“Hand it over, slut.” I fumble with the snaps in the semidarkness until it’s in place. I slather my cock in lube and rub it on your muscular ass, so juicy on your skinny frame, before dipping it between your cheeks and teasing your asshole with the tip.
Suddenly I notice we’re not alone. Over my shoulder, I can hear the unmistakable sounds of a man jacking off. I turn around, and a hairy, muscular man is hungrily ogling your asshole. Wearing only a leather jockstrap, a matching chest harness, and knee-high combat boots, he’s just your type, and from the look in his eyes, the feeling is mutual. A twinge of nervousness tickles my scalp, and even though I’m still clothed I feel vulnerable. I’m aware of how much older I am than you, how much more voluptuous. Awkward in my high heels, a silicone cock bobbing just under my skirt. Then I realize your admirer isn’t the least bit interested in watching me, and it’s exhilarating. My Domme comes roaring back.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” I pry your cheeks apart so he can admire your secret pink hole. “His ass is mine tonight, but he’s a real cock-hungry pig, so maybe he’ll suck you off if you want.”
The man, still stroking, pretends to contemplate this offer for a second before smiling wickedly.
“May I?” he asks me. I smack your ass and pull your hair so you face us.
“What do you think? Do you want to be this big Daddy’s bitch for me?” You nod vigorously, and I laugh. The man whispers in my ear that he was tested for STDs in the past month and is good to go. “Thank you,” I whisper with a wink, before he saunters over so you’re face-to-face with his bulging jockstrap. He lifts his leg and places his boot on the arm of the couch.
“Lick my boot,” he says, and you slobber eagerly.
“Filthy,” I say, and rake your sides with my nails. Your skin ripples and reddens under my touch.
“Stop,” the man says. He pulls out an outrageously large, uncut cock—seriously, the biggest I’ve seen outside of porn, it’s kind of terrifying—and gives it a few strokes before unceremoniously feeding it to you.
At this point, all I can do is watch. I know that if you tap three times on any part of my body, that means stop, and I am alert to it. I am also alert to my extraordinarily wet pussy, so I pop out the beads I’ve been sucking in for hours, stow them in my bag, and start finger-fucking myself mercilessly underneath the harness. The sounds around us, the sight of your obscenely open ass, the gentle pressure on my clit from the strap-on—the reality of what I’d only dared to dream about late at night with my hands down my panties makes waiting any longer impossible.
I walk over and watch you with delight, your eyes closed and watering with the attempt to fully take in this gorgeous engorged cock, the man’s hand huge and hairy and pulling you closer so you’re almost nose to navel. He’s growling with pleasure, reaching over to grab a fistful of your ass, sticking a beefy finger in your hole, and I take the opportunity to rake my sticky fingers through your hair and wipe them on your nose and cheeks.
“Do you love this, my sweet slutty fuck?” I ask. You nod with your mouth full of cock, snot and tears beginning to run down your face. “Do you want me to fuck you too?” You nod again, and I saunter back and kneel behind you on the couch.
“You better not stop sucking just because she’s about to fuck your dirty ass,” the man threatens. You moan in response.
I feel your body tense up at first so I go slowly, millimeter by millimeter until I can feel you opening for me. Then I’m up to the hilt inside of you, skin to skin, so close that the leather straps of the harness become part of me as I fuck you in time to the Daddy’s thrusts. Breathing with you, moving with you—moving inside you—as I grind my clit against the flat end of the dildo, is enough to get me off in and of itself.
“Do you like being completely owned and filled?” You shudder beneath me. A small crowd is gathering to watch our spit roast. Queer boys suck one another’s tongues while peeking out of the corners of their eyes. A baldheaded Furiosa is wearing little more than bondage tape on her nipples, a Hitachi on her clit, and a collar with a leash attached to her latex-sheathed Mistress. A well-dressed couple wrapped in silk and velvet stand next to each other, motionless except for his elegantly manicured hand cupping her breast, her nipple pierced with gold and diamonds. It occurs to me mid-thrust that they’re watching me too, but I don’t care anymore; all of it is delicious and thrilling and dirty, just like I’d always fantasized.
You’re covered in sweat and trying your best to keep up, but I can tell you’re getting exhausted by our dueling ministrations. Finally, the nameless man pulls his cock out of your wet mouth and shoots long ropes of come across your face, groaning like a mountain. I pick up the slack on my end, fucking your ass long and hard the way I know will make you come, while you masturbate furiously. Sometimes it’s slow and dreamy when I fuck your ass, our breathing in syncopation, but the last time I fucked you this hard you left a love bite on my upper arm. Now the energy that surges between us feels extra charged up in this aroused atmosphere, all those pheromones of horny people vibrating in anticipation and admiration of us and of each other.
Finally, you tap on my thigh twice to let me know you’ve come, to slow my thrusting until I’m motionless against your ass, slowly withdrawing as gently as I entered you.
The other man has disappeared. The crowd has dwindled. We’re finally alone as I disengage myself from you, snap the dildo off and stow it in a plastic bag in my purse, then clean you off carefully with the plentiful wipes I’ve tucked away just for this reason. I use three on your face alone, covered as it is in a strange man’s come, and once you’re scrubbed pink, I kiss you on your swollen lips.
“You were marvelous,” I whisper in your ear. “Simply beautiful.” I hold your head to my chest, and you kiss me above my heart. “Do you feel okay?”
“I feel great,” you reply with a croak. You stand to pull your pants back up, then sit gingerly and look around. “I feel like I need a nap,” you say, mussing your hair thoughtfully.
“I feel like I need a hot bath and a good night’s sleep,” I reply, hoisting my skirt down and straightening my garters. “I also feel like I need a turn.”
“You’re such a brat.” You smile. You fumble in your pockets for our coat-check tickets, and we wobble out into the night, to my apartment, to my bed, to sleep like spoons and wake in the morning to fuck again, sweetly this time. Stomach to stomach while the sun shines in.
THE PICK-ME-UP
Suleikha Snyder
She tried to focus on squeezing lime into her margarita and cherishing the first sharp, tequila-heavy sips. In the process of dodging a particularly evil burst of juice, Aleja caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Ugh. She was barely visible over the top rack of liquor bottles, but it was enough to reinforce that, yeah, she’d just finished the day from hell. She’d tried to finger-comb her hair while walking down from the subway platform, but it looked like Elvira’s black fright wig. Shit. She stifled a groan, swirling the short, red straw around in her drink.
What a day. What a truly shitty day. She wanted to let it drain away from her and to forget that her DSW pumps—so cute when they were an impulse-buy—were pinching her feet. She wanted nothing more strenuous than watching the ESPN guy recap last night’s Mets game on the flat-screen TV, but that simple goal was proving difficult to meet. Who would’ve guessed that a Wednesday night at the Hanged Man would be so . . . active? From the bartender, Liam, barking good-natured orders at the hostess to a couple of the regulars arguing, peace and quiet was definitely not on tap.
“You’re too modest, Conn. That’s what you are. Not willing to take credit for anything, you sorry fucker.” “That’s not what your wife said in bed with me last night, John. And I rightfully take credit for that!”
“Kiss my ass!”
“You want me to shave it for you first, then?”
The banter zipped around her like Midtown bike messengers, the two men’s clashing accents occasionally
making it hard for her to follow. John was Russian, older, and Conn from Northern Ireland. Despite past instances of drinking in their general vicinity, Aleja couldn’t quite tell if they were friends or enemies. Tonight, she’d had the luck to pick the empty bar stool right in between them. They tossed insults back and forth over her head, each one more speculative about John’s long-suffering wife’s taste in men than the last. The poor woman. It was just a lucky thing that Yelena wasn’t here tonight.
Not that her own taste was much better, judging by the guys she’d dated since moving back to Queens after college. Far from the nice Boricua boys Mami wanted her to bring home—Aleja was convinced such paragons of familial commitment were a myth, like unicorns—Aleja’s type tended to run to the ex-frat boy crowd. She invariably gravitated toward the guys who wore suits during the day and regressed back to ball cap and khaki mode after dark. She went out with them once or twice before she got tired of the shtick—and before they wanted to upgrade to an Upper East Side trust-fund baby.
Conn was the antithesis of that whole world. He was so tall, lean, and wiry like a frayed rope, she seriously doubted he wore suits anywhere except to weddings and funerals. He was a classic redhead with bright blue eyes and a wide smile. No one would ever call him “handsome” outright, but he had a cocky look about him that made people stop in their tracks and a good-natured charisma that drew all the regulars to him to chat for a few minutes. There was something about him that made you forget your troubles . . . probably his ability to start new ones in under a minute.
Aleja had always resisted his orbit, choosing to throw off a one-liner here and there but keep her distance. She lived way too close to the bar—it would be too easy to be here every day for a drink or dinner—so she tried not to get too involved with the regulars’ noisy debates . . . or involved with the guys. She liked her life in hermetically sealed little boxes: work, home, the grocery store, drinks in Manhattan with friends, taking the train out to Jamaica to see her parents every other weekend. Coming into the Hanged Man was something she only did to sate basic hunger or the immediate need for a buzz. She didn’t need this place to become her Cheers, where everybody knew her name.
But tonight was already different. Tonight, her gaze refused to stray from Conn. Everything about him spoke of roughness, of long days of hard work and longer nights of drinking . . . probably resulting in barely enough brain cells to have a decent conversation. But she was entranced, lulled by how his consonants and vowels ran together in that lilting way that made her feel like she was in a bar in Belfast and not Queens.
“I’m no angel,” he was telling John now, “but I can take your lady to heaven while you’re trying to find purgatory with a fuckin’ flashlight.”
As she ordered a second drink, she watched how he casually dropped a few bills on the bar to cover John’s dinner. How he handed a perfect stranger three smokes when the guy asked, “Hey, can I bum one?” And something in her pulse quickened, telling her, Aleja, mira! Don’t let him pass you by.
Underneath all his four-letter words and jackassery, there was a thoughtfulness, which didn’t seem to fit. Of course, to be fair, Aleja didn’t know much about him. Not even what he did for a living. All she knew was that he hadn’t been in the States that long and he liked to bet on the horses and drink Miller Light. He was nursing his fifth or sixth pint of the evening. When Liam made a crack about how too many more drinks and Conn was going to “disappoint the ladies,” Aleja surprised herself by blurting out, “I’m sure he has plenty of hot air left to blow up his date.”
Oh, shit. She clapped her palms over her mouth, reddening as Liam and Conn and the surrounding patrons all stared at her, agape. Laughter broke out, and Conn peered at her over the rim of his pint glass, the mocking glint in his eye serving as a salute. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she said, chasing the apology with a gulp of her margarita. “I don’t know where that came from.”
Conn shrugged self-deprecatingly—but then his eyebrows lifted with wicked intent. “How’d you know so much about blow-up dolls, then? You sell them or something?”
An outraged denial was right on the tip of her tongue, but she ruefully recognized that she’d started this game. She couldn’t very well play the horrified prude now. “Modeled for one, actually,” she sighed, before gesturing theatrically at her body. She was all boobs and hips—and for all of her issues, low self-esteem wasn’t one of them. She knew what she had, and she liked it. “Despite it being all of this, it just didn’t sell. So they pulled it off the market.”
“Fuckers.” His eyes darkened with interest and his tongue flicked out to swipe across his full lower lip. “Would’ve shelled out for it myself.”
“Of course you would have. Real women have standards, blow-up dolls don’t.” Aleja could have kicked herself for letting another line like that escape her lips, especially as the bar exploded in more amusement at Conn’s expense.
He just shook his head. “And just what are your standards, little girl?”
“For one? Men who don’t call me ‘little girl,’ just because I’m short.” She wasn’t the kind of person who was intentionally rude, who said saucy things to guys she barely knew. But there was something about Conn that just made it easy to play the role—that made it easy to become the kind of brazen woman who didn’t just want the upper hand but demanded it.
“Oh, darlin’. I’m not callin’ you ‘little’ because you’re short.” Conn gestured at the low-cut top of her sundress and the overflowing bounty that was on full display since she’d shrugged off her blazer. “This is like calling a fat man ‘Tiny.’ ”
Sugary sincerity infused her voice. “Or like calling you ‘Big Willy?’ ”
Crap. Even before the words were finished, she realized she’d stepped up the game. She’d unwittingly issued Conn a challenge. She earned a couple of cheers and one enthusiastic thump on the back from John, and the last sips of her drink went down way too fast.
“Now why’d you go and say that? Wound a man’s pride, and he’s just going to want to prove you wrong.” Conn gave her a thorough once-over. Like he was undressing her with his eyes. It was the kind of look that, out on the sidewalk, got followed up by a whistle and a few choice catcalls. But here, it didn’t make her feel violated and angry. No. It made her feel hot inside—hot and liquid and reckless.
Don’t let him pass you by. There was that voice again. The same voice that had made her stop into the pub after a long day at the ad agency . . . that had made her order a Patrón margarita, heavy on the Patrón, light on everything else. Her mouth tasted like salt and triple sec. She suddenly wanted it to taste like cheap beer and random kindness. And that was a dangerous want.
She slid off her stool, bolting for the bar’s side door and emerging in the alley. Without the laughter, the clink of pint glasses, the chatter from the TV, and the ’80s pop filtering in from the satellite radio, maybe she could get her head on straight. Lusting after a near stranger was a huge mistake.
On cue, the door banged open, and Conn was standing there, tapping two cigarettes from his pack. She leaned against the brick wall, shaking her head. She wanted a smoke, but she had a worse craving than that. And he knew it.
“So it’s like that then, is it?” The smokes went back into the crumpled pack, and he moved toward her. She’d known he was tall—with her barely clearing five feet, everybody was tall—but, like this, he seemed to tower over her. His white T-shirt stretched across his chest, the muscles defined by hard labor, not hours in the gym. There was power in his arms, she knew, because he’d carried a man out of the deli around the corner when it caught fire last month. During a round of pub gossip, Liam had whispered that to her. He’d said Conn refused to call himself a hero. Aleja wanted to call him that and a dozen other things. Most of them unspeakable. Maybe that was why she couldn’t form a coherent sentence.
“You’re looking to slum now, are you?” It wasn’t an accusation. Or maybe it was. It was the same friendly/not-so
-friendly tone he’d used with John earlier. She was fairly sure that, unlike her, John didn’t have an inappropriate urge to fuck him.
As for the slumming . . . wasn’t that what all of her frat boys had come to her for? Was she really shallow and terrible enough to want the same thing from someone else? “No. Yes. I don’t know.” The bravado that had made her go toe-to-toe with him inside was failing her now. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Thinkin’s not all it’s cracked up to be, darlin’.” Conn’s hand wrapped around her wrist. His fingers nearly spanned the width twice over. His skin was pale against hers, the contrast as startling as that of their heights. “John just bet me you’d go home with me tonight.”
“That’s a losing bet,” she lied.
“Then what are we doing here?” His thumb stroked her pulse with more tenderness than she’d thought him capable of. “What are you giving me the eye for, little girl?”
I don’t know was on the tip of her tongue again, but she bit it back. “I’m not a little girl,” she said instead. “I’m a grown woman, and I know what I want.”
She swayed into him, into the shelter of his body, and his other arm came up to encircle her in a loose hug. They stood like that for what felt like an eternity. And then Conn made a low, strangled noise and leaned down to capture her mouth. He tasted like drunkenness and impulse. She arched up on her toes to match it with relative sobriety and not-so-relative poor judgment. Let yourself have this, the wild voice inside her said. Let yourself have him. So she slid her palms down his chest and anchored her fingers in the waistband of his jeans.
She couldn’t call this slumming, not when it felt so good. Conn’s hand moved up her arm to the strap of her sundress, and he nudged it aside. His long, blunt fingers slipped down the bodice, stroking the heavy, sensitive globe of her breast. When his thumb traced her nipple, an inarticulate cry escaped her lips and she flattened against him. As close as they could be with their clothes on. Her skirt had somehow gotten hiked up around her waist. He was bracketed between her thighs. His cock strained against the fly of his jeans and throbbed against the crotch of her panties. She wanted him closer, inside her. Making out like teenagers in a dirty alley wasn’t enough. She wanted to be horizontal, crawling up his body like it was a rock face, finding footholds and places to grip . . . and not looking down in case she lost her focus and fell.
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 4 Page 7
