I pretend to be asleep: I know he doesn’t like to be caught. But if I’m honest it’s less about sparing his feelings than it is my desire to observe such an intimate and private act. This is only the second time ever I’ve interrupted him masturbating. The first was a few months ago, and I promised it wouldn’t happen again. The thing was, it had been sort of intentional on my part, me catching him. I’ve always had a voyeuristic streak, and the thought of seeing Dylan with his hand wrapped around his cock, of watching the way he stroked himself, had proved too difficult to resist.
It had been one of those rare afternoons when I’d left work early. So early, in fact, that I felt giddy with freedom and naughty, too, like I was getting away with something. I was halfway home, and about to call Dylan, who’d had the day off, to see if he wanted to meet for a drink, but at the last moment I thought better of it. It was nearly four, and Dylan would be realizing he’d only have the house to himself for another hour. There’s nothing like an empty house to make you want a wank.
I still replay that scene in my mind sometimes. The betrayed look on his face, the blush firing under his pale skin as he tried to cover himself, the way he groaned when I spun the chair around and demanded he finish what he started. The way he looked at me, almost as if he hated me, when he came all over my boots. And then again when I made him clean them off.
I guess I could understand his point. It was an invasion of privacy, and truth be told I might have felt the same if our positions had been reversed.
But this is my bed, too.
Dylan is moaning softly now, his movements speeding up. As much as I want to hear whether he can out-master me in the art of the utterly silent orgasm, I also want to have some fun with him.
So I fidget a little, as if trying to find a more comfortable position. I roll onto my side, facing him. He’s lying on his back, one knee tenting the covers. If I open my eyes just a little wider, I could see rather than just sense the rapid rise and fall of his chest. I make little whim-pery noises, as if I’m having a nightmare.
Dylan reaches out and smoothes a hand over my hair, a soothing gesture he’s performed countless times before. With burning lips, he kisses me on the cheek and gently on the mouth, then rolls me firmly onto my back.
So that’s how it’s going to be, I think.
Within moments he’s at it again, harder. I let him build up a solid rhythm, then toss feverishly before finally rolling over so I’m facing away from him. The covers have fallen down around my waist, exposing my bare breasts. Dylan swears softly under his breath.
It’s at least a full minute before he feels like it’s safe enough to continue, that I’ve settled down under the covers for good. I have settled down, in a way, with my hand nestled between my legs, as if for warmth. Surreptitious masturbation is all about the setup. I suppose it is easier for girls, though. All I have to do is to move my index finger slightly and I’m circling my swollen bud, to uncurl my middle finger and let it slip up and down my wet crease, to breathe just a little more deeply so my rib cage rises and my nipple scratches against the top edge of the coverlet.
Oh yes, I’ve done this before. But it’s never been such a delicate dance of pretense and awareness.
Does he know I’m awake? I wonder. Does he know what I’m doing?
He’s murmuring to himself now. I’m pretty sure it’s dirty.
His voice gets louder as his strokes get faster. He’s talking about me, about how he wants to pull my nipples taut and fuck my perfect tits, how he’d like to stick his dick anywhere I let him and that one place I won’t, how desperate he is to take me while I’m asleep, when I’d be warm and wet and open and pliant and just that little bit dazed.
My clit pulses at his lewd words, and I try not to hump my own hand, try not to give myself away, but it’s all too much. The mattress is trembling and I can’t say whether it’s because of his movements or mine.
When Dylan groans and says, “Fuck, yeah, gonna come soon,” my self-restraint shatters and I duck under the covers in one swift move. He cries out in surprise as I take him into my mouth, swirling my tongue over the head, down the sides and back up again to fuck that weeping little slit.
I try to deep-throat him but his fingers are still wrapped around the base of his cock, so I lick them, too, and he seems to like that as well. I pull his other hand down on his leg and grind against it while I’m sucking him.
His knuckle bumps my clit once or twice and that’s all it takes. I keep him in my mouth the whole time I’m coming, even though I can barely hold myself upright, even though he’s spurting his own release so far down my throat I feel like I could drown.
When at last we’re sated and still, I curl up next to him and kiss him good night.
“Sweet dreams,” I say.
“Sleep well,” he mumbles.
THE BIG CAT
Cecilia Duvalle
Josh climbed into the cab of the 385CL Hydraulic Excavator, affectionately called the Big Cat by his crew, thinking some alone time in the comfort of the air-conditioned cab would clear his head. He had sent the rest of the crew offsite for lunch to keep him from spending the entire time telling them what fuckups they were. That never did anything but piss them off and mess up the rest of the day even more. After the fiasco of the morning—broken gas line and ensuing emergency shit that followed—he needed release. He pulled out his Droid and opened his favorite free porn app. He hit PLAY on a nice piece of girl-on-girl action and fumbled for the ignition on the rig.
Just as he was about to turn the key, he noticed movement in the yard next to the project. He’d avoided paying attention to the poor slobs whose houses backed up onto the new four-lane road he was in charge of building. It was more than a pleasant surprise to see a woman on her knees weeding her flower garden. This alone wouldn’t do much for him since gardening wasn’t something he found exciting, but the rounded bikini-clad ass sticking up in the air practically begged for a spanking and a cock buried in it. His own cock was suddenly more than eager for some attention, and he clicked off his phone. Real life was so much better than a four-inch screen.
Rather than risk alerting her to his voyeuristic presence by cranking the engine, he cracked the door open to let some air in and fumbled with his zipper. Settling back into the deluxe seat, Josh began to stroke himself while he imagined being positioned right behind the woman’s sweet bare ass, his cock digging in deep and his hands taking turns slapping her ass until it was red. He could almost feel the cool milk-white of her skin.
She shifted to the left, spreading her legs and opening up the view so Josh could see her bare labia. The bikini fabric was buried into her pussy and asscrack. He was sure the bits of fabric he could make out were dark from her juices soaking into them. He raked his thumb over the top of his cock and circled it, pretending she was giving him head and it was her tongue swirling around the tip.
She shifted again, this time sitting up to a full kneeling position and shaking her hair off her shoulders. She pulled off her gloves and grabbed her long hair into a ponytail, looped it around itself and tied it into a knot. A new image of grabbing her by the hair and guiding her mouth on and off his cock to his own rhythm almost got him off, but a loud clunking on the ladder of the Big Cat made him practically jump out of his skin.
He looked over the edge and saw Sam, one of his crew, climbing the steps up toward the cab. Panicking, Josh scrambled to stick his still rigid and oh-so-painful cock back into his Carhartts. Josh was still fighting to pull his zipper up over his dick when Sam poked his head in the cab.
“Everything okay, boss?” Sam said, but his eyes went wide when they landed on Josh’s erection.
Sam didn’t say anything else for a second, and Josh was immobile, as if he’d been turned to stone and struck mute. His body ached with the need to come. He turned back to look at the near-naked woman who was again in her kneeling-ass-up-in-the-air position.
Sam followed his gaze.
“Ohhhhh…shit…
” Sam exhaled.
And then, Sam said something Josh did not expect.
“You know, I can help you with that. You can look at her and pretend my mouth is hers if you want.”
Josh hesitated. He started to shake his head, but Sam reached out and put a hand on Josh’s cock. He had been so close to coming just seconds before. The following four hours would be painful if he didn’t let Sam suck him to completion.
“No one knows I’m gay, Josh, and it can stay that way. Let me give you head, and I won’t tell anyone, including that hot bitch over there, that you’re a Peeping Tom,” Sam said.
Josh looked back over at the woman. She was struggling with a big weed and moving back and forth as she tugged at it. The motion was just the same as if he were pushing her on and off his cock doggie-style. He groaned.
Josh nodded. Sam stepped down a couple of rungs on the rig. Josh hadn’t had a guy give him head for a long time, not since he’d been in the service and had found himself alone with a cock-loving corporal in the middle of fucking Iraq. Damn. He liked women, but getting head from a man who enjoyed giving it was about the best thing on the planet. A flat, full tongue and a deep throat were hard to resist. An experienced mouth on his cock would make him come in no time. Without moving his eyes from the woman’s fine ass, he nodded his assent to Sam.
Sam released Josh’s still-hard cock from the tan canvas work pants and went to work. Sam’s tongue danced around the tip and dipped into the tiny hole of his urethra, teasing him. Then his warm wet lips circled the head and slid ever so slowly down the length of Josh’s cock. Josh let his hand rest lightly on the back of Sam’s neck as the younger man went to town. The woman swayed while she worked, and Josh imagined his cock buried deep in her pussy, then deep in her ass, and back in her pussy. Back and forth from one hole to the next until he finally exploded his thick hot spunk into Sam’s mouth. Without thinking, he let out a loud, “Fuck yeah,” as he came. Josh froze mid–hip thrust as he realized how loud it had been, eyes still glued on the woman.
The woman sat up at the sound and looked around her backyard as if expecting to see someone nearby. She didn’t even lift her head above the fence toward the Big Cat, just shrugged and went back down on her knees.
Josh let out the breath he’d been holding and released his hand from Sam’s head. Sam gave Josh a few more licks and stood upright on the ladder.
“Thanks, boss,” he said, wiping a bit of stray come from his swollen lips.
Josh grunted and looked down at the erection between Sam’s legs.
“You know I’m not into helping you with that, right?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s cool. I can handle it myself.” Sam climbed down the ladder and disappeared into the woods near the worksite.
OPENING DOORS
Thea Landen
The elevator doors are closing. “Damn it!” I yell, and try to run in my pumps. Just as I’m about to give up hope, it miraculously reopens. The man holding the door for me is wearing a zippered hoodie and baggy cargo pants, a stark contrast to my tailored skirt suit. Several days’ worth of stubble peppers his cheeks, and he flashes me a smile.
“Thanks for waiting,” I say breathlessly.
“No problem.”
We begin our ascent. As we pass the eighteenth floor, the lights go out in our small enclosure, and the car grinds to a halt.
“What the hell?” I scream.
“That didn’t sound good.”
“Shit! I cannot miss this meeting!” Time seems irrelevant as the darkness threatens to suffocate me. I can feel the walls closing in on us. Death is imminent, I’m certain of it. I yell for help. There is no response.
“I pressed the emergency button. I don’t know if it did anything.”
My companion is calmer than I am. “We’re stuck?” I try not to hyperventilate. “Great.”
“Claustrophobic, are we?”
“Shut up. You’re wasting oxygen.”
He laughs. I feel a hand on my shoulder and jump. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re going to be all right.” His touch soothes me. “It’s okay,” he repeats, rubbing my arm.
My lungs continue to fill with air. That’s a good sign. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean to freak out on you.”
“No worries. Can’t say I’m thrilled about being stuck in here, either.”
I step closer to the reassuring stranger. His arm snakes around my waist in another comforting gesture. “I’ve just been under so much stress lately. If I die in this elevator, it’ll all be for nothing.”
He laughs again. “Morbid much?” He gives me a squeeze.
I relax against him. His sweatshirt smells of sun-kissed grass with a hint of fresh soil. I really should get out of the city more often. For a moment, I am jealous of this carefree man. I don’t know what he’s doing in this building, but it’s evident he is not a slave to fluorescent lights and stale coffee. I may bring in six figures a year, yet he’s probably smarter than I am.
I focus on keeping my heart rate at a healthy level, and lean my head on his shoulder. He strokes my perfectly bobbed hair, still murmuring words of encouragement. I realize I can’t remember the last time someone touched me other than a formal handshake.
The lights haven’t come back on. The car isn’t moving. I decide that if a malfunctioning elevator is going to kill me, I’m not going to go out in a sniveling ball of weakness. If I only have minutes left, I’m going to make the most of them.
I raise my head. Though nothing is visible in our ominous cage, my mouth finds his in the darkness. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, and he doesn’t pull away. His lips are soft and warm, and the velvet of his tongue fills me with a newfound energy. Our exploratory kiss grows more frantic with each passing moment. I need to know more of him.
A thin shirt waits below his zipper, and I press myself against him. I want him to feel the hardened nipples poking through my silk blouse. His fingers are running through my hair while my hands skim everything available to me. Impulsively, I yank his shirt out of the waistband of his pants.
The car doesn’t crash to the basement when he slams me into the wall. I suck his lower lip between my teeth as my fingertips finally reach bare skin. A groan escapes his throat, and he pushes against me even harder. I can clearly feel the bulging erection straining to break free.
I rub myself against it, trying to judge its size. My attempts to unbutton his pants are thwarted by his hand slipping beneath my skirt. He reaches the emanating heat, and runs a finger along the wetness that has formed on my panty hose. I suddenly can’t breathe again.
I kick off my shoes, shrinking three inches. He all but tears the hose off me, and his hands glide up my legs before he disappears. I’m about to protest, when I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Maybe he’s more conscientious than I thought.
I finally liberate his engorged cock. It feels amazing in my hands, and all I can think of is getting it inside me. The condom slides over its impressive length. It seems to take hours. I’m blazing with anticipation.
I bunch my skirt in my hand as he grabs my thighs and easily lifts me up. I guide him into the drenched opening, locking my legs around his waist as the swollen head penetrates me. He pushes forward at an agonizingly slow pace, and I moan as he embeds himself in the soft folds.
I am full. I am impaled, pinned against an elevator wall. The cable could snap, and we could die enmeshed in the most intimate of embraces. The doors could open to a crowd of people watching in shock. I do not care about either of these outcomes. I beg him to fuck me hard.
This time when I scream, it’s not for help. It’s a primal exclamation, a song of joy. He thrusts into me repeatedly, and the scent of our sexes mingling wafts upwards. With every jerk of his hips, he passes his vitality into me. He frees my passion. I’m wildly soaring through a gust of fresh air, running from everything that’s been chipping away at my soul. I am ready to come all over him.
His lips assault my neck. Every nerve in
my body is aching for release. I can’t catch my breath. I can only cling to him as we approach our mutual climax, and I urge him on. His teeth sink into my flesh as he pounds into me with a brutal strength, nearly tearing me apart.
The pleasure is unbearable. I am no longer in command of my body. My muscles are convulsing uncontrollably, and I’m writhing around his erupting cock. If I died at this moment, in the throes of the orgasm he incited, I would be a satisfied woman.
The tremors cease, and he slips out of me. All I can hear is my pulse in my ears and our synchronized panting. Almost on cue, the lights come on, and I’m staring into his eyes. I struggle not to blush beneath the intensity of his gaze.
The car moves. I slip my shoes back on and shove my panty hose into the purse I’d tossed aside. The doors open, and I try to smooth down my wrinkled skirt. I mumble a farewell as I bolt in the direction of my destination.
I can’t believe what just happened. I can’t believe I’m about to walk into a meeting like this. I can’t believe I forgot to ask his name. I can only believe I was meant to be in that elevator. Maybe he’ll be waiting for me when I get back.
BAXTER’S BOY
Xan West
He was a legend. Baxter. The first to transition in my college town. (At least, the first anyone knew about.) In 1994. Before the generation of FTMs that started T the instant they finished their degrees in women’s studies. Before the genderqueers and the trans-gressively gendered. Before bois spelled it with an i and anyone talked about cisgender. Before the trans revolution hit my dykey college town, there was Baxter. Antisocial. Determined to enjoy his faggotry, in a time when it was frowned upon for FTMs to name their desire for cis men…or each other.
Baxter had been a softball butch, dated high femmes, fucked other butches in secret. Then he left town. When he came back, he was a fag. He brought out FTMs and butch boys, teaching them to celebrate their faggotry, to own their desire for pain. He was so good with a cane that he had experienced leatherfags begging to submit to him. Robert had been his boy for over two years now. They were a happy pair, rarely going out, except to cruise fresh meat. Boys who were full of bravado, who needed to be shown their place. These boys would emerge from that house with their heads high, their leather immaculate and a pride of fresh marks on their backs.
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