The crown of your dick grazes my throat. I gag a few times, but I can take it. You squirm like a worm, but there’s no use in putting up a struggle. I’ve got you, finally. You can’t resist my mouth. No man can. You wouldn’t believe my reputation. It doesn’t take you long to come. It tastes a little sweet like I always knew it would. I let go, leaving your dick spit-slicked and limp between those strong thighs of an ex-soccer player, the son of a Tampa firefighter. I don’t untie you from your touch-tone bondage just yet. Not until you watch me get off. I pull you off a desk cluttered with stacks of submissions and into an old green chair. I jerk my jeans down around my ankles. My dick hangs over your torso like a garden hose as I jack off over you. I haven’t whacked off in days. I slide back the tender foreskin. You yell, but everyone has left for today. It’s just me and you, Jarret. Sweat drips, my heart races like crazy until I come.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the tail end of my T-shirt. I leave you there in my come. You know what I will do to you if you tell anyone.
LUCKY NUMBER FIFTY-ONE
Jennifer Peters
The ad for the gang bang said each participant would have only five minutes with Bella, and I knew I had to make the most of my time. I’d waited in line with 150 other men, filling out paperwork and getting checked by the physician. Now there were only two guys ahead of me, and the fluffers were moving down the line, helping us “get ready.”
“I’m good,” I told the perky blonde when she reached me, shaking my rock-hard cock in front of her for proof. She smirked at me, and I wondered for a second if this was her only job or if maybe she had a regular day job during the week. Does her passport say “fluffer”? I thought. What does she tell dates when they ask where she works?
I didn’t have long to ponder her strange career, though, because it was almost my turn.
I’d been fascinated with Bella since I saw a picture of her in a dirty magazine when I was sixteen. At eighteen, I’d started buying her videos, and at twenty-one, I’d traveled halfway across the country to get her autograph at a porn convention in Vegas. So of course when I read on her website that she wanted fans to participate in her next gangbang flick, I filled out the application and booked a ticket to California before I ever heard back from her people. Now here I was, about to fuck my favorite porn star, and I had only five minutes to impress her.
The guy in front of me came and walked off set, and I was up. My cock was achingly hard, and as I approached Bella, who was lying naked on the bed, propped up on one elbow, I became even more aroused. She’d already been through fifty guys, but she looked fresh and ready for another go. Her long, full hair looked perfect in that just-rolled-out-of-bed way, and her full red lips and perky double-D tits looked even more delicious up close. For a split second my mind went back to the fluffers, and I wondered why they were needed at all when Bella was more than enough to arouse even the most flaccid phallus.
“Remember, you only have five minutes,” one of her assistants told me, and I nodded in understanding. There was no time to waste.
“Action!” the director yelled, and I took the final step into the scene.
Crawling up the bed, I straddled Bella and kissed her. No one else had thought to kiss her, I’d noticed, and I wanted to make sure I stood out. Her lips were soft, and when my tongue thrust into her mouth, she eagerly granted it entry, her own tongue darting past her lips to dance with mine. We didn’t have all day, though, and after a quick taste of her lips, I started to move down her body. From her lips I went over her neck, her chest and her stomach, until I reached her hot cunt. She’d fucked fifty guys already, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be remembered as the best of the bunch, and I was sure a warm-up tongue bath would help my cause.
I thrust two thick fingers between her pussy lips and ducked my head down to suck her clit. I had maybe a minute to work before I had to fuck her, and I wanted to make her come. My fingers focused on tickling her G-spot, and my tongue laved her clit, swirling over it this way and that until I felt her body convulsing and her pussy spasming around my digits. I’d made her come in a mere sixty seconds, and I still had time to fuck her properly.
I sucked my fingers clean of her juices, enjoying her flavor, slid on the condom an assistant handed me, and then moved up her body once more and aimed my stiff cock at her gaping cunt. She was wet from the tonguework I’d done, and I slid inside easily. Now I had nothing left to do but thrust.
My hips began moving, pumping my cock in and out of Bella frantically. It was a dream come true to be fucking her, and I could hardly control myself. But I didn’t just want to fuck her, I wanted to have sex, to make love, and with only three minutes left, I had to do it fast—but I still wanted to do it well. It took a few seconds, but I calmed down and began to move with purpose. I alternated between deep and shallow thrusts, and even tried to change my tempo a few times to bring Bella pleasure.
When one of the assistants gave me the signal that I only had one minute left, I slipped a hand between my body and Bella’s to play with her clit. I’d been on the verge of a climax since I got into bed with her, probably since I got in the damn line hours earlier, but I wanted her to come again. It wasn’t a requirement, they’d told us. No one had to climax during the individual scenes—not Bella, and not the guy she was with. But I wanted her to come, and I knew my own orgasm was inevitable. As I continued to stroke my cock in and out, in and out, I toggled her clit with the middle finger of my right hand, hoping to bring her off in a mere forty-five seconds. I threw myself into the task, humping her wildly while I frantically frigged her hot button. I had less than a minute, maybe thirty seconds, to bring us both to climax, and I knew I had to do it or I’d never be able to forgive myself.
I was getting closer and closer, and I wanted to come, to fill Bella—or at least the condom between us—to overflowing, but I wanted her to come with me.
They were counting down, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven; at twenty-one, I couldn’t wait any longer, and I let go, shooting off harder than I ever had before. I didn’t stop trying to get Bella off, though, and finally, at ten, nine, eight, she came. I felt her pussy spasm and clasp my cock, and I could feel the warmth of her juices even through the thin layer of latex between us.
I collapsed on top of her as the director yelled, “Cut!” My five minutes were up, and I had only a few seconds to linger before they hauled me off the set. I slid out of Bella and wiped off with the towel her assistant handed me, then paused just long enough to say, “Thanks, Bella.” I was halfway off the small stage the bed was on when she called out to me.
“Hey, number fifty-one,” she said, “you were pretty good.”
It was the first time I’d heard Bella talk to any of the guys all day. And it was to tell me I was good! Let’s see number fifty-two try to top that! I thought as I headed to the showers.
LAISSEZ LES BONS TEMPS ROULER
Tara Young
I still don’t know where Allison came from. She blew into my life one Wednesday at Café Lafitte, a gay bar on Bourbon Street. She was the hot bartender who served me up several frozen drinks throughout the night, and we were naked and fucking in my bed soon after her shift ended. Her legs fit perfectly over my shoulders, and my lips seemed to be made to wrap around her clit.
Allison drove me wild. I couldn’t take my time with her. I had to have her, over and over again. I made her come in my mouth, in my hand. I had her on her back, on her knees, on my face. She was so fuckable, and I was in a frenzy to pleasure her.
As good as it was to fuck her, it was even better to be fucked by her. She loved to bite my nipples, to pound my pussy with four fingers. She licked my ass, making me come harder than I ever had in my life.
We had only known each other for two weeks, but already, I’d had more sex with her than I had in my previous thirty years. We scarcely left my apartment. We barely ate. We didn’t sleep. We just fucked. I thought I might lose my job because I was late every day. I couldn’t f
ocus when I did get there. I could only think about Allison.
My vacation couldn’t come soon enough. I took a week off for Mardi Gras. I could’ve gone anywhere, but I’d never miss the revelry in my own backyard. And I was looking forward to spending a week with Allison nearly uninterrupted.
In my excitement, I hadn’t taken into consideration that Allison might not share my schedule. I was crestfallen that night at dinner when she broke the news.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said. “This is our busiest time of year. I’ll be working double shifts for the next four days. I won’t have any free time.”
“Maybe I could sit at the bar and ogle you,” I suggested with a wink.
“Maybe. But I’d never get any work done with you there.” She winked back.
We finished dinner and cleared the table before I laid her down on it. “Now I’m ready for dessert.” I spread her legs. “If I can’t have you for a few days, I intend to stock up tonight.”
She let out a moan and grabbed my hair to hold me in place. I ran my tongue across her clit three times, and she stiffened. She screamed my name while her body shook. It was her turn to get me off with her tongue then, and I came even quicker than she had.
Allison was right—her work left her with little time for socializing. I stopped in at Lafitte’s on the three nights leading up to Mardi Gras. She stole glances my way, but we didn’t talk much.
When Fat Tuesday finally rolled around, I was aching for Allison. I couldn’t wait for her shift to end. I pushed through the drunken crowd to get to Lafitte’s.
I was surprised when she met me outside in her jean shorts and gray A-shirt that showed off her muscular biceps. It wasn’t her usual bartender attire, and seeing her like that made me even wetter.
She smiled when she saw me. “I’ve been missing you like crazy. Let’s go back to my place.” She kissed me hard, leaving me breathless.
We tried to make our way through the throngs on our way to Allison’s apartment near Jackson Square. But we were thwarted at every turn.
I tried to concentrate on finding a way through the people, but I couldn’t stop looking at Allison’s enticing cleavage in that sexy shirt.
I stopped to taste her luscious lips and couldn’t keep my hands from traveling across her breasts. Now it was my turn to leave her breathless.
“Home. Now,” she managed to say and began pushing through the crowd again. We turned onto Dumaine Street, and the crowd had eased. I couldn’t wait any longer and slid my hand down that shirt to tease her right nipple.
“That’s the nipple that’s connected to my clit, baby.” Allison’s breath hitched when I tugged at her piercing.
“I know.” I grinned. “That’s why I’m touching this one.”
“You’re driving me crazy,” she said. “I need you so bad.”
We were still several blocks from her house, but I needed her, too. Just before we reached Royal Street, I pushed her against a wall and snaked my tongue inside her mouth.
My body covered Allison’s as I slid my hand inside her shorts. I pushed her panties aside to feel her wetness.
“We can’t do this here,” she said, concern in her voice. “There are hundreds of people watching us.”
“Then let’s give them a show.”
I could tell she was conflicted. My hand was pressed to her clit, and I kissed her neck. Her head tilted back to give me access, but a part of her still worried about the passersby.
“Baby, you have to stop.” She tried to sound more forceful. But the moan she let out told me she wanted me to go on.
“I gotta have you.” I continued my assault on her pussy. “Focus on me, Allie.”
“I’m trying, but there are so many people.”
“I don’t care about them. Focus on me.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned my name. I pressed my leg into her and rubbed circles on her clit. Allison dug her fingers into my back then, and I could tell she had abandoned her fears.
“Fuck me, Leslie!”
“That’s it, baby. Focus on my hand on your clit. It’s just you and me here. No one else matters.”
“I’m focusing on you. Please just fuck me!”
A few more strokes across her rock-hard bulge and Allison’s body shuddered against the wall. I could see the orgasm travel through her.
“I’m coming!” she shouted.
I held her up while she spasmed and jerked. I pulled my hand from her shorts, and she grabbed it and licked my fingers clean of her juices.
She pushed off the wall and wobbled for a few steps. Her eyes swam back into focus. I put my arm around her to steady her and kissed her forehead.
“You are so fucking hot,” I whispered. “Let’s get back to your place. I have so much more I want to do to you.”
“I have plans for you, too.” Suddenly, her gait became surer, and she grabbed my hand and led me away with a satisfied smirk.
SPUNK
Sylvia Lowry
I drank at the bar after the show, eager to forget our performance. It was like the gig in Milwaukee: rehearsed precision collapsed into inspired mayhem and then into uncontrollable chaos. I laughed, contemplating the fine line, perhaps the breadth of an atom, which separated sloppiness from inspired punk vigor: Amy’s fretwork had been as slipshod as always, the fatal result of mixing a pentatonic scale with three Singapore slings. She deserved a Nobel Prize for fucking up “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” I imagined giving her a tender but disciplinary smack on her ass, a gentle tribute to the seat of her musical aptitude. Instead, I slapped our neglected tour brochure on the table. Fifteen dates on the tour remained, a descending chain of geographical importance: Kansas City, Warrensburg and Hermitage. Where the hell was Hermitage?
I read the leaflet, muttering to myself: “The Muffins: The punk rock all-girl musical sensation of 1979,” smiling with silent vehemence as I read the second line: “They’re an electric line to your zodiac sign.” That was Billy’s idea. Managers were always miserable philistines.
Now I was alone, staring at a flickering rerun of “Baretta” on the distant television, my isolation confirmed by the clamor of the street outside. In its rhythms, its seductive detonation of color and sound, I was reminded of the profound loneliness of travel. My hand trembled as I gripped my drink, craving an end to the barrenness of the moment.
“Good evening.” I heard the voice beside me, but couldn’t summon the civility to acknowledge the source. I stared ahead, contemplating my reflection in the bar mirror, my exhausted face framed between a bottle of Myers’s and a tumbler of miniature umbrellas. It was a chance scene of heraldic beauty; my eyes looked pagan, radiating nocturnal intrigue. “The band was fantastic.”
I cleared my throat dramatically. “Correct, sir. It is evening. But the band was far from fantastic.” I imagined that I had delivered a conversational parry and turned to see a face of disarming innocence, framed by blond Peter Frampton locks. He was fixed in time, frozen in a surreal posture of anticipation.
He nodded boyishly. “You shredded.” His whole being radiated vulnerable candor, or perhaps it was the Bob Seger jersey he was wearing, with SILVER BULLET TOUR: 1977, emblazoned with a semitruck against an apocalyptic sunburst.
I sipped my drink. “I hate Seger. He writes those mythical, world-weary songs about the rigors of the road. What does he know, riding around in big tour buses with rococo-bordello decorations?”
He started. “Hey, Live Bullet is one the greatest albums ever.”
I laughed, half spitting. “Naw, Spunk is the greatest album ever.”
He looked downward in submission. “I’ve never heard of it.”
I sneered, half in condescension, half with the fervor of a dirty schoolmarm. “It’s a bootleg of the Sex Pistols’ first album, before Virgin Records neutered them.” I felt aberrant warmth spread through my torso as I smiled and looked in his eyes, pouting weakly to broadcast an apology. Shifting nervously in my chair, I felt a chance abrasion of my lace p
anties against my clit, startling me with its delectable friction. “It’s a pure explosion of energy. The mix of ‘Pretty Vacant’ is fucking unreal.”
He laughed. “Rawness and authenticity. Is that all you care about?”
“Sure.” I smiled. “Sexual anarchy, baby.” He froze dramatically, and I imagined him lost in unfathomable contemplation. A wound must have occurred somewhere in his past, a lingering injury of rejection. In the street, I imagined that I heard a remote guitar shriek that became the scream of a siren, shuddering across forlorn concrete walls.
I tickled his chin, sensing a capricious infusion of moisture in my crotch. “C’mon. My apology. Let me teach you about punk.” He struggled to speak and I pressed my finger commandingly against his lips before beckoning. “No words, tiger. School’s in session.”
I led him to the van and, as he was raising himself with endearing awkwardness, I grasped his arm in a reassuring gesture and pulled him inside. Amy’s eight-track of “Rocket to Russia” was still playing. The music thundered through the battered speakers; it sounded deliciously primeval, like tectonic plates fucking.
“Lesson one: screw the rules.” I caressed the back of his neck, unbuttoning my shirt to relieve its resistance against my distended nipples, laughing inwardly at my bravado. Licking his ear, deviously plumbing the entrance with my tongue, I murmured, “Class assignment: I’m gonna wrap my lips around your fucking cock.”
He murmured in panic as I valiantly tore down his zipper in a single spirited movement, exposing his cock, grasping its base as he gently murmured in the darkness, first teasing his swollen head, then frantically lapping at its engorged length. I paused, relishing the impulsive instant before gulping his cock in a predatory motion, consuming the entire shaft.
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