by Sacchi Green
I pull her against me and let her hold me. She exudes heat from every pore. “I’ll tend your wounds,” I promise, “after they’ve cooled.” I kiss her and she responds by pressing her hot mouth to mine. I can taste an intoxicating mixture of anger, fear, relief and lust, with a dash of puppy love thrown in.
As she boldly slips her tongue into my mouth, I taste the strength of the woman she is becoming. I seize one of her hands and place it on one of my breasts, hoping that she can feel my heart beating underneath. “Come,” I tell her. She understands me.
In my bedroom, I push her away while taking her glass from her so that I can place it and my belt atop my bureau. I pull off my T-shirt without ceremony. She confidently reaches around me to unfasten my bra, as though she were seducing a teenaged girlfriend. I wonder if she can guess that my body is undergoing a second adolescence, complete with menstrual irregularities and mysterious aches.
Enjoying the charade, I let her pull down my shorts and panties together so that her fingers graze my belly and hips. Her gentle touch is appallingly suggestive. We both know what she could do to me, and that seems to be the most forbidden topic between us.
I guide her to the bed where I slide onto the comforter and lie supine upon it, pulling her into a crouch that requires her to look down at me. Like an animal, she licks each of my nipples in turn. I wonder if she could possibly know what this means to me.
Didrick pulls my left nipple into her mouth and gradually increases the suction. My sighs seem to spur her on. “Baby,” I tell her softly, “I never chose to have children.” I’m not entirely sure whether I’m talking to her or to myself.
“Mm,” she answers, humming around my nipple. She suddenly withdraws and looks at me. “Did you have any by accident, Ma’am?” she asks recklessly.
I can’t suppress my laughter. “No, Didrick,” I answer. “I was careful, as all fertile women should be.” She kisses her way down my belly, either to console me for the blood-children I never had, or to remind me that I don’t need them.
I am as wet and hungry and impatient as I ever was in my youth. She approaches my core, which is both altar and storm drain, with her usual impudent humility. “Do you want me, Dr. Chalkdust?” she grins.
“You brat,” I laugh. “You don’t deserve an answer. You know I want you. More than even I can say.” I won’t say that I need her.
She responds by lightly capturing my clit between her teeth as two long fingers slide into my hot darkness, the inferno that so many fools have sought out. She reaches, she discovers, she strokes. I make no effort to hide her effects on me, and I’m not quiet.
Her tongue massages my captive clit as she fills me, both of us wanting to remain so connected forever. I come with a loud gasp, clutching her fingers inside me as I clutch her head with my hands.
Quietly smug, my suitor waits for my spasms and my breathing to subside, then she slides up and tentatively lays her weight on me, using her elbows like a gentleman. I pull her head down to the space between my breasts. We breathe together.
“Oh, Didrick,” I sigh. “Nothing can bring my puppy back.”
I can feel her spirit sinking under leaden weights of grief, guilt and resentment. “I’m sorry, Dr. C,” she mutters.
“You’re not following my train of thought, baby,” I chide her. “Try harder.” I stroke her hair. “I still have you.” I can feel the warmth of her smile.
LUSCIOUS AND WILD
Sinclair Sexsmith
Jesse plunges three fingers into Asher’s cunt, splitting her open, pushing hard past any resistance. Asher is on the tips of her toes, back arched, ass out, legs stretched long, hands and arms and cheek and even the tops of her breasts thrust against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling hotel window. She cries out. She drools and it slides down the glass, leaving a wet trail. Downtown Seattle’s skyline and Puget Sound are glittering beyond the glass, the night as clear as a realism painting, and just as romantically blurred around the edges with the damp ocean air salting the city’s lines.
“Oh fuck, oh my god…” Asher can’t much speak. She babbles words and mostly sounds, guttural and low, come from her throat. She is being taken apart from the inside out. Jesse is sweating and so sweet on Asher she can barely stand it. Even Asher’s skin is sweet: she leans in for another nibble at Asher’s shoulders, and Asher gasps and leans back into her in response. Jesse reaches around her to twist and pull on her dark brown nipples, so hard and stiff after being pressed up against the cool glass.
The hotel is sleek and modern. Mostly gray, some black and white highlights dot the room. One whole wall is windows. It was a gift, this hotel weekend where they have been holed up, giggling on the pillows and fucking leisurely, with nowhere to be and nothing to do, for Asher’s master’s graduation and her final completion of her practicum hours. Now that the summer is over, she’s even got an entry-level position at a clinic on Capitol Hill. Jesse starts her senior year of college in a few days.
But for now, there is only the two of them, luscious and wild, so eager for each other and so hungry for more.
Now that Jesse has opened up this Dominant thing, it is blooming in her like the flowers in the Arboretum after the first stripe of sun growth in March: colorful and vibrant, and made to be there.
When they first settled into the hotel, Jesse tied Asher to the bed and blindfolded her, then left her, spread-eagled, while Jesse put away their clothes and unpacked the bag of groceries they’d brought. She planned on spoiling Asher every minute of these three celebratory days and two nights. Asher kept talking, guessing, asking Jesse questions, but Jesse only answered simply: “Mm,” or “Yes, I think so,” or “If you ask for it, honey, you can have whatever you want.”
When Jesse finally felt situated, she strapped on and slid inside Asher slowly, fucking her gently and sweetly, bodies rocking together, as Asher sucked Jesse’s fingers into her mouth and Jesse touched her clit, in that soft- fast way she’d learned Asher liked, until she came.
Jesse had big plans for the scenes in this room for the weekend. And what would they do with those amazing windows? A vision started coming to Jesse as she worked out her third orgasm since the elevator.
When it was time, Jesse waited until Asher asked for it. It didn’t matter how—she just had to form the words. It was what Asher most wanted, most of the time: to be confronted with her own desire and made to look at it directly, befriend it, stop pretending like it was someone else’s want that was driving the scene. It wasn’t that Jesse was overpowered by lust and just had to take her, right there right now, though that was fun too— it was Asher’s craving for being torn up, filled up, degraded, humiliated and used that was the impetus for most of their play. Jesse loved seeing her so filled to spilling over with her own lust that she would draw courage from some unknown well and finally start bubbling with request after request.
Maybe it’s why Jesse used so much bondage—to keep Asher still and seeping in it when she finally spilled open. Being tied up is restrictive, sure, but it can also be profoundly meditative, and take someone into a safe holding where more things are possible.
Jesse loved unlocking Asher’s tongue.
She had also discovered that one of Asher’s most favorite things was for Jesse to get off. Maybe it’s that fetish for being used, but for Jesse to lower her own cunt down over Asher’s mouth, to fuck her, to jerk off over her chest or face or even right next to her cunt, and to have some spectacular orgasm, yelling and moaning, and then to leave Asher there, panting and waiting—that, that was what got Asher writhing and squirming, begging to be used again. So it was with great mutual pleasure that Jesse wracked up orgasms like points in a pinball game during their hotel weekend. She kept track, telling Asher aloud how many times it had been.
In Asher’s ear at the hotel window, Jesse whispers, “Seven, Asher. I’m all the way up at seven, and how many times have you come?”
Asher whimpers. Her clit is hard and swollen, her lips puffy and thick.
Her mouth is red from sucking.
“How many?”
“Once,” Asher whispers.
“That’s right, once. And you weren’t really supposed to be coming, were you? You just couldn’t help it?”
“I couldn’t help it! You made me do it, I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I like following your rules, I just…it was too much. I couldn’t help it!” She thrums the words in that husky low tone she gets when she is so turned on.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby. I know. It was my fault, I don’t expect to fuck you that much and not have you come…at least sometimes.” Jesse laughs a little to herself, thrilled and giddy. She strokes Asher’s cunt, every contour, every swollen slick place. She gets juicy enough as it is, but Jesse still adds more lube, more wetness. She traces lines with the pads of her fingers and uses them to pinch and apply pressure, catching the head of Asher’s clit between them, palming her whole vulva, pinching her lips together, which makes Asher squirm and shiver.
Jesse slides her fingers in again, in and out, stopping in all the spots that she knows Asher likes. “How many times are you going to come for me now, if I let you?”
“How many…times? Two. Three. Five. How many do you want me to come?” Asher’s words aren’t quite making sense, but she thrusts her hips back toward Jesse and presses her chest and cheek into the glass, offering herself up, willing Jesse not to stop.
“Five, huh? That’s a lot. Could you come on demand, if I just tell you to come right now, could you do it?”
“Could I come…right now? I don’t…really know.” Asher puzzles a little, gets distracted by Jesse’s fingers, then starts thinking again, trying to figure out how much her mind has control over her body. “Maybe? I think so. Yeah, actually. Tell me to do it! Jesse, tell me, and I’ll do it, I’ll do it for you, whenever you say.”
“Really? You think you could?” Still, in and out, slowly, with Jesse’s thumb circling Asher’s clit.
“Yes! Oh yes, I’ll show you, I can do it for you.”
“Okay, baby, ready? Come…right now.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Asher cries out, her cunt pulsing hard, pushing and contracting and pushing until she gushes onto Jesse’s hand.
“That’s one. Can you do it again for me? Can I keep going?”
“Yes, yes keep going, don’t stop don’t stop…”
“You’re so fucking hot, Ash. I love watching you like this. Come again girl, do it, let’s have it all. Now!”
“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” Asher yells, arms sliding down the glass as if she can’t hold them up any longer. Her knees and thighs shake. Jesse pushes her hand farther inside and Asher gasps, pushing her hips open.
“Two,” Jesse growls in her ear. “Keep going. Ready to do it again for me, slut? Didn’t get all you needed yet, huh? Can you do it again?”
“Yes, yes yes yesssss,” Asher moans, wetness dripping down Jesse’s hand and wrist.
“Three.” Jesse is practically giggling now, high and strong, and she could do this for hours: keep Asher poised on her fingers, begging and coming.
“Four! Please four, Jesse, please, four—” Asher begs. She squirms and tries to close her legs, trying to back off from the orgasms that still want to claim her cunt.
“Now. Do it,” comes Jesse’s reply, low and growly at Asher’s neck. Jesse bites at her earlobe and Asher throws her head back to rest on Jesse’s shoulder, sighing, breathing, still moaning those sounds from her throat.
“One more,” Jesse reminds her. “One more, and then we’re all done. Can you do it again?”
“Nooo, no Jesse, I don’t think I can, I don’t know…it’s too much, I can’t.”
“You can do it. Remember how you told me five? Actually, you said, ‘How many do you want me to come,’ but I want five. So five it is. That’s one more.” Jesse makes the gentlest circles over Asher’s swollen cunt, soft and fast on her clit, that way that she likes.
“I can’t, I can’t, Jesse…oh god, oh my god, oh my fuck fuuuuck…” Asher trails off and comes again, legs shaking, body humming, throat humming, practically sliding all the way down the window to the floor if it wasn’t for Jesse’s leg in between hers. Jesse holds her up for a moment, then lets them both collapse down, catching Asher in her arms and wrapping around her naked body as she shivers and settles.
“I can’t believe you made me! You. You! Are incredible. I love you.” Asher nuzzles into Jesse’s shoulder, and Jesse braces herself against the bed to hold them both upright. They laugh and talk and stroke each other, doing that postfucking, hazy, loopy thing where everything is hilarious and important.
Eventually, Jesse says, “My foot’s asleep. And also, want some food?”
Asher lights up. “I’m starved. I feel like I have never eaten before ever. I want all the things!”
Jesse starts untangling, and moves to stand. “Oh that’s good, because we bought all the things at the grocery store before we came. I’m hungry too. C’mon, let’s get up. You okay to stand?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Asher reaches up for Jesse’s arms and accepts help to get steady on her feet.
SMORGASBORD
R. G. Emanuelle
Renee surveyed the smorgasbord on her dining room table. Truffles, spreads and pestos of various colors, and buttery vegetables were laid out within reach.
She stuck a finger in the hummus and scooped some out. With the very tip of her tongue, she tasted it, then flung it onto the canvas. She regarded the splatters for a moment, then scooped up a handful of steamed baby peas and dropped them, one by one, over the pesto.
She stepped back and stared at the canvas. No, this wasn’t right. She rubbed her forehead, hoping to dispel both the headache and frustration of the past two weeks, filled with fits and starts on this project.
Renee sighed and decided that she needed a break. She’d go to the art show she’d been invited to. Quickly, she threw on something clean and presentable and left her project in the dark.
Renee walked around the gallery, briefly studying each piece displayed on the walls. She was more captivated by the bold Malbec in her hand and the Manchego at the cocktail station.
After an hour, she began looking for a way to escape unobtrusively. But there was only one exit, and the artist was squarely in front of it.
A thick blanket of pretentiousness in the room was smothering her and she decided to step outside for air. The gallery’s garden was flanked on two sides by large oak trees, and stone benches dotted the perimeter. Chinese lanterns illuminated the area with a soft light.
The garden was usually a popular place for people who needed air or a smoke, but tonight there were only three others, and when Renee walked out, two of them went back inside the gallery.
A lone woman sat on a bench, sipping a glass of red and staring at a vine of climbing roses. Her hair was set in two braids of black with streaks of blood red through them, echoing the wine in her hand. The movement of her breathing made her glass sparkle with refracted light.
What to say to such a beautiful woman? Maybe she was hungry. A good woman never refused food.
Renee dashed back inside and moved quickly through the crowds of art lovers until she spotted a server holding a tray. The server smiled and lowered the tray. “Mushroom en croute?”
“Yes, please.” Renee took a napkin, picked up two of the little dumplings, and returned to the garden. Back outside, she took a deep breath and walked over to the woman. She was now looking at a stone fountain sculpted into a female figure in flowing robes, emptying a bucket into a pool.
Renee approached her cautiously, not wanting to startle her, but did anyway. The woman jumped a little as she turned. “Oh!”
“I’m sorry,” Renee said, feeling a bit startled herself. “You looked like you could use a little something.” She held out the napkin with the mushroom en croute, slightly smashed. She hadn’t realized that she’d squeezed them. “Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “I’m really sorry. These were good-looking a minute ago.”
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br /> The woman chuckled. “It still looks good, just a little more… rustic.”
Renee’s heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t often she met a woman at these functions who had a genuine sense of humor.
“Thank you.” The woman took one of the hors d’oeuvres and shoved the entire thing in her mouth, then daintily whisked away the flaky crumbs around her lips. Not what Renee was expecting, but cute.
“Well, how is it?” she asked.
“Not bad. Try it.”
Renee popped the other one into her mouth. “Mmm.”
“I’m Delilah.” The woman put her hand out.
Delilah? How poetic.
“Renee.” She shook Delilah’s hand.
“Do you want to sit?” Delilah scooted over.
Renee sat, suddenly aware that she had lost her Malbec. She motioned a server who was going around with Bellinis. When she’d gotten one, she asked, “So, what do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Are you covering the installation?”
“No. My coworker scored me an invitation. I have a food column in the Tribune.”
Renee turned toward her. “The Tribune? You’re Delilah Ramsey? I read your column all the time.”
Delilah blushed. “Thanks.” She scanned Renee’s hands and arms, crossed loosely against her chest, and stopped at her face. Renee could feel each part turning red, as if Delilah were searing her skin with her gaze.
Renee gripped the carved stone beneath her to keep from sliding off. Delilah’s green eyes were deep and multilayered, with hints of wisdom, like she’d lived twenty lives.
“Are you a foodie?” Delilah asked.
“I suppose.” Renee chuckled. “I work with food.”
“Really? Are you a chef?”
“No.”
“Then how so?”
“I use food as part of my art.”
Delilah’s eyes narrowed a bit and her voice lowered when she said, “I’d love to see some of your work.”