With This Ring, I Thee Bed

by Alison Tyler

  Flor slides a leg over him. She’s shed her dress, and her naked skin is damp against his. Bracing her knees against him, she arches up over him. He catches her around the waist with one hand, the hand he’s been using to pleasure her, and holds her in place, glad she’s so tiny. But his other hand is free now.

  Free to help guide his straining dick into Flor’s wet pussy. He’s past worrying, past second-guessing. He’s nothing but a machine now, and he functions at their will.

  Hands still hold his legs down, spread apart, and the act of thrusting his hips upward from this position is killing his back, but he does it anyway. Fucking the girl in his lap until she comes. And he doesn’t.

  Not with this goddamned ring.

  They take him one by one, each of them different: wanting his mouth or his hands, wanting nothing but his hard flesh pumping between their legs. Emma straddles him and grinds against his length inside her. The pressure is impressive and insane, making the blood pound in his head.

  She slaps his face, nails stinging like tiny needles on the flesh under his eye, and he snarls, furious, digs his fingers into her soft ass as punishment, thrusting up roughly. She laughs and yanks the chain backward, slamming his head against the chair.

  The pain courses through him like a shot of liquor, and he nearly sobs with the need to come, to let his frustration, his aggression explode. But he can’t.

  They’re too good.

  They know when to slow down, when to go still, when to inflict pain with sharp nails on his scrotum or his face, so that he shudders uselessly, unable to push himself just that fraction further, to find release. They torment him with soft hair and sweet nipples and cunts so wet he has to bite back cries of agonized pleasure with every thrust.

  But at last they are satisfied. The silk chair drape is crumpled, soaked with sweat.

  Diane takes the chain and yanks it forward, sending him stumbling from the chair to his knees on the ground. The impact jars through his bones, and he grinds his teeth. His dick is bruised, raw, a dull ache of unsatisfied need, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Nothing at all.

  He doesn’t even think about trying to free himself of the ring. He knows an exercise in futility when he sees it, and more than that, he doesn’t want to.

  That’s what surprises him most of all.

  Fingers run through his perspiration-damp hair, drawing it back from his face. The same hand pushes his head up. Aislynn stands over him.

  “You okay, lover boy?”

  He nods. Yeah, he’s okay. No idea why, but he is. She rubs a finger along his lower lip and shakes her head.

  “I’d love to use this mouth, but we have bigger plans for it.”

  He doesn’t know what that means, but he refuses to even try to guess. A machine, or a slave, doesn’t wonder what or analyze why. He only expects to be used again. So he sits perfectly still as the blindfold goes over his eyes, and he feels Aislynn move away. He waits.

  Then he feels her. How he can tell, he doesn’t know, but even before she speaks he knows her touch on his shoulder, her hand sliding down his back.

  “You’ve done so well,” she says at his ear, voice soft and caressing now. “I want you to do one more thing for my pleasure.”

  Anything.

  Anything but this.

  He pulls back, every inch of him panicking at the scent of male cologne, the velvety smoothness of male skin brushing his lips. He shakes his head, a blind, mute protest. Hoping she’s there and she’ll relent. But he knows she won’t. The chain is yanked up, bringing his mouth up against that smooth, hard cock again, and he turns his head aside. But he hears the other man’s gasp, senses his sudden movement.

  Christ. This poor son of a bitch before him has no idea, either.

  And then it hits like a shit-ton of bricks.

  Bring Tom.

  They can’t have.

  Yeah, right. By now, he knows better.

  “Tom?” He’s afraid of the answer, turning his face up as if that will help confirm what his eyes can’t.

  Silence where each heartbeat drums in his ears.

  Then just one word, shocked realization as Tom adds it up, just like he has: “Shit.”

  Sean tears at the blindfold, loosening it enough that he can drag it off.

  His best friend, his best man, stands above him like a colossus—naked but for the cuffs pinning his arms behind him and the chain snaking down to the cuffs on his ankles. And a blindfold.

  Sean looks away. He can’t do this. Even though it means breaking his promise. Even if he’s failing her.

  “Boys,” says Emma in an amused, scornful tone. “Don’t be difficult now. You’ll make me have to whip both of you and I’m tired!”

  Female laughter from all around, reminding him.

  “Suck his cock, Sean.”

  “Like hell,” Tom snaps, but his dick is still rock hard, despite the lack of a ring. Despite the fact Tom’s military, married and straight, and they’ve been friends since Little League.

  Sean tries not to think about all that, but even with his gaze on the floor, he knows it. Knows how close their bodies are.

  He looks up, searching, and finds the one face he’s looking for. She’s standing to his left with the end of his chain in her hand, still wearing her white dress, and his stomach goes cold. For a long, long moment, they stare at each other.

  “Sean?” It’s Tom’s voice.

  Without looking away, he answers. “Yeah, I’m here. I don’t think we’re going anywhere until we do what they want.”

  “Bullshit.”

  But Tom doesn’t make any attempt to move, and Sean knows his own long-suffering dick is hard, too.

  He won’t think.

  He doesn’t think.

  He just closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath and lowers his head.

  Tom’s cock fills his mouth. So like a woman and so not: same soft skin, but hard muscle and flesh. He can taste the salt of perspiration, the tang of arousal as he slides his mouth down the shaft, and his eyes water as the tip touches the back of his throat. He gags, but Tom’s hips nudge forward, and his own dick moves in response. Wanting.

  Turn it off. Turn off the guilt and the freaking out and the what-the-fuck-am-I-doing. Just suck.

  They’ve always played off each other, guessing the other’s moves on the court or the field. Shouldn’t be surprising that they find the other’s rhythm now. No surprise at all that he tastes precum on his tongue, or that Tom is moaning, grinding his hips.

  Just like every woman he’s fucked tonight. Guess this is what being a slut feels like.

  He can’t breathe. Tom fucks his throat hard and vindictively, but Sean refuses to slow down, to give his aching jaw a chance at rest. Saliva drips down onto his chest, and all he can hear is the roaring blood in his ears, the harsh rhythm of Tom’s breath. He grips Tom’s ass and pulls his hips forward, ramming his friend’s dick down his own throat.

  He’s gonna make the bastard come. Because he can.

  Because he has this power.

  Because he just doesn’t give a damn, and what does it matter anyway and fuck it all…he wants to.

  He wants this, but he doesn’t know why. Swallowing Tom’s cum, watching Emma take off the blindfold so Tom can see him on his knees with Tom’s cock dripping cum on his bruised lips, seeing the proud smiles of the girls—so pleased at how well their boys have behaved—he wants all of it.

  Every humiliated, tormented, sexy second of it.

  The others withdraw, Tom to be rewarded for his compliance and the coven to indulge their inhuman appetites yet again. In the sudden stillness and silence the exhaustion of Sean’s body catches up with him, turning the light in the room fuzzy and surreal, making him aware of each breath he takes. But she’s still there—sharp as a diamond, just as beautiful.

  Flor and Diane have stayed behind, too. They stand to each side of her and as he watches, she lets the chain slip from her hands to clatter against the floor
. He holds his breath as they undress her, stripping everything away but heels and pearls. They undo her hair and it spills down her shoulders in a cascade of soft gold that sets him aching all over again.

  Diane leaves, but Flor lingers a moment longer. He watches them kiss, watches Flor stroke her breasts and pinch her nipples, sees her bite her lip just like she does when he touches her that way. Then, once she’s ready, anointed with arousal, Flor gives them both a smile and slips away.

  And at last they’re alone: bride and groom.

  She crosses to where he still kneels, and sinks to her knees. She unhooks the chain, but she leaves the collar on as she lies back on the floor, drawing him down on top of her. A shiver of lust runs through him.

  He catches her wrists and holds them down on the floor to either side of her body, arching over her. She lies still, waiting, but he feels the tremor in her limbs, the tension in her thighs under his. Slowly, he lowers his head to the valley between her breasts, feels the heat of her skin on his cheek, the ripple of reaction as his lips press against one soft curve. He can hear her heart beating fast and frantic.

  Never releasing her wrists, he pulls her hands downward as he kisses his way from her chest to her thighs. She parts her legs silently, but at his tongue flickering over her clit she sighs a little, a tiny protest. He feels her thighs flex inward.

  She’s so sensitive there, so easy to tease with nothing but his tongue and his lips until she explodes…but not tonight. Tonight she’ll come with him inside her.

  With her taste on his lips, and in his head, mingled with the taste and the smell of every lover he’s served tonight, he stretches himself over her once again, releases her wrists long enough to position himself against her. He expects to feel the room shake when his dick slides into her soft flesh, an earthquake generated just by them, just because of how badly he wants her. So bad it’s sheer agony. But it’s sheer heaven, too.

  Her face is flushed, red staining white and gold as he fucks her. He watches her tits jiggle each time he slams into her, hears her breath rasp, sees her sink her teeth into her lip. He’s distancing himself from all of it, from the demand of his tortured dick. Lasting long enough to see her start to shake, to watch her hair moving like liquid across the polished floor as she tosses her head from side to side. Long enough to hear her cry out and feel her pussy clench around him.

  He lets her wrists go, braces himself on his hands and gives in to the need. Movement becomes a blur, his head is spinning, and then pain and sensation flood his groin and he registers the rubber of the cock ring flicking his balls as she undoes it. Sets him free. Emptying himself into her. Bodies locked together endlessly.

  For a few breathless seconds, he thinks this orgasm might well kill him.

  But it doesn’t.

  He lies on the floor for a long time, staring at the distant ceiling. The whole room feels steeped in red now, sated and exhausted and transformed. Finally he feels her shift; he turns to look at her and she meets his gaze, silently, steadily.

  The corner of her mouth tilts upward and she reaches out to draw one soft finger down the side of his face.

  “Husband,” is all she says.

  And even in the dim light he can see himself reflected—held—in her eyes.

  Naked Nuptials

  Alison Tyler

  “God, you’re sexy,” Wes said. Once again, I’d tried to make the bed while naked. And once again, Wes had found it far more interesting to muss things up.

  “I’m almost finished,” I told him, leaning across the mattress to stretch the corners of the scarlet satin sheets as flat as I could get them. I knew this position made my ass look amazing, and I added an extra little wiggle to my hips as I focused on tucking in the far corner of the sheet. “Just let me—”

  “Sure, I’ll let you,” he said with a laugh, pushing me forward, so that I was spread out facedown on the still-rumpled ruby-red comforter, and then pressing against me from behind. “I love when you do the chores naked,” he continued in a soft, sexy growl. What he meant was that he likes when I try to do the chores naked, because rarely am I able to finish any of the tasks I begin. If I start trying to dust, or vacuum, or pay bills while in my birthday suit, Wes jumps me. Of course, I wouldn’t have things any other way.

  “You look so good when you stroll around like that,” Wes continued, nuzzling my ear and then lifting my long wave of wheat-blond hair up in one hand and kissing his way down the nape of my neck. I shivered at his touch, losing myself in the warmth of his lips against my bare skin. Wes chose the perfect locations to leave his kisses, alternating on either side of my spine as he worked toward the dimples of my rounded rear. As he moved, I could feel his body against mine, his strong torso, muscular arms holding me where he wanted me.

  As usual on the weekend, Wes was naked as well, and he let me feel exactly how aroused he’d been to find me straightening up in the nude. For several delicious seconds, he kissed my back, making all my nerve endings hum with anticipation. Despite my best intentions, I had no more thoughts of straightening the sheets. As I held my body still, I only had fantasies about what Wes was doing to me—and dreams of what I would soon be doing to him.

  Without a word of warning, he slid one hand under my body, stroking my sweetly shaved pussy, discovering the abundant wetness waiting for him. In spite of my earlier faux protests, I’d been hoping he’d stroll back to our bedroom, hoping we would be engaged in a similar position before too long. My man always knows just what I want. He slid his fingertips in crazy circles up and over my clit, and then thrust two fingers inside me, prepping me for what was to come next.

  His cock. Oh, God, how I love his cock.

  To let him know that I was ready, I arched my hips, and Wes took this as an invitation to slip inside me with one firm thrust. Any last lingering thoughts of making the bed vaporized from my mind as my man began to fuck me in earnest. I closed my eyes, feeling his heat spread to mine, his hard body pushing forward, thrusting over and over.

  My sexy wetness enveloped him, and he responded to the welcoming embrace of my pussy by continuing to slip his fingers up and around my clit. With each thrust, and each luscious rotation, he pushed me farther forward on the bed, until we were back in the now-tangled sheets, rutting against one another in perfect tandem.

  “I love catching you naked,” Wes murmured as he slammed inside me, and I smiled to myself. The only thing I had on was a pair of high-heeled mules and my engagement ring, which sparkled in the lazy summer sunlight. As usual on Saturday mornings, I’d been doing the chores naked in hopes that he would catch me back here, that he would do just this. I’d folded the laundry naked, vacuumed the carpet naked, and then moved on to making the bed before he found me.

  You see, in my opinion, there’s nothing sexier than…well, nothing. Wearing nothing, that is. Based on the sheer number of fashion magazines on the stands today, as well as many of my friends’ admitted addiction to Project Runway, I realize many other girls must feel that clothing is the best way to express themselves creatively. But I like showing all—not simply teasing with a peek of skin, a cutout here, a deep slit there. I adore slicking myself all over with some sparkly scented lotion, then sprawling out on our soft, rose-colored carpet in the living room wearing only my birthday suit. Luckily for me, my fiancé feels the same way. Of course, we don’t parade around town naked on a daily basis, not like that naked man in Berkeley I read about. For us, it’s not political—it’s sexual. Whenever we’re on our own, we’re stripped down.

  Now, as Wes’s fingers continued to make the most sexy rotations around my clit, I could feel the climax building, and I moaned and arched my hips against him, giving him space beneath my body to touch me with more ease. Wes did precisely as I hoped, stroking me expertly, rotating his knowing fingers in dreamy circles within circles until I couldn’t help but cry out with the pleasure. Wes knew just what the husky sound of my voice meant.

  “Come for me, Chelsea,” he urged, and I d
id, climaxing hard and fast one beat before my man. He rode the wave of my climax, bucking his body against mine, fiercely thrusting into me as his pleasure peaked, and then falling forward on top of me, so that I could relish the sensation of his weight against me.

  “You planned that,” he said in a mock accusation afterward, still holding me to his chest, where I felt so safe.

  But I would admit nothing.

  “You knew if I came back here and saw you stripped down that I wouldn’t be able to control myself.”

  My grin gave me away. Wes knows by now that being naked while engaged in normal activities is my favorite aphrodisiac, and it’s Wes’s, as well. I love watching my tall, handsome man stroll through our apartment in his altogether. He is extremely sexy, with his thighs well-muscled from weekly long-distance bike rides, his abs flat from an addiction to sit-ups, his pecs like something out of a muscle-man magazine. When I observe him from the rear, my legs go weak, simply from the sight of his finely sculpted ass. And if he turns around and catches me looking, then I’m rewarded with the added thrill of seeing his fierce cock grow even larger from my constant admiration. Because it does grow, every time he feels me watching him.

  We are the perfect match in this way. As much as Wes likes to be the center of attention, he also gets off on viewing me when I’m naked. He most appreciates my body when I am revealed, randy and ready to go.

  At home, I do everything in the nude—I cook naked, read the paper naked, make the bed naked—or try to.

  Our naked fixation explains why we decided that for our wedding, we wanted to be married in our altogether—all together with our favorite bare-all buddies, that is. After only a little bit of online research, we discovered the ideal environment, a luxurious tropical island retreat created for couples exactly like us, duos who adore lounging in the nude. The risqué resort actually encourages naked nuptials, and the concept of being married outdoors and undressed fitted our lifestyle to perfection. But because I am what Wes has called “a superstitious sweetie,” I still wanted to follow a few of the standard traditions. Every bride cherishes a few preconceived notions of what she’ll look like as she walks down the aisle. Yet something old, new, borrowed and blue takes on whole new meaning when you’re not planning on wearing a wedding dress, garter or any of those expected accoutrements.