by Alison Tyler
She gazed around. “Well, there seems to be a lot of space from this angle. But I’m short. I’m wondering, if I had something taller than me, would it fit comfortably?” she questioned coyly. Grabbing his shirt front, she pulled him in for a quick, liquid kiss. “In case you didn’t get it, Mr. Greyson,” she whispered. “I’m wondering how comfortable a man would be if he was between my legs, with his face buried in my…” Her voice caught on the last word.
Eli grinned and chuckled as he eased himself on top of her. “I believe, Trish, that the word you’re looking for is pussy.” His touch was light, sliding the silken material down her thighs and off, tossing them into the window well. His head disappeared under her skirt. “And I guess we’ll just have to find out.”
She tensed in anticipation. His fingers gently parted her lips, the tip of his tongue tracing a line from her hole to her hood, flicking at her swollen clit. Shuddering, Trish mewed. He drew patterns in the thin layer of moisture, feeling it thicken with her excitement. His cock felt uncomfortably huge pressed against the floor and he shifted to take the pressure off. But the motion caused his briefs to rub against the shaft in a very pleasurable way and he bit back a groan.
She reached down, running her fingers through his once perfectly coiffed hair before grabbing it in fistfuls and guiding his mouth back to her. “Please tell me that’s not all you’ve got.” With his face forced against her mound, his nose brushed against her when he shook his head. Her giggle turned to a gasp when his teeth nipped at her labia. Slowly, as not to distract her, he slid two fingers into her waiting heat. Curving them, he rocked against her front wall, feeling her control beginning to break as her muscles gripped the invading digits.
He moved to her clit, his tongue following a rhythm all its own. Flick, flick, lick, lick, graze, breathe and repeat. Trish’s head rocked side to side, tears leaking down her cheeks, as she lost her breath to the pleasure. Her whole body practically vibrated as he kept her on the edge of what she was sure would be the biggest orgasm she was ever going to have.
“Please, Eli.” She practically sobbed. “Please, make me come.”
His mouth stretched in a self-satisfied grin, he replied, “Well, since you said please.” His fingers began thrusting and he fastened his lips to her bud, sucking in quick bursts. His tongue was assaulted by her sweet rush of release as she came with a warrior’s cry.
With her disembodied voice ringing through the car, her whole world exploded. Where once she had a skeleton, she now had Jell-O. Her body trembled and shook, falling apart at the seams so completely she was worried that she’d never be able to put herself back together again. As she came down, breathing in gasps, Eli gently pulled away, moving up to lie down next to her.
Leaning over her on one elbow, his free hand caressed her hard nipples through her blouse. She turned to look at him, a vixen’s smile playing over her swollen lips. “So, did you have enough room down there?” For a second he thought she was making a comment about her still-twitching pussy and was about to defend it, but then he realized she meant in terms of the cargo space itself.
“Oh yes. Plenty of room. It was very,” he leaned in to kiss her, “very comfortable. Were you, um, comfortable?”
She purred, reaching over, her hand resting on his cock. “Yes, yes I was.” Intent on unzipping his pants, she saw his watch. “Um, Eli? What time is the appointment with Mr. Alvers?”
“Two o’clock. There’s plenty of…” She turned his wrist so he could see the time. “Shit!”
In a tangle of arms and legs they managed to find their way out of the cargo space and into the front seats. Eli jammed the car into drive and pulled a 180 that would have made most stunt drivers jealous.
Straightening out her blouse and smoothing down her skirt, Trish was sure her face would give her away when she walked in. “Eli…” she began.
“Trish.” He interrupted her. “I know how your mind works, and before you say another word, know this.” He glanced over at her. “I did this because I wanted to—because I want you. So don’t overthink it.”
He pulled into the parking lot in a squeal of tires and brakes. Rushing around to her side, he helped her out of the car, pressing something into her hands as he did. She knew the scrap of material was her thong, and she pushed it into her purse.
“Now keep cool.”
As they walked into the service entrance, Carly called over. “Oh guys, Mr. Alvers canceled. He rescheduled for tomorrow, and he no longer wants the RX450. Now he’s interested in the LX570. That means another test drive.”
Trish and Eli looked at each other and grinned. As she brushed past him to get to her desk she murmured in his ear, “Tomorrow it’s your turn.”
TWO P.M. BIKER BAR
Thomas S. Roche
Summer and I have a little game we like to play in the afternoon—always in the afternoon, because that’s when she gets horny. Summer always gets impossibly horny in the afternoon.
When she started her two o’clock promises, we’d been together about three months. She’d started a new job as a physical therapist, in which she almost always worked Sundays; double-time was hard to turn down. We only got one complete day a week together, Saturday. We’re both very social people, and we like to socialize together. Not hanging out with our friends together was, and is, as unthinkable as not making love.
Trying to get a week’s worth of socializing and foreplay, all on a Saturday, can be hard.
So lately, we combine the two.
The first time she gave me a two o’clock promise, it started not on Saturday afternoon but Thursday night—about ten or eleven. That’s when she laid the groundwork. I’d given her a spanking that left her round, tight bottom rather red. We were fooling around, and she asked me if I’d ever done anal. Yes. She asked me if I’d liked it. YES. She asked me if I wanted to do it again. YES, YES, YES.
“Why?” I asked her. “Are you interested?”
She made a face.
“No,” she said, somewhat harshly. “It must hurt.”
“Not if you do it right,” I said.
“Well, I’m not into that. It’s perverted.”
She sounded borderline pissed, which surprised me.
“Okay,” I said. “No problem. You know we don’t ever have to do anything you’re not into.”
It was Thursday night, and she’d let me spank her, and there was a nice warm perfect pair of buns for my hands to caress. I did this, and she and I went back to making slow, soft, tired, late-evening Thursday night love. She got pretty into it.
I would even go so far as to say that Summer seemed more turned on than usual. Which is saying a lot; saying Summer’s an enthusiastic lover is the understatement of the century.
Fast-forward to Saturday afternoon. We have this group of friends who always meets at Schadenfreude on Valencia Street. I’ll tell you it’s a biker bar, but don’t get the wrong idea; these aren’t exactly Hells Angels. You’ll see more BMWs and Ducatis parked outside than you will Harley-Davidsons. Schadenfreude has heat lamps and Burning Man surplus umbrellas and something like fifty beers on tap. It’s got a huge backyard that’s sweet as hell to hang in when the weather’s nice. That Saturday, the weather was nice.
I don’t remember who all was there that day—Joey and Courtney, for sure, and Amy and Keith K and Jeff Morales probably, and Rich and Stan might have been there; sometimes they bring friends along. I think that might have been the day Gabriel Pacheco and his crew rode up from Sunnyvale, like they do sometimes. They’ll do it when it’s raining, even; those Sunnyvale cats are crazy. Like I said, Schadenfreude has heat lamps and umbrellas over the picnic tables on the patio, so apparently it’s the number-one choice of people who would drip on the floor if given half a chance. How those freaks keep their cigarettes dry, I’ll never know.
Anyway, so I don’t remember exactly who was there, but I remember everything else that matters. I remember Summer had on her low-cut T-shirt in this burgundy color that set off
her eyes and a V-neck that set off her tits—I’m equally fond of both pairs of fetching attributes. She wore faded blue jeans with a little flare to the leg—a few years out of fashion, but who gives a shit? I remember the flare of the legs and the tight-ish cut across her ass; hot. Her buns looked eminently spankable, as they usually do. She had on sort of wedge heels, which gave those flare legs even more of a seventies look. Her long blond hair was rumpled and unkempt; it had the freshly fucked look. We’d had a nice long slow morning waking up together, but she refused to get me off. “Save it,” she told me. And she wouldn’t come, either. We’d spent a couple hours making out and fooling around, and then she leapt off me and threw her clothes on without showering, demanding brunch.
So I was already more than a little horny. Little did I know this was all in Summer’s plan. She’d had been planning her devious scene since Thursday, so this morning wasn’t even the start of making me “save it.”
Like I said, I don’t remember exactly who was there, but we were seated at the splintery picnic table, and it was a big crowd, and the weather was gorgeous. I do remember the beer was a dollar off in honor of this guy who’d gotten killed on the Mac Arthur Freeway.
Someone passed around a joint. That’s basically okay there as long as you know whoever’s tending bar and keep an eye out not for the cops but for the Environmental Sensitivity complainants, who will lecture your ass till Sunday morning about toxins and free radicals. Don’t get me wrong, I’m highly sympathetic to their plight. After all, my significant other has another kind of environmental sensitivity; afternoon sunlight makes her horny.
Anyway, Summer took a hit—just one, I watched her—and I passed, since I was driving. Mind you, I’m not pulling my Responsible Citizen card out of my pants; there were already two beers and a shot of Bulleit inside me. In addition to the pot, there was an indeterminate number of pinot blancs inside Summer; Schadenfreude is the rare bar in the States where you can get the latter by the glass. Funny thing about bikers nowadays; they no longer know where to get the cheapest methamphetamine, but if the white you want comes in a glass, look for the guys in Vanson leathers cracking jokes about Google Plus.
Anyway, we’d been there for an hour, and our original plan was to stay for two. I already knew Summer gets extremely horny in the afternoon, starting about two o’clock. And when Summer’s horny, I’m horny. But I didn’t yet know that she planned to play a game with me.
About two o’clock, she leaned over and whispered in my ear:
“Baby, I’m horny.”
I smiled and patted her leg. I kissed her, trying to be reasonably discreet.
“Wanna go home and fuck?” she whispered.
I leaned in and said, “Let’s finish our drinks.”
What reason was there to rush? We’d head home about three and have the rest of the afternoon to—
Summer leaned in closer and purred in my ear with a low, soft heat.
“I’ll do things for you,” she told me.
I gave her a look.
“What kind of things,” I said out loud.
“Dirty things,” she whispered.
This time I whispered, too. “What kind of dirty things?” I asked her, smelling her hair—shampoo and sex.
She gave me the innocent, wide-eyed gaze of the coquette, tossing her freshly fucked hair. She looked shy and dirty at the same time—and most of all, she looked seductive.
“I don’t know,” she said, no longer whispering but speaking in a low enough voice that no one else noticed. “I can’t imagine what filthy, perverted things men like you might want to do to girls.”
I looked at her incredulously. Her hand traced a path up my blue-jeaned thigh, just far enough under the table that no one could see. My cock began stiffening.
Mind you, if she’d said she wanted to go home because she had a headache or otherwise wasn’t feeling well, I would have loaded her on my bike and gotten her home and put her to bed. But I could see that sparkle in her bright green eyes, and I knew I wanted to make them sparkle more. More than just a simple response like taking her home and fucking her would have.
So I smiled and told her, “Just let me finish my beer.”
She gave me a petulant look that had a couple of friends around the table asking what was wrong. Summer has big, full lips, and when she sticks that bottom one out she looks very much like a pouting schoolgirl who needs to be spanked, which wasn’t that far off the mark. “Nothing’s wrong,” I told them good-naturedly. “Except my girlfriend’s a brat sometimes.”
They all agreed, and asserted that they all liked her that way and I liked her that way most of all, while Summer nonetheless pouted still more and said her reputation was being impugned and she wouldn’t stand for it. But her response was to stamp her foot, which only made her seem more petulant and bratty, which I liked.
Everything died down for a minute while we chatted and sipped our drinks. Summer’s hand remained on my thigh, keeping me roughly at half-mast with an almost imperceptible motion of her fingertips without quite crossing the line of propriety.
Then, when everything was more or less back to baseline calm (for Schadenfreude, at least), she leaned in close and whisper-growl-whimpered in my ear again.
“You can take me over your lap,” she said.
I looked at her, flat and unaffected—but she could feel my body shifting at the rise of my cock in my jeans.
She put her lips back at my ear and breathed warmly: “And spank me.”
She pulled back and looked at me, eyes big and bright, mouth round in an innocently naïve expression.
“If you wanna,” she mewled.
I wasn’t all the way hard then, but Summer was. Her arousal was palpable and, more to the point, visible. To use a trashy metaphor, she had her high beams on—and it wasn’t because of the breeze coming off the bay. Remember that burgundy top I described? Her nipples distended its front quite adorably.
At that point I would have just about put her in a headlock to get her home, if that’s what it took. But I sensed that she was playing a game, and I smiled and said, “As soon as I finish my beer.”
She pouted some more, and slipped one foot out of its wedge heel, and leaned over and ran it up and down my calf. It wasn’t where no one could see, but nobody at our table could. People at other tables could have seen what she was up to, if they’d bothered to look.
There passed another few minutes of casual conversation, while I sensed the building energy in Summer’s body. It wasn’t just that she wanted to fuck; it was that she wanted to say something.
She even started it several times, leaning over and breathing hot and humid in my ear, then pulling back and blushing and saying, “Nevermind.” If I hadn’t been familiar with that playful look in Summer’s eyes, I would have just taken her home.
But I wanted to know what was on her mind.
We played the game for another ten minutes, pretending like everything was normal. Then Summer finally leaned in and gave it to me: the card she’d had up her sleeve since Thursday night.
It came out hot and wet, with the graze of her lips and even her tongue, a little, up against my earlobe. Her breath made the back of my neck goose-bump. Her voice was a sexual organ in itself, especially with what she told me.
“You could put it in my butt,” she said.
I looked at her, incredulous.
Again, the coquette look: innocent, flirtatious, naïve.
She leaned in close again.
“If you wanna,” she said. “I know bad men like you wanna do that to girls. Gross things like that. I’m just so horny… I think I’d let you do anything…”
She was already winning the game, and we both knew it. I was fully hard now. Her hand rested silent in the shadows under the table, her fingertips just grazing my swelling jeans.
I went to take a sip of beer.
Summer’s lips made it to my ear before the glass made it to my lips.
She whispered, “If you
take me home right now, you can spank me…and fuck me…and fuck my ass… You perverted weirdo, I know you wanna do that stuff, and if I wasn’t so horny, I wouldn’t—I’d never—but I’ve just got to get fucked, I’m so horny, mister, I—”
I shivered all over and slammed the last third of my beer.
I grabbed for my jacket and held it in front of me as I stood.
“I think Summer and I are gonna head home,” I said. “Didn’t get much sleep last night…”
“I bet you didn’t!” someone said, and there was laughter. Summer looked like the cat that ate the canary.
Summer sauntered with painful slowness, taking her time giving hugs all around the table while I stood in hard-on distress near the exit.
Once she nabbed the canary, a girl like Summer can’t resist playing with her food.
She let me do it—spank her and fuck her and fuck her in the ass. She made good on her promise, telling me the whole time about how she’d never do something like this, but she was just so horny. Her disgust was all an act. She’d done it before. She liked it. In fact, she still asks for it regularly—but only when she’s so horny she has to get fucked right away. Those times, she knows she has to promise me something “really dirty” to get me to give her what she needs—and fast.
But that was just the first of Summer’s two o’clock promises, and there’ve been many since. It turns out there’s a lot of things she’s done that she didn’t tell me about. She let me do them to her for the first time all over again. There are other things she’s never done, that she wants to do, but pretends she doesn’t. She lets me do those to her, too.
But only when she’s so afternoon-horny that she simply has to get fucked, and fast.
Some of those are really, really dirty.
Way dirtier than what we did that first time.
