Erotic Teasers

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “I want to thank you again for your service at last weekend’s Save the Sea Turtles event,” Berta said, giving my arm a soft squeeze. “My Warren, God rest his soul, always had an affinity for marine animals.”

  My body jerked, the vibration drawing a lazy smile from me. Ramon knew exactly what he was doing. Asshole. “Of…of course, Berta. Anything for the foundation!” I said a little too perkily. Another electric pulse passed through me, edging me closer to the orgasm I was ordered to avoid. If I didn’t get Ramon’s dick inside me soon, I was going to come. This little game of his needed to end in the sex I deserved after enduring his carnal torment. I began backing away, my pussy clenching with each footstep. “Berta, I hate to be rude, but if you’ll excuse me while I go to the ladies, I’ll—”

  “Of course, but let me first tell you about the group’s next initiative: chimpanzees!”

  Another jolt made my legs shake beneath me. I grabbed the top of a chair for support. “Sounds…sounds great, Berta. Sign me up!” I spun on my heel and turned to walk out of the banquet hall, my knees knocking together. I knew I must have looked like a child rushing to the restroom at the last minute, but the ache! My head spun around, searching for the man who was no doubt laughing at my sexually frustrated expense.

  I stepped out of the banquet hall, my voice shaky with every “Excuse me,” and “Pardon me,” I tossed over my shoulder as I weaved through the partygoers. The next jolt, which shot right on the swollen tip of my clit, made me reach for the wall for support. I looked around, hoping no one would notice my near collapse. Still no sign of Ramon—where was he?

  I turned a corner down an empty corridor lined with darkened conference rooms. My steps were more deliberate now, for every motion of my hips brought me near the brink of climax. My skin felt electric from the inside. The fabric of the dress across my thighs, the jewelry adorning my neck and wrists, my quivering mouth—my entire body was on fire, and my frustration grew the longer I went without seeing the man who was the cause of it.

  “Hey mami,” I heard him say behind me. I started to turn but paused, remembering rule number three. I leaned my sensitive body against the wall.

  “I know what you’re trying to do. I’m not looking at you.”

  “Smart girl,” he replied, his sexy, smug voice edging closer to me. “I must say, I enjoyed watching you tonight. Seeing your body squirm with each swipe of my cell. Watching you attempt conversation while I had complete control of your body’s sensations. Shit turned me on.”

  I straightened my posture against the wall when I felt his arms circle around my waist. I reached behind his neck, stroking the back of his hair. “Please let me come,” I begged, my voice husky with yearning. “I need it.”

  I felt his beard brush against the nape of my neck as he walked me backward. “Not yet,” he whispered against my skin, sticky with heat. We entered a dim storage room tucked between conference centers. Ramon was sandwiched between the wall and my aching body. The dank smell and dust particles were the only witnesses to our escape. The glow of his phone display was the only light I noticed before I felt that familiar buzz between my thighs. Moans escaped my lips as my ass rocked against his hardness. I reached for the hem of my dress and raised it up, grinding the vibrating thong against his cock. If I was going to feel this electric tease, so was he.

  He groaned in my ear, giving me confirmation that he was struggling right along with me. I lowered my torso until I touched my toes, the vibration bringing me closer to the brink. When he slapped my ass, I shuddered in delight.

  “Don’t you dare come,” he demanded, his voice rough with desire. I smiled as I snaked my body upward and turned to face him. I reached into his trousers and gripped his cock, swirling the precome on the tip. He moaned into my braids, reaching around to clutch my ass. Ramon pulled me into him and took my mouth in a searing kiss.

  “I’m close,” I cried, trying to stave off the climax. Ramon placed the cell on a shelf and lifted my chin, the illuminated screen making his brown eyes visible in the darkness.

  “Get on your knees so papi can feed you,” he growled. I dropped to my knees and hunted for his cock, unzipping his pants as fast as I could. Once his cock was freed and bobbing at my lips, I paused. Two could play this game.

  I licked the moistened tip, igniting a whimper from Ramon. He sank his hands into my braids and pulled my head closer before I grabbed his cock and stroked it. I looked up at him and shook my head. He took the challenge and reached a finger to his phone, swiping upward. The vibration between my thighs quickened, as did my stroking of his cock, which grew harder within my grasp.

  “Let’s come together,” Ramon reasoned, as he eased my head closer to his cock.

  I lowered the tip to my lips with a smirk. “Good. We both win,” I said, before I placed him in my hot mouth. I took him to the hilt, as always, enjoying his taste and musky smell. I felt the jolt vary in speed—fast, then low, and fast again—urging my orgasm on. Ramon fucked my mouth faster as I squeezed my thighs tighter together, savoring the throbbing pulse of the panties. When I felt the warmth of his come fill my mouth, I felt my own peak rising. I moaned against his cock, allowing myself a deserved release after over an hour of endless stimulation.

  I rose to my feet to face him. Ramon reached underneath my dress and slipped the still-vibrating thong down my legs. I stepped out of the garment, my pussy dripping with sweet relief. He raised the balled-up fabric to his nose and inhaled, his gaze locked on mine.

  Ramon tossed the panties onto the shelf. “Let’s go home so I can fuck you properly,” he said, easing his arms around my waist.

  I stroked his beard. “But what about the gala and your colleagues?”

  “We both know I’ve spent too much time with them, which has been a sacrifice for us,” he replied in a sorrowful tone. “And, for that, I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Besides, I’d rather party with you,” he continued, taking me into a deep kiss. The buzz of the pink panties was the last thing I heard before we left them behind in the closet.

  GUESSING GAME

  T.C. Mill

  Guess.”

  Sometimes it’s easy. Blindfolded, Roland can still tell the difference between his lovers: then Amy’s peach fuzz and sticky lip balm against his thighs, now Mike’s close-trimmed beard and long eyelashes brushing his stomach. When his hips strain, trying to follow the heat of the mouth drawing away, he recognizes her crystalline sigh, his self-satisfied chuckle close to the skin.

  “Michael,” he whispers.

  “Got it.” A hand clasps his bound hand briefly, something between a congratulatory high-five and an affectionate check-in. He squeezes the strong fingers back before they slip from his.

  Roland’s arms are stretched wide—not so far it’s painful, but enough that he can never forget it. His legs, though unbound, are not exactly free. Someone straddles his calf. Amy, or Michael balancing most of his weight on his knees.

  A touch traces down his ribs.

  “Guess.” The third voice over his head takes on a singsong tone.

  He twists as the touch reverses course, climbing toward his nipples. It circles one without making contact with the hard point. He can picture the curlicue being looped across his upper body. Amy, he thinks, usually prefers lightning-strike zigzags.

  “Mike again?” he asks.

  The hand keeps stroking, moving over skin sensitized by the feather she (or he?) had stroked across him earlier. They’ve been using that feather trick for months now and Roland still doesn’t know what it looks like: long or short? White as a dove’s, a wisp bent in Amy’s iron-firm hold? Or black as an archangel’s, with the same beautiful charcoal sweep as Michael’s brows?

  “Amy?”

  “Which is your final answer?” she asks.

  Roland shakes his head, the blindfold pulling in his long hair without in any way slackening. “I’m not sure.”

  “Guess anyway,” Mike suggests.


  He shakes his head again, more in confusion than refusal. It’s not a bad confusion, but he’s starting to lose the urge to think. That touch, the way he’s tied, have soothed him into a floaty, disembodied feeling. He almost forgets he’s there. Except where they prod him, question him, reminding. He relies on them to map him out, and they feel more real than he is.

  “Guess.”

  The word in that cheerful singsong is no hint. It comes from the speaker sitting above his head, between his outstretched arms. Marisol.

  She’s watching—and speaking, mostly just that one word. That’s been her role these first few times she’s joined them. Spectator and referee, an essential part of their game but not a player herself, still deciding how or who she would touch.

  The hand stroking Roland’s chest adds fingernails. Trimmed, but used with precision. “Amy,” he says, certain now. “Final answer.”

  “You’re correct.” Marisol’s breath sounds a little shorter, and he wonders what she sees that he can’t.

  The flat of a palm glides up and down the length of his cock. Roland startles, not so much at the abruptness of the touch (they’ve been touching everywhere around his erection for what feels like hours now) as at the way it causes all of him to flow downward. His blood and very consciousness rush in a hot flood rising under that hand, which could belong to either of them.

  The pad of a finger slips lower between his legs and begins to circle his hole. Warm and slick, it eases in as he falls open with a sharp inhalation. Just a little farther… Michael, he thinks, most likely, but it could also be Amy knowing he would expect this to be Michael’s touch.

  A little farther, and the stroke of that finger sets off fireworks.

  Then it’s gone.

  Roland could whimper. He doesn’t.

  A hand closes on his cock again, this time with a short, firm slide. And another, longer, not enough but clearly recognizing what he needs. Definitely Mike’s.

  The next finger up his ass is Amy’s—smaller but faster, her approach so honed it nearly comes off as indifferent. This time he doesn’t get the choice whether to whimper.

  And then it’s gone, too.

  “Hang in there.” Mike’s warm, deep voice, Mike’s hand patting his thigh before running along the curve of skin in a way that’s the opposite of soothing.

  “Next,” Amy says, “tell us what we’re touching you with.”

  “Okay.”

  It’s fuzzy. Not soft, though. Round, he realizes as she rolls it up and down his leg, then over his hip.

  “Tennis ball.” Probably the one Amy rolls between her shoulders and the back of her chair in a self-directed massage after a long day hunched over jewelry. She knows which kinks to work out and does so impatiently. Meanwhile, when Mike comes home from a day of supervising reno, he stretches out shirtless on the couch for Roland to go over him. Roland doesn’t submit through service, but it’s no chore at all to see and feel Mike relaxing, the ropes of lean muscle unwinding under his smooth skin, deep brown with tattoos of vibrant green leaves and a red-gold sun, the ink dancing as he gorgeously melts from Roland’s touch. Anyway, caring for someone is different from submission. Sometimes he wishes Amy would let him take care of her, too. Every so often, she does.

  A batting pop sounds over his head—Amy tossing the ball, Marisol catching it. There’s a rhythm as they work together, humming in the air, though Roland can only imagine what’s going on above the blindfold. Or guess.

  He’d met Marisol while dancing downtown. It was a summer weekend event put on by a cluster of local businesses, bars and gift shops hoping to draw more people to them every Friday night. On some weeks, Roland sang outside the combination used-books-and-antiques store, but that evening he’d joined the group of singles, kids, and what seemed to be a sorority from the local college dancing in the middle of the street. A woman in a T-shirt affiliating her with the band onstage modeled simple choreography for them to follow. It owed something to the Electric Slide and something to square dancing. Marisol was next to him, and they exchanged glances during one of the turns, but it wasn’t until the unsteady newbie on the other side of her knocked her into Roland that they got to know each other. He caught her, she thanked him, and turned it into a new move, and they shouted introductions over the beat.

  “Guess this one,” Marisol says now.

  He recognizes smooth silicone as it runs along his abdomen, then the buzz.

  “Amy’s vibe.” He pushes himself to be more specific before the toy moves down far enough to annihilate all coherent thought. “The, um…think it’s the pink one that kind of curves?” One of her favorites, and he shivers at the memory of how it looks between her legs, as hot pink as the blush that spreads from her thighs while her grip on his wrist shows him how to use it. Or wields him, really, uses him like an extension of the toy.

  Though it’s Mike, laughing a little, who seems to be wielding it now. Still, this feels too easy. It’s an excuse, of course, to touch him with an unknown arsenal. Amy likes to have reasons for what she does, controlling proceedings within some larger design. Mike loves any chance to open the toolbox. And Marisol, he knows, enjoys each new discovery.

  The fun of that downtown event was how you found something different around every street corner. Balloon animals for the kids and face painting for all ages. Nonprofits handing out information and collecting spare change and introducing passersby to rescued animals. Marisol waved away an invitation to sit for a live-portrait painter. “I want to keep walking,” she said, already tilting her head to see down another side street. In front of one stage, an acrobat hung from a wooden pyramid by thick silk scarves. Roland watched her swing weightless, overtaken by a familiar feeling that was part admiration, part envy. Beside him, Marisol watched, too.

  “Guess?”

  “Feather,” he says, twitching and ticklish as it brushes his cheek below the blindfold.

  “No.”

  “No?” He turns his face, trying to follow it. Now the soft, light touch moves over his chin and throat— there it’s too much, almost sharp—and down his chest. Trailing…

  “Ribbon!” he says, recognizing at last the silky feeling.

  “Not bad,” Mike says. “He’s what, now, six for ten?”

  “Am I supposed to be keeping score?” Marisol asks.

  They’d passed the jewelry shop where Amy worked part-time and the place where Roland gave guitar lessons. He’d pointed out the latter, not the former, not sure yet how to mention Amy or if he even should. She was at home that night, beading a birthday gift—a necklace of shell and silver beads—for Mike, who was visiting his sister to welcome his first niece and goddaughter into the world. Roland had bought two cards and a book from Mike’s wish list before he joined the dancing. When they strolled by the shop, Marisol looked in the window and pointed out the same book, but he was even less sure how much to say about his boyfriend. He and Marisol were having fun getting to know each other, not necessarily as anything more than friends, but even that could be jeopardized if he did the calculus wrong—said too much, so that she decided he was weird, perverted, gross.

  The next object prickles. A quick, pin-sharp skittering along his outstretched arm. Roland’s shoulders tighten, and when he shivers, jarring the toy, metal chimes. “This thing!”

  Mike and Amy’s voices overlap:

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve got to be more specific.”

  He turns his head, the pins skipping along his collarbone. “Like . . . I have to name what it is?”

  “Yeah, what is it?” Marisol sounds genuinely curious.

  “It’s the pizza cutter from hell,” Roland tells her. “The pinwheel of pain and…pins.”

  “Warmer,” Mike says as the wheel rolls down Roland’s chest.

  “It’s a reflex wheel.”

  Amy says, “Mmmm,” noncommittally.

  He tries to remember the name attached to it as the wheel rolls back up and sends tension through hi
s entire torso. Gutenberg? No, but it had also sounded literary. Like…Edith? “Wartenberg pinwheel!”

  “I’ll remember it as the pinwheel from hell,” Marisol says, but she doesn’t sound intimidated in the least.

  That night, exploring and dancing through downtown, they had passed a stage where a young woman led an all-ages sing-along on acoustic guitar and turned the corner to be confronted by two signs. The people holding them were young, well dressed, and wouldn’t have seemed out of place if not for the wary defiance with which they looked at everyone around them. And for the signs themselves. One said, in thick marker, Marriage = 1 man, 1 woman. The other was much more vulgar.

  Part of him indulged in the fantasy of giving them the confrontation they were expecting, even welcoming. Another part was sickly unsurprised; this town still liked to think of itself as cozy and wholesome and oldfashioned, prioritizing the last two more than the first. But he glanced at Marisol to see her biting her lip and shoving her dark brown hair out of her face.

  “Let’s go?” he asked softly.

  “Yeah.” As they strode down another street, she took a deep breath. “I, uh, took that kind of personally.”

  “I—” Roland started, but when she continued speaking he didn’t interrupt. Her words were like steam rising when a lid was taken off after far too long.

  “I mean, it feels personal. I’m not sure if it is. Which is weird, right? Not that I don’t enjoy your company,” she added. “I like hanging out with guys. But women, too…”

  Roland nodded. “Would you like to get a drink?”

  “Sure.” Marisol smiled, but five minutes later she was frowning into her beer. “It’s just a guessing game, I guess.” A grimace at the echo. “But how did I get to be twenty-seven without knowing if I’m lesbian or straight?”