69

by Alison Tyler

  Stockings! He could have swooned. He loved the sound of them, how they swished as she walked. Stockings meant a garter belt and no end of naughtiness—perhaps a striptease? A lap dance? God knows what delights a garter-belted woman might offer, or what else she might be wearing, or not wearing! Panties or not, and what kind? Creamy Victorian satin smooth enough to eat? Something tiny and sheer that simultaneously veiled and exposed a waxed cunt? Those saucy ones that wedged themselves up into the crack—oh, you wish!—and left the lower halves of the cheeks bare? A black lace thong? Something crotchless and perfectly sluttish, a la française, with a clever little slit that a man might finger her naked wet clit, fuck her naked wet cunt? Possibly a matching brassiere with holes in the lace for sucking her nipples hard?

  He closed his eyes and let himself ache. He imagined her turning to him, smiling, unpinning her hair, unbuttoning, drawing up her skirt as she dipped into a slow undulating squat with her knees spread so obscenely wide he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  When he opened his eyes, she was standing right in front of him, smiling. Coquette!

  Admittedly, she was not young, but the more beautiful for that, he thought. Youth in women was highly overrated. Beauty is as beauty does, and young women were just too young and too silly to know what they were about, let alone know what men his age were about. He preferred a woman seasoned in the arts of pleasuring a man, a woman who had done it all and knew from experience what she wanted and how to get it. Not to mention how to give it, and how to take it. A woman utterly at home with her own lust and her own shamelessness.

  A woman with the right curves in all the right places.

  She was obviously that kind of woman.

  He cleared his throat, and she stood aside to display the room, her shoulders back and tits outthrust, unconsciously pressing her apron flat over her thighs. “I hope this will do, sir? I have tried to arrange everything to your complete satisfaction.” She stepped forward, extending her hand respectfully. “May I take your jacket, sir?”

  Oh God. She would be sure to notice his erection. It was huge, it was monstrous—what a stonker she’d given him! Then again, as he himself was no longer young, it was possible that the generous cut of his trousers might conceal a multitude of sins. He took a chance.

  “Yes. Thank you.” She helped him slip it off his shoulders, and as she swished off to hang it in the press, he glanced down in a mix of panic and despair not unmixed with abashed pride. Even at his age, his thickness and length were still considerable. His flesh strained against the fine wool of his trousers, and he was throbbing so hard he thought he might burst right then and there.

  There was nothing for it but to look her in the eye. He could not tell if she had noticed. Her gaze never seemed to leave his face, yet there was a knowing look in her eye and a suggestive smile on her lips.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  He swallowed. Yes, there would be something else. There had to be something else or he would explode right there on the spot. Even though he had no experience of the protocol in such matters, he had learned enough from overheard conversations, backroom boasting, and God bless it, the Internet, to know that he should come prepared, and that meant with a sizeable chunk of cash. He fished a banknote from his pocket, pressed it into her hand. A smooth bill, fresh and unwrinkled from the machine, of value equal to his not-inconsiderable monthly salary and more besides. Her eyes widened. His tongue was thick and dry in his mouth. “I’m looking for a very special service. Perhaps you can—direct me to a provider?”

  The question hung in the air. The implication was, he hoped, clear. He was first and foremost a gentleman, the soul of courtesy and discretion. He had no intention of insulting her. He was most emphatically not soliciting her. He was merely asking her for her advice, the value of which he indicated with handsome remuneration offered up-front and without obligation.

  She frowned slightly. “The hotel policy is to provide everything in-house, sir. We are instructed, and paid, to do our utmost to please our guests and to meet every request that is in our power to satisfy.” She looked up at him with a steady gaze, utterly professional. “What sort of service would you require, sir?”

  “I would like—” His courage failed him. He could not finish. Cursed fool! He stood there like a dolt, a moron, a dumb ox mired in miserable silence. She—God rain down blessings on her for seeing his confusion and understanding his hesitancy!—took the bill from his hand and tucked it back into the pocket of his trousers. His knees almost turned to water when he felt her little hand penetrating down there, into the cloth folds about his groin—lingering there! He could have sworn she brushed him with her fingertips. As if to test his hardness, or gauge his size?

  She smiled with businesslike reassurance. “Perhaps you should sit down, sir?” she said. She helped him to a chair, where for a few heart-stopping seconds he watched her swish and scurry about, dimming the lights, drawing the curtains, selecting something on the sound system. Something jazzy, something with a languid saxophone.

  Perfect.

  Then, just as he’d imagined it might happen in places like these, at events like these, she turned to him, undid the top two buttons of her blouse, exposing a fine expanse of soft creamy flesh. With a smile, she approached him, hiked up her skirt, and settled herself astride his lap. His mouth went dry and his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth as he inhaled the warm scent of her, that maddening scent of a woman’s cunt, the promise of it, the hint of ecstasy, of flesh unleashed into flesh, the smell of fucking. She raised her arms and unpinned her dark hair, leaned forward to let it fall over his face.

  She kissed him, opening his mouth with her tongue.

  “Perhaps this is what you require, sir?” she whispered. She undid the third button on her blouse and shrugged it open to reveal very naked pink nipples jutting eagerly through strained black lace.

  His head was swimming. Eyes closed, jaw slack, he fumbled a bit, and then found what she was—or more correctly, wasn’t—wearing under that skirt. Apart from the garter belt and stockings, nothing. Dear God, what a delicious whore. Not only naked, but so eager! Dripping, she was. He had no trouble thrusting three finger straight up her, the horny little fuckslut! She squirmed and sighed.

  “This is exactly what I require, you little bitch,” he growled, as if to himself.

  She purred. “Good. Me, too. Oh darling, I’m so glad you invited me along on this trip!”

  Shoulders

  By Donna George Storey

  She didn’t know she had shoulders until she met him.

  Of course, she knew she had shoulders, as in parts of her body to shrug or convenient hangers for purses. She just never realized they could be so exquisitely erotic.

  The first lesson came soon after they started making love. She had just climbed on top of him and was tilting forward so he could tongue her sensitive nipples the way she liked, but he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her upright.

  “Sit up tall,” he said. “Let me look at you.”

  Taken by surprise, she obeyed.

  He did look at her, for a long time. His eyes caressed her flushed breasts, the rosy disks of her areolae. Then they traveled to her shoulders. “Don’t hunch. There. Doesn’t good posture feel better?”

  He began to rock his hips. She clutched him with her thighs to keep her balance, and then let out soft cry. Of their own accord, her secret muscles were undulating around his shaft, one electric spasm for each stroke. Her shoulders curled forward instinctively. The stabbing pleasure in her belly subsided. When she dropped her shoulders again at his command, the tension of her breasts thrusting forward and her ass pressing down seemed to magnify the sensation.

  He cupped her breasts. With his thumbs, he flicked her aching nipples and then twisted them between two fingers like little knobs. Sounds came from h
er throat, staccato and tuneless.

  “Mind your shoulders,” he said.

  It took all she had to do it. To think of her shoulders, keep pushing them back, as his cock pressed up, up into her swollen wetness. She was so intent on her shoulders that the orgasm took her by surprise, too, swirling up her spine like a fireball, exploding right between her shoulder blades.

  He had more lessons to teach her. Sometimes he’d caress her shoulders while he suckled her breast. Other times, when he was on top, he’d kiss them as if they were the most precious treasure. When they were out at a party or waiting in the lobby of a theatre, he might slip behind her and give her shoulders a squeeze. An innocent gesture, except it immediately made her nipples stiffen and her panties wet.

  Soon he had only to graze her shoulder with his fingertip and she was desperate for him. One night she actually knelt before him and begged him to take her.

  “Take off your blouse,” he said. “Then suck me.”

  As she fellated him, he stroked her bare arms, occasionally snapping her bra strap as if giving her shoulder a spanking. She came moments after she’d swallowed.

  “Someday you might try to forget me,” he told her, eyes glowing. “But your shoulders will always remember.”

  Her shoulders tingled, as if in reply. They knew their power now.

  Saturday

  By Willsin Rowe

  The afternoon rippled with the sounds of spring.

  Buzzing insects. Growling lawnmowers. Rustling leaves.

  The chatter of the kids as Mom drove away with them.

  I mixed up a couple of Long Island Iced Teas, stripped off my panties and strolled out to the backyard. Rohan’s bare skin glistened in the unseasonable heat as he emptied the grass catcher. He still had his headphones on and didn’t hear me coming. I pressed the cold glass to his spine.

  He yelped and squirmed, turned and smiled. With fingers still chilled from his glass, I traced a meandering line from his neck to his belt buckle. He shivered as tiny rivulets of sweat swept down to lick at my hand.

  We clinked our glasses and said a whole lot of nothing. All the nothing we couldn’t say when the kids were around.

  I took a sip of my drink, then dabbed it against my neck, trembling as first icy droplets, then tingling nipples, spiked my T-shirt. I sat up on the edge of the kids’ trampoline, my loose skirt riding high enough to tell Rohan my little secret.

  His scorching gaze stroked my pussy. My lips swelled with heat and moisture.

  Rohan slugged his drink and glided over to me. He took off his gloves while I took off his belt. I gave him the rest of my drink, and then sucked the last of it from his lips.

  The glasses thudded to the ground as his big arms circled me. My hands slipped over his hips as I dragged his jeans down.

  His cock was a tall tree in a steamy jungle. He smelled like hard work and honesty. He tasted like strength and pride. He filled me like hope and love.

  I fell back onto the trampoline and he jumped up over me. The atmosphere stilled, and for a moment there was silence.

  Then…the skitter of my voice as he drove deep into me.

  Clothes rustling. Throats growling. Nerves buzzing.

  The evening rippled with the sound of springs.

  Based on a True Story

  By Kristina Lloyd

  That summer, in the afternoons, the American would take the train down from London to see me. He would tell his colleagues he was in a meeting, and they mustn’t call. We never kissed when we met although I often wanted to.

  “Hey, how you doing?” he would ask, turning to lock the door of my flat behind him.

  “Good, great,” I would say as I tiptoed backward into the main room, smiling, keeping my eye on him.

  All the blinds would be closed in readiness, and we’d be grinning as if we were in love, although we weren’t—or at any rate, not with each other. He always wore a suit, bringing his smooth, city-boy sharpness to the seaside then casting it off within no time. My favorite was the slate-gray suit with a faint sheen to the fabric. He looked steely and invulnerable, as if people and problems would bounce right off him. His shirts were white like his teeth and his eyes were dark like his hair.

  “Yeah?” he would say, setting down his briefcase. Once he propped a tall, rainbow-colored umbrella against my bookshelves. Open, I imagine it would have been bigger than my bathroom. It seemed a strange object for him, monochrome man, to own; it looked as if he’d robbed a cartoon. And yet it suited him, or suited the guy I knew behind the gray. “Good,” he would say, smiling. Then he would turn to give me his full attention, following me as I edged back into the bedroom. Instead of a kiss, our first physical contact was often his hand around my throat, big and hard. The smile would fade from his lips though its sparkle kept glittering in his eyes. “You ready to get fucked?” he would say. His grip would tighten, and he’d draw me close, pushing my chin higher, forcing me to look up at him. “You ready to take my cock in your throat? In your ass? Are you?”

  And always, I was so ready.

  We found each other on one of those looking-for-kinky-sex web sites. Actually, he found me. Neither of us had pictures on the site. We swapped photos and exchanged emails detailing what we liked and what we didn’t. He made me laugh, and he made me hot. I wanked to his pictures and his words. It felt as if we’d had sex and shared a cigarette before we’d even met.

  One time, he pushed my head into the duvet, holding me there while he whispered in my ear. His voice was made of dark things, of hellish depths, rivers of oil bubbling over coal, and an accent like the basest pornography. “Dirdy,” he pronounced it. “Dirdy liddle bitch.” His words poured straight into my mind, his breath tickling my ear, his closeness smudging the shape of his sounds. “I’m gonna to take you into the abyss of submission,” he murmured. “Gonna take you so low you won’t know who you are. Gonna fuck you to nothing, fuck away your dignity, your personality, make you mine to use.”

  I started to go under, etherized by lust. He tied my hands behind my back with a short length of jute, stripped a pillow and slipped its case over my head, fixing it in place. My world turned cream like the pillowcase and within ten minutes—or was it an hour?—I didn’t know where I was. Instinctively, I’d been trying to keep track of my north, my south, my east, my west. Then he hooked an arm around my waist, another around my neck, and said, “Okay, into the other room.” And he marched me toward the open window. I screamed and wriggled, not wanting to fall. It was hot and humid inside the pillowcase, and the cotton clung to my mouth, sticking to my breath, in out in out. He was just some bloke I’d met on the Internet. I didn’t even know his surname.

  “Hush,” he said. “Let me take you.”

  He turned me a fraction, his hands firm on my flesh. I thought he was going to walk me into the wall. Slam! I was starting to freak out.

  “Hush,” he said again. He stilled me with an arm around my waist, a hand on my shoulder. His erect cock brushed against my tethered wrists. His voice was low and reassuring. “Do you trust me?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I want to.” I wasn’t sure if my words would escape the cream balloon in which my senses were encased.

  “Trust me,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

  Again: “I don’t know.” I had an overwhelming urge to see my feet, to see the solid ground on which I stood. “Don’t let go of me,” I said. I worried if he did that I might float off, out of the window, up into the sky.

  “I won’t let go of you,” he said. “Trust me.”

  And eventually I did. I let my body soften in his arms, and I gave myself up to him, allowed him to be my eyes. “Good girl,” he said, walking me his way.

  In the other room, he had me lean over the back of an armchair, legs spread, arms still tied behind my back. He
pushed my silicone dildo into my cunt and said he needed to train me to take two cocks at short notice, ready for when he invited his friends round. I needed to be receptive and open, he said. He didn’t want me letting him down in front of his peers. He slathered himself with lube and inched into my arsehole. It hurt at first, but I took him without too much complaint. When he was inside me, he held still and tenderly said, “There you go,” as if he were rewarding me with kindness. He fucked me harder and harder, occasionally shoving the dildo back before it slid from me completely. My entire pelvic area was melting, two penetrations merging into a single mass of intensity. I was in my cream cotton hood, my senses shot, my mind blank, my lower half stuffed to its maximum.

  His fingers circled my clit. “I’m starting to really like you,” he said, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Think I’m going to put you in a cage. Take you out whenever I want.” His breath was rough and ragged. “Take you out when my friends are bored, when they need some holes to fuck ‘cause there’s nothing on TV.”

  I came so hard when he said that. I’d never mentioned my fantasies of being a caged thing, and so here he was, at last, a man to unlock my secrets.

  The prospect of being known brings relief and fear. Having my locks off was a future I might fall into, abandoned and free. But I also wanted to scarper from that future, to stay self-contained and safe from harm. I would do neither of those things. Not yet. Instead, I would tread the fine line between those feelings, one foot in front of the other, just as I had done when he’d walked me from room to room, trusting in trust.

  The Barest Offering

  By Aisling Weaver

  The chapel was old. Its age seeped into us. You felt it as surely as I did; it sent a tremor through you. I followed in your wake, watching you find your way through the history, as I had. One wall had collapsed, undergrowth pouring over it, an advancing army reclaiming the land. The sun sent shimmering beams through the canopy to illuminate the interior.