by Alison Tyler
The wind gusts and lifts her dress. I step back, and she raises her arms, lets the wind languidly raise the garment over her head and carry it away in phantom hands. Beneath it, she is as naked as I am.
I’m so used to angry, starving succubi that Shona’s dizzying curves and untouched forest are stunning. My heart untangles long enough to send blood down to where it’s needed.
She sinks to her knees in the cool water, lets it wash up over her waist. She rolls her rounded frame down into the bubbling brew, leaves only her face still above. Her lush hair blends with the dark ocean and her body becomes a rippled phantom.
I step heavily into the water. I am function where she is form; I am crafted where she is artwork.
I am hard where she is soft.
She stands again, the water dripping slowly, reluctantly, from her fertile body. The lush delta of hair below her waist glistens hypnotically.
The ebbing wave urges me toward her. She rolls her hips and evades my clutching fingers. She steps out until she’s waist deep.
I clench my fists as my chest tightens. “I can’t swim, Shona.”
“Of course you can.”
I shook my head.
“Then you’re a pet lion, eh? You let the females do all the hunting. And you’ll settle for the bland meat they feed you.”
I take one step further, but freeze again.
“What is there left to fight for in your life, Toby?” She turns to the horizon.
I close my eyes and straddle the breaking waves until I can again wrap my arms around her. My bristling cock nestles in the ridge of her spine, my arms rest on the points of her hips. My trembling hands cup the smooth, feminine swell of her belly, and my fingers worry her dark bush. With her body against mine I feel safe.
She leans back into me, feline and liquid, and places her hands on mine. My tongue draws the salt from the soft skin of her neck. She is anything but bland meat.
Beneath the skin of the ocean my fingers dive and swim, showing no fear. In the cool water, they find warmth.
Shona hums and tightens her grip. With a strength that surprises me, she pulls loose from my arms and dives, surfacing a terrifying distance away. She is as far from me now as the beach is. She bobs with the water, like she’s part of it.
Isolated, exposed, I take a moment to make my choice: where I was or where I would be.
Shona sweeps her hair from her face. “Sad when a man thinks what he does is the same as who he is.”
I move before I think, striding forward. She seems to grow as I approach her. The waves lick at my chin. I turn my face to the heavens, stretch my feet toward the abyss. I feel I’ll tear myself in two if I don’t choose.
She’s still a body length from me when I slip completely into the ocean’s maw. For a moment I lay still, surrender myself, content to be held here in anonymity.
Shona flips gracefully in the water, coming down to meet me. She kisses me and fills me with breath. She puts her hands on my heart and I calm. She slips them down to my cock and I jolt. She releases me, and I drift for a heartbeat.
I’m reborn.
I slice through the water. I glide into Shona, and she swathes me in flesh.
Cold fear is lost in the heat of her body. She holds me with thick legs, feeds me with sweet breath, grinds me with wide hips. She molds to me like she’s the ocean and I’m a rock. It’s not clear who’s pounding and who’s still.
Her voice bubbles into me, liquid moans and wavering cries.
I soar within Shona’s magnificent body. I roar my redemption through the depths of the sea.
I am caged no longer. I am nobody’s pet.
I squeeze and twist. I buffet and box.
And we come together like a king tide.
I wrap her in my arms and roll her through the water. We turn like a screw and surface.
Shona squirms from my embrace and holds my head. She kisses me on the forehead and the mouth.
“You are very beautiful.”
She releases me and paddles backward.
“Toby…what is there left to fight for, but your life?”
She turns to the horizon. She dips below the skin of the ocean, and I lose her.
I turn to the beach. It looms wide and white in the glow of the moon.
It may be where I started from.
But it’s no longer where I was.
Open
By Donna George Storey
“We can’t go in. It’s not open.” I glanced nervously at the sign on the store window, done in feminine calligraphy—Enchanted Rose: Fashions of the Civil War.
Mitchell gave me mischievous smile and produced a key, which he slipped into the shop door. Then he pulled me inside and locked the door behind us. In the gathering dusk, the racks of clothes had the look of headless ghosts waiting patiently to be called out for their nightly haunting.
“What are we doing here? Are you sure we aren’t breaking the law?” I asked in a whisper.
Mitchell laughed. “You said you wondered what it would feel like to be a nineteenth-century lady. First you need the proper clothes. And don’t worry, this is my sister’s place. She knows we’re here.”
I exhaled softly.
Mitchell walked to the back of the store and snapped on a lamp in a mirrored alcove with a satin couch that obviously served as a fitting room. Then he waved me over to a rack of lace-trimmed undergarments.
“You’re about a size eight, right?”
I nodded, blushing. He obviously knew the measure of a woman.
He handed me a white cotton chemise and a set of knee-length pantalets. “Next you’ll need a corset.”
My pulse jumped. I immediately pictured a red satin merry widow, the sort of fuck-me-now outfit you see in the lingerie catalogs, but Mitchell brought over a set of white cotton stays that bore a closer resemblance to a back brace.
“I’ll help lace you up when you’re ready. It can be a challenge for beginners.” With a wink, he pulled the curtains across the alcove, leaving me to contemplate my reflection in the mirror. The golden light already made my features softer, like a fashion plate in Godey’s Lady’s Book.
I smiled.
Our day trip up from D.C. was already turning out better than I’d hoped. Mitchell and I had met just three weeks before at my cousin Juliet’s wedding. His mane of black hair, goatee, and vaguely military bearing all gave him an intriguing air of a past age. As we chatted over our grilled salmon, I learned that he’d known the groom since their elementary school days in Gettysburg, and he still went back regularly to participate in reenactments as a lieutenant in the 71st Pennsylvania Infantry.
“It’s amazing how just putting on that uniform transports you to 1863. I do things I never would in my twenty-first century life.” His deep brown eyes melted into mine. “But I’m doing all the talking. Tell me what you like to do for fun.”
Too distracted by the thought of this very attractive man transported by timeless passions, I hesitated.
His lips lifted into a smile. “Then tell me about something you don’t like then. Something that drives you absolutely nuts.”
I’ll blame the champagne, but I blurted out the first thing to came into my head. “I hate men who rush foreplay. I like it slow. Very slow.”
His eyes flickered. I got the definite impression he liked my answer. Indeed he had taken it slow for the next few dates, although his languid goodnight kisses were making me anxious to speed things along to the next level myself. Maybe tonight?
I quickly peeled off my modern clothes and put on the chemise. When I pulled the drawers off the hanger, however, the back of the garment parted in my hands so that the two leg openings flapped on either side of the front panel like a scalloped valence. I let out a gasp of surprise.
“What’s the matter?” Mitchell called through the curtain.
“There’s something wrong with these drawers.” I laughed nervously. “They’re missing a very important seam.”
He laughed, too. “They’re supposed to be like that. Makes it much easier for a lady in a hoop skirt to deal with necessities.”
Still frowning in disbelief, I put a foot through each opening and secured the ties in a bow behind my back. To my surprise, the drawers did a pretty good job of covering my naughty bits. Still, it was hard to forget the crotch was completely open. It would indeed make it easier for a lady to answer nature’s call but—wouldn’t this clever design make it more convenient to meet a gentleman’s needs as well?
“Ready for the next layer?”
“I guess I’m decent.”
I still felt a bit naked standing before him in my underwear, modest as it was, but Mitchell acted very much the lady’s maid, wrapping the corset around me from behind and instructing me to fasten the eyes and posts of the metal busks. Next he gave the laces a tug, forcing my spine straighter, my chest out. “Tell me if it’s too tight for you.”
I filled my lungs, secretly enjoying the resistance of the corset against my ribs and belly. “I’m fine. I feel like I’m in the nineteenth century already.”
Mitchell gave me an admiring look in the mirror. “A corset does give a woman a certain elegance. It makes every movement slower.” He drew the word out like a caress.
My secret muscles clenched, and I blushed again, well aware it would be a serious faux pas to juice up the drawers right here in his sister’s store.
“You look perfect just like this, but you’ll need a dress for the full effect. I’ll bring back a few for you to choose from.” Mitchell slipped through the curtain again.
I realized I was trembling—but not because I was cold. In fact, every inch of my body was very, very warm. Of course my new beau would take no liberties. He was an officer and a gentleman. But right now I wasn’t so sure I was a lady.
The tingle between my legs twisted into a pang of frustration. I couldn’t stop thinking about the split in my drawers. Victorian ladies always seemed so protected, inaccessible, yet beneath their petticoats they were open, completely open to a man’s fingers or tongue or…
A most indecent image flashed into my head: Mitchell bending me over the Victorian fainting couch, plunging his swollen dagger of flesh right through the ever-convenient breach in my breeches.
I reminded myself no real lady would think such thoughts, but on the other hand, a woman in those days would only find herself in a state of undress in a man’s presence if she were his wife. Or a whore. In either case, Mitchell would have full claim to my body. I shivered.
But just how much could he “claim” in these bloomers?
My pulse racing, I eased open the flap of the drawers to bare the dark blonde curls of my mons. Indeed the chaste frame of cotton made it all the more obscene. Now I looked more like one of those trollops on a “Parisian” postcard, shamelessly showing off her womanly treasure for prurient gentleman collectors.
Without really being aware of what I was doing, my finger wandered down to my lips. And, as if enchanted, I began to rub myself there.
Just then an apparition took shape beside me in the mirror, a flowered calico dress hanging over each arm. It was Mitchell.
With a cry, I covered my face with one hand, my crotch with the other.
“No, I’m sorry,” Mitchell replied quickly. “I should have warned you.”
“No, I…I shouldn’t have been....” At loss for anything else to do, I flung my arms around him. Mitchell let the dresses slide to the floor and embraced me. My heart was beating so hard that I’m sure he could feel it thumping against his ribs.
“You must think I’m a pervert,” I whispered into his shoulder.
“On the contrary. I’m glad you’re so inspired by our dress-up game.” He stroked my hair. “To tell the truth, I was having similar ideas myself.”
Instinctively I drew back and studied his face. From the sexy twinkle in his eyes I could tell he wasn’t in the least angry.
“Okay, so what were you thinking about?”
“Pulling apart the slit in those drawers and making love to you with my mouth until you come all over my face.”
I inhaled sharply. That scenario certainly had its appeal as well.
“And what were you thinking about when you were touching yourself, you wicked girl?”
“That I want you to bend me over the couch and take me from behind. I guess it inspired certain…irresistible needs in me,” I admitted, not quite meeting his gaze.
“Indeed, I’d be no gentleman if I denied a lady relief in her urgent necessity,” he said softly.
With no further preliminaries, Mitchell put his hands around my cinched waist, turned me to face the couch and pushed me forward with a firm hand. I clutched the arm, keenly aware of the cool air tickling my exposed labia.
Mitchell pressed his groin to my ass. I could feel his hardness through his trousers, but he made no move to undress. Instead, his hand weaved through the front part of the opening to find my clit.
I whimpered and wiggled my ass against him. All the while he strummed patiently—slowly—his other hand sliding up to my breast. The thick corset muffled the sensation, yet the stimulation was oddly effective. Sharp jolts of desire ran from my trapped, but throbbing nipple all the way down to my drooling cunt.
“You’re so beautiful this way,” he murmured. “Look at yourself in the mirror.”
Obedient as any nineteenth-century miss, I turned my head to see my fantasy come to life—my flushed body stretched forward, the drawers gaping open over my ass cheeks, a brave young soldier poised to possess me.
“You like watching, don’t you?” Mitchell’s voice had a new edge of command.
I moaned in shame, but couldn’t deny it.
“You got turned on watching yourself masturbating and now you’re going to come watching me make love to you, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I hissed. “Yes.”
Mitchell unzipped, pushed his jeans and briefs to his knees, and sheathed his impressive erection in a condom he drew from his jacket pocket. Probing my inner lips gently, he guided himself through the gap and pushed inside.
I arched up and howled softly. We began to move together, a slow, subtle rocking. Mitchell reached around to strum my clit again.
I groaned, instinctively closing my eyes to revel in the heat, the friction, the sweet, sexual throbbing in my belly. Suddenly I felt a tugging on my hair, not hard, but enough to pull my head up and back.
“Watch, I said,” he growled. “Watch me fuck you.”
My eyes shot open. A strange vision hovered before me: a woman in a corset and split-crotch drawers doing it doggy style with a man in Dockers and a tweed jacket. One century fucking another.
Mitchell flicked my clit faster, thrusting hard and deep, a double assault that made me sob with pleasure. A few more strokes sent my orgasm crashing over me like a tidal wave, my body jerking wildly as the climax rippled up my torso. But the whole time I kept watching. I watched, too, as Mitchell threw his head back in a silent cry and rode me to his own release.
Later, as we snuggled together on the fainting couch, Mitchell asked if I wanted to come along to one of the reenactment weekends the next month. His sister could make a period dress for me so I could help out in camp. Or if that seemed too much of a stretch, he added with a sly smile, I could just watch.
I laughed, determined to rise to any challenge, in any century. After all, I’d already broken into a store, discovered the joys of old-fashioned drawers, and had the best fuck of my life. If tonight had taught me anything, it was the pleasure of being open—to every possibility.
Fr
ozen
By Aisling Weaver
My feet wouldn’t move. My lips pressed to a line, jaw clenched. I stood motionless in the shadows.
Frozen.
He gripped your hips, lifted. And you, traitorous slut that you are, wrapped yourself around him, took him into the slick heat of you. I watched, you know. Watched you writhe for him, arch, moan, beg and plead. Ground my teeth together when he spent in you with a grunt.
Saw you kiss him, whisper, sag against the wall while he walked away.
Drank you in when you swayed to me. Growled. Tasted your kiss.
“Make me yours, again.”
Unfrozen.
The Welcome Wagon
By Sophia Valenti
When I moved into my new apartment, I immediately fell in love with the neighborhood—and I was especially enamored of the café at the corner. It was a cozy-looking place, filled with overstuffed chairs and mismatched tables that looked like they were rescued from garage sales. I could see myself there every weekend, lingering over coffee and a good book. But little did I know that what was waiting for me there was more delicious than anything I could find in the dessert case.
After endless days of cleaning and unpacking, I was ready to have a relaxing weekend. It was a glorious fall afternoon, cool and crisp with a hint of sunshine. There were only a few people scattered about the café, and I had my choice of comfy seats. I settled into a plush, velvet chair and laid my book down on the table. Seconds later, a friendly voice asked if I’d like to see the menu.
I looked up into a pair of emerald eyes that were so beautiful they made my breath catch in my throat. I managed to croak out a yes and took the menu from her neatly manicured fingertips.
“My name’s Lucy,” she said brightly. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.” My eyes followed her lithe body as she turned and sashayed back to the counter. The white tank top and black capri pants she wore were unremarkable, but the taut, shapely body underneath them was anything but. Her teacup-sized breasts were barely contained by her low-cut top, and her trim waist flared out to shapely hips that swayed like a metronome when she walked. She was mesmerizing.
