe two inches south of the hem of Helene’s pleated plaid skirt. The lacy tops had red bows in front and back, and she wasn’t wearing garters. Her tits were tied up into a white blouse knotted just under and between them, and while they often defied gravity in Jackson’s mind, he had no doubt that under that blouse they were packed into a seriously aggressive push-up bra. Her nipples stood out rock hard through the see-through white material. A straight black tie dangled between them.
Jackson froze for a moment. Was she a schoolgirl or—
Helene killed the light and turned on the disco lamp she’d insisted on, over Jackson’s protests. Jackson was pretty glad she’d insisted now. Her body dancing with colored lights, she sashayed across the hardwood floors easily. She had a grace that Jackson wondered at; he couldn’t believe this was his wife. Her hips swung and pivoted to the music, a bump-and-grind that left very little mystery as to what was on her mind—or what she wanted to be on her “client’s” mind.