by Alison Tyler
“You be a good girl until halftime,” he warned, his eyes still fixed on the TV screen.
I whimpered in protest, but could do little but surrender to my fate.
Which wasn’t as bad as it seemed at first. Alex didn’t ignore me completely. He doled out bits of pleasure between plays like single kernels of buttered popcorn. A palm circling over a nipple here, an idle stroking of my slit there. Just enough to get me arching up and breathing fast. Gradually we established little rituals of celebration. A first down for his team earned my breasts a few hot kisses. A touchdown won me a spirited clit strumming that brought me almost to the verge—before his fingers retreated to the remote to check the game on the other channel.
After a while, my lust hovered at a steady simmer even through the breaks. Yet each new ministration raised the temperature a few degrees until my flesh seemed to melt into a puddle of pussy juice beneath my ass.
At long last, halftime arrived.
Alex turned to me with smoldering eyes. Apparently he’d been simmering, too. He straddled me and spread my thighs with his knees, a male trick that makes me feel utterly and deliciously dominated. I arched up to take him in, but he taunted me one last time, that hard, red cock pointed straight at my hungry hole.
“Time for a little penetration into the end zone?” The words were clever, but his voice was thick with desire.
I jerked my pelvis up and he slipped right in. My walls were so exquisitely swollen, the sweet pressure sent a shock through my body.
Alex bent forward and took my nipple between his lips. He knew I liked it rougher when I was this turned on, and he sucked hard. I could tell he was still holding back, but I was through with waiting. I was the one to thrust up against him, the headboard beating quick time against the wall. First down, second down, third down, touchdown, that’s when I came, the pulsing in my belly exploding in a series of shattering contractions. The first spasm lasted an eternity, and I let out a wail of release. Alex began to pump into me, and the headboard resumed its knocking, steady at first, then crazier and wilder until he roared out his pleasure. I swear I could feel his cock shudder as he filled me with his cream.
I had no idea a spectator sport could give you such a workout.
Alex looked deep into my eyes and smiled. “Ready for the second half?”
So now you know how I became a football fan. And why September can’t come soon enough for me.
ELEVEN A.M. ELEVENSES
Jeremy Edwards
First, the glass of iced coffee—in the kitchen, while they went through the mail—then a shower, and then terry robes in that odd alcove off the bedroom, which even the Realtor couldn’t tell them much about. (Sewing room—with no windows? Walk-in closet—when the bedroom itself already had a bigger one?) Cilla and Drew had thrown a boom box in there and used the alcove daily as a private chill-out lounge, for post-shower quality time. It was one of their little routines.
“Wait a sec. I need to put something in the boom box.”
“Uh-uh, Drew. You need to put something in my boom box. Get your cute terry-cloth ass over here.”
“That’s funny—I see a cute terry-cloth ass, all right… but it’s not on me. See? It’s right here.”
“Hee-hee! Slap it again. Again!”
Cilla hadn’t realized how much she was a creature of routine until all their routines were put in storage.
Oh, it was for a good reason. A positive reason, even. A happy reason, in theory. She and Drew were moving to California because her dream job had become a reality. Leaving the wintry climes of the upper Midwest behind them was no hardship, either.
There was no question that it was totally worth it. She was heading west with the most cherished thing she had—Drew—and all the sacrifices were, she had to admit, miniscule ones. Giving up their daily routine of looking out at the lake over breakfast, for example. Or their routine of taking an evening walk, in all but the fiercest weather, past the hardware store and Russian deli and dry cleaner’s.
The routine of showering in tandem, steamy buttocks squeezed against wet pubic fur, in a quirky, narrow shower stall that they could just manage to make work as a twosome—a deliciously tight fit.
Sitting dazed in the cab of a rented truck while they logged mile after mile in the middle of nowhere, Cilla told herself that there would be new breakfast routines, new walks to explore, a new shower…maybe even a new alcove to fuck in.
“Mmm, hee-hee. That’s more like it. What’s your opinion of my alcove?”
“Ooh. Very comfy.”
“Don’t be shy, now: come all the way in, and I’ll warm you up. Ahhhhh, yeah, like that.”
But all she could feel right now was the disorientation of being afloat in a routineless sea. Was this what it felt like for astronauts to be in zero-g? she wondered.
It didn’t seem to bother Drew. This didn’t surprise Cilla; after all, Cilla had been surprised to find that it bothered her. And Drew, of course, could tell how much it bothered her, with a minimum of explanation. When you were alone in the cab of a U-Haul for twelve hours a day with your life partner, few emotional nuances went unnoticed.
She gave herself another eyeful of flat road and barren landscape and utterly bored-looking sky. It boggled the mind how a vehicle could go so fast and still take this long to get to the next chunk of nothingness.
At least living motel to motel brought the perk of motel sex. The cold beer and warm fuck that beckoned at the end of each interstate installment gave her something to look forward to each day—and something pleasant to consider over the course of the following day.
So today, in between mourning lost routines, she was savoring last night’s memory of sitting on the edge of the bed with her panties at her knees and her cunt lips glistening while Drew finished washing up. She’d been so horny she didn’t want to wait for him to pull her underwear down.
She’d stood to greet him when he exited the bathroom, and within seconds she was turned 180 and laughing sensuously as he urged his cock against the softness of her naked derrière, steering her gently by the elbows to guide her back toward the bed—leading her in a dance she always called “ass rhapsody” in her mind because it made her cheeks tingle all over as if with a thousand miniature orgasms.
It made them tingle anew to think of it now.
She wondered if she should check herself before she got too deep into this reminiscence. After all, if she lingered too long on the scenario, she’d end up with a hand down her pants and the irresistible come-on of damp panties snarled in her groove. She’d be shifting in place to make them scrape against her clit, twisting her hips just so, again and again, and she’d—oh—she’d…right there in the passenger seat, in broad daylight, she’d—
“Ohhhhhh.”
“What’s on your mind?” Driver Drew couldn’t resist teasing her the moment her little climax had dissipated. She still had her fingers wedged firmly into her jeans.
She teased back by playing dumb. “On my mind? Nothing. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I was wondering if perchance you were engaged in a sexual fantasy, given the whole hand-down-your-jeans thing. Then that little ‘Ohhhhhh’”—here he did a fair impression of her mini-orgasm—“kind of clinched it. Er…cinched it?”
“Either.” She knew because she’d had to look this up while composing a memo the other day.
“Okay, then. It cinched it and clinched it.” He glanced down at her thighs, which were pulsing together and apart, together and apart, around the shape of her buried hand. “Then again, maybe I mean clenched it.”
It was strange as hell to feel herself convulsing with what she’d thought was going to be laughter but ended up being a spontaneous outburst of crying as another wave of homesickness overpowered her.
“Hey,” Drew said tenderly, “what’s wrong?”
“I don’t get it,” she confessed between sobs. “I’m thrilled about what we’re doing, and I know we’ll only be on the road a few more day
s. I guess I just have a silly attachment to all the special ways we did things at home. I”—she sobbed again—“I miss every tiny detail of how we arranged our life.”
“It’s not silly,” he replied calmly, soothingly. “I think it’s completely normal. If anything, I think maybe I’m the weird one, for not being more affected by moving. Sure, people move across the country every day of the year, and we all take that for granted. But it’s a hell of a big transition, after a decade in one place. You and I put down roots back there. And it’s all those tiny details that reveal it.”
“You really understand.” He usually did. Cilla caught her breath and told herself to be patient with her emotional turbulence. Drew was right: it wasn’t silly, and that thought was comforting in itself.
Five minutes later, she saw him bump the turn signal up with the knuckles of his right hand—a method that Cilla could never reproduce, which she consequently viewed with a childlike admiration. The truck eased itself into the rightmost lane, then up a ramp and into the back of a rest-area parking lot.
Drew got out without speaking, seemingly intent on what he was doing. But what, Cilla wondered, was he doing? First he checked all the mirrors. Then he leaned across the windshield and examined the wipers. Was there a problem? She hadn’t noticed one, nor had Drew commented on anything being amiss.
Now he seemed to be checking the headlights.
When she got tired of wondering, she sat back more comfortably in her seat and switched on her e-book reader. As she read, she heard Drew open the gas-tank panel (they’d filled up thirty miles earlier—was he dusting for cobwebs or something?), and then she heard him undo the padlock on the back gate.
Ah, maybe that was it. Maybe he’d heard an “ominous thud”—like he had yesterday afternoon, when Cilla was at the wheel and he’d asked her to pull over. “I heard an ominous thud from the back,” he’d explained, making her laugh with his choice of words. That particular thud had proved to be the result of a rubber tub full of kitchenware sliding off the tub below it and coming to rest decisively against a wooden bar stool.
She was startled into alertness by a politely restrained rapping on her window. Drew was looking up at her, with what her intimate knowledge of his face suggested was an odd combination of concern, troubleshooting efficiency…and mischief.
“Could you come around to the back for a minute?” He disappeared without waiting for an answer.
“What’s up?” She stood beside him, peering into the open truck. If there was something wrong back here, she couldn’t see what it was.
Drew just stared at her mysteriously. Again she noted the evidence, in his taut smile muscles, of a grin trying to fight its way forward.
“What?” she repeated. “What?”
He still didn’t respond. The soupçon of smirkiness on his face remained.
“You do realize what time it is, don’t you?” he finally said.
“Huh?” Cilla didn’t see what difference the time made. She hadn’t glanced at the dashboard clock since plunking her warm ass onto the chilly seat of the cab at 6:53 a.m. The clock was hard to see from the passenger seat, and the exact time was pretty meaningless to her, given that the day would be a nearly unbroken sequence of nearly identical hours of interstate-highway monotony. She knew it was morning; that was good enough for her.
But now she was intrigued. “Why? What time is it?”
His eyes flickered at her. “About five to eleven.”
“Okay, so it’s five to eleven. And…?”
“Five to eleven. Five to eleven on Saturday.”
At last, the significance clicked. With all her fretting about absent routines today, how could she have forgotten to contemplate this one?
Elevenses: a term they’d picked up from the old British novels they loved—a quaint expression for a midmorning snack. Only for Cilla and Drew, the “snacking” had nothing to do with comestibles (except, as Drew had once pointed out while her head was in his lap, insofar as comestibles could be understood to include “come edibles”). Elevenses, in their weekend routine, was a sexual tide-me-over (or bend-me-over or sometimes over and over), for a couple whose appetites generally demanded satisfaction before noon rolled around.
Cilla sighed. “Ooh, yeah, elevenses,” she said wistfully. “As if. Anyway, why are we standing here? Did you hear a noise?”
His blond bangs waved at her adorably when he shook his head. “Not yet. But I’m expecting to hear some nice sounds in a couple of minutes.” He cocked his right eyebrow in the direction of the truck’s interior.
The heat ignited in the little toe of her left foot—for some reason Cilla’s most erogenous toe—and quickly rose to her crotch like water finding its level. “You’re kidding,” she said, hoping—and, in essence, knowing—that he wasn’t.
“Why should I be kidding? It’s time for elevenses, isn’t it? And we have a private place behind a lockable door—and even the comfort of our very own bed.”
She was already scrambling up onto the deck as he added, “As long as you can manage without your nightstand. I think that’s buried under a carton or two of albums.”
For the first time since they’d loaded up, Cilla looked into the transient, barely controlled chaos of the truck and saw it as home.
The bed—their bed—was boxed in among various other pieces of furniture. When they were loading it all in, she had told Drew that it looked like a “furniture party.” But it was accessible, if one was motivated enough.
She was motivated.
“Wait a second!” Drew shouted with gleeful surprise when she climbed over their dresser and bounded down into the arena. “I was going to throw a spread over the mattress.”
Cilla shrugged insouciantly.
“But you have the ‘spread’ thing covered, I guess.”
It was true. Though she was still fully dressed in her jeans and tee, Cilla had spread-eagled herself on the bare mattress with all the enthusiasm of a woman reclaiming one of her favorite routines. She was a flexible girl, and her thighs were parted so wide, she could feel the seam of the denim threatening to rend.
Drew flicked on the overhead light and rattled the gate door shut. The reverberating clang it made when it hit the deck acted on Cilla like the shock of a wandering vibrator grazing an appreciative clit.
He took the trail she’d blazed—up and over the dresser—and landed neatly between her legs. She embraced him emphatically, warming her breasts against him, and his hard-on petitioned the fly of her jeans while he reached under to fondle the rounds of her asscheeks. When she raised her arms in invitation, he tickled her armpits with kisses, moistening the thin cotton of her T-shirt where it clung intimately to her sensitive hollows.
He flipped her over and she heard herself giggling, more than she had in days, as his cock sent further tickles of promise up and down her ass. Moments later, her jeans and panties were halfway down her thighs, and she sensed the undiluted focus of Drew’s lust on her bare bottom. Though her face was to the mattress, she felt her consciousness mingling with her husband’s in the crystal clarity of mutually understood desire.
He squeezed and slapped and nibbled, and she could feel her little bottom turning pink and warm and oh so fucking tingly-sweet. Her pussy was so slick now, her thighs slipped over each other like palms spreading suntan lotion.
Then Drew shuffled his own pants halfway down and lay naked-bellied on top of her, torso squishing her slap-sweetened buttocks, his skinny legs pressing on her nearly closed thighs… his cock just able to fit between them and tease the entrance to her cunt.
On one level, she wanted to stay in this position forever, his rigid cylinder perfectly nestled against the give of her flesh, her pussy, ass and upper thighs a quivering territory of bare-skinned arousal that lay exposed between the hem of her tee and the crumpled jeans-and-panties border below. On one level, this was the ideal state of existence.
But, oh, she also wanted him inside her, wanted him to thrust inside her, wa
nted him to come inside her…wanted to let herself come with him inside her, and not before. So she wiggled an expressive wiggle that was slightly different from the way she’d been squirming in her heat, confident that Drew would know it meant the time had come to pull her pants off.
He shed his first. Cilla continued wiggling with anticipation while, over her shoulder, she watched him frantically dance and fumble himself free in the cramped space. Then she rolled onto her backside again, to finger her pussy and ogle the rugged frankness of Drew’s ass as he bent to complete the task—balancing himself awkwardly against a floor lamp, whose presence added to the illusion that they were in their bedroom rather than the back of a truck.
When her own jeans and sneakers came off—Drew furrowing his brow with concentrated excitement as he tugged and twisted—Cilla reprised the spread-legged position she’d begun with, pried her fingers away from her dripping cunt…and waited to be fucked by her man, on her bed.
In a parking lot somewhere in Nebraska.
Neb-fucking-raska, maybe; but the word home fired through her horny brain as Drew smoothly entered her and drove his shaft home. He was completely at home in her cunt, and, god, he knew how to make her feel at home. Her muscles clamped hungrily around him, and she dragged her bottom up and down the contours of the naked mattress, letting jolts of sensation ping-pong from asscheeks to clit and back.
He filled her, unfilled her, refilled her…and it was so much pleasure she couldn’t stand it, she was going to come—oh, yes, she was going to come wildly, and stain the mattress with sloppy pussy kisses.
Her clit grabbed the spark that was provided when Drew lingered, deliberately, on an upstroke, pressing the weight of his abdomen where he knew she’d thrill to it. He pinched her left nipple through soft cotton, and she heard herself moan out a lewd, throaty noise of deep release as a teetering wall of anticipation cracked into nuggets of ecstasy.
The heavy stem of the floor lamp made an ominous thud when she kicked it against the dresser in her throes. But Drew was coming hard, pinning her to the mattress as he filled her with hot comfort, and Cilla could not be bothered to concern herself with thuds, ominous or otherwise. Giving in to another aftershock of pleasure, her mind was on one thing only: this brand-new routine she’d call road elevenses—or, better yet, elevenses on tour. With a little careful planning, they could surely arrange to be at a rest area, service plaza, or truck stop at this same time tomorrow…and the next day…and the day after that…
