by Alison Tyler
Their theater didn’t have full-fledged dressing rooms, just a bare-bones greenroom with two makeup tables and some changing cubicles—little booths with doors, like the changing rooms in a clothing store.
Lauren was still adjusting her gaudy flapper skirt down when she stepped out of a booth on opening night. As she emerged, she winked at Georgie, as if to acknowledge that she knew he knew she was knickerless, that it was their little secret (depending, Georgie reflected, on how many others she’d announced it to). Did she like the idea that he got a thrill from knowing? Was she just generous that way? Or did his putative thrill perhaps thrill her? She strutted out the greenroom door, and Georgie detected—or imagined—a trace of her pussy scent perfuming the air.
The next night, as Lauren sauntered into the green room before the performance, she sang out, “Who wants to have sex with me in a changing boooooooth?”
There were a couple of stairs and a corner to negotiate upon entering, so it wasn’t clear if she knew that Georgie was the only occupant of the room when she chanted her invitation. So Georgie couldn’t tell if she deliberately intended the question for him—if anyone. Nor could he discern whether it contained an element of horny earnestness, as opposed to being one hundred percent tomfoolery.
Before he could try to clarify, the rest of the cast began trickling in, and that was that.
Theater life was a wonderful tableau of unfiltered bawdiness and sexual make-believe…but there were times when Georgie would have traded one of his nineteen precious onstage lines for a map showing where the boundary lay between titillating playtime and serious intent—and which side of it Lauren stood on, in her pantyless peacock getup.
On the night of the third performance, it was he who entered the greenroom, earlier than usual, to find Lauren the sole occupant. She was still in her street clothes.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” she chirped. “You can help me get dressed.” She laughed—nervously, he might have thought, had the idea of Lauren getting jitters over something like this not seemed so incongruous.
Georgie’s throat went hot and sticky. “Huh? Yes. Yes. Sure. You need help getting dressed?” She’d obviously managed fine by herself until now.
“Not ‘need,’” she shrugged. “Want.”
She wasn’t wearing panties under her jeans, either, and the cramped changing booth came alive with Lauren’s musk when she slipped them down—without, in fact, any direct help from Georgie, despite his proximity. On the other hand, Lauren was quick to “help” Georgie, using a firm hold on the waistband of his trousers to send them toward the floor, and thus did Georgie’s cock greet the fluorescence that passed for daylight.
He grabbed her ass, of course, and she squished his hands into happy pancakes against the wall, molding her cheeks onto his fondling fingers while spearing herself on his shaft.
Her head bobbed from side to side as he fucked in and out of her, his measured thrusts belying his super-aroused giddiness. Her expression of ecstasy-in-progress looked complete enough that he didn’t risk disturbing it with kisses. When she climaxed, she hugged him around the middle—with passion, showbiz affection, or both. Georgie felt the deep, dark, almost distant sensation of warmth in the pit of his belly that meant he would be coming soon, too, and he savored the final moments of irreversible acceleration.
The booth discharged its passengers, and within seconds the greenroom saw an influx of thespians.
And while the rest of the company scrambled to do their makeup before curtain time, Lauren’s musical voice echoed through the backstage corridor: “Georgie had sex with me in the changing boooooooth!”
Fall Back
By N.T. Morley
She woke up groggy and as horny as hell. The bed was small. The guy was big. He had a nice broad chest and well-defined abs and a sexy hot scent, and he slept like an angel, big full lips ever-so-slightly parted to reveal a tongue she remembered doing very wicked things to her the night before. Her memories of the sex were vague, at first, but she remembered that—the guy’s tongue, working magic on her clit. The tight quarters of the bed gave her a deep sense of oneness with him, but she also knew they’d fucked like all get-out. She counted one, two, three condoms at various points on the floor. How had he managed that, when as best she could recall, they’d barely made it home before four in the morning?
She had a sudden horrible thought that maybe the condoms weren’t all hers. But then she remembered being led into the bedroom by this gorgeous hunk of man and finding it immaculate, with a meager-sized bed but a nice scent, obviously clean sheets and throw pillows. With the state she was in when he led her into the bedroom, that was pretty much all it took for her to lift her skirt and drop her panties. The guy, it seemed, had felt the same.
She remembered orgasms. She remembered several orgasms, given to her as expertly as a man can give them. She remembered one in the car, after last call, while they made out at The Point and she went down on him, but he refused to come until she’d come, and she’d cuddled up to him and let him kiss and fondle and finger her; he got her off before she even knew it was coming. Then she was hooked. Another slurp up and down his delicious cock, begging him for it—but he refused. The bastard! He knew what would happen if he denied her the simple, easy first-date compromise of a handjob for her and a blowjob for him; he’d take her home and get everything he wanted.
So he did—to the tune of her having three orgasms in his bed. One with cock, one with tongue, one with fingers, all of them—not all inside her, of course, but a couple up in, a couple on, a thumb on her clit, a hand on her breasts, fingers splayed gently across her face while she sucked them, drooling and hungry. But then she’d barely sucked his cock at all, because he’d been so hot to fuck her. And once he was in her? She couldn’t get enough. She was in pain, not from the fuck but from the orgasms. Her muscles ached.
And here it was, the clock by his bed blinking six o’clock in the morning—and she was horny for more. What a shameless little slut! She couldn’t have slept more than, thirty, maybe forty-five minutes; let’s say thirty. Was it even possible for a guy to fuck her three times, get her off with his mouth and his hand, and put her to bed up against his big, broad, muscled chest for a nice tidy half-hour nap in the time between their 4:00 a.m. bedtime and now?
Not even close. The guy controlled the ebb and flow of the space-time continuum. He was a Time Lord.
And he had great fucking lips.
She was on him before she knew what she was doing. She swung her long, lean, pale, bruised thigh over his face and settled down on him, groggily sliding her mouth on his cock. He stiffened instantly. He came awake without acting startled, and showed his mettle by doing what all men should do on awakening: he went to work.
He didn’t go balls-out for her clit the way inexpert diners do; he made love to her sex the way one makes love to a very shy virgin, with a kiss so tender and irresistible she can’t help but open up and beg for more. And her sex did. She settled down atop him and rode him insistently, feeling his full, sexy lips kiss her clit and her lips and her entrance. Then he licked her, gently, teasing her sore clit to full awareness.
As he was doing this, she slid his cock easily into her mouth, tasting latex, come, and her cunt; the base of his dick was moist from her sex. She took him halfway; it was all she could manage, which thrilled her still more. She rocked and squirmed and moaned atop him as her head bobbed up and down on his cock, her fingertips caressing his balls and his thighs. His dick was big enough to muffle her cries of pleasure, but not big enough to silence them. He had roommates. They’d be awake pretty soon. He didn’t care. She sure as hell didn’t.
She sat up, cradling his cock in one hand and caressing his balls with the other. Now fully erect, he was more than impressive. She felt a little shocked she’d gone for it like that last night without a long discussion of lube beforehand. B
ut she had, and now she went for it again, this time with her hand while she rode his face, wriggling back and forth as he tongued her. No longer muffled by his cock, her cries erupted, pulsing out from a sigh to a moan to a hot hungry howl of building pleasure. When she knew he was going to do it to her again, she slumped herself back onto his body and stuffed his cock in her mouth, almost down her throat, working his thick, slick base with her hand and trying not to scream at the top of her lungs as she came yet again. The spasms of climax pulsed through her; the pleasurable ache grew to a surging wave of contractions that seemed to erupt throughout her body. She jacked him off in her mouth. Her moans went gurgly as she swallowed him; there was vastly more left in him than she would have expected.
She felt a warm sensation inside as she swallowed. She gently slid off him and lay crotch-to-face on her side; he twisted into position and kissed her thighs as she milked him. She cocked her foot up on the headboard to give him room. He used it well, his tongue wet and juicy up her thigh, making her shiver.
She kept working on his cock, even after he began to shudder from oversensitivity; she milked and squeezed and got another drop, another, until he was entirely empty. Then she kissed his balls for a while. She caressed them gently with her tongue, tasting her sex where the juices had dripped down onto his balls during their lovemaking. Soft moans of pleasures escaped his perfect lips.
He finally said, “You really can’t get enough, can you?”
She said, “You’re the one who fucked me three times in an hour.”
“Two hours. Daylight saving time. Remember? I fixed the clock while you were asleep.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed,” he said
“Not at all,” she said unconvincingly. “Three times in two hours is still…actually, four times now.”
“But four times in one hour?”
“Well,” she purred. “That would be superhuman.”
She squeaked as he kissed her clit wetly.
His words wet with sex, he said, “Is that some kind of challenge?”
She opened her mouth to say, “Of course not.” Then she thought better of it.
She shrugged.
She said, “If you think you’re—oh!”
She never finished her sentence; she never said what she was thinking: If you think you’re some kind of sex god…
He did; he was.
They’d gained an hour, right?
Well, he made damned good use of it.
Love, Honor and Obey
By Janine Ashbless
The bride wore white latex.
The groom was all in black leathers and the priest—he really was a priest, but acting in a strictly unofficial capacity today—wore scarlet fuck-me pumps under his robes, but all eyes were on Flis as she walked up the aisle behind her matron of honor. They processed in that order because Georgia was leading Flis by a chain of silver and pearls, attached to her nipples by jeweled clamps. The skintight bodice of her bridal gown cupped her breasts from below but left them essentially bare, and Georgia kept a light tension on the nuptial chain that would not let the bride forget she was prisoner of that jewelry.
The murmur of approval from their assembled guests made Flis’s skin flush. She wanted to brush away the moisture welling in her eyes, but she was thwarted by the fact that her wrists—gloved to the elbow in white—were bound together behind her with a white bow.
The rest of the dress clung to her ass and stomach and legs, but was split up the front to reveal the tops of her latex stockings, the smooth skin of her thighs, and the latex strip that bisected her shaved pussy. That access would be important later on, after the cutting of the wedding cake, when Nathan would fuck her for the first time as a married woman, in front of all their guests. A fish tail of rubber frills, fantastically tailored, brushed the floor behind her teetering heels. Every tiny step made her breasts quiver and tug against the nipple clamps and the tight thong rub against her clit.
Nathan turned to watch her approach, a proud dark smile in his eyes. Flis knew that look, and seeing it made her sex fill with a new heat even as his handsome face wrung her heart. She could feel her wetness lubricating the band between her legs, and the tiny rubber nubs rubbing against her clit.
They reached the top of the aisle. “Kneel,” said Georgia, who had spent the last week training Flis, and the bride obeyed, facing the groom. She heard the priest begin his address, welcoming the congregation, but all her attention was on Nathan. She’d missed him so much in the week they’d been parted, and her heart was racing now. He was wearing heavy black boots with steel buckles and in his hand was a riding crop. She watched him tap the whip against his open palm.
“Who gives this woman to be wedded to this man?” asked the priest.
“I do,” said Georgia, stroking Flis’s hair. “She’s ready now.” Gravely, she passed the chain into Nathan’s free hand and retired to take her seat.
“Are you, Nathan, pleased to accept this woman as your wife, from this day forward?”
Nathan inclined his head as he used the crop to prod and move her breasts, flicking her nipples gently. Then he dropped the shaft lower, between her thighs. A sideways slap with the tip encouraged her to spread them a little wider. Then he tapped her on the clit with the leather tongue. His touch was accurate, and sharp enough to make her jump and quiver. “I am,” he said, tugging the chain cruelly taut.
Flis could see the bulge of his erection through his leather pants.
“Felicity, will you have this man to be your husband, from this day forward?”
She moistened her lips, looking up at him through her lashes. “I will.”
“I now invite you both to make your vows, in the presence of these friends and witnesses here.”
Nathan holstered the crop down one boot and drew down his zipper, enjoying the anticipatory tick of each steel tooth, until he was able to reach in and bring his cock out. Thick and strong, it stood out boldly, pointing straight at Flis’s red-painted lips. He always enjoyed putting on a show. Carefully she kissed it, lapping its head with her tongue. “Tell them,” he ordered.
“I, Felicity, promise this, your cock, that I will love, honor and obey it in all its whims and desires.” Her sentences had to be uttered between worshipful licks and kisses. “I will comfort and keep it, offering it my cunt and my ass and my mouth to do with as it wants, when it wants. I will gratefully receive its every gift. I will bend my energies and my imagination and my will to the task of keeping it hard. I promise I will always be wet for this cock, always eager, always submissive, for it is yours, my beloved. And I will love and belong to you Nathan, for as long as we both shall live.”
The member in question, pleased with her breathy words and her unstinting adoration, had grown even stiffer and larger. A tear of precome wept from its slitted eye. Nathan cleared his throat. Then he took hold of her head and pulled her in to engulf his length, working to the back of her mouth. As he took his turn to speak he rocked his hips slowly, sliding in and out between her moist lips.
From their audience came a low susurrus of appreciation.
“I, Nathan, vow to you, Felicity, that I will love and honor you, comfort and protect you, in private and in public. I will bend my attention to you every day of my life. I will see that you are fucked to satiation. I will never let you grow bored, or complacent, or uncertain of my desire. I will be demanding and ruthless, expecting only your utmost efforts. I will teach you what it means to submit to me, and how far this will take you, body and soul. I will push you to the very edge of your capacities, and when you fear to fall I will always be there to catch you, for as long as we both shall live.”
His voice was husky now, his diction choppy as he approached orgasm. Flis’s cheeks hollowed as she sucked him harder. He pushed in closer, looming over her as
she knelt between his thighs.
Then she felt it: the touch of the crop on her outthrust ass. He’d unsheathed the crop and plied it over her shoulder without her even realizing. That single warning tap, just enough to make the charge of anticipation and fear flow through her like electricity, was followed up by a proper strike full on the curve of her ass cheek, the crack sharp on the taut rubber of her dress. Pain flared. Flis squealed, and as her throat opened Nathan drove his cock deep, cutting off her breath.
Blow after blow, and no air, and the only way to deal with it was to open up to the pain and the invasion and to welcome it. Six blows, evenly dealt—and then just as suddenly he was pulling out of her, his tool a long glistening stake slippery with her saliva. Flis stared up at him, gasping, her rear on fire and her pussy boiling with need.
“I give you this pain,” Nathan groaned, “as a symbol of my unending love for you. My need to mark and move you. All that I am and have, I bring to you, in hope and in trust.”
“I accept this pain,” she managed to answer, “in love and trust and joy. I am proud to bear the pain you inflict, and I ache for more.”
The priest, whose hands were clasped over his own bulging groin, announced, “In the presence of this gathering, Nathan and Felicity have given their consent and made their marriage vows to each other. They have declared their marriage by the joining of flesh and by the giving and receiving of pain.
“I therefore now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Nathan broke into a savage grin, running his heavy hand up the darkly swollen length of his cock.
“You may now,” said the celebrant, “come on the bride.”
Permissive
By Justine Elyot
Nick and I fuck in the early mornings, before the sun begins to cook us in our oven of a van. We fuck at night, after sharing Spanish sherry or French wine or Italian pasta or Portuguese seafood. We fuck at siesta time, in the shade of secluded trees or behind rocky outcrops on the beach. I live in a bikini top and a denim mini, and most of the time I don’t bother to wear anything under the skirt, so avid am I for Nick to find a place to bend me over and have me. Sometimes in a crowded marketplace I’ll hold a sun-baked peach up to his lips, press myself into him and say, “Fancy a bite?” We’ll race to find a crumbling alleyway, race to get my skirt up and my legs wide, race to get his fat cock in my permanently wet pussy. The sun and Nick between them have hypersexed me; I want it all the time, everywhere. Luckily, so does he.
