by Alison Tyler
“Ho-ly shit,” said Deirdre, not that anyone could hear her over the laughing and stumbling. There, in a major state of some serious effin’ en dishabille, was Courtney. Tangled up with two girls and a kilt-wearing transvestite, she was shedding clothes as she came toward the bed. By the time she spotted Deirdre, Courtney was half-undressed, her skirt down around her knees, her Crass Faster shirt ripped to shreds, and her B-cup tits hanging out of a push-up bra. “Don’t I know you?” burbled Courtney drunkenly as she stumbled onto the bed and planted her lips on Deirdre’s. Deirdre tried to say something, but Courtney’s tongue was wriggling its way into her mouth, tasting of Jack Daniels, cloves, pot, and—wow, that was interesting, apparently Deirdre was not Courtney’s first woman of the night.
Deirdre only recognized the flavor from having tasted her own juices once a day for thirty days, for a now mildly famous article in Redwood Health Review.
“Courtney,” hissed Deirdre when her editor—my god, how kinky was that?—let her up for air. “It’s me, Deirdre!”
“Deirdre?” said Courtney brightly. “Oh, I do know you! Hi Deirdre, how’s it going? Did you fuck Crass yet? I hear he’s got the best cock.” Her hands found Deirdre’s breasts and started fondling them through the shirt as she kissed Deirdre. “You’re hot, Deirdre,” said Courtney in the short distance her lips spent moving between Deirdre’s mouth and her breasts, and Deirdre gasped a little as Courtney began to suck on her tits through the T-shirt.
“I’ve always thought you had the best tits,” slurred Courtney. “Can I take this off?” She ripped the T-shirt unceremoniously, said loudly, “Oops!” and giggled.
Courtney began nuzzling Deirdre’s tits, licking and sucking them as Deirdre wrestled with her conscience. Courtney was royally fucked up and everything, clearly not in her right mind. Deirdre really shouldn’t take advantage of her. On the other hand, if she didn’t show concern for her sister journalist and hustle the drunken slut into a cab downstairs, one of two things would happen; either Deirdre was guaranteed—guaranteed!—top billing in Hot Off the Press, or Courtney wouldn’t remember a thing, and it would be as if nothing ever happened.
Deirdre reached for her camera.
“I’m sorry I was a bitch to you,” said Courtney drunkenly. “You’re just such a stacked little snatch, do you know what it’s like trying to compete with knockers like these, Deirdre? My god, look at them! They’re like a force of nature.” Deidre pointed the camera and started shooting. “Ooh, we’re making a porno now? I’m ready for my close-up, Mister…um…sleazy…porn…guy… girl…whatever.” Courtney ripped what was left of the Crass Faster T-shirt all the way off of Deirdre’s tits and began to suckle hungrily. Courtney had nice soft lips and it actually would have felt pretty good if Deirdre hadn’t been busy getting a few choice shots of her own tits with Courtney’s lips planted on them, and then distracted scanning the room for Crass Faster, who was nowhere to be seen in the steadily growing crowd. Someone in the tangle of bodies toward the end of the bed removed Courtney’s skirt, and Courtney wrapped herself around Deirdre, sucking and fondling and making out. Courtney was now stark naked except for these knee-high pointy-toed shiny rock-and-roll slut boots. Some ’80s boy was all over them, licking and sucking Courtney’s shiny boots while a ratted-out Pamela Anderson clone undid his belt. Courtney started slurping her way drunkenly down Deirdre’s belly, her tongue swirling wildly as the guy began really making love to her boots. Deirdre’s eyes went wide as Courtney looked up at her from between her legs and said, “Didn’t know I was a big lesbo, did you?” then giggled a little and planted her mouth on Deirdre’s shaved puss, her tongue working with such fantastic expertise that Deirdre let out a sudden shocked gasp of pleasure.
It felt so fucking good, in fact, that Deirdre could barely work the shutter as her pleasure mounted. “Get my good side,” giggled Courtney, her big dark eyes gazing up at the camera as she pulled back just far enough to let Deirdre shoot twenty fast pics in Sport Mode, Courtney’s pretty face and that skilled tongue working visibly against Deirdre’s bare puss. After that, it was all blurry and streaky because even with the flash Deirdre couldn’t hold the camera still, it felt so fucking good. Courtney had managed to sit on ’80s boy’s face and no longer seemed to care about her good side. She buried her face eagerly between Deirdre’s spread thighs and slurped for all she was worth. The piercing in her tongue was stroking smooth and hard against Deirdre’s clit: damn, that felt good. Deirdre was starting not to care if she even got a byline on this piece, maybe it was getting filthy enough that she really ought to consider a pseudo—
There!! There he was, just inches away from the bed, his belt half-undone, a clove cigarette in one hand and a bottle of twenty-year-old Glenn Caith in the other. There, goddamn it!
“Excuse me!” she hissed to Courtney, and wrenched herself out of the naked editor’s fervent embrace just enough to get a grip on the belt buckle on the bulging leather pants swaying in front of her at the edge of the bed; she pulled him close while Courtney looked up and pouted, her red lipstick smeared indelicately all over her face. Courtney wriggled after Deirdre and ’80s boy after Courtney, and in a moment everyone was piled on top of everyone, ’80s boy slurping and fingering Courtney while Courtney’s fingers, two or maybe three of them, worked into Deirdre to match the motion of her tongue on Deirdre’s surging clit. God, that felt fucking good, but not half as good as it felt to get Crass Faster’s leather pants open and reach in and pull his hard cock out and plant her mouth on it, slurping her way up the shaft and swirling her tongue around the head, sweeping her freshly-fucked hair out of the way before pointing the camera and smiling.
She heard him mumble around his clove in a heavy Liverpool accent: “Annie fucking Leibovitz here, make sure you get me good side, will you, Annie? Blimey!” Which was kind of funny because wasn’t Crass Faster from San Jose? Fuck it, she didn’t care. She had a limited number of moments to get the perfect shot. Crass seemed less puzzled than she might have expected, to have this girl polishing his knob while she tried to get a shot with her face, his cock, and his face, which seemed to be next to impossible. It would have been only slightly easier if she could have rolled over, but when she tried that Courtney pinned her down and said, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Deirdre, I get it, you’re blowing him, you’re sucking off Crass Faster, you’ve got the fucking byline, okay?”
The words were music to her ears. Courtney’s tongue was working again, her fingers deep inside her, and Deirdre let out a long, low sigh as she surrendered to her pleasure. The camera dropped from her grasp and she rose swiftly toward orgasm on Courtney’s skilled tongue and hand, her own hand working Crass’s cock up and down while she worked the head.
“Aw, so you’re a writer as well as a photographer,” purred Crass. “Keep doing that and I’ll give you an exclusive, you slaggy little minx.”
That’s when she came, hard. Deirdre went all hot and buttery inside, pleasure suffusing her—an exclusive! Her orgasm was still riding high, Courtney’s tongue working its magic as Deirdre tasted the first salty spurt of precome. Courtney wasn’t far behind; she rode the ’80s boy’s face while Crass let out a long string of pleased obscenities, coming deep in Deirdre’s throat. He was still doing the Liverpool accent, but it was faltering and got kind of half-Southern by the time he finished.
She was already writing the closing sentence in her head as she caressed Crass’s softening, pink cock with her tongue, tasting cherry musk.
Then he came, and I came, we all came, she thought rapturously. We all fucking came, like, all over the fucking place. It was hot.
It certainly wasn’t Deirdre’s best prose, but there’d be plenty of time for a second draft.
SCORCHED
Janine Ashbless
Max leaned over the gearshift to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, love.”
Emerald, one eye on the rearview mirror, smiled. “Bye. Have a good one.”
“Yeah. Thanks for the lift.”
He opened the passenger-side door and a muffled railway announcement was audible over the commuter murmur and the traffic. Max hesitated. “You’re going shopping?”
“Yes. Might have lunch with Jessica, if she’s in town.”
He nodded. “Pick me up the new Eisler thriller, will you?”
Emerald blinked. “Okay.”
“Thanks. See you tonight, love.” His hand descended briefly onto her thigh; half grope, half pat. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” She didn’t drive off immediately despite the cars massing behind hers, waiting for her space. She watched Max’s ginger-gold curls and lean arse disappear through the station doors, the swing of the satchel on his shoulder casually graceful. He was cute: after three years together she still found a furtive pleasure in watching him. She was so lucky to have Max as her boyfriend; she knew that. “Crap,” she said to herself as she put the car into gear.
How annoying that he’d asked her to buy a book: now she really would have to go shopping instead of turning the car round and heading back to their flat. And this on her day off, with Greg probably still asleep in bed. It couldn’t be helped, though. And, she thought as she set off in search of a parking garage, there were possibilities involved in shopping.
Two hours later she was walking through her front door with the book—and a new set of lingerie. Bra and panties were both a bold sunshine yellow, trimmed with black flowers. She’d bought them in a boutique in town, then slipped into a café washroom to change. The bra was cut to enhance her cleavage and the knickers were high-legged, tanga-style, with no cloth over the swell of her bum at all; her bare cheeks were framed by narrow bands of black peonies that emphasized the smooth sweet roundness of her bottom. Clasping her thighs were broad bands of matching flowers at the top of sheer black hold-up stockings. Emerald was taut with excitement as she slipped the key into the lock, dropped her bags in the hall, and walked through into the apartment.
Greg was in the living room, watching a World War Two documentary on the History Channel; he worked entirely online and kept erratic hours, and though it was sometimes hard to believe he worked at all, he actually earned more than either of his flatmates. He’d breakfasted and showered, judging by the empty cereal bowl at his feet and the fact he was wearing only a towel. He cast her a lazy look as she walked in.
“Hi, doll.”
“Hi.” Her stomach felt full of butterflies, her panties full of butter. The smell of shower gel hanging in the air promised clean damp skin.
“You took a long time.” Greg was blockier than Max and had dark hair cut like a rug. His skin was tanned, though not from outdoor living—Max was the keen rambler but Greg merely liked to lie on the flat roof and catch the summer rays while he meditated on his next project. “I nearly didn’t wait for you.” His hand drifted up to cup the bulge at his crotch.
“But you did wait.”
“Lucky you.” His gaze was sharp. “What’ve you done with your tits?”
Emerald looked down at her favorite summer dress, the blue one with the white polka dots. The neckline was low enough to show twin swells and a deep cleft. “Push-up bra,” she admitted. “It’s new.”
“Show me.” He thumbed the remote without a glance at it, his attention lazily but entirely devoted to her as the TV went blank. With a naughty smile she stepped in close to him, slipping the tiny buttons down the front of her dress one by one until the golden-brown slopes of her breasts were in full sight, cupped and presented by the lace sling of her bra.
“Pretty,” he allowed, moistening his lips. Emerald shimmied a little for him, making her boobs wobble enticingly. “Very… yellow. You got knickers to match?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Let’s see them.”
Obediently she drew up her skirt to expose stocking tops and the triangle of silky material. He smiled. “Like that. You buy them for me?”
Emerald nodded.
“But Max will get a kick out of them too, I bet.”
“Mm.” That was the thing about this purchase, she thought; she’d be getting double value.
“You know I can hear you two at night? The walls in this place are pretty thin.” He savored the way she blushed. “Not that you’re exactly quiet. But I hear every thump of the headboard, every little groan and squeal.” He caressed the towel-covered knot of his cock, and the bulge twitched visibly. “Drove me nuts for a year, doll.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was husky.
“I can even hear the sound he makes when he slaps your fat ass.”
Emerald’s eyes widened: Greg’s brutal crudity was one of the things that made him so different from Max. He was shamelessly honest, and it was one of the things that made her hot. He liked the fact that she had a big ass, and he told her so. He liked the fact she was a slut, and the more he treated her like one the more she acted that way. “Does it annoy you, hearing us?” she asked. He smirked.
“I just grin and join in for the ride, doll.”
“Oh.”
“Now show me that big bum of yours.”
Turning, Emerald pulled up the back of her skirt. She heard the intake of his breath.
“Oh, yes. Like two loaves put out to rise.” He’d been a bakery assistant as a student, she recalled: his tales about what had been done to the dough during quiet moments had been enough to put Max off bread for good. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, hands on her thighs, giving him the best possible view. “Fuck, yes,” he said in awe as she wiggled her backside. “I want that.” He stood, the better to run his hands over her cheeks and down the barely clothed split between them. The elastic was taut across her asshole, the gusset stretched tight over pussy lips that already felt swollen. Greg’s fingers crudely but very accurately found the sinkhole of her cunt through the cloth.
“You won’t be able to take these back to the shop, doll. They’re already wet.” Every poke of his fingertips on the sodden cloth exacerbated that situation and Emerald whimpered. There was the sound of a towel hitting the carpet. “You ready for some of this?”
Glancing over her shoulder, Emerald saw the cock she was getting to know so well: heavy, dusky, with a bit of a lean to the right; it stood proudly despite the scrotum beneath that seemed to be trying to drag it down by sheer virtue of its weight. That was the thing about Greg: his dick was good but his balls were something else, and they produced prodigious quantities of come. Emerald was sure they were to blame for the swiftness with which he recovered and was ready for more. Was she ready? “Oh, yes.”
“Then get down and ask nicely.”
Falling to her knees, she shimmied out of her dress and faced the object of her desire, wetting her lips. It swayed a little and Greg stroked it up and down.
“Please,” she said sincerely.
“Not good enough, doll.”
“Please, sir…” Leaning forward, she delicately tongued those big balls in their velvet pouch.
“Better.” His glans was glistening.
“I want it so much.” She kissed his bollocks and licked her way up his shaft.
“That’s ’cos you’re a slut, Emerald,” he sighed pleasurably. He was so clean from the shower that he was almost tasteless until she sucked the faintly salty precome from the eye of his cock. Putting her hands on his hairy thighs, she lost herself in the art and pleasure of giving him head. He wrapped his fingers in her hair, guiding her, unhurried. He pushed all the way to the back of her throat and when she took the length without gagging he nearly purred. “Emerald.”
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, knees splayed and ass thrust out, her mouth wrapped around his turgid cock.
“I’ve got a surprise for you.” He nodded over her shoulder.
Confused, it took a moment before she broke away and turned. There in the doorway, arms folded, stood Max with a face like stone.
“Shit!” squealed Emerald, clapping her hand over her mouth as if she could hide the fact it had just been pleasuring their flatmate’s coc
k. “Oh, shit! I’m sorry!”
“Yeah,” said Max. “You look sorry.”
She tried to scramble to her feet but Greg’s hand tightened in her hair, shoving her back down; that was such a shock she went momentarily limp. “Oh, no,” he said. “Time to face the music, Emerald.”
“You knew?” she shrieked.
“Of course he knew.” Max came into the room and hunkered down so as to be on eye level with her. “He told me what you two were planning today. He told me everything. What did you expect? He’s my mate, isn’t he?”
“But he started it!” It sounded childish even as she shouted the words, but she meant it. The furtive affair had begun one evening that summer when she and Greg had been lying out on the roof, in swimwear, listening to their MP3 players. Greg had, without warning and without a word, rolled over and put his hand square on her breast.
“Like you resisted,” replied Max.
Emerald gaped. She hadn’t resisted. She’d let Greg squeeze her tit and then pull down her bikini top to play with them both, his hand firm and slow. She hadn’t struggled or protested or even spoken, pinned to her towel by the sunlight and the glint on his opaque sunglasses, overwhelmed by his assurance. Her nipples had stiffened to his touch and her breasts had heaved to meet him. After ascertaining her response to his tweaking and pinching and kneading, he’d slid his hand down to her sex and explored that, sliding inside her bikini bottoms to find her hot wet softness, her yielding openness. And when she started to tremble and twitch he’d heaved himself on top of her and fucked her, not even bothering to remove her bikini. Then he’d rolled away and gone back to reading his Mac magazine, still without a word.