Stripped Down

by Tristan Taormino

  How do you make love to a lover you’ve never touched before? I didn’t know, and I was beyond the point of being anxious. I stood up, came around the table to where Aixa sat, and kissed her. She did not respond. My hands seemed to have their own memory of her. I kissed her again, looking into her eyes, which were open. I held her head against mine: “Aixa, this is real and I want this and I’m sorry.” Something inside Aixa visibly turned on. She closed her eyes and pulled me closer to her. Her hair smelled like cinnamon. I was kissing her and my whole body was pressed against hers, the humidity making our clothes cling to our bodies and to each other. As I started to unbutton Aixa’s blouse, I realized that this was not the way to make love to her. She was the drowning woman in the painting and so was I: I would make love to her in the water.

  I pulled Aixa to the bathroom I had seen through an open door and turned the water on in the bathtub. Aixa stripped her clothes off in front of me—not quickly and not slowly. Her shirt came up over her head, and I could see her tan breasts, her red nipples, and the tautness of her stomach. I stood across from her and took off my own shirt; my chest was heaving and the tub continued to fill up with water. Aixa unzipped her skirt and threw it off: she was naked and the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

  Without a word, Aixa stepped into the tub and I followed her. Her hair was soaked, and clung in long strands to her chest, neck, and face as I began to kiss her again. How strange it was to touch someone you already knew so intimately and passionately. She was like I had imagined, but being with her in person was almost paralyzing. Her body responded to mine, moved against me when I touched her, kissing her neck, massaging her breasts. In the water, she looked vulnerable and sexual, like she needed to be saved and consumed. I reached into the water and felt the warmth between her legs. She gasped as my fingers entered her, plunging once, twice, and then again and again. We rocked against the rhythm of our bodies in the water: Aixa’s body rose against mine, her hips and pelvis arching into my hand as she came. This was not enough. I would not let her stop and I plunged in again, quicker and faster. Her hands were between my legs: like in her dream, I was clean shaven and the water and the bare skin made me more sensitive than I had ever felt before. I nearly collapsed on top of her, but regained my balance and continued kissing her and thrusting my fingers into her. Aixa turned and switched positions with me, so that she was on top and staring me right in the eyes as we both came.

  Unfazed, I stood up and got out of the tub, dripping water on the red tile floor. Aixa followed me to the bed where I began to flick my tongue against her warmth with such passion that she came again immediately. Aixa’s sheets clung to our wet bodies and our drenched hair hung around our faces like we were wild women. Aixa reversed her position and then I was tasting her and she was tasting me, the water from the bath and our own wetness making us drown again and again.

  After evening (sera), there is night (noche). The evening, then the night crept through Aixa’s open windows, lapping at our naked skin as we lay in each other’s arms and Aixa’s soaked bed. I heard music from another street—something fast, sad, and pounding at the same time.

  “Do you know what that is?” Aixa spoke like music, too: her accented English sweet and liquid. “That’s flamenco music. It’s the music I will thank the Virgin for—when I paint her a retablo for sending you to me.”

  Aixa rose from the bed and pulled her long hair up in a loose bun. She pulled on an oversized shirt and turned, saying, “I have something to show you.”

  I heard Aixa’s footsteps leaving the hallway, then a few seconds of silence, and then her coming back. “Look. This is for you.”

  Aixa handed me a piece of tin. On it, a retablo was half finished: there were two women in bed, with the evening and music coming in the windows. I reached across the bed to kiss Aixa and got up to find my bag. I searched my bag for my plane ticket and handed it to Aixa. “Tear this up or paint it—either way, you’re going to have to teach me Spanish.”

  Aixa took the ticket from me and looked at me like she still wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep me. She held the ticket in her hand uncertainly and the second felt like those weeks of avoiding her. Aixa tore the ticket in two and said, “First lesson: bésame. Kiss me.” And I did, ecstatically. Aixa pulled back in mock anger and said sternly, “Second lesson. Civility—you must say, ‘Please,’ por favor!” I kissed her nicely and I never looked back again.

  A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  Lynne Jamneck

  It was Jo who suggested we go to the beach. She was quite adamant that it would be a shame to spend the afternoon indoors, especially since it was officially the first day of spring.

  We trucked along a heavy picnic basket and, once at the beach, spread our towels down on a secluded spot behind the sloping rocks. Yes, I’ll admit—I had underhanded motives. I’d been planning a covert surprise for Jo, and I made sure we were some way from the nearest beachcombers.

  I took my shoes off, which is about as far as I’ll go where public undressing is concerned. I keep my armor on most of the time, ’cause it’s a fucked-up world and you never know when you’re going to have to look presentable. Jo teased me for keeping my jeans on, and said the bulge in my crotch must be starting to ache with constraint.

  Clever bitch—she’d known all along. I took two bottles of chilled beer from the picnic basket, gave one to Jo and dug ravenously into the rye bread sandwiches she’d prepared. She’d slathered them with strong mustard—just the way I like it. It made my mouth burn. Jo noticed and laughed. I gulped beer until it ran down my chin.

  “Chris…shit…hey Chris—check this out!” Mike waved the binoculars at his fratboy-friend who was busy packing fresh ice on the beer in his cooler.

  “Looks like some son-of-a-bitch is about to get lucky,” Mike smirked. The girl sure was a hot little number, he thought. Lying there with her tight white bikini, sand sprinkled on her tanned body, only a couple hundred yards away, half hidden by an outcropping of rock…. He sure as shit wished he could be the one giving her some. She licked something from her lip and laughed, looking down at her boyfriend’s head. If only the bastard would move out of the way so he could get a good look at her tits.

  “Oh, my god…,” he muttered distractedly.

  “What?” Chris tried to snag the binoculars from his buddy. “What the fuck’s happening? Mike—you bastard, give that here!”

  “Ohhh…” was all Mike replied, relinquishing the binoculars to his friend reluctantly. “Take a look—I think she’s gonna go down on him.”

  It was when Jo started to lick that chili-mustard from her own lip that I started getting really fucking horny. Plus, the fact that she was staring at my crotch and saying things like “I know what Daddy wants” didn’t make it any easier. I tried to ignore her and eat my sandwich instead but then she started fiddling with the buttons of my fly.

  “Now there’s an idea,” I muttered as she drew herself up to my thighs. Small patches of sand clung to her skin, mixing with the coconut-scented oil she’d made me rub all over her body earlier.

  Jo didn’t waste any time in attending to my needs. We were both infinitely aware that, deserted as our little spot might seem, anyone could come strolling into view at any moment. She said, “Now don’t get greedy or I’ll stop.” Then she took my seven inches into her gorgeous mouth and slowly, gradually swallowed me whole.

  “Yeah, baby…,” Chris groaned as he held on to the binoculars with one trembling hand, the other working inside his Rip Curl shorts. He sure wasn’t going to pass up the free show.

  “What’s she doing?” Mike salivated from the side.

  Now it was Chris’s turn to smirk. “Looks like a good old-fashioned deep throat to me, buddy. Fuck…aw shit—that girl knows how to give head. Wish I could walk over there and tell her to suck my dick….”

  “Why don’t you? She might like it.”

  “You fucking nuts?” Chris muttered without putting the binoculars down. “Her bo
yfriend would kick the living shit out of me. Jesus, look at the muscles on that guy. No thanks—I’ll just stay here and appreciate the view along with some DIY. Sure wish he’d move his back though so I can see better…. Oh yeah, buddy—give it to her…give it to her good….”

  Mike opened another ice-cold beer. Chris’s grunts were becoming more pronounced by the second.

  I’m not sure whether it’s because Jo has the aura of a virginal saint, but ever since day one she’s had the knack for bringing out the roughneck in me. As she kept blowing me with that teasing, innocent expression in her eyes, tendons in her sleek neck straining, she made me want to push her flat onto her back and fuck the innocence from her.

  Instead—for now—I placed one hand firmly at the back of her head and told her to hold still. I started plying the inside of her mouth with long, drawn-out strokes, rapidly moving on to short stabs as the enjoyment on her face urged me on.

  “Hold still, baby,” I grunted down above her dirty-blonde head. “Daddy’s gonna be real good to you….”

  Mike exchanged a beer for the binoculars in his friend’s sweaty grasp. His dick was hard, and who the fuck could blame him? He wasn’t entirely sure whether it was the sight of the girl and her buff boyfriend fucking or that of his mate jacking off next to him that had given him such a raging hard-on.

  The entrées seemed to be at an end now. Bikini’s boyfriend motioned for her to lie back while he felt his pockets, presumably for a condom. Mike wondered whether they had any idea that they were being watched—wondered whether they would be the type to get off on it if in fact they did. Also, he wondered why it was that the tough-guy bikers got all the hot girls. Was it the tight vests? The close crew cuts? The arms blackened with tattoos?

  Then he wasn’t wondering anymore, because Bikini Girl’s back arched silently in his view, partly blocked by her heaving boyfriend’s jean-clad ass as he started screwing her right there. In broad daylight.

  Mike’s hand moved down of its own free will, past the elastic border of his colorful Hawaiian swimming trunks. His crotch was tenting at an alarming but satisfactory rate. As he took himself in hand he heard Chris swallow hard and say: “Now all we need is some good old-fashioned Cock Rock to round this picture off.”

  The thought that someone might be looking at us passed through my mind vaguely as my one hand pinned Jo’s hips down, the other got lost somewhere in her tangled hair. To tell the honest-to-god truth, at this point I really didn’t care. I was having a marvelous time watching the reaction on Jo’s face as I continued to fuck her adorable behind into the hot sand. I bent down and took each of her nipples between my teeth, the taste of coconut on my tongue perversely edging me on. In between the rush of blood and noise in my brain I heard Jo’s now not-so-innocent remarks, ranging from the questioning You like that, don’t you? to the not-so-sublime Daddy’s dyke cock hurts so good….

  I leaned back and told her to roll over onto her stomach. The sand stuck to her cheeks like two little bull’s-eyes. With practiced ease I took hold of her hips with both hands and slipped into her.

  “Let Daddy show you how hard he really can hurt, baby….”

  I started laying into her, fingertips poised on the tightly stretched skin between her thighs, slamming into her at a rate that made her gasp for air and eliciting short “ah… ah…” sounds. One of her hands flailed at me viciously, but I grabbed it and held it behind her back.

  “Quiet sweetheart,” I sneered in her neck, “before the neighbors hear you and I have to stop.”

  Chris lay on his back, staring into the sky, cold beer can against his face to cool his raging hormones, inspired by the free show he and Mike had been fortunate enough to observe. Jacking off with a buddy under the summer sun—what could be more perfect? They’d been taking turns watching, both manipulating their hard-ons inside their trunks, till the distant approach of a beach patrol put an end to their surveillance.

  “You know,” Mike said smilingly as he popped open another beer. “Only one thing could have possibly made that an even better experience to witness. Imagine that had been two chicks digging into one another.”

  Chris nodded in agreement. “Now that would be worth getting arrested for.”

  “I’m going to have to start taking you to the beach much more often,” Jo mused, smiling as she navigated traffic.

  “Oh, believe me,” I observed as I adjusted my crotch, “it’s got nothing to do with the beach. Absolutely nothing.”

  RIDING THE WAVES

  Rose William

  I wasn’t sure that I would like it. In fact, the thought of it made me nauseous. I couldn’t imagine allowing a man to touch her, his cock growing hard and pressing against her. I couldn’t stomach the thought of watching. Watching her kissing him, touching his chest, stroking his dick. And worst of all, she wanted him to fuck her, something I would give anything to do, if only I really could. But I loved her, and was willing to try it. For her.

  So I let her choose the guy. I told her that I didn’t care who it was or what he looked like, didn’t care what she told him. I went along with what she wanted, gave her free rein, and removed myself from the planning.

  Two months went by, and Elly didn’t mention it again. I thought that she had changed her mind. Perhaps she had realized that I only agreed to it for her. Our lives went on as usual. She taught and worked on her thesis; I worked at the hospital. We rented movies and had big weekend breakfasts and cleaned the house and went for walks and had sex. We settled into our lives as if she had never brought it up.

  Then one day, on the way home from work, I stopped at the store and bought her mangos and frozen pizza. When I arrived home, there was a man sitting on the couch, drinking a Coke. I knew instantly why he was there.

  “Hi,” I said cautiously, appraising him. I could tell he was tallish: several inches taller than me, and markedly taller than Elly. He had on jeans, worn thin but not holey. His hair was messy and sandy blond, and he wore a surf T-shirt. He wasn’t anything like the guy I would have expected her to pick, and I wondered where she had even found him.

  “Hey.” He smiled, annoyingly relaxed about the whole thing. He was casually settled into the red cushions, legs slightly apart, one hand at his side, the other holding the Coke and resting on his knee.

  It was then, as I stood in the living room staring at a strange man, that she came into the room and we both looked at her. I wanted to cover his eyes—she was too beautiful for me to share, too beautiful to give to him. Elly is always beautiful, but sometimes she sparkles. She wore a clingy red tank top without a bra, and I could see her nipples sticking out slightly. Usually she thought her nipples were a nuisance. They were almost always slightly hard, and she bought padded bras to conceal them. But she also knew that their presence made her instantly sexual: she was inviting me—us—to look at them. Below the tank top she wore a white skirt with embroidered flowers, and a layer of tulle peaking out. Her feet were bare, her toenails polished the same red as the flowers on the skirt.

  But her sparkle didn’t come from her clothes. It came from her attitude. She was at home in her skin. She wore no makeup but lip gloss and she probably hadn’t brushed her wavy hair after that morning’s shower. But she knew that she would be able to drive anyone wild. Especially me. I wanted so badly to touch her then, to feel her skin, to hold her close and wrap my arms all the way around her small frame. I wanted to lead her to our bed and pull her tank top over her head, to run my hands over her and take her nipples into my mouth. I wanted to hear her breath in my ear, and feel her respond to me. Instead, I just looked at her. She came to where I was standing, grocery bag still hanging from my hand. She looked into my eyes, and then flicked her gaze across my face, as if she were making a final assessment.

  “Hi,” she said, and kissed my lips lightly. It was a casual kiss, the kind she’d give me if she were running to the post office. She took the plastic grocery bag from my hand and set it on the floor. She took my jacket and laid
that on the floor as well.

  And then she turned from me and walked to the couch. She took the boy’s Coke and set it on the coffee table. She took his hand and led him to the bedroom, turning once to look at me. She wanted me to follow. At first I couldn’t do it. I could only watch them disappear into our room. Our place. When I had forced my feet to move, and arrived in the doorway of our room, they were standing near the bed. She looked up at him and pulled his face toward hers.

  And she kissed him. Ran her fingers through his messy hair and held on to the back of his head. My Elly kissed a stranger in our bedroom as my chin trembled. I blinked slowly, stoically, willing the tears not to come.

  He wrapped his arms around her, running his hands over her shoulders and down her back, grazing her ass, pulling her hips toward him. Her hands went under his shirt and she touched his chest. When he took his shirt off, I saw how smooth and well-developed he was. I imagined the hours in the surf had left him chiseled and lean. She touched her lips to his chest as he stroked the waves of her hair. She waved me to the chair and quickly glanced at me while she kissed her way down his chest and abs, and pushed him into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. I mutely moved to the chair, which had been moved slightly. I realized that it was in the perfect position for me to watch her blow him.