by Violet Blue
Bruce was to do a piece for the local paper on oddities in local neighborhoods. That’s how we found it. A pagoda built in what used to be someone’s back yard, but what is now the back yard to a small neighborhood store. Funny thing is, no one knew the story of it or how it came to be, but the store owner let us take pictures.
“I want to splay you out on that concrete pad and fuck you,” Bruce had said in my ear, while finding a good angle for his camera.
I’d shuddered and I’d blushed and my panties had gone so fucking wet in an instant. I hadn’t known what to say so I’d said nothing.
“Maybe I’d tie you to one of the support beams; see how they’re all scrollwork? Tie you there and let a crowd gather and just slip into you and put on a show under the plump full moon we’ll have tonight. Maybe make you beg. Make you do something you’d never normally do—fuck in public. Maybe make you cry. I think people would like to see you beg and cry in a bright red and yellow pagoda.”
He’d squatted down for an upshot with his fancy camera and I’d had no air. No words. Just a stunned and hotly flushed look on my face. At the last second he’d turned his lens to me and shot that expression.
That shot hangs on the wall in the foyer now. It is the one picture in which I think I look beautiful.
We’d gone back that night. He’d kept his whispered promises.
“It’s chilly, yeah?” he says, pulling me into him, and I shake off my reverie. I touch one scrolled support for the pagoda.
“Yeah.” I’m shaking.
Bruce tugs me harder and I study him from the corner of my eye. His head is shorn close and the stubble that has sprouted there is silver and chocolate. He’s seven years my senior and he makes me feel both strong and vulnerable—a walking oxymoron.
It’s one of the things I love about us.
We circle the garish structure, making sure no spotlights from the stores shine on it; there’s nothing but moonlight; nothing but the stars. It’s really bizarre how it sits out here in the middle of the bustle and hiss of the city as if it’s on some serene mountaintop. The air is cool with a bitter cold undertone and it bites at my ankles, my nose, my fingers.
Bruce leans in, touches my nipple through my shirt. It pebbles from the outside temperature; it pebbles from his touch. This is my body’s reaction to all that’s going on around me and inside me—the cold, his intentions, my anticipation, the feelings so thick like syrup clouding my thoughts.
“Take your clothes off, Maisy,” Bruce orders conversationally.
So I do.
I kick off my sliver-buckled flats, strip off my skinny jeans after unzipping the zippers at my ankles. I wear no panties under it all and he drops to his knees to place a kiss on each hip bone, his breath hot and welcome on my sex. I tug off my hoodie, my long-sleeved tee in the calming shade of lavender—though I feel anything but calm—and my bra is last. I stand in the pagoda completely bare and I shiver more from pleasure than from cold.
“Turn for me.”
I turn and the darkness settles over my eyes, blacking out my sight with a soft kiss of satin. The sleep mask is what I always wait for. The mask that makes this all so illicit, so wanted, so coveted.
“Sit.”
I drop to the cold concrete pad that is the floor of the structure. I sit and I wait and I try so hard to hear my ears ring. After a while, I hear a shuffle to my left, a scuff to my right. I hear my own wildly racing heart and my own short, stunted breaths. I hear distant traffic and the call of some night bird. I hear more whispers of steps and remind myself, it could actually be others. Or it could just be Bruce walking in brisk circles around the pagoda to mess me up. I simply don’t know.
But then I hear a zipper and he’s close. I can feel him like an electric current running over my skin. My flesh is a rash of goose bumps: from the cold, from adrenaline.
“Open your mouth for me, Maisy. Make room for daddy,” Bruce says and laughs softly. His voice, though normal volume, is big and booming to my ears thanks to my blindness.
I part my lips and feel the silken press of his cock to my bottom lip. It’s soft and velvety and impossibly warm. My tongue snakes out, gathering the salty drop of precome I know will be there. My heart is beating so hard I feel almost sick and my pussy is a flood of warmth even in the cold fall air. Is someone there besides us? Is there a crowd? Is it just us?
I have no way of knowing. He won’t tell.
Sometimes I hear soft secretive sounds, but your ears play tricks on you when the world is dark. Perception is a mysterious thing.
I smell cigarette smoke but can’t tell if it is far away or up close. The wind whips it up and around in the frigid air so it is impossible to tell. And all the while my mind struggles so hard to focus, my body is humming in unison with its activities. I suck Bruce’s cock and he cups my head with his big warm hands as he buries himself deep in my throat. He holds his hands half over my ears and that makes it harder to gauge sound and distance. All I can hear for true is his voice; all I can feel perfectly is the touch of his hands, trapping wisps of sound against the curves of my ears.
“I could come right like this,” he says, his accent thickening with his arousal. He’s from New England and when he gets excited you can cut it with a knife. “But I don’t think I will. I don’t think I will at all.”
He pulls free of me and I hear a sigh. Is it him, is it me, is it someone else? That is the question after all. He pushes me back with a boot to my shoulder. It’s not a rough action, just decisive, and I fold myself back, lay myself flat—feel the prod of his work boot to my hip bone. He rests the rugged sole on my pelvis and my heartbeat is trapped in the cage of my belly for a moment, thumping with a primal beat. Bruce toes my thighs apart and I can feel him standing over me.
I hear the whisper of skin on skin, like hand on cock, and I wonder, is it him or a watcher? My nipples grow impossibly hard, almost painfully so. A finger touches one stiff tip, strokes it, and I feel my eyes prick with tears behind my mask. My pussy flexes with wet expectation and I say just, “Bruce, oh, Bruce…”
“Say please.”
“Please.”
“Say baby.”
“Baby, please,” I say.
He drops over me then. I feel the rugged denim kiss of his jeans on the inside of my thighs. I feel the brush of his warm hard cock to my cunt opening, the flicker of my sex flexing to take him, the heady rush of my own fluids to aid his way and when he slips into me there is a whisper-sigh-shuffle to my left, my right, behind me and I wonder, wind or watchers?
I grasp my legs around his hips, taking him deep as his sharp teeth trap my pulse at my throat. He leaves his teeth there as he thrusts, fucking me hard so my lower back is scraped and ripped along the rough pavement. His breath fills my head, a ragged animal sound as he ruts and fucks and scoots us along the moon-dappled concrete that I can only see in my mind’s eye.
I imagine them there: the leering, the curious, the horny, the sad. Couples touching each other, lonely men touching themselves, young men and old men. Women who just want to see. Those who have stumbled upon us by accident. The lonesome and the nosy and the perverse. Watching us with avid eyes as we fuck in the pagoda, shot through with the light from a fat, silver moon.
My cunt clutches up around him, my fingers pluck at his warm flannel shirt. I let him bury his tongue in my mouth and I kiss him back like it might be my last kiss. The orgasm uncurls and plucks me down with thin, hot fingers of lust and pleasure. I fall backward into it, the earth dropping out from under me, or so it feels. Bruce pushes his lips to my ear. His stubble snags my hair. He bites my lobe before he whispers.
“Maisy, my beautiful Maisy. Rhymes with daisy, never lazy, come for me again.”
It is a nonsense thing he says to me. It is a comforting little rhyme. But he follows it with a sharp nip of his teeth and his fingers have found my nipple again and pinch and he thrusts once more hard and I obey, coming for him again.
He traps my hands at my
sides, denying me the sense of touch. I’m blind, I’m trapped; I feel his racing heart and his heavy breath and he stutters over me in a chaotic, frantic way that says he’s no more good. His cock thrusting deep inside as my body lets off little ticks and blips of pleasure from my orgasm. I grip my muscles tight to feel him perfectly and that is that. Bruce roars in my ear, his voice like the ocean as he comes. His whole big body drops down flush on mine so that the air rushes out of me and small white dots dance in my vision under the eye mask I wear.
He says in my ear, “Stay.”
He gets up and I lie there, shaking with a palsy caused by cold and nerves. My own wetness mixed with his is spilling out of me. There I am, bare and naked and splayed—something dirty and beautiful, used and cherished. I lie there as I hear footsteps and claps, sighs and whispers, coughs and movement.
The kicker is, they could all be Bruce. A trick of sound and motion and air and wind. His deliberate mind game with me because he knows how much I crave the feared and wanted exhibitionism. It could be just him…or it could be a whole cluster of others, watching and judging our fucking. I’ll never ever know. Bruce always makes me keep the blindfold on until we’re all done. It’s possible that sometimes we are observed and others we are not.
I’ll never know.
After what seems like a million years but isn’t, he says, “Okay,” and I feel him drop the warm bundle of my clothes into my lap.
I pull the mask off and he helps me up, kissing me hard, pulling me in to hold me and then helping me dress. The chill has seeped into my bones and wormed into my muscles and I am shaking hard. Bruce pulls off his flannel and bundles me in it. We walk home slowly, hand in hand.
“I’m going to fuck you again when we get home,” he says. It’s a lazy, softly spoken statement. Not a question.
I nod and smile and feel that tremble in my belly that says I want him again. I want him more than heat or blankets or a hot shower.
“Just me and you this time.”
He says it with a secret smile. I smile back. Because I know—or think I do in that instant—that it’s probably all just been him. All the little sounds when we visit the pagoda. It’s simply him walking around me, whispering, toying with me and playing up acoustics and imagination. Or maybe it’s not…
I’ll never know.
That’s the whole point.
A WIDER WORLD
Donna George Storey
For one dizzy moment I wonder if it’s a trick of the lamplight or a vision born of the citrus-spiked glow of the Grand Marnier. Maybe it’s simply auto-asphyxiation, because I’ve been sitting here holding my breath for a full minute.
I blink twice and take a gulp of air.
No, this is absolutely real.
A man I met just a few hours ago is about to undress his wife before my eyes.
And we—my husband and I—are going to stay and watch it happen.
The scene of this debauchery à quatre is the lovely home of Rick and Sara Porter, a spacious California ranch house with tasteful furnishings and original art on the walls. Paul and I are cradled in the sumptuous cushions of a module sofa, our shoulders and hips pressed together, no doubt to keep each other from falling over at the sheer audacity of what we’re doing. Rick and Sara sit on an identical sofa positioned directly across the glass coffee table. For an hour we’ve been the mirror image of each other, two oh-so-worldly couples in our thirties doing our best to be witty and charming. But now Sara is lying back in her husband’s arms while he undoes her silk blouse slowly, as if the sensation of each button slipping from its prison gives him unspeakable pleasure.
I’ve always been polyamorous at heart. I firmly believe the erotic urge thrives on freedom and variety. Lock it up under the care of a single jailor, and it wastes away to nothing.
My eyes are glued to Rick’s thick fingers as they work their way down the ladder of pearl buttons. My own fingers begin to throb. I grip my thighs to steady myself.
Rick gives his wife a secret smile, then eases the blouse over her shoulders. Sara’s breasts are generous, barely contained by a bra of a sparkling translucent material. Was it chosen in the hope we might see it? Immediately my eyes are drawn to her dainty pink nipples poking up through the thin fabric. I feel my own nipples chafing against my bra, a black satin push-up. As much as I tell myself I’m the corrupted innocent, I, too, have dressed for a night of possibility.
Sara shimmies out of the blouse, and Rick drops it on the carpet with a magician’s flourish. He pulls her back into his embrace, stroking her upper arms with his fingertips. The pressure of his hands serves to accentuate her cleavage, framed by the glittering lingerie. Even her flesh seems to shimmer.
My husband exhales audibly and shifts in his seat.
Still we both keep staring.
I’ve always been an exhibitionist. By which I mean I get turned on watching others get excited by watching me.
Sara’s eyes swoop languidly from Paul to me and back again. She is clearly enjoying what this is doing to us. I’m sure she sees my cheeks blushing brick red, my chest rising and falling in quick gasps. Paul has grown a lump in his khakis so big you could spot it from a mile away.
Rick unsnaps Sara’s bra with a faint click. It sags over her chest, momentarily shielding those proud nipples from view. He pulls the straps down over her arms and pauses devilishly. She twists against him and purrs, “Please.” With a quiet laugh, he slides the bra over her arms and tosses it on top of the blouse. Sara arches her back. Her breasts hang full and heavy from her slender rib cage.
I’ve always been a show-off in my daydreams. But I didn’t realize how deep my desire ran until one night when we were on vacation in Maui. We’d met a couple at the resort where we were staying. There was something about them that intrigued me, a special sparkle in their eyes. They invited us to their bungalow for drinks, and after a few, the husband dared me to share a sexual fantasy. I can never resist a dare.
Rick cups his wife’s breasts in his large hands. His thumbs find her nipples and flick them knowingly. She tilts her head back, baring a smooth throat.
Trapped in their satin harness, my own breasts tingle, jealous of her freedom. Jealousy creates false boundaries. That’s what it said in a book Paul and I read about couples who “expand their horizons” with other partners.
I bought the book expecting to use it for nothing more than another of our private spouse-swapping fantasies in our safe little marital bed. But a few weeks later Paul met Rick, the CTO of a mobile banking application company, at one of the after parties at MacWorld. Paul was going to show him a clever app on his iPhone, when Rick admired his screen saver, a picture of me in a swimsuit. He happened to have a photo of his own fetching spouse on his phone. Maybe because he’d had a few beers, Paul made a joke about sharing in real life. When Rick replied that he and his wife—Sara (“no h”)—occasionally enjoyed intimacies with other couples as a way to spice up their relationship, Paul’s jaw almost dropped to the floor.
“It’s obviously a sign from the universe,” my husband told me when he got home from the party. “And we don’t necessarily have to do anything sexual with them. Our first meeting would be more like an informational interview—like reading a book that talks back.”
Neither of us was expecting how Sara would enchant us with mere words.
I told our inquisitive friend the first thing that came into my head. About how I’ve always fantasized that my lover would undress me for an appreciative audience and give them a demonstration of what turned me on, step by step. You should have seen his face—I swear he popped a boner on the spot. I thought his wife might be upset, but she’s the one who said, “Why don’t you do it right now? We’re a very appreciative audience.”
Sara is clearly aroused beyond speech now. Rick’s right hand continues tweaking her nipple, while his left travels down over her belly and nestles between her legs. She pushes up against it to the rhythm of her own musical moans.
I sq
ueeze my husband’s hand. His wedding ring presses into my flesh.
“I’d offer to show them how wet your pussy is, but we don’t want to push them past their comfort zone.” Rick speaks in a half whisper, but we are obviously meant to hear.
“Uh, we’re quite comfortable actually,” Paul blurts out.
Rick and Sara laugh, and even I have to smile. I don’t mind him speaking for me. I want to see her pussy, too.
Their faces were so eager, I figured why not? Rick was game. He slowly took off my shirt and bra and showed them how I like my breasts to be touched. I was so excited I almost came from that alone. But it was more than the naughtiness of revealing my intimate desires to these relative strangers. For the first time in my life I saw, reflected in their eyes, how truly beautiful I am.
Rick unzips Sara’s pants and pushes them down over her hips. Her bikini panties match her bra. I decide this ensemble was definitely chosen for our “interview.” Rick hooks his finger under the elastic and pulls. Suddenly Sara is impatient with his slow striptease. She wiggles out of both and kicks them to the floor.
Now we see all of her, her slim legs, her rounded hips and belly. Her bush is neatly coiffed, a landing strip. I catch a whiff of her female musk. Or is it mine?
“Don’t you want to spread your legs and give them a good view?”
Sara obeys her husband, flashing us a guilty look. She is very pink and wet down there, but it’s the vulnerability of the pose that gets me. Her thighs open wide, she is so trusting of him—and us.
“You want me to show them how you like to be touched down there, don’t you? Just like I did our first time in Maui?”
Sara nods shyly.
Her husband’s finger finds the sweet spot. She trembles and mews.
Everyone understands that two lovers create so much more erotic energy between them than one person pleasuring herself. But few have the courage to explore the pleasure more partners can bring—an exponential expansion of ecstasy. That night in Maui the four of us made love in the same room, with our own partners, side by side. You might think that’s tame—people expect wild orgies—but with that simple act my whole world suddenly felt wider, richer, boundless.