by Alison Tyler
I sat down on a garbage can and tried to recover my wits as she wiped her lips and face with a handkerchief. Jean pulled out a wad of bills from his pocket, counted off a few, gave them to her. She kissed us both on the cheek, and then walked away.
Jean and I sat there.
—I won’t say anything to Dominique, he said.
—There’s really no reason not to.
—I think she would be more upset by my being here than by you getting sucked off by a common sale putain, he said.
—Yeah? I said.
—She is tired of me seeing her friends’ cocks, he said with a shrug.
—I’m sure, I said.
He laughed and then I laughed, too.
—That’s her, I said.
—That is our Dominique, he said.
We had a moment, laughing and patting each other on the back, and then we stood up and left the alley.
RAKELLE VALENCIA
LINE SHACK
EVERY FALL THEY HAD MET for an overnight at the line shack to put in supplies and ready the small place for a cowboy to lay up while tending fence over the harsh winter. She would arrive from town, driving the old ranch pickup as far as it would go into the mountainous terrain, while he took the route along the fence, leading her mare and a pack mule with flopping panniers, only stopping to make repairs to the barbed wire as needed.
The early morning sun glinted off of the dew that dangled precariously from the wire, letting Flint know that the lines were up and taut for as far as he could see. The colt under him set a quick pace in the chill with the mare only too happy to trot up, but the mule pulled back now and again in protest.
Flint squirmed and adjusted his seat on the hard, worn buckaroo saddle, uncomfortable with his growing need and the anticipation. He pulled at his collar as if that would help, then checked his hold on the dallying mule. He had set out before the sun had even blazed its red streaks through the mountain crags, anxious to meet up with the battered truck that would stop in Vaca Rojo Pass.
The rope across his right thigh tightened, indenting into his chaps. Flint prepared a second ahead of the mule’s antics as it let out a series of unbroken brays and crow-hopped its protest to the lengthy jaunt. It would become more cantankerous when loaded down with supplies, but even the thought of an unruly mule didn’t relieve the pressure in the crotch of his Wranglers.
Flint’s physical discomfort tugged his mind from the mule’s all-toonormal behavior and made him ponder ways of relief. He squirmed within the saddle again, the friction causing an even worse problem. If he stopped to dismount and take the matter into his own hands, he would be late. Not to mention that he might lose the mule with his momentary lack of attention and no place to tie off the strong animal. No, he would keep riding. But something would have to be done before the few hours’ ride to the line shack.
The cotton briefs and his jeans chafed his trapped cock. He swore to himself, feeling like sandpaper was rasping at his dick with every forward movement of the jog. He asked his colt to lengthen its stride as he began to post the gait, affording a small comfort.
Vaca Rojo Pass would come within his sight over the next ridge, which would, Flint knew, increase his engorging problem tenfold. Just the vision of her... Just the knowing that she waited in the rusted old truck for him…
The sun didn’t bother to gleam off of the pitted chrome, but the truck sat with its engine running, waiting nonetheless. Flint cantered the last half mile then let the horses walk the last forty feet. They weren’t blowing or sweating, so he took no mind to walking them out longer.
He gingerly stepped down from his colt like a bowlegged old man stiff with the cold. She killed the engine, then got out of the truck, slammed the door and leaned against it with a grin that told him she knew.
Bending down, he hobbled both horses and removed their bridles in turn. The mule was dragged to the hitch at the back of the truck and tied off tight using a quick-release knot in case the beast decided to somehow rampage the dented vehicle. He turned toward her then. “Is that all you can do is grin?”
She eyed him up and down, then stared at the bulge pressing outward beneath worn jeans from the front gap in his chaps.
“Lady,” he continued, “you did this to me.”
She laughed. “Can’t you wait?”
“I’ve been waitin’. And it has been miserable.”
She gave him a look, then hopped onto the hood of the truck that had been warmed by the engine, sitting on exposed hands. Flint tossed the bridles onto the seat of the cab before walking to the front of the vehicle and wrapping his arms around her waist, sliding her into him where her legs had to part and her pussy rested against his flat belly.
She bent to kiss him. What was supposed to be a quick hello turned into ravenous sucking and tongue twisting. Her hands found his neck, and she entwined fingers in his unruly brown hair shot with the beginnings of silver, knocking the wool-felted Stetson forward.
Flint removed his hat, then began working at pulling off her boots as they continued to kiss.
“Hey,” she said, “you really can’t wait.”
He growled in answer, recapturing her lips with his own to nibble and suck. The second boot was shucked easily and left to drop to the hardening ground with a thud. Reaching for her jeans, she helped him pluck the button and drag the zipper down. Then she wiggled as he tugged at her pants to get them out of his way, panties tangled within.
His own gritty zipper complained, but he managed to fight it open. With relief, his hard-on sprang out, liberated from several layers of cotton confinement.
She reached for him. Flint evaded her touch, fisting his prick in his own familiar hand while pushing her backward to lie on the hood with his other. His rod twitched as his nostrils caught the musky scent that told of her own excitement. He placed his full palm over her entire pussy, pressuring with the heel of his hand in tiny circles over the mons.
He felt her wetness and replaced his hand with his mouth. The tip of his tongue touched within her slit to trace her clit shaft before he spread her nether lips with his fingers and lapped the length of her in rhythm.
Her pelvis rose to meet him as he switched to perform circles around her clit. He yanked his head from her clenching fingers and said, “Darling, I need this now.” With both hands, he slid her body to meet the tip of his steely hard-on. She gasped while her short nails squealed along the red paint searching for purchase in the smooth metal. Flint fisted his dick again and thrust upward at that moment. He pushed his rod in to the hilt only to drag himself halfway out and slam back in fast.
He needed this.
He needed to get off.
He needed the relief she could give him.
His calloused thumb pad now circled her clit while he rammed into her repeatedly. She moaned and gasped, crying out incoherently. Her eyes squeezed shut as her mouth contorted and her facial expressions became surreal, as if some alien beast inhabited her.
Flint knocked into her faster and faster, unwilling to slow his pounding, losing himself in the feel of her. But she was the first to cry out, surprising him. Flint had felt his need was greater than her own when he arrived. His could be seen so clearly. He hadn’t stopped to think that she had also waited too long and might have driven the rocky pathway in discomfort, too.
Wave after wave of her orgasm gripped and sucked at him. Her legs wrapped around him to hold him more tightly into her. That was his undoing. That last slam, powered by the force of muscular, feminine thighs brought him to his limits. His upper body crumpled onto her, neither one moving while the aftershocks of their fucking continued to rumble through them.
It felt like a glorious eternity, but it had only been mere minutes that they stayed locked with each other. Flint adjusted himself, then zipped up, reaching next to help his wife with her clothes and boots.
“Best get the mule loaded if we’re to make the line shack before nightfall.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, still ba
sking in that freshly fucked glow.
Flint busied himself unloading the truck and arranging the cans, boxes and bags into the panniers hanging from either side of the mule’s sawbuck. When she could, his wife bridled then released the hobbles from the horses for the next leg of their journey. Then she mounted her mare and held the colt steady while Flint dragged the mule over and stepped up.
The mountainous terrain grew precarious but the wire fence was unbothered, needing no repairs, probably because this pasture was only used during the cold season where the mountains would block the harshest bite of winter. And where cattle could still scrub the dead forage.
Several hours later, they both arrived at the line shack weary yet excited. Putting in supplies each year was like playing at house in the heyday of the cowboys and cattle drives. This one night was their vacation for the year, before the cowboy who wrangled fence all winter would move in and set the place his own way.
It took both of them to haul the full panniers into the one-room shack. Then she shoved wood into the potbellied stove while he untacked the horses and mule and put them in the corral, rubbing them with a curry. He fed them grain from the supplies and threw them a bale from the small barn that had been stocked during haying season last summer.
Carrying the saddle blankets, bridles, hobbles, halter and lead rope to the house, Flint almost jolted the door into his wife as she hung the rifle above the frame. She backed away and finished her unpacking by stowing the boxes of cartridges on a nearby shelf, then hanging the bag of hardtack from one of the old rod-iron hooks bolted to a ceiling beam. Hardtack used to be a staple but was now only carried in saddlebags in case of an emergency. Today there were canned foods and ground coffee, boxes of pasta and other dry goods, and jars of sauces, almost everything a regular house pantry would hold. Refrigeration was remiss but there was plenty of heat for cooking on the woodstove, and there would be water in snowfall after the initial bottled gallons ran out.
Finished, she wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans. Flint wrapped his arms around her from behind in a bear hug as he tried to pull her to the bed. She broke loose and stooped to pick up both sets of figure-eight hobbles.
She reached for Flint’s wrists in turn, securing each in a hobble, then easily led him to where she hung the hobbles on the old, empty hardtack hooks. His arms were spread sufficiently. He had to rock to the balls of his feet to keep the leather hobbles from digging in.
His wife walked around him, surveying his bondage and helplessness. When she returned to the front of him, she ripped open his yoked cowboy shirt, thrilling in the tinny sound of those pearly snaps cutting loose. She ran a cool hand across his bare chest, following the ridges of his hard pectorals and resting in the nest of light brown curls at the center as she tongued first one flattened nipple, then the other.
Flint moaned with the warm ministrations until he felt her teeth clamp to the risen right nipple. Shock shot through him, mentally and physically. Shifting around in erotic exquisiteness, he inadvertently dropped to his heels. Immediately, he felt the leather tighten around his wrists to bite in, and noticed a burning stretching down his arms. He popped back to the balls of his feet, almost to his toes for relief, thrusting his pelvis forward in the motion.
His wife tore open his jeans and yanked them to his thighs, capturing and controlling his legs. From her back pocket, she fetched her lock-back blade and knifed through his sensible, white cotton briefs from the front of each upper thigh to his waistband. Flint dipped his head to watch in tension as the sharp blade drove past his tenting prick on either side, all too close for his taste.
The briefs fell apart with the spring of his loosed hard-on. She rubbed the cold steel along the bottom of its length then palmed his dick to his belly as she shaved the knife over his balls, curls falling to the floor. “Babe,” he said. “Hon?”
She wasn’t listening. Flint sought to unhook his wrists, but he had already done himself in when he had dropped to his heels and allowed the bindings to grow taut. She would have to release him. But she hadn’t listened to his plea.
Her hand around his cock began jerking him slowly as she closed her knife and shoved it into her back pocket once again. Her other hand now clasped his balls, sending Flint sensations he had never previously felt. The newly exposed skin quivered with her touch. And he jumped when her hot tongue bathed the shorn area. He was close now. So close. Flint clenched his jaw and bucked forward as far as his restraints would allow.
He shoved himself to his toes to thrust his prick into her mouth, emitting a low, guttural, savage growl as he came. Slouching limply on his bonds, he felt her sting his ass with a slap so that he would rise to his toes while she freed the hobbles from the hooks.
Flint hugged his wife close, their mouths leisurely kissing.
He was free now, but the memories of the bondage remained.
KIS LEE
BUS RIDE
EVEN THOUGH I COULD HAVE DRIVEN to Vegas, I was going to take the bus this year. Downtown Los Angeles to Las Vegas—forty dollars for a round-trip from a tour company in Chinatown. With the recent hike in gas prices, I couldn’t find a better deal.
It was a last-minute trip. An old college friend was going to elope to the original Elvis wedding chapel, and she needed an extra bridesmaid. As long as I didn’t need a taffeta dress, I couldn’t say no to Vegas. I packed my party clothes and headed out to Chinatown around seven thirty a.m.
Since it was a midweek trip, I didn’t expect a big crowd. When I arrived I saw about twenty or so elderly Asians waiting for the bus. After buying my ticket, I stood in line with the rest of the crowd. A few older women acknowledged me, but mostly they kept to themselves. They probably thought I was a college student on vacation.
I chose a seat toward the back of the bus, close to the only bathroom. With stops, the trip to Vegas would take about five hours. By car, I could do the trip in about four, but this way I could relax during the ride and catch up on work.
I looked up when I saw a pair of legs in my peripheral vision. A tall Asian man looked down at me and grinned. “Is this seat taken?"
I noticed that the bus wasn’t even half full yet. Most of the passengers had accumulated in the middle, with only a few middle-aged couples toward the back. I thought the young man could take another seat, but I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I grunted a response and removed my backpack.
“Thanks," he said. He sat down and stretched his long legs in front of him. He was close to six feet, with a lean build. He wore his hair short, and I wondered vaguely if he’d spent time in the military. I waited to see if he put his bag under his seat, but he only carried a leather jacket folded in his lap.
He looked at me and smiled again. His dark lashes framed his deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry to intrude," he said. “I’m tired, and I don’t want to be sitting next to a nosy Chinese grandmother."
I had to smile back. “I know what you mean. Do you speak Chinese?"
“Yes and no. Enough to get by, but I’m not fluent." He cocked his head while looking at me. “Are you Chinese?"
“I’m a Korean-Chinese mutt," I said. “I’m Amanda, by the way."
His warm hand completely covered mine. “Dave."
After a bit of introductory chitchat, we settled in our seats. He leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. As the bus rolled away from the station, I reached down for my backpack. I grazed his leg and mumbled, “Excuse me.” He didn’t respond, so I assumed he was out.
I graded papers for about forty minutes until the motion of the bus made me queasy. Then I stared outside the window and watched the cars below us. I heard my seatmate shift his legs.
“Are you a teacher?” he asked.
I smiled. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I was just resting my eyes,” he said. “Do you teach high school?”
“I teach sixth grade for now. It’s a temporary gig while I work on my book.”
He studied me with half-closed eyes. “A
writer. I think I can see that. With those Lisa Loeb glasses, you have that artsy vibe coming from you.”
I shrugged. Most people usually assumed I was a student. Probably because of my glasses and the fact that I hardly ever wore makeup. I kept my straight hair in a simple ponytail. Except for special occasions, I almost always wore a T-shirt and jeans. To be comfortable for the ride, I had worn my black sweatpants that day.
“So what are you writing about?”
I had expected that question. Usually, I give a generic answer. This time, I looked him right in the eyes and said, “I write smut.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you really?”
I nodded, waiting for his reaction. He studied my face, his eyes wandering to my collarbone. His attention went back to my eyes as if he thought he could see something in them. Even though he showed a small smile, his eyes remained neutral.
“Are there any Asian-American writers in the smut business?” he asked. “You could be the Amy Tan of the porn world.”
I laughed. That was the same thing my roommate had told me. I looked up when the bus slowed down for the first stop. I waited for Dave to leave his seat and followed him off the bus.
After using the restroom, I wandered to the other side of the bus. I wanted to smoke but not in front of the Asian grandmothers. As I lit up, I watched Dave leave the restroom. He stretched his arms over his head and looked up toward the sky. I don’t usually go for clean-cut men, but I decided to make an exception. There was something about his eyes that made me want to know him better.
I returned to my seat while the others chatted outside. I opened my backpack to make sure my dress wasn’t too wrinkled. Velvet usually travels well, but I didn’t want to take my chances. I should have brought a suitcase, but I was averse to carrying around any bulky luggage. Moving the dress out of the way, I searched for my accessory case.