by Alison Tyler
“You don’t play fair,” I said, feeling juices spread across the seat beneath me.
“Ah, but what would be the point in that?” He let go of his cock and grabbed my hand. “You’re so fucking sexy, I can’t help but want to fuck you all the time. Did you like your present?”
I smiled. He’d bought me a collection of erotic stories, and I’d been reading for the past hour or so. I guessed he’d seen me fidget in my seat. The lusty words had kept me entranced, my imagination going wild as I thought of the different positions portrayed and how it would feel if Josh did…certain things to me. I licked my lips.
He growled, “Come over here, baby. I need to fuck you.”
I went.
I shoved him back so he could recline in his seat, and then I grabbed his cock and aligned myself. I sat down, taking him inside me, inch by slow inch. I gasped when he finally hit my cervix, but Josh chose that moment to start kissing me. He licked into my mouth, his fingers slipping under my top to pull my bra down. He pinched my nipples, the rough caress too much, too soon.
But my boyfriend knew me well. By the time his hands palmed my heavy breasts, I was so far gone I’d completely forgotten about the people around us. I heard voices in the distance, trunks being slammed shut, shopping carts being wheeled back. For someone who’d been scared of men seeing her naked, I didn’t even stop to think before moving onto my knees, one perched on the door’s armrest and the other on the console separating our seats.
Josh broke the kiss and growled, “Yes, baby, ride me. You’re so fucking tight. Oh yes, that’s it.”
I loved it when he talked dirty, I thought to myself as I rocked up and down. I clasped my arms around his shoulders and held tight, widening my stance a little so his pubic bone brushed against my clit. I moaned at the sensation and did it all over again.
Josh’s hands slid down to cup my butt, his nails digging into the soft flesh with apparent relish. He tilted his head down and whispered in my ear, “As soon as we stop for the night, I’m fucking your ass. Consider yourself warned.”
He knew what he was doing. Between his husky promise and his fingers burrowing into my cleft, it didn’t take long for that sweet fire to spread throughout me.
“I’m gonna come!”
“Race you there,” he panted as he rocked his hips up.
I screamed when my orgasm hit me. Screamed some more when Josh’s seed hit the end of me.
It was too bad we’d forgotten to close the windows. The good thing was that we didn’t get arrested. The car’s leather seats, however, will never be the same. Every time I see those dark spots, I remember our road trip and what happened. And then, I get wet and Josh notices, and well, let’s just say we’ve now learned our lesson. We always remember to close the windows.
Well, nearly always…
Two Ways
By Dante Davidson
Noel is watching me.
I can feel her eyes. I am naked and exposed. There is no place to hide. I know what I am supposed to do, but my hands might as well be tied behind my back. I am paralyzed, standing in front of the closet door, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I wish I didn’t have to. I don’t like to look at myself in this way. But she wants scrutiny, and I always try to give her what she wants.
Silently, I turn to the left. Then, I slowly work my way down my reflection, as if I’m looking at some other man—some hot guy I’ve just caught sight of in line at the movies. Except naked. I take in the tattoos on my arms, the muscles that ripple and flex when I move. I know she finds me attractive, but I don’t always see what she sees.
There’s a bottle of lube on the dresser table. I don’t want to go and get the K-Y, yet I do. There were explicit directions waiting for me when I came home from work. I won’t let her down. I grab up the bottle, pour a handful of gloss into my palm and then start to jack my cock. I’m semi-erect already, even though I tell myself that I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for her.
I stare into the mirror, and I work my hand up and down the length of my cock. Sometimes I feel like an object when I do this.
“You are an object,” she tells me. “An object of art. An object of lust.”
I’ve been manhandling the equipment for long enough to know how to give myself pleasure. But there is always something new about doing this for her. I’m the performer, and she’s the audience. I want to give her a good show.
The note said to strip down and jerk myself off in front of the mirror. I’ll admit I felt a deep shiver, a fierce thrill of anticipation, from reading her neatly printed handwriting, those straight up-and-down lines spelling out such dirty deeds. She leaves me notes often. Sometimes she likes to watch me take a shower. Sometimes she watches me sleep.
I pump my fist up and down on my cock. I tighten my fingers at the head. I’m good at this. She doesn’t have to tell me that.
What brings me closer to orgasm is the knowledge that she’s watching. She’s sitting on a chair on the other side of our two-way mirror. We had the mirror specially installed so that she could do precisely this: watch me. When one side of the mirror (within the closet) is dark, and the other side (the bedroom) is brightly lit, she can see me but I can’t see her. Sure, I know that she’s there. Still, I find the situation a bit disconcerting, to stare into my eyes and know that she’s staring back.
These mirrors are called one-way or two-way—like flammable and inflammable, and shelled and unshelled mean the same thing (look it up if you don’t believe me). I know which term I prefer. One way means that this is all about her pleasure. She gets off watching me masturbate. One way means I don’t count at all.
When she first told me she wanted to watch, I didn’t understand. I’d never met a girl like Noel before. She is forceful with her desires, shows no fear of her fetishes. She sat me down and said, “If we’re going to do this—if we’re going to be together—then there are some things about me that you should know.”
I thought she’d confess the usual types of secrets. Maybe she was deep in debt, or a former drug user, or perhaps she’d put herself through college by stripping or even turning tricks. I’d heard stories like those from all of my exes. This girl was different.
“I like to watch,” she said, and then she tilted my head up so that I was looking into her hazel eyes. “I mean,” she continued, “I need to watch.”
“Watch?” I repeated, dumbly, thinking TV or movies or sports…
“I’m a voyeur,” she said next, and I rolled the word around in my mind. I’d heard the term, but tossed out casually, not like this. She was serious. She was naming herself. “I need to watch my men in order to reach orgasm. Will you let me watch you? Will you let me watch you when you’re showering, when you’re dressing, when you’re playing with yourself?”
I said, “Yes,” automatically, before I even knew what I was agreeing to. I love her. That’s the truth. And her words were turning me on. That’s the bigger truth.
I know she’s in there right now, in the dark, touching her pussy. I imagine her leaning up against the cold glass so that she can be as close to me as a closet door will allow.
My hand pumps faster. I am growing more aroused by the second.
At first, I didn’t realize how serious she was about her fetish. I didn’t understand that sometimes when I was getting dressed in the morning she’d stand in the hall and peek through the crack in the door. But I became accustomed to her sly little ways, and I’ve grown good at putting on a proper performance. She has a fetish, but she makes me feel worth watching.
My fist works fiercely, a blur of flesh on flesh. I close my eyes and groan. I’m right there, on the cusp. I give her a warning, “I’m going to…” and then I come, hard, against the polished silver of the mirror. I hear her sigh in response, and that makes me smile.
She gets off a
nd I get off.
In this case, there are two ways about it.
Manners
By Georgia E. Jones
The dream made sense in the way all dreams make sense, which is to say that everything that occurred seemed eminently plausible, while upon waking the conscious mind can make neither heads nor tails of events.
In Amanda’s dream she was walking across a meadow. Her feet were moving, yet there was no effort involved so it felt a bit floaty, yet entirely pleasant. It was warm and sunny, a dream meadow that clearly had never met an English spring, so sharp the crocuses had barely dared to put their heads above ground. Suddenly she was in a hot-air balloon, the basket lined with crystals and the balloon itself in stripes of purple and fuchsia, making it look like a balloon owned by Barbara Cartland, were she still alive and had she owned a hot-air balloon (in the dream it all made sense).
The balloon floated over the tops of the trees and Amanda was wondering how high it would go and whether or not she should be nervous when a handsome hot-air balloon pilot appeared at her side. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “I’ve done this before.”
She did not know him, but of course felt at once that she did. He stared at her with piercing, dark eyes. He looked rather how she imagined Heathcliff would look, but a great deal less mopey and tragic, and also more heavily muscled, though Heathcliff worked out of doors, so perhaps this was a facet of his personna that Bronte had simply failed to mention.
“My name is—” the pilot said. The steady streaming of the wind stole the words from his lips, but it did not matter. He put his hand on her arm, warmly suggestive.
Because Amanda was a person who spent much of her free time with Gaskell, Austen and the Brontes (minus Branwell), the words that sprang to mind were, “Sir, you mistake me!” A phrase quite unlike one any a modern woman (which she undeniably was, despite her choice of reading material) would employ. But his hand was large and warm, and the weight of it created a little frisson of excitement in the pit of her stomach and she thought she mightn’t say either of those things. After all, it was only his hand, and it was only resting, quite inoffensively, on her arm.
The balloon rose higher, seeming to require little attention from its pilot, who continued to study her intently. The treetops receded, becoming like the miniature trees she had seen at the train museum in the Vale of the White Horse, but she was no longer nervous. “May I kiss you?” the pilot asked. Amanda had never been asked for her permission. It seemed to be something men no longer did. They simply assumed you would, without bothering to actually find out, which perversely made her want to refuse. Being asked had the opposite effect.
“Yes,” she said. The wind carried the word away, but he had been watching her lips and lowered his head to cover them with his own. It was like being kissed for the first time, with the proviso that all the participants knew exactly what they were about. Amanda felt (and was slightly ashamed for feeling so) that kissing was oftentimes an arduous business, as if men were St. Bernards and she was a new squeaky toy. But the pilot was patient, waiting for her to open her mouth to him. He stepped closer, sealing their bodies together so the baffled wind must go around them. He kissed her slowly, open-mouthed, and it was so lovely she did not want it to end. He lifted her to sit on the edge of the basket, all well and good, except there was nothing but air below her.
“It’s all right,” he said in her ear. “We’re coming down.” She twisted her head and saw that this was true, but now it was water below them, not land. Amanda only had an instant to be alarmed by this prospect when the balloon turned into a boat, cleaving smoothly through a white-capped ocean. The pink-and-fuchsia balloon dissolved into streamers that flung themselves out behind the boat, a joyous capitulation to freedom. Quite naturally, they were on a bed and the pilot went on kissing her, as if that was all he intended ever to do. He held her face in his hands, angling her head back to kiss beneath her jaw, nipping at the delicate skin until she moved restlessly between his hands.
Usually by this point she was panicky, not because she wanted to stop, but because she disliked being rushed and men were over-eager to put their appendages in whatever location they most favored. Amanda had no objections to any of these places, but it was nice to be included in the scheme. Sex, for the most part, left her with the feeling that the gentlemen in question (she used the term euphemistically, being of the opinion that there were few males in the United Kingdom deserving of the honorific) had behaved immodestly and would not be entertained again.
Amanda was beset by an unfamiliar, strident urgency. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pushing herself against him. She was, to her dismay, beginning to pant. Just when she was thinking that their clothing was a nuisance, it disappeared, leaving her skin-to-marvelous-skin with the pilot. He seemed to know what she wanted and entered her slowly, before she could ask, pausing every so often to see that she was in agreement. She had a brief and hilarious thought of Oliver Twist saying, “Please, sir, could I have some more?” as she took all of him (anatomically speaking, a considerable amount) into her body. He moved with her; everything he did to please her pleasing him equally well, a delightful result of their combined efforts.
There was a sweaty, desperate minute when the striving threatened to overwhelm her—that despite his perfect attentions, she would not be able to achieve orgasm—and he stilled both of them and said, “No, look. Like this,” in the same way that a sighted person would direct a blind one. And he did something that later she could never remember, but which at once tipped her over the edge into a convulsive, shuddering climax that seemed to go on and on for a very long time.
Amanda woke, alert to the world. She lay in bed for a time, reflecting on the dream. She did not sleep with strangers, either in real life or in dreams, and certainly had never had an orgasm during one. She had read that some women did, but had dismissed it out of hand as the kind of clap-trap people thought up in order to sell magazines. She was reluctant to rise, lest moving dispelled the feelings, but it was Sunday and her garden beckoned.
* * *
Rory Callan strolled along the lane, unbuttoning his coat as sun and exercise warmed him. After a week spent unpacking and arranging in the temporary trailer, it was time to meet his neighbors. The Winthorpes, to the east, were nearest, but they were elderly and the missus was deaf. His neighbor to the west was the town librarian. He imagined her with buttoned-up blouses and low-heeled shoes. But books were his livelihood, so they would have that to discuss, at least.
He came to a low fence of rose brambles, and a white gate with a latch made from a rusted horseshoe and a length of twine. He let himself in and went up the path. Nearer to the house he found a woman pulling weeds with abandon from a round bed edged with small stones. He cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me.” She looked around, shielding her eyes from the sun. (His first thought was: They didn’t tell me the librarian had a daughter.)
“I’m Rory Callan,” he said. “Your new neighbor.” She rose, placing her hand in his. There was a thud. The sound of the other shoe dropping, he thought wryly. She was quite fetching. He had an immediate desire to use his grip on her hand to draw her closer. Instead, he let go.
A line appeared between her finely arched brows. “At Hartwell?” she asked. “But the house burned down a year ago, and all that’s left of the old place is the Round Tower.”
Rory Callan was enamored of the way the locals spoke. True, there had been a house (of decidedly modern origins) that had burned down in the last year. But “the old place” she referred to was in actuality the ruins of a fifteenth-century fortified manor house. He had been born in a small town, but had lived most of his life in London, and he was beginning to think his return to the country had been long overdue.
“Do forgive me,” she said, before he could answer. “I’m being unpardonably rude.” She brushed the dirt from her hands. �
�Please come in for a cup of tea. Would you prefer Lapsang souchong or Darjeeling?” And she motioned for him to follow her into the cottage.
She was attempting politely not to, but she was definitely staring. He was born and bred in England, held a British passport and both of his parents were British nationals, but nonetheless, people being what they were, he was now and then asked where he was from. “My great-grandmother was Malaysian,” he offered. “You’re seeing the bit of her that’s left in me.”
She paled. “It isn’t that at all. You must think me terribly rude. It’s only that…I know we haven’t met, but I feel as if I know you.” She looked down. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at sixes and sevens. Did you say you were living at Hartwell?”
He nodded, mid-sip. “I’m planning to restore the Round Tower first, then continue on from there.”
She laughed, a light, trilling sound. “You must have a lorry load of money and a lot of free time on your hands.”
“That’s about the size of it,” he agreed.
She put down her cup, her face the color of alabaster. “How vulgar you must find me! I thought you were joking.”
She had lost her composure, and over a trifle because he had taken no offense. “Look,” he said kindly, “it’s like this. I’m tired of living in London. I’m an antiquarian book dealer, which is now a job that happens mostly on the Internet. I’ve come into an inheritance and need a way to spend it. When I’ve finished with it, the Round Tower is going to be my library. I’ll build the house later. I need to do some research. Is there a local archive?”
“There is.” She took a deep breath. “I’m a librarian. I spend my time trying to save books no one wants anymore. It’s all about the Internet and e-books and electronic devices. Perhaps if I help you research your manor house, you could save some of my books?”
He considered her proposal. “Might I call again?” he asked.
