With This Ring, I Thee Bed

by Alison Tyler

  Trixie eased off the table, swaying over to Jason, the dancing awkward, even forced, but the girl nonetheless irresistible. She faced away from him, planted her booted feet firmly on either side of his and spread her legs wide. She pushed her ass into his face. His hands came up and rested on her hips, and that first touch between them was electric. When he leaned forward, he could smell her pussy. Trixie lowered her ass into Jason’s lap.

  The smooth cheeks of her ass rubbed against his hard-on. She rocked back and forth in time to the music, and Jason knew he would shoot in his pants if she kept that up. But then she sat squarely in his lap and lifted her feet off the ground, propping her legs over the arms of the chair as the guys around the room cheered. She leaned back and Jason could smell her again, sweat and a faint hint of perfume, an unfamiliar scent that made his pulse quicken. Trixie’s face came close to his as she rested her head on his shoulder, her raven hair tickling one cheek as she reached back with her hand to caress the other.

  “Fuck me?” begged Jason. “Fuck me now? Please?”

  Trixie responded by grinding her ass quicker, jiggling her body and rubbing his hard-on dangerously close to orgasm. He closed his eyes and felt her all over him, smelling her, wanting to taste her. He was going to come.

  But Trixie seemed to sense the exact instant when his climax would have erupted. She pulled herself off him at the very last moment. She stood over him and smirked at him as she draped her tits in his face; this time she didn’t pull away when his lips closed over her nipple. She let him lick, then straightened up and laughed flirtatiously.

  Then, that final moment came—the promised moment that never happened in clubs. Trixie slipped her thumbs under the sides of her G-string.

  “Let’s go commando, shall we?” she cried over the pulsing music.

  Jason drooled.

  Her hips swayed back and forth as the music pulsed through her. She tugged the G-string down just a little—just a tiny, tiny bit—then let it inch back up. She turned around and showed Jason her ass, that glorious ass that had just been pressed against his cock. She bent over, squirming, as she took the G-string down an inch—two inches. Then, over her ass, down her thighs, over her calves. She stepped out of it.

  Trixie picked up her G-string and turned around, covering her pussy with one hand as she inched closer to Jason, dancing. He stared at her, transfixed. Still covering her sex, she leaned close and draped the G-string in his face.

  He could smell her pussy strongly now; the G-string was soaked through.

  Someone chanted, “Pantie sniffer!”

  Trixie sat in his lap, facing him, her perfect breasts in his face. She wrapped her legs around him, hugged him tight and ground her crotch against his hard-on.

  “Please don’t make me come,” he begged over the music. “I want to put it in you.”

  “Do you?” Trixie asked flirtatiously. Then, tenderly, she bent down and gave Jason a kiss on the lips—dry, no tongue. It was the most exquisite kiss he had ever received.

  Trixie’s hand went between them. Her finger slipped between her pussy lips, came up glistening. She slid it between Jason’s lips and he thought he would explode. She moved it deeper and he tasted her—sharp, salty, musky, strong.

  “Please let me fuck you,” Jason said.

  The music ended.

  “Congratulations,” she whispered. “Your girl must be so open-minded.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said, his ears ringing.

  Trixie took his hand and pulled him up, leading him toward the bedroom. The guys all chanted different things, some “Consummate!” some “Fuck her!” someone “Sex her up!” (Huh? thought Jason.) Trixie led him to the bedroom and dragged him inside, slamming the door.

  Mike had changed the sheets, all right, but they never made it under the covers. The second the door was closed, Trixie had Jason on the bed and was atop him. Naked except for her gorgeous, kinky boots, she spread her legs over his crotch and draped her breasts, full and lovely, in his face. He suckled one nipple into his mouth as she groped desperately at his belt and zipper, as if not getting him inside her in an instant would drive her completely insane. She moaned as she took out his hard cock, started sliding her mouth up and down on him. He closed his eyes and moaned as the sounds of the party got going again in the living room. Trixie moved up gracefully and spread her legs around his head, dipping her pussy onto his face as she descended on his cock again. His tongue delved hungrily between her lips. She devoured his cock as her hips pumped in time with Jason’s tongue. He found her clit and greedily licked it, but he was so fucking close.

  “Please don’t make me come yet,” he gasped.

  “Oh,” she whimpered, pouting. “But I want to.”

  “Fuck me,” begged Jason.

  “Not yet. Lick me,” purred Trixie, and ground her pussy down onto his face. He started working her clit, his tongue seething against her rhythmically. He felt her lower body pumping against him as she got closer—and then she came, her whole body shuddering on top of him as he kept licking her desperately.

  Still shaking, mad with lust, Trixie turned around and spread her legs for him, sliding his cock up to her pussy and fitting it between her swollen lips.

  “Congratulations,” she breathed as she sank down on him. “And many happy returns.”

  She was dripping wet; her snug sex gripped him tightly, still clenching rhythmically from her orgasm as she began to fuck Jason. Her lower body rose and fell as she pinned him down and worked him hungrily, cradling his head and guiding his mouth to her breasts. He sucked her nipples and tried to hold still, but couldn’t; he started pumping up into her, meeting each stroke. Then Jason cried out, climaxing, coming inside Trixie, so loudly that his friends outside started cheering. Well, they asked for it, he thought. He panted heavily as he finished, looking up into her gorgeous face and wanting ever more of her.

  He rolled her onto her side, his cock popping out of her as he caressed her face.

  “You little vixen,” he said. “Now all my friends have seen you naked.”

  “Yeah, so they have,” she said. “What was I supposed to do? You said you didn’t want a stripper,” said Trixie. “And you can tell from my dancing that I’m not one.”

  “You did great,” breathed Jason. “More.”

  “Oh, I’ll dance for you, cowboy,” she said, stroking his face. “I’ll dance for you plenty. Once that ring is on my finger, there’ll be a lot of dancing.”

  “Is that right?”

  She purred and thrust herself on Jason, kissing him.

  “Every night, cowboy. Every night.”

  Something Blue

  Shanna Germain

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mom. Quit with the perfume. I smell like a bouquet of dead flowers.” My mom tsked her tongue in that way only Italian mothers can, and waved the crystal perfume bottle at me the way I imagine mothers have waved things at their daughters since we evolved into opposable-thumbed creatures. And possibly before.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “You smell beautiful. Like lilies. Lilies for my Lily.”

  “Oh, Ma…” I groaned at her words, then lifted my arm and sniffed at the recently sprayed skin. My nose wrinkled without me telling it to. “You’re right, I don’t smell like dead flowers. I smell like flowers for the dead. Just perfect.”

  The only good thing was that I hadn’t got my dress on yet. Instead, I was standing in the bedroom that Thad and I shared, wearing the only set of pure-white lingerie I’d ever owned, letting my mom ease her prewedding jitters by pulling various beauty implements out of her Mary Poppins-like makeup bag. She’d already scrubbed my face and neck with some rose-waterish gel, then tried to pluck my eyebrows, proclaiming, “You could be so beautiful if you just took more time.” And now she was making me smell like dead things. If I didn’t know this was probably the most important day of her life, at least since her own wedding thirty-some years ago, I’d think she was trying to sabotage me.

  It w
as still two hours before the wedding, which left me plenty of time to wash the scent off. If I could just keep her from spraying the lacy bra and panties, that was.

  As she looked at me, my mom’s lids got pink around the bottom, the way they sometimes did. I guessed she was thinking of my dad, a lithe, energetic man with a wicked sense of humor, who’d died four years too early to see his daughter married off. We both missed him—and I know he would have liked Thad, even though that old adage about marrying your father hadn’t come true; they were nothing alike.

  My mom sniffed and then spritzed me with another dose of lily-scented perfume, either so she wouldn’t cry or in the hopes that she could sink it so deep into my skin that I’d never be able to get it off. I ducked my head just as her finger hit the trigger, and the spray caught me in the corner of my mouth, a gagging mist of scent that choked any words of comfort right out of me. Not that I would have comforted her, truly. I was actually thinking of saying something along the lines of “I knew we should have eloped.”

  But by then my mom was already going full torrent on to the next phase of her project, having abandoned the perfume bottle on the dresser for a mascara wand, which was bearing down on my left eye.

  I caught her wrist just before the wand made its way to cornea-scratching distance.

  “Ma,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’d like to have both eyes to see as I walk down the aisle.”

  Her Italian came out at most weddings, anyway. Now that it was her daughter’s big day, the accent and the worry were in full force. “Bella…” she said. “I just want it to be perfect. And you—” she threatened my eye with the mascara wand again “—to be perfect.”

  I gently wrestled the black-tipped dagger from her perfectly pinked nails. “I am perfect, Ma. Thad thinks so. That’s what matters, right?”

  She tugged on the corner of my panties with two pinched fingers—the oddest sensation ever, I have to admit, having your mother’s fingers on your underwear—pulling them down off my hip just so she could pull them back up.

  She gave another little tsk at my words, but this time her reaction was fake. The Italian equivalent of warding demons away from a beautiful baby girl by naming her Ugly One That No One Wants. My mom liked Thad. She had since the day he met her, when he sat his tall, wide-shouldered frame at her dining room table, put his napkin in his lap and ate four helpings of her sausage-packed lasagna. Never having to say a word—his actions, and those baby blue eyes of his beneath his pale bangs, melting my mom easy as butter. “You know, if you dump this one, I’m going to keep him in the family and disown you,” she’d told me on the phone the next day.

  I had no doubt she meant it.

  Of course, she didn’t know Thad like I did. Which meant that she didn’t know his vision of me as perfection had nothing to do with white dresses or lilies or whether I’d let her attack me with makeup implements. Thad liked me dirty, the messier the better. In leather, not lace. Trussed up in black, lipstick smeared, and kneeling at his feet. He didn’t care about dresses or cakes or flower girls. He’d said so to me once; in the middle of another endless discussion with my mother about cake colors, he’d pulled me into the hallway, pressed me hard against the wall with a loud enough thud that I was afraid my mother could hear two rooms over. Whispering his lips along the curl of my ear in that way that made his short whiskers rub sharp against my cheek, each word punctuated with a drag of his hardening cock along the fabric between my thighs. “Lil, let me marry you all trussed up… Cuffs. Collar. My fists in your hair. My cock in your throat. No one else has to come….”

  I’d had to moan before I could answer—the kind of moan that arises out of nowhere, conjured as much from his words as from his actions. A moan low and aching in my throat, one I tried to swallow back even as it rose, unbidden, into the air between us. I followed it with a laugh, a shake of my head, a whispered tease. “If we got married like that, I’d hope we’d be the only ones who’d come.”

  God, that wicked, wicked grin of his. The way it starts at the edges of his cheekbones instead of his lips, spreads inward to his mouth, knife-sharp from his knowledge of what I want. A hand burying itself in my dark curls to tug my head sideways. “Oh, yes,” he said, pushing forward so that his hard cock dug into me, seemed to bruise my very center. “We both would. More than once… Lil, let’s just skip all this. I’ll wrap your wrists in leather, fuck you till you scream ‘I do.’ That’s good enough for me. Please…”

  His words made me want to say yes. He so rarely said, “Please.” Usually it was me begging that word. Please fuck me. Please let me suck you. Please, yes, when he reached into the closet for his favorite long crop. Please, harder, with his nails at my nipples.

  From the other room, my mom had cleared her throat. The sound pulled me back to the hard roll of Thad’s hips against mine, the hand still fisted in my hair, the shuddered exhalation that was slipping through my lips. I shook my head, despite his grip in my strands, cocking my chin in the direction of my mom, sitting in the kitchen by herself debating yellow daisies versus purple-blue irises. I’d voiced my preference for the purple, but I could already tell I’d be getting butter-yellow.

  “We can’t,” I said, whispering for no reason at all. I wanted to. Oh, I wanted. But it wasn’t just about disappointing my mom, my whole family. It was also that I found something appealing about the whole miserable white wedding drama. The whole thing was so pure, so perfect and pretty and wholesome, and I was none of those things. I had this image of me, dirty and soiled, skin bruised by his hands and leather, all hidden inside the white folds of lace and silk. Like a perfectly frosted wedding cake that, when you cut it open, revealed not a sugary-sweet vanilla, but a darkly spiced chocolate, soaked in rum.

  “I know. The pure wedding for my impure slut,” he’d said, and I knew that, like always, he understood exactly what I wanted. He gave another thump of his erection into my hip, hard enough to send a shiver up my spine, his voice hissing into the hollow of my ear. “Let’s go tell your mom the daisies are fine. I’ll decorate your ass with enough blue blooms to make up for it when we get home.”

  He had, of course, done as promised. The flat of his hand sinking into the curves of my flesh with that repetition that I love. The sound of my skin pinkening and then purpling. My fingers on my clit when he said I could. His voice in my ear, whispering through his teeth, growling, “Lil, Lil, Lily…” as I came.

  Now, my mom, unswayed either by my plea or by my stealing her tools, was setting to work laying out more weapons of torture—this new set designed to tame my unruly brown curls into something resembling what a woman more innocent than myself might wear. Flattening iron, curling iron, six kinds of hair spray, four kinds of mousse.

  She recited the litany of steps as though she’d had to memorize it. “Mousse first, then flat, then curl, then spray.” The mousse came out of the can in a huge, pink lump onto my mom’s palm. We both looked at it for a moment in silence as it seemed to shift and settle, some creature out of the Pink Lagoon.

  Then I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. “Oh my god, Ma,” I said. “Enough. Enough.”

  “But your hair. It’s all—” she gestured around her head with her unmoussed hand “—wild.”

  “I know. It’s okay. Why don’t you take a break? Go make some coffee. Fuss over Grandpa or something.”

  She looked uncertain, holding up the moussed hand. “What do I do with this?”

  I tried not to grin. She’d spent two months planning this event down to the last detail, and now she was so nervous she couldn’t handle basic functions. I swept the mousse off her palm and rubbed it into the ends of my hair before pushing it all off my face into a loose bun. “There,” I said.

  “It’s still…” Unable to resist, she pushed her fingers into my now sticky strands, sending hair every which way.

  I gently pried her off and turned her toward the door, a hand on each shoulder. “Go. Now. I’ll be fine. Just, please, send Thad in.”


  “But you’re in your—”

  “I know, Ma. He’s seen me in my undies before.”

  She uttered a tiny squeak of protest as she slipped out the door, but she must have passed the message along, because a few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Thad peeked his head in, blue eyes filled with an impish glint. Cocking a brow at the white-on-white pantie and bra ensemble, he slid his whole body inside the room in one fluid, easy movement. I was glad to see he wasn’t dressed up yet, either—still in a T-shirt and jeans, my favorite leather belt looped around his waist.

  He took one look at me…and laughed. The bastard. “Holy coif,” he said, his blue eyes bordered with a thread of dark mischief.

  “Save me,” I said, laughing myself, holding out an arm for him to sniff.

  He smelled my skin, and I could feel his lips brush it, soft as a wing. “You smell like a funeral parlor.”

  “I know. Isn’t it awful?”

  “Yes.” With that single word, his voice hardened, that delicious rasp that changed everything between us, that took away the equality and turned us into what we truly were. Master. Slave. And beneath his word, another sound—his fingers clicking the bedroom lock closed.

  Yes.

  Click.

  I shivered in my pristine undies, wrapped my arms around my body to hold myself still, watching him.

  “You know, I can’t have you like this, right?” He took an other step forward, until I could smell his skin even through the mist of gag-me-lilies that surrounded me. He smelled of pine sap and shaving cream and leather, always. I could catch a whiff of any one of those scents, anywhere—the grocery store, a restaurant, on a walk through the woods—and I would instantly want to be on my knees, drawing my tongue along the length of Thad’s cock. When he was here, all three combined were enough to make me instantly wet. I could feel the moisture already coating the white satin between my legs, ruining the fabric.