by Sacchi Green
As she resurfaced and stepped aside, she smiled invitingly, and her eyes flickered a barrage of messages: Oops, I didn’t realize you were waiting for me to get out of the way… You were checking out my ass, weren’t you? But don’t apologize, honey—I like girls too, and you can check me out any time you want… You do like girls, don’t you?
I’m pretty good at processing unspoken conversation, but it was all I could do to keep up. Finally, she brought her voice into the mix—while still keeping those sassy eyes flickering—by honoring our interaction with a brief, cheerful giggle while I logged her name tag info.
Then she rounded the corner into another aisle, while I just stood there with my clit twitching in my shorts.
If I’d been at home in this condition, I would have had my pants down and my fingers up my slit in five seconds flat; but this was errands-and-client-meeting day, and jilling in a public restroom wasn’t really my style. So I embraced the alternative, namely, squirming my way through the afternoon until I could be back home—which, for a woman who could always get down with the lazy, viscous tension of anticipation, was an erotic pleasure in its own right. In my opinion, nothing brightened a weekday like the ever-present thought that there was a big, fat masturbatory orgasm in my future. Just you wait, I promised myself seductively.
When I returned to the supermarket two hours later, still riding the simmering libido that I’d been husbanding—if you’ll pardon the expression—between my legs since my previous visit, I encountered Gail again. Amazingly, though her naughty eyes and her creamy peach butt had been with me all day in spirit, it hadn’t occurred to me that I might actually see her when I returned for my cold foods.
Her face lit up when she caught sight of me: I read approval, mischief, flirtation, employee courtesy…and a smidgen of surprise. Though my primal instinct was to drop my shopping basket and paw hungrily at the T-shirted breasts that bubbled under her apron, my social instinct was to account for my repeat engagement.
“You must think I’m the slowest shopper in the world,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh. “But, honestly, I haven’t been wandering the store this entire time. This is a separate trip.”
“Yeah, I was wondering,” said Gail with a teasing grin.
“You see,” I explained, “I have a system.”
Her eyebrows went up inquiringly.
“I only come into town once a week, for errands and a regular meeting. And whenever I’m running early, I get as much grocery shopping out of the way as I can before seeing my client.”
“You run early?” Gail seemed genuinely impressed.
I shrugged modestly before continuing. “But then when I do the pre-meeting grocery run, I have to come back afterward. The proactive shopping trip is great for nonperishables, but there’s no way it would work with frozen food and the like. So I stop by after the meeting to snag those items, before I rush home to my cold-air appliances. It does mean two visits, but the net result is I get home a lot sooner than if I left all the food shopping for last.”
“Very clever.”
“Thank you.”
I could feel my upper thighs perspiring with erogenous alertness, like a quart of orange juice sweating en route to the fridge. And my nipples were stiffening like they were already there.
Gail was looking me up and down. “If there’s one thing I admire, it’s a woman with a system.”
Oh, fuck. Was she blatantly coming on to me?
“And, yes, I’m coming on to you.”
That did seem to settle it, I noted, as my knees began trembling and my bottom cheeks started tingling.
“May I suggest you hold off a little longer on the frozen food? I have a feeling you’re going to be delayed for a few minutes.”
“Nnnn.” I was nodding frantically and nibbling the tip of my own finger like I always did when I was very nervous or very aroused—or, as in this instance, both.
“You can say that again,” quipped Gail. She looked at her watch. “Would you like to join me in the customer service office? This is a dead shift—people will cover the counter if anyone needs customer service, but the office will be empty.”
I swallowed, still nodding, before finding my voice. “I need customer service, Gail.”
“And I will cover that personally.”
I felt a small, surreptitious slap on my derriere as she followed me into the office, pulling the door tightly shut behind her.
I turned to face her.
“A woman who runs early, huh?” She grinned. “Well, then, let’s see how early you can be for the dinner party in my pussy.”
She licked her lips. Then she went all elbow-awkward as she tried to untie her apron at the back.
After hours of low-idle fantasizing, I was now aflame with the thought of getting my tongue all over the meal nestled in that peach crotch seam. “Here,” I said breathlessly, reaching around to take hold of the straps. “Let me do that.”
“Of course,” Gail acceded.
She abandoned the apron to me and mirrored my embrace.
“After all,” she murmured in my ear—squeezing my ass so hard now that I squeaked with desperate excitement—“you probably have a system, don’t you?”
PROJECT RUNWAY
Sharon Wachsler
It’s you, babe! It’s you!” Marla turns from the mirror where she’s buttoning her pressed, white shirt.
Modeling the new red dress and spiked heels I bought for her fortieth birthday party, I execute a careful twirl. The short rayon skirt billows up around my thighs. Marla catches me at twirl’s end, sliding her hand up to squeeze my ass.
“I guess you like it, then?” I bite her earlobe, tonguing the silver stud. She’s got on her dress shirt, black slacks. A silk tie with delicate pink petals lies on the hamper, waiting.
“I’d like this”—she slaps my ass—“in anything—in a trash bag.”
“Like on ‘Project Runway’?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Well, then, I guess there’s no need for finery.” I make to slip away, but she pulls me in tight.
“Finery is good, too.” She kisses down my neck to the V of the dress, her hand sliding under the fabric, gliding to my breast.
I gasp. “I need to sit down.”
Marla hoists me off the toilet lid, plants herself on it then pulls me back down onto her lap. She rolls me over onto my belly, with my forehead resting on the cool floor, my thighs across her lap.
“This isn’t exactly—” I start. Oh. Um. Fingers run up and down the backs of my legs and ass, making scratchy-nailed spirals on each upturned cheek.
“Don’t start a run in my nylons,” I mumble. Rip them off.
“Are you telling me what to do?” Marla’s hand smacks my ass; my clit reverberates against her thigh.
“Oh, no, I’m just not sure this is the time—” I say. Please, please, hit me again.
Her hand whistles down. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! I scream and moan and wriggle. All I see is red, a tent of red around my head. The dress, I realize, she’s pulled up my dress. My head is swimming in it. I’m so wet. Too wet. “Your pants,” I moan. “They’ll stain.”
“Fuck my pants,” she grunts. And I do. I hump against her leg. Her hands, my ass, all has turned red; I can feel it. I see it in the red around me. Whistling smacks, shrieks piercing air, her hand coming down, coming down, coming down. I love you, my mind whispers. I love you, Marla, I love you, love you.
“Uhn!” It’s her—her voice, sweating out the sound, muffled by my dress.
And a rip. There go my panty hose. And the high keening, is that me, like a siren as she pushes two fingers in? No matter. I writhe and ride, wailing, to the rhythm of her slaps and thrusts.
“Come now!” Her voice, suddenly rough, pushes me over. I howl, pulsing against her fingers. I hold her inside me, letting her feel my power, my inner strength, squeezing. Finally, opening.
My throat is raw. My cunt is raw. My ass burns. I feel fresh and spent
, together. I can still hear the screaming.
“Ups-a-daisy,” Marla calls from somewhere above. She’s trying to pull me up to her, but I just want to be a puddle on the floor.
“The floor,” I try to unstick my tongue. “The floor is soft.” Soft? No, that’s not what I meant. I giggle, but Marla understands and is lowering me, on my side, to the bath mat.
“I need to turn off the kettle. It’s a terrible thing to burn out a bottom!” Her voice retreats, the pounding of her feet shaking the floor. Suddenly the strident call is interrupted with a sharp chirp that fades into a hiss.
Marla’s face, puffing, appears above me. “Just in time. That’s why I decided to hurry things along a bit. Sorry about that.” She collapses with her back against the sink cabinet, her legs across mine.
“Oh, I didn’t notice,” I murmur, feeling hair in my mouth. The updo I’d spent an hour creating has come undone. Her pants have a huge cum stain on both thighs. My nylons are shredded. My dress is crumpled.
“What didn’t you notice? The kettle? Or me hurrying things along?”
“Either. Neither. It was so fast!” I shake my head, “You were in, I was coming, you were out!”
“Well, you know what Heidi says.” She puts on a nasal, high-pitched German accent: “One day you’re in, and the next, you’re out!”
“True,” I answer. “But you know what you did back there, under those ‘tough time constraints’?”
We laugh together on the way back to our closets. “Made it work!”
I DO
Catherine Paulssen
Cautiously, I opened the heavy antique door and peeked inside. A huge gold-framed mirror was propped against the green wall, and, gazing into it on a plushy Louis XVI chair, sat the woman of my dreams.
She looked amazing.
Maybe it was the dramatic contrast of the sheer white silk and chiffon of her robe against her melted chocolate skin.
Maybe it was the way the sleek dark strands of her hair, adorned with small silk roses, curled on her naked shoulders.
But most likely, it was the happy glow on her face.
Now she adjusted the necklace I had given her for our five-year anniversary, and my eyes wandered down to where her V-neckline revealed the soft rounds of her apple-shaped breasts.
I breathed a sigh.
Olivia turned around. “What are you doing there? Out! Out!”
I smiled, shook my head and entered the sumptuous hotel room, locking the door behind me.
“But it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!” She giggled, coming toward me and wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Who says you’re the bride?”
“Either way, it’s bad luck.”
I pressed a kiss on her plump lips. “It can never be bad luck with you, baby.”
She purred. “Likewise, Mrs. Jewell.”
“I wish it were that time already,” I breathed against her lips.
“Only”—she glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner—“fifty-five minutes.” She fiddled with the buttons of my high-collared cheongsam. “Alva?”
“Mm?”
“You know what’d be great?”
I kissed her again. “What?”
“If it were our honeymoon already.” She peered at me from underneath her full lashes.
I bit my lips and lifted her onto a nearby mahogany table. The months of preparations for our big day had been strenuous and crazy. Some nights, exhausted and faced with a to-do list that didn’t ever seem to get shorter, we had fought hard to remember why we were doing this.
But no matter what, she was and always would be the most wonderful woman I had ever kissed, and nothing could ever make me forget it.
I traced the outline of her silk gown from the shoulder straps down to her breasts. I could feel her stiffen though she didn’t seem to move. I traced the shape of her breast over the material of her dress and lingered on her nipple, which poked out so enticingly that the certainty of having to wait another day to touch it, tease it and lick it consumed me with a yearning that needed immediate fulfillment.
Olivia’s eyes followed my fingers as they tugged the chiffon aside. “What are you doing there, hm?”
“I’m giving you a little taste,” I said, slipping the dress gently off her shoulder and running my fingers over the white bra underneath.
“A taste?” she said, then held her breath.
“Of our honeymoon.”
I bent down and kissed her neck, her shoulder and the lace that shone against her dark skin. I took it between my teeth and nipped at it. When I got her erect nipple into my mouth and rolled it between my lips, she threw her head back.
“Alva, baby… You’re scandalous,” she said, a wicked grin on her face.
I placed little kisses along her necklace and licked at her naked skin until finally finding her lips again. “You brought up the honeymoon,” I mumbled.
I nudged her mouth with my tongue, and she obediently parted her lips. I showered devoted caresses on her tongue and her lips.
“I can’t even remember the last time you did that to my pussy,” she sighed between two kisses, then grasped the nape of my neck and gave me an ardent look, followed by a quick kiss. “Don’t leave me hanging like this.” She kissed me again eagerly, encouragingly.
“You want me to…?” I looked at her with disbelief.
“Yes.” She nuzzled at my lips. “Go down on me, babe.”
Her sassy voice made my body tingle. “Say that again,” I whispered.
Her eyes glimmered. “You like to hear me talk like that, don’t you?”
“And it’s even hotter when you’re wearing that dress.”
She drew me closer to her. “Eat me out, babe.”
I knelt down and parted the layers of chiffon. She gathered them in her fist and watched my fingers follow the lace-top stockings up her thighs and gently nudge her legs apart. I traced the small birthmark on the inside of her thigh and pressed my nose against her skin. Running its tip up her thighs, my eyes closed, I inhaled her scent, that peculiar, bedazzling blend of rose oil, the starch of her crisp petticoat and the spicy musk of her arousal.
I tugged at her thong, a delicate garment she had bought specially for the occasion. Her breathing quickened as my fingers traced the roses woven into its thin mesh. I could feel her wiry curls beneath the thin material.
“Do it,” she panted and propped herself up so I could strip it past her thighs. “Please.”
I kissed her pussy and spread its folds with my tongue. Olivia leaned back and moaned my name.
Her cries spurred me on. I pulled my tongue away and licked every inch of her skin aside from her clit. Despite her pleading, I ignored that small pearl and instead laid my finger on top of her slit and ran it down very gently, evoking little gasps from her cherry-red mouth.
Her clit was exposed to me now, and I could sense her need just by the way her thighs trembled at my touch. Savoring the moment, I teased her with the tip of my tongue, sliding it over her most sensitive spots.
Olivia shivered. “Yes, oh…yes, taste me…” She stroked my cheek with the back of her hand. “Too bad I’m not allowed to mess up your hair,” she complained in joking desperation.
I pushed my tongue farther between her folds, puckered my lips and sucked on her clit. My thumb rubbed her opening, and Olivia pulled away as the sensations overwhelmed her. I grabbed her legs and steadied her, knowing she wouldn’t last much longer.
Her fingers clenched around the edge of the table, and she rocked her body back and forth. Her moans grew increasingly high-pitched, a sound I had missed for far too long. With a long groan, she collapsed onto the table panting. “Baby…”
I gently stroked her naked thighs and watched her body quiver as my fingers brushed her skin, still so sensitive in the aftermath of orgasm. Sighing happily, I slipped her thong back into place and rearranged the folds of her dress.
“You’re so beautiful,” I sighed, over
whelmed by her rosy cheeks and radiant eyes.
She cupped my cheek and mouthed, “I love you,” as her breath grew steady again.
The grandfather clock chimed twice.
“Twenty minutes until the wedding march begins,” she said, stretching herself along the table. Her glossy lacquered nails tapped the silk of my cheongsam, right below my hips. “Want me to…?”
I felt incredibly naughty. “I do.”
SHANE
Jessica Lennox
Shane had never been good at keeping in touch, so you can imagine my surprise when I received a phone call out of the blue.
“Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me.”
Well, you could have knocked me over with a whisper, and suddenly it was as if I had lost the ability to speak. Finally I managed to croak, “What do you want, Shane?”
“Oh, now it’s ‘Shane’?” the voice asked.
“Well, I could call you asshole, but I thought you might prefer your given name,” I replied smartly.
“Okay, okay, relax. I just called to see how you’re doing.”
“Really,” I said, more as a statement than a question. “In what way?”
“Are you seeing anyone? How’s your sex life?”
Uh-huh. Well, if I’d had any doubt up to that point, I certainly knew now where this was going. Shane and I had a long history of quickies via the telephone. I swear, sometimes phone sex with Shane was better than live sex with whomever I was dating at the time.
“Yes, I am, and it’s great, thank you,” I answered, tersely.
Liar! my inner voice screamed in time with my pussy. Why did it feel as if my body and brain were ganging up on me?
“Hm,” Shane replied, “well, if you ever get bored, you know how to reach me.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said. “Good night.” I didn’t wait for a reply. I hung up immediately and then furiously masturbated myself to orgasm. I dreamt about sex most of the night and woke up feeling frustrated and unsatisfied.