by Alison Tyler
Beyond the canopy of the tree’s branches the rain slows and starts to stop. I can hear owls hooting and distant traffic noise. I lick the little drop of moisture from the tip of Michael’s cock. It tastes like a drop of water from a distant ocean. I remember standing on the balcony of our hotel room in Barbados —looking out over the glassy sea—a million years ago. Michael was the one on his knees that time. Hidden by the balcony. Pressing his tongue against my pussy as I looked out to sea. Out at the sea we never so much as dipped a toe into, because we were too busy diving into each other.
Michael groans again. One of his big, elegant hands tangles in my damp hair. I sigh and let him push me close to his straining cock, opening my mouth. I suck hard, taking him down my throat as far as I can. It’s difficult to imagine now, but before I met Michael, I never really liked sucking cock all that much. It was always just a duty— something I did purely for the payback. But with him it’s so different. With him, even when we first met, it was almost like giving him pleasure was as much for me as it was for him. The way he moans. The way he thrusts. The way he wants. He gives so much back. It’s like feedback then—his arousal flowing into mine taking me higher and higher. As I listen to the noises he makes, I work harder: touching his more sensitive spots with my tongue; using my throat, the sides of my cheeks, and getting rewarded as he gets more and more desperate.
Before he comes, Michael pushes me away, pulls me to my feet and takes his turn taking off my trousers. I’m wearing sweatpants, so it’s a quick enough job to get them down my legs. They’re caked with mud at the bottoms though, so there’s no way they’re coming right off without a fight. I manage to get one foot free, losing a shoe somewhere in the tangle of mud and combed jersey. That’s enough.
With my back pressed up against the trunk of the tree, he lifts me, holding me up long enough to get his cock in position, and then he lets me slide down on to it. I’ve never done it like this before. Standing up. Never ever. I freeze for a moment. Unsure. A little scared of the way that gravity is driving the penetration so deep. But then as I relax into it and the sensations wash over me, I squirm. It’s delicious. I find a slightly better angle and cry out. Michael’s mouth finds that sweet spot on my neck again and he nips me hard. I buck and we both nearly topple over. Then his mouth finds mine and we hit a rhythm.
It’s hard to balance, though. It’s even more difficult for Michael, who is having to support some of my weight as only my toes graze the ground. But the way I sucked his cock, until he was teetering on the edge of orgasm, means he’s already close to coming now. He only has to thrust inside me once, twice, before I feel him start to come as his knees buckle and we tumble to the ground....
The tree branches are still dripping, even though the rain has stopped. Water splashes down on my face. It’s probably wetter here, under the tree, than outside in the lane now. Wetter still now Michael is on top of me, kissing his way down my muddy half-dressed body. I look at him. He’s filthy, too. Muddier than he ever got on our wet weekend of camping. He looks like he’ll never be clean again. I kind of like that.
His kiss-kiss trail reaches my stomach and travels over it to my hips. It reaches the place where my inner thighs, my lower abdomen and my pussy all become one. The very center of me. His tongue works lower, deeper, getting closer and closer to the wettest place of all.
I gasp and tighten. Buck and roll. He puts both hands on my hips to still me and presses further on. His tongue finds my clit. Flick-flick. I reach down and push my fingers into his damp hair, tracing patterns on his skull that seem to find their way straight through him to the patterns he traces on my pussy. While his tongue is on my clit, I can feel his sharply stubbled chin against my vagina, prickling that sensitive place just over the edge of pain. It’s sparky sharp. Points of light, of heat, of pleasure. I twist against it.
More.
Did I say that out loud? I’m not even sure, but somehow Michael responds. The lazy circles his tongue was drawing around my clit get faster, harder. He presses closer to me. I let go of his hair and my hands scrabble in the cold muddy earth. When I come, I open my eyes and, through the tree canopy, I really do see stars....
We’re giggling like teenagers as I put my key in the lock of my mum and dad’s house. I don’t know what I’ll say if they’re not in bed. We both look like refugees from Glastonbury—head to toe mud. I never did find that shoe again.
Luckily, the house is silent. We creep up into the bathroom. In steamy warmth, we shower away the debris of our alfresco fun, kissing and caressing as we do. Michael grabs the soap and rubs suds over my body, tweaking my nipples and massaging my arse. I have to press close against him and draw him into a long kiss to keep quiet. His body is so firm and smooth, lubricated by the warm soapy water. Pressed together we slide around, luxuriating in each other. I end up coming again, pressed up against the slickly tiled wall as Michael works his fingers between my legs. We’re soaking wet again, but this time it’s warm and clean and we’re breathless with our need to keep quiet.
I drift downstairs the next morning, still daydreaming about last night’s adventure. I glance into the living room and see that the kids are breakfasted and watching cartoons. My mum is in the kitchen washing up cereal bowls. I grab some tea from the pot to wake myself up.
“Thanks for sorting the kids out,” I say. “You didn’t have to. You could have woken me up.”
Mum turns and smiles, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “I thought I’d let you two sleep in after getting caught in that rainstorm. You had quite a night of it, I understand. You two dirty devils.”
I nearly spit out my tea. “What?”
Mum smiles. She nods over at the hallway. I must have come downstairs half-asleep because I never even noticed the trail of mud and dirty water that leads from the front door all the way upstairs to the bathroom.
“Oh right. Dirty devils. Yeah, sorry about that, Mum.”
T. C. CALLIGARI
HEAT
EVERYTHING WAS TOO HOT. Erica had been in Mexico City for six months working as an English language teacher and she had had no time to cool down. The sweltering heat, the oppressive smog and the overall grayness of one of the biggest cities on earth weighed upon her. But she had been too busy to unwind. Between the divorce, the new job, and trying to implement a change in the immersion class at the college, Erica hadn’t even explored the museum or the zócalo. And it was so hot.
It was as if a great slab weighed her down, partially melting her, partially keeping her below the boiling point, without any sign of release. Every night, she would finally get home after the interminably long day and subway ride with only enough energy to eat and crawl into bed. Several times, Erica had tried to release the burgeoning need within her, to alleviate the stress with a bit of solo sexual pleasure (the sex was the only part of her marriage that she missed). But the few times she’d tried, she had fallen asleep with her hands between her legs, unsated, with the greater need for sleep winning.
Need and heat built in her every day, making her agitated and short tempered, and she could little afford that with a new job in a foreign city. But there was no time for her gratification—not until the course was in place, and that would be another six months of ironing out the kinks.
Erica sighed, pulling back her blonde hair as she waited for the subway train to arrive. She was dressed as coolly as possible while still looking professional, wearing a midthigh-length white skirt with a short white jacket over a modest V-neck blouse. She knew she stood out in the city, with her pale skin and hair and blue eyes. Although fluent in Spanish, it had taken her a week to realize the hissing was the Mexican form of wolf whistles. And the calls of muy buenita were not hard to figure out. Yet there’d been no time to explore the Latin lover mythos to see if there was any truth to it.
The train arrived; the same time, the same station, the same, every day. She could almost sleep on it except for having to be vigilant. As the doors sighed open Erica walked on, clutchin
g her briefcase close. Her free hand reached toward the handhold as the doors shushed closed. Barely able to hang on in the crush of bodies that surrounded her, Erica divorced herself from the crowd and thought of lesson plans, almost as she had divorced herself from her marriage when George had stayed later and later at work until finally he didn’t come home at all.
She always boarded the train at its fullest, with no place to sit, and she had a long stand to the end of the line. It was easy to fall into daydreaming and mulling over problems. Erica was so involved in thinking through a verb form issue that she almost didn’t notice the hand that gently yet firmly gripped her right thigh. As if coming out of a dream, she felt the pressure first. She tried to move away, but there was no place to go, with bodies pressing in on her from all sides. She stared at the back of a man and could shift neither left nor right. Instead, she shifted her hips, but all that did was let the hand slide over and toward the inner curve of her thigh. Erica was surprised at the shiver that ran over her skin. One of her hands gripped the handhold; the other, her briefcase, and she could do nothing to stop a random stranger from touching her. The heat within built, and she melted a bit, as her body responded beyond her ability to control.
The train jerked as it came into a platform, and the hand slid a little higher, pushing up Erica’s skirt. She closed her eyes, feeling the moisture gather between her legs. It had been so long since anyone had touched her. To be so desperate for a random stranger’s touch shamed her, and her cheeks flushed. Yet her body responded in its own way.
In two more stops Erica would be getting off the train. She started now to push through the crowd, trying to turn about. The hand gave her a squeeze between the legs that brought a small gasp to her lips, and she turned. Looking up into the faces of the men around her, she could not tell who had touched her. They were staring off into nothing, reading papers, talking to each other or listening to music. Not one man looked guilty. No one glanced her way. There were at least four men standing near her. It could have been any one of them, but would she want to know the identity of the mystery man? What would she do? Accuse him and have everyone stare at her?
By the time her stop arrived, her fluttering heart had slowed and she exited the train, giving a small sway to her hips; a tease, in case the stranger watched her.
The next day, Erica didn’t admit to herself that she dressed with a mind to the previous evening’s incident. Her skirt was elegant, understated and midcalf length, with decorative buttons to just below the butt. Unfortunately, that day she was distracted enough that she spent too much time trying to write a proposal and now had more work to finish before the upcoming deadline.
The train was especially busy. Erica worked her way to a back corner where there was less chance of being smothered by pressing bodies, or of something being stolen. She managed to wedge in and then turned back to face the crowd so she could keep an eye on people. The intermittent air-conditioning on the train did little to alleviate the sweat trickling down her legs. Too many people and too hot a day. Erica wished she could melt, just to get away from the heat.
After four or five stops, Erica’s mind wandered to the problems of her program. She’d stopped noticing the people coming and going until she felt a hand slide between her legs, halfway above her knees. Her body tensed as she felt the buttons being released. Obviously, he had already undone a few to get his hand in and she hadn’t noticed. Then Erica changed; anticipation building in her, a thrum humming from her core, heating her in a way that blotted out the people around her. She stared ahead, seeing nothing as all attention centered on the hand working up her bare leg. The train jerked and fingers slid into the folds of her labia, burrowing through her already wet sex.
All she could do was close her eyes, taken away in the roar of her heart. Slowly, as the train trundled along, the hand wedged firmer between her folds, one finger moving forward and back, flicking over her clit. Erica’s knees would have buckled had she not been wedged between so many people. The lights flickered off on the train and her mystery man took that moment to push two fingers up into her cunt. Erica moaned, her eyes closed. When she opened them, afraid of fainting, a man stared at her. She blushed, not having realized the lights had come back on. But the stranger’s hand never stopped its slow movement within her.
She was so wet, and nearly quivering with pent-up lust. Could she come on the train without letting everyone know, with so many people around? Just as she thought she was going to have no choice and would have to just flow with the pleasure, she distinctly heard a voice whisper in Spanish, “You have a hot little cunt." The fingers quickly disappeared from between her legs, leaving her on the edge, shaking slightly.
Her heart thudded and she looked around, again unable to pinpoint who had touched her. She bit her lip. This was almost worse than no human touch at all; to be led to the brink and left hanging. By the time the train reached her stop, Erica had composed herself enough to walk off the train, albeit still thrumming inside. She realized that her skirt was undone to the last button just below her ass. Anyone watching would be seeing a good amount of leg, especially as she walked up the stairs.
By the time she entered her building, she nearly had to run into her apartment, before throwing herself down on the couch. Erica’s fingers had barely rubbed over her clit before she came, and the heat flooded her, quaking her body with an orgasm that rippled over her. She lay there afterward, half on and half off the couch, drifting, feeling at once relaxed yet horny for the real thing. She wanted to be fucked, and the mystery man on the train had only awakened that burning need, making it tangible, harder to ignore. If only she weren’t so busy. She sighed and sloughed off her clothes, throwing on shorts and a T-shirt as she pulled out papers to work on. It was only as she was hanging up her cotton jacket that she noticed a piece of paper in her pocket. All it gave was a time: 9:00 p.m. She smiled as heat touched her cheeks.
Perhaps she would be working late again.
In the morning, Erica put on a skirt she wouldn’t normally wear to work. It was a green mini that came to just a few inches below her butt, with a large ruffle to it. Her blouse was light pink chiffon over a V-neck tank that accented her cleavage. She wore matching high wedge sandals, and draped a light sweater on her shoulders.
At the college, no one seemed to notice Erica’s less than professional outfit, and since it was nearing end of term, many people worked late. When she left, she stuffed papers into an oversize bag, having foregone the briefcase, and then had to rush to catch the train. Her ride ran nearly from one end of the city to the other. It would have been a good night to drink some sangria. The heat lay about everyone like a thick blanket. And she was tired. The train was fairly empty at this time, with just enough people to occupy the seats. There was room to stand and move, so she made her way to her corner, away from the doors. Glancing that way, she saw three men, casually dressed and darkly handsome, standing there. They didn’t act as if they knew each other and it was a common place to stand, out of the way.
Was one of them the man with the wandering hands?
One man was slim and tall and had the wavy brown hair and green eyes of mixed Spaniard blood. One was broad shouldered, with the hawk nose and deeper brown skin of an Aztec heritage, and the third man had black hair, sharp eyes, high cheekbones and was of a medium, almost nondescript build. If she had a choice, which would she choose?
Then the train began its long ride through the stifling heat of evening. If only it would rain, the humidity would go down. But Erica, for all the tension, still thought of lesson plans. Her hand kept slipping down the handhold from her sweat. As she gripped the bar a third time she felt two hands on her buttcheeks, squeezing, slowly crinkling up the short skirt. The temperature rose a few more degrees. And when had two men come to stand in front of her? She didn’t remember anyone entering at the last few stops, but then she’d been thinking. Now all thoughts left her as the hands moved under the curve of each cheek and pulled.
/> She’d worn no underwear, and so was bare to the hands, and she could feel her lust dewing her. The fingers of one hand slid into her groove and flicked over her clit. Pressing her lips together, she tried hard not to moan out loud. Then she felt a firm rod of flesh press between her cheeks, and she couldn’t help but gasp.
The two men in front of her blocked most of her view of the train, but when she looked around, she realized there were fewer passengers and no one was paying attention. Some had their eyes closed, some were reading. Then the lights flickered out and the man behind pushed Erica so that she had to hold her hands out or fall. Fall she did, toward someone in front. The person never turned in the darkness, never pushed her back.
She felt the cock push between her folds of flesh, sliding into her. A man was entering her on the train, the fat knob of his cock nosing in and gliding inside her.
The lights flickered back on, or so she thought, but the sensation grew so intense as he fucked her that she could not see clearly through the waves of heat that enveloped her, pouring out of her, down between her breasts and pooling in her core. He moved faster and faster, his cock building a friction of exquisite pleasure. Erica was terrified and exhilarated. Fucking on the train; would they get away with it? Could she stand the humiliation of being caught?
As the stranger behind her came, convulsing into her, he reached around and squeezed her nipples. She arched back, bearing down upon his cock, burrowing it as deep as it would go, and spasmed with the intensity. Opening her eyes, Erica noticed the lights had indeed come back on and the two men in front had turned to watch. They smiled knowingly.
Erica’s cheeks burned. She was shocked at her own wanton behavior. She could excuse her need but she could not excuse her actions.