by Alison Tyler
“Are you looking for this?”
Dave tossed my velvet choker on my lap. “You dropped this on your way out.”
My face burned as I shoved it back into my bag. It was a simple black choker with a silver hook in front.
He sat next to me again. His forearm barely brushed mine as he leaned toward me. “So what’s the collar for? Your lover?”
I didn’t look away from his probing eyes. “I don’t know what you mean. It’s just a necklace,” I lied.
His dark eyes twinkled as he put a finger to his lips. He winked and leaned back in his seat.
I sat still and stared at the window. We were back on the highway, and neither of us said a word. I listened to snippets of conversations. Some passengers were going to visit family members. Others were eager to try their chances at the slot machines. The gentle rocking made my head throb, and I closed my eyes.
I woke up to a hand tapping my shoulder. Disoriented, I jumped away from the touch. I looked over and saw Dave’s smiling face. He held his hands up, showing me his palms.
“We’re in Barstow,” he said. “It’s probably the last rest stop before we hit Vegas. I didn’t think you’d want to miss that.”
I rubbed sleep out of my eyes. “Thanks.” I went to the restroom to splash some cold water on my face. The nap had gotten rid of the motion sickness, and I felt refreshed and ready for Vegas.
Dave was waiting for me when I got back. He shifted his legs to the side, and I climbed over them. I noticed how nice his long legs looked in denim. I’ve always loved a man who looks good in jeans.
“You never told me what the collar is for,” he said. He blocked my exit with his legs.
I hesitated. I could have told him to fuck off and mind his own business. But something let me know that his question was more than mere curiosity. I stood up to see how many others were on the bus. It wasn’t too late to find another seat.
“Sit down,” he said. He never raised his voice, but I complied. He smiled when I sat down. His dark eyes locked on to mine.
“Don’t be shy, love. Tell me why you need a collar.”
“It’s for a party,” I said. “My friend is getting married, and we’re going out clubbing afterward.”
“I see.” He ran his hand over my thigh, his fingertips hovering in the air, never touching the soft fabric. He had large hands with long fingers. Whenever I saw a man with long fingers, I wondered if he knew how to play the piano.
He moved his hand from my thigh to my forearm, lightly brushing my bare skin with his fingertips. His touch went from the inside of my wrist to my elbow and up toward my bicep, stroking my skin slowly like he was memorizing my texture. I watched his gaze slide over my breasts, my stomach, and lower.
When the bus rolled into motion, I jumped. I hadn’t even heard the driver announce our departure. Shifting in my seat, I noticed that all the passengers had congregated around the front and middle. A few middle-aged ladies were discussing which casino had the best buffet.
“No one can see us,” Dave whispered.
I stared into his eyes. I thought about how he kept using the word collar. Was he interested in the scene? He seemed so clean-cut and vanilla. Then again, so did I. He removed his hand from my arm.
“Do you want me to stop?”
I shook my head.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Are you willing to trust me?”
He looked so solemn. My curiosity won, and I nodded.
“Good.” He leaned over me and pressed the button on my arm rest. I breathed in his scent of soap and tobacco as he pressed my seat back to match the angle of his own.
His face was so close to mine that I expected him to kiss me. I held my breath and turned my face toward him. He smiled and cupped my right breast. When I gasped, he squeezed me tightly, making my nipple hard. Watching my face, he moved his hand to my other breast. He played with my nipple, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. I saw his lips twist into a smile.
I looked around to see if anyone was near. He grabbed my chin with one hand and said, “Don’t worry about anything else.” Then he turned his body toward me and moved his hand under my shirt. His hand felt warm beneath my bra. With his other hand, he undid the snap. “Take that off and give it to me.”
I slipped the straps out of my sleeves and removed my bra. I was embarrassed that I wasn’t wearing something sexier. Instead of something lacy, I wore one made of plain cotton.
He smiled when he saw it. “Plain and no-nonsense. I like that about you. Turn and face the window.”
I did what he said. When he placed my hands behind my back, my mouth went dry, and I licked my lips. He used my bra to tie my wrists together, taking his time, making a tight knot. I knew I wouldn’t be able to wear that bra again.
“Face forward.”
I sat with my hands behind my back. He draped his jacket over my shoulders.
“We have a while until we reach Vegas,” he said. “Let’s see if we can make the time go faster.”
His right hand slipped into the waistband of my pants. I was glad that I had worn pants with a drawstring waist. He smiled when he touched my panties.
“White cotton?”
“Yes,” I said.
His finger touched my clit. I spread my thighs wider to give him better access. His middle finger slid past my clit and played with my opening. I sighed as he massaged my pussy lips. He hooked his finger and entered me in one slow movement. A second finger followed, and I squirmed on the seat.
He fucked me slowly with two fingers while his palm pressed against my clit. I arched my back to take his fingers deeper. He remained impassive with his eyes closed—his reflection flickered in the window before me—and his fingers buried inside me while I ground myself against his hand.
His fingers slid out of me, and he concentrated on my clit. He rubbed me with his fingertips, faster, until I was breathing hard. Shifting his position, he slid his other hand into my pants. While he rubbed my clit with one hand, he finger-fucked me with the other. Right before I came, he turned my head back and kissed me hard, slipping his tongue into my mouth just as he entered me with a third finger. My muscles clenched around his hand, and I moaned into his mouth, shaking.
He licked my bottom lip and smiled. “We’re here.”
“Already?” I thought only fifteen minutes had passed, but we’d been playing for over an hour. My hands felt numb behind my back. “Are you going to untie me now?”
“Not yet.” His grin sent a shiver through me.
The bus rolled to a stop, and he grabbed my backpack. With his jacket still around my shoulder, I walked off the bus. He led us to the back of the bus station, away from the waiting area. Then he took off the jacket and released my arms.
Without a word, he turned me around and placed my palms against the wall. The Vegas heat made the brick burning hot, but I didn’t complain. With one smooth movement, he slid my pants down to my ankles. I listened to the sounds of his zipper coming down and then the condom wrapper being tossed aside.
He raised my hips until he found the angle he liked, then eased his cock forward. Even though I was still wet, he took his time. He was thick, and it was a tight fit. We both sighed when he was completely inside me.
His first few strokes were soft, but then his thrusts became faster. His fingers dug into my hips as he fucked me hard. When I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was coming, he grabbed my ponytail and forced me to stare at the wall. When he was close, he pulled my hair all the way back until I was looking toward the desert sun. He groaned and shuddered against me. My legs trembled as I held on to the wall for support. He pulled my pants back up and smoothed the fabric over my legs. He grinned as he picked up my torn bra. Shoving it in his back pocket, he said, “A souvenir.”
We didn’t exchange numbers. We kissed good-bye and went our separate ways. I arrived at my friend’s hotel with an obvious smile on my face. She wanted details, but we had a bachelorette party t
o attend.
The wedding was beautiful. The bride looked fabulous in her red dress, and the groom went all out in a white tuxedo. We partied afterward until five in the morning. After a two-hour nap, I went to call a cab.
The bride gave me a hug outside the hotel. “Are you sure you don’t want to ride back with us? We’re leaving for L.A. the day after tomorrow.”
“I have to teach in the morning. Plus my ticket was round-trip— and forty bucks.”
She laughed. “Forty bucks for a round-trip. Who would’ve thought? That’s a sweet deal.”
“Indeed.”
I arrived at the station early. When I boarded the bus, I walked toward the back. Dave looked up from his newspaper and smiled. “How was the wedding?”
“Perfect,” I said. I climbed over his lap and settled in my seat. I tossed a black velvet bag onto his lap. “From the bachelorette party.”
He peered inside and touched the soft hemp rope. Dug deeper and found the blindfold and the other items. He laughed when he saw the stubby miniature flogger. “Cute. It’s travel sized. So you never told me about the subject of your book.”
“I’m writing about bondage. I’m currently in the research stage.” I wondered what he would think about my new bra: pink with lace around the cups.
I had five hours to find out.
MATHILDE MADDEN
WET
EARLY EVENING. Getting dark.
Michael’s hands are at a perfect ten to two on the steering wheel.
The car whips along the M40, taking us nearer to home every moment. The kids have both been asleep in the back for over an hour, and I’m fading in and out myself, listening to the low murmur of Radio Four, watching the kaleidoscope patterns of the orange streetlights. Drifting.
Michael doesn’t know I’m still awake. I haven’t said anything for a while and he isn’t looking at me, just straight out at the darkening motorway. Steely eyed and rigid jawed. He might like to be a bit of a boy racer when he’s on his own, but he doesn’t mess about when he’s driving his family. Protecting his family is who he is.
It’s not raining right now. Typical. Because it rained for the entire week we were in the Lakes. Every type of rain from drenching sheets to the lightest, featherlike drizzle. Michael and I had to spent our days hunting for indoor child-friendly activities, our evenings fighting over who had to crouch under a waterproof cape and cook sausages and our nights listening to rain on canvas and trying not to make too much noise as we pressed close and warm in the dark. Michael was the one who said camping in autumn half term was too chancy, weather-wise. Especially in the Lakes. But to his credit, he bore the worst the holiday threw at him with typical stalwart grace.
Before we had kids we never used to go camping. But then having kids is a brave new world. In truth, a change of holiday destinations barely blips the radar when you’re faced with all the upheaval of starting a family. But once upon a time we went to Ibiza and danced the night away—back when that was a fashionable thing to do. We went to Barbados on honeymoon, even though we couldn’t really afford it. We had one of those all-inclusive deals with meals and drinks and Jet Skis thrown in. And we wasted most of it, because we never left our room for the entire fortnight.
Except for the room service. We got our money’s worth there. For the first three days we lived on champagne, strawberries and chocolate. Oh, and love.
It’s about eight o’clock when we break the journey at my parents’ place near Banbury. Keswick to Brighton is too much to do in one go. Even after dark with the kids fast asleep. We crunch up the gravel drive of the house I grew up in. Even after all these years, it still feels like coming home.
Later, when the kids have been deposited—still sleeping—into the beds in my parents’ spare room, my mum says, “Why don’t you two go down to the pub in the village for a quick drink? I bet you didn’t get any time to yourselves all holiday.”
It’s only nine o’clock, but we’re both tired. Even so, a bit of adult time is very appealing. Michael looks at me and I look at him. The children are so sound asleep they didn’t even stir when we lifted them out of their car seats.
“Thanks, Mum,” I say, pulling a couple of notes out of my handbag and stuffing them into the back pocket of Michael’s jeans.
By the time we’re at the end of the drive, we’re practically running toward the prospect of adult conversation and draft lager.
The pub in the village is tiny. More someone’s front room than a real pub. Quaint is the word, I guess. But, to me, it’s just the local pub I grew up with, so I have to see it through a stranger’s eyes to really notice how chocolate-box cozy it is, with its armchairs and its roaring fire and its red-nosed patrons.
Michael grins at the sight of this parochial place. He always finds my Oxfordshire country-bumpkin origins funny—being such a city boy himself. Fields and mud and cow dung, so not his thing. Another reason why he’s such a hero for going camping in October.
He takes off his glasses—it’s cold enough outside that they’ve steamed up in the pub—and pulls the edge of his T-shirt out and polishes the lenses. I catch a tiny glimpse of his hard stomach as he does so. And moments later, as he leans over the bar, I watch the way his jeans hug his arse. I want to run over and grab hold of it. Bite it. Ten years on, he still has the body I married.
I can’t help it then. I keep thinking about his body. By the time he sets the two pints of lager down on the table, I’m imagining him naked. Thinking about his cock in my mouth or in my pussy. I swallow, look up at him, smile, wonder if he can read my mind. But he doesn’t say anything.
It’s midweek, but the pub has a pretty healthy smattering of people. It’s a friendly place, but no one pays us any attention. It’s as if they know how little time we get alone together. Somehow, it’s as intimate as it would be if it were just the two of us alone somewhere.
Over the top of his glass, Michael smiles warmly at me and my heart leaps. Somehow this cozy pub, this little oasis from our day-today lives of family and work and muddy camping in the rain, feels more romantic than an all-inclusive Barbados resort or dancing’til dawn in an aircraft-hangar-sized nightclub.
Michael takes a long pull of his pint. I bite my lip. His mouth is so pretty. I reach out and wipe a little foam off his top lip. He smiles again.
“Michael,” I say, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Possibly,” says Michael. “If what you’re thinking is how gorgeous my wife is.”
We finally roll out of the pub at one a.m. Licensing laws don’t seem to be too strictly applied out here in the middle of nowhere.
We’re dizzy and laughing after a few hours of drinking and teasing and playing footsie under the table. For a few moments we don’t even notice that it’s raining again. Heavily. Big fat drops are splattering the pavement. Splattering us, too. We’re not dressed for it. We’ve just spent a week swathed in waterproofs, but tonight we walked out of my mum and dad’s house in jeans and sweats. We could go back into the pub, but it’s so late and we’ve still got a fair bit of driving to do in the morning. Michael’s sandy hair is already starting to stick to his face as he stands there. I take his hand. “Come on,” I say, “I know a shortcut.”
The path over the fields and through the woods is unlit, but there’s a big bright harvest moon in the sky. Locally this path is known as Muddy Lane. Never more aptly named than now. Two weeks of rain and now this downpour has created a swamp. We slip and slide in the dark, laughing and cursing equally, struggling not to lose our balance or our shoes as we cling to each other and squelch through the mire.
We’re about halfway home when Michael stops. “Hang on a minute,” he says, panting. “I can’t see a thing.” He ducks under a soggy tree and pulls off his glasses. He uses a T-shirt corner again to wipe away the raindrops. I gaze at him, lit perfectly by the big fat moon hanging in the sky. Raindrops are dripping from his hair onto his face as he concentrates on the job in hand. They glitter like sequins
, caught in his grazing of stubble. Who knows what possesses me to do what I do next? Maybe it’s disco fever. I lean over and lick a little drop of water that is squiggling its way down his jawline.
In less than a heartbeat, Michael turns his head and catches my mouth with his. His arms are round me. His glasses are gone. Where? In his pocket? Actually, I don’t care. I open my mouth underneath his and my whole body turns as soft and pliable as cookie dough as he pushes me up against the tree trunk.
Michael kisses me over and over. It feels like everything happens at once. Time and motion stop making sense. His tongue is in my mouth, his teeth are worrying my ear, his lips are caressing my neck. I work my hands up inside his shirt and tweak and pinch his nipples, making him gasp. His body feels so beautiful beneath my hands. Hard and smooth and hot. I slide my hands lower down to find he’s hard and smooth and hot in other places, too. His lips and teeth are still tracing knee-weakening patterns on the angles between my neck and my shoulder. I can feel his light stubble there, too, prickling me like hundreds of tiny kisses.
I slide my hands around and down the back of his jeans, grabbing his arse like I wanted to do in the pub. It’s even better than I imagined. High and firm and...oh God, I want to see him naked. I want to taste him. Press my mouth on him. Feel his skin, his heat, his delicious need.
Twisting the two of us around, so he’s the one with his back pressed against the tree trunk, I bring my hands round to the front of his jeans and start to undo them. It takes forever. What he’s still doing to my neck makes it hard to concentrate. But I manage. I get his jeans off. And his underwear. His cock springs into my hands. Hard and unnaturally warm in the damp night air. I press close to him so he can rub against my leg. He moans deep in his throat and I gasp.
I untangle myself from him and slide to my knees in the mud. The ground is cold, but my desire and the heat pulsing from his body keep me warm. His cock is damp with pre-come. There’s a little droplet on the tip, sparkling in the moonlight, just like the glittering raindrops earlier.