Alison's Wonderland

by Alison Tyler

  I returned his kiss, savoring the way he moved against me when I did.

  He held me tightly to him, teased the tip of his tongue against mine and then thrust it deep into my mouth, moving in and out in a direct suggestion of raunchy sex. The sensation made me squirm, my body clenching, my pussy growing slicker by the moment. What was happening to me? Not only did I feel empowered, I was acting on it. I ran my hands over his chest and then down, around his hips, and grasped his buttocks. They were firm, muscular, and when I squeezed them, he rubbed against me and I could feel his cock through our clothing—big, and hard. My head dropped back, a sigh of longing escaping me.

  “What else?” He continued to explore me with his hands as he asked the question, squeezing my breasts roughly through my top and bra. “What would your second wish be?”

  Heavily aroused by his touches, and under the spell of his powerfully persuasive suggestions, I found my mind filled with fantasies—the fantasies I entertained in my private moments, the things that turned me on but I wasn’t brave enough to share—to use a sexy, aroused and willing man, to work his body with my own, to tell him to do me hard and do me well, and revel in every decadent moment. A man like him? I stared at him, unable to voice it, but wanting him to know.

  His intense gaze made me sway, and he grabbed me in against him, holding me steady. I shuddered in his arms, heady with arousal.

  “Come on,” he whispered, his Irish brogue lifting on the summer breeze as he took my hand and pulled me away from the path and into the thick bed of bluebells.

  I had to jog through the flowers to keep up with him, and the scent of them rising up from beneath my feet was almost overpowering. When he drew me to a halt I was panting, my senses reeling. It was deliciously dusky and yet warm beneath the trees, the summer heat haze mellowing under the shifting pattern of shadow and light there. He turned to me and tipped his head to one side.

  I saw the question in his eyes, and I nodded.

  He lifted my top, pulling it over my head and dropping it into the flowers. With one finger he flipped my bra strap from one shoulder and, as it lowered, he cupped my breast with his hand, lifting it from the bra and bending to take my nipple in his mouth, his free hand clasping me around the hip, holding me upright. He sucked heavily on my nipple. A red haze of pleasure shot from his mouth to my cunt, where I was hungry for a man. The sunlight darted over my eyes as I shut my eyelids, melding my senses in a wild frenzy of awareness. I moaned aloud, shocked, yet willing, wanting more.

  He drew me down, lying on the ground, pulling me down with him.

  I climbed over him, suddenly knowing what I wanted. Panting, I grabbed for my bra, pulling it off. I stretched my arms above my head, reveling in my bare breasts, reveling in the bacchanalian magic of the moment.

  He was smiling at me, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Show me,” he whispered. “Show me what you’re thinking about.”

  I growled, lustful, and unleashed. Pushing against his chest with my hands, I closed my eyes and inhaled the wild forest. Even while I did, my hips were moving, my inner thighs squeezing his flanks. I wanted to pull off his belt, undo those buttons on his jeans and check him out. Images exploded through my mind, images of proud women, women who reveled in their sexual confidence. I took his hands to my hips, and my eyes opened.

  His expression told me he knew what I was thinking. He pushed my skirt up around my waist. Grasping the band of my knickers, he paused and flashed me a dark look, then tore them apart, exposing the slit of my pussy in one powerful movement.

  I gasped aloud, thrilled.

  He ran his thumb over my clit and flashed me an appreciative glance. “You have a beautiful pussy,” he breathed. “Show me what you’re made of. Do it. I want you to.” He had a hungry gaze, and there was no mistaking what he wanted.

  I laughed decadently, amazed at my own response to him. “Why don’t you kiss it,” I said, moving closer to his face. Where had the words come from? Deep inside me I recognized them, yes, but never had I said such a thing before.

  Oh, but he did what I wanted, and how!

  He grinned and then moved right under me, kissing me right on the clit.

  I nearly passed out, it was too good.

  He teased me, alternated, caressing my pussy with long, slow strokes of his tongue and then pressing back and forth over my sensitive clit, stroking every inch of my intimate places. I had to fight for my breath, gasping between the words as I urged him on. “That’s good, so good.”

  He drove me to distraction and then sought the juicy center of me, probing me with the strong muscle of his tongue, shoving it in and out, over and over.

  “Yes, yes,” I murmured, strung out and panting. Pressure built, my clit buzzing. He probed deeper still, then returned to my clit, circling it. I cried out, shuddering with release. My groin was heavy and hot, my core in spasm. His hands on my hips kept me upright, but I was fast coming back. I pulled free of his grip, desperate for more. “Take me. Fuck me hard, right here.”

  Rolling onto my back, I breathed deep the smell of the flowers crushed beneath me, a decadent bed upon which I was going to be fucked. My body was hot and pleasure-filled, and still I wanted more. I wanted to feel his hard cock inside me, filling me up. I opened my legs to him, beckoning to him as he climbed over me. His eyes were dark with lust, and I knew I was going to get what I wanted. He unzipped his jeans and I moaned aloud when I saw the thick shaft of his cock in his hand. The glistening head—so slick and ready to be inside me—made me lift my hips.

  The look he gave me then was wicked, and his cock nudged against me. So hard, so large. A shiver ran through me, a shiver of longing. I wanted it. I nodded, my hands clutching at his shoulders. He pushed, opened me up and entered me. Moving slowly at first, he made me feel and appreciate every inch of him. Then he began working deeper, his hands on my hips as he pushed home and met my center. My core burned, the pressure of his cock there sending shock waves right through me. My head rolled from side to side, my breath was trapped in my throat.

  He drew out, thrust again. I tried to speak, to urge him on, but all that I could get out was a low, guttural sound. He nodded, understanding. Rising up onto his arms, he began to work me harder.

  Each thrust sent me into a spasm of ecstasy, the thick, long shaft of his cock stretching me to my very limits, making my body writhe. Oh, but he had stamina, riding me back and forth until every bit of me vibrated with pleasure, and I was almost gone. I arched my back, plucked my nipples hard, driven by instinct and seeking my release. I thrust my hips against his, ground on him. “Give it to me, give me more!”

  He grinned, his brow lowering and his breathing audible as he thrust into me harder still. Then his cock seemed to swell and I cried out, my center burning, my legs clutching at his hips as I hit my peak.

  “Oh, yes,” he grunted, and his cock stiffened, jerked.

  His orgasm kept me floating there at my peak for some time, pleasure rolling through me, until he slid free and I melted away, sank into the very earth itself, sated and mellow.

  Even as my erratic pulse settled, I began to wonder what had happened. What had come over me? I’d never done anything like that before. I watched the canopy overhead moving on the breeze. The sun winked at me through the leaves, and I felt a deep sense of happiness. I pushed my fingers out against the ground. That’s when it dawned on me—he wasn’t there anymore.

  He’d gone. Sitting up, I looked for him. I was alone. Had he ever been there at all? I grabbed my top and bra, pulling them on hurriedly, constantly glancing around as I made myself decent. It occurred to me that it was the first time I was worried about anyone seeing me. It was as if I’d lost all my inhibitions.

  He’d done that to me. Yes, he had. And it was good.

  If only he was real, I thought wryly. It was likely that he’d been a figment of my imagination. Wishful thinking, after too long traveling? The thought unnerved me, and for a moment I covered my face with my hands, relieved, because
my sensitive, pleasured pussy attested to the fact that it had been real. Standing up, somewhat reassured, I brushed leaves and petals from my skirt, and peered at the great big telltale green smudges on my knees and down the front of my skirt. “Damn, I look a sight.”

  It meant that it had happened, though. I even had the torn knickers to prove it. Yes, a man had ripped the pants right off me. They were barely clinging around the top of my thighs and I pulled the shredded remains off, balled them and shoved them in the pocket of my skirt. I’d never gone out without undies before, but as I began to wend my way back through the bluebells I found that I liked the feel of the air against my sensitive pussy and my juices sticky against my thighs. This felt earthy and natural. He’d introduced me to that. All that blarney about the three wishes, he’d got the gift of the gab, all right. I couldn’t help laughing to myself. Whatever, it sure had helped boost my confidence. I weaved my way quickly through the bluebells and relocated the path. Three wishes indeed! I felt as if I’d had several wishes granted, and I couldn’t help teasing myself about another one. What would I wish for now? That he was still here, that he was real? He had to be real!

  I shrugged off the feeling that I’d been under some spell. It was just some guy who wanted to get his leg over and saw the opportunity for mutual pleasure. And who could blame him? Not me, and I was glad of it. As I retraced my way along the path, I wondered how long I had been gone. What if I had missed the bus? I walked faster, and then broke into a run. When I got to the parking area, I was relieved to see my bus was still there, and no one else was around. I hadn’t been away as long as I thought.

  The driver didn’t seem to be on board, but when I got to the entrance the door swished open. I climbed the steps. As I did, a shiver went down my spine. There was someone else on the bus. I stared down the aisle at him.

  The man from the forest was right there, sitting in the center seat at the end of the aisle, right at the very back of the bus. He had his legs cheekily sprawled, and he was beckoning to me. The quintessential bad boy at the back of the bus. Had my third wish come true, or had he been on the bus all along? My cheeks warmed when I realized that he might well have been on the bus. I hadn’t taken much notice, and yet…I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before. Besides, he was a local.

  I remembered the way I’d acted after he’d asked me what I wanted. I fought off the embarrassment, wanting to be cool. What had I thought? That he was a granter of wishes, or—more likely—a figment of my imagination? He’d known which tour I was on. If he was the driver, that would explain why. Even so, I wasn’t able to keep the silly grin off my face as I closed on him. “Are you the driver?”

  “Maybe,” he replied somewhat quizzically. “For the next leg of the journey, at the very least.” Humor twinkled in his eyes. He reached out and grabbed my hand, pulling me over to sit on his lap. With one hand under my skirt, he ran his hand over my bare pussy, reminding me of what he’d done.

  “Cheeky,” I breathed, secretly thrilled.

  His warm smile went right through me. “When we get to Cork,” he said, “would you like to get together and make some more magic?”

  Joyous laughter bubbled up inside me. I could feel his cock through his jeans, right there against my hip. I could also hear the door of the bus swishing open again, and the noise of happy tourists approaching.

  I didn’t care whether he was the bus driver, or the devil himself. What I did care about was that I didn’t want the moment to escape. I didn’t want this to end. “Yes, let’s make more magic tonight,” I said, and bent to seal the wish with a kiss.

  Let Down Your Libido

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  This is ridiculous, I thought, pacing around the room that I’d now been confined to for almost a month.

  I’m a grown woman; I ought to be able to go in and out as I pleased. At least for a breath of fresh air. Who knew that the boring aisles of a drugstore would hold so much appeal after being deprived of them for weeks? I missed the click of my heels on the sidewalk, the dash of pedestrians all around me, the way in a moment a pair of eyes could seize mine and I’d feel the sexual heat right down to my toes. New York is a voyeur’s paradise, and being alone in a room with only a mirror was wearing real thin. Deal or no deal, I was going stir-crazy, which perhaps was the point of the experiment I’d signed up to be part of six weeks ago without really thinking through the consequences. I’d just gotten laid off, and was combing the papers for a job, any job. I answered ads, plenty of them, but they yielded nothing but impersonal form rejections, if anything at all.

  Finally, desperate, I’d started answering ads for studies, offering myself up as a human guinea pig, for everything from market research to scientific experiments. The first few gigs I’d landed were easy: taste test several vodkas and say which was the strongest. Look at ads for sports cars and proclaim which one I’d be most likely to buy. Read copy for laundry detergent and determine which was the most friendly to young, single women like me.

  And I’d gotten paid cash.

  Perhaps the ease had made me greedy, or selfish or a little too full of myself. I thought I knew the tricks, knew the right words to say to make the employers think I was an obedient subject. But it’s one thing to sit in a room and answer questions for a few hours, quite another to agree to be locked up in solitary confinement for two months for a study on sex drives. I was given room and board—if you can call it “given” when you pretty much sign your life away—in order for them to study my response when forced to go from nonstop cock to my own means.

  These particular scientists were trying to develop a pill to cure women who were “too horny,” though oversexed was the word they chose.

  “Do you have sexual intercourse more than five times per week?”

  “Do you think about sex more than ten times a day?”

  “Have you never gone longer than two weeks without sex since becoming sexually active?”

  Yes, yes, and Thank God, yes, I’d answered. I don’t really think I’m abnormal. I’m a woman with a libido, and I exercise it as often as the fancy strikes me. I’ve had boyfriends, sure, but at the moment I was single, which shouldn’t mean I had to rely on a battery-operated friend, right?

  Instead, I made do with a rotating cast of overnight guests, the type who can be found in bars around the world—all of them looking for one thing: a woman just like me. The kind who want it fast and quick, who don’t want to go through the wooing process. I’d had a steady diet of cock for years, sometimes even two in one night. Sometimes a woman would join us for a circle of triple the pleasure.

  But desperate times call for desperate measures, and the hosts of this study were offering twenty thousand dollars if I could go the full two months. The catch was that, like on a game show, if I messed up, I would leave empty-handed. These people weren’t messing around, either. They had my room monitored so that I couldn’t flee. I was given menus where I could check off whatever I wanted, up to a hundred dollars a day worth of room service. I had cable, and they’d bring me all the books and magazines I desired. I had some stimulation, but not the kind that matters. In preparation, I’d even fucked my way through my local bar in the little over two weeks I had before the experiment started, figuring that the memories would keep me going, but they hadn’t. I felt lost, even though I could tell you which celebrity marriages were breaking up and all about the latest crimes and political happenings. None of that information is worth anything without someone to share it with. I would rather my mind been blank and my pussy been filled—that’s just the kind of girl I am. I was feeling like Rapunzel, from the old fairy tale, but instead of my hair being let down, I needed my legs to be spread wide. At least, my reactions provided good fodder for those studying me and my libido.

  What I lacked, though, was human contact. I couldn’t even go online; the researchers felt that interacting with my fellow humans via the Internet, or heaven forbid, looking at porn, would interfere with what they were tr
ying to study. Which was, in my own words, how to drive a woman mad by drying up her pussy. I was into week three and my libido was definitely on the wane, although I still could use my hand. But I didn’t mind them watching me; in fact, I got a kick out of the fact that otherwise staid lab-coat wearers were now getting big bucks (at least, I hoped it was big bucks) to watch me jerk off.

  But nothing compares to a real-live cock to satisfy my carnal cravings.

  Contrary to popular belief, for me it’s not the size of the dick so much as the way a man uses it, what he says, how turned on he is. Hardness is only one measure of arousal, and taking in the full measure of a man, feeling him up and down, kissing him all over, hearing his breathing change from steady to staggered, is what drives me wild, what I was missing each night as I slid between the decadently high-thread-count sheets and tried to approximate what I was missing with my fingertips.

  I’m sure I was offering much to the scientific community, but I was starting to feel like I was going crazy, like when I got out I wouldn’t remember how to interact with men, wouldn’t recall how to sink down onto a man’s dick and welcome him inside. Even more, I wasn’t sure I’d want to. They say your libido is a use-it-or-lose-it type of thing, and I was beginning to think that on that score, conventional wisdom was right on the money. My libido was dying, and I wasn’t sure if twenty thousand dollars was a high enough selling price.

  So when the first note was slipped under my door, I grabbed it. The only human contact I’d had was from the researchers during their weekly questioning. They made sure to dress as seriously as possible, not giving off any hints of eroticism, lest they skew their results. I answered as honestly as I could, trying not to whine as I reported how my tendency to wake up and need to put my hand between my legs (I’m like a guy in that sense) had diminished considerably. I was no longer a horny-all-the-time girl, and it was doing a number on my self-esteem. They listened and nodded and took notes, but didn’t seem to truly grasp the severity of the situation.