In the morning he fastened the heavy silver charm bracelet around my wrist. There was just one charm – a silver Ferris wheel. “I know you, Katie,” he whispered softly. “You’ll wear this bracelet for me, and only for me.” I did.
This Daddy gets to my heart like no one ever has. His name is Jeffrey and he’s a writer. I know all their names, of course, but he’s the only one I think of by name, since I’m not supposed to call them anything but Daddy. He ties me to the bed and tells me stories.
Sometimes he unbuttons my blouse and ties my hands behind my back and reads to me and I close my eyes and enter the warm and loving childhood I never had. A few times he’s even tied me up and talked about baseball. He says he likes the captive audience.
He tells me it’s all about power. He takes my control away little by little until it’s all real and it’s all new and it all matters. The sex is spectacular when he gets me like that – it’s like I enter another space, another realm, where only the sensual and the artistic sides of life can be seen. This Daddy knows some secrets about me that even I don’t know and it scares me more every time I see him.
There are ten charms on the bracelet now. Some of them are reminders of the places we’ve gone to – the Ferris wheel, a little sailboat, a rollerskate, a Rockies baseball cap. One of the prettiest ones is a little silver and gold pair of ballet slippers, a reminder of the night he took me to the ballet and we went out dancing afterward and he held his hands on my hips in just that way that only certain men know, making me beg him to take me home and fuck me.
The other three charms are a little more intense, from different kinds of nights when we never set foot out the door. There’s a baby rattle, a miniature dildo, and a baby bottle. I could never explain them to anyone. It’s enough to say that I was definitely doing what I loved when he gave them to me.
He’s on his way over now. He’s the only Daddy I’ve ever let come to my house. The kids are at Cheryl’s and my upstairs studio is locked up. I’ve put on the outfit he requested – red halter top, blue jean short skirt that shows my ass if I bend over, bare feet. The charm bracelet weighs heavily on my wrist.
He brings dinner, a big bouquet of my favorite orange roses, a new Van Morrison CD and a small wrapped box. I sit on his lap to open it. His hand high and hard on my thigh makes me almost forget about presents.
I open it and it’s a new charm, of course, signifying what we’re going to do tonight, just as all the others have. I hold it up to the light. “It’s beautiful, Daddy, thank you.” A tiny silver paintbrush and palette. “It’s very pretty. But I don’t understand?”
Daddy kisses me like I’m his. “Take me upstairs, Katie, To your studio. It’s time.”
Nobody ever goes in there except close friends. “No.”
Daddy finishes fastening the charm on my bracelet and wraps my legs around his waist. “Yes, baby, you’re going to let me into your life tonight. From now on, no more secrets. You’re mine.”
Only for tonight, I feel like saying, and only for a price. This is just business.
He stands up and carries me like a child up the stairs, pausing to get the studio key. “I know what you need,” he whispers.
I don’t stop him. Maybe it’s the weight of the charms or maybe it’s just the way he’s holding me with my face buried in his neck. Or maybe it’s the love I forgot existed.
He carries me around my studio and looks at every single canvas, admiring them and commenting in detail. He even seems to know something about art, thank God. But not as much as I do. I like that. He stops for a long time at the painting I made of a headstone with my imaginary epitaph on it:
KATHERINE ELLIS
PAINTER
MOTHER
DANCER
LOVER
WHILE ALIVE
SHE LIVED
I don’t think I can stand it – it’s making me cry. I don’t want this closeness, not here, not yet.
“Katie, it will all be OK. You can trust me.” He lays me down on the hardwood floor and begins to make love to me softly, gently, with his tongue, with his hands, and the kisses, the kisses, the kisses that I know will never stop until they reach down into my soul and bring me all the way out for him. Daddy unties my shirt and starts in on my nipples, teasing, twisting, biting, staying there until he knows I will feel him hard on me tomorrow. I cry softly, so softly that it feels like joy and Daddy wipes my tears away with his cock.
He straddles my face and caresses it with his cock, stroking my lips, my eyes, my cheeks, until I can’t see anything but my Daddy.
“You belong under me, baby, always.” Daddy rolls me over and lifts my skirt and enters me hard, laying his full weight flat out on top of me, pinning me to the floor, holding me down, keeping me still, giving me the force I need. When he begins to move into me, slowly at first and then harder, rolling his hips into mine, I give way to his power and I cry for my Daddy, I cry and I come and I pray that he will never stop, never release me, never let me be anywhere but here.
I fall asleep curled between his legs with his soft cock in my mouth and his hand wrapped in my hair. This Daddy knows how to hold me down, how to own me, and how to lift me, back up and give me wings.
In the morning he stands before me. “I’m leaving, Katie. The money is on the dresser. But it’s the last time.”
Oh, God, he’s never coming back.
“I’ll be here next Friday night, same time. I’m not anything to you any more but your Daddy. If you want to be with your Daddy, it has to be for love, not money.” He pauses to give me a look that melts me back into the bed. “Do you want to keep the appointment? Do you want to move forward, Katie? I’m your Daddy. I’ll take care of you.”
This is not in the business plan. But taking risks is. I rise from the bed and kneel before him, nipples tingling and heart fully awake. Do what you love. Do what you love.
“Yes, Daddy, I do.”
What will Cheryl think? Maybe she’s ready to take over the business and find out what she loves.
How to Write an Erotic Story
Bill Noble
She nibbled her way up the back of his thigh, then whispered little kisses into his crack. She loved the way the dimples in his butt hollowed when he clenched.
“Tricia, cut it out!”
Grinning made it hard to use her lips for tickling.
“C’mon, Tricia. I’m trying to write.” Garroll rolled over on the blanket, his broad face scowling down at her.
She nuzzled his pubic hair, intoxicated with the thick perfume of sex and sun. “What’re you writing?”
At Garroll’s shoulder, the screen of his laptop went black. “I’m trying to write a dirty story.”
“Really?” She traced a long line around his scrotum and watched it tighten. Penises do look like elephant trunks, she thought sleepily. She flicked the tassel of his foreskin with her tongue and eyed the response. “What about?”
“About two people lying outdoors and teasing each other.”
“Just teasing?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean, no actual fucking, no orgasms?”
“Yeah. I thought it’d be fun.”
“Who’d read a story where nobody gets to come? That’s the whole point of dirty stories.”
“No. The point of dirty stories is to get turned on.”
“Bull pucky, Garroll.” She started to catch the hairs on the inside of his thigh between her lips, working her way downwards.
“Can I read it to you so far?”
“Sure.” She put her mouth over his knee and licked. He flinched.
He rolled back and hit a key. The screen flickered to life.
Steve couldn’t decide what he liked best, Tricia’s freckles or the perfect pink Mount Fujis of her tits–
“Tricia?!”
“I can change it if you want, but ‘Tricia’ turns me on.”
“And you should call them breasts, not tits.” She let a big, warm river of air loose in his but
t crack.
– the perfect pink Mount Fujis of her breasts – “No, see, that doesn’t work. ‘Tits’ sounds small and perky.”
“Like mine,” she murmured, trailing them over his sun-warmed shoulder blades. She pressed her puss against his tail bone.
– or her long tapered thighs that were wrapped around his head. Tits or freckles, he thought, licking her sweet snatch and looking up at her dreamy grin. Even her dreamiest grin had a hint of mischief in it, he decided. Maybe it was her grin he liked best.
“That’s really sweet. It’s sexy. But he’s licking her puss. She’s gonna come.”
“No, she’s not.”
“She’s not?” She liked the out-of-focus red-gold dazzle as her hair cascaded over his brown shoulder. She French-kissed the side of his neck. He turned his face and she let their mouths melt together. After a while the screen went black again.
She pushed him over on his back and spent several minutes licking her way down his chest and belly. She took his wally in her mouth. It was just that blend of plump and soft she thought was so yummy. She sucked him way in and made swallowing moves on his wallyhead. He sighed.
“Tricia?” He was swelling, pushing past the point of resistance in her throat.
“Mmm?”
“I really was trying to write.”
“Mmm.” She started to move her head up, then down.
“Mmm,” she said, projecting the vibrations through her lips. Amazing the things you could learn in church choir. Amazing. She wondered idly what she might know how to do if she’d played the tuba as a child. She moved faster on him. In fact, she took him right to the edge, his thighs knotted and shaking, his head twisting back against the blanket.
Then she stopped.
“What . . .?”
“Maybe it’s sexier if you don’t come.” She smiled sweetly up at his startled face. His thick, dark eyebrows stitched together. She loved the way he looked when he was pissed.
He sat up and took a shaky breath. He grabbed her and rolled on top. He horsed her arms beneath her till they were trapped against the small of her back. She giggled. With her legs clamped between his, he ground his wet shaft against her clit. She struggled until the sensations overwhelmed her, then relaxed and began to mew.
“Like it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I really do.” She felt like she was melting. Her voice was an unsteady whisper.
“Good,” he said, and reached up to tap the space bar on the laptop. His fingers began to click over the keys. She tried to kiss some of the sweet, slippery taste of his wally into his mouth, but he would only let her reach his chin.
How long can you turn a woman on without letting her come? Steve wondered. What happened if you just kept her right at the edge? Would she lose interest, or would she go into orbit? In the interests of science, he was going to find out.
He never stopped sliding against her, even while he was whispering the story in her ear. It was breathtaking, the detail her senses could resolve: the ridge up his underside, his kidskin balls, the taut, twin cylinders in his shaft, that little lurch as the cleft of his wallyhead slicked over her clit. She struggled halfheartedly to free her hands. The midday heat sluiced them with sweat; their bellies made a loud sucking slurp that turned her frantic.
Would he relent eventually and put his prick in? Tricia didn’t have any way of knowing. Steve was such a strong-willed guy.
“Garroll?” Her voice trembled.
“Yeah?”
“Just come lie beside me, would you?”
He rolled off and stroked her hip tenderly with his fingertips. “You okay, Trish? I was just teasing.”
In a flash she was on top of him. She stuffed his sturdy wally into her puss and sat up. His pupils dilated. She flashed him a crooked grin, pinched his nipples.
“Hey, I thought you were really unhappy.”
“Might’ve been.” Her hips started a slow undulation. She watched him staring at her belly muscles. That had always been a big turn-on for Garroll.
She took him right to the edge once more. Then stopped moving. The laptop had blacked out, but lit up when she began to peck at the keyboard.
Once she got Steve’s thing n her snatch he forgt about teasing, though. Mn were loke that onceyou got them trned on you could do anythingg
She’d let Garroll do the spell checking later. She sat up, still holding him tight inside her, and began to use her typing finger to stroke herself. He tried to thrust, but she settled her weight onto his thighs and held him still. She began to vibrate her finger sideways across her clit. Her eyes clouded up. She clenched her muscles just often enough to hold Garroll right at the brink, but not often enough to let him come.
The laptop went black. She clicked the cover shut, and came like a stampede of butterflies. And came, again.
She aimed a mile-wide smile at Garroll’s astonished face. She slow-waltzed his wally until she felt him not quite spurting, lifted – his mouth flapped open – and then slid down hard. Poor boy. She came like the World Series. Got a thing or two to teach him about dirty stories. She came like a custard bucket. Came again. Came like Julia Roberts on IMAX. Like the 1812 Overture twice. Like nine hundred nuns in Vatican Square. Like starbursts. And higher, further, vaster still, like the bright bloom of creation opening over the void.
And again.
Pull Me in the Pullman Carriage
Helen Lederer
Karen glared resentfully at a couple of girls wiggling their way up the Edgware Road towards her, their minuscule knickers outrageously visible through the chiffon of their summer dresses.
She pulled herself together. Just because it was Bank Holiday and most other people were having barbecues in strappy vests and shorts or sex with their partners somewhere conveniently close to the M25, didn’t mean she had to curl up and die. Well not yet. Something would happen to her. It would. But then she remembered the last time Positive Thinking had brought a result.
She had noticed her friend’s brother looking at her out of the corner of her eye in the car on the way back from Ikea. The more he looked at her, the more she had re-arranged her mouth to resemble what she thought was a Michele Pfeiffer pout with wide startled-looking eyes.
Then suddenly he said, “Karen?”
“Mmmm?” She looked at him apparently casual.
“Do you know what you remind me of?”
“No,” replied Karen expectantly, opening her eyes wider and puckering her mouth like the clappers.
“A goldfish.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
Yes. She had good reason to be depressed. And last night with her flatmate hadn’t helped.
“When was the last time you had sex?” Cora had wanted to know. She was only bothering to talk to her because her boyfriend was out experimenting with male company and beer, “in case their own relationship got co-dependent”, and also because Coventry was playing Munich.
Karen made the mistake of telling her.
Cora screamed incredulously. “Five YEARS? – There’s something wrong, Karen.” And then she offered, “Have you thought about the Wrens?” after a few pitiful looks.
Instead Karen thought half-heartedly of the vibrator that had been left behind in the flat. But she knew that she couldn’t bring herself to actually use it. In any case, Cora had told Karen not to, since they didn’t know where it had been. Actually, Karen could well imagine where it had been, which was an even better reason to leave well alone.
No, she’d hang on for the real thing. Bank Holiday had to be got through with or without sex – and since it was without, she might as well catch a train.
“We all know about you and trains,” said Cora derisively. Karen bitterly regretted a previous occasion where after a few cranberry vodkas she had rashly confided that she always got turned on in a train. She couldn’t exactly account for it, but it might have something to do with the regular vibrations which seemed to speak to her vagina and get it purring. Once, on a parti
cularly long journey, she’d even had to find a loo to go in and give herself a seeing to before she exploded.
Instead of being impressed at this account of rather original sexual display, Cora had been disappointingly horrified.
“What, in the loo?” she’d asked, amazed. “On public transport?”
“It wasn’t public,” defended Karen. “That’s the point.”
“You’re weird,” confirmed Cora.
“I’m not,” said Karen. “Look at those male commuters – have a look at what they’re doing to themselves under those tables. They’re not tapping the Formica underneath I can assure you!”
But Karen could see this was not a subject to dwell on with Cora, so she justified the train journey as merely a necessary mode of transport to get her to her “friendzzz” in the country for Bank Holiday – rather than any surrogate sexual playground of orgasmic possibilities. Perish the thought.
“Is that the friend whose brother thought you resembled a goldfish?” Cora needed to know.
“I can’t remember,” said Karen. Cora really was a pain. She’d be buying a Time Out at the station to start auditioning for other flatmates as well.
“Great,” said her friend Frances when Karen had invited herself over the night before, making out she wasn’t desperate but could she come down the next day, please?
“As long as you don’t mind sharing the bed,” Frances stipulated.
“No,” said Karen truthfully. “Who’ve you got in mind?” she joked.
Frances didn’t laugh because she’d been married to Brian for a few years and had therefore lost the art of repartee.
“You’ve met her before?” said Frances.
“Not that woman from Cornwall with the caring personality?” Karen asked.
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