by Carol Queen
Honeymoon
BY DAVID HENRY STERRY
Two. In Jennifer.The image made her melt into wet. It was their honeymoon, and Jennifer and William were laying totally naked in Kauai, the Garden Island, the sun melting their bones, smell of coconut oil baking on their hot skin, seasalty air floating on the thick breeze, the overgrown tropical paradise intoxicating.
William smiled at Jennifer.Yes, people may be starving, the whole world may be crumbling, but at least this one thing worked out.
Jennifer quarter-dozed and half-floated.
Honeymooning.
Jennifer loved how his eyes were so wild and kind. How his hand moved over her body. How his hair was different every day. She saw herself growing old with him.
William loved the way her laugh tasted. How her smell made his stomach jump. He saw himself a year from now kissing her big pregnant belly.
Jennifer sucked on big finger, and felt her socket plugged in, juice jolting through her, the wet heat flooding her gates, the thick of William getting thicker.
Jennifer had never had an orgasm before William. But now, on their honey, moony beach, her orgasm peeked easily through a crack in her wall and waved.
William pulled her on top, and she slid up him easy as you please, one knee on either side of his head, looking down into his wild kind eyes, her sex inches from his breath and she smelled like perfect love.
Jennifer lowered herself so his tongue tip grazed her sex lip, and he licked her slow, like a love-flavored ice cream cone.
Jennifer watched William, his thickness in hand, so familiar, yet always a revelation, the slapslapslapping of flesh, a tiny droplet glistened in the sun.
William sucked her swollen and hard, just the way she liked it.
Jennifer slipped back down him, grabbed him, wide-open and wanting. At the tip of her he stopped.
“No baby, put it in,” she whispered. She tried to slide him into her, but he held her tight.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Oh yes, please,” she said, never more sure of anything.
“What do you want?” he asked, keeping the tip of his thickness at the tip of the very wet Jennifer.
“I want you inside of me, please,” she moaned.
He put a thick inch into her. “Is that enough?”
She tried to suck more into her, but he held her strong.
“No, baby, I want all of it, pleeeease.” She was almost screaming now with the need and the tease, so close, but held tight, immovable.
“This is all for you,” he grabbed her hips and she arched herself wide open, so William could go all the way inside Jennifer, where she had never wanted anyone.
Jennifer felt like she was gonna black out from all that William.
He felt the soul of the Garden Island flow through them.
Suddenly, magically, there he was: the man. Big deep round face. Long hair, wavy black, pushed back from his forehead. Big deep brown smiling eyes. Muscles smooth a glistening of sun and ocean. Naked. Standing over them.
Jennifer and William looked at each other.Then they looked back at him. He was still there. Smiling a deep sweet smile. Before they even knew it, they were smiling back at him.
He took himself largely in hand and put himself next to Jennifer’s lips. Just put it there. Next to her lips.
She took the tip of him, soft little kisses, hip muscles undulating on William, and she sucked a little more of the man in her mouth.
Jennifer had never felt so full in her life.
The man was now fully thickened, blazing glazing ecstasy throwing head back, arms open, sun bathing face:
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”
Jennifer’s cum was right there, in extreme close-up, as she rocked on William, sucking on the man, throat opening as tremors trembled her.
Then Jennifer did something completely unexpected. She took the man in hand, brought him down to his knees, and put the tip of him on William’s lips and kissed them, licking, little nibbles, her husband’s mouth and the man’s thickness at the same time.
Then William did something that he never thought he would do. He opened his lips and sucked on the tip of that man, all hot and hard and big.
She rocked and shook at the sight of all this, and her cum finally won:
“Oh-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h my-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y Goo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-d!”
When Jennifer parachuted back down she guided the man behind her, and he ran his hand across Jennifer’s beautiful back, salty sweaty slick with sun and desire. He spread her apart a little and he pressed that largeness against the tip of her behind, so hard and so still as she moved William in and out of her. Jennifer growled again, the craving raising Cain in her, wailing to be full.
Jennifer looked into William and asked with her eyes if it was all right. He smiled back that it was.The man lathered himself up with coconut oil.While he teased the tip of her she pulled up and down on William and groaned each time, another cum rushing forward.
As Jennifer thought—there is no way all that is gonna fit—she spread herself, feeling the man throbbing in her sweet, and she pushed back so slow the coconut oil so slippery, and just the head of his thick slid into her.
The suddenness of it was almost too much, a sweet ache shivering through the big heat beating inside her.
Jennifer deep-breathed, and clenched her tingling, the skin so thin between her husband’s thickness and the throb of the knob of the man. She had never in her sweet short life felt so full of so much, so tight, the pressure swollen so full.
Jennifer pushed back on the man and then he was all the way in. Almost too full. Almost. She breathed and squeezed both of them now, and she shook and she felt it coming round the mountain riding six white horses, as William buried himself in her.
“O God,” growled out of Jennifer. “O Jesus,” growled out of William.
Then William was gushing buckets of rainbows, colors everywhere, and the man spasmed hot, and shot tropical. And that made Jennifer flower, as she was swept away again, and they all leapt off together, beyond her and him, swandiving, Icarus soaring, ballistic, sirens singing, and the walls cum a-tumblin’ down.
The man, drugged with the love of Jennifer and William, threw his head back and arms open, exhaled a sun-bathed:
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”
The ocean roared in applause and the trees danced and sang.
Jennifer collapsed into William and they melted into each other, into the warm white sand slipping into a tropical sleep of deep paradise.
When they woke up the pink sun was winking goodbye.
The man was gone.They were alone.
Jennifer and William smiled into each other’s eyes, lighted by the honey dripping off the moon.
The Magician’s Assistant
BY CECILIA TAN
The magician’s assistant is looking at herself in the mirror, trying to attach a sequin to just the right spot on her face.The makeup mirror shows the tiny wrinkles beginning to appear as she squints and turns her head from side to side, the white Vegas feather plume wig rustling against her bare shoulders as she looks at the curve of her cheeks, the dimple of her chin. The damn sparkle needs to be placed just so or it’ll look like a crystalline cancer on her face instead of a little bit of magic. The plastic gem poised on her index finger, a tiny dab of spirit gum glistening, she points her hand at her reflection, reflecting. He was going to put her in chains tonight, and then plunge her into a glass-sided tank filled with cold water, and then a bunch of other mumbo jumbo, the result of which always was she emerged elsewhere miraculously freed, but also soaked to the bone in her see-through dress, nipples erect . . . it’s Vegas, after all.
She waves the sequin in the mirror and thinks . . . hmm. She pulls the clingy white fabric away from her breast and plants the sequin onto her nipple. She gets another from the tray on her makeup table and makes the other nipple to match. She poises a third, but hesitates. This magician isn’t really much fun. He’s married and is put
ting two kids through college and she doesn’t really see very much of him beyond a few lame rehearsals and the show itself. She’s had bosses before who appreciated the situation a bit more, shall we say. Who could find the rabbit under her dress.Who sawed her in half after hours.
What the hell, she thinks, so he’ll never know. She hikes up the glittering Elizabeth-Taylor-as-Cleopatra dress and slides down in the chair. Her knees fall open and her hand hovers under the makeup table. Her face is ringed by soft white bulbs all the way around as her unseen finger places the last jewel in one place no one is likely to see it tonight. She presses it into place and gasps, transfixed by her own reflection, at the half-lidded look of longing on her face. Maybe tonight the dress will tear in the water, under the chains. Maybe tonight she will shine.
The Suit
BY STEVEN SCHWARTZ
Watching her husband turn around in front of the mirror, she thought to herself that she’d forgotten how good he could look. She was embarrassed to admit it, but it was true. Until someone else went to great lengths to show him at his best, she couldn’t always see past the everyday of shirt-and-jeans. He looked fine, now.
Some of it, beyond the faintest shadow of a doubt, was the woolen fabric. It was dark and smooth, and hung just right. It emphasized his wrists where they emerged from the sleeves, the back of his neck standing out against the white shirt and dark collar. It didn’t hide him so much as wrap him, smoothing out the rough edges and imperfections. The scar from where he’d needed the pin put in his shoulder, after he fell from the roof? She couldn’t see it now, and he moved as if it wasn’t there, when the tailor asked him to lift his arms, so he could check the jacket’s fit.
Adjusting the fit here and there, the tailor moved around him, marking places that needed to be altered with a stub of white chalk. She suddenly wished she’d learned about tailoring, so that it could be her hands there, instead. She would not have to be so professional while measuring his inseam, for example. How was he reacting to having another man touch him there, she idly wondered. He was probably used to it by now. He’d had suits fitted before. If she were measuring him, that inseam measurement would change, as her fingers stroked him through the thin, soft fabric.
Perhaps, she thought as she sat back in her chair, it was best she wasn’t the tailor.They’d never get the fitting over with. She returned to the question of what made the suit so attractive.
It wasn’t just that he looked thinner. She didn’t mind him a little round about the middle; it made him more comfortable to lean against in bed, before they started to make love, or when they basked in each other afterwards. And the fact that she enjoyed his padding helped her to enjoy hers. So it was not that he looked thinner, though he’d mentioned several times that you look ten pounds lighter in a good suit. Those missing ten pounds did not make him sexier.
He was cared for, that was it. And it showed. He’d never be willing to let her bathe him, shampoo him and style his hair, but she wanted to. No, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her in the shower, or while she worked on his hair. Not that she’d mind it if she was interrupted and swept off to bed, but that was not what she wanted.
But the suit made him look as good as she thought he could. And that made her like it. And made her excited by it.While the tailor walked about with pins held between his lips, adjusting hems, she let her thoughts drift off.
How did she want to have him? It was a difficult choice. He looked so right in The Suit (for it had already acquired capital letters in her mind) that she didn’t want him to take it off. But she wanted him, and the suit was in the way. It felt nice, the smooth fabric under her fingers, but she was afraid to touch it too hard, to mar it, to bunch it up as she pulled him close. She didn’t want sweat stains under the armpits, or stains from her juices on the suit, from rubbing her thighs against his.
In the end, she knew she’d compromise, and she knew just how. She could be naked, and touch herself, and keep all of her juices on her own hand. All he needed to do—or to let her do—was to undo that fly.There was something very right, and very sexy, about undoing all those secret little flaps on a pair of men’s trousers. From the front, they were supposed to look simple—a little seam you would hardly notice. But to get inside, first you had to undo the belt. And the outside button, hidden under the belt. And the zipper, pushing more fabric aside, and then the inside button you’d never know existed from just looking, a last secret little test. Every time she’d heard a man whine about undoing bra straps, she’d think of the pleasures of unwrapping Christmas presents—and this was the same thing.
Once that last button was undone, she could go to work on his underwear—whether it was just reaching in and slipping him out of his boxers, or having a whole new row of buttons to undo, slowly, teasingly. By now he’d be straining to get out, perhaps the head of his cock poking out as she undid buttons. She’d kiss it, just once, and look up at him, look up the length of that white shirt, that dark suit to his face. Maybe she’d want him wearing gloves, so that the only skin of his she could see was his face, and his cock.
Then she would start to suck him off, but her way. One hand down between her legs, the other rubbing against his thigh, against that soft fabric, warm to the touch from his heat. And her eyes would be open, to enjoy the sight of him, looking the best he could. His eyes might be closed, enjoying the warmth of her mouth wrapped around him, but this wasn’t about him looking at her. And as her hand brought her closer and closer to orgasm, her fingers finding all her sensitive places, she’d keep her eyes open, no matter how much she wanted to close them and let herself go.
Once she had come, then the suit could come off—and they could do whatever they wanted. And she kept thinking about what that might be, as the tailor kept at his work.
She’d never had this much fun shopping with him before.
Notes on Contributors
Blake C. Aarens is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse who writes award-winning erotica. Her fiction has appeared in the journals Good News, Aché and Open Wide, the anthologies Herotica 2, 3, 5, Switch Hitters, Sex Spoken Here, Virgin Territory, The Best American Erotica 1993, and in Penthouse magazine. She is currently seeking a publisher for her erotica collection Gifts of Sex.
Charlie Anders can never take naps without becoming groggy, but likes the idea of discos with divans. She’s the co-publisher of Other magazine, the magazine for people who defy categories. Her writings have appeared in ZYZZYVA, Strange Horizons, Best Bisexual Erotica 1 and 2, Comet, Best Transgender Erotica, and many other magazines and anthologies. Her book The Lazy Crossdresser came out in 2002 from Greenery Press. See www.charlie-girl.com.
Lisa Archer has been published (occasionally under a different last name) in Best Bisexual Women’s Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, Best Woman’s Erotica 2002, Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Volume 2, Best of the Best Meat Erotica and Pills,Thrills, Chills, and Heartache. She has also written for publications such as Agence France-Press (AFP.com), Adult Industry News (AINews.com), Horny? San Francisco, Playgirl magazine, and the San Francisco Bay Guardian.
Edward L. Beggs is a former Congregational minister who discovered he had to leave the church to become a whole human being. He was Founder and Director of the nation’s first teenage runaway center in San Francisco in l967 and has published two books with Ballantine Books: Huckleberry’s For Runaways and Open House: A Successful New Community Treatment Approach for Young Suburban Addicts. His non-fiction book: Skateland: Fifteen California Stories is forthcoming from Self Reliance Press. He is currently at work on a docu-novel: Kicking the God Habit. “Speaking in Tongues” is his first published piece of erotica.
Rachel Kramer Bussel is the reviser of The Lesbian Sex Book, co-author of The Erotic Writer’s Market Guide, and editor of the sex guidebook Horny? New York. Her writing has been published in Bust, Cleansheets.com, Curve, Diva, Girlfriends, Playgirl, On Our Backs, Oxygen.com, the San Francisco Chronicle and over a dozen erotic anthologies. Fin
d out more at www.rachelkramerbussel.com.
M. Christian’s work can be seen in Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Transgendered Erotica, Best Bondage Erotica, Friction, and over 150 other anthologies, magazines, and web sites. He’s the editor of over 12 anthologies, including Best S/M Erotica, Love Under Foot (with Greg Wharton), Underground (with Paul Willis), The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and many others. He’s the author of three collections, the Lambda-nominated Dirty Words (gay erotica), Speaking Parts (lesbian erotica), and The Bachelor Machine (science fiction erotica). For more information, check out www.mchristian.com.
Greta Christina has been writing about sex since dinosaurs ruled the earth. Her work has appeared in Ms., Penthouse, and On Our Backs magazines, as well as the Best American Erotica 2003 collection, an assortment she finds highly amusing. Greta lives in San Francisco.
Kelly Da Crioch is a lifelong Bay Area resident who has written erotica, science fiction, poetry, criticism, and political essays. “Gold” is his first professionally published prose piece.
Darklady is a full-time sex writer, educator, activist, event coordinator, politician, and basically eclectic dark-haired Bohemian chick residing in Portland, Oregon. Her work covers topics as far-ranging as adult video, DVD, book, and toy reviews, responsible non-monogamy, BDSM, erotica, the adult Internet, and free speech. She is a regular reviewer for Adult Video News magazine, a lifestyle columnist for Playtime magazine, and the Q&A sexpert for the Venus Book Club. Previously published works of erotic fiction are included in the Black Books’ anthologies Best Bisexual Erotica 2, Guilty Pleasures, and Best S/M Erotica.You can learn more about Darklady and her plan for a far groovier and more sexually satisfied free world by visiting www.darklady.com.