Asarotica

by Asa Akira

  When welts lined my flanks and both cheeks of my ass, he pulled me to the bed by the hair and came down pressing with his wrist against my throat. He held me down hard. I lifted my chin to give him room. His eyes watched mine. On the pullback I was met with a heavy wall of blood rushing on lungs, my chest kicking and heaving for air. I could feel the night. There were the light shafts shifting through the glass and the ridge of the mountainside pushing up. The colors were notes that descended a scale from the lunar pale of the moonlight to the watery blues that deepened down into black. They each had a name. My skin tingled along the tracks where he’d touched. The trails were proof of life. Now he was moving against me hard and fast with his chest flush with mine, sweat sliding between us as his mouth brushed against my ear with the stream of low-pitched words that he spoke. When he’d gone dry of words they faded to whispers, small syllables thrust in time to his movements whose sounds eventually were no longer words but the weight of his own laboring breath as he moved his mouth down the side of my neck and bit into my throat. The skin below him burned with the suction he built into blood darkened marks. He pulled me back gasping, grabbing my gaze with a force that stopped my lungs. He wrapped my neck in his grip. Pushing back, I moved my chin towards the sky to give him room. There we stayed, locked in a single outcome, hung now on the dull slush of blood rushing on lungs, blind fingers searching the blackness for air, screaming with that growing need as my eyes became hot and my veins thick and his eyes too became fevered burning with a hungered pitch. He inhaled first before he let me breathe. He said a word. When I sucked in, I took the air that came from him.

  Every bottomless breath poured in louder than the last. What rushed in with the oxygen would cause me to pull him closer and need it again. There was ascension. There was the high at the edge of death and the last prayer that the soul casts in for the body before it leaps. There was the indiscriminate outline between my shadow and the dark. There was the ether. I pulled his hand back to my throat and he removed it. I pulled again.

  Push me.

  His eyes narrowed and he pulled back, smacking me sharply across the cheek before he grabbed my face and pushed his fingers in, cradled the angle of my chin into his palm. Dully I tasted the blood flow where my teeth reopened the cut that lined my cheek. I parted my lips and pulled his tongue in too.

  With a hand hooked behind my head he brought his forehead to mine. His movement slowed and his eyes stayed even with mine, held mine, pushed through mine with the same deliberations that his body made, the quiet ebb and flow of the flesh pushing into the pull and retreating, coming back again, the steady build of feeling rising to a tipping point, the exhilaration of the cliff’s edge, that pinnacle atop descent.

  He pulled his head back and spat.

  The heat of his mouth ran streams across my cheeks and through my hair. A string hung down from his lips and he let it, his jaw pushed forward, his gaze hard. I stared back. He spat again, then dried his lips against his arm. He cupped a palm on my hip and sunk his fingers in before flipping me over, shoving my face down, wrapping my hair again into his fist as he leaned forward with a forearm strung under my waist. With a sharp jerk he pulled my ass up and my head back at once, shaping me into the form he wanted, creating me before he thrust, and I braced by pushing into him too and gripping the sheets with my teeth. Where his lips touched my back he bit down and he held, pulling air across my skin when he sucked in. His teeth left individual impressions in rough parentheses, surrounding the spidering of broken veins and the curling lift of broken skin. His skin was hot and he trembled. I arched deeper into him and he pushed in turn, feeling for the heated center between us. He stayed there, teasing the edge of it, dipping in and pulling out without submerging, dangling the promise of it. In another breath he pushed me back.

  I curled fetally and begged for him. I needed him most then. I needed him to do worse, and I needed more. He responded to the way my words cracked with the rawness in my throat. Rising up on his knees, he put a hand on his cock and extended the other in my direction, luring me forward while he made small strokes at the head of his cock as if treading, holding himself in some place far above me. My begging came through in a low rocking voice. I set myself in front of him. There he watched me as his hands inched slowly along my back, smoothed over the bites and the welts, the long thin red lines left in the wake of where his fingers had dragged on my hips, holding the heat in, leaning back against the wall that held him in. He stopped. The room darkened with the moon as it passed behind a cloud. Wind kicked up just past the glass, howling through the gullies down below. It sounded like the scream of something caught and then it stilled. Both of us breathed.

  The moonlight was moving again when he lifted his hand with a wave of force. He came down heavily, fist forced against the muscle of my ass. His eyes glinted at the feel of that. He raised his fist again and struck, again and again, frenzied, building his force and his speed until without warning he stopped and pulled me up to eye level by the throat.

  “Tell me you’re mine.”

  Yes. I said, “Yes yes yes yes yes yes,” in a low murmur. I lost the precious last of the air in my lungs with each word as he lowered me back down and dragged me again by the hair back to the water still steaming and spitting in the shower, pushed me under the stream and cleaned my face as he demanded again, “Are you mine? Are you mine? Say it.”

  “Yes. I’m yours I’m yours I’m yours I’m yours.”

  The words came broken through the spit strung on my lips.

  He dropped me down to my knees. My skin scraped on the tile. I opened my mouth to reach him and he shoved me back.

  He made me stay.

  The floor was cool and it seeped in through my skin. Outside the night air was cooler still. There was just that glass to hold it back. I imagined looking into that blackness every night. I thought of my palm against the glass, the shape of the print it would leave. Was there a finite amount of heat you could take from a body? The clouds shifted again and blocked out the moonlight before they moved on further. Something with talons and wings soared up against the sky but made no noise. The only noise was in that room.

  “Mine,” he said, his hand gripped thickly on that length. He watched me.

  I nodded, face tilted up for him, waiting.

  He kept me there as the faint bit of moonlight caught in his eyes. His eyes held mine. With a heavy hand he turned the faucet and the water died. The world was silent now outside of my whispers, pleading, my hands clasped at my elbows behind my back, the world was silent around the edge of my mouth barely moving with the words. I tasted blood. The taste was mixed with his. I could feel the heat coming off his skin. The one thing he couldn’t will away was his own dogged heat. He had a hand on his cock.

  “What would you do for me?”

  “Anything.”

  “Anything?”

  I nodded again.

  When he spilled it fell across my face and my scalp, gathering in wet ropes and gaining speed down my chest and back and making pools at my knees, hot wet piss spreading as he said to me, “Mine.” I leaned forward and into it, taking everything he would give me, whispering as it gushed in through my lips and my mouth, as it followed the lines of my upturned jaw, whispering with only the movement of the push of air up against the back of my lips and with the strain of my vocal chords trying not to stretch in my throat, whispering, “Please.”

  When he was done, he held my chin between his thumb and forefinger and moved my face side to side in the moonlight. After a long calm look he pulled me in. Guiding my mouth onto his cock he made a few thick strokes before he came and I swallowed that, too.

  THE FAMILY TRIO

  BY TASHA REIGN

  “Happy Fourth of July, Rachel!” my bestie Annabelle yelled.

  It was a perfect day in Malibu (or “The Bu,” as my friends and I called it): eighty degrees, the sun shining, dolphins sporadically jumping out of the water. I was twenty-six years old and had finally grad
uated college. Armed with a Masters in Journalism, my dream job as the editor of a small hipster magazine called Millennials Now awaited me, and I celebrated with my friends—more friends than anyone could ask for. I was grateful, blessed, and every high emotion in between. Mostly.

  Intellectually, I understood it was 2016, and that a boyfriend wasn’t a necessary component to happiness. But I’d grown up with the Disney movie idea of romance and the hope remained that a dreamy prince would one day sweep me off my feet.

  Plus, I was a total perv. Every time I met someone, I couldn’t help but picture them getting fucked, or giving it to someone in the back of an alley. Despite my sunny California upbringing, I was super attracted to the hardcore, vulgar sexuality of life. I was even a closet porn fan—the medium was a great way to get my fix of the strange and unfamiliar. Only my close friends knew about my … hobby.

  On that particular, glorious summer day, I was basking in the ambiance of the oceanfront mansion to which I had been invited—designer cocktails, delectable appetizers, and of course, the hottest bachelors in all of Los Angeles county. They were literally tall, dark, handsome … and rich.

  It was a tradition every year for Annabelle’s parents to throw this soiree, and it was my tradition at this annual gala to make an appearance looking my best, and socializing like a true pro. This year, however, I would be looking to score, and at five-foot-seven, with long blonde hair, bright green eyes with a just hint of a blue, and the best boobs ever, I could get any man to notice me, even if I was dressed in a burka. Not to brag or anything, but I was a total smoke show.

  As I walked around, strutting through the glamorous mansion, I immediately caught the darting pale blue eyes of a hottie I had never seen before—and trust me, I would have noticed. I’m talking six-foot-four, sun-bleached blonde hair, and glowing tan skin like he had just returned from St. Tropez. The young man was dreamy. As he approached me, my heart started to race and my nerves took over. Confident as I was, I became a liquid puddle of ice cream that had melted in the sweltering heat. He had beautiful full lips, and soft poreless skin that I just wanted to kiss right there in the open, in front of everyone. Then it hit me: this was the trust fund kid that all the high school girls had been talking about! He was new in town, and the fresh heartthrob of Malibu High. And he was nineteen.

  As he reached out his huge hand and introduced himself as Tristen, I knew I would let him have me. As soon as we touched, I wanted him to take me, in every position, in every way, at the hardest and roughest speed. This was my going to be my Summer Fling, I was certain.

  Because I was so picky with dick, the last few months had been a dry spell for me. Also, I had gone through most of the suitable guys in my social circle, and I wasn’t interested in revisiting any of them. My recent motto was that life was short, and it was meant to be lived. And by lived, I meant I would fuck who I wanted, when I wanted.

  I was 100 percent certain Tristen knew I was DTF. We didn’t make small chat, there were no subtleties exchanged, he just began undressing me with his gaze. The eye-fucking left my pussy dripping wet—well, the sun was a contributing factor, but I was imagining step-by-step what I was going to do to this young stud.

  Then it hit me—I needed to play cool. I was quickly losing my game, and I was not about to have a nineteen-year-old do that to me! I walked away in my most powerful, independent-womanstrut across the party, and retreated to Annabelle’s boudoir.

  Annabelle was similar in height to me, skinny, with big brown eyes and long luscious chocolate colored hair down to her tits. I would have bent her the fuck over and licked her tight pink pussy right then and there. If I wasn’t straight, I mean. Anyway, I excitedly grilled her for deets about Tristen.

  She wasn’t thrilled. Turned out he was the son of her parents’ friend Ethan. She wasn’t one for fraternizing with her parental units’ friends in that capacity, and moreover, she didn’t approve of his age. She sighed at my usual ridiculousness.

  “He’s legal! Don’t you roll your big beautiful eyes at me,” I argued. The strategic compliment mitigated her reaction. See, I had learned early on to play that card, because you could eventually train your friends and family to let you get away with murder, and—not that this fell into that category—I was ready to jump Tristen’s bones regardless of what she said, and Anabelle knew it. She asked just one favor from me.

  “Rachel, please don’t fuck Ethan, Tristen’s father. I know he’s your type and he’s downstairs.”

  I was grossly offended. First off, as if I would bang some old dad. Second, I wasn’t just going to hook up with my best friend’s parents’ friends. But I kept my composure and agreed that I would keep my hands off Ethan. I took a swig of vodka from her flask, and returned to the party on a hunt for some party favors.

  And there he was: Ethan, sipping his whiskey and chatting up all the other pretentious parents at the party. Not only was he everything a woman could ever desire in a man—he didn’t look like any father I had ever laid my eyes on. Sexier than Tristen, even. But Ethan didn’t really look like his son: he was tall too, but a sandy brunette, not as tan, very built. He looked early thirties, but I’m sure he was more like early forties and he had something about him that seemed so distinguished. Like he had just gotten back from the Hamptons and was gracing us with his presence for our country’s birthday.

  Immediately, I understood why Annabelle didn’t want me to even meet him. My whole life, I had seen a vision of what my future husband would someday look like, and well, this was it. With a little liquid courage in my belly, I approached him and introduced myself with a strong, assertive handshake that I knew could only mean one thing: he was an assertive lover.

  “Hello, Rachel,” he said, his stunning brown eyes piercing me. “I’ve heard a lot about you and I’m fascinated.”

  Um, was he coming on to me? I would have thought the whole thing was going to be more discreet, but I could feel the chemistry and his game as soon as I shook his hand. We traded a few inside jokes about some of the Bu MILFs, with their new swollen lips and botched plastic surgeries. I touched his wrist, pretending to admire his Rolex, and he complimented my tight white dress and brand new Loubs. It was clear we had a connection.

  I caught Annabelle glaring at me in my peripheral vision. I tried to tune her out, but now that I noticed her, and felt her, I couldn’t ignore her wince. The thing is, though, it wasn’t really fair; I hadn’t realized what type of beast we were dealing with. The bitch should have known better than to make me lie to her.

  Ethan wrote his number down on a napkin and slipped it into my hand, and I smiled with confirmation that I would use it, that his cock would soon be deep inside me. The smile he returned suggested he knew it, too.

  I lingered by the dance floor where some of my other friends were dancing and I joined in, showing off my curves and semisexy moves. I wanted Ethan to notice, but he had disappeared, as if he were never there in the first place.

  Just then, I noticed Tristen right in front of me, moving closer with every beat to the tranquil French music playing in the background. Grabbing my hand, he asked to dance. Inspired by his confidence—and the exchange with his dad—I did some fancy move I’d learned in my cotillion days and off we went.

  I suddenly felt all eyes on us, and, perhaps because of a few nasty looks, thought we were being judged because of our age difference. But I didn’t let that stop me. We kept up our naughty behavior until I finally dragged him out to the patio for some conversation. I tried my best to concentrate as he filled me in on his life in Connecticut and his transition to the Bu, but all I could think of was his chin scraping my legs. I stole his phone and typed in my number, texting myself a heart emoji so I would have his, and then promised him he would see me again soon. Little did he know, I meant that night.

  As I gave him a kiss on the cheek, I felt a sudden rush of excitement between my thighs and imagined how bold it would be if I grabbed his throbbing dick through his white trunks, getting i
t all nice and hard for me. And then I had the best idea—I was going to have to a threesome. Not just any threesome, but, by the end of the night, I was going to get Ethan in one hole and Tristen in another. The question now was just how?

  I returned to the party and made small chat with the other partygoers, but as my mind drifted off to my future romp with father and son, the wet spot in my tight bikini bottoms under my dress became even wetter. Fearing my premature ejaculation was obvious, I excused myself to take a dip in the glittering infinity pool.

  Annabelle and I had known each other almost our entire lives. We were like sisters without all the jealousy. How was I going to ask her permission to perform such a scandalous act? I imagined she would eventually get over it. Truth be told, she probably wouldn’t expect anything less of me. Even if I divined the conquest would take place at, say, her house ….

  The house has about eight rooms, three of which were taken by her, her parents, and the housekeeper, leaving me with plenty to choose from. While scoping out the bedrooms and judging where they were in relation to one another, I came to the conclusion that I didn’t need to do the deed at her house. Rather, the boys’ house.

  I texted Tristen. Hey babe, let’s meet at your place in an hour! What’s your address? xoxo

  The typing bubbles popped up almost immediately, and he responded eagerly. Sounds good babes, 5535 Beach Way Rd., see you soon!

  He knew it was going down. He just didn’t know the details. Next, it was time to text Ethan. I was still not entirely sure how I would go about pulling off this little stunt. I mean, I had dabbled in the world of sketchy before, but this was beyond that point, right? Whatever, I was on a mission. I ran upstairs and carefully typed in Ethan’s phone number.

  What’s up baby cakes, he replied. Just lounging by my pool, I had one too many cocktails and I am ready for my own little BBQ, are you still there?