by Alison Tyler
He dried my legs, making me feel tall and strong as his hands rose higher, the towel lightly scouring my skin. I soon stopped laughing. When he rubbed at the folds between my thighs, my groin pulsed softly, similar to the tickle mechanism sparked by another’s touch. He stood, reaching behind me to dry the split of my buttocks. He rose higher, shifting the towel to find dry patches as he glided into the crease beneath each breast, nudged into my armpits and wiped the curve behind my ears.
“Dry?” he asked.
“Very,” I replied then added, smiling, “Well, not quite.”
Brynn smiled too, catching my drift as he tucked the towel around me. “The ice is outside,” he said, “and I reckon we’ve had enough of that today. Pre-chilled glasses. That’s what we made earlier. Too much ice dilutes the gin. Not good.”
He edged me back against the aqua green wall, lips teasing mine with fleeting kisses. Pressing me lightly in place, he leaned away to tug his jumper over his head. His dark hair went wonky with static and he returned to kissing me, his face taking on that loose, serious look it does when he’s aroused. He kissed a track toward my ear.
“You’re all clean and pure,” he said. “And I’m dirty, unwashed.”
He slid a hand into my towel, cupping my waist, his thumb skimming below my breasts. My skin tingled and his unshaven jaw scratched my neck. I reached for his swollen groin, understanding that our lovemaking was somehow to be a dirty martini made flesh.
As I slipped into the softness of lust and Brynn stepped out of his jeans, I ran through the ingredients: chilled glasses, gin, dry vermouth, olives, brine, and someone to stir not shake it. Well, this certainly was high-concept sex. I hadn’t a clue how Brynn was going to pull it off.
He moved toward me again, his cock rising thick and hard. I nodded at his groin. “That your swizzle stick?”
Brynn laughed. “Might be, yes. But first I need something to swizzle.” He untucked my towel and the cotton fell to a heap at my feet, leaving me naked against the bathroom wall. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he continued, “but dry vermouth is French, no?”
I arched my back, wanting his touch, trying to recall who’d said the perfect martini is a glass of gin waved in the direction of Italy. That is, low on the vermouth. Italy or France? Clearly, I hadn’t been paying attention to my vermouths. Brynn said, “French means French kissing,” and he ground against me, running gentle kisses over my lips before flicking his tongue deeper, our mouths opening to explore in a manner we no longer practiced, yielding to the passion of the moment rather than going through the motions.
Brynn cupped my vulva where I was swollen and warm. Drawing away, rubbing me gently, he said, “And a splash of soixante-neuf.” He sank to his knees on the thick carpet, pulling me down to join him in the narrow space between bath and wall. We moved as if choreographed, years of domestic and sexual cooperation allowing us to harmonize our bodies effortlessly as we occupied a new space.
Brynn lapped at my wet split and I took the bulky head of his cock into my mouth. Had I been convinced vermouth was made in China, I wouldn’t have challenged this incorporation of French delicacies. Strange, but although we’d been in that position a thousand times before, with our mouths moist and full, the unfamiliarity of our surroundings brought a fresh charge to the exchange. Brynn’s tongue darted around my clit as it always does, rubbing more steadily on the right side as he always does. And when I was close, he curled his fingers inside me, pressing, pulling, easing his cock from my mouth so I could gasp and focus on receiving, not giving. And then I was coming in the warm, misty bathroom, coming over and over because I was miles away from home and from my ordinary self.
Brynn maneuvered into the space between my thighs, his hand gliding lightly over my belly as I dropped down from my peak. “Turn over,” he said.
Feeling blissfully floppy, I got onto my hands and knees, thinking he would fuck me, climax and we’d be done. I underestimated him.
“Three olives,” he said.
I yowled in pain as he sank his teeth into the flesh of one buttock. It hurt. It really, sodding hurt, and I’d been in such a pleasant, post-orgasmic haze. “Bastard,” I hissed as the pain spiked. He released me. The pain kept rising; then, just as it was abating, Brynn bit into a fresh patch of flesh, holding his teeth tightly in place. “Ah, ah, ah!” I cried. When I was on the verge of swinging around to hit him, he released me. The fiery pain soared. Then, without giving me chance to feel the heat subside, he went vampiric on another piece of cheek.
“No more! Stop!” I cried. And I meant it. I didn’t like the pain. And yet I liked that Brynn was inflicting it, liked that he was running the show and I was at the mercy of his imagination and desire. Our glasses were chilled, we’d had vermouth and now three sharp, vicious olives. “The gin had better be good,” I growled, twisting around to him, “because that fucking hurt.”
Brynn laughed. “Only the best gin for you. Step this way, ma’am.” He helped me to my feet, a hand caressing my tender arse, and led me from bathroom to bedroom. “Close your eyes,” he said.
Before doing so, I caught a glimpse of the bedroom with its drawn chintz curtains and half tester bed rising grandly against the floral walls. Flames danced in the black lead fireplace, casting the room in a fluttering, amber glow. I saw nothing that might stand as a gin substitute. I allowed Brynn to guide me into the warm room, keeping my eyes shut as I giggled and shuffled toward the bed. Following Brynn’s orders, I lay on the soft bed, fighting the urge to open my eyes at the squeaky sound of a plastic packet being opened.
“What are you doing?” I said. “You’re making me nervous.”
Brynn responded by placing a strip of something cold and clammy across my stomach. I tensed fractionally. He lay another over my breast, draping a cool weight over my nipple, making me shiver. I smelled fish. “What’s that?” I asked. “It’s not the smoked salmon, is it?” I remembered how I’d packed it for the anniversary breakfast we’d postponed in favor of checking weather reports and shoveling snow.
“Open wide,” said Brynn. A thin sliver of flesh touched my tongue, folding into my mouth like damp silk, its sea-salty richness and smoky undertone making my taste buds tingle. In my darkness, I ate, the salmon’s softness melting into quick-splitting fragments.
“Salmon smoked over juniper and beech,” said Brynn. “Juniper for gin.”
“Very clever,” I murmured as Brynn brought another morsel to my lips. The salmon flowed onto my tongue, a liquefaction of sparkling Scottish lochs, leaping muscle, subtle sweetness and woodfire. As I ate, so did Brynn, his stubble catching on my skin as he bent to lift flesh from my flesh. For a brief, thrilling moment, I felt as if he were consuming me; as if I were surrendering my body to him in the most literal of ways.
A hard flood of eroticism pulsed in my cunt, making my tissues pouch to swollen, heaving fullness. Between my thighs, I was moist and succulent, my flesh as salt-sweet as the salmon. When Brynn dipped his head there, tongue delving and lapping, another orgasm began to bunch inside me, ripples tightening. I opened my eyes, hips rocking in search of a stronger touch. Brynn withdrew, hooked his hands under my thighs and jerked me closer. He ran his cock over my wetness, making me whimper with want. Pushing my legs back and wide, he nudged at my entrance, then sank into me with slow control.
His pace was steady as he plunged in and out before shifting his angle, pushing my legs further back. He locked onto a spot that made us both groan and, staying there, he drove harder and faster until we’d worn the sensation away. Then he flipped me onto all fours, quickly finding another hot spot as he rammed hard and deep. Then I was sideways with my leg on his shoulder, then I was straddling him and then I wasn’t. On my hands and knees again, I rubbed my clit as Brynn slammed with rising ferocity, his cries peaking. His cock swelled inside me, then he held deep, body twitching as he came. Moments later, I joined him, fireworks popping behind my eyes as Brynn’s blissful cries echoed in my ears.
When we
parted, we lay together in a strong embrace. “And that,” said Brynn, sounding as if he’d just done an hour at the gym, “was your shot of olive brine.”
I laughed. “Dirtiest martini I ever had. My compliments to the bartender.”
Brynn mussed idly at my hair. “Mmm.”
I nuzzled at his chest, tasting his sweat on my lips. “You’re all salty,” I said approvingly.
After a while, Brynn said, “Key ingredient to margarita. Salt.”
I stroked his chest. “Ah, but no tequila in the house.”
Brynn shrugged. “We could improvise.”
“I like this bar,” I said. “I could stay here all night.”
“Getting hammered!” added Brynn, laughing.
And so we did stay there all night, mixing our drinks like there was no tomorrow while outside, the world froze around us in slow, crystalline crackles.
Days later, back to work and reality, I was left with faded bruises on my butt. My skin was dotted with three neat circles, green like the olives in my imagined drink. I checked them when I dressed, when I went to the bathroom and when I showered. Those three bruises were a reminder that if you want it to be, it’s always five o’clock somewhere.
SIX P.M. THE AFTER-DINNER HOUR
Sommer Marsden
I want sugar,” I whispered.
We had just cleared our dinner plates. We were eating Paleo. It was awesome. You know, except for the no sugar part.
“No sugar,” Mark said.
“A little sugar.”
“You can have honey candy,” he said. And he smiled. I hated honey and he knew it.
“You are enjoying this.”
“I do admit,” he said, tracing a line down my chest, “that it’s fun to see you squirm.”
I did feel a bit crawly. Day three of kicking sugar always gets me. “I’m going through withdrawal,” I gasped. It would have been funny but it was true.
“There’s that coconut oil—”
“Bleh with the coconut oil,” I said. I was snapping my fingers. I needed a distraction. “I need to…do something,” I said. “Why is this bothering me so much?”
“Day three always gets you, Annie.”
“Hmph.”
“Clever retort.”
I grabbed him by his flannel shirt and crushed against him. “Kiss me.”
“Maybe I need to be wooed.”
“Kiss me!”
“It’s only six p.m.,” Mark said, his voice teasing. But his hands were palming my ass and I felt a spear of arousal right up the center of me. “Proper people do not fu—”
I kissed him quiet, pouring all my sugar lust into that kiss.
“I’m not proper,” I said. I curled my fingers to his cock and squeezed.
Somehow, Mark kept his face straight. “We retire for a beverage on the veranda during the after-dinner hour,” he said. But there was a slight hint of grit in his voice.
“I need something more in my after-dinner hour,” I said and squeezed again.
“Sorry. You’re out of luck, you’ll have to wait until we’ve retired for the night. Until the shades are drawn and the door is locked and the lights are ou—”
I kissed him again, smashing my curves to his lean lines. I felt the hump of his cock ride the split of my sex through my thin cashmere leggings. I felt the pound of his heart against my breast as I curled my fingers in his hair and yanked just a bit. My pussy went warm and fluid for him then. If I couldn’t have my sugar, I wanted my sugar.
He started to speak, his big hands splaying my hips. I threw myself into the kiss even more and ended up biting him. Mark started, his big body going stiff under mine, and then he growled. He’d only made that sound a few times—ever—and it raised the fine hairs on my neck when he did.
“Annie,” he said. His green eyes had gone darker. More the color of moss now than grass.
“Sorry,” I said, but a small curl of anxiety filled my gut.
He wiped a finger over his mouth and held it out to me. Blood.
“I didn’t mean to—”
It had all shifted so quickly and my heart was a runaway thing in my chest. Mark walked from the room and I waited. I heard him sit on our big crème-colored sofa and then softly, “Come here, Annie.”
I wondered as I walked in there, my brightly colored turquoise and red silk tunic whispering around my thighs, if I’d done it on purpose. If I’d bitten him for this reason.
“Yes?” I stood in a classic ballet position. My toes pointed outward, my knees not quite locked.
Mark patted his lap. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
We rarely went here. It was usually when we were both craving something…more. More than just fun sex or making love or a quick, amusing fuck. And usually there was a trigger. And it…worked. God, how it worked.
Bloodletting, I thought wildly. Bloodletting had been the trigger this time.
Then I had Concrete Blonde in my head as I made my way forward on nervous feet.
“I—” I stopped. What was I going to say? There was nothing to say. I noticed my hands were shaking and it felt like my stomach was keeping time. A fine tremble worked through all of me so I felt like a tuning fork, vibrating with some magical musical tone.
He patted again once I was standing in front of him and I went to kneel, but Mark held up a hand to stop me. “Ah-ah. I think you need to ditch the dress thing.”
“Tunic,” I corrected before I thought better of it.
His dark eyes found mine and they were harder than normal. Flatter than normal. Not as warm. The eyes of a man who made me pay for my transgressions. “Pardon?”
“I mean…yes. Okay.” I gathered the soft fabric in my hand and relished the smoothness of the colorful garb. When I yanked it over my head, my hair rustled softly around my head, tickling my cheeks, covering my eyes. All of my senses were heightened from the rush of adrenaline and bursts of fear.
He held his hand out and for a second I was confused and then I gave him the tunic, his big fist compacting the silk like it was nothing more than tissue paper. He patted my ass and I flinched as if he’d struck a blow, but my cunt then pulsed wetly for the same reason.
“Let’s just get these out of the way, then, too,” he said.
I pushed the leggings down and his hand instantly cupped my bottom. A proprietary touch that made goose bumps race along my lower back, down my flanks. My pussy felt plump and slick, my heart out of control.
“Now get down here.”
I lowered myself on shaking legs and draped myself across his lap. Wondering how I looked, if I looked beautiful—I hoped I looked beautiful. Nervous was fine as long as there was beauty involved.
His finger dove beneath the elastic of my panty leg and into me. My back bowed seemingly on its own, my breath rushing free of me. My mind narrowed down to my need. And that first blow…how I ached for it.
Over his lap, I tried to suck in enough air to banish the spots in my eyes.
His hands smoothed up from mid-thigh, stroked my ass and then back down. Mark did that over and over until I was soothed and feeling boneless. Conversationally, he said, “Missing that sugar now?”
“No,” I breathed.
He’s very good. He had me fooled. I was damn near hanging limp over his lap when the first crack came. A blow that split the silence in the room like an axe and made my head snap back from the rush.
“One,” he said softly and laughed. He had never made me count. I doubted he ever would. He always gave me eight and that was that. His lucky number. And then he fucked me until I damn near wept.
I tried to shift to relieve the heated blush of pain in my bottom, but his finger tugged the waistband of my panties and he tsked at me. “Where you going, baby?”
The second blow landed across the first. A blazing X on my ass that in my mind’s eye burned like a ring of fire.
I figured he’d switch then. Go for the opposite cheek. Instead, he peeled back my pale yellow panties and laid a
stripe of molten lava along the already sensitive skin.
I yelped, tears wetting my eyes. But my pussy…oh, things were wet there, too. But not in a bad way. In a positively maddening way. I assured myself I could take it, I could take it all, because what he’d do to me when all was said and done would make the fierce bite of each blow a distant memory. Only the throbbing remainder would matter to me soon.
Soon.
Four was a broad stripe right below my asscheek, and it startled me. He’d never gone that low or triggered that many sparkles of pain. I gasped. Halfway there, I reassured myself.
The next one came. “Five.” Mark laughed, but his hand barely came down on the untouched side of my ass. I flinched but for no reason. The touch was almost a caress. “Oh, so skittish,” he tutted.
I blushed. Feeling silly. I had flinched before I needed to and when he touched me a rich rush of fluid had come out of me. There would be no hiding that from him. Even as I thought it, he slipped a finger into the crotch of my panties. He chuckled and I blushed harder.
I was so preoccupied I forgot to pay attention, and blow six was definitely not a caress. It was an ear-cracking blow that had me dancing over his lap. I pressed my knees together, my lips, my thighs, hoping the pressure would take the bite out of the pain.
It did not.
Mark gave up the premise and pushed my panties down. “So, so wet. I doubt a gummy candy or a bonbon would have done this for you. Do you think?”
I shook my head.
He pushed a finger into me. The wet sound that accompanied his penetration made me hang my head but I sighed with pleasure when I did it. A second finger joined the first and a wet pulse of gratification came next.
“You are very wet, Annie. Were you aware?”
I nodded.
His free hand struck me. It was a thudding blow that rattled my teeth for a moment.
“I didn’t catch that?” he said good-naturedly. At least he sounded good-natured.
“Yes,” I said.
Mark pulled his fingers free, his hand smoothing over my lower back, teasing gooseflesh up in its wake. He softly stroked the swell of each cheek and then lower, to the tender untouched places just below. I knew that seven and eight were coming. I knew it and I could not fix my mind on anything else. It was all my mind could grasp.
