by Alison Tyler
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “He is coming here to us, not going into the house to tell....” She soothed her friend, stroking her long hair back from her face. Then she spoke to him in Greek; he didn’t speak any English. Stefanos laughed and nodded at her words, his thick black hair falling forward as he did so. “He wants, how do you say it, a piece of your action?” She nodded down toward the tumescent bulge below his belted waist.
“He wants me?” Lydia whispered, through fingers that covered her mouth and quelled her rapid breathing while she stared at the handsome boy. Nikoleta reached over and pulled Lydia’s hand away from her face, kissing her gently on the cheek. She whispered in her ear.
“Yes, he wants you. Do you want to try him now? You’ve had one before, right? A man?”
“Well, yes, once, and to be honest it was pretty crap, but...the bloke didn’t look anything like it...I mean him.” Nikoleta patted her bottom approvingly. Stefanos was watching them, eagerly awaiting their reaction to his obvious intentions.
“You like it, yes?” Nikoleta chuckled. Lydia was staring, while she worked her thighs together, crushing her pussy lips. She nodded vaguely. “Okay, I will tell him you want it and he can fuck you now.” Remember, Nikoleta was a very practical sort. Lydia grew serious as she committed herself. She nodded again, eagerly.
Nikoleta asked him to show himself. She was having fun. She wanted to see Lydia with that big cock inside her. Stefanos was eager, too. He unbelted his shorts before she finished the instruction to do so, dropping them to the ground and kicking them to one side, revealing the stout, long bough of his erect cock. He was huge and laden, his balls hanging heavily against his thighs. His cock twitched when both women stared at it. Nikoleta beckoned to him with her hand, pointing down to the largest flattish rock, the one where they had been lying together.
Nikoleta glanced at Lydia, whose eyebrows lifted in question. “He is ours.” Nikoleta’s eyes glittered with pleasure. She snatched at Lydia’s hand, drawing her in. “You are ready?” Lydia nodded. His cock twitched again, its surface sheened and silken. “Climb onto him, as you would your bicycle, that way I can watch better.” Stefanos moaned loudly when he realized they were negotiating positions. Nikoleta felt a pang of pity for him; he was quite obviously desperate for release and the horny action he’d been watching earlier had only made his problem that much bigger. His shaft was huge. Lydia hunched down beside him, then lifted one knee over his hips, coming to rest with her sex just above the broad head of his cock. She looked around at Nikoleta.
“Christ, Nikoleta, help me, it’s so bloody big,” she whispered. Nikoleta beamed; to have the two of them so needy of her assistance was quite delicious in itself. Then, as she knelt down beside them, she felt Stefanos touching her hip. She looked down as his fingers reached for her pussy. He asked her to sit on his face. Her smile grew wide and her eyes flashed with greedy anticipation. She straddled his head, facing Lydia. She lowered herself slowly onto his open mouth and began working herself against him, slowly at first, then more urgently.
Lydia watched, eyes wide. When Nikoleta had found her rhythm she leaned forward and moved his erect cock toward the entrance of Lydia’s plump, damp channel. The crown of his cock was so large that she had to ease it in very slowly, working the juices that oozed down against its hardness, to help its passage. Lydia whimpered; her body flexed and became taut, then her head went back in ecstasy, her hips moving forward to embrace the hard thing more vigorously when her body learned its measure. Nikoleta felt Stefanos stirring under her, responding to the twin pleasures. His mouth grew more anxious on her intimate flesh, his tongue probing into her channel, strong and long, bringing on more liquid heat from inside her.
“Oh, my, it’s so large,” Lydia stuttered, gasping.
Nikoleta gave a throaty chuckle. “Press down, it will not harm you, precious one; enjoy him.”
Lydia’s eyes closed and Nikoleta watched her riding the rigid column of flesh. A perverse sense of pleasure traveled through her as she watched and felt all at once. Lydia looked almost ready to collapse with pleasure and she began to plunge faster. Nikoleta suddenly felt a pang of envy; the crown of that magnificent cock must feel so good, buried in deep. She could see each exquisite spasm reflected in the expression on Lydia’s face. Then, suddenly, she felt Stefanos buffeting her pussy lips more vigorously, thrusting his tongue faster, teeth nipping at her clit as he began to buck beneath her. Lydia let out a yowl of extreme pleasure, her body shuddering with release.
His body was taut with submission. Even if she hadn’t known that he was coming by the way his face moved distractedly against her flesh, she saw it ride up in Lydia’s body—the renewed tenseness in her hips, her mouth a delectable open circle, a low moan in her throat. She wrapped her slender arms around herself and rocked on him, as if savoring the feeling.
A few moments later both women hauled themselves up and looked down at him. His breath was ragged. He was distracted, his expression vague, his eyes barely open. Nikoleta smiled.
“Look, his cock is beautiful, let’s enjoy him for as long as we can,” Nikoleta said, her voice a whisper, the pounding inside her core barely relenting. Lydia nodded, transfixed by the stretch of strong male flesh. They moved to either side of him. Nikoleta kissed his face, licking her cream from his cheeks. He was strong and smelt good, like he’d been helping himself to the master’s cologne. Lydia fondled his thighs, while Nikoleta’s curious hands roved over his chest and slid down the line of dark hair that guided her to the plumage that sprang in his groin. Her fingers settled there and stirred. He moaned in delight, undeniably pinned by their dextrous fingers on his body.
She looked down at his cock. It was beginning to become erect again. There was only one thing a practical woman could do. She reached for it, stroking it as it began to grow quicker in her hand. The power of it growing beneath her fingers affected her. She preferred playing with women, but she suddenly felt rampant and wild with this thing in her hand. Her pussy ached for it. The shaft was rigid now, hot, and ready. She wanted to feel its strength inside her body, just as Lydia had. She bent down and kissed its swollen tip and then tasted his essence with her tongue, sweeping over the firm, soft surface in circular movements. A thread of urgency flew round her blood, she was desperate: he was more than ready to be mounted again. She climbed onto him and when she had taken him to the hilt she groaned. It felt so very good, she could hardly move. Then she began riding him, hard and fast. She was close to flooding.
His chest arched up toward her, his rib cage jutting, his neck a line of tensed muscle. His eyes begged her for his second release. The swell and throb of his pulsating rod was so insistent, her flesh began to melt and shift around it. His fingers fumbled where he entered her body, stroking at the point where their flesh met, the cup of his hand latched over her swollen clit. Nikoleta was impressed. Her pussy clutched at him, rhythmic and intense, then spasmed. She bit her lip to stop herself from screaming aloud. His eyebrows drew down and Nikoleta felt the line of muscle that stretched from his hip down the front of his thighs tighten and reach beneath her. Her body was lifted up with its strength. When he came it was with mighty, Herculean lunges.
The end of siesta time was near.
The three revelers dressed quickly. Nikoleta smiled, like a cat with all the cream. She’d sampled the goods and enjoyed them. She told Stefanos that if he kept quiet he could come back for more. With him involved, their games were going to be even better: the possibilities were endless.
“Are you sure he’s not going to tell anyone?” Lydia asked.
“He will keep the secret so that he can have some more now and next summer...when you come back to us.” She smiled at Lydia. “Also, I can think of at least one way to keep him quiet, in between.” She turned to Stefanos and winked. He grinned back at her. She had decided that she liked him, after all, and—being a practical sort—she knew she would need something to keep her warm through the long winter months ahead.
/>
LISABET SARAI
MAD DOGS
EVENTUALLY, I’LL WRITE ABOUT THIS. The cracked, grimy ceiling that’s there whenever I open my eyes. The raspy hiccuping of the fan. The momentary relief when it swings in my direction; air hot against my naked, eternally sweaty skin, but moving at least. The scents of frying garlic and rotting fish and stagnant water, the singsong voices of the vendors under my window, the quavering pop music and the honking of the taxis on New Road.
Exotic Thailand. I’ll capture it all, the mysterious complexity and the gritty foreignness. A brilliant cross between E. M. Forster and Jack Kerouac: young man adrift, living on the fringe, self-abandoned in a strange land, victim of bad judgment and bad luck. A suitable subject for a talented writer like myself, full of irony and pathos.
Right now, though, my head aches. Even indoors, with the stained cotton drapes half-closed, the heat is a hammer, mashing my fine mind to incoherent pulp. I lie here paralyzed, arms and legs spread wide on the hard mattress to increase the surface area exposed to the limping fan. I lie here, as I do every day, waiting for the sun to sink low enough to make walking on the baked sidewalks tolerable.
Usually about five o’clock I manage to rouse myself, throw on a T-shirt and shorts, and do my daily business. My pilgrimage to the main post office, only a block away, my daily penance at the Poste Restante counter, the pitying smile from the plump clerk as she shakes her head yet again.
No, sir, no mail for Michaelson today. Sorry.
It’s already mid-April. When I spoke to her last month, Marcia told me she expected a response by the end of March. But publishers are unpredictable, and agents are notoriously busy. I can’t afford to call her often, but I guess I’ll have to try again Monday night (Monday morning in New York), try to catch her before her week is completely booked and shame her into badgering New American Library yet again. I’m no longer Marcia’s top priority. Out of sight, out of mind.
Thailand. It had seemed like such an inspired notion when René proposed it to me over our beers last January. René was buying. I had just been laid off holiday duty from Barnes and Noble.
The gutters overflowed with gray slush. The pitiless wind whistled through the city’s artificial canyons.
“I can’t afford to live in the city,” I complained. “But where can I go? Back to Illinois? That would be career suicide. No serious author ever came from Peoria!”
“Why don’t you take a sabbatical?”
“Sabbatical? I can’t pay my rent!”
“Sublet your place, take whatever money you can scrape up, and go to Thailand. Beautiful girls. Glittering temples. Fabulous, spicy food. No snow. It’s incredibly cheap, if you know the right places. Phone and Internet are just as good as here. You can relax, have a good time, maybe do some writing, while you wait for the news about your novel.”
Beautiful girls. Now that sounded appealing. Since Lisa had dumped me, just before Thanksgiving, my romantic landscape had been as bleak as the city streets.
I didn’t miss Lisa, not exactly. But jacking off is a supremely lonely activity.
So the picture René painted of high-spirited, hedonistic Bangkok sounded like the ideal answer. Especially when he volunteered to join me for a week or two.
I cashed the savings bond that had been my parents’ graduation gift to me. I found a fairly reliable acquaintance whose boyfriend had just thrown him out to take over my apartment. I had a fifteen-minute meeting with Marcia in which she promised to keep the pressure on NAL. I sent a letter to my mom and dad, vaguely suggesting that I had a writing assignment overseas. Once I made the decision, everything seemed to flow smoothly.
Now, two months later, I’m stuck here, mired in the gooey underbelly of Bangkok like a dinosaur in a tar pit. Money almost gone. Nothing left but my return ticket, my laptop, and my dubious genius. Sure, I could limp back home, a whipped dog with my tail between my legs. Back to what, though? Working with Dad in the hardware store?
I accept the inevitable. Dragging myself out of bed, I put on the minimum acceptable amount of clothing. The loose cotton shirt clings to my damp back. The zipper of my fly grates uncomfortably against my flaccid cock, but the notion of underwear is simply unbearable.
I pull my laptop out of its hiding place behind the scarred bureau. Tool of my trade. I’ve hardly opened it since I got here. I stuff the computer in a shopping bag and head for the street.
It’s well past three. I weave my way along the fractured pavement, trying to stay in the shade. Whenever I fail, the fierce sun pummels me, pounding my skull despite my hat. A couple of bareheaded, redfaced tourists stroll past me, wearing cheap batik and gold jewelry What’s that saying about mad dogs and Englishmen?
I spend three quarters of an hour breathing exhaust on the open bus before I get to Pantip Plaza. The used computer places are on the third floor. I ride up the escalators, rock music and video game sound effects blaring from every shop. I catch the scents of Chinese incense and fried chilis.
When I find the stall I’m looking for, the transaction takes no more than ten minutes. I do my best to haggle, but the shopkeeper recognizes my aura of desperation. I stuff the wad of thousand-baht notes in my pocket, sending one last regretful look back at my friendly Toshiba. The skinny young man already has it disassembled on his table.
Feeling flush, I splurge on a taxi back. Rush hour makes it a long, slow ride, but in the sterile chill of the air-conditioning, I hardly mind. I close my eyes and lean back. The throbbing in my temples gradually dies away.
It won’t be in vain, I resolve. Who needs a computer? Did Hemingway have a computer? I’ll pick up a notebook tomorrow, and from now on, I’ll spend at least three hours a day working. What else have I got to do, after all?
The irrational pattern of one-way streets means that the taxi has to let me off a couple of blocks from the guesthouse. That’s okay, though. The sun has sunk below the horizon by now. There’s even a hint of breeze coming from the river, stirring the muggy air.
I’m revived by the air-conditioning and my fresh resolution. I stride down the sidewalk, maneuvering around the other pedestrians, avoiding the cracked bricks and crumbling curbs almost by instinct. Maybe coming to Bangkok was a good idea. After all, there’s that old wisdom about having to hit bottom before you start to recover.
His body slams into me without warning. As I stumble and fall to my knees, I have a confused impression of tight jeans, flashy jewelry, silky black hair. Sandalwood cologne.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir! Are you okay?” He helps me up, brushing the dust off my pants. “Please forgive me! I’m so clumsy.” His voice is soft and musical, with the pleasing cadence of Thai-accented English.
“It’s all right. Never mind,” I tell him. His arched eyebrows are drawn together in a concerned frown, but a smile hovers on his full lips. “Mai pen rai.”
“Are you sure? Can I help you to your hotel?” I’m suddenly aware of his manicured hand resting on my shoulder, light as a butterfly. His exotic scent makes me slightly dizzy. I look him over. His designer shirt, in muted stripes, fits his slender torso and broader shoulders like a second skin. His stretch denim trousers look painted on. He has gold rings on every finger, and one in his left earlobe.
He’s a creature of beauty. I’m suddenly ashamed of myself, sweaty and unkempt, with two days’ beard. I don’t want him to see the dingy hole where I live.
“No, thanks, that’s not necessary. It’s not your fault. The sidewalks here are treacherous. It’s easy to lose your balance.”
“Okay, then. See you.”
He saunters away, graceful despite the hazards of the broken pavement. I watch him for a moment. There’s an odd tightness in my chest, and I still feel a bit woozy. Too much sun, I think, turning back toward my destination. I should know better than to come out during the day. At least I accomplished my goal, though. I pat my pocket, seeking reassurance in the fat mass of folded bills stashed there.
And feel nothing.
/> My pocket is empty. It takes several seconds before I understand. Then I let out a howl that sends both tourists and natives scattering in alarm.
“NO! No, damn it! You bastard!” I turn back in the direction I came from, trying to run, stumbling and cursing my own stupidity. The slick young thief has disappeared, of course. Before long, I’m gasping from the heat and pollution. Pain lances through my forehead. Black spots dance in front of my eyes.
I sink down onto the step of a shuttered shop, barely able to breathe. Despair washes over me. It’s all over. No money, no computer, no future. I might as well be dead. Tears of frustration and self-pity spill down onto my shirt, already muddy with dust and sweat. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the darkness inside my soul to take over my consciousness.
I smell him before I see him. “Hey, you.” The voice is gentle, almost sad. “Don’t cry. Never mind. Here.” A folded wad of paper is pushed into my hand. “Take it.”
Incredulous, I open my eyes. He’s crouched beside me, thighs spread wide for balance. His hand is on my shoulder once again. He pulls a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans. It’s still warm from his body.
I look down at the beige banknotes in my palm. “It’s all there,” he says. “You can count it if you want.”
“Why...?”
He shrugs. “I like you,” he says, his half smile widening to a grin.
I notice a tourist police kiosk across the street, its occupant watching us curiously I stuff the money deep into my pocket. I don’t care whether or not he’s telling the truth.
“Hey, you want a beer? My friends have a place down the next soi.” He rises from his haunches with a dancer’s grace and holds out his hand to help me up. “My name is Bom. And you?”