by Alison Tyler
“Renata is naked in your room. I walked in to see if you wanted to get together on the econ homework. Next time I guess I’ll knock.”
The trouble with Ed was that he had such an impenetrable straight face, I never knew when he was stating fact and when he was indulging his mischievous sense of humor. Did we even have econ homework? I couldn’t think clearly. Was it worth quizzing Ed? I decided it was easier to crack my door open and see for myself how many beautiful naked women were, or were not, in there.
Renata was naked in my room. She had stretched herself out atop the navy blue comforter I’d brought with me from home.
When she heard me close the door, she propped herself up on an elbow. “Doug?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Come here.”
I came there. I sat down on the edge of the bed, on the edge of paradise. Parallel with her thighs, just a few inches from…
“Is this what you want?”
Reality appeared to have lost its grip on my world. “Uh… yeah, something along these lines. But—”
“Think about it,” she said, echoing Colin. “I need a little nap. We didn’t get much sleep last night.” She turned over on her tummy—concealing the blonde bush I’d only begun to admire, but putting her heavenly ass directly in my line of sight.
I sat there awhile. I’m hanging out with Renata’s bare ass, I assured my disbelieving self—making it sound like a social occasion. It was surreal sitting there in the silence, beholding her rounded, female flesh, inhaling the personality of her skin and her cunt, and wondering what was or was not going to happen.
I rushed to absorb every detail of her articulate nakedness, in case it was the only chance I got. I tried to savor her as my eyes roved over the slim grace of her shoulders…the seductive convexity of her hips…the private frankness of the small mole on her right thigh, and the slight ruddiness at the swell of her asscheeks, where the elastic of her panties had been digging in while she sat in class. The “imperfections”—a pitifully wrong word, as nothing could have been more perfect to me than what I was seeing—made it convincingly real, despite the wondrous impossibility.
After ten minutes of listening to her breathing—a sound that would have soothed me, had it not brought me to shivering heights of arousal—I woke her up. “Renata, I can’t—”
“Before you say anything, let me explain. I’m not here just to do you a favor.”
I had never been so confused in my life.
“I’m here to do me a favor, too. If you’ll let me.”
I just stared at her.
“After you left yesterday, I made a confession to Colin. I told him I’d been getting off on the idea that you, um…” She averted her gaze. “That you sort of liked me.”
I swallowed, tasting the understatement in the air…and reeling with the testimony that my obsession had actually been getting this goddess off.
“You’re kind of sexy, you know that?” she twinkled.
No, I did not know that. Holy fucking fuck.
“What did Colin say?” I heard myself ask.
“Colin’s a pretty understanding guy.” She smiled, shyly. “In fact, judging from subsequent events, I think my confession turned him on.” She licked her lips, evidently relishing a memory.
I was still trying to take it all in. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Yes,” Renata said quietly.
“Does he know you’re undressed?”
She shrugged. “He knows I was undressed when I left his room to come here.” She looked at me earnestly, and with a hint of impatience that flattered me. “I love Colin, okay? But I thought maybe you and I could just…” She put her hand on my thigh.
And then I was doing what I’d dreamed of doing. I was licking the sole of her foot.
When I’d been absorbed in my masturbatory fantasies, I’d forgotten to dream about how a real-life Renata would react. How she’d coo and writhe, and say the word yes in her crystalline voice. How she’d purr while flattening herself out, face-down, on my bed, so that I could paint her thoroughly with my adoration.
When I licked her calves, she relaxed so tangibly that I could feel it with my tongue. And when I reached the cavities behind her knee joints, she moaned. I looked up and saw beads of sticky fluid clinging to her pussy lips, the response I was bringing forth.
I’d never licked anyone before, and I’d sure picked a good person to start with. Even in my horniest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined this softness, this sweetness.
By the time I was licking her inner thighs, she was wailing—quietly, discreetly screaming in muted pleasure, with her hand emerging from underneath to dance on her clit. I met her hand there, bathing all of it—pussy lips, clit, elegant fingers—till the lips opened so liberally that I felt positively beckoned. Then I licked and probed within, while her bleach-white derrière bobbed above me. She came and came.
After that, as I’d promised myself, I licked across and up and down those delicate asscheeks, till my tongue nestled gently at the porthole between them. I licked around the ring, and flicked the tip ever so lightly inside her there. She came for me again, thrashing her head against the pillow I’d grown up with.
My cock was raging now, and Renata was rolling over and spreading her legs wide. I undressed myself and she watched me, running her forefinger along her sexy teeth. When, in all my scrawny naked glory, I got close enough again for her to grab me, she pulled me right onto her. Before I knew what was happening, I was all the way in her groove and she was humping me from below, her creamy legs holding on to me for dear life while my hands cleaved her ass apart, fingers in the crack. I was gone, shooting everything I had for her in the grandest moment I’d ever known.
And then I just had to lick her some more, continuing where I’d left off. I licked her belly, slaloming all the way from one side of her torso to the other as I made my journey upward. I lingered on her plump little breasts, coating the soft orbs and then teasing the nipples. She came anew, in giddy breast ecstasy, and I held her under the arms and tickled her sensuously, to add a layer of froth to the orgasm.
At last, when her rapture had subsided, I moved on. She whimpered peacefully, contentedly as I licked her shoulders and her neck.
“You need to know, Doug, that Colin’s never done that to me. Mind you, I’m not complaining about all the ways Colin makes me come. But what you did—fucking new one on me.”
I wondered if there was something precious between a virgin and a woman he had thought was out of reach, something that made licking her all over a special kind of communion. Something she couldn’t get from a sophisticate like Colin, even if he were to do the very same thing to her.
I’d had nearly every inch of Renata, and I knew it was an experience I’d take anywhere I went, through the still-inconceivable decades of grown-up life. Fuck, I’d take it to the grave—where I couldn’t help imagining myself jerking off, under the covers of an implausibly warm earth.
But I also knew I was done with the business of falling for other guys’ girls.
I stayed at that school, in that dorm, until I got my degree three years later. And whenever I saw Renata in the hall, I winked at her.
ONE HUNDRED DEGREES IN THE SHADE
Teresa Noelle Roberts
You don’t often see one hundred degrees in the hills of central New York. It hit that temperature twice in one week, otherwise hovering in the high nineties.
Our air conditioner died from the strain, and every store in the area was sold out. We’d resorted to cool showers, lots of iced tea, and dips in Seneca Lake, which felt like a tepid bathtub instead of its usual glacial chill.
Sleeping was difficult, sex—or anything but the lightest caress in passing—downright impossible. Matthew and I clung to our own sides of the bed, desperately trying not to touch lest we melt together into one sweat-sodden mass. We clung to the weather forecast as we dared not cling to each other, praying for relief.
Finally, at the end of
a one-hundred-degree day so humid we practically needed scuba gear to breathe, they promised a cold front, complete with violent thunderstorms. Knowing we couldn’t sleep anyway until the heat broke, Matthew and I settled on the porch to wait. I sat on the glider, he in a camp chair, both of us naked because the porch faced the lake, away from the road, and we were almost too uncomfortable to care if we shocked the neighbors.
Touching with nothing but our gaze in the hot dark, we talked about all the things we’d do to one another when the heat broke. How I’d kiss and lick every inch of his skin, but not his cock—not until he begged me, and only when I heard his voice crack with frustration would I take him deep into my throat, working him over with hands and tongue until he filled my mouth with his hot come. How he’d lie over me, pinning me to the bed with his weight as he slowly worked in and out of my pussy, fucking me until my skin was on fire with need, taking his time until I was as slick with sweat as I’d been any time during the heat wave, but now because of our shared heat. Then, he said, he’d roll us over and let me ride him slowly and luxuriously to our finish.
I could feel the storm long before we could see or hear anything, an electric tension building in the sultry dark like foreplay. Matthew’s words and my own sent butterflies dancing on my clit, but what I felt went beyond sexual. Even the crickets and night birds seemed to hold their breath, waiting for lightning. I could feel energy buzzing on my skin.
The thunderstorms rolled in around two A.M. Within minutes, the temperature dropped from Africa hot to warm but bearable. Just as quickly, Matthew moved next to me on the glider. His hand rested on my thigh and for the first time in what seemed like years, I didn’t want to peel it away.
Lightning strobed over and over, illuminating Matthew’s face and body. A flash of hard muscle, a flash of hardening cock, and then it was gone again, a repeated tease. Thunder shook the roots of the house with each flash. No time intervened—the storm was right overhead. Rain whipped sideways onto the porch, slicking our skin, cooling us enough so we could heat from lust.
We inched closer. My nipples crinkled, and it wasn’t from the sudden change in weather, unless that could also make my pussy throb.
Driven by wind, the storm moved on fast. The rain continued, and a lightning show played out on the far shore of the lake, but it was no longer overhead, threatening the ancient oak trees surrounding the house.
Matthew took my hand, exclaimed, “Come on!” We ran off the porch together, into the cleansing, cooling rain. I was shivering within seconds, so used to being overheated that a normal summer temperature and warm rain felt blessedly Arctic.
Matthew’s arms closed around me. Rain slick, his skin still felt hot against mine, or maybe the heat was inside me. It had only been a week, but I’d missed his touch so much.
His tongue parted my lips to dance with mine. My breasts pressed against him, and lightning shot into my nipples where we touched. He slipped one hand between my legs, rubbing and teasing at my pussy, which was as slick and drenched as the grass. A flash of distant lightning lit the yard as I clenched, shuddered, thundered under his hand. I clung to him, but my knees buckled, and he sank with me to the grass. The heat had turned it prickly and strawlike, but I didn’t care and neither did Matthew.
We’d talked about slow and teasing and patient.
Instead it was hard and violent and welcome as the storm.
I raised my legs, wrapped them around his hips. He poised over me for a second, and as another flash of lightning turned the night to day, he rubbed his cockhead over my clit, against the hungry lips of my sex. I begged for mercy, but it was drowned out by thunder rolling across the lake, by the sound of rain against our flesh, by the roar of our blood. I arched my hips, grabbed his butt with one hand, his cock with the other, and guided him home.
Matthew’s hips grinding against me, and his cock pounding deep inside me, and the rain adding its cool caress, and the storm rumbling and flashing around us added up to more than the sum of their parts. Added up to a cleansing, cathartic fury like the storm that cleared the air as the weather transformed itself. Added up to an orgasm that hit me like a force of nature, as close as I’ve gotten to the clichéd “instant orgasm on penetration.”
Was this what being struck by lightning felt like? I couldn’t move in any deliberate way, yet I couldn’t stop moving—couldn’t stop convulsing around him, couldn’t stop clawing at his ass, couldn’t stop shouting something that was only slightly closer to English than the thunder’s rumbling.
If lightning had gotten me, it must have clipped Matthew too, because he was pounding crazily into me, and his face, when I could see it in the lightning’s strobe effect, almost looked contorted with rage. Then he reared up, his elbows locked, his cock as deep in me as it had ever been, and called my name to the heavens, and I think it must have been chain lightning that time because I went off again.
The rain continued as we wrapped around each other in the grass, and we welcomed it, welcomed the cool that let us cuddle, welcomed thunder echoing off the hills. We lay there until another wave of storms pushed through, and one lightning strike came perilously close to us, and we ran back laughing to the porch. Where we made love again, slow and sweet this time on the glider while thunder and lightning played around us.
BURNED
Michael Hemmingson
1
Jordin Navarro was aloof, sitting in front of her laptop, naked, trying to finish her first novel one hot day in the middle of July, the Los Angeles smog seeping into the apartment like a midnight intruder bent on ravaging and pillaging unsuspecting virgins.
She was twenty-eight and knew she had to publish (let alone finish) her first novel before she turned thirty…or else she’d never obtain that goal: to be a hot young writer full of promise and aplomb. She had two dozen assorted tattoos from her neck to her feet: on her arms, back, lower back, ass, hip, fingers, and toes. She also had long red hair.
Her novel was a romance of sorts, about a threesome. It was generally autobiographical, as most first novels tend to be. She didn’t know what to title it, though. By writing an untitled novel of romantica, she was hoping to rediscover what she had lost….
2
In the first chapter of this novel, Jordin’s heroine, Dominique Speer, is a twenty-four-year-old architectural student living in Santa Monica, California (Jordin herself lived in Burbank). Dominique is an average girl with a dark complexion and long black hair with tints of natural red. Dominique is depressed because the guy she’s been with since she was eighteen, whose name is Brandon Albert, has become far more aloof than the author; he’s distant and uninterested in sex or love or the future and she fears the end of the relationship is around the corner like a drunk driver speeding his way to vehicular manslaughter. The novel opens with Dominique sitting in her apartment late at night, watching a David Lynch movie and masturbating to memories of better times with Brandon, when he was a confident young artist and working hard at his paintings and drawings. She is unaware that she is being watched; there is a man standing by her window and peeking through a crack in the blinds. He can see her by the light of her TV, and he can see her hand wandering between her legs. He is touched by her self-touch and the expression on her face when she comes. He falls in love. He waits and watches. Dominique goes to sleep around midnight. He makes his way around the back of the apartment and finds the kitchen window open. He uses a pocketknife to cut through the screen. He crawls through the window; he’s cautious and quiet and he has a history of breaking into people’s homes—only to steal things, not to rape. He has no intention of raping Dominique—this is what he tells her when she wakes up.
Dominique opens her eyes at 12:25 A.M. and can smell the intruder; his body has the odor of stale sweat, cigarettes, and the street. She sees his silhouette standing near her bed. She sits up.
“Hush,” he says.
She wants to scream. She wants to get up and run, but she is frozen.
He sits down n
ext to her. He’s as nervous as she is.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I have never done anything like this, but I saw you through the window and you looked like an angel, a beautiful angel, and I had to come in and touch you.”
He touches her shoulder.
Her body is shaking; she feels like she might vomit.
“I won’t hurt you,” he tells her; “I won’t do anything against your will. I just want to talk to you, to see you. I won’t rape or kill you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She asks, “Promise?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Shake on it,” she says.
He shakes her hand: his is twice the size of hers and she doesn’t let go of it. She thinks that if she keeps his hand with hers, he can’t use it to hurt her. She doesn’t believe his promise; she doesn’t even know his name.
Nothing bad happens. He lies on the bed with her, holding her hand, and they talk. He does most of the talking. He tells her how he and his girlfriend drove out from South Carolina to L.A. in search of fame and fortune in the music business. He’s a keyboard player and the girlfriend is a singer, but she left him for another man, a man with money, two weeks after the move. He’s been in L.A. for a year, playing a few gigs, not making much cash, living in his car right now.
She tells him about Brandon. She doesn’t tell him there are problems. She says: “I’ve been with him for six years and I love him very much.”
“Where is he now?”
“Out of town. He’s usually here.”
“I’m jealous,” the intruder says, “He has you and I don’t.”
He moves to kiss her. He kisses her on the forehead.