by Alison Tyler
“Do it,” he said hoarsely. “Oh, sweet Jesus…”
Laura felt his release a split second before her own. She cried out, giving in to her climax and when it was over, collapsed beneath him, her breath coming out in sobs.
Rick slowly reached to untie the cloth binding her wrists. He sat up and drew her into his arms. Laura lay against him for a long moment, the smell of sex and raspberries enhancing the afterglow.
“That was incredible,” he whispered in her hair.
She nodded, her eyes closed. Incredible described it. “That was a first for me,” she said. “I’ve never really received pleasure in bed. I was the one who gave it.”
“Men like to give pleasure, too.” He spoke as though a revelation had just come to him. “Maybe that’s what the long-haired dude with the wings was talking about in a dream I had.” He laughed a little. “He said I was a selfish bastard in bed. Maybe it’s the reason I haven’t been able to get it up. For anyone. Until today. Until I gave pleasure.”
Laura sat up suddenly, and turned to him. “You—you had the dream about that long-haired guy, too? About six weeks ago?” At his nod, she shook her head. “So did I. Carolyn thought it might have been Cupid.” She felt stupid as she said it, but Rick regarded her thoughtfully.
“The god of love?”
“I know it sounds strange, but hear me out. Ken and I broke up,” Laura said. “I wanted to be more attractive to men. It’s like—I got my wish. I attracted guys, but couldn’t get aroused.”
Rick considered her. “You haven’t received pleasure in bed and I haven’t given it.”
“Until now,” Laura said softly.
“Until now,” he affirmed. They were both silent for a moment.
“Maybe this long-haired dude—Cupid?—had a reason for invading both our dreams,” Rick finally said. “It makes a weird sort of sense that—that maybe we were brought together like this to learn something.”
Laura sighed. “It’s no weirder than what’s been happening to me these past few weeks.”
Rick stood, hunted for his clothes and found them. As he slid them on, he found her glasses on his desk.
“You may not need these again,” he said with a grin.
“Hopefully not,” she responded, smiling back.
He tossed the glasses back on the desk. “I’d better open up. You might want to get dressed or I’ll want a repeat of what just happened.”
Laura thrilled at his words. “Later. I’ll give you all the pleasure you can handle later on.”
Rick came back to her and gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said, then left.
Smiling a little, she pulled her clothes on then left the office.
Rick was behind the bar, the Bears game was on again. They’d tied the score, and had possession of the ball. Rick waved at her, and she returned it.
The two guys at the bar turned to look at her. One nodded politely, and they both turned their attention back to the game. No lingering glances, no come-on smirks. Just two guys watching the Bears.
Vastly relieved, Laura gave a thumbs-up to Rick, who returned her smile.
Sleeping with Beauty
Allison Wonderland
You know how the saying goes: You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your princess.
All right, so in all fairness, that’s not exactly how the saying goes—I had to modify it slightly for personal reasons—but the sentiment is still pretty much the same.
I’ve kissed my share of web-footed amphibians, not to mention a handful of horny toads. But none ever slipped out of its shiny green skin and into a garish gown and polished pumps.
My princess will come someday. She could have come yesterday, but she didn’t. (She must have overslept.) She could still come today, but she won’t. (Too bad she’s not an insomniac like me.) She might come tomorrow, but I seriously doubt it. (You know, most people function just fine with only eight hours of shut-eye.)
Well, there’s always the day after next. (Provided she doesn’t sleep the day away, of course.)
With his drooping eyelids and sonorous yawns, Prince Charming looks more like Sleepy the dwarf than the handsome hunk of heroism he’s supposed to be impersonating.
I really have to wonder about his qualifications for this line of work. I realize he’s new on the job, but still, he’s supposed to be portraying an animated character. The least he could do is try to look alive.
Like Kendall.
Kendall is one of the other neophytes, joining the plethora of theme-park princes and princesses just two days ago.
I’d like to say she had me at hello, except she didn’t have me at hello, because hello isn’t the first thing she said to me. Instead, she opted to open with: “That is the cutest pair of panties I have ever seen.”
I looked in the mirror affixed to my locker door, waiting to catch a glimpse of the blush that would soon be peeking through my concealer.
The cutest pair of panties that she has ever seen were fashioned from preshrunk white cotton, freckled with bitty blue hearts, and adorned with the visage of Snow White, my character’s cartoon counterpart.
“I didn’t know they made those in grown-up sizes,” she continued, setting a tie-dyed tote bag onto the bench.
I examined my reflection, noting, with a mortified moan, that my face and hair were now color coordinated. “They don’t,” I said, and pretended to search for something inside my locker. “They’re, um, kids’ ones. I just figured they would help me get into character.”
I just figured they would help me get into character?
I did not just say that.
She smiled. “I’m Sleeping Beauty,” she said, extending her hand. “And my alter ego is Kendall.”
As she unzipped the dress bag containing her costume, it occurred to me that I should probably reciprocate the formality, but my mouth felt parched and my lips seemed to have fused together.
“I love this place,” Kendall shared, pulling her T-shirt over her head. “My parents used to bring me and my brother here every summer, although I never understood why we went someplace in the summer that’s warm all year-round when we lived someplace else that’s not warm all year-round. We should have gone in the winter, know what I mean?”
I nodded, with more exuberance than the comment called for, and hoped that she would find my imitation of a bobblehead doll endearing, or at least entertaining.
“So, what’s your name?” Kendall asked.
“Carla,” I answered, and watched her wriggle into her flesh-tone panty hose.
“How long have you been working here, Carla?”
I lowered myself onto the bench, sliding my bobbed black wig toward her pouffy platinum one. “About seven months.”
“Not quite a rookie, but not exactly a seasoned veteran, either,” Kendall murmured, then paused to roll antiperspirant under her arms. “Have you ever seen a princess with pit stains?” she quipped, and swatted my thigh playfully, the kind of camaraderie that’s usually reserved for good friends.
We continued to chat while we changed. I made a greater effort to listen as Kendall talked and to respond instead of gawk.
As a reward for being so attentive, I allowed myself a brief gratification, letting my gaze rove the silhouette of her shape. Her curves are subtle in some places, prominent in others. Her breasts are modest, their peaks contiguous with her chest. Her waist glides into her hips, their rounded corners enticing my eyes to her thighs, and below them, her calves.
It wasn’t just her body that I found so enchanting. It was her personality, too, what little of it she’d revealed. I generally decide if I like—or dislike—someone within the first few minutes of meeting them. I guess you could say I make snap judgments about people, which, if I’m willing to admit it, probably accounts for my botched-up love life.
In any event, within the first few minutes of meeting Kendall, I decided that I liked her. She seemed so charming and…I hesitate to use the word perky, bu
t it’s really the most accurate descriptor I can think of. But she’s perky in that way that’s genuine, not pretentious. Not like those contestants in beauty pageants, for instance, who have to put on a happy face, usually with the aid of petroleum jelly.
Did my princess come? Finally? Am I through kissing frogs?
No, I’m getting ahead of myself. She could have a boyfriend. Or want to have a boyfriend.
I studied the inside of my locker door, regretting the lack of decorations. I should have tacked up some sort of gay-pride paraphernalia. Maybe one of those stickers that says, Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not.
Is she?
Although our shifts coincided, Kendall and I didn’t work together. But our paths crossed frequently. I’d wave at her, Miss America–style, from the Snow White float in the parade. I’d wink at her, conspirator-style, from my post outside Cinderella’s castle, which sparked a few tiffs over territory with Cinderella. I’d smile at her, starstruck-style, from my seat in the commissary, where she sometimes entered flanked by fairies, who fluttered their wands and fawned over her as if she were the real thing. I’m not entirely sure what kind of signals I was sending, but Kendall seemed responsive, so I figured I was doing something right.
Over the next few weeks, Kendall and I got better acquainted. I discovered that we had a lot of mutual interests. However, I didn’t discover if we shared the one interest that mattered most of all. She offered clues, at least, which made me hopeful. She never mentioned men. She never suggested that we go anyplace where we would be mingling with men. She never talked about sex with men. But then, she never talked about sex with women, either.
After work, we socialized—dinner and a movie, as if we were courting. Then we’d hug and say good-night, and I’d continue the evening alone, in my head, with my hand.
The more time I spent with Kendall, the more I became imbued with longing, riven with desire. I’d envision her body lying supine on my jersey sheets, the ones that are bright pink, like bubble gum. Like her Sleeping Beauty gown. Except she isn’t wearing her Sleeping Beauty gown while lying supine on my jersey sheets, the ones that are bright pink, like bubble gum.
Kendall squeezes my thigh and laughs, tilting her head back. “You’re such a character,” she says, and crumples her straw wrapper into a ball. “That’s what you consider the downside of the job? The ban on nail polish?”
“It’s not a ban exactly,” I reply, shaking salt sprinkles onto my mashed potatoes. “It’s more of a regulation. We’re only allowed to wear certain shades. I used to put on all these really crazy colors, like Gator Green and Candy-Corn Orange. I miss that.”
Kendall shakes her head, her eyes wide, as if she finds this fascinating, or maybe just frightening. “You’re really unusual.”
“Thank you,” I return, sounding at once arrogant and indignant. “What about you, Kenny? What do you consider the downside of the job?”
Kendall leans back against the speckled silver vinyl of the booth. “I would have to say it’s the role-model aspect,” she answers. “I’ll admit, it’s fun having all these little girls worship me, even though it’s not really me that they’re worshipping. But then I feel bad about it, know what I mean? Like I’m sending this really awful message about romance and relationships and femininity and all that. I feel like I’m corrupting them in a way. A princess is supposed to be the epitome of elegance and grace and sophistication, right? But we’re really just sex symbols, aren’t we? We teach little girls that being a princess means looking pretty and wearing pretty clothes and dating pretty boys. Well, not dating, even. Marrying. They meet, they smooch, they tie the knot, the end.”
“Kind of like a shotgun wedding, except without the bun in the oven.”
“Exactly. And what’s up with all the little animals, those little woodland creatures running around all over the place? Is that some sort of prerequisite for princesshood? Bonding with woodland creatures?”
“Actually, I think it’s only a prerequisite if you’re a Caucasian princess,” I surmise. “If you’re Asian, let’s say, you have to bond with a dragon and a cricket. Now, I don’t know about you, Kenny, but personally, I much prefer dragons and crickets to chipmunks and skunks.”
Kendall laughs and nudges my foot under the table, the wedge heel of her espadrille sandal connecting lightly with my calf. “It’s funny,” she says, reaching into her purse. “We don’t practice what we preach.”
I want to know what she means by that, but she anticipates the question and answers before I even ask.
“Well, for one thing,” she elaborates, sliding her plate toward the edge of the table, “we’re not superficial. We care about other things besides our appearance. And for another thing, we’re not straight. We don’t care about guys.”
I should probably say something, at least acknowledge her statement, but my mouth feels parched and my lips seem to have fused together.
Kendall smirks and leans toward me, elbows perched on the wooden surface of the table. “You think I never noticed you checking me out, Carla?” she queries, her pitch slightly deeper than normal.
“Um, no, not really.”
“Did you ever notice me checking you out?”
“Um, no, not really.”
“Well, I guess you were just too busy checking me out to notice me checking you out. I believe the word for that is oblivious.” Kendall angles her head to the side, scrutinizing me as though she’s suddenly noticed something that she never noticed before. “Let’s get one thing straight, Carla, okay? I’m not.”
Kendall’s eyes move closer.
Her smile, too.
Her lips.
Close enough to—
I don’t have time to react, only to respond, to touch her lips the way that her lips are touching mine.
“I’ve been waiting almost two months to kiss you,” Kendall shares when we separate. “But I didn’t want to rush things. I’m a very patient person. Patience is a virtue.”
“Trite but true,” I concede, relishing the zest of her kiss. “And what is a princess if not virtuous?”
“Ravenous,” she replies, sounding and looking the part. I peer into her eyes, a glittery, glistening gray. They seem larger than I remember.
“That was, um, that was a rhetorical question,” I stammer, the pulse of my pussy racing.
Kendall winks at me, conspirator-style, from her seat across the table. “I can’t say the same for the answer.”
“Oh, I see you’re wearing your princess panties. May I partake of the royal pussy, Your Highness?”
“Please, be my guest,” I enthuse, punctuating the invitation with a curtsy.
Kendall’s fingers flirt with the lace of my panties, trailing the pale yellow netting along the waistband. I close my eyes just as her digits disappear inside the fabric, like a hand tucked into a pocket, the elastic expanding to accommodate her entry.
My body quivers as she approaches the stretch of cotton safeguarding my cunt, then deftly peels the panties from my torso. My body shivers as she kisses my navel, then teases the tiny knot with the tip of her tongue, shooting jolts and tingles to my clit.
I coax my eyes open, my head abandoning the pillow as I recline on my elbows. Kendall stamps kisses along my abdomen. The tint of her lipstick leaves rosy-red stains on my flesh, each a littler paler than the last.
Her lips melt into my cunt, her hands anchoring my tremulous thighs. She embarks on an odyssey from cleft to clit, etching hearts and spirals and crescent moons into the slippery ripples, singeing my cunt, tongue quick and slick.
My legs begin to twitch. I fan my thighs, moans gushing through my gaping mouth. Fluorescent colors coalesce behind my eyelids. Spurts of pink and blue, bursts of silver and gold. I seize the sheets between my fists as my climax detonates, propelling my hips into the air, curving my spine into an arch, like a stream of water exploding from a fountain.
I smile at Kendall, starstruck-style. Suffused with lust, I don’t stop to catch
my breath or give Kendall a chance to breathe. (After all, what is a princess if not ravenous?)
I wedge my hand between her thighs, my palm nearly mashing her clit into the pulpy pink flesh of her labia. Her limbs jerk. Her juices drizzle down my hand, slinking through the spaces between my fingers.
I angle my head to the side, scrutinizing her as though I’ve suddenly noticed something that I never noticed before.
My eyes move closer.
My smile, too.
My lips.
Close enough to—
She doesn’t have time to react, only to respond, to touch my lips the way that my lips are touching hers.
And then, just as I’d envisioned, Kendall is lying supine on my jersey sheets, the ones that are bright pink, like bubble gum. Like her Sleeping Beauty gown. Except she isn’t wearing her Sleeping Beauty gown while lying supine on my jersey sheets, the ones that are bright pink, like bubble gum.
Kendall giggles and jiggles beneath me, her hair flaring out across the pillowcase. She is all smiles as my fingers, wet with her excitement, whet her senses, overloading, overwhelming. I can tell she is close to orgasm when the muscles in her cunt begin to constrict, strangling my fingers.
Our lovemaking segues into the customary postcoital cuddling, and we hold each other, her leg draped over mine, mine draped over hers. I nuzzle her neck and inhale the fragrance of her soap, a blend of orange and vanilla. I tease her, telling her that she smells like a Creamsicle.
Her response is equal parts silly and suggestive: “Why don’t you go ahead and lick me.”
I go ahead and lick her, of course, because it’s bad manners to refuse the demands of a princess. I take my sweet time, being very attentive to her needs, and especially to the creamy melt trickling between her thighs.
I watch my Beauty sleep. I contemplate kissing her, waking her.
My lips move closer. They touch hers, keep touching hers until she stirs and joins me.
“You’re my savior from slumber,” she gushes, giggling. “I am eternally grateful, forever indebted to you, Princess, for rousing me from this wretched state of terminal hibernation.”