by Alison Tyler
“Gary” I’m still suspicious, not sure I should trust him.
“Come on, Gary.” He throws his arm around my shoulders and leads me away. In the brooding heat of dusk, I expect to find his touch unpleasant, but it’s strangely comforting. I guess I’m not over the shock of my near-disaster.
His silk shirt slithers against the bare skin on my arms. I worry about the dirt on my own clothes, but Bom doesn’t seem to care.
He leads me down a lane that dead-ends at the river. A dilapidated wooden shack on stilts perches precariously over the muddy water. The door’s wide open; inside I see several young men gathered round a table, and an inviting-looking plastic tub filled with ice and bottles of Singha.
Bom introduces his friends. Their monosyllabic names go in one ear and out the other. They’re all dressed like Bom, skintight jeans and tailored silk shirts, accented by gold amulets and fancy watches.
Bom hands me an open beer. The chilled amber liquid slides down my throat, a sensual delight. He tips his head back to take a swig from his own bottle. My eyes are drawn to the elegant curve of his neck. He wears his hair long, in a ponytail down his back. A lock has come loose and hangs in his eyes, giving him a waifish look.
His friends are laughing and chattering in Thai. The polite host, Bom tries to make conversation. “Are you here on holiday?”
“I’m a writer.” This doesn’t really answer the question, but he nods as if satisfied. “I’m working on a novel.”
“About Thailand?”
“Partly.”
“Ooh! Maybe you’ll put me in it.” He grins with almost childish delight.
I take refuge in silence, taking another swallow of my beer. I’m surprised to find the bottle is already empty. Before I can even ask, Bom hands me a full one. I drink deeply, gazing out the open window at the twilight river traffic.
The barges make their stately way upstream, ponderous and silent. Swarms of long tail powerboats zip around them, buzzing like insects. A tourist dinner cruise sweeps by, a floating Christmas tree outlined in tiny flashing lights. I’m feeling quite drunk, and oddly peaceful. I let everything flow by me.
The place reeks of fish and rusted iron. Under these raw smells, I catch a whiff of Bom’s sandalwood cologne. He has lapsed into Thai with his cohorts, abandoning any attempts to communicate with me. Still, he makes sure that the bottle in front of me is always full.
Overwhelmed by the beer and the day’s events, I fall asleep. Sometime later I wake, disoriented, in near-darkness. A halogen lamp mounted on the next pier sends uneven shafts of light into the shack, but until my eyes adjust, I can barely see anything.
The chairs clustered around the Formica-topped table are all empty. The table itself is littered with dozens of empty bottles. The room is quiet enough that I can hear the river lapping against the piles that support the building.
Then I recognize the sound of breathing. As this is sinking in, somebody moans.
“Bom?” There’s a creaking sound off in the corner.
“Here, Gary.” His voice is muffled. Someone bursts into laughter, which breaks off suddenly to become a groan of pleasure.
I’m beginning to make out my surroundings. There’s some kind of platform at the far end of the room. The platform is covered with pale, writhing, naked bodies.
“Come on, Gary,” Bom coaxes. He is on his knees, poised above the prone body of one of his friends. Even in the dimness, I can see the gleam of his perfect skin, the smile on his ripe lips. He bends once more to the cock jutting up in front of him.
Another of his mates is positioned behind Bom’s hips. He grabs Bom’s buttocks, pulls them open, and begins lapping at his friend’s anus.
My cock hardens rapidly. If I were sober, I’d probably find this alarming, but at the moment, it seems completely normal. I unsnap, unzip, and wrestle my cock into the open air. It swells further, grateful to be set free. I stroke it slowly, root to tip, my attention fixed on the scene in front of me.
For a while the action is languid, dreamy; slow-motion caresses are punctuated every now and then by a sharp intake of breath or a sudden groan. My cock surges in my hand in reaction. I can hear the slurp of tongues against wet flesh, but it’s a bit difficult to see the details.
Hardly realizing what I’m doing, I move closer, still stroking myself. The guy with his face buried in Bom’s ass sits back on his haunches. He looks over at me and grins as he rolls a condom over his impressive prick. He says something in Thai. Bom hikes his rear up higher. He wiggles his butt in invitation.
The other man positions the tip of his rod between Bom’s asscheeks. He jerks his hips, and his cock disappears from view. Bom wails as though in pain. His partner pulls back, then rams his cock back into Bom, raising another yell from my Thai friend.
I can’t really see what’s going on, but I can guess. My own asshole twitches in sympathy. My cock jumps with every thrust. I remember vividly the one time I had anal sex with Lisa, the way her hole gripped my cock when I plunged into her, the way her flesh gaped and shuddered whenever I pulled out. I remember her roaring orgasm, and her tears afterward. She wouldn’t let me do it again, and she flatly refused to stick even one finger up my ass.
I can’t imagine what it would feel like to have that huge, rigid prick boring into my butt. Just thinking about it, though, brings me close to the edge.
The action’s rougher now, and louder too. Another couple is fucking, between Bom and the shed wall. The one’s who’s taking it is on his back, bent double, his legs practically by his ears. His partner straddles him, drilling into him from above. My eyes are better adjusted to the dimness now. I can see the corded muscles of the fucker’s thighs and the sweat dripping down his back as he pistons in and out of the other man’s hole.
There’s a fifth guy, the one that Bom had been sucking. He’s still on his back underneath Bom, jerking off energetically in time to the cock pounding Bom’s bowels. Just as I notice him, he screams and lets go, showering Bom’s face with thick white droplets.
I’m almost there myself. The ache in my balls is unbearable. I jerk and pull on myself, faster, harder, close but somehow unable to get over the edge.
“Gary,” Bom says hoarsely, rising up onto his knees. “Closer. Please.” His partner has paused, cock still buried in Bom’s hole. I move to the side of the platform, squeezing my aching prick.
Bom puts his arm around my neck and pulls my face to his. He tastes of stale beer and bitter semen. He smells of sweat. His tongue coils inside my mouth, exploring the possibilities. It’s muscular and playful and this is not at all like kissing Lisa.
I kiss him back, rubbing my swollen prick against his naked, come-smeared belly. Nothing has ever felt so good.
Bom smiles when he feels my cock poking at him. He grabs it, pushing my own hands away, and laughs softly, then pulls my pants down around my knees. “Very nice. Oh yes, I like it. Can I have it?”
He doesn’t wait for permission. Bending back down, he sucks my cock into his eager mouth. Sensation overwhelms me. Sultry jungle heat swallows me up. His tongue sweeps up and down, massaging, teasing. I want more and so I take it, ramming my cock down his throat. The bulb mashes against his palate. He gags, then opens wider, taking my whole length. The next moment he’s using his teeth, nipping at the ridge under the head. I roar and slam my prick back where it belongs, as deep into him as I can go.
All at once, his body shakes with a new rhythm. He’s being fucked again, I realize. He moans around my cock. I fuck his mouth while his friend fucks his ass, thrust for thrust.
I’m ready to explode; the guy reaming Bom yells and shudders. He pounds his hips convulsively against Bom’s buttcheeks. I know he’s pouring his come into Bom’s hole. The image brings me right to the edge.
Bom writhes, but doesn’t let up on the suction. I feel hot jets of viscous stuff landing on my bare thighs. Bom is coming all over me.
I can’t take any more. I swell and explode into Bom’s mouth. He
swallows, sucks, swallows again. The pleasure is outrageous. I’m totally lost in the sensations. My cock is starting to deflate, yet still I shudder and jerk like a puppet. Finally, my cock slips limply from between the Thai man’s lips. He’s smiling. A Buddha image hangs on his hairless chest, between tender-looking nipples.
I’ll be damned if I don’t start to get hard again.
Without saying a word, Bom turns his back to me and presents his ass. Dripping down the cleft between those two pale moons, I see a trail of wetness.
I can’t help myself. My forefinger reaches out, tracing the path of the other man’s come downward until I brush my fingertip over the velvety skin of Bom’s scrotum. He sighs with delight. Fascinated, I slide my finger back up through the crevice, and sink it into that slick, dark orifice that beckons irresistibly.
He tightens around the invading digit; I slip in a second finger next to the first.
Somebody hands me a condom.
I’ll write about this someday, this crazy night outside of time. The boats chugging past in the distance, the scent of rust and garbage, the mournful folk song filtering in on the tropical breeze. The alcohol induced haze that makes everything beautiful and unreal.
Right now, though, all I want is to fuck this gorgeous, seductive, treacherous creature until we’re both senseless.
TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS
LEARNING HIS ROPES
ELEANOR WOKE IN THE HOTEL ROOM to the sound of waves, still feeling boneless and content, not to mention still a little sticky and sore in interesting places from their earlier play. Nick woke when she got up, blew her a kiss, then sprawled catlike to take over the spot she’d vacated in the king-sized bed. She grabbed his big T-shirt off the floor—her own clothes looked like too much work and the shirt was almost as long as her skirt anyway—popped it over her head, and wandered out onto the balcony.
The thunderstorm that had driven them off the beach had come and gone, leaving a cool, misty evening in its wake, wrapping the ocean below them in a light fog. She hadn’t thought Ogunquit Beach could look prettier than it had at sunrise, or under the threat of glowering thunderheads with the sea like angry steel, but the fog gave it a romantic air that made it even more inviting. The cooler air made Eleanor’s nipples pucker, raised goose bumps on her skin.
So did the feel of Nick’s body, pressing unexpectedly up against her from behind, his arms cupping her breasts. Protected from potential prying eyes by the solid balcony, he was naked, his skin hot, his cock starting to get hard as he ground against her. “Nice evening,” he whispered.
“It would be if I’d been smart enough to bring a sweater.”
“You came to Maine without a sweater? Bad girl!” Nick raised the T-shirt and gave her a few swats on the ass. “It gets cool here, even in summer.” The whacks punctuating his “scolding” were light and playful, but, sensitive as her asscheeks were from earlier encounters with paddles, floggers, and her favorite hairbrush, they vibrated straight to her cunt. She pushed back, inviting more.
“Remember that first night, on your roof?” she purred.
“How could I forget? But while parts of me would love to relive that right now”—he rubbed his cock against her pussy lips to prove his point—“I’m starving.”
Although the weekend’s rules included “Nick sets the schedule,” Eleanor was about to take a chance and protest, plead for a little more spanking and then his cock pushing into her from behind, pounding into her as the waves pounded the beach below.
Then she realized she too was borderline ravenous. Sure, they’d had a huge brunch and a late lunch, but between walking all over the picturesque village, playing in the surf, trying to outrun a thunderstorm, and having a lot of sex, they must have burned a million calories.
“Where are we going for dinner, sir? Should I dress up?"
“One of the lobster pounds. Got to keep it casual, since you’ll be wearing one of my sweatshirts.”
She giggled at the mental picture. Nick’s sweatshirts were size extralarge and she was anything but.
Nick grabbed a handful of her hair, pulled her head back.
Her cunt clenched as he whispered in her ear, “Laugh now. You won’t later.”
Actually, she did laugh later, although it was more like nervous giggling, when they arrived at the restaurant with her in a little knit tank dress and Nick’s gigantic, well-loved Northeastern sweatshirt.
She wasn’t the only person in a makeshift outfit in the wake of the changed weather—about half the people in the restaurant were wearing cheap Ogunquit sweatshirts or fleeces with embroidered lobsters, obviously chosen in a hurry at one of the town’s many gift shops, and several of the women were bundled into their male companions’ sweaters or jackets.
But she was willing to bet she was the only one wearing a rope bra and corset under her clothes.
The only one so turned on she was worried about leaving telltale moisture on the chair.
The only one feeling that heady combination of confinement and freedom that bondage gave her, and the illicit thrill of knowing she was doing so in public. (Exhibitionism of the most discreet kind, since no one need ever know more than that she seemed happy, that her date seemed unusually attentive—and maybe that she’d thrown her back out or something, because she was sitting a little awkwardly, unable to lean back in her chair.)
The ropes Nick had used were soft, silky nylon, and they held her firmly without cutting. Whenever she drew a breath, she felt their embrace. The light pressure where they passed over her breastbone. The hug around her waist. The two strands that passed between her legs, tugging at her pussy lips.
Walking had been sweet torture, and Nick had insisted they walk from the hotel to the restaurant. Despite the foggy beauty of the evening, the scent of wild roses and ocean and rain-washed air along the coastal footpath called the Marginal Way, the constant sound of the waves on the rocks below, all she’d been able to think about were the sensations welling through her body.
By the time they made it to the restaurant, Nick was all but holding her up. Of course it hadn’t helped that, in the guise of simple affection, he’d slipped his hand under the sweatshirt periodically to twist the knots that held everything together—constricting her waist, tightening the grip on her breasts so her nipples were almost painfully sensitive, separating her pussy lips, drenching her inner thighs.
Eleanor loved lobster with the passion of someone who’d grown up inland and knew it only as a special treat, but she ate in a daze, only vaguely aware of sweet, tender flesh bathed in warm butter, all too aware of her own tender flesh and the warm juices bathing them. Too aware of Nick eating with his hands in a deliberately sensual way—tearing into the lobster with a grin that suggested he was playing some kind of pleasure/pain game with it, licking his lips with every buttery bite, occasionally feeding her from his fingers even though they’d ordered the same meal.
Too aware that it would take his slightest touch to make her come.
Maybe not even a touch.
The right words, the right look would probably do it.
Her nipples throbbed with painful pleasure, so sensitive that the soft cotton knit of her dress brushing over them was sweet torture. It made her squirm in her seat, and that tugged at the ropes between her legs, tormenting her pussy lips, turning her clit into a hard, aching mass that made her imagine she knew what it felt like to have a cock.
When the waitress asked, “Would you like a look at the dessert menu?” Eleanor had to bite her tongue not to say no before Nick could answer. That, she knew, would count as topping from below and would have all but guaranteed she wouldn’t get the orgasm she so badly needed, at least not until Nick had satisfied himself. Those were the rules they’d established for the weekend. They’d seemed reasonable at the time, but at the time, she hadn’t been wrapped in rope and aching need.
To her relief, Nick asked for the check.
If the walk to the restaurant was a pleasant erotic torment, t
he walk back—each step tugging at her pussy lips, jouncing her oversensitive breasts—was near-hell, painful in its intensity. Eleanor was crazy with arousal, her juices dripping down her thighs and soaking the ropes. Each step brought her more discomfort, but only because it brought her incrementally closer to the orgasm she couldn’t quite reach. Nick, his arm around her, kept toying with the ropes or sliding his hand down to caress her bottom, adding to her pleasure and distress.
And since, despite the light mist, the Marginal Way was awash with tourists taking after-dinner strolls, Eleanor had to pretend she wasn’t ready to crawl out of her skin with want, wasn’t tempted to drag Nick to one of the benches overlooking the ocean and beg him to fuck her senseless.
By the time they turned off the Marginal Way onto the side path that led to the Beachmere, she was biting her lip to keep from sobbing—or screaming in a combination of lust and frustration.
Nick knew it. Once they were on that darker, quieter path, he tangled one hand in her hair and used the other to twist the ropes tighter, so tight that for a second her breath caught. “Come for me,” he ordered.
And she did, stifling a scream against his shoulder, grinding her hips as if she were fucking the air.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “That’s my good girl.”
Getting the rest of the way back to the Beachmere was easy enough—she floated on a cloud of endorphins and desire.
Floated through the lobby, down the hall. Up in the elevator to the third floor of the tower, into the darkened room.
Nick didn’t turn on the lights. He just grabbed her, pulled her into a kiss that was both demanding and tender, a kiss that all but lifted her off the ground with its force.
“Please,” she whimpered when he released her mouth, putting everything she wanted to say into that one fierce word, filling it with her want, her desire, her submission to him, the knowledge that whatever would happen next would happen on Nick’s terms, not hers.
And the feeling she wasn’t ready to put into words yet, even if she was capable of articulating, of something growing beyond the lust and the laughter and the craving for his body and his dominance.