by Lori Perkins
He grinned. “By all means, take them back.”
She slid her fingers underneath the waistband and pulled the shorts down, until his cock finally sprang free. She grasped it firmly in her hand and slowly began stroking it. Aidan closed his eyes, his breath growing short.
When he opened his eyes again a moment later, he grabbed zealously at the zipper to her jeans and swiftly pulled them off of her. Her panties were next, and then their two naked bodies were pressed together in eager anticipation. She wanted to beg him to enter her, to fuck her madly, but she couldn’t find her voice. All she could focus on was his body so near to hers. A moment later, though, Aidan pushed her against the wall and lifted one leg over his arm, positioning himself to disappear inside her.
He thrust himself inside her deeply. He rocked himself into her, slowly at first, then building up speed. She clutched him to her, moving with his rhythms, almost unable to bear the bliss of his hot cock within her at last. Over his shoulder, she could see the mirror, and the image of him driving his hips forward, moving himself into her waiting body again and again. She thrust her own hips forward as much as she could, taking in as much of him as was possible.
Chloe reached down and clutched his butt with both of her hands, pulling him in closer with each thrust. Then, suddenly, Aidan put his arms around her and picked her up. Still inside of her, he carried her over to the one chair that was in the dressing room area and sat her down on it.
“Turn around,” he instructed eagerly, breathless.
Letting him withdraw for the briefest of moments, Chloe turned herself around so that she was bent over the chair. She waited zealously for him, impatient to have him driving into her again, when all of a sudden she felt him enter her from behind. He didn’t begin slowly this time – this time, he pushed into her with passionate force, fucking her with such intensity that she could not keep a loud moan from escaping her. She pushed herself as far backwards as she could, trying to press herself against his body.
Then, after one impossibly deep thrust, he paused inside of her as he came. At almost the same moment, Chloe felt her own body shake with the fervor of her climax. Together they shook, their bodies one, in a final moment of intimate passion.
Afterwards, they rested in each other’s arms, breathing heavily. She stroked his back and he kissed her hair for countless minutes, and Chloe nearly forgot that she was at work, performing a forbidden act of desire. Nearly forgot – until, that is, they heard the back door slam.
Aidan looked at her in alarm. “Someone’s in the store?”
Chloe’s eyes grew wide. “My manager. She’s back from her lunch break.”
At once, the two of them jumped up and grabbed their clothes, disappearing into a dressing room. They dressed themselves as quickly as they could, and Chloe did her best to smooth her hair out and remove the heat from her face. As soon as she felt she looked decent enough, she hurried out of the dressing room.
She began to round the corner, and almost ran into her manager.
“Sorry!” Chloe exclaimed, doing her best to act naturally.
“Chloe, I was wondering where you were,” her manager replied, taking a second look at Chloe’s appearance. “Were there any customers while I was gone?”
At that moment, Aidan stepped out of the dressing room, looking remarkably put together. He held up the pair of biking shorts that he had worn right before his moment with Chloe. “I’ll take these,” he said.
Chloe looked at her manager. “Just one,” she answered.
“Oh,” her manager responded, her eyes narrowing in light suspicion as she looked back and forth between Chloe and Aidan. “I take it you found everything you needed?”
“Yes,” Aidan responded. “You can guarantee I’ll be back for more.”
He winked at Chloe before turning and walking away.
What Counts Is How You Play The Game
By Brandi Woodlawn
Joe tapped his bat against the bottom of each cleat before stepping into the batter’s box. He held his right arm up, signaling for time, while he extended the bat in his left hand across home plate. I stood on the mound, amused by the ritual I’d seen hundreds of times in the years we’d been opponents.
“Are you ready yet?” I said.
“Almost,” he said.
He took a few practice cuts. I couldn’t help but notice that he looked less encumbered today. When he lifted his lead foot off the ground to step into the swing, his shorts rode up. The increased fluidity was explained by the absence of sliding shorts and…underwear. I averted my eyes, but felt my cheeks blush.
Joe always seemed to have trouble batting against me. I always thought it was because he was a power hitter. Guys who hit a lot of home runs tend to strike out more. Then I overheard one of his teammates razzing him about it once, telling Joe to stop looking at my tits and keep his eye on the ball. I have to admit, it was nice to know that my tits could throw off his game. But this method to level the playing field? The distraction seemed grossly unfair.
It’s not often that a petite woman gets the chance to put a stud in his place. And I did enjoy getting him all flustered any chance I got. Maybe I deserved a little payback. When I started going braless to Joe’s games, maybe I went a little too far.
It was too late to worry about that now.
“Batter up,” the umpire called.
For the first time in years, I was the one who was nervous about the outcome of Joe’s at bat.
“Let’s go, slowpoke,” Joe teased.
I put the ball in my glove and got into my stance. I tried to focus on home plate as I wound up, but somehow my eyes kept drifting back to his shorts. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the fact that the pitch brushed him back from the plate, coming in belt-high and inside.
“Ball,” the umpire called.
That was not the word I needed to hear. It caused another round of wandering thoughts. I looked at the plate, Joe’s cleats, his ankle, his calf, his knee, his thigh…ugh! I wanted to throw down my mitt and tackle him right then and there. But there are some things that just aren’t meant for public consumption and my love affair with Joe was one of them.
The next pitch was perfect. Too perfect. A real meatball lobbed right down the middle. I wiggled my hips, thoroughly disgusted with myself for giving him the perfect opportunity to send the ball sailing into left field.
My wiggling put a hitch in his stride. He sliced through nothing but air.
“Strike,” the ump called.
“Come on, Joe,” his teammates yelled. One threw his cap in the dirt. “We’re down by one. Get your head in the game.”
I took a deep breath. Don’t let him get to you, I thought. A few more pitches and this will be over.
I decided to throw the next one with a little backspin. Maybe I could get him to pop up. I threw the ball outside. Any other day, he would have chased it. Instead, he watched it sail by and smirked when the umpire indicated I’d missed.
Bastard. Joe’s smile doubled in size. I decided to take a moment and get my bearings. I called for time, took off my mitt and wiped my sweaty hand with my T-shirt. I put the mitt back and resettled myself on the mound.
There, that’s better, I thought. I put all thoughts of Joe out of my mind. I had to throw a great pitch now. I’m more competitive than I’d like to admit and the thought of losing made me shudder.
I slowed down my delivery, a deliberate attempt to get confuse him with an off speed pitch. I knew as soon as I heard the crack of the ball meeting the bat, that I had made the wrong choice. The ball hung in the air longer than it should have, or maybe it just felt that way, as the dream of winning faded as Joe rounded the bases. He tipped his cap to me when he stepped on home plate. I frowned in disgust.
“Thanks,” he said.
We lined up to shake hands. As I went through the line repeating “Good game!” to each member of Joe’s team, I couldn’t help feeling a bit of contempt building as Joe’s turn approached.
>
“Thanks for making me look good out there,” he said.
“You’re not welcome,” I said.
“Come on, don’t be that way,” he said.
“You know how much I hate to lose,” I said. “Especially to you.”
“Now, you know how I feel,” he said. “You think it’s easy getting razzed for letting you get the best of me?”
“It’s not my fault you can’t keep your eyes off my tits,” I said. “And since when do you go commando to a game?”
He laughed. “I’m sorry. Maybe that was a bit unfair. But you’re not easily distracted. I had to play to win.”
“So, how are you going to make it up to me?”
“Beer? I’m buying.”
“That’s a good place to start.”
“The bar or…”
He hesitated. If we went somewhere other than the bar, then he’d have to admit this was a date. We’d spent the last few years getting to know one another on the field or in the bar, but had never spent any time truly alone.
“…my place?” I offered. I liked the idea of being on my home turf. If things went south, I could come up with a reason to cut the evening short.
Joe arrived with beer – good beer, not the dollar swill we would have been drinking had we gone to the bar. I invited him in and was happy that he didn’t go home to shower first. I would’ve felt like a dope if he had because I hadn’t showered yet, either. We both stank of dirt and sweat. But I didn’t mind. There’s something about that earthy scent that kind of turns me on. Maybe it reminds me of the game. Maybe it reminds me of another competition I’ve yet to win.
Joe set the six-pack on the coffee table. He pulled a beer out of the cardboard container and used the bottle opener on his keychain to pop the cap off. He handed me the bottle. He opened another and I motioned for him to join me on the couch.
“You want to watch the Sox game?”
“Sure,” he said.
I grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. After a few minutes of feigning interest in the game, I decided now would be as good a time as any to lay my feelings on the line.
“How come it took you this long to find a reason to be alone with me?”
Joe smiled, “It’s all your fault. How come it took you so long to let me win?”
I punched him in the arm. “You’re a goof. I’ve really liked you for a long time. Couldn’t you tell?”
“You could’ve asked me out.”
“You’re right. I could have. I guess I was afraid that you might say no.”
“Me too.”
“We’ve wasted a lot of time worrying about what the other would think, huh?”
“No reason we can’t make up for that now.” Joe leaned over and kissed me.
He was gentle at first. But each subsequent kiss came with a little more force. Bursts of pent up passion escaped and the next thing I knew, his hand was under my shirt. As he caressed my nipples, I ran my hand along his thigh. His shorts were smooth and silky and surprisingly dry despite all the sweating we’d done. They must have been made of quick drying fabric. My shorts were made of cotton and before he had the chance to feel the damp spot near the small of my back, I decided that now might be a good time to take that shower.
I tugged a little on his waistband. “Want to hit the shower?”
He nodded.
I tugged on his shorts again to get him up off the couch. “This way.”
He followed me to the bathroom. We stripped each other of our clothing on the way. I turned the water on, waited a minute for it to heat up, and slid the door open so we could both step inside.
We soaped each other up. He scrubbed me with a poofy sponge drenched in floral scented shower gel. I decided to lather him up the old fashioned way, with bar soap rubbed between my hands, enjoying every moment, memorizing each muscle as my fingers explored his arms, chest and legs.
When I was done, I said, “Mind if I wash your hair? Or do you want to do it yourself?”
“Turn down an offer for my own personal shampoo girl? No way.”
I squirted a small dab of shampoo into my palm. I set the bottle back on the ledge and began working my fingers through his thick, brown hair. He closed his eyes and sighed as I massaged his scalp.
“You’re good,” he said. “Can I hire you to come over and wash my hair every day?”
“We’ll see. If you’re nice to me, maybe I’ll do it for free.”
“Your turn,” he said after he rinsed his hair.
We switched places. I felt a lot sexier after washing off the dust that had accumulated during the game. As the water cascaded through my hair and down my back, I felt Joe’s hands slide down my rib cage. He kneeled down, steadying himself with his hands on my hips and said, “May I?”
I nodded and parted my legs. I held my breath in anticipation of the moment when I’d feel his tongue inside me. I exhaled, moaning as he probed my labia before focusing his attention on my clit. My knees got weak and I had to brace myself against the corner so I wouldn’t fall.
“Are you ok?” he asked. “Should I stop?”
“No,” I shook my head, certain that my response wasn’t much louder than a whisper. I was having a hard time thinking about anything other than Joe’s tongue and the places it had just been.
He went back to work. It wasn’t long before my thighs began to shake and I knew if he didn’t stop then, I was going to come. I didn’t want to, not then, not without him.
“Stop,” I said as I pushed his head away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I helped him up. I kissed him again. “Just want to do something else is all.”
He didn’t protest when I slid my hand down and stroked his cock. He was already hard. I propped my foot on the ledge and guided him inside me. He grabbed my thigh with his right hand and put his left hand on the opposite hip, maximizing his leverage with each thrust.
I shivered as his upstroke blocked the warm shower spray. On the next round, his cock pressed hard against my clit and suddenly I didn’t care anymore about being cold.
“Harder,” I said.
He pushed against my hip with the next stroke and my legs began to shake.
“Faster,” I said. “I’m almost…”
He moaned before I could say anything else. A few more short thrusts and we collapsed against each other, just in time to notice the water had gone ice cold.
“Turn it off,” I said, trying to use him for a shield.
He pulled the handle back to the right. The water stopped flowing. I slid the door open and grabbed Joe a towel before getting my own.
“Thanks,” he said. “That was…refreshing.” He wrapped the towel around his waist.
“You’re welcome,” I said. I grabbed a smaller towel from the rack and began to dry my hair. The towel I’d wrapped around my body kept coming undone.
While Joe was amused with my struggle, he finally grabbed the smaller towel and said, “Let me get that for you.”
He gently squeezed the water from my hair. He picked up my comb and was about to comb my hair, when he said, “Or would you rather do it yourself?”
“Turn down my own personal hairstylist? No way.”
He worked the comb through my tangled tresses with a skill that surprised me. I have a hard time not pulling my own hair.
“There you go,” he said.
“You’re good,” I said. “Maybe I can hire you to come over and comb my hair every day.”
“Maybe if you keep throwing those nice meatball pitches, I’ll come over and do it for free.”
“You going to stop going commando?”
“Only when you start wearing a sports bra.”
“I can’t give up my secret weapon. You know how much I hate losing to you.”
Joe laughed. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? No matter who loses, if it ends up like this, we both win.”
As much as I hated to admit it, watching Joe slip back into his silky, black
softball shorts made me realize that sometimes it’s more fun not to win.
A Secret Night in Grouse Woods
by Karen Sutow
The autumn breeze kicked in through the door, bringing with it two men and a woman. I glanced up from my cappuccino, foam peppering my top lip. The taller of the men brushed past me, his thin hips nearly caressing my shoulder as he squeezed between the tables. His blue jeans hugged his ass and his white t-shirt accentuated the muscles on his back. He carried something black in his hands, though what I could not see, my view now obstructed by his friends, who had joined him at the counter.
I turned to Lacy, noticed her eyes fixed on the men, and leaned into the table straining to see them. On the left stood the man in the jeans, his back still facing me. On his right was the woman, drink in hand, her eyes taking in the room. She was petite, not more than five-foot-two, maybe five-foot-three, with short, wavy black hair – sexy yet sleek. Deep brown eyes, sculpted face. Not a lick of make-up, yet attractive as hell.
The guy on her right smiled before resting his hand on her shoulder, then said something to the other man, the one who held the black object. He shifted the object to his left hand, then ran his fingers through his short brown hair and smiled before returning his attention to the barista.
“You ever see them before?” Lacy asked.
“No. Where you figure they’re from?”
“How would I know? Probably just passing through on their way to somewhere.”
“On the way to where?” I said. “This town’s between here and nowhere.”
Lacy laughed, and I laughed with her. Almedia, with its population of 1,683, was a blip on the map. It took a good two hours to drive through the rolling hills to the nearest town and four hours to Carlton City, if the weather was good and a landslide of rocks and mud hadn’t wiped out the road down the mountain. Life was simple – folks lived off the land, neighbors helped each other out, not that gruff mind-your-own-business-and-I’ll-mind-mine kind of thinking you get most everywhere else, especially in the big cities. Of course, young folks don’t stick around long – rushing off to find something new and exciting – and the population keeps dwindling. Lacy and I are pretty much the exception, though I don’t know how much longer that will last. I feel the city calling me and I’m desperate to experience adventure. Must be a mid-life crisis or something, although I don’t know how much it’s mid-life when you’re just hitting thirty.