by Violet Blue
He walked me into the darkened machinery area, the motionless collection of gleaming metal behemoths surrounded by silence in the sparse glow of the few thirty-five-foot lights surrounding the lot. We walked past cutters and plows and grain augers to a cluster of livestock trailers arranged on the grass.
The smaller-sized fully enclosed livestock trailer stood mostly in shadow, one corner of the silver metal gleaming with the reflection of a distant light. Travis lowered the door and turned to me. Before I could step forward, he pushed into me and wrapped his arms around my waist as his tongue slid against mine with a promise that left me breathless.
He broke away and gestured in invitation, and I stepped up into the trailer, the echo of boot on metal sounding loud in the hot stillness. Travis climbed in behind me and closed the door. Then he reached for me in the darkness, his mouth on mine as I lowered myself to the floor, pulling him on top of me. He removed his hat and set it off to the side.
Despite the temperature, the metal against my back was cool, spiking the heat between us with a contrast like sweet and savory together. Travis worked the buttons of the sleeveless blouse I wore, and I arched my back as he pulled my bra off and lowered his mouth to a nipple. I sighed as he reached to pull open my cutoffs.
Backing up, Travis pulled my shorts and panties off, and I gasped as he dove without warning between my legs, his mouth warm on my pussy before I could catch my breath. His tongue was insistent, strong, enthusiastic without being the least bit impatient, and I moaned as it was instantly obvious that Travis was a man who loved to eat pussy. A squeal as involuntary as the one on the tilt-a-whirl escaped me as I squirmed, and my nerve endings started to tingle with the orgasm I knew was imminent. Travis rested a hand on my belly, and I took a breath, feeling suspended for a moment before my scream shattered the air as he made me come with his tongue, my body thrashing against the metal beneath me as I bucked and wailed and clutched at his hair, my voice echoing off the walls of our tiny aluminum chamber.
Travis rose up to his knees, ripping open his fly as I panted beneath him. I whimpered at the sight of the rock-hard cock that sprang from his jeans, running my hands over the sheen of sweat that covered my body as I arched my back. He pulled a condom from his pocket, and I smiled.
He noticed. “I like to keep one on me, just in case.” His smile was a bit sheepish as he shrugged.
“Seems to be paying off tonight.” My voice was still breathless. Travis was still for a moment, and so that he didn’t get the wrong idea—that I felt slighted by the thought of his doing this on a regular basis, that I was offended by the idea of his being with other women—I told him, truthfully: “I do the same thing.”
He grinned back then, and the shared understanding of what we both wanted brought us ironically closer right then, the purity of our connection strengthened in the understood congruence of our intention. I took the package from him and ripped it open, and his breath hitched as I slid the rubber down his hard cock. The second I was done he pushed me back, barely giving me time to whisper “Fuck me” before he plunged into my body and my hips rose to meet him, his hand cushioning the back of my head against the hard, cool floor.
I screamed again as Travis pounded me, the echo of metal reverberating around us. Through the slots in the side of the trailer I could see the sky glider inching along in the distance, and I smiled at the forgotten frustration of hours before when I’d caught sight of him from up in the air.
Travis ran his other hand through my hair, and I turned my head to catch his thumb lightly between my teeth, running my tongue up his salty skin as his pace increased and he came inside me, grasping my hair as I felt his muffled groan against my shoulder. I lay beneath him, reveling in the deep relaxation of my body as he kissed my neck gently and lifted himself from me.
After we were dressed, Travis opened the door, and I jumped to the grass and turned back while he closed it.
“Livestock trailer,” he said with a grin at me as he secured the door, nodding at the trailer.
But I knew what it was. I smiled in the darkness. I didn’t tell him I was from here, that I had grown up on a farm thirty miles from the spot where we stood. Really there was nothing in the rows of giant equipment surrounding us that I couldn’t identify. When my brothers and I were kids we were privy to perpetual reminders not to play on or near the machinery—an understandable reprimand given the danger farm equipment could pose under the guise of its deceivingly innocuous appearance.
We walked back out to the fairgrounds, toward the midway where we stopped just before the whirlwind of lights and sounds.
Travis turned to me. “Have a safe trip home, city girl,” he said, tilting his hat up as he bent to kiss me.
I smiled and kissed him back, bypassing for the last time the chance to correct him. He probably didn’t encounter too many “city girls” at the fair, and I’d let him keep the fantasy—even as I knew, deep down, that I wasn’t one either. We set off in different directions, and I pulled my phone out to text Isabel. When I looked over my shoulder, he did too, and he grinned and waved. I waved back, both of us bidding good-bye to the “city girl” who was as much a figment of my imagination as she was of his.
SUBWAY SUBTERFUGE
May Deva
The first day I saw him, he was standing on the subway platform, a few feet to the left and ahead of me slightly. There was something about his neck just where it met his collar; I wanted to know what that muscle felt like between my teeth, under my tongue. I wiggled through the crowd, trying to get a closer look. The train screamed to a halt, throwing open the doors before I could get my eye-candy fix. I rushed into the same car, but lost him in the shuffle. As I was leaving the car at my stop, I caught a glimpse of smoldering eyes and a half-hidden face as I scanned the car one more time. Smiling, I filed it under “Interesting” and moved into my day.
He had faded from my thoughts when he reappeared a week later. He stood in exactly the same spot, no suit this time, But a worn leather jacket and, heaven help me, dark indigo denim. I jostled to get closer, without much luck. He turned his head as the train groaned to a stop in front of us and our eyes met. Pinned by his dark gaze, I watched his lips curve slightly and his face register my interest. Caught, I flushed and looked away but was swept into the car by the people around me. I tried not to look for him, but I have always been too curious for my own good. No sign of him. Damn. I sighed, steeled myself for my workday and tried not to think of eyes that held dark secrets and promised wonderful things. As I stepped out of the car, something brushed my hip. I looked down to see a hand, and the cuff of a worn leather jacket, disappear behind me into the crowd. On the platform, I turned to look, but there was no sign of him.
Later that day, on my way to lunch, I put my hand into my coat pocket, searching for a lipstick. What I found was far more valuable. A small white card with elegant masculine script:
I see you, too. Want to play?—M.
I swear I could smell leather.
The next morning, I got to the station earlier than normal. I had fussed with my clothes and hair—I wore a swingy skirt, scoop-neck blouse and loose chignon. Utterly ridiculous to be exerting this kind of effort over a stranger, but it was nice to have someone actually notice me. In a big city, that was rare. I was horribly disappointed though, when he was nowhere to be seen. The rest of the day dragged by, and quitting time was a relief indeed. Waiting on the platform, I wondered if I might see my mystery guy tomorrow morning, wondered idly what I might wear, if it might rain.
Sun-warmed leather filled my nostrils, alerting me to his presence long before I saw him. He was behind me, I was sure of it, sure I could feel his breath wafting across my bare neck. My pulse picked up. I heard the train rumbling toward the station and decided to make sure. I turned quickly and found myself inches from a sexy smirk, those eyes boring into mine. His eyes held mine for a moment, dropped to my lips, down to my breasts then back up. Smirk widened to grin as I tried to hold his gaze a
His fingers shot lightning up my arm as he circled my wrist, leading me toward the back of the car. He turned to face me at the end of the aisle. This time, I didn’t drop my eyes, didn’t try to hide the interest and arousal that was evident in them. Slowly, he moved his hand from my wrist, tracing up my arm to my shoulder and turning me to face the front of the car.
Puzzled, I surveyed the crowded car, standing room only at this point in the day. Everyone looked either tired or preoccupied. His hand slid back down my arm, lingering inside my wrist, then traveling back up my arm again. The train lurched into motion as I grabbed the rail with my free hand. Fingers lightly traced the edge of my blouse across the back of my neck, bringing my nipples to swift attention, then continuing up the side of my neck and behind my ear, following my hairline and moving back down again. The feel of his fingers lingered on my skin after they moved on. Both hands slid down my arms slowly, then settled at my waist. He pulled me backward into him, moving one hand across my stomach to keep me there, the other hand slipping slowly up my side. I held my breath as fingertips brushed up the side of my breast, inscribed tiny whorls over and over again.
The train slid to a stop, the motion pressing a nicely firm cock against my ass. I grinned, now sure that I wasn’t the only one getting all hot and bothered. As the car began to move again, I shifted my hips subtly to press a little harder against him, using the swaying rhythm for extra oomph. I felt one twitch of his cock, then another. I was feeling pretty smug when I felt lips against the nape of my neck and I stilled. He gave a swirl of his tongue at the base and I moaned out loud. A puff of breath against my skin let me know that he was amused, which prompted me to resume my subtle lap dance. His hand dropped to my hip, pulling me even tighter against him, making me more aware of each movement while his lips continued to explore the back of my neck. My heart was tripping; I was getting wetter by the minute.
There was another stop and exchange of passengers, the last before my own. I felt him flex his knees slightly, then his fingers on my bare thigh underneath my skirt. He trailed his nails up the back of my leg, gave another chuckle when I wriggled against him with pleasure. I turned my head, trying not to moan again, and he captured my earlobe between his teeth—sucking and biting at the same time. I was coming undone, quickly. I slid my hand behind me, flexing my fingers over his jean-clad cock, tracing its shape and smirking when he groaned softly in my ear. Delicious.
All too soon I felt the train slow and knew my stop was near. Now what? I certainly couldn’t invite a stranger to my apartment. Tipping my head back, I reached up to pull his lips to mine. His heat poured between my lips, left me breathless yet again and wanting more. As the doors slid open, I broke away regretfully.
“Wait. What’s your name?”
His voice was as deep as his eyes, mellifluous and sexy as hell. A smile lit his face as he waited for my answer.
I grinned and tipped a wink as I stepped through the doors.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
PERFORMANCE ART
Cynthia Hamilton
The single droplet trailed its lazy way down the curve of the model’s bare, goosefleshed ass. It shone amber like bottled sunset, too thin to be honey, but too viscous to be wine. Nectar, Julie thought, and suddenly she could taste its burst of sweetness and imagine the texture of the cool, aroused skin it traveled. The golden droplet was so large and clear on the high resolution screen, such a contrast to the gray scale of the woman’s skin, that Julie found her breath catching in her throat, caught up in the suspense of waiting for the quivering drop to fall. A small pond on the museum’s floor below the projection screen rippled outward from its center in perfect synchrony, accompanied by a delicate plink of sound.
Julie smiled. The illusion was seamless, and she felt her own inner moisture stirring in response. Instead of seeing the thin line the liquid was leaving behind, she imagined the broader swath that would be evidence of her tongue’s passing. What would it feel like to be so wet; to be so aware of the fall of every individual drop?
After an afternoon of wandering through explicit art installations, she was dangerously close, she thought, to finding out.
It was a rainy European day, the sort that the guidebooks had warned her about, but that she hadn’t really taken seriously enough when she’d made the impulsive decision to stay an extra few days past the end of the conference.
Outside, the afternoon was as gray as the model’s black-and-white ass, though not nearly as clearly focused or as inviting. Few other tourists had chosen refuge in the gallery, perhaps because of its theme. A handful or two milled about, a room or so ahead, and another scattered few wandered at her pace. None of them seemed to be responding to the exhibits as she was.
On the screen, another amber droplet had started its slow, inevitable glide. She longed for it, as if some part of her thought that catching it on her tongue might fill her with the brilliant heat that the day—the whole trip, so far—had lacked. The Lucite-protected plaque on the wall, mounted nearby but out of the way, would contain a description of the medium. She browsed her way toward it. She had to know what kind of liquid trailed single file down the woman’s lush cheek.
And the plaque might have held such information. But not in English.
Plink.
Julie frowned, tugging at faint, distant strands of highschool French. The restless simmer of arousal made it hard to think.
“Excuse me.” A voice came from behind her ear—smooth, male—along with the faintest touch to her shoulder. “Fran-çais?”
Julie inhaled a shallow breath. Plink: another drop of nectar. She shivered.
“No, sorry,” she answered quietly, turning. He was just a little taller than she was, slender, with black hair that had dried in short, unruly curls from the rain. She associated the combination of blue eyes and dark hair with Europeans, but his voice was a welcome piece of home.
Her cheeks burned. She lifted her cool hands to them. But he only smiled. He wore layers: open jacket over a dark sweater, and a collared blue shirt and a black T-shirt underneath.
“American?” he asked. He was in his midthirties. Professional. Confident. A lawyer, or a writer, maybe. She glanced down at his hands when she nodded. No ring.
“San Diego,” she answered, and her stomach fluttered. She wasn’t sure if she hoped he’d turn out to live near, or far.
“Portland,” he said. Then, “David.”
“Ju—Je m’appelle Sarah,” Julie answered. Why had she done that? He was so close she could smell his expensive cologne, and she could barely think over the swell of anticipation that filled her chest and buzzed in her ears, waiting for the next drip of golden nectar. She floundered a moment, caught in his eyes, then smiled sheepishly. She blurted out the next thing that occurred to her, to cover her stumbled deception: “That’s the only French I know.”
He laughed politely. “You know more than I do, then. But I love to listen to it. It’s a beautiful tongue.”
Tongues… She wasn’t imagining her tongue gliding up that model’s flesh anymore; she was imagining his tongue, on her.
When she turned away to move on, she could almost feel her wetness pooling. Overflowing.
The next exhibit was a pair of screens. The top display, above Julie’s eye level, featured a pair of feminine hands cuffed to either end of a Lucite spreader bar. At ground level, a pair of masculine feet were cuffed to another bar. Both sets of extremities moved in unison, as if they belonged to a single invisible person—a person being thoroughly, roughly, unendingly taken from behind. This piece, like the ones before it, had a soundtrack: a looped recording of elevated breaths over the rhythmic clink of chain. Watching the straining, clenched hands made the sound of the breathing seem more feminine. Looking at the feet turned the perception of it more masculine.
Closing her eyes entirely, Julie perceived it as her own.
“Wow,” David murmured beside her. “That’s…” He swallowed. “Hot.”
Julie’s cheeks burned. “Yeah,” she whispered. Her lips felt dry and reluctant to move. She swept them with her tongue. “I’m glad I’m not the only one this place is…you know. Getting to.”
His hand brushed hers, radiating warmth. It couldn’t have been an accident, no matter how hard her racing mind tried to convince her that it had to be. She spread her fingers, an invitation, and his returned to hers. They interlaced, and the touch tingled all the way through her and took her breath away. It was a long few minutes before she realized she was squeezing his hand in time with the thrusts of the invisible bodies before her.
He realized it, too. She started to pull away, feeling as though she should feel ashamed, but he gripped her hand reassuringly and let out a weighted sigh. It was low and uneven, almost but not quite a moan, and it was quite possibly the most sensual sound she’d ever heard. Suddenly she wanted more than anything to coax that sound out of him again; to know she’d been the cause of it.
They moved on, hand in hand. Occasionally he stroked the heel of her palm with his thumb. It made her shiver.
A close hallway was next, lined on both sides with hints that anonymous figures rested nearly submerged in the plaster. The slight swells of breasts and thighs, chests and cocks, shoulder blades and rumps presented themselves for the fondling and amusement of all who passed. It was slightly discomforting, perhaps because Julie pictured herself as one of them, subject to random gropes, intimate yet thoughtless. There wasn’t room for two to walk side by side, so David drew her hand behind her and let her walk ahead. Her boots were loud in the narrow corridor, and she said, “Excuse me” without thinking when her elbow bumped a plaster breast. She waited for David’s laugh, but it didn’t come. Instead he stopped, turned her toward the wall, and splayed her hand over one cool, subtle swell, squeezing the faux breast through her palm. Then, boldly, he shifted her willing hand to the curve of her own bosom and did the same.
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