by Alison Tyler
It wasn’t just that she’d never before known someone who’d think of this kind of exquisite erotic game.
It was more that if she had, she wouldn’t have gone along with it. Not until Nick. Being out in public in that aroused, vulnerable state— a state of raw need, her body one exposed nerve—should have been frightening, as strange and disorienting as dining out stark naked. But instead, she realized, she’d felt safe because Nick was with her.
Something must have shown in her face, because Nick’s voice dropped. In a ragged whisper, he said, “You’re glowing. So beautiful. And see what you’ve done to me, just knowing you were wearing my ropes all this time.”
He put one of her hands against his crotch so she could feel his hardness throbbing, waiting none too patiently for her.
She stroked him through his khakis, felt him twitch.
He seized her wrist, just roughly enough to remind her he was in charge. “Not here. On the balcony. Like our first night.”
Mist still filled the air, but a full moon was peeping through the clouds, making a silvery trail over the ocean, leading onto the white sand of the distant beach. The ocean was still agitated from the afternoon’s storm, and waves were breaking onto the rocks at the base of the Marginal Way. The air smelled salty and green, hinting of the lavender and roses and alyssum in the garden three stories below.
For a second, Eleanor leaned against the balcony, lost in a beauty strong enough that she almost forget why she was there, almost forgot the ropes under the clothes, her taut nipples, and her aching cunt.
Then Nick was behind her, pushing up her dress, sliding his cock between her hot, slick lips, between the ropes that separated and tormented them. The ocean spun away, and there was nothing in the world besides Nick, Nick’s cock, her own burning need. Her fingernails dug into the painted wood of the balcony. She spread her legs further; leaned forward so her breasts, held together by coils of soft rope, pressed against the railing.
Nick entered her. His hips pounded with a rhythm like the waves crashing below. His fingers twined in the rope around her waist, pulling her back and forth as he desired. Each thrust tugged at the ropes on her pussy lips, moved her clit. Each thrust seemed to hit some spot deep inside her—not her G-spot or her cervix, although they were both getting into the act, making their own contributions to the waves of sensation breaking over her, but somewhere deeper, more integral and at the same time less tangible. Her soul, maybe, or her heart.
From the footpath below came the sound of laughter, voices. Nick whispered, “If they look up, they’ll see us. They won’t be able to see my cock in your pussy, but they’ll be able to guess what we’re doing. That you’re riding my cock out here on the balcony like a slut.” Then his voice caught, broke, and she could tell he was getting close. “My slut. My little tied-up bondage slut. Mine and no one else’s.”
His hips sped up, crashing into her, pushing her over the edge, shattering what little illusion of control she still harbored. Every muscle in her body tightened, and the ropes bit into her, and her cunt danced around Nick’s cock as she cried out into the night.
And that did it for Nick. “Mine,” he repeated. “Mine...always.”
On the always, his body became abruptly still except for his cock, twitching inside her. Whether it was the twitching or the thought of being his always that set her off again she neither knew, nor, at that second, cared.
But she asked herself that much later.
After the ropes were long gone, after they’d cuddled and showered and made love again, a slower, more leisurely session with no bondage, no kink, just two tired, contented people enjoying the pleasure of touching each other; after Nick had dropped off to sleep, Eleanor lay in the dark asking herself what it meant. Had Nick meant “always” as in...well, always, or had it been one of those crazy things that pop out of your mouth when you’re too busy coming to think?
And had her echo of, “Yours, always,” been from the heart or just from the cunt?
She knew what her cunt’s opinion was, had been since the first time Nick kissed her. “Yeah, baby! Keep this one!”
But was it good or dangerous that her heart was starting to agree?
NIKKI MAGENNIS
ESSENCE
EVERYWHERE HE LOOKED, he thought he saw her. A certain image would catch his attention—a shadowed face, black hair splashing over a shoulder, delicate hands. He’d spot her on a street corner, in the canteen at university, on the TV screen, and his heart would leap. Then a stranger’s face would turn to him and he’d feel the thud of loss. The hollow disappointment surprised him every time. His hopes exhausted him.
Only in the dry, rarified atmosphere of the lecture hall would he relax, knowing she would never follow him there. He stood at the lectern, hovering over the projector, watching his students as they sketched diagrams of flowers. One of his second-year students would suck her pencil as she listened to him recite the Latin names. When she raised her hand to answer a question, she spoke with a velvet voice.
“Sepal,” she said. Edmond cleared his throat, smiled at her.
“Pollination, sir.”
“Membrane.” She winked at him.
Edmond marked her essays with red pen, lingering as he looked over the generous loops of her handwriting.
A+. Good work, Sophie!
In his overheated apartment, Edmond slept on a pillow stuffed with lavender. The soft reek of it was like antiseptic in his nose, but failed to erase the faint, faint smell that haunted his dreams.
Sometimes late at work in the lab, leaning over a microscope, he’d curl his upper lip and swear it was there, that scent, the smell that made his heart twist.
“Time to move on, Ed. Forget it,” his friend Peter said as they sat in O’Neill’s for a liquid lunch. Edmond nodded, dipped his head into his drink, and tried very hard not to think of how she had looked when they first met.
“Isn’t Sophie enough to take your mind off it?”
Ah yes, there was Sophie. The eight-thirty date he’d almost forgotten—an evening of staring listlessly at those pneumatic bosoms over an expensive meal. Sophie with the perfect smile—hopeful, heartstoppingly red, toothy and full.
That night, while he waited at the restaurant table with the city lights spread out beneath the balcony, Edmond let his mind drift across continents, across oceans. He pictured the fertile plains of manioc and grasses, and let his inner eye sweep over them, further. To the dark, swampy forest.
In the Wild
He followed her along a narrow path like a green tunnel, vines brushing against his face, mosquitoes whining past. All the time, he kept his eyes fixed on her, her lithe and narrow frame. Sweat soaked and breathless as he was fighting through the undergrowth, she was cool and quiet. She slid through the forest with ease, her long limbs moving like those of a creature who was perfectly at home, never seeming to feel the need to pause, always just ahead of him. Out of reach. She wasn’t what most people would call beautiful—a downcast face, pale flesh, shadowed eyes that slid away from his every time he tried to lock his gaze on hers. Modest. He felt he was chasing some sprite of the forest, some hidden treasure. Moving onward, deeper into the forest, he followed her.
Under the table, Sophie was digging her stockinged foot into his crotch. Edmond shifted uneasily.
“What are your plans for the weekend?” she said. Actually, she lisped. The sound of her coy little-girl voice grated on Edmond’s ear, just as her toes rubbed clumsily against his cock. He felt himself stiffen.
“Uh, I’m going to...”
“Yes?” Sophie corkscrewed her big toe against his balls. Her big sky-blue eyes went round.
“The Botanics.”
“Tomorrow, right?” Sophie narrowed her eyes and licked her lips, her tongue flickering over the red lip-gloss. “But tonight you’re going to take me home and fuck me senseless.”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” she nodded. She scraped a spoonful of ice cream from her bow
l, lifted it. “I’m looking forward to it, sir,” she said, and winked as she slid the spoon into her mouth.
On the way home he kissed her and the powdered-sugar taste of her lips was almost enough.
Cultivation
Over the campfire, he watched her. The heat haze made the air flicker between them. Sparks popped and shot off into the darkness, the only noise apart from the crickets and night insects. Edmond drank his black tea, and thought hard. In his hot, damp, fevered brain, he searched for the word that would unlock her smile, the method that would bring her gently into his arms. More than he’d ever wanted anything, he wanted to be close to her. He was bewitched. Finally, he knew what had brought him there, what he’d been searching for all this time. They could melt into the black night together. He picked his moment carefully. When she leaned forward, he put out his hand and caught her. Held her gently, like a butterfly whose wings would flutter against the cage of his hands.
Back in his flat, they sat on the white leather couch and listened to a CD of Andean pipe music while Sophie French-kissed him. When she excused herself to go “take a tinkle,” Edmond watched her curvaceous ass swing off toward the bathroom. He waited a moment and then pulled her purse toward him. Quickly, absentmindedly, he flipped it open and went through it. Credit cards, lipstick, cell phone. Two condoms like little brightly wrapped gifts. A mirror, in a plastic heartshaped case. He removed his hand and smelt her strong, sickly perfume.
Sweating
It had taken longer than he could have imagined. Weeks of waiting, months of observation, a year of gentle persuasion to prepare the ground. It was something that couldn’t be rushed—a rhythm that bowed to the movement of sun and wind as much as his desire and raging hormones. While he waited, all thoughts of his work and studies were forgotten. The humidity of the place soaked into his bones, turned him languid and unusually affable. He gave up counting, gave up taking notes and numbering specimens. Eventually, he lost all impatience and was content to watch the light play over her shy face. He’d sit with her in silence, a novel in his lap. Sometimes he’d read out a passage and see her nod in reply, perhaps understanding something in the tone of his voice if not the words he used. He’d toy with her hair, wind a tendril round his finger and tug softly. Teasing her.
At last, after months of careful attention, she was ready.
Sophie squeezed her breasts together and rubbed them in his face, against his silver stubble. He was smothered, coddled, surrounded by tit and swollen nipple. He sucked one into his mouth and she gasped. His hand went automatically to her cunt, which was shaved bare and smooth. He slid in two fingers, felt them swallowed in her hot grasp. Inside that flesh, such slippery ease, his knuckles felt thick and arthritic. She spread her legs wider. He pushed her clit with the one-two action that he knew would arouse her. She jerked back and cried out. Then she rolled over and sat on him, running the wet lips of her cunt up and down him like a pole dancer, working hard. Finally, she stuck herself on top of him, skewered herself on his cock and bounced, her big perky tits quaking beautifully as she moved up and down.
“Come on, baby. Fuck me good."
His cock slipped in and out, hit the G-spot bang on target. He felt his sperm boosting up inside him and his balls tighten. With a moan, he let it go, a small and neat explosion into the rubber teat.
Sophie cried extravagantly when she came, a kitten meowing against his shoulder. They waited ten minutes, then started again.
Afterward, he lay awake watching the dawn bleach the sky. Sophie’s arm was locked around his waist, her hand a fist, the long nails perfectly polished and traces of his dried semen between her fingers. As she slept, her face at last seemed soft enough to remember.
They lay together on the forest floor with the night surrounding them, and she made only the faintest noise as he put his hand there, as he opened her lips delicately. Inside she was sticky, and when he bent his face down to taste her she was sweet. What he remembered the most, though, was the smell. Tobacco, licorice. Something he couldn’t describe, familiar but elusive. She was smoky and pungent and delicious and he could suck at her like a bee drinking nectar.
Synthesis
The Botanics were crowded, full of Saturday afternoon visitors: families, crying children, a sloppily dressed teenager who looked stoned out of his head. Gardeners in green overalls raked gravel and pulled away dead leaves. Edmond nodded to a couple of the older guys as he passed. He bent to look at the tag on a date palm, made a mental note. Sophie walked swiftly round the Temperate section, blowing air up into her bangs.
“Jesus, it’s hot in here. What was it you wanted to see?”
Her voice was loud and flat against the glasshouse walls, and Edmond noticed her makeup clogging on her face. The humidity soaked into his skin, misted his hair with fine droplets.
He couldn’t stop himself; he looked down at her long, naked legs. Hot? In that tiny skirt? Then he saw the glimmer hazed over her flesh, realized she was wearing nylons.
“Edmond? You done yet?” She looked at him as he lingered in front of the doorway that led to the Tropical House. There, it was there. The smell that he’d been searching for. Sophie’s eau de parfum nearly overpowered it, but it was there nonetheless. A smoky, elusive scent. A dark and tantalizing smell that grew stronger as he walked toward the doorway.
“How about we get out of here?” Sophie was right beside him, clutching at his arm. She leaned in close to his ear and whispered, her breath making his neck itch. “I’m horny. Let’s go back to your place.”
“No,” Edmond said. “No, I don’t think so.” He turned one last time to look at her. “I’m sorry, Sophie.”
“I fuck your pardon?” said Sophie, her crimson lips drawing back over her teeth and her eyes cracking in confusion. “You’re turning me down? Who the hell... Now, hold on one minute, mister—are you married?”
The noise of the sprinklers roared into the space between them, spraying a false mist into the hothouse air. Sophie gave a harsh, short bark of a laugh.
“Oh yeah? Well, Christ, you’re not doing badly for an old pervert, are you sir?" With that, she spun on her heel, marched off toward the green EXIT sign.
And Edmond walked to the doorway, stepped into the green and moist room and let his lungs fill with the scent. She was here, she’d always been here. He’d brought her halfway round the world and then had to leave her. She’d have sickened in his cold, dry life, and the lonely luxury of his sparse flat downtown. She needed the damp earth and the heat of the tropics, needed familiar surroundings, even if they were contained inside a huge glass cage. He hadn’t been able to take her with him, yet he couldn’t ever really leave her behind.
Sophie, the other women, they were cheap imitations. They never came close. Fake tits, fake smiles, fake orgasms. Blowsy and bright and beautiful, they were eye-catching temptations that quickly turned sour.
He turned a corner. Here she was. In the shadows she waited silently, hung with virgin flowers. Waiting for him to pull her apart, to kiss her together again. To dip his tongue into her dark crevices and make her sweat. He would stay with her this time, in silence and awe, waiting for the one night a year when she would open to him.
Vanilla. He could taste her on his lips. Everywhere.
ALISON TYLER
UN, DEUX, TROIS
EUROPE TRANSFORMS ME.
I’ve been nearly a dozen times over the years, and on each trip, a magical change takes place almost as soon as I step off the plane. I wear clothes abroad that I’d never wear at home. I buy shoes that would seem ridiculous in my daily life. I exude confidence like you wouldn’t believe.
But being with Jack in Paris was something else.
“Where are we?” I asked, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.
“Paris,” Jack replied smugly.
“But where...”
“Sh, baby Just wait. You’ll see….”
The two of us stood outside of a nondescript stone building. Jack
was exquisitely dressed, in black, of course. The man knew how to wear black. Fine slacks. Long-sleeved shirt under a V-neck sweater. The only color coming from the glow in his dark blue eyes.
He’d dressed me, as well, in the most exquisite ebony cocktail dress. White collar and cuffs. Obsidian buttons running from neck to hem. Hose to match and stacked patent-leather pumps. My nerves completed the outfit. Shivery and shimmery—chaos running through my body
A small window slid open in the door and I realized that someone was watching us, but I couldn’t see whether the person was male or female, young or old. Jack stepped close, said something in French, then spelled his last name, and the window closed. In seconds, the door was opened for us, and we were allowed to enter.
I blinked rapidly, trying to grow acclimated to the poorly lit surroundings. Jack followed after the person who’d opened the door for us, but he blocked my view in the narrow passageway. I guessed that the person was female by the click-clack of heels on stone floor, yet I couldn’t see for sure.
Candles flickered, creating golden halos of light. And then we were at the end of the hall, and into a main room, where a rippling black ceiling looked as if it were made of roiling water. Jack pulled me by my wrist after him, settling us on a love seat against the far wall. A hostess approached immediately wearing the shortest of dresses, a tiny black number that clung to her sleek figure. She gave Jack an appraising nod, then looked at me and smirked. I must have appeared like a gawky teen, staring at everything at once, trying to make sense of the place.
It might simply have been a disco. There was a bar in one corner. A glittery disco ball in the center of the sensuous black ceiling. Mirrors on the walls. But there was also a mammoth canopy bed in the center of the room. Everywhere I looked, I saw beautiful couples. Women dressed elegantly. Men in suits or slightly more casual attire, like Jack’s. Many were dancing. Some were sitting on sofas or love seats, drinking from champagne flutes.