Erotic Teasers

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  As she slid her hands down the smooth skin of her inner thighs, he watched intently, following her action with his chin and leaning forward in his eagerness. Oh, this was going to be so fun. She teased around her wet slit. He’d want to see more, quickly, and in truth, she wanted to gratify herself. But after so much time already, it seemed wrong to dive straight in. She opened her legs but used her hands to hide and reveal all the treasures between her legs.

  Working by feel and his hot gaze alone, she worked her way inward in little insistent circles with her right hand. The first slick movement over her clit made her gasp, though she knew it was coming. With her left, she fingered suggestively at her hole, dipping lower as if she might sodomize herself with a finger.

  His cock bobbed. There was hard desire and covetous need in his eyes. Good to know this was making him insane too.

  “You’d like to fuck me, wouldn’t you?”

  He groaned, and somewhere in the noise was an affirmative.

  “You’d like to put that little cock of yours in me and try to prove to me that size doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, m’lady. Please.” He took an involuntary step forward and she quashed him with a raised eyebrow. He stepped back.

  He wanted to fuck her, but he wanted more to be denied. His body was close to perfection, with just enough insignificant flaws to make him vulnerable to teasing. Strong arms, broad shoulders, and sharp eyes might all make a man gorgeous, but they could give a man the inflated idea of his own importance and make him a lazy lover. A man who could enjoy being teased knew his true value so deeply he could enjoy what would injure the pride of a lesser man.

  “I don’t think I need your diminutive implement to help me.” She licked her upper lip as she slipped one hand to her entrance as her other continued to glide over her nub. It was an awkward angle momentarily, but she pushed two fingers into her entrance, curling them upward to press against that sensitive spot. She moved her fingers in tandem, each sensation enhancing the other. And best of all was the view while she was pleasuring herself. He was really a glorious sight naked. Standing still but intent, his eyes flicked between her face and the filthy, wanton things she was doing between her thighs.

  He was leaning forward, greedy to see her. His hands were clasped behind him, holding himself back.

  She increased the circles around her clit so he’d be able to see her pink nub appearing and disappearing. The lips of her sex were generous, made to be watched. The moan she let out as the pleasure built inside her was entirely genuine, but his answering groan of need made her wish she’d played up for him.

  She stroked around her nub, revealing herself and then obscuring as she pushed and eased to hold her orgasm away, then pull it forward.

  Then she couldn’t resist. A little too hard, a bit too fast, and she spilled over, despite her intention to draw the sensations out. She closed her eyes as the peak of sensation washed over her, pulsing out from her core.

  His breath, fast and deep, must have been audible all this time, but it was only as the pulses between her legs ebbed away that she became aware of it. His wild, pale irises were the first things she saw when she lazily opened her eyes.

  Her mouth curved into a smile. He hadn’t broken posture, or come. He’d waited for her approval.

  “Perhaps I’ll leave you thus,” she mused aloud, stroking one fingernail over the lips of her sex and easing out her fingers, dripping with her juices.

  “Oh.” There was a brightness in his eyes. Excitement. His cock was still as hard as ever. “Please don’t leave me.”

  “Very well.”

  He stepped toward her, hope sparkling in his eyes. “You may resume.” She nodded at his waist.

  He understood and dropped back, his hand immediately on his aching cock. He pushed up and down, the head revealed then hidden by his foreskin, then his fingers.

  But there was a price to pay for any indulgence. “You will spill on the floor.”

  His expression collapsed into outright trepidation, but he didn’t stop. With all his neat machinery and tidy clothing, this would be at least as difficult as being denied. All the muscles across his belly were tense with the effort of preventing himself from spilling, making them seem like an immovable Greek statue, even as his whole body twitched with need.

  “I could still order you to put your breeches on over your cockstand. I could send you into the street with your cock pushing out. My maids would see you and titter. They’ll tell their friends and giggle about the ginger-haired man, with his freckled face, who got hard speaking to their mistress.”

  He was frigging himself really hard now, legs firm even as his head tipped back.

  “Are you imagining it?”

  He was, she could tell by the rough look in his eyes. “Yes.”

  “One of the pretty married ladies who lives in the square will notice and look away with a smirk.”

  He bit his lip hard enough that it went white. “Come. On the floor.”

  His gaze searched for somewhere to spill that wasn’t the floor or his hand, where it would make a mess. His seed would end up all over the floor, his trousers, possibly her thighs and dress.

  He leaned forward, his muscled body tense and his eyes trained on her face, despite the pretty tableau of her pink, wet sex.

  Then his face was loose and reams of white were over his stomach and falling onto the floor. Somehow, he managed to avoid either of their clothes, even as he moaned and shook. There was nothing like watching a strong man overcome with pleasure.

  She smoothed down her skirts.

  His eyes were still open, but he seemed to gradually regain his ability to see, and looked away. He grabbed at his clothes and hurried to dress himself.

  She turned her attention over to his machine. It was a good design, and the intricacy of the mechanism meant it would be welcome in many homes. He’d managed to cover that glorious chest by the time she looked back. The tails of the shirt fell over his still-hard dick. His movements were jerky with panic as he picked his crumpled trousers from the floor and yanked them on, then hastily tied his cravat.

  “I’m very impressed, Mr. Merridon. I’ll give you the money you need to progress your writing machine.”

  He looked up as he shrugged on his coat, possibly more shocked than when she told him to take off his clothes. He fumbled with the buttons of his coat.

  “I . . . thank you, Lady Charlbury.” He didn’t look happy though. His mouth was bowed with disappointment.

  What did he expect? A marriage proposal? “I’ll have a maid bring over the money next week.” Louise might enjoy that task.

  His mouth sank into being fully downward. He was so adorably transparent. Unlike some men of science or men of rank, he was utterly without guile or arrogance.

  He fussed with his cravat, making it less straight, not more.

  “You may visit again when the writing machine has progressed.” She’d found a visit to be valuable further inducement for the men she sponsored not to waste the money she gave them. “I think there is a risk of the ink smudging in its present design. I should like to see it again in two months’ time. And you with it, obviously.” His vivid imagination found a host of delicious things she might mean and made him blush again.

  Perhaps she’d strip him naked every time she saw him, just for the joy of seeing him thus.

  DAILY DENIAL

  TammyJo Eckhart

  I‘m alone on a Sunday morning.

  I can feel the remnants of his presence starting to fade away, but I won’t simply wait for them to dissipate. I sit lotus on the cushion after the candles are lit. I begin with silent, short commands.

  Close your eyes.

  I can feel my eyelids slowly close, the light from the window I’m facing creating a murky gray in my field of vision. Tiny sparks occasionally play across the gray as my mind struggles to find something familiar in the blandness. I push aside the memories of yesterday and let the gray take over.

  Cen
ter your body.

  I lift up my shoulders and roll them back. I adjust my hands, resting them palm up on my thighs. I wiggle enough to ease the stretch on my hips. I feel the light air from the ever-running fan brush the air over my arms and stir the hair that has come loose from my bun over my neck and shoulders. I feel every trace of his touch float away. I force my fingers to relax and my chin to lift upward.

  Breathe in.

  I can feel the sharp tickle of air slip through my nose and slide down my throat. My chest expands slightly and I have to straighten up so it can grow more.

  Breathe out.

  I can feel my tummy expand as I push air out, rushing up my throat, fluttering through my mouth, then flowing out over parted lips.

  Deeper. Take deeper breaths.

  The air dives through my throat into my lungs. My nipples brush against the soft silk top I’m wearing, and I direct that sensation lower. By the fifteenth breath in, I can feel the warmth and swell of my clit. I pause, holding that air until warmth moves outward.

  I repeat for another ten minutes, challenging that desire back upward until every part of me is warm.

  I open my eyes and smile as that energy settles into my brain. “Better than coffee,” I say, chuckling softly as I stretch out and rise to my feet.

  As I have breakfast I start a new entry in my journal. Phrases about light, dark, air, and skin.

  Monday I focus my mind for a moment as the meeting breaks up.

  Today’s target is Brian.

  He is wearing a rust-colored tie with three vertical baby-blue lines an inch under the basic knot. Each line has another line’s width of space between it and the others. His shirt is baby blue, the buttons hidden by the tie until he leans forward to snag his cup after standing up. The buttons are the same blue color. When he straightens up, the light from the conference room windows reveals flat, dark nipples and the fact that he isn’t wearing an undershirt.

  I force my gaze to move over to a shoulder and down a sleeve. There at the mid forearm are wrinkles indicating he rolled up his sleeves before the meeting. He’s our system administrator, so he spends a lot of time in the computer center, which gets even warmer. The computer team has more leeway in how they dress, but corporate Monday is still formal business wear.

  Unlike many IT folks, his skin is a healthy hue, not darkened by too much sun or pale from days upon days indoors. He has a single gold band on his left ring finger, and his veins become visible when he grasps the cup.

  I trace my eyes from the cup over the shiny tabletop back to Brian’s body. He’s wearing light-gray trousers and a slightly darker belt, with a rainbow buckle that pushes the boundaries of allowed personal jewelry regulations. His pants are wrinkled from sitting for an hour, but the fabric is neither bunched nor stretched to show what he’s wearing or not underneath.

  I pull my gaze back and gather up my own notebook and files, logging a few ideas into my mind about colors and light.

  I smile at Sandra as she puts a hand on my arm to double-check that our Monday lunch date is a go. “New deli across the street needs our seal of approval,” I tell her in a firm but friendly tone.

  While she’s in the ladies’ room, I take out my journal and make a few more notes about fabric, boredom, identity, and newness.

  ***

  The water parts beneath my vertical slice as I follow the aerobics instructor’s directions Tuesday evening at the gym. Jodi is breathing hard beside me, so I just give her a glance and a smile. The water resists but parts for my hands, my knees, and my torso as I move through the twice-weekly workout. It warms with the movements and body heat of a dozen students as we push ourselves for an hour to the sounds of gentle pop, energetic club, pounding techno, and soft jazz.

  Jodi’s breathing peaks at one point, and I hear a gasp from her. I turn to her again and whisper, “You can do this. Breathe.” I smile as she complies, and her breathing returns to regulated levels.

  I look at Jodi’s flushed face as she climbs the ladder after me. My own body is tired, but I keep my eyes on her, an arm ready to steady her should she need it. We walk side by side to the women’s locker room.

  “Good job, ladies,” our instructor says to us as she walks past us to go log the hour and the attendees on the clipboard hanging just outside the pool room.

  Jodi brushes against my arm before settling her hand under my automatically offered elbow, resting her fingers around it. “You never make fun of me at the end of the workouts,” she says with a sigh.

  “I’m your friend. Your coming with me helps me stay in shape,” I insist.

  “How do you know when I’m having a rough time?” “You’re my friend; it’s part of my job to be aware of you. Just like you are of me.”

  Jodi pauses, then nods her head sharply before we continue walking.

  I note Jodi watching me as we hop in the showers, struggle out of the bathing suits, and then quickly soap up and wash out our hair. She looks away when I make direct eye contact. That shyness sends a tickle out of my head, down my throat, through my torso, to warm my clit. I bite my tongue just enough to dampen that reaction.

  The cooler and far less humid air of the gym outside the locker room makes us pause and take deep breaths. We wave to the staff and the other members as we leave. In the parking lot we hug each other good-bye, and I feel Jodi’s breathing increase again.

  I reach into my gym bag to take out my journal as she drives off first. I jot down a few phrases and words about exercise, water, sound, and embarrassment.

  That is because you suck, you stupid cunt!, the idiot we allowed into our ranks for the dungeon mission lashes out on Wednesday evening. I count out one, two, three, four… The secondary tank is booted out of the team by our house leader, RavenHorde, so I don’t need to do anything but smile when I see a banned notice come up on my screen.

  Would you see if Steal is on yet, CocoaScout ? RavenHorde asks me.

  On it, I reply as I use my privileges as subcommander to look at our roster. Nope, but CrescentMoon sent us a request to join ten minutes back and is only fishing, I report.

  CrescentMoon?

  We did Highrealm, the WaterTanks, and some older dungeons with him, SlipperyEel pipes up to remind us.

  We haven’t seen him in a while, RavenHorde replies.

  She had a baby, I think, Dawns-Angel tosses out.

  She, yes, right, she, SlipperyEel sighs. I know, I know, I’m a sexist pig, he mumbles halfheartedly.

  Shall I invite her? I ask.

  Within a minute, CrescentMoon is with us and chatting with BrunoMounds, our main tank.

  I take those moments to jot down a few things in my journal before I feed my dinosaur and my snakes and get ready for another attempt at the second of three bosses we want to take out tonight.

  From my place in the back, I can see the entire battlefield. I bark out simple words warning of pending attacks or highlighting goons for us to pick off while the frontline stays focused. At the end of each success I add in a “Good job” or a “Nice work” before the next crisis demands our attention.

  Once we’ve won and divided up the loot, DawnsAngel sends me a private message. Thank you for always staying positive. You are the reason I stay in this house.

  I feel my jaw loosen and a brightness grow in my eyes as I bow to her and then portal back to our house. I sit for a few moments to look at my character on the logout screen. If I were a dwarf I might look like that. Calm but serious expression, hair pulled back into a few braids, bright eyes glancing around casually. I log out and turn off the system.

  I push back from the desk as my computer powers down. I do a few stretches as I walk to the kitchen table. I pick up my wineglass and sip as I jot down notes about teamwork, positive feedback, sexism, and pets in my journal.

  ***

  I toss a piece of popcorn into my mouth as the heroine onscreen spins around and plants her boot firmly into her enemy’s torso, sending him skidding backward. Thursday is movie night
after water aerobics. Just me watching at home—streaming, something DVRed, or one title from my collection. Her outfit is ridiculous, more annual swimsuit edition than warrior maiden, but at least she hasn’t had to turn to any men for help yet, and the movie is almost over. Does that little boy who led her through the woods earlier count as relying on men? I shrug and eat some more popcorn.

  I am not watching alone, though.

  A text message pops up on my phone, and I read it. Is her armor getting smaller with each fight, or am I just horny?

  Both, I send back.

  Miss you. Wish it was Saturday.

  I look at the message, turn from it, and focus on the continued fight. In those seconds I glanced down, the villain has turned the tide, and the warrior is on her knees struggling to keep his sword from impaling her. Now the bad guy is monologuing about how the heroine would look really great with her mouth full.

  Wow. Can we get any more direct and still get a PG rating?

  The warrior smiles, licks her lips, then pulls a dagger from her boot and drives it up beneath the baddie’s legs.

  Yup, we can get more direct.

  Another text comes in so I glance down at it. He deserved that.

  I look back at the screen. The villain has risen up onto his toes as the warrior stands, urging him upward with that dagger. She makes some comments about freeing the world from future generations tainted by his blood before making a jerking movement that has her foe screaming and the screen turning gray briefly before switching to another scene.

  My phone makes a beep, so I look down. Have you thought more about knife play? the new text message reads.

  I frown and take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment, channeling those feelings through my body, releasing tension. I text back, You don’t dictate what we do.

  Within seconds he replies, Yes, Mistress. I apologize.

  I feel my heart race and my groin clench in reaction to that title and how quickly he backs down. Five days since our last session without orgasm; denying myself the pleasure of even riding a wave of desire farther than the warmth of pleasure makes the reaction stronger. I text back, Good.