by Alison Tyler
“Yeah. I know it’s not your thing, but sometimes it’s fun to get a little kinky.”
A thought flits through her mind. She is almost afraid to let it take hold. She pulls away, props herself up to look at him. He looks calm, relaxed; utterly satisfied.
“That was kinky?”
Daniel gives her an indulgent smile. “Well, kinky for you. Talking dirty about another man fucking you? You really got into my little fantasy.”
“Fantasy,” she says, almost in agreement. “Yeah. Where did that come from?”
He shrugs, looking bashful. “I don’t know. Just a fantasy.”
She nods. “Just a fantasy, huh?”
That familiar possessive look comes into his eyes. “Oh, yeah. Just a fantasy,” he says, pulling her back down into his arms. “Don’t go getting any ideas. I’m not sharing you with anyone.”
“Too late,” she breathes against his skin, too soft for him to hear.
A contented smile curls her lips as sleep tugs at her. She needs her rest. After all, tomorrow is Saturday.
TEXAS HOT
A. D. R. Forte
Mornin’,” I tell him. “Better get that yard done before it gets too hot.”
But it’s already hot.
Texas July morning. Heat-soaked air, moist and sticky like my fingers on my clit as I watch him from my window: Shirtless, denim shorts. Skin glistening with sweat.
Can you work it, baby, like you work that mower? Those power tools in your tricked-out garage. Like you drive that big, badass pickup truck. Can you make my pussy cream like this and make me beg for more?
Someday I’m gonna find the nerve to ask him over…make him mow my lawn.
FLICK THAT BIC
J. D. Waters
Nine o’clock and I’m beat. Then she walks into the bar and the breath in my throat solidifies. I stop, right there, the glass halfway to my lips. She is small and compact, tightly wound from the looks of her. Her hair is pulled up and the color of spilled ink, black like sin. Her eyes are piercing, a deep chocolate that somehow radiates with an animal’s sheen. She is perfect.
For the first time in a long while, my cock grows rigid in my pants. Not morning wood, or my wife putting her hand too high up on my thigh, but honest to god arousal. Watching her move in her deliberate lithe way, makes the urge to fuck her nearly unbearable. I glance around and am grateful that the only open stool is the one next to me.
She’s behind a blonde woman. The blonde is about forty and wearing too much makeup and when she spots the stool and then me, her face lights up. I’m not wearing my wedding band. I rarely do these days.
The blonde reaches for it and I give her a regretful smile. “Sorry, I’m saving it for my friend.” I say it with my eyes on the brunette who is now within earshot.
The blonde’s smile fades and her cheeks color. I feel bad—but not too terribly bad when the petite creature behind her gives me a small mysterious smile and moves toward the stool.
The blonde storms off and I call out another insincere apology. I can feel the brunette sitting there, watching me—a shimmering hot energy that makes my cock twitch this way and that in my neatly pressed chinos. I loosen my tie even more so I can fucking breathe. My throat seems to be closing, and I can feel the fine pricking tickle of sweat coming up on my skin. “My name is John,” I tell her.
She smiles a slow knowing smile and I can see her teeth, small and white and perfectly straight. I wonder what they will feel like marking my skin. She licks her lips, and I fight the urge to groan. Her tongue is petal pink and wet, the perfect soothing balm to the bites she will leave.
“Lucinda.”
That’s all. One word. Then she turns to the bartender and raises her finger. He’s there in a blink. For someone so small, she has the presence of an Amazon, a way about her that commands attention and obedience. “What’ll it be?” he asks, but he’s staring at her tits, and I feel the urge to punch him in his flat, pockmarked forehead.
She puts her hand on my thigh and my anger evaporates in a heartbeat.
“Vodka, straight up, twist of lime. Make sure the lime’s clean.” She says it with a sense of ease, not one lick of worry that she might sound bossy or be inconveniencing an already busy man.
He smiles and it borders on a leer. Lucinda smiles back. The smile does not touch her eyes.
“You?” he nods his head at my glass that holds only a stain of whiskey at the bottom.
“He’s done, thank you,” she says and shoos him with her hand.
“I could have gone for another.”
“Too much alcohol can hinder orgasm,” she says and when her drink appears, she sips slowly. Each sip would not even fill a thimble.
Here she is exercising her first bit of power over me. It is all I can do not to touch myself through my pants.
When that seemingly endless drink is finally gone, she says, “What kind of car do you have?”
“An SUV. A Ford. Why?”
She frowns when I question her and says bluntly, “That will cost you.”
A taut excitement surrounds me. My skin is wrapped in tight bands of anticipation.
We stand and I look down at her. I’m six-three. That’s when some of them falter. The women I hope to bow down to. Oh, they talk a big game and then when we go to leave, there they are, looking up at me, and they cave. How can they dominate me? they think. If only they really understood how much I crave it. Need it. How I would obey them despite stature.
Sadly, most of them are not real. They cannot do for me what I need done.
“Well? What the fuck are you looking at?” she says and flicks a yellow lighter like she’s dying to set something ablaze. “Don’t make it worse for yourself.”
She’s genuine. She’s the real deal.
She looks at me like she can read me, like she senses something in me. The real ones always do. I feel like I could cry with relief if I let myself. Instead, when she points to the door, I walk ahead and lead her to my car.
“Put them up there, John. Be a good boy.”
She has yanked my headrest up to its tallest setting. I shiver in the chilly outside air. The car is not running and my shirt is off. I would give anything for a warm spill of heated air from the dashboard vents. Instead I grunt when she ducks her small head and bites my nipple. My cock jerks. My face floods with shame.
“Pay attention!”
I nod and try not to hump up at her. It’s hard because she is straddling me, the warm seam of her cunt riding my hard-on through my khakis. She is tying my wrists to the metal struts that brace the headrest. The rope is from the roadside emergency kit. Finally, she yanks, and my bonds bite into my wrists, a rough painful presence. She wiggles some more as she reaches back and plucks a long, jeweled clip from her hair.
She holds it up. “Pretty, pretty, don’t you think?”
I nod and try to swallow. The clip is about six inches long and made of silver. There are tiny jewels embedded in it and the small alligator teeth gleam dully in the glow from outside streetlamps. Lucinda had been pleased that my windows were not tinted. She told me that anyone could be walking through the parking lot and see us like this: me bound and shirtless, her straddling my lap with her skirt hiked up around her hips like a whore.
I arch up, just for one second. I press my cock against her heat and she says, “Bad, John. Now look what I have to do.” She traces my nipple with the clip first, just to let me sweat. I want to beg her not to because that fucker is going to hurt. Any fool can see that. But I want to beg her to hurry, too. It’s been way too long since I’ve had pleasure steeped in pain.
While she was runs more cold metal circles along my chest, I have the chance to think. Think that I do not know her, that she could slit my throat while I sit here tethered. My cock grows more desperate and I hear my own eager breath. “Please.”
“Please what? Please do? Please don’t?” She trails the tapered tip of the clip down the center of my chest. It slides along my belly and
I hump up at her again. “Uh-unh-uh,” Lucinda chides.
I can only answer honestly, “Yes.”
Then the clip bites me, cold metal jaws on the flat of my nipple. Pain shoots jaggedly along my skin, plucking my nerves. I dance a little in my seat and she leans in, licks my bottom lip, and then bites me there until sparks shoot off behind my closed eyes. I am panting. She wiggles in my lap like she’s dancing.
“Please,” I say again. I’m not sure what I mean, but I trust her to decipher. This stranger who speaks the same language I do. The language of pain.
She lets the clip hang there and the weight of it makes my pain heavy and dull. I feel my heartbeat in my cock and in my nipple that is being starved of blood. I try to breathe deeply, but I gasp instead. One tear gets free and with my hand bound, I am helpless to wipe it away.
Lucinda licks it off my face. “Nice. Salty. You’ll be okay, baby. You’re being a good boy.”
I nod and she starts a slow steady rhythm on my lap. She is sliding back and forth, just an inch or two. Just enough to ride my hard-on with her hot wet cunt. She is pantyless and I can smell her pussy, smell her excitement in the now warm car.
I want to be in her to the hilt. I want to fill her and fuck her while she calls me sissy, pussy, weak, bad boy. While she whips me, spanks me, bites me with sharp little white teeth.
I close my eyes and try to focus. I try not to cave or move against her because that would be bad. It is the fourth slide and her breasts are rubbing against my chest. The blue silk of her blouse adds smooth pleasure to my dull pain. I thrust up without thinking, second nature when I’m hard.
“Oh…John. Bad boy. Bad John,” Lucinda singsongs.
Goose bumps crop up along my skin. I shiver even though I’m sweating. She takes the clip off my nipple and the blood rushes in, a beautifully painful bliss that hurts in its own special way. The yellow lighter emerges so fast it could be sleight of hand. Orange flames jump to life and I watch her slide the narrow point of the clip—the part with the teeth—through the flame. “Oh, I can’t—” I start.
“But I can,” she finishes.
She blows on the now darkened metal, licks it for a moment, and I am horrified to hear it sizzle against her tongue. “Not too bad,” she says and the jaws clamp down again, hot and bright. I give a little squeal and dance in my seat.
“Please! Please!”
Keep it on? Take it off? Let me go? Tie me tighter? Kiss-mefuck-me-set-me-free? Fuck, even I don’t know.
Lucinda traps my free nipple, the one that is still throbbing, between her fingernails. They are short milky half-moons at the end of her long tan fingers. She clamps harder and pain rears up with a vengeance. I focus on pushing my ass down into the seat. If I focus on pushing down, I will not pump up like a mindless animal seeking the heat of her pussy.
I have two different kinds of pain, and my brain somehow grows sharp and crystalline. The sounds of traffic, the smell of her shampoo, her breath on my face: it is all so intense I think I might cry. And my cock—how bad do I want to come right now? I think I would die to come.
She must be psychic. She leans in and kisses me, pulling me to her as much as she can manage. This levers me out and the rope gnaws at my already raw skin and I know I will have marks, marks I will have to explain when I return home. I will deal with that later. She shimmies like live sex in my lap and then she is pulling me free. My cock is hot and ready in her hand—her hand that feels like the softest moleskin. I consciously push down. I will not thrust up. It will ruin everything. The pain from my nipples is slinking across my skin. Heat floods my chest and my breath hitches when she runs a finger along my tip. “God.”
“Not now. Pray later,” she says and sinks down onto me in one molten plunge.
I pray I will not come right then and there.
Those fingernails bite, bite, bite. The jaw of her hair clip is no longer hot but it is still excruciating. She shoves her free hand in my hair as she fucks me. She pulls and I see stars in the dark car: green, yellow, purple. “I’m going to come, lover boy,” she growls. I believe her because she is so terribly gorgeously wet. Her body clutches at me. Her tempo is insane. She is a whirling dervish and I am so close, right there. But I won’t let go, not yet.
She comes, crying out, head thrown back like something primitive, untamed. She digs her fingernails in and I feel the hot run of blood. She’s cut me. She’s cut me! The excitement is chaotic in my chest. “Come, good boy. Come, John. It’s okay.”
So I do. I let go and I finally, blissfully am allowed to fuck up into her as I shoot. “I’m sorry!” is the last thing I say.
I don’t know why I’m sorry. Or what I’m sorry for. But I say it every time. Maybe I am sorry that I like them so much: the ones who bring me pain.
She begins to untie me and here it comes, the sadness. It happens every time it ends. “You live here?” Lucinda whispers.
“No. I’m here on business. Just a few days.” I am growing flaccid inside of her but I still relish the tight wet feel of her.
“You at the hotel up the street?”
I nod and rub my chafed, nearly bloody wrists. “On Thomas Street.”
“I’ll come with you,” she says and works her skirt down. We reassemble ourselves as best we can.
I find my keys and move to start the car. Lucinda stills my hand. “Oh, no. Scoot over, John, I’m driving.”
I maneuver over the armrest and buckle up. I can’t help but smile as she cranks the engine and turns on the headlights. She is the real deal.
THE SALSA BAR
Jolene Hui
Every time I think about that night, I smile. That was the drunkest I’d ever been. Two vodka Cokes in a salsa bar in Nice, France, and I was gone. Daniel, the bus driver, had eagerly gone to the bar to retrieve my drinks. I bought my first one, he my second. My mother was sucking on a Marlboro Red and laughing with the person next to her—some guy with long tangled hair. She was a fox. Me, at twenty-one, and her at thirty-seven—we looked like a couple of friends out for a night of fun.
My long brown hair was done in waves, and my mom’s slightly darker hair was straight and sleek. We’d been travelling around France with a tour group. It was only fifteen of us and most of the crowd was middle-aged. We were the young hot ones and we were taking advantage of it.
Our tour guide, Olivier, was a hot Frenchman with tanned skin and light brown hair brushed with highlights. His accent was thick and his gestures swift. His greenish eyes looked at me intently every time I stepped onto the bus. His fingertips grazed my thighs often. When we got to Nice, mere hours before we went to the salsa bar, my mom and I walked up to our room and looked outside of our window. The buildings outside were different colors, the shutters inconsistently opened and closed.
“Oh, my god, look at the bathroom!” she shrieked. The bathroom was essentially a big shower, with a toilet and a sink. We laughed at it and plopped down on our beds. We could smell the ocean air from our window.
“Let’s go get a drink,” I suggested. Our group dinner was not until tomorrow night and I wanted to walk along the ocean.
We grabbed our purses and walked out the door. Downstairs in the lobby, we ran into Daniel. He was British but had spent most of his teenage years in the French countryside with some hippie group. That morning, he had told my mother something about some communist group he was involved in but I was too busy adoring Olivier’s new green safari-looking hat. Olivier stood across the lobby from me, talking on his cell phone. He was always talking on his cell phone. I made eye contact with him. He smiled. I waited for him to hang up before I approached him. He grabbed me by the waist and kissed me on the cheek.
“Look what I have.” He opened a little pocket on the side of his hat and pulled out a condom.
I giggled. “Wow, you’re always prepared, aren’t you?”
“It’s the perfect-sized pocket for one.”
“Maybe we could use it sometime?” I smiled and pulled him by the hand
to where my mom and Daniel were talking about the political system in the United States.
I tore her away, promising to meet up with the guys later, and walked to the closest bar. I ordered a vodka martini and was presented with a regular glass filled with vodka.
“Oh, my god, it’s straight,” I said, sipping through a straw.
My mother drank a whiskey tonic. “Well, suck it down. I’m ready to go out salsa-ing!”
We sat outside at a table with the ocean just steps away. Boats were docked and large rocks marked the boundary between sand and pavement. The ocean air made our hair slightly crazy. Our trip though the French countryside had been wonderful. Neither of us had been out of the country before and this was truly a good bonding experience.
“I saw Olivier’s special compartment,” I told my mom. My head started to cloud.
“What?”
“He has this little pocket on his hat. It has a condom in it.”
“A rubber?”
My mom preferred that term, which always made me laugh.
“Yes, mom, a rubber.”
“Are you going to try it out?”
I slapped her on the arm.
“What? We’re out of the country. You should really do something crazy like that.”
How many mothers encouraged their daughters to sleep with their hot, hunky, tour guides? She was awesome. I sipped on my drink and thought about Olivier’s eyes. He’d been touching me the whole tour—casual brushes on the knee, fingertips on my shoulder. It was like electricity being shot through my entire nervous system. The waves carried themselves through every bit of me and settled in my lower body. I sizzled just thinking about it. My lips were damp with alcohol when we started walking back to the hotel.
The guys were waiting where we left them. My mom went directly to Daniel and started blabbing. I could tell she was attracted to him. The thought of my mother trying to get in his pants was not something I wanted to think about, but I was glad she was having a good time.