He knelt behind her. His hands cupped the toned globes of her ass before tugging her panties down her thighs. And then she felt his mouth again, his tongue sliding from the small of her back, down, and along that most dark and secret crevice. She squealed and tried to pull away, but his hands were like iron anchors, holding her in place.
It was a naughty sensation, something that she didn’t think she should be allowed to enjoy. Betsy wanted to tell him to stop, to be outraged by the decadent feel of his tongue thrusting inside of her, past that tightly clenched ring of muscle. But all she could do was gasp breathlessly as his tongue continued the assault.
His fingers traveled her inner thighs and roamed to her pussy, where they teased and taunted the engorged flesh. She was slick and wet, ready to be entered.
Chad pushed two fingers up inside of her and pressed his thumb against her clit. He moved slowly, keeping time with the strokes of his tongue. Betsy couldn’t get enough; she pushed herself against his mouth and tried not to cry out. His fingers and tongue both moved faster in and out of her in an erotic synchronicity.
He pulled away, the thumb on his other hand replacing his tongue. “You like that, Betsy? Tell me what you like.”
Betsy couldn’t speak, was afraid that if she did, it would break the spell.
“Tell me, or I’ll stop.”
“What you were doing. More!” She ground herself against his ministrations.
“More what?”
His tone surprised her. He wasn’t trying to make her beg. He truly wanted to know. He wanted to please her.
“I want you to come for me, Betsy. Tell me what you need to come on my face.”
He moved deftly around in front of her, and his tongue pushed between her thighs again, but this time he licked her labia and took her clit into his mouth. He reached up with his free hand and pushed two fingers between her lips and onto her tongue. She groaned with the intensity of the pleasure coupled with the realization of her fantasy.
His tongue flicked faster and harder; all the while she bucked and whimpered, needing more. He took the index finger she’d been sucking on from her mouth and slipped it inside her forbidden place, the place he’d tongued before. The sensation pushed her over the edge.
Betsy gritted her teeth against her orgasm, still fighting it even as the rush of pleasure shook her to her core. Even as the tremors were raging through her body and she was fighting for breath, he pulled away from her. Her arms wrapped around the top of the filing cabinet, keeping her from collapsing onto the floor.
She could hear the condom package tear, and then she felt his hand on her ass. He stood up behind her. His cock was thick and heavy against her opening, the head just rubbing lightly. Chad entered her carefully, his grip marking half-moons on her hips where he held her anchored for their joining.
They couldn’t risk her shrieking echoing throughout the cell house—he covered her mouth with his free hand. She could smell her own musky femininity on his fingers, and when she opened her lips he pushed those sex-soaked fingers inside.
It was a bit kinky to taste herself on him; she felt as if she had marked him, and that thought only made her hotter. She licked up the length of his index finger, swirling her tongue on the tip just as she would his cock.
The walls of her cunt were still spasming, gripping and releasing only to pull him deeper inside of her. He moved against Betsy now, slamming into her still-needing body again and again. Chad filled her, stretched her, and demanded more.
She continued to arch and buck against him, to tilt her ass so that he was buried to the hilt with each stroke. They rocked against the file cabinet, their bodies banging into the metal. He covered her like an animal taking its mate; his mouth was brutal in the taking. He bit the back of her neck, and then removed his fingers from her mouth and turned her head to the side, claiming her lips; Chad gave her no chance to refuse his kiss.
Betsy tasted herself again, her mouth opening for him amid his onslaught. But she tasted him too; that caramel scent that always seemed to cling to him was now a flavor on her tongue.
“Can you come again?” he whispered against her lips even as his other hand moved around so that he could get to her clit again. In moments, he had her coming so hard that she was biting down on her lip to keep from screaming and he was jerking inside her as he found his own release.
He moved away from her as soon he’d finished, but Betsy was still trying to find her breath.
Which was just as well in her mind, because she had no idea what to say.
“Hand me an evidence bag, will you?” Chad asked casually.
Betsy turned to the box of new evidence bags that had been opened on the other cabinet. She grabbed a few and handed them to him, watching him quizzically.
“Well, I can’t exactly leave the thing in here.” He shook the used condom for emphasis. “And I’m not shoving it in my pocket like this.”
“I suppose not,” Betsy managed.
He flashed his perfect teeth in a smile. “Now that we have that out of the way, what do you say to dinner?”
“No thanks.” Betsy was finally able to get up and straighten her uniform.
“What?” Chad was genuinely confused.
“Look, I know what this was. You don’t have to act like you want more from me. We can still work together.”
“And what was it?”
“Besides great sex? Another tally on your headboard.” She said this with no rancor. She wasn’t having a pity party, but she wasn’t naive either.
“Betsy, you’re beautiful and smart,” he began.
“Well, I know that.” She was back in hard-ass mode. “But just because I’m a great catch doesn’t mean that you’re fishing.”
“That’s true. But as it happens, I am. I know I’ve got a terrible track record. So, I thought that if we could just get the fucking out of the way, you’d know that I was after more.”
“Such honesty. What if I was just after this once?” Betsy grinned.
“I guess I’ll just have to live with it.” Chad let out an overdramatic sigh. “But I think I’ll be able to convince you.”
“How?” she dared.
“Maybe I’ll call you.”
“And just maybe I’ll let you. But you’ll have to do better than that.”
Then the buzzer sounded to the outer door of the cell house. It was time for a post check by their shift commander.
“I guess we’ll just have to finish this later.”
“I guess,” Betsy shrugged on their way out of the counselor’s office.
“See, I told you I’d get you for another round.” He smacked her lightly on the ass as she dashed down the stairs to unlock the door.
SIESTAS AND SPANISH LEATHER BOOTS
Rosalía Zizzo
Annabella darts down the Metro station stairs, black bangs dripping into her dark eyes like ink. The rainstorm caught her off guard, and now her skirt clings to her legs. Cold rivulets run into her boots, sopping her socks. She steps onto the train, not caring that a red-lipped woman, clad entirely in leather, stares at Annabella as if she were completely nude.
The train smells of mildew, like the old Spanish libraries and churches in Madrid that Annabella visits for hours because she feels safe there. Slumping into a seat, she sighs with relief. She feels like she has escaped the crowded streets and chaos above—the hotel strikes and resulting long lines; the smells of exhaust, cigarettes, and perfume; the dissonant noise of cars, buses, and humanity. It all makes her weary. Her grandmother in the States would have enjoyed the whole ordeal.
The clack clack clack and whizzing of underground Madrid relaxes her, so she closes her eyes and leans her wet head against the window. The sound of the train on its rails becomes a droning musical pattern, soothing percussion for the orchestra in her head. She taps her wet toes to the beat. Until someone drops his keys. The abrupt change in rhythm disturbs her daze, like the clang of wind chimes during a storm, or her father’s irregular sno
ring in his chair while the news barks on the television.
Annabella eagerly awaits her weekly tryst in the Prado with her Spanish lover, even if he is a good ten years her senior. His age is, quite possibly, the reason why she adores him. She admires the gray around his temples and the creases feathering from the corners of his eyes. Her body drips with moisture from the inside, and she gasps aloud as she thinks of Benito spreading her and shoving his welcome visitor against her clit and into her warm, female embrace—although it’s less like a shove and more like a tender glide into her. Benito creates a visceral response in her similar to that of attending the symphony in San Francisco and listening to Schubert. Sweet torment. Perfection. Thinking of him, her heart beats the rhythm of an unfinished piano concerto.
Concert posters, propaganda, and event promos decorate the inside walls of the train. A grubby poster for the upcoming bullfight hangs wrinkled above a man’s head. Annabella reads the words “Grandiosa Corrida de Toros, para el Domingo 7 de Marzo, 1988: Tomás Campuzano y Rafael de la Viña”—iron-black letters highlighted in rust. She remembers her first bullfight, the horror of it all, and how it mimicked the way she imagines it must have been to watch gladiators fight and bleed and die for an audience’s pleasure. She looks away and thinks of love instead. She observes the man below the poster and finds herself lost in his black hair, reminding her of her pianist lover in San Francisco, whose nervousness caused him to drink Pepto-Bismol from the bottle like soda from a can. His liquor was pink like the lotion you slather on mosquito bites at camp. Maybe that explained his slender frame. His long arms, long fingers, long legs, and bony jaw conspired with her flesh. But she loved losing herself in his dark eyes, shadowed by thick eyebrows and long lashes and black hair. Just like the man below the poster and just like Benito.
Annabella watches the windows and feels her hunger grow. Her heart thumps harder. She likes being worshipped tenderly and ravished completely while the town relaxes in siesta. Benito, obviously named for the Italian dictator, works for the museum and always finds some quiet enclave to enjoy Annabella’s passion.
Some insist such intense passion is dangerous. Anaïs Nin had her tumultuous affair with Henry Miller, and Frida Kahlo had Leon Trotsky. Annabella may not be famous, but her affairs are far from ordinary; in fact, her lack of fame allows her meetings to remain clandestine. Michael, the musician, in the car; Rudy in Segovia near El Escorial; and Benito, the professor and art docent, in the museum. Dark, handsome Benito makes her wetter than the afternoon’s torrent, makes her heart drum, and makes her melt like ice turned to water as he pins her against a wall in the museum.
The Prado museum looms, and Annabella approaches it with anticipation. The building curls like a snail shell, so one wanders the curl, looking at sketches until finally reaching the center, the heart of the theater. First, she purchases a print of Bodegón con pájaros muertos, a still life with dead birds, a cubist puzzle. Sometimes Annabella feels the fragments of her life scatter like a puzzle, like a painting from Picasso, like pieces of white doves, pieces of a woman traveling a curve to someday find love. Madrid. San Francisco. Where does she belong?
They meet at the entrance to Picasso’s Guernica. “You’re all wet.” Benito refers to her clothing. He fails to see the other precipitation.
“I’m soaked. Does it bother you?”
He chuckles and wraps Annabella in his grasp, squeezes her round, wet rear. “I’ll warm you up.”
They lock arms and run through the curving hallway, finding a spot against the wall behind a line of benches. It’s dark, silent, and the air is still. Siesta means alone time. Siesta means an afternoon of love. Americans waste so much of their time slaving, even through a ten-minute lunch. But in Spain, Annabella has come to appreciate her life, granting her breasts and body to a man who treats her with value, a man with salt-and-pepper hair above his ears and hands that have never toiled over grease or machinery.
The atmosphere within the museum’s walls hums with peace, but the art surrounds the lovers with vicious humanity. The quiet calm contrasts with the painting of Guernica—a depiction of chaos and war, the glory of murder, the silent screams of horses collapsing into the dirt. Benito’s hand inches its way up her thigh and under her wet skirt. His fingers peel the sticking fabric from her skin, and he places his palm on her naked, warm, wet patch. His eyes twinkle, and he leans in to nibble her ear, to gnaw at her throat. He places his lips in the crook of her neck, under her damp hair. He whispers. She can feel the desire in the air that escapes his lips, and her body tingles in anticipation.
“You are so naughty. No sense in wearing anything underneath, no?”
Annabella bites her lip and smirks in return. She remembers her lover in San Francisco, picking him up at the airport with nothing on under her long coat except thigh-high stockings and boots, the long, torturous drive to his apartment, especially with Bay Area traffic. At times they could no longer wait to taste each other, and they would pet and kiss while waiting for traffic to inch forward. At a standstill, she slid her hand between the buttons of her coat to fondle her breast while staring into his dark eyes. She offered her wrist for a wet bite, and he moaned his approval of Shalimar on her skin, his long fingers touching her between her spread knees. During long waits, he fingered her clit, sometimes strumming with two fingers until she climaxed. And sometimes her head disappeared in his lap, sucking his warm cock until he sprayed the roof of her mouth. She used her tongue to milk every last drop from his tip, licking the engorged shaft and toying with the ridge along its head.
“Hurry,” she whispers to Benito, flushed, as if he could hurry. “I can’t wait anymore.”
Annabella’s eyes glaze with lust as Benito uses two fingers to open her, spreading her already-swollen lips and folds and penetrating with those idle, museum-docent fingers. He strokes her sleek passage in a slow rhythm. He penetrates and drags his fingers across her clit, distended with desire, and then penetrates again, trailing without hurry. Siesta means pleasure for American Annabella. She can slow down. She can enjoy true human contact.
Benito kisses her deeply, holding her head with adoration, caressing her ears. His palms travel down her throat and cup her round, plump breasts, and he uses his thumbs to wriggle under her bra and tickle her damp nipples. Her heart pounds as he reaches for her leg. His soft palms grasp under her thigh behind her knee, pulling her leg up and toward his body. He supports her as he enters her, pressing her to the wall. She opens to him. His belly kisses hers. She feels his dancing cock glide against her slick walls, making her take him in a tense embrace so they fit like a puzzle piece, fully interlocking. If they were nude, they’d look like one body, a tangle of warm flesh entwined together in total perfection.
Annabella loves watching his face. He never holds anything back—he is a true European when it comes to love, sex, his affection for the painted canvas, a bottle of wine.
They make love, Benito holding Annabella’s leg during their entire affair, and he pants into her neck. His cock pierces with the finesse of a matador’s sword, prepared to finish off the bull. He’s formidable, and she’s so wet, dripping outside and in since riding the Metro and thinking, fantasizing about this penetration. His cock, thick and full, fills her so that it rubs all the right spots, especially with her leg lifted, making the clit more vulnerable. Annabella winces and cries out as if in pain, but moves forcibly until she’s all used up, then wails with relief. It’s there within. The orgasm materializes and envelopes her, starting in her knees and climbing through her spine with a shudder.
“Oh, yes. Yes.”
“Amor,” he exhales.
He spasms immediately, several times, sending heat into her core.
Then he releases her leg gently, allowing the foot to set anchor on the floor. She almost falls when he pulls out. She leans back against the cool wall. Benito embraces her and points to her feet.
“Anna, Amor, you’ve come out.”
“What?” Annabella looks do
wn to see her soaked feet completely removed from her boots. The water and walking has ruined them, entirely. They now puddle around her feet in a torn, ragged mess.
“We must purchase some Spanish leather boots for you, Corazón. This will not do at all!” He laughs. Spaniards and their leather. Annabella mopes, shakes the fog of passion from her body, then wriggles out of the tattered suede and tugs off her wet socks.
“What should I do right now?” she asks.
“Come.” Benito places his palm under her elbow.
They exit the Prado into traffic.
Her grandmother used to love traffic. She treated gridlock like a social event, carrying a picnic basket and enjoying the evening—her slow siesta—on the freeway. She’d visit people in their cars, doling out sweets to children and sharing sandwiches with men on their evening commute. Traffic jams frustrate and inconvenience most of the American public, as do lunch breaks, but to her grandmother, these forced pauses were a blessing from above. The world came together for her, clicking a piece of the puzzle in place.
Life in this world is otherwise so disorganized, Annabella thinks quietly, walking beside Benito. Disjointed. A multitude of colors, brands, trucks, cars, SUVs, buses. We live in traffic, discord, a cubist painting. Our faces flatten and parts scatter, misplaced. A nose here. An eye there. A life here. A love there.
Annabella’s scattered life is like a puzzle dumped on the living room floor, and she hasn’t a clue how to put it all together. She looks up and sees the red-lipped woman arguing with the art vendor on the corner. She decides it’s time to take her grandmother’s cue and find the siesta in life. She needs harmony. Her next pair of boots needs to last.
NAME YOUR PRICE
A. M. Hartnett
Slow Burn was a graveyard, which is why Ally had decided to break out the schoolgirl ensemble. She knew from experience that the quiet ones who nursed their drinks always livened up when they saw the pigtails and bobby socks—they were the older men who came to Slow Burn to kill a few hours between the monotony of the office and the chaos of the family. Just give them what they wanted and their pockets got deeper and deeper.
Nice Girls, Naughty Sex Page 3