by Violet Blue
It seemed only minutes later when the phone startled her awake. She pushed her hair out of her face and fumbled with the receiver. “ ’lo?”
“Good morning, sleepy girl.”
She glanced at the clock. 7:45 A.M. “Hey, Sam. What’s up? How’s your trip going?”
“I’m fine. I was worried when you didn’t call last night.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I tried to call, but I think I wrote the number down wrong,” she said, feeling only a fleeting sense of guilt.
“That’s all right. I’ll send it to you in e-mail later. Everything all right?”
“Fine.” She yawned. “But I need to get in the shower. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Sure thing. I love you.”
“Love you, too.” No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang again. She picked it up and said, “Forget something?”
“You’ve got the wrong person again.”
A shiver danced up her spine. “Sorry, Michael.” His name slid so easily off her tongue. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
“Amazing thing, Caller ID. I hope you don’t mind.”
She shook her head, amused and turned on at the same time. “Seems only fair, since I woke you up last night.”
“Busy?”
She looked toward the bathroom. She needed to take a shower and get dressed. She was supposed to be in a meeting at nine-thirty. She snuggled back under the covers and spread her legs. “Not really.”
“Good. Because this is an obscene phone call.”
PLAY SPACES
Scarlett French
dressed carefully, you and I. You couldn’t decide which shirt—the blue or the burgundy; I fussed over whether to wear a corset or a simple silk slip, eventually deciding on the sensual choice. The attention to detail, of course, provided a distraction from our nervousness about the evening ahead. We finally finished dressing and preening, and pulled on our coats. The cab we’d ordered honked from the street below, and we scurried out the door.
You say it was my suggestion, but I say it was at your instigation. However it happened, we found ourselves being delivered to a catacomblike address near London Bridge. As we climbed from the cab a slight panic rose in me, but a thrill too, at the anticipation of what lay in store for us. You seemed calmer, but when you turned and smiled at me I saw that you were apprehensive too. Neither of us had been to something like this before.
We entered and showed our tickets, then were directed to push our way through plush red curtains to a cloakroom area where we deposited our coats and bags. As I straightened up from adjusting the straps on my heels and smoothing my slip, I caught you looking at me with a shine of pride. I smiled at you, gorgeous in the blue shirt you’d finally settled on, your hair brushed back but falling forward in that accidental way. You grabbed my hand, a little too tightly, and we proceeded through another pair of luxurious curtains.
On the other side, an extensive bar served several alcoholic drinks from huge bowls in addition to the usual beer, wine, and spirits. We ordered a honey punch each, then stood, sipping with an affected nonchalance and watching, like so many others. This was the neutral zone. We saw many people relaxing on sofas, getting into the feel of the evening before heading through to the other rooms. You looked to me to check in and I nodded that I was fine. Erotic images faded into one another on several wall-mounted screens, setting the tone. We saw a couple of people drift off in the direction of the rooms, so we downed our drinks and decided to follow them.
For the most part, the dimly lit rooms ran off a central corridor, allowing for exploration while reducing the foot traffic of people simply passing through. Jazz electronica played softly throughout the play spaces. We went into the first room. As our eyes became accustomed to the dark, red ambience, we noticed three people in the corner on a collection of huge satin-covered cushions. Watching them, I saw that there were two women and one man. They were writhing about and getting into another position, having obviously been playing with each other for a while. As we continued to watch, one woman lay back in the pile of cushions and spread her legs. The other woman buried her face between the first woman’s legs and began to lick her, while swaying her ass in the air. Behind her, the man grabbed a condom from a box on the wall and rolled it over his erect cock. He entered her very slowly, guiding his cock in. As she continued to go down on the woman in the pillows, the man began slowly thrusting behind her, his hands firmly gripping her hips. All three were sighing with pleasure. I felt you grow hard behind me, your erection throbbing against my barely covered ass.
Against the other wall, a couple were touching each other, evidently inspired by what was happening in the corner. I had never seen anything like this before, never been in the same room as other people having sex. I was so wet you could have fucked me right there, standing behind me. You could have lifted my slip and entered me, and I would have been utterly ready. I backed up against your crotch so you’d know, but you leaned forward and whispered, “I suspect we could stay here all night, but let’s see the rest of the rooms first and then decide where we want to be.” I hated to wait for pleasure, but I had a sense that you were probably teasing me now to heighten it later, so I agreed.
We slipped from the room and headed down the corridor. Exploring the other rooms, we found a variety of sex acts going on. In one room, a man was being mercilessly spanked with a wooden paddle by a woman wearing a rubber dress; in another, four people seemed to be licking each other in some kind of group tongue-bath activity; fucking was happening in most rooms in various positions. Throughout the play spaces, a scattering of single men were watching and jerking off. In a fur-covered room, a couple of women were kissing and touching each other, which looked like a lot of fun, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be the subject of some stranger’s jerk-off session.
You and I stood against a wall and whispered our preferences to each other. It turned out that we both wanted to go back to the first room and make something else happen there. But I had also seen a room with a partition inside the door and a sign that read, “Women-only space.” A smaller sign below read, “For breast appreciation.”
“Would you mind if I take a moment?” I asked. You smiled and kissed me, displaying another side to the trust between us. I kissed you back deeply, playing my tongue against yours, and drifted beyond the partition to the women-only space, our hands, then fingers, breaking contact at the last moment.
It was almost completely dark in the women’s space except for tiny pink lights twinkling on the walls. With only silhouettes visible, I felt hands brush against my body as I walked further into the room. As my body was touched and hands traveled up to caress my breasts, I reached my hands out too, feeling a firm, slight body, then a softer, curvier one, feeling breasts of different shapes—through satin, through silk, and bare. A finger curved over my nipple, causing a surge of sensation in my already very sensitive clit. I responded in kind to the breasts before me and heard a sigh of pleasure, knowing that upon leaving the room I would have no idea who I’d touched, or who had touched me. My pussy clinched at the thought. I moved in further, making my way slowly around the darkened tangle of women, my nipples leading the way.
When I rejoined you, you whispered that I looked flushed, that you could see I enjoyed my time in the women’s room, that you wanted to play with me now, bury your face in my luscious pussy, fuck me, make me come. I took your face in my hands. We kissed for a long time, drinking of each other. I wondered why we ever stopped kissing each other like this when we got home from work. Your kisses were magic and never failed to warm me up, even after a bad day. We held hands and walked back through to the first room, dancing our fingers on each other’s palms as we went. Once back in the first room, we settled on a pile of cushions in the corner opposite the man and two women. They were languid now; sipping drinks and lying across one another, talking softly and laughing.
The music had been changed to a breathy, rhythmic tune which fitt
ed the mood perfectly. I snaked my hand along your leg and up to your cock, which was rock-hard and faintly pulsing. I began to rub at your crotch, contemplating what I’d like to do with you, but I felt suddenly self-conscious and looked around to see if anybody was watching. A man had sat down in the center of the floor, cross-legged. He was masturbating slowly but seemed to be in his own world, taking in the sensual environment rather than anything in particular. A couple stood in the doorway fondling each other, but they were watching everything in the room, not just us. I relaxed a little and turned back to face you.
“You okay?” you whispered to me.
“Yup, and I want to do this. How about you?”
“What do you think?” you whispered, your eyes pools of desire.
“I believe I was here,” I said, as I placed my hand back on your hard bulge. You sighed and your pelvis twitched upward.
My pussy began to clinch with want—we’d been waiting for this all evening. You wrenched open your button fly and yanked your trousers down to your thighs. Your cock sprang out in the process, then stood erect and perfect in the half-light. I straddled you immediately and slipped my tiny silk undies to one side, preparing to sink down on your cock and envelop you inside me. You reached forward to steady me, then brought your hand under the silk top that covered my thighs, providing some degree of modesty in this rather unusual situation. You reached your hand up and slid your fingers over my slippery clit, flicking gently and rhythmically, making me spasm softly and cry out. With your other hand you rubbed my nipples through the silk, each in turn. I couldn’t help but pant, and as I vaguely surveyed the room through the pull of desire, I saw that several people had gathered to watch. Though less brazen a show than the earlier performance by the three in the corner, we were a show nonetheless. Unexpectedly, I found myself turned on now by the attention. I didn’t want to be approached, but I found I did want to be watched. I looked at you and, reading me, you gave me a knowing smile, delighted by my change of heart as I hovered above you.
As you brought your fingers to your mouth and licked my juice from them, I heard a sigh behind me. We smiled at each other then, and I raised myself up, reaching back to steady your cock from its base. I moved your dick back and forth over my clit and wet hole until the head was covered with my juice. Around the room, I heard other slippery, rhythmic sounds. I was so fucking horny—and I was even more excited by the thought that I too was performing in this symphony. Deliciously slowly, I finally slid down, enveloping your shaft in my hot, throbbing pussy. Both of us took sharp intakes of breath until I settled down at the base of your cock and rocked back and forth a little to find the right angle. As I lifted myself up for the first time, then plunged back down, I felt you raise my slip so that those behind us could have a clear view of our fucking. I felt my pussy engorge further around your hard cock and juice streamed from me, making my thighs slippery. Your thrusts felt like heaven. In response, I brought my chest down to yours and stuck my ass right up in the air so that the audience behind us could get a proper porno view of your meat filling my cunt. I could hear the panting behind me increasing, just like my own, and yours. I loved this display—who would have thought I had an exhibitionist in me? I reached around and played with your balls while sliding up and down, building my orgasm. From the sound of your cries, your orgasm was building too.
It was a reminder of how much sex can be in the mind. This position was built for observation more than pleasure, and we would never have done it at home, but here in these rooms, it was the payoff to get the thrill of exhibitionism. I wanted people to get off watching us fuck—it made me feel sexy and powerful and even generous.
I heard an orgasmic sigh alongside us and turned to see a man standing nearby, a beatific smile on his face, among several others who had ventured closer. Noticing now that quite a crowd had gathered, some of whom had peeled off to be sexual together, I felt myself being pulled toward our orgasmic finale. I dropped the exaggerated position as I began to realize that there was something genuine and sexually honest happening in this room. From the beginnings of arousal, nervousness, and then performance, something organic was happening with this group of people. I knew then that I didn’t need to objectify myself, or our sex, in order to participate, to feel sexually powerful, to be desired.
You must have been watching me, because you reached up and stroked my cheek, ever the listener—even of my thoughts. Our sex took on a more intimate tone, though it still felt welcoming of our observers. We slid against each other and I rocked and rocked on you until I felt my orgasm begin and spread in my belly. When it came it was surprisingly gentle, yet deeply moving. Yours followed immediately; you always get off on me coming. We held each other for a long time afterward.
Eventually, we drifted back through to the bar. For us, the rooms were somehow more the domain of anticipation than languidness. We had agreed on the need for some space now, and a cooling drink. A bartender brought over two extremely tall glasses filled with vodka, fresh lime juice and muddled mint. The ice crackled as I sipped, contemplating the evening.
“I can’t believe what we just did,” I said finally, flush-faced and a little proud.
“I can,” you said, grinning, making circles on my thigh with your finger. The expression on your face became pensive then. “We’re so lucky to have each other.” Your eyes had that earnest look that makes me want you.
“We sure are, lover,” I smiled. “Tonight hasn’t just been a horny evening—in a way it’s revealed what was already there between us.”
“Exactly!” you exclaimed, “And that is why we’re lucky.”
“Then take me home for more,” I purred, holding your gaze.
You didn’t need to be asked twice. You stood and offered me your hand. The diamante buckles on the ankle straps of my heels sparkled as we crossed the floor and disappeared through the plush curtains, heading for the coat check.
VOICE OF AN ANGEL
Teresa Noelle Roberts
Jessie was hired for the costuming job at the Berkshire Opera because she had a great portfolio and several years of theatrical costuming experience.
Her knowledge of opera, however, was limited to what she’d learned from classic “Bugs Bunny” cartoons.
It didn’t really matter for the job. As long as the directors could explain their vision for a production and point her in the right direction for visual inspiration, she didn’t need to know that much. But plunging into a new world full of beautiful but unfamiliar music had piqued her curiosity. Most people in the company were glad to answer her questions, but she’d found a particular friend in the set designer. Nelson, a fiftyish self-described “flamboyant opera queen,” was delighted to have someone new to convert to his passion, and she often found his nonmusician’s explanations more comprehensible than those of the people with conservatory degrees.
So it was to Nelson she turned when the early discussions of a production of Handel’s Giulio Cesare left her confused. “I have no problem with crossgender casting. If the director wants Nora Murray to play Ptolemy, I’m glad to make the costume. But aren’t they going to have to transpose the part for her?”
“A lot of the Baroque repertoire is written for a castrato voice. Yes,” Nelson continued, seeing her wince, “it means exactly what it sounds like. Disturbing thought, but supposedly it produced a lovely voice, high but powerful. Mutilating boys for the sake of art is frowned on nowadays, though, so women usually get those roles.”
“If it’s a choice between cutting some poor kid’s balls off or making someone built like Queen Latifah look manly, I’ll take on the extra costuming challenge.”
“I’m glad that’s your department, not mine—talk about engineering! On the other hand, I do envy you getting to fit Daniel Gwynn.”
“The one coming up from New York to play Caesar?”
“A countertenor, and one of the best. A male alto or soprano, to oversimplify vastly,” he added, seeing the blank look on her face. “Th
ey’re rare, of course, and great ones rarer still, but Daniel sounds like you’d imagine an angel would, and he’s utterly gorgeous to boot. The idea of getting paid to have your hands all over that man and maybe see him in his underwear…my dear, I am terribly, terribly jealous.”
Jessie immediately imagined some pretty, fey, androgynous creature, Boy George with more class. Nice to look at, fun to costume, but not her type. Just as well, really.
When Daniel Gwynn actually walked into the first cast and crew briefing session, though, he wasn’t at all what Jessie had imagined. For one, he was tall, six-two or six-three if she estimated correctly (and after several years of fitting bodies of all shapes and sizes for costuming, she usually did) and nicely built. He wasn’t a broad-chested fantasy figure off a romance novel cover, but lean and leggy and gracefully strong like a great cat, not at all the androgynous sylph she’d pictured.
He wasn’t pretty, either, but handsome in an almost stern way, all about high cheekbones and chiseled features and pale gray-blue eyes that looked cold and remote until he smiled. He was dressed all in neutral colors—black jeans, charcoal gray sweater, lighter gray turtleneck under it to protect his throat against the chilly spring air.
When he smiled, his severe good looks were transfigured into something otherworldly yet very sexy, something like the way she’d always imagined Tolkien’s elves (the cute college boy appeal of Orlando Bloom notwithstanding). Jessie melted—right along, she figured, with everybody in the room who fancied men. His speaking voice astonished her even more than his looks: rich, resonant, lower than she expected.
“Aren’t you a countertenor?” she blurted out when they were introduced. “I’d expected your voice to be higher.” Then she bit her tongue, realizing that she’d sounded like an ignoramus.
He gave her one of those blood-igniting smiles. “Only when I want it to be,” he replied in a much higher register, still backed with all the power of years of vocal training. “My natural speaking voice is lower than my singing voice,” he added, in the deeper tones she’d heard at first. “That’s not uncommon.”