by Alison Tyler
“Hey!” she said, jerking away from Austin.
Colin’s hand slipped out of her skirt and came up to her face. His fingers felt magical as he ran them over her neck and gently tugged her downward. He was so tall that it didn’t take much for her to angle her face to his; and then he kissed her, tenderly. She felt his tongue gently nudging her lips apart. She let him kiss her, feeling her drunken body sway with the electricity of it.
“Please?” he asked when he pulled back.
She felt Austin’s lips against her ear, kissing her as Colin’s hand trailed back down her body. Colin kissed her again as Austin nibbled her upper neck, making her knees go weak so she fell against the two of them. Colin’s magic fingers were up her skirt again, now tugging her thong out of the way... And then she felt like it was all over, because when two of his fingers slipped between the lips of her pussy, Colin could tell in an instant how incredibly wet she was. Maybe it was all the dancing with gorgeous gay men in tight clothes—but Casey knew better, because she suspected she hadn’t been wet when she entered the bathroom. It was Austin’s kiss, Colin’s touch, and the press of the two men’s bodies against her. And when Colin slid two fingers inside her, her pussy hurt, hurt worse than it ever had—not because something was wrong, but because she wanted it so much.
Now Austin was kissing her, and Casey found herself lost in the textures of his lips, his tongue, in the taste of his furtive hits off other peoples’ cloves and Hurricanes. Every smuggled taste of indulgence was transformed by Austin’s mouth into an aphrodisiac, so much so that she didn’t realize that her shirt was being pulled up, didn’t even think to wonder if it was Colin or Austin pulling it up, didn’t entertain the thought of stopping whoever it was. The little baby-T lifted easily above her small, firm breasts, and the lacy bra came down just far enough to let Colin get his mouth around her nipple and suck gently, closing his teeth lightly around her. Casey gasped, wanting to push him away for a second; then she felt the current running from nipples to clit as Colin sucked on one nipple and used his left hand to play with the other.
With his right, he slowly slid his two fingers in and out of her, finding her G-spot with his fingertips and her clit with his thumb. Suddenly, she realized that Austin had smoothly gotten Colin’s pants open, that he had the stranger’s cock in his hand, that it was big and dark and very, very hard, sticking invitingly out of white briefs. Austin was slowly jerking him off as Colin finger-fucked Casey to the point where she thought, for an instant, she was going to come.
Austin’s lips left hers for a moment, his tongue slippery with her spit.
“See?” he asked. “He’s obviously straight. Tell you what, Colin... Pretend it’s my cute little friend here sucking your dick.”
With that, Austin wriggled his way down between them, getting on his knees between Colin’s splayed legs as Casey leaned forward and felt a third finger entering her, gently nudging her open and pressing her G-spot as he worked her clit. She slumped against Colin, feeling him suckle her breasts as she whispered into his ear “Right there, right there,” and then she saw her best friend’s head bobbing up and down in Colin’s lap. Casey wished she were him, wished she could get down on her knees and suck this gorgeous stranger’s cock...but she wasn’t, and she didn’t need to be, because she was going to come any instant from the combined sensations of Colin working her pussy, clit and nipples.
She breathed deeply, smelling the liquor, cologne and sweat, and then she felt Austin’s hand, taking hers and pulling it down to Colin’s cock. At Austin’s urging, she wrapped her hand around Colin’s shaft, feeling Austin’s slippery lips against her fingers as she started jerking Colin off. She was close, damn close. And then she felt the easy pulse of Colin’s cock, shooting come into Austin’s mouth as Colin sucked harder on her nipples, as he pushed mercilessly on her G-spot and clit—and feeling Colin climax in her hand, feeling warm semen dribble out of Austin’s mouth and around her fingers, sent Casey over the edge, making her come so hard she started moaning at the top of her lungs.
She fell hard against Colin, his big, muscled body supporting her as Austin finished him off, licking him clean as Casey’s hand slipped away and came up to caress Colin’s hard chest through the skintight black top.
“See?” murmured Austin, his voice rough. “Totally straight.”
Casey was still panting. Outside, she could hear the DJ announcing last call.
Casey looked at Colin, nervous and a little surprised. He smiled, and his bright eyes danced as he shrugged.
“So what do you say?” said a very drunken Austin, with a laugh. “One last drink? Oh, I forgot, I just had one. Ba-dum-bum.”
Casey bent forward and kissed Colin on the lips.
LIPSTICK LOVER
J. Nelson
This shade of red is perfect for my complexion. A true-blue red that always makes me feel completely in charge when I wear it. The color is less perfect for his complexion, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have fun slicking the glossy stick over his pouty lips. They are pouty. You can’t tell that at first, not when he’s in his normal “man” role without any cosmetic enhancement. Then, you simply think he has a nice smile, a gorgeous smile, with perfect lips, but not ones that you’d necessarily categorize as “pouty.”
We discovered that together. We discovered just how feminine his features can be when I doll him up. How exciting it was that first time. Poring over the different glosses in my collection, uncapping each tube and testing the hues on the back of his hand before finally coming up with this one—my favorite—the one we should have started with in the first place.
Now, we have a routine down. It used to be a little varied each time: would we go the whole route? Eyeliner and mascara, foundation and blush? Occasionally. Every once in awhile for really big scenes. But what we learned over time and experimentation is that what we both really like is the lipstick. The sensation of applying it and kissing it off again.
Or having him kiss the lipstick away on my skin, making a road map of pleasure as he moves from one place on my body to another. I like to watch in the mirror as he takes his time decorating my breasts with his lipstick kisses. I tremble as he leaves those kiss marks in a line down my belly, creating a glistening red smear as he heads to his final destination.
We take breaks during the evening, with me reapplying the color to his pout, knowing full well that all the dark, rich pigment will be spread along my sheets and skin by the end of the night.
He holds still, as still as he can, as I apply the color. The action is an immediate turn-on for him. I can see his erection straining through the thin fabric of his boxers—kiss-printed boxers that I bought him last Valentine’s Day.
Turns me on, too—
Can’t say why. It just does.
TICKLISH MARY
Albert Simmons
She’s very ticklish. As my hand gently caresses the small of her back, she shivers in my lap and whimpers slightly. She wants to beg me to stop. But she knows better.
“You’ve been very bad, Mary, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispers, her naked body stretched gloriously over my lap, her smooth, round cheeks presented for my punishment. I can see the perfect tattoo just at the top of her rear furrow: my signet, inscribed elegantly in blue-black. “I’ve been very, very bad.”
“Why don’t you tell me how bad you’ve been?”
“I didn’t want to—” she breathes, wriggling in my grasp as I run my hands up the backs of her slender thighs. Her pussy lips are swollen, arousal showing in the glistening moisture forming between them. “I didn’t want to, but I touched myself.”
“You did, did you? Do you mean you touched yourself, or you fucked yourself, Mary?”
Mary twists in my lap and buries her face against my side.
“Tell me.”
“Yes,” she says. “I fucked myself.”
She loves to play shy. I love to coax it out of her. “Tell me about how you fucked yourself,
Mary,” I tell her. “Did you fuck yourself with a really, really big cock?”
“It...it was the dildo you left me,” she says. “The one you told me not to use.”
“Tsk, tsk,” I say. “That one’s much too big for you. I told you to wait until I could show you how to use it properly.” My hand comes to rest on her pussy, and I gently begin to fondle her pierced clit with the tip of my finger. She mewls deliciously, grasping my leg as sensation flows through her.
“I know,” she says. “But I was so horny. I was thinking about you.”
“What were you thinking about me?” I ask her.
“Thinking about your cock.”
“What did you want to do to my cock?”
“Suck it,” she sighs as I tease apart her swollen cunt-lips. I slide two fingers into her center and feel how wet it is. She groans loudly, her voice cracking as she gasps out: “I wanted to suck your cock.”
“Tell me all about it. Tell me how you fucked the big cock I told you not to fuck.”
Mary’s gasping for each breath as I finger her, the tips of my index and middle fingers rubbing just the right spot to make her come. I can tell she’s having a very hard time speaking, but I love to hear her struggle to find the words.
“I was so horny,” she coos. “I was thinking about sucking your cock. How much I like sucking your cock. And you’d left me that big fat dildo and I wanted it. It’s almost as big as your cock. I know I had the smaller ones you said I could use, but I wanted that one. The big one. Because I wanted to suck your cock so bad, and I couldn’t, because you weren’t there.”
It’s been a full week since Mary and I have seen each other; I had to go away on business, and I left her with an impressively large dildo—which, for the record, is considerably thicker than my cock, though shorter. I told her not to use it, anticipating that if she did, this very scene would ensue.
“So you sucked the dildo, didn’t you, Mary?”
“Uh-huh,” she nods, moaning. “I just wanted to suck it a little. I told myself it was okay. You’d said not to fuck it, not to put it in my pussy or...my back door. So I figured it was okay if I sucked it. But once I got my lips wrapped around it—”
I start to pump my fingers harder in and out of her pussy, knowing that telling me about her transgression is turning her on. I tease her clit with my other hand, until I sense that she is very close to climax. I move my hand up and begin tickling the small of her back again, making her yelp in surprise. Being tickled while she’s on the edge of orgasm drives my sweet Mary absolutely insane.
“Tell me,” I say. “Tell me what happened.”
“Once I got my lips wrapped around it,” she moans. “I couldn’t stop. I wanted it so bad. I wanted your cock, but you weren’t there. So I started to fuck myself with it. I hardly even knew what I was doing. I just did it,” she moans, pushing herself desperately back onto my fingers. She’s on the edge, and I slip my fingers out of her pussy and grab her sides, beginning to tickle her. She shrieks and fights to get away. I flip her onto the sofa and push her down with my knee on her ass, feeling the moisture of her pussy soak through the knee of my jeans. She goes rigid, her panting breaths coming short. I begin to trace gently, lightly, down her back again, barely touching the sides, making her flesh twitch. I hear a long, low wail, plaintive and suffering, erupt from her mouth, and she begs me: “Please...”
“Do you think you should be tickled?” I ask her. “Or fucked?”
“Fucked,” she whimpers desperately. “Please, fucked. I need to be fucked. I’ve been wanting your cock for so long...please!”
Holding her down, I grab her sides and tickle her mercilessly. She shrieks, great shuddering gasps that could never pass for laughter mingling with the faintest of giggles as she struggles against my weight and determination.
“You’ve already been fucked,” I tell her, stopping for a moment.
“Yes,” she whimpers, her voice muffled by the sofa cushions. “I couldn’t help myself. I fucked myself with it. I wanted your cock so bad.”
I reach for the sides of her waist again, and she gasps, afraid I’m going to tickle her again. But I grasp her hard, lifting her hips up and shoving a cushion under her waist so her ass is raised high in the air. I open my pants and take out my cock, and without teasing her I slide my cock into her pussy.
“Oh, God,” she sobs into her sofa cushion.
I slide into her with rhythmic thrusts, bringing her close, feeling her pussy tense as she approaches orgasm. I sense her reaching for it, striving, trying too hard to grasp onto it so she can come. But she’s groping too desperately, her muscles tight from the tickling, her pussy clamped too firmly around my cock for her to come. She strives after it, humping herself back onto my cock, wanting it more than she’s ever wanted an orgasm in her life. I decide to break her concentration. In a rush, I grab her sides, tickling violently, making her scream at the top of her lungs just as she loses control of her orgasm—and then, unexpectedly, her orgasm overtakes her like a crash of waves, and I feel her spasming underneath me, losing control totally as I pound down into her.
And she does lose control, as I feel hot streams shooting out onto my legs. The feel of her spurting doesn’t make me slow; on the contrary, I keep tickling and pounding her, fucking so hard she slams into the arm of the sofa, so hard I think I hear it cracking.
Then I come, still tickling her, feeling her thrash back and forth under me. The sofa cushions are wet—but I don’t care. She lies inert underneath me, moaning. Almost sobbing. Every time I shift atop her, she gasps as if I’m going to tickle her again. It excites me to be so in control of her, so totally dominant over her universe.
“Oh, God,” she moans softly.
“You begged to be tickled,” I remind her.
“Yeah,” she sighs, wriggling under me. “I begged to go to grad school, too, but that doesn’t mean I looked forward to writing my dissertation.”
“Good point,” I say. “But did you come good?”
“Oh, God,” she moans. “Oh my fucking God.”
“Sounds like a yes,” I tell her, envisioning many more ticklish encounters with Mary in the future.
EVERYTHING OLD
Serina Jurgens
I work at an antique store on Fourth Street. We carry mostly knickknacks and old clothing, period pieces. We’re pretty busy right before Halloween, when the richer women stroll in, looking for something classy (and sexy) to wear to their husbands’ office parties.
I was reading a book one evening, right before closing. The bell at the door tinkled, and I looked up to catch a beautiful blonde walking in. She had on a black suit and her shining hair was back from her face in a French twist. She seemed to know the layout of our store as if she were a regular costumer. Without a word to me, she headed straight to our rack of old petticoats and slips, pulling the two most expensive ones from the back.
I checked the time. It was five minutes to closing. A customer with such divine tastes deserved personal service. Quickly, I walked over and locked the door and lowered the shades.
“You can try those on here,” I told her, motioning to one of our big wardrobes with a full-length mirror.
She hesitated for a moment before removing her clothing. She had that pale skin that works so well with white underclothes. I could see the fine tracery of blue veins beneath the surface of the skin on her neck, chest, breasts.
“What do you think?” she asked when she had the old-fashioned garments in place.
I shook my head, speechless. She’d made the total transformation from businesswoman, sleek and refined, to Victorian character...I don’t know what precisely. Chambermaid? Whore? My mind worked swiftly to try to classify her, but I failed.
The laces in the back of the corset were still undone. I walked over to her and began to fix them for her. As I tugged at the ribbons, she sucked in her breath, making her stomach concave.
“Tighter?” she asked, a rushed whisper of breath. I pulled the r
ibbons harder, then fastened her up, my hand lingering on the sweet curve of her back when I was done. She met my eyes in the mirror. She looked over to the rack of canes in the umbrella stand by the door, then back at me. I know all about looks like that. Without a word, I crossed the room, grabbed one, and told her to assume the position. I wasn’t sure precisely where the words had come from; they were suddenly in my head.
“It’s been a long time...” she said as she bent her slender body and grabbed her ankles. I lifted the petticoat and tucked it into the waist of the garment, revealing her supple thighs, her naked ass.
“Too long,” I agreed, going with that inner script. “I’ll give you twenty strokes. Move before I’m finished and you’ll get ten extra.”
“Yes, Mistress,” she said, and that word sent something dark and silver through me. I began her whipping, catching her at the fullest part of her ass, the curves of her upper thighs, marking her well. Lining one blow below the next. She took the strokes silently, didn’t flinch, didn’t beg. I felt myself growing wetter as her ass became a dark blushing cherry.
Tears lined her face by the time I was finished, but she didn’t move. I carefully led her to one of our lounges and laid her out on her stomach, going to work from behind, parting the rosy-hued cheeks of her ass and plunging into it with my tongue. Delving into her dripping cunt with my fingers and then painting her skin with her own sticky juices. She drew in her breath when I touched each line from the cane. I pinched the welts between my fingers, using my free hand to tickle her clit at the same time. I gave her the dark mix of pain and pleasure that I could tell she needed. A power built inside me as I worked her; the shudders that ran through her body told me I was playing my role to perfection.
She came as silently as she’d taken her whipping. She trembled all over, and I thought I could see a bright white halo of electricity around her, but when I blinked, it was gone. When she rolled over, I saw that her face was clear, no tear stains, no flushed cheeks. She stood and adjusted herself, then returned to the rack of clothing, lifting a red dress and sliding it over her head. The dress fit her as if it had been cut specifically for her body.
