by Cara Bruce
I think of Mireille’s strong arms as I pull her back into my body, laying her on top of me, stroking her blackberry nipples, brushing her belly while Jack searches for her teeny clit with his tongue. She rolls off me and offers her ass to him, pulling intently on my breast, nuzzling down into the thatch between my legs.
He fucks her. This is not exactly in the plan, at least not the one he shared with me. I’m aroused, overcome, transported by this fantasy into one of my own. I am nowhere, I am everywhere, I am he, and I am she. I inhabit their bodies and think and feel for them, make them do my bidding. She’s so tiny—narrow and almost adolescent-looking—vulnerable. I offer help: help to hold her down, to spread her legs, to penetrate her. I never feel what she feels, only what he feels as she twists and moans and flails narrow avian arms and legs while he buries himself into her with force. His cock, shiny with latex and juice, is thicker than her wrist and he holds her over his lap, facing me, making sure I see as she jerks like a meat marionette on him. When they come I come too, my hand cramming my quivering hole. Jack is staring me in the eye. He whispers, “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
He may be right.
Double Down
Esther Haas
Once upon a time there was a place called Las Vegas, where nothing was quite what it seemed to be. Venice wasn’t really Venice. Paris wasn’t really Paris. It was all just an expensive, elaborate façade to convince you that you were in New York or ancient Egypt or someplace, anyplace, and all the while the casinos had their hands planted deep in your pockets. All the Elvises weren’t really the Elvis, and most of the marriages made in Las Vegas weren’t really till death do they part. Reality, in Las Vegas, was always up for grabs.
Karen, when she married Greg in the Little White Chapel, wasn’t quite what she seemed to be, either. During the ten months they’d known each other, she hadn’t bothered to tell him that, though he was indeed the only man in her life, there were women. Quite a few women.
She hadn’t meant anything nefarious by her silence on that score. Greg was an agreeable enough dolt, sexy even, if you liked handsome, broad-shouldered ex-college athletes with big dicks, which Karen did. And they’d grown to be quite fond of one another, and Greg had a fair amount of money. So why complicate matters?
They were staying at the Bellagio, in a room with a good view of the fountains that danced around to music. Everything about it reeked of luxury. Class for sale. Bob, the rather hunky bellhop, had been as obsequiously attentive as a butler on a Masterpiece Theatre show.
“You didn’t tell me you liked to gamble,” Karen said on the third morning.
“Yeah, well, I do,” Greg said. “But don’t worry about it, honey. I don’t bet very much. I promise.” And he gave her a kiss. She liked the kiss, but she wished he wouldn’t call her “honey”—it reminded her, grimly, of her parents.
At the breakfast buffet, he gave her another kiss and asked her, “You wouldn’t mind my spending another couple of hours at the tables, would you?”
And Karen said that was quite all right. Which it was, seeing as how Greg had just finished eating her, and eating her well, before they’d left the room. She’s been padding around in her bra and panties when he pushed her playfully down onto the bed, pulled her panties off, and started licking at her pussy. Most of the men Karen had fucked had wanted blowjobs, and she gave them expertly, taking their hard-ons deep into her throat, nursing the sperm up the shaft. But when it came time to return the favor, most of the guys had seemed uninterested, inept, or both. Not Greg, though. He was enthusiastic, as gung ho as most of the women she’d slept with, and he knew how to tease her clit with his teeth till she was sopping wet. Karen got very wet.
He’d been perfectly attentive to her, fucking her with his tongue, licking and sucking until she arched and moaned. And though Greg’s bulky dick was stiff and throbbing, her offer to return the favor was politely turned down. “No, honey, I just wanted to make you feel good. Don’t worry about me,” Greg said, as he stuffed himself back into his pants. What could you do about a prize like him? Refuse him a few hands of blackjack?
“You go gamble, Greg,” she said, taking one last bite of blueberry crepe, “and I’ll go shopping.” They had a joint platinum AmEx card, and Karen fully intended to give it a workout before they headed back to St. Louis.
“I’m not sure where I’m going to play. Meet you back in the room in time for lunch?” Perfect.
She went up the Strip to Caesar’s. It was her new favorite place to shop. Maybe the shops weren’t as exclusive as those at Bellagio or Mandalay Bay, but the whole indoor mall was like a Disneyfied version of Ancient Rome. It was deception on a grand scale, and Karen knew just enough about Roman history to imagine herself as some really wicked Roman—say, Messalina, or Caligula’s sister. It made shopping for handbags a lot more fun.
She was perusing designer lingerie when she saw her: a Eurasian woman with a beautiful face, an incongruously spiky haircut, and big breasts (a silicone job, no doubt). It took the woman just a second to notice that Karen was staring at her. She pulled a black lace teddy from the rack, held it up in front of her, and smiled. “Like it?”
Karen did, a lot. “You look good,” she said.
“I know,” the woman said with a smile. “My name’s Dru.” She lowered the teddy so that Karen could see her forefinger tracing lazy circles on her breast.
Karen could feel that funny little tightening between her legs. “Want to go for a walk?”
“Where you staying?”
“Bellagio.”
“Then let’s go there.” She looked, unmistakably, at Karen’s wedding band. “Problem?”
“Not for the next hour or so.”
“Then let’s go.”
“I’m a showgirl,” Dru had said in the taxi on the way back to Bellagio.
“No kidding!”
“Yeah, a show called ‘Le Fling.’ One of the last big old-style Vegas shows left. Everything these days is overpriced magicians or French acrobats.” She put a hand on Karen’s thigh and started massaging. The cab driver didn’t seem to notice, though Karen almost wished he did. “You should see me in my wig.”
“Or out of your clothes.”
The driver’s head gave a little jerk, though he had, no doubt, heard a lot worse.
“Yes,” said Dru. “Out of my clothes.”
The room had already been made up, so there wouldn’t be the maid to contend with. Karen threw the security lock. “That looks heavy,” she said, as Dru unslung her big shoulder bag.
“It’s my bag of tricks,” she said. “I think you’ll be amused.” Standing very close to Karen, she took off her little white jacket, pulled her tank top over her head. Her tits were, indeed, lovely—shapely, large, but not grotesquely over-amped. Perfect. Karen reached out and stroked their warmth. Dru pressed herself against the other woman, parting her lips, kissing Karen’s mouth, softly at first, exploring with her tongue, then biting down on Karen’s lower lip until she flinched. Her hand wandered down to the crotch of Karen’s taupe linen slacks, rubbing her cunt till she could feel moisture seeping through the thin fabric.
“Your husband?” Dru whispered.
“Don’t worry about my husband. What’s in that bag of yours?” Karen was stripping down gracefully.
“Turn around and get on the bed. On all fours.”
Naked except for her high heels—just like in a porn movie!—Karen did as Dru commanded. Her flesh quivered. Then, moments later, she felt it, a cockhead penetrating her wet slit from behind.
“Oh, God,” the newlywed moaned. “Let me see it. Please. Let me see you.”
Dru pulled out and backed off. She was so beautiful naked, and from her thighs, secure in a harness, rose a curved dildo, colored in swirls of bright pink and lavender.
Karen swiveled around on the king-size bed and wrapped her lips around the silicone dick. She hadn’t sucked Greg’s dick this morning, but she would suck Dru’s. When she’d s
lid it all the way down her throat, Dru’s well-manicured hands pressed on the back of her head. The showgirl thrust into her mouth until she gagged.
“Enough of that. I’m going to fuck you, Mrs. Whoever-you-are. I’m going to fuck you till you come.”
And then Karen was on her back, on the edge of the bed, her legs over Dru’s shoulders as the dildo slid inside her. Dru’s cock felt so good up her cunt. Karen reached up with one hand to squeeze Dru’s dark nipple, her other hand homing in on her own clit. And at that very moment, the loudspeakers outside the hotel started blasting out Frank Sinatra: “Luck Be a Lady Tonight.” Karen turned her head to look out the window; the fountains in front of Bellagio were dancing to Sinatra, shooting high into the air. Karen’s fingers moved faster and faster against her swollen clit. The fountains shot even higher. Across the street, the faux-Eiffel Tower hovered in the hot Vegas air. Karen tightened, thrust, and, with something between a scream and a sigh, she came.
When she’d caught her breath, she managed to say, “Oh, God, please let me lick you—please, Dru.”
The willowy woman with the big tits backed away and undid the harness. The dildo was double headed, and the shaft she drew from inside herself was dripping wet. Karen dove onto Dru’s smooth, shaved cunt, sucking and licking at the woman’s swollen clit. She reached around, stroking and grabbing at Dru’s silken butt.
“Oh, holy fuck, that’s good, baby.”
And Karen knew just what to do, her mouth working hard, hitting all the right spots, till the tingle between Dru’s legs became an unstoppable force.
“Oh my fucking God, baby!” She came. Karen’s flushed face was soaking wet.
When they’d both recovered, Karen went into the bathroom to wash up. The room was large and sumptuous, the mark of Las Vegas Luxury.
“How long will you be here?” Dru called from the next room.
“Two more days. We’re leaving early, the day after tomorrow.”
“Can I see you again? Tomorrow morning?”
Karen walked back into the bedroom. Dru was pulling on her little white jacket.
“I’d love that, only I’m not sure about coming here to the room. I don’t know what my…husband will be up to.”
“How about if we meet up at Caesar’s again? Same shop, say ten-thirty?” Dru hoisted her big bag onto her shoulder.
“Ten-thirty it is.”
They kissed, gently but passionately, and Karen, in just bra, panties, and heels, felt herself getting excited again. Dru slipped her hand into her bra, cupped her breast.
“You’d better get going. Greg will be….”
“Till tomorrow morning, babe.” And Dru was gone.
The sex that night between Karen and Greg was great, explosively great—Greg tonguing her cunt and asshole, then plowing his big dick into her as she gasped and writhed. On a whim, she licked her fingertips, reached around to Greg’s asshole, and rubbed the puckered flesh. Within seconds, her husband shot off inside her.
They went to see the Bellagio’s show, “O”—more French acrobats—then to the top of the Stratosphere Tower for a nightcap, all Las Vegas glittering, phony-but-beautiful, far below. In the cab that took them back down the Strip, Karen snuggled up to Greg. She’d seldom been so happy. And there was still the next morning with Dru to look forward to.
“How’d you do gambling this morning?” she asked.
“Pretty well. I actually came out a bit ahead.”
“You want to gamble one last time tomorrow?”
“You don’t mind, honey?”
“Not at all. I’d like to go back to Caesar’s shops. There was something I saw there that I really liked.”
Karen was excited. Greg was safely tucked away in some casino or other for the morning, and she was looking forward to Dru and her big bag of tricks. She got to the store early, trying to seem interested in the underwear for sale. Ten-thirty came and went, then 10:45. No Dru. Ten minutes later, she gave up. Either something had come up, or Dru had lied. Either way, she was going to head back to the Bellagio.
“Have you found anything you like?” the salesgirl purred.
“Actually, yes. I’ll take this.” She held out the black lace teddy that Dru had held the day before: a souvenir. And Greg would like her in it.
She went to the counter, opened her little purse.
“Anything wrong, madam?”
The platinum American Express card was gone. Karen rummaged through everything. Twice. No, it was gone. She might, just might have lost it, but….
Yesterday! When she was in the bathroom. Dru had ripped her off. The bitch. The scheming, beautiful bitch.
“Do you know,” Karen asked the salesgirl, “where a show called ‘Le Fling’ is playing?”
“ ‘Le Fling’? No such show.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m sure. Never heard of it.”
Karen rushed out, through the immensity of Caesar’s Forum Shops, past the Trojan Horse in front of the toy store, past the show where, amidst flames and thunder, Atlantis was sinking to the bottom of the sea.
The cab crawled through the clot of a midday traffic jam on the Strip. She was wishing she’d phoned American Express from the store, cancelled the card right away. Oh well, if she ever got back to her room, there would be time to phone, to wait for Greg, to make up some story about how she lost the card. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Karen had been a fool, but at least she’d gotten fucked, and fucked well, out of the deal.
Finally back at the hotel, she hurried through the lobby, beneath the multicolored glass sculpture, past the business-people, the couples, the gawkers. Elevator up. She had to take a pee. She slipped the card into the door’s electronic lock.
The room was semidark, the blackout curtain having been pulled nearly shut. It took her eyes a second to adjust. It took her mind another second to register what was going on in the bed.
Greg, her husband, was lying there naked, legs in the air, being fucked. Fucked up the ass by Bob, the hunky bellhop. They’d frozen, were both looking her way.
Karen didn’t know what to do. She might be a slut, but she was a slut who didn’t believe in the double standard.
“Honey….” Greg’s voice sounded strangled.
“You boys using a condom?”
Bob the bellhop, ever eager to please, pulled out of her husband’s ass. Despite the dim light, she could she his thick little cock was wrapped securely in latex.
“Well then, go ahead. You mind if I watch?”
“You can join in if you want, ma’am,” said Bob the bellhop, politely. The service at this hotel certainly was first rate.
“Thanks,” Karen said, but I’d hate to intrude.” She reached inside her pants, slid two fingers between her cunt lips, stroking as she watched her husband getting plowed up the butt. It was exciting, watching her husband taking it up the ass, thrashing and groaning and finally shooting cum all over his lean belly. It was exciting when Bob pulled out, peeled off the rubber, stroked his cock until his cum shot in big, wet arcs, some of it landing in Greg’s hair. It was exciting enough to make her come, too. It was exciting enough for her to start making plans; after all, Dru wasn’t the only one who could wear a strap-on.
And they lived—Karen and Greg and Karen’s girlfriends and Greg’s boyfriends and Karen’s big, expensive bag of toys—happily ever after.
The Smell of It
Thea Hillman
It’s late when Casey and I get home, and we don’t have the energy to fuck. So we masturbate for each other. She starts touching herself, but she’s shy and she’s worried that it’s going to take her a long time. After a few silent minutes of her touching her pussy and me stroking her thighs, she turns her head on the pillow and says, “Talk to me.” I feel a preliminary performance-anxiety-laden, oh-no-I’ve-got-to-come-up-with-something-good panic, but then a picture of Casey working out swims into my head. Now, I’ve never seen her work out, but she’s a firefighter and in EMT train
ing to be a paramedic and has to stay strong, so I start, “You’re at the gym doing leg presses.” And I don’t really know what leg presses are, but her legs are extremely muscular, so I go with it. “The gym is full of men, but they let you use the machines because you’re as big as they are.” And it’s true: Casey’s a gangly six feet and carries herself like a dude. Public restrooms are hell for her because most people she encounters think she’s a guy. Her uniform of jeans, tight jogging bra, T-shirt, and Elmo baseball cap doesn’t help either. I’ve seen her called son at a rodeo, and even at a sex party one time a woman squealed, “There’s a man in here!” when Casey entered the bathroom to change. So fantasies of her passing or competing as a boy—teenage at that—come fast and furious for me.
“You’re doing leg presses,” I say. I’m stroking the muscles as I talk about them, “and your quads strain against your gray shorts as you do your first set of reps. Dots of sweat start showing through your shirt and the sweat beads, roll down between your breasts, tickling you before they soak your bra. Your energy builds as you start to exert yourself. It’s almost sexual, and you focus all of it in your legs.” As I’m talking, Casey’s fingers start to move a little faster, and I realize that it’s not just passing as a man that’s both difficult and fun for her, but also that the energy between her and other men is hot for her. And then I remember the story she told me about her coworker at the firehouse.
When we started dating, Casey told me about Mike, the other new firefighter in the station. They spent a lot of time together doing the requisite grunt work between calls, and they became close friends. Like brothers, they would screw around, wrestling and roughhousing and teasing each other about girls. Mike had a girlfriend and was cool with Casey’s being gay. But there was this one time that Casey told me about, when they hugged goodbye before the two-week break between shifts, that they hugged closer than usual, and Casey told me she felt Mike against her. His cock. She wasn’t sure if it was hard or not, but just feeling it against her was more than she’d ever done with a guy.