by Alison Tyler
Jonathan didn’t waste a second. As soon as Keith rolled away, Jonathan wrapped his dick and mounted her. Longer and slimmer than his cousin, he worked his cock in and out, long and deep. Gracie went down as though in supplication, one hand digging into the carpet while the other took up the task of rubbing her clit.
The time for patience had passed. Her orgasm was upon her almost immediately. Her whole body was slippery and rubbery and her hand was coated with the juices that smeared her pubic hair and the inside of her thighs. She suddenly couldn’t breathe and didn’t care, not when every part of her body was being rocked by her climax.
She heard Jonathan moan, felt his cock twitch where it was buried deep and squeezed by the hot muscles surrounding it.
When lethargy ebbed into a glorious satisfaction she stood, stretched, and looked from one to the other.
“You know, Mondays aren’t nearly as busy as I’d like them to be. I’m thinking a half day would suffice. If one or both of you could pop in at about one o’clock…”
As they exchanged looks she grinned.
“I’m sure I can find some use for both of you.”
SEX IN THE SHOWER
Thomas S. Roche
Naomi had always loved sex in the shower, but it wasn’t till she did it with Kurt that things went totally out of control.
She’d first gotten dirty in the shower when she lived with her parents. She’d sneaked her boyfriend Darius in with her while her parents were sleeping.
She’d soaped him up; he’d soaped her up; she’d gone down on him a little and, owing to the taste of soap, finally jacked him off instead.
He’d climaxed without losing his balance and without making a sound. Not one that could be heard over the sound of the shower, at least. There was a soft, low murmur of pleasure from Darius’s lips, but it got lost in the sound of the cascading water, and no one had heard it but Naomi.
Naomi and Darius waited till her parents weren’t home to try it again. Darius and she weren’t really “configured” to actually fuck in the shower, though. He had a very large cock and he was very tall. When she positioned herself for bent-over sex-from-behind in the shower, the angle of penetration made his cock seem to hit all the wrong spots. Naomi had to call it off.
They tried using lube. Naomi had needed it from the start with Darius, especially since she’d been a virgin. She’d gotten it free in packets from the Wallace River College, along with a pamphlet on the importance of its use—which she’d already picked up from the sex books the conservatives had been unable to ban in the college library. After she and Darius went all the way, Naomi quickly became a huge proponent of lube; the two packets it had taken the first seven times or so turned into just one as she got used to the process and became more economical. But she still relied on that one packet to make intercourse feel glorious, no matter how aroused she was. Unfortunately, the water tended to wash the lube away. It wasn’t until Naomi discovered the potential for creative use of an ear syringe that she was able to get herself good and wet enough up inside to really take it from behind and have it feel really good. She couldn’t cum—she was pretty sure she’d never be able to cum—but Darius could, and it felt awfully good in the meantime.
She would have done it every day if she or Darius had been living alone, but living with her parents made that impossible.
After she transferred to Moore State, the communal dorm showers were not conducive to that kind of adventure. In the first place, they were shrouded by nothing more than stall doors with curtains. In the second place, they just didn’t smell very sexy.
In fact, they smelled like ass, and not in a good way.
Darius was out of the picture by then, and Naomi bought a cheap waterproof vibrator by mail. It was underpowered and overloud, and after one furtive try at four in the morning when she was sure no one else on her hall was up, she threw the damned thing away. After that, when she wanted to wank she waited till her roommate was gone.
It wasn’t until years later that she met Kurt, who was considerably shorter than Darius and had a cock that pointed down. Naomi wasn’t sure why it did or what it meant, but the first thought she had when she reached into Kurt’s pants was that his cock would hit all the right spots if he fucked her from behind. Trying out her hypothesis just a few minutes later, she found considerable supporting data. His cock didn’t just point down; it pointed down and slightly to the right, which meant depending on how she jiggled her bum, his cockhead hit her G-spot at a varying angle as the lower part of his shaft, which widened slightly down its length, tugged with each deep penetration at her labia—just enough to tug them against her clit. If it had done this along the whole length of his shaft, it would have been way too much stimulation; as it was, the sensation hit her clit in a rhythmic pattern, matched to his fucking and paired with the deep, gentle stroke of his angled cockhead against her G-spot. Naomi came hard on his cock, a very first time for her on a first date—it usually took weeks for her to get warmed up to a new guy.
They had three more “dates” in rapid succession: that very Friday, the next day—Saturday—and then the next Tuesday. Getting fucked from behind by Kurt’s cock turned out to be her new favorite thing, not counting the rest of him, of which she found herself equally fond. She told him this on Tuesday—well before you’re “supposed” to say such things in a new relationship, right? But she cushioned the revelation by saying if she had to choose between bent-over sex with Kurt and everything else about him, she’d be hard-pressed to decide.
“I think you’d be shown the door,” she joked. “Everything but your cock.”
Kurt liked that.
That got Naomi thinking all about shower sex again. She still felt splendidly sexy in the shower much of the time—she just didn’t do much about it. She remembered how Darius’s cock, nice as it was, hadn’t quite hit the necessary spots to really blow her mind in the shower… but Kurt’s probably would.
That got her wondering whether she wanted her mind blown in the shower—wouldn’t she slip and fall?
She decided to risk it.
Kurt had never had sex in the shower—not “all the way” kind of sex—but it sounded good to him. Naomi kept her shower clean, and it smelled sexy—like lilacs and hyacinth. It gave him a hard-on just smelling it. Sex in the shower sounded more than good to him. So when Naomi coaxed him in and soaped him up and rinsed him off and knelt and sucked and stroked him, Kurt was an instant fan of shower sex. He came on her tits and she lathered it up before washing it away, which was hot in its own way.
And Naomi, for her part, felt a thrill as she knelt with the warmth of the cascading water on her back and the warmth of Kurt’s cum on her breasts. She kissed his balls and smelled his clean body and felt a visceral, bodily sexual response to knowing that Kurt was the kind of guy whose knees didn’t buckle when he came.
She couldn’t wait for their next shower.
It happened the next weekend, late on Sunday, after a long morning cuddle and a teasing half a blow job. Kurt wanted more, but Naomi coaxed him out of bed with a purring, “But we’re both so dirty…we should get clean.”
Naomi’s arousal was palpable as she soaped Kurt up and rubbed him down. She rinsed him good before she sucked him again; even with the faint lingering bitter sting of soap on her tongue, she could taste his leaking precum from the tip. She stroked and sucked and kissed him slowly, never letting Kurt get too far too fast, no matter how loudly he moaned. She drooled all she wanted and felt the water rinsing it away.
When she paused and looked up from Kurt’s crotch and said with a smile, “You up for fucking me?” Kurt didn’t say a word—he just took hold of her shoulders. He guided her up, turned her around, bent her over.
“Hell, yes,” he said as he slid up to her entrance.
This time, Naomi didn’t need the ear syringe—but she’d slicked herself up with lube just to be sure. The water had probably washed most of it away by then—but it didn’t matter; Kurt fit her p
erfectly.
His cock slid into Naomi easily from behind, and he fucked her gently with the soothing warm water pouring all over them.
This time his cock didn’t just hit the right spots; it hit them harder than ever.
But Naomi had been right to worry. She came so hard she almost slipped and fell. Luckily, Kurt kept his balance and steadied her. She didn’t have to stifle her moans of pleasure, and there were plenty of them—loud and emphatic.
She gave him a key to her place just a couple of days later. Their shower sex became a regular thing—every weekend morning, usually, and sometimes even on weekdays. Naomi fell quickly and hopelessly in love.
And that was before the day she came home to find out that while she’d been at work, Kurt had celebrated their three-month anniversary by installing grab-rails, nonslip appliqués—and, most importantly, a shower massager.
No question about it, Naomi decided.
This was a match made in the shower.
DEEP THROAT, DEEP LOVE
Kristina Lloyd
We were in Valentino’s Bar, first date, third martini. It was going well so I told him how, as a kid, I used to fantasize about getting tied up by cowboys outside a saloon bar.
In return, he told me when he was a kid, maybe slightly older, he used to think bondage involved two people tying themselves together. He’d thought it was like marriage but naughtier and more fun. If you did bondage with someone, it meant you loved them.
“Kids,” I said. “So sweet.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Not really.”
A new year was starting, and we didn’t want to fall in love. When the snowdrops were pushing through, we brought a little light bondage into the bedroom, still shy like the flowers. His marriage had recently ended. He hadn’t come into his own yet. He kept twirling the emptiness on his finger where his wedding ring used to be. I was worried I might be his rebound.
By the time the crocuses arrived, splashing yellow and purple across hard, blank ground, we’d moved on to more dangerous territory. He would hit me, twist my nipples, tie my wrists to my ankles and fuck me. Sometimes I would cry afterward and so would he but for different reasons. My tears were a glorious release after zoning out in that taut, trapped place of being subjected to pain. His tears were the pain of loss and fear.
When the daffodils grew tall and bright, trumpeting spring, he grew tall and bright too. His finger no longer had the pale, sickly waist of his invisible ring. Then the tulips came along, tender spears turning to heavy-headed blooms, their throats bared in offer of vulnerability. He began to care less about what I wanted in bed and more about what he wanted, which actually was what I wanted anyway. I like feeling used.
Paradoxically, he got off on me getting off, and the more he seemed to get off, irrespective of me, the more I got off. It was an unvicious circle, even when he was vicious.
Now he was sitting naked on the edge of my bed and I was on my knees between his open thighs, sucking him. I had some bondage tape in my toy box, that stuff that sticks to itself and doesn’t leave you gummed up with adhesive. He reached for it, dislodging his cock from my mouth, then said, “Hands on my thighs.”
I followed his order. The tape made a ragged squeak as he pulled it from the roll. He wrapped it tight around his thigh and my arm, bent to tear off the strip with his teeth, then repeated the action on the other side. I was left kneeling between his spread, muscular legs, my arms bound to his thighs.
“Now carry on,” he said. “All I want is your mouth, no hands.”
I continued, missing the use of my hands when I needed a backup or a breather. It made me work harder for him, made me keep going when my jaw ached or I felt a little choked. I flooded him with liquid spilling from my mouth. He sat there like a king on his throne, relishing his might.
In recollection, I think of that line from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets: Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?
But at the time there was no poetry save that of cock, spit and grunting, and the desire to take him fully in my throat. I think that’s a kind of poetry too, a space of being absorbed in a moment that language can weave patterns around but never hold.
I went far, far down. At the final push, my throat opened like a tiny gate and I held him inside me. With my gag reflex subdued, I was also subdued, at ease and wide open to him, connected and silenced. I sucked back along his length, feeling calmed, slurped on his end, then went down again.
He didn’t sound at all calm. My nose nuzzled his pubes and he said stuff like, “Ohhh jesusfuckingoh… yes, oh there, ohgodmy, ohh, ohhhh…”
His incoherence affected me as strongly as a tongue on my clit. When he came, he was so deep inside my mouth I didn’t even taste him. I drew back, coughed, and blinked tears from my eyes. “I think I’ve got come up my nose,” I said.
He laughed. I expected him to free my hands but instead he leaned to tug a tissue from a box, doubled it and pinched it to my nose. He made me blow like a child. “Better?”
I nodded. He cupped my head to his groin, stroking my hair, my arms still taped to his thighs. After a while, he said, “Remember Valentino’s when I told you what I used to think bondage was?”
“Uh-huh.”
I looked up at him as he swept my hair from my face.
“I think I was right,” he said.
HOARDER
Bella Dean
Cleeeeeeeean!” I bellowed it. I was angry, but that was because I was hot. It was hotter than fuck, and I hate heat.
“I am cleaning,” Mark said.
I stood in the center of his workroom and stared. There was…stuff as far as the eye could see. Nails in baby-food jars, loops of rope, screws, hammers, sandpaper. There was a crab bushel full of electrical wire and it appeared to be severed at both ends. Both. Ends. What the fuck was that for?
“This is not clean,” I whispered. “This is an episode of one of those shows about people who hoard,” I growled. But I pressed my ass to his workbench and tried to catch my breath. It might be insanely cluttered, but at least it was cool. No wonder this was his man lair.
I fanned myself and looked around some more. Men’s magazines, cigar boxes full of god knew what. Jars, hinges and three clocks. Three.
“Everything here has a purpose, either presently or in the future,” Mark chuckled, opening his mini-fridge. He popped a wheat beer and took a hefty swig.
“Oh, really?” I snapped.
“Really.” He handed me the beer and watched me swallow three big swigs. He was amused. Even more so when I stifled a tiny burp. Thank goodness it was tiny. Sometimes beer makes me sound like a trucker after a truck-stop diner.
“Don’t fuck with me,” I said. “It’s hot.”
“Hey, you’re the genius who declared the hottest day of the summer as cleaning day. Not like…weekly cleaning, but trucks-full-of-stuff-to-the-dump cleaning.” He finished off the cold beer.
“This room is a trip to the dump!” I knew deep down it was the heat and not him, but I couldn’t quite seem to zip my lip.
“Well, this room is staying as is.” He crossed his arms.
The cold beer and the cool room made my poor overheated body’s wires cross. My nipples spiked and goose bumps rose up on my skin.
He touched me and I bristled.
“Everything has a purpose, my ass,” I said.
“Pick something,” he said, leaning against the wall as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Which only served to anger me more.
“Pick something?”
He circled the hard point of my nipple with his fingertip. I jumped, surprised by the unexpected move. But once the surprise passed, the aftermath of that touch seared through the core of me, settling wetly in my pussy. He played dirty.
“Did I stutter?”
“The cord,” I said, cocking my hips and raising my voice. I’d show him to mess with my head like that. I was mad, not turned on. Touching me had just…confused things.
“What cord?” His eyes danced around his little den of solitude.
I barked laughter and threw my hands up in the air. “See! You don’t even know what cord. The cord in the crab bushel? It appears to be severed on both ends. So what the hell use you could have for that I’d love to know.”
“Ah, this cord?” He snagged an orange length of said cord. He waggled it at me.
“Yep.” I crossed my arms. He should just admit defeat now and help me empty this insanely full room.
The cord slithered from his grip to coil at my feet. “Damn,” he said, squatting to gather it up.
I started making a mental list of all the shit I’d clear out of this room. That was what I started doing. Until I noticed he’d looped the orange cord around my ankles, binding ankle to ankle with enough give for me to move a bit but tight enough to keep me from getting my ankles free of the loops he’d tied.
“What the fuck, Mark?” I breathed, realization already starting to dawn. “This isn’t a Boy Scout exhibition. Untie me.”
“Oh, I’m no Boy Scout,” my husband said and tugged the tie on my shorts.
“Don’t do that,” I said, but there was no steel in my voice. It was all breathy and…expectant.
“This?” He tugged once more to get a final bit of stubborn bow to pull free. “How about this?” He pushed my shorts down to my bound ankles.
Now I was standing in his cluttered mind fuck of a workroom in my pale-yellow panties. “Pull them back up.”
“What’s that? Make sure to pull these down?” He pulled my panties down lazily. Watching me with his big brown eyes as he did. Waiting to see what I’d do. What I’d say.
“Mark—”
“Shh…” He kissed me once above each knee. My legs erupted in goose bumps this time. Now I was aroused, still a bit overheated and in a cool dungeon-like workroom. My body was the definition of chaos. A fine example was the tickle of fluid I felt slipping from my pussy.