by Alison Tyler
“Of course,” she said. “We’re neighbors.”
He stood up, thanking her for the tea. He went to the door. “At the risk of sounding forward, might I call in tomorrow for tea?”
She blushed. Later, he came to think of it as the first thing he learned about her. She blushed when she was pleased. When she was embarrassed, she went ashen.
Amanda met his eyes, so like the eyes of the man in her dream it made her skin prickle. “I would like that very much,” she said. She came close to dropping a curtsy, but stopped herself just in time.
Another Country Heard From
By Eric Williams
“We’re going to get you laid tonight if I have to guide your dick myself,” Jarred said. “It’s been three months since Suzy left you. You can’t mill around your apartment playing your sax forever.”
I was quiet. They’d dragged me out. I didn’t want to be here. Honestly, I didn’t want to be anywhere except my sofa with my remote in hand.
“You need to connect with a human,” Jarred continued.
“Yeah, no more inflatable dolls,” Byron offered from the back seat.
“Another country heard from,” Jarred said with a smirk.
“I never even blew her up,” I lied. The doll had been a parting gift from Suzy when she’d moved out. Maybe you’ll be more animated with her than you were with me, she’d written on the note. Okay, so I have a difficult time showing my emotions. That doesn’t make me interested in fucking a rubber doll.
“I’ve got the perfect place,” Jarred told me as he parked the car in front of what was clearly a meat-market-style bar. Half-price cosmos were being offered to the pretty, ditzy secretaries from all the nearby office buildings. “You can’t miss.”
But I did miss. I sat in the dimly lit bar and missed Suzy. Except maybe I wasn’t actually missing her. I was missing being with someone—anyone. I craved a companion who knew my patterns and my habits, someone who was there when I came home, who looked forward to my arrival.
I’ll admit one thing: the whiskey tasted good, better than at home. Who knew changing locations could change the way liquor tasted?
Jarred was working the jukebox. I could tell he was trying to boost my confidence, playing songs from the ‘70s and ‘80s like Eye of the Tiger and Free Bird. I gave him the finger when he dialed up All By Myself. Still, I had to be at least mildly grateful. He would not let me fuck around my apartment totally unsupervised. Every few days, he dragged me out with him—to get dirty playing rugby, to lose money on the ponies. He didn’t know that Byron was calling, too, and doing more than call or haul me outdoors for manly mayhem. Byron was coming over and sitting with me, listening to me put myself down for failing yet again. Here I was, back at the beginning, by myself once more and all that shit.
Byron sat on the maroon leather stool at my side. “He’s going to make you ask one of them to dance.” He motioned to a gaggle of women who sparkled in a corner booth.
“I don’t want to dance.”
“They’re going to start teaching the Texas Two-Step in the other room in about five minutes.”
“Country? Jesus.”
“Which is why you and I should slip out the back.”
“And ditch Jarred?”
“He’ll be fine.” He motioned to where Jarred sat, at a table surrounded by ladies. “He’s got the car. He’ll probably wind up with two of them.”
I liked the way Byron said ‘them.’ As if ‘they’ were the enemy. That’s how I felt anyway.
I’d actually considered fucking the inflatable one vodka-fueled night. Wouldn’t matter if the blow-up doll was a woman, would it? A hole is a hole is a hole. The scent had both aroused and repelled me, and I’d fallen asleep with an arm collapsed over the inanimate object, grateful to have something in my bed if not someone. The toy had sprung a leak in the night, and I’d woken up next to a semi-deflated human—which had made me laugh out loud, a sick sound that had frightened me enough into agreeing to a night out with Byron and Jarred.
Suddenly, I felt hot and dizzy.
“I need air,” I said. Byron was quick. He led me to the rear exit, pushed open a door that led into the night.
“It’s okay,” Byron said, dragging me after him down the alley behind the bar.
“What do you mean?” I asked as I sucked in great gulps of the cool evening air. Being outside made the world upright once more. Byron stared at me for a moment, and then to my complete surprise, he pulled me closer to him.
“You don’t have to like girls.”
I had never been this close to Byron before. I don’t think I’d been this close to any man aside from wrestling. Byron kissed me then, and I felt my cock harden inside my jeans.
“What do you mean?” I asked, scared, backing against the wall. “I don’t have to…”
“…like girls,” he repeated, and he kissed me again.
How did he know? How could he tell? I couldn’t ask. His mouth was on mine once more, and his hand was in my pants. I’d had plenty of women touch my dick before, but no man had ever come close. Why was there a difference? Why did it matter than Byron had his fist around my cock, and that his skin on mine felt more real than anything I’d ever felt before?
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, and now he kissed the side of my neck, and I thought about how much I hadn’t wanted to dance with those spangled girls in the bar. Pretty, they’d been. But as repellant to me as that inflatable doll Suzy had left as my consolation prize.
I watched, dumbfounded, as Byron went on his knees in the alley. What was he doing? What was he thinking? He popped the fly on my Levi’s, and then my cock was out in the air, but only for a second before his warm lips found the head, and he started to suck. I wanted to watch him, handsome Byron, with his high cheekbones and his always messy straw-blond hair. But I couldn’t watch, the pleasure was too intense. I had to lean my head back on the bricks, close my eyes, think about anything else so I wouldn’t shoot right away.
Suzy and I hadn’t fucked in the last six months we’d been together. I’d tried, but I couldn’t get it up. She’d been patient, as patient as a type-A girl like her could be. She’d changed our diet. She’d insisted on exercise. She’d even done research on Viagra. I couldn’t tell her what I couldn’t tell any of them: that I could play the part of the rock-solid boyfriend at the start, because something new made the game interesting. But after things got real, my body rebelled. Didn’t matter where my head was—sometimes you can’t force a lie.
Byron used his palm to cup my balls as he sucked me. He worked me harder with his mouth than any girl ever had. He knew what he was doing. I felt myself getting close. My thigh muscles tightened. I wanted to come—oh, hell, yes—but I didn’t want this to end, either. This was the best thing that I’d ever experienced—no joke. A BJ in back of a happy-hour bar. What a strange world this was. I’d fucked women in penthouse apartments. I’d done the deed on a balcony in Paris. I’d even managed a threesome with two girls who were more anatomically perfect than the inflatable doll Suzy had left.
So what made this night trump all others?
Byron did. His mouth was warm and willing. His hands stroked me and played me. But then I started to worry. What would he say when he was done? Would we go back to being buddies? Would we…
“Come on,” he urged, backing up far enough to insist, “come for me. Let me swallow you up.”
That was all I needed. His lips locked around me once more, and I came hard, slamming into him, feeling that brilliant explosion of pure pleasure rocket through me. I was demolished as he moved back. I tucked myself into my jeans with shaky hands. Christ, that was good. I said it in my head before I could even manage to make my lips work.
“That was…” I started.
“…so fuc
king good,” he finished for me, and I had to smile.
“How did you know?”
He shrugged, and then shook his hair out of his eyes in that way of his. A way I understood in a heartbeat that I’d never get tired of seeing. Maybe I wasn’t back at the start after all. Or maybe the beginning was a pretty cool place to be.
“Say it with me,” he said, as he grabbed my hand and led me down the alley, away from Jarred, away from the bar.
“I don’t have to like girls,” I said, and I laughed. I didn’t know where we were going. I didn’t care.
Frosted Kisses
By Vida Bailey
My mother found the recipe in a Farmer’s Journal collection from the ‘70s. It was a small hardback, bound in pink, with a blue spine.
Amidst the garish, tacky and somehow slightly sinister photos of ‘50s style pink-and-green desserts, it stood out—a torte: dark chocolate cake, enriched with maraschino cherries and layered with Devil’s Crème frosting, freshly beaten with vanilla, chocolate powder and powdered sugar.
It became the family birthday cake. The smell of the batter or cream alone makes my taste buds tingle and my mouth water. On my sixteenth birthday, my mother delivered a cake, complete with candles, to the small group of friends huddled in my basement room.
Steve groaned as he tasted it. “I’d like to eat this out of someone.”
High praise. I can’t remember if I ever told my mother that. I hope I did.
Grown up me is just as likely to be found barefoot at the fridge door of a morning, knife in hand. There is no better breakfast than a chunk of cake, carved off guiltily and eaten in the hand. No one ever fulfilled Steve’s wish for me. No one, that is, until Matt.
The morning after the birthday party, Matt was still asleep, and I was driven from my bed by a hangover and cake lust, sneaking my illicit breakfast fix. The curtains were closed in the kitchen. The light from the fridge spilled out around me, between my legs, as I leaned in to pilfer a second little sliver. The fridge hum was the only sound to be heard in the room until I screamed as warm hands circled my waist and rested on my stomach.
“Oh that’s a sexy sight, little piggy, my woman’s ass bent over in the fridge with a great big knife in one hand, and cake in the other.”
I was caught in the fridge, wearing nothing but a long T-shirt and my hair as bed-head as it had ever been. Matt rubbed his hands over the rounded belly that I complain about just before I eat more cake. Then he whirled me round and popped me up on the table (that he’d cleared last night, after all the margaritas, bless him. He’s a keeper).
“Stay.” He ordered, and then took the cake from the fridge. “Oh.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “There’s a bowl of leftover frosting in here.” He brought the bowl back over to me. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”
He pulled my shirt over my head, leaving me sitting naked on the kitchen table.
“Oh, baby. Boobs and cake.”
I giggled as he ran a finger down my breast, tracing over my nipple and stroking the under-curve lovingly. Matt makes no secret of his love of breasts.
With rapt concentration, he painted first one nipple with cream from the bowl, then the other. The scent of vanilla rose into the air. The cream melted a little, and started to slide, so he tipped me back onto the table and bent over me.
“Shh, Clara. Keep very still.”
I giggled some more, until his warm tongue swiped at the cream-covered peak of my right breast. Cold melted into hot as he sucked the nipple into his mouth. He released it and looked up the valley between my breasts with an eyebrow raised.
“Other one?” He asked. I nodded enthusiastically.
The other one felt just as good. Better, maybe, because he slid his thumb over the first nipple while he sucked on the other one. The cream left an oily residue that lubricated it beautifully and heightened the sensation of his attentions.
He stopped.
“Don’t stop!”
Matt walked around to my side and sat on a kitchen chair. His hand returned to my breasts while we shared a creamy kiss. Our tongues slipped and slid in the sweetness. The kiss became multi-sensory, as the distinctive and mouthwatering smell hit our noses. A new sense memory in the making, bringing birthday cake to new heights.
“Okay, Matthew. I think it’s your turn.” I love Matt’s cock; it’s so pretty. Sculpted. He slipped it out of the sleep pants he was wearing, and I reached out to stroke its length. I dabbed cream on its tip, and we swapped places. He leaned on the edge of the table and I sat in the chair he’d vacated. It was summer, but naked as I was, I was still grateful for his warmth on the seat. “You know, if we were in a Jilly Cooper novel, I’d say something about cream cocks right now.” I leaned forward and sucked him into my mouth.
“What?” he asked distractedly. “What? Oh, God, Clara, please. You know I didn’t marry you for your terrible, half assed sex puns. No more talking.” He grabbed my head and gently pushed me further down on his cock, groaning at the sensation of the warming cream.
“Oh, so good. That feels so different.” He pulled out and put a tiny bit more on the head of his dick. My lips and tongue slid smoothly around the head of Matt’s penis, took him in deeper again while I stroked his shaft, the rich cream as good as any lube. His penis looked oiled, and smelled sweeter than ever before. Matt gripped the edge of the table, and leaned back with his eyes shut as I pressed behind his balls and sucked the come out of him. He came down from the orgasm looking dazed, staring at me blankly as I chased his semen down with a last finger-dip of cream from the bowl.
“Wow. You must make this stuff again. Screw the cake.”
“There will be no screwing the cake!” I pretended offense.
“Alright, Muffin. Easy now. You know you’re the only one going to get screwed around here. Well. You and me.” Matt walked me back to the edge of the table and sat me up again. He kissed my throat, re-awoke my nipples.
He propped my legs on the on the edge and spread my knees, running his fingertips down my inner thighs.
“I’m glad you shaved for me,” he said, lightly stroking my pussy. He loves it bare, and I know what he means. The silken skin seemed liked a secret miracle, at first. So delicate. Such new, untried territory.
Matt ran his thumb up my slit, opening me. He danced it over my clit a couple times, making me want more. Then he reached for the cake, and ate a little, licking his fingers while looking me in the eye. The taste in my mouth made me squirm. Matt scooped some cream from the bowl and rubbed it onto my eager sex. The feel of his fingers sliding the cream against the silk skin of my pussy had me writhing a little on the table. As soon as he lowered his mouth to lick, I knew Steve had been onto a good idea.
The cream was so rich it felt buttery thick and slippery perfect between his mouth and me. He drew out the tease, tracing my outer lips with the tip of his tongue until I was open like a flower. He grabbed a chair and sat astride it, cowboy style, then leaned in closer to lick gently all around my clit, with great care and attention, but never touch it. He pushed his fingers inside me slowly, though I was slick with the frosting and my own eager wetness. I squealed a little and his tongue wandered downward and pushed into me, searching out the chocolate cream and then returning to where I wanted it. He slid two fingers back inside and began to pay real attention to my waiting clitoris. All sensation seemed heightened by the lubricating texture of the cream. Why had we never done this before?
Matt started out slowly, with long, loving passes of his tongue running from the top of my vagina up the shaft of my clitoris. He knew my anatomy as well as I did. He started licking just beneath my clit hood, fast, hard strokes of his tongue. Everything began to tighten in my abdomen and that deep burn started down inside. As he flicked and sucked my tender, swollen clit, he pumped his fingers against my G-spot. I call
ed out and raised myself onto one elbow to look at him as he worked. His fingers pushed harder, and he reached his other hand up to pinch my nipple, still slippery from his earlier attentions.
“Oh God, oh yes, please, Matt, yes!” He added another finger and sucked my clit into his mouth, tongue still flickering, and I was gone.
“Dear God, Matt,” I breathed, lying flat back on the table. “I never thought of putting leftover frosting to such wonderful use. You’re right. We must do this again.”
Matt lifted the half empty champagne bottle from the table and cocked an eyebrow at me.
“You’re not going anywhere today, are you?” We kissed, our mouths a heady blend of chocolate cream and come.
“Only back to bed,” I said, grabbing the cake and skipping out of the kitchen.
Summoned
By Raziel Moore
Her room is dark: moonless, overcast, shades-drawn, power-outage dark. The kind where eyes-open and eyes-closed cannot be distinguished. The kind when I come to her.
I don’t really exist except at times like this. She doesn’t exactly create me. She…crystallizes me out of lack of light. She wants so much, so badly she can almost taste it, almost feel it. Almost feel me. She calls me.
I don’t need to see to find her. I know where she is, how she lies on the bed. I know how she smells and tastes and sounds, all before I touch her. The bed shifts, taking my absent weight. My movement is the barest of drafts as I lower toward her, raising the hairs on her arm. My mouth descends hot. Wet, open, enveloping nipple and aureole all at once, sucking hard, departing with the sound of her gasp.
I move in the black that defines me, barely felt. My silence is near complete, but hers isn’t. Her breath has quickened, and I smell sweat and arousal. She knows it’s coming, but the suddenness of my presence on her other breast still surprises. She jerks and yelps, hands grasping for my head but not finding me; I’ve already let go. Invisible, inaudible but for the obscene slurp of my departure.
