“You want to be one of his doggies?” Craig suggested, teasingly. We were both smiling, but at his words something stirred inside me. I looked up at him from under my lashes.
“I’d be a good doggy.”
“Really?” He tickled me under the chin. “You wouldn’t chase the neighbors’ cats? I wouldn’t have to smack you with a rolled-up newspaper?”
The implied threat made my sex clench and flutter unexpectedly.
“Sometimes, maybe,” I admitted. “I suppose I’d be bound to be naughty occasionally. But I’d try to be good.”
Craig put a hand on my waist to draw me to him. He hadn’t taken off his jacket when we came in; his scarf was still draped about his neck. I nuzzled up to his shoulder, still watching his face, and took the scarf between my teeth. As I started to tug, his eyebrows rose, but I grinned slyly and pulled the cloth free, retreating and shaking my head from side to side.
“Bad girl,” he said, a smile creeping to his lips. “Drop it, Beth!” He reached for the scarf and I dodged, skipping behind the coffee table. Craig lunged after me, and I yipped through the fabric—well, I tried to yip; it came out more as a squeal—and gave him the slip.
Round and round the table he chased me, until at last, inevitably, he caught the flying end of the scarf. For a moment we tugged it back and forth between us, him gripping with his hand and me with my teeth. I growled and rolled my eyes. “Bad doggy!” he snapped, then bundled me bodily onto the sofa, pinning me beneath him. I let go of the scarf at last, laughing and gasping for breath. Craig buried his face in my throat, mouthing me. “Oh god, Beth,” he groaned. “You’re a bad, bad girl.”
I could feel the great, hard knot of his erection.
Then there was a hiss from the kitchen. “The pasta!” I gasped.
Craig sat up abruptly. “Oh fuck!” He galloped off to rescue the pan, which had boiled over onto the gas hob.
I lay back and recovered my breath, watching him at work. I wondered if he would turn the gas off and come finish what we’d started, but he seemed to have been distracted from his arousal, and he started opening a jar of pesto. I wandered into the kitchen area just as he took a block of parmesan from the fridge and pared thin curls of cheese onto the steaming dishes.
“Smells nice,” I said.
He cast me an odd look; there was warmth in his eyes, but speculation, too. Turning with the two bowls of pasta, he set one on the breakfast bar. I made to sit down.
“No,” he said. “This one’s yours.” Then he put the other bowl on the kitchen floor.
I stared at him.
“Doggies don’t eat at the table, do they?” he asked. His gaze pointed me at the linoleum. “That’s for you. Be a good girl.”
His voice was low, his expression firm. “Calm, assertive energy” is what Cesar Millan would have called it. My legs suddenly felt weak. I’d never played this game before, not even with boyfriends I knew intimately—and here I was with a man I was only just getting to know.
But between my wobbly legs, oh, I was hot enough to melt. Without a word I sank to my knees. Craig nodded.
“That’s right.” Then he went to sit at the breakfast bar and eat his supper as I crouched over my own and lapped at it without cutlery or hands. Whenever I glanced up, I saw him watching me.
I tried to be neat, but I didn’t finish it all; hunger was no longer important. Soon I crawled on all fours over to Craig and laid my chin on his knee. He stroked my hair back from my face and cleaned up a few flecks of pesto sauce with a piece of paper towel.
“Finished, girl?” he murmured. I didn’t reply. Doggies don’t talk, do they?
He’d already set out dessert: panna cotta and brittle almond biscotti. He broke off pieces of the thin biscuit, dipped them in the cream, and fed them to me. I pressed against him, trembling a little; it was colder down here on the floor. He reached down and found that my nipples were standing out like studs, and he played with them until I whined in my throat.
“You like having your tummy tickled, don’t you, girl?”
I licked at his fingers and heard his breath catch. His eyes were dark with arousal, and there was a bulge at his groin. This had as much of a grip on him as it did on me, despite his apparent calmness. I suppose I looked calm too, crouched there obediently at his feet. But my heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my belly, and my sex was swollen and my panties were sodden.
I had no idea why I was reacting so strongly to this. I’d never tried it before. All I knew was that it meant something to me, deep inside.
“Okay.” Craig rose from his stool. The swell of his cock was tenting his trousers. “I don’t think doggies should wear skirts, do you, Beth? Go into the living room and take off your clothes.”
I made to stand but he tapped me on the nose with a finger, gently.
“On all fours.”
So I crawled on hands and knees into the other room, and he walked behind me, watching the swing of my ass. Then he turned away and went into the bedroom, leaving me alone for the moment. Without daring to let myself think, I slipped off and neatly folded my clothes, down to my hold-up stockings and my thong and my silk camisole top, all in powder blue. Strangely, I didn’t like standing like a human again; it made me feel self-conscious to be out of character.
I squirmed and wet my lips when Craig came back into the room and nodded approvingly.
He pointed at the carpet at his feet. “Sit.”
It was such a relief to obey, to have him play master once more. The game was still on. I went to my knees before him, looking up at him with anticipation. He had a leather belt in his hand, which he looped about my neck and tightened to the innermost notch. It wasn’t tight on my neck, of course, but the leather strap fell heavy on my breasts when he dropped it.
“There. A doggy needs a collar.”
I lifted my head proudly. Then I leaned into him, flaring my nostrils, rubbing first the tip of my nose and then my face into his groin, feeling the thick length of his cock through the straining cloth. Craig wrapped his fingers in my hair and crushed me bruisingly to him, groaning under his breath.
“Are you going to show me how good you are?” he whispered. He fished something out of his pocket. I was surprised to see it was a tabletennis ball. “We’re going to play fetch, girl.” He threw the ball across the room, and it vanished behind the sofa. “Go get it, Beth!”
So I went to get it. I was a good doggy, after all. And it was weirdly fun, searching for the ball, snatching it in my mouth, and bringing it back for him. It was fun for Craig too, seeing me scramble over the furniture and hunt, head down with my ass in the air, only the straining gusset of my thong protecting my split. Doggies aren’t modest, after all.
I brought the ball back in my mouth and knelt to present it to him, and he threw it for me over and over again. Each time I returned, he’d removed another item of his clothing. Jacket, sweatshirt, long-sleeved cotton T-shirt. Bare-chested, his leanly muscular body was perfectly suited for the salsa dancing we’d learned together. Then shoes and socks and trousers, until he was standing only in clingy white cotton undershorts—and his appreciation of my performance was only too obvious.
By this time I was out of breath and disheveled. I released the Ping-Pong ball from my lips into his open palm one more time. The last remnants of my lipstick were smeared on the plastic. I looked into his face, panting a little but trying to control the heave of my chest.
“Very good.” He caressed my face with his fingers. “And good doggies get a bone, don’t they?” Pushing down the white cotton of his briefs, he scooped his erect cock and tight balls out for inspection. I hadn’t really seen his cock before, not in good light anyway. I’d felt it thick and hard and velvet-sheathed in my hand in the car, but this was the first time I’d looked it in the glistening eye: uncut, flushed darker than the rest of his body, and jerking with impatience. It was simply beautiful. My mouth watered.
“Do you want the bone, girl?” he asked.
I nodded, wide-eyed.
“No chewing,” he reminded me.
So I licked him. I wanted to suck—I wanted to suck it right into the back of my throat and feel his girth and taste his salt—but doggies don’t suck, so I licked him instead, from root to tip, his cool balls too, and lapped at the seep of pre-cum. I drove him nearly over the edge with licking, until he had to push me away and get a grip on himself, snorting down his crooked nose.
“Heel,” he ordered, taking up the end of the belt. He walked me into his bedroom and pointed me at the double bed. “Up, girl,” he said, his voice ragged. “Up on the bed.”
Up I jumped, on hands and knees. I watched as he skinned on a condom, my mouth drying and my pussy running wet. I love to see a hard cock all shiny with latex. It says to me, I’m locked and loaded and I’m going to fuck you. This is it, this is what you’re getting.
Then he ran his hands over me, stroking my breasts, pulling my thong down to my thighs, slipping his hand between my ass cheeks, finding all my hot, swollen need. He eased his fingers inside me, and my pussy sucked greedily at them.
“Oh, you’re wet,” he whispered. He swung me around roughly, dragging me bodily back to the edge of the bed so he could stand and fuck me from behind. “What a good girl,” he groaned, leaning into me, running his fingers over the slippery stud of my clit, stretching me wide with the surge of his cock as he entered me. My body seemed to meld around him; I could feel every hard and wonderful inch as he filled me up. “What a good little bitch.”
I lost it then. I lost control. I was so turned on, I came on his fingers and his cock even before he was all the way into me, and I collapsed facedown in the duvet, biting the cloth. Tremors shook my whole frame. Craig let me ride it out, then reset his hands on my hips, making a first experimental thrust.
“Harder,” I whispered, “please.” I like it hard from behind. I snaked a hand to finger my clit as he took me at my word, his crotch slapping against my ass and his balls bouncing against my fingers. He had strong thighs, made for endurance. The headboard banged against the wall as he fucked me deep and strong, and I had time to come again before his final thrusts nearly split me in half. He shot his load with a groan and nearly fell on top of me.
“Beth . . . oh god, Beth!”
We crawled up the bed and lay on our sides, spooning, our sweat mingling. “I’ll have to get you a proper collar,” Craig gasped when he could string a sentence together once more. His hands cupped my breasts, and he nuzzled my neck and shoulder, planting kisses. “And a lead for going on walkies.”
I felt a new kick of excitement. “In public?”
He laughed. “Only if you’re a very good girl.”
EVELYN
Julian Augustus Finisterre
Evelyn Knew She Was Safe
And that she could ask him anything she wanted. She liked that, because she was very curious—and she liked being safe. He did not push her overtly; he simply shared experiences and ideas with her—that upon some contemplation, seemed quite a bit more appealing than her knee-jerk denial of them would have initially allowed.
Evelyn knew that he was also very curious, and he was a very sharp man, as far as men went. And for that matter, he was a pretty damn good man. Not one to commit to, probably, but that was not really an issue, either. She was married—for better or for worse. And that was something else that was safe.
He respected that she had a husband, and he never bad-mouthed or belabored Richard. She enjoyed “sneaking around” with him—his description, delivered with a dance in his eye—because even when life weighed heavily upon him, he listened to her, and was thoughtful, and made jokes that were not dumb.
Not that they could comfortably go many places. But there were a few places they did go—coffee shops in towns just far enough away, with walking paths along pieces of river. Or, when she had felt adventurous, they walked the never-used trails through the state park.
A boundary had been crossed on that one. She had wanted to—sitting in the little opening, the glade among the pines on the hill—just lie back gradually, until she was snugged up against him. It was the most natural thing in the world to do. And of course, the saucy bastard had stretched himself out close by, and made such a thing convenient. She curved into him and felt him against her—back there.
No Fucking Way
All that behind stuff. And Jesus, those goddamn stories! She loved the way he wrote, and the beautiful way those stories made her squirm. And he liked to talk. Not always dirty, but about everything—and a lot of that did make her squirm. It made her squirm to think of how it felt, lying in the sun with him.
He liked to walk behind her—never blatant about it, but always looking at her bottom. That used to make her blush, but she had come to take pride in the attraction her ass had for him—and enjoyed letting him look as he pleased. The jeans she liked so much—low-cut and stretchy—pulled way down when she bent over and showed him the very top of her buttocks. He said that he thought she was not wearing panties, of all things. That made her squirm, too.
Evelyn Asked Him
One day, while on the deck of a cabin by a river, her legs resting high on the railing, wide enough apart that he might rest his hand comfortably upon her cunt, “What about the stuff in your stories?”
He raised his eyebrows and looked into her eyes. The question had been a long time coming and had called for Evelyn to draw upon a set of reserves—just for the asking—that she was only recently aware that she possessed.
“Which ‘stuff,’ dear?” The day was hot—had been since the sun rose fully—and they had cooled off sitting close together in the river, the water shallow and swift-rushing about them, tugging at their legs as they struggled out to where the water would flow shoulder deep. She wore what she had described as her “old lady bathing suit”—and it certainly was—a light turquoise sheath and skirt, it seemed. If he remembered the descriptions rightly, it was the Lands’ End or L.L. Bean catalogs that carried such suits. Un-fucking-necessary, he thought. But she was shy, or at least uncertain.
“Um.” Deep breath. “The really naughty stuff. Being with a woman who wants you to use her as you please.”
“Women who are in hungry touch with their inner sluts?” He smiled at her gently, resting his hand as he did, fingers gently exploring the bones of her pelvis, bringing the sweet bud of her clitoris to stand out against the tight fabric at her crotch. Full coverage, they would describe it. He could feel a wetness there, slicker than river water, and she relaxed her thighs, letting her knees part just a little farther. She closed her eyes and heard the songs of birds in the bushes, all around them, and the sound of the river dancing.
“Yes,” she said, a whisper to the breeze, “those. Have you ever known a woman like that?”
“I have,” he replied.
“Would you tell me about it while you touch me?”
She Considered Telling Him
That she had forgotten her suit, on that next hot and torpid-feeling morning, but upon reflection, she felt no need to make such an excuse. Evelyn caught his eye and winked, then indicated the river with a little jerk of her chin. She rose from her chair and peeled off the baggy T-shirt she was wearing with one swift, yet tentatively dramatic flourish, then reached behind her to undo the insubstantial peach-colored thing that barely obscured her breasts. Evelyn did not need much support, and was frankly glad of that.
She stood before him, smiling, in just the little cutoffs that hung low from her hips. Evelyn had an elfin air about her at times, and she swung her shoulder-length blond hair in a slow flash of golden veiling that allowed her eyes to dance for but a moment, before hiding them, as her shorts dropped away. Modest were her panties, but small and nearly sheer, nonetheless.
“There,” she said. “Is that better?” She knew it was, just from the appreciation apparent on his face, and the arousal was evident—the khaki shorts he wore, all he wore, took on a very noticeable bulge.
&nb
sp; “Yes indeed,” he replied, and he too stood and let his pants fall—trying to appear as casual as possible with his big cock hanging out there.
“It’s you who doesn’t wear the underpants!” she nearly shouted. But my god, thought Evelyn, look at it. I can’t touch it. . . . But he stepped to her and put his arms around her waist, kissing her as he felt her bottom through the thin fabric of her panties, and she took hold of him, gripping him tightly, reminding herself what a cock felt like in hand. So stiff, for her.
He Made Her Come
Standing with her little panties on, touching her and kissing her. He took her small nipples firmly between thumb and finger, twisting them alternately—and this brought forth a low moan from her and made her push her open cunt harder upon the heel of his big hand. The wetness of her had dampened and darkened the crotch of her panties, and he held her upright as she shuddered against him. When her knees were trustworthy again, he steered her to the old pine bench and sat her down, back to the railing. He pulled his chair close, so that she had to rest her feet on the arms, and he put his feet to either side of her on the bench. Evelyn leaned forward between his knees and took hold of him again, riding her small hand up and down his shaft. It felt instinctive to her.
And when he exploded she held him tightly, taken by surprise. The first coursing jets of him, hot and powerful, spattered them both, and the bellow he let loose rang across the river and back, startling her.
Sitting in the River
With her back to him, Evelyn closed her eyes and simply felt the water rushing against her, swirling about her body from the neck down. The marvelous tingling in her thighs and cunt—like leftover electricity still running through the circuits. Cool, and so nice with the sun. His back held her facing upstream.
Nice Girls, Naughty Sex Page 13