69

by Alison Tyler

  Izzy was discovering how many ways she could turn within the overlapping embraces of Marcella and George. If her bed were a blackboard, they’d be scribbling equations on it with their mouths and fingers and legs. Like a Venn diagram they overlaid each other, adding kisses to caresses and multiplying by degrees.

  Marcella’s legs splayed like a compass at ninety degrees, her body undulated like a perfect sine wave.

  George counted his strokes in binary code: in, out, in, out, in, out. He triangulated the other two and ratcheted up her pleasure by a factor of ten.

  Izzy found she could stretch in directions she never would have imagined: rolling over when she heard Marcella murmuring her name, she stretched toward one tempting nipple, screwed up and hard like the tiny exponential squared two on top of her rounded breast, while also twisting behind to reach George’s erect penis, pointing at her ass at an angle she estimated to be a breathtaking seventy degrees. Without the use of a protractor she could not be sure—only grasp it and hold on tight.

  More importantly, within the hothouse learning environment of their large, messy fold-out bed, Izzy learned to pay close attention. When George sank his cock deep into her willing cunt, she nodded her understanding and counted under her breath. When he ran a curious fingertip around the tight hole of her ass, she held out her hand as if to answer the question. Marcella answered, kissing her fingertips once, twice, three four five times, each time sucking a little deeper until she licked to the knuckle of each digit.

  Between the two of them, Izzy learned her lesson. She learned that although the world is a crazy mixed-up place, sometimes the odd ingredients add up to a wonderful set of intertwined figures. She found the delights of balancing equal lovers in a horizontal line, one atop the other, her own body the line through them that tipped them over the edge and sent them seesawing back and forth, looking for equilibrium and enjoying the ride.

  Izzy also discovered that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. She learned, most of all, that three is not a crowd, but can be the magic number—and after a certain amount of times, anyway, who’s still counting?

  Laplanders

  By Jeremy Edwards

  “Do you want to come sit?” I pat my thigh, already moving my magazine aside.

  “I don’t know.” She winks. “I’ve been sitting on my ass all day.”

  I realize we all have asses, but the very fact that she has an ass—her acknowledgment of it—makes me want to cream myself.

  And she knows it.

  “Show me how. Show me this thing you earthlings call sitting on your ass.” Again I pat my thigh.

  Carmen shrugs, snickers and accepts the invitation. Ass meets lap, atop a bare-legged chair with a comfortably upholstered seat.

  She can spend an entire evening on my lap. Oh, it starts cute and cuddly—my soft-mouthed darling, her executive shoes kicked off and a glass of white in her hand, poised on the plateau of my trousers. Her ass rests; it does not yet wriggle. Her kisses are playful.

  But she’s told me she arrives home every day with sticky stains in her underpants, because she thinks of me en route.

  Carmen is in my lap. And, at first, the texture of her wool skirt appeals to me in a way that’s not even sexual, not even sensual; it just is what it is, and its distinctive is-ness brings its own kind of satisfaction.

  But I relish the transition we’re navigating. Yes, it’s her office skirt, her workaday skirt…but workaday is not shoeless, not legs spread apart on my lap. The subtle promise of a black skirt leading me from sober daylight to evening indulgence can sometimes be more exciting than her meshiest peekaboo lingerie.

  She’s warm. I’m warm. I feel her body heat even where we’re not touching. It radiates from her blouse-crinkled midriff and ascends to my throat. She’s a furnace of good feeling, a powerhouse of love.

  All of this in my lap.

  The world, in my lap.

  She sets down her wine and tickles me between the two lowermost buttons of my oxford shirt. Her skirtful of rump bounces as I quiver for her.

  Yes, it’s playful and cuddly; but my cock is hardening, and some of the nice places I’m thinking of tickling her in return are places I don’t touch her in public.

  “If my finger were in your panties right now…”

  She works her knees open and closed. “Yeah…go on.”

  My erection solidifies further, and of course she can feel it through her skirt, aching against her thigh. “Remind me,” I say, bullshitting. “Are you ticklish in there? In your panties?”

  She squirms as though my finger were crooked into her juicy pussy, rather than simply pointing toward her crotch from a foot away.

  I sigh melodramatically. “My memory isn’t what it used to be, I guess. I can’t remember whether you wiggle and giggle when I stick my finger up the leg hole of your knickers.”

  Carmen hooks her right foot around the back of my leg and strokes my shin with her instep. The motion makes her skirt creep above her knees, and now the denseness of its fabric atop my trousers feels purposefully seductive instead of blithely businesslike: It is a woman’s skirt on a horny man’s lap, and it is there to engage me.

  I follow her body language upward with my eyes. I observe that it’s the arch in her back that’s making her blouse look so tight—far tighter than it does when she’s not tuned sharp with arousal and expectation, her muscles taut like nylon guitar strings yearning for the sky. Her breasts aren’t large, but right now they’re so manifest: Her shirt is positively full of them. I unbutton her down to what my inner narrator announces as the “cleavage line” just as it appears.

  We’ve been together for a decade, and still I find myself staring in giddy disbelief at what’s in my lap. At who’s in my lap.

  She laughs when I approach her mouth with a kiss but fake down to lick the sweet crevice between her breasts instead. She kicks the chair leg with her free foot.

  The sleek black zipper at the top rear of her skirt is waiting for me like a limousine. I unzip Carmen just enough to dip in, as into a pocket. Her ass cheeks wait for me as well, naked above the low-cut panties.

  She moans—a faux-surprised oooh rather than a knowing ahhh—the instant my fingertips make contact with her derriere. I let the longest digit trail into her crack, and now I get the ahhh. Her ass works my thigh through the skirt, scraping her wool and my corduroy into an intimate friction.

  Her knees open wider, as far as they can go with the skirt still constraining her movements to some extent. I smell her pussy: Its appetizing savor seems extra thick tonight as it filters through her humid panties—like heavy, perfumed steam floating over tiles, above a scented bath.

  Now I make what I think of, absurdly, as the ventriloquist move. I brace Carmen at the small of her back while launching my left arm up her skirt. Oh, her moist cotton cupped in my hand! I press her mound, pet her fruit.

  My pinkie tickles under the edge of her underwear, and she shrieks with delight.

  “Now, I remember!” I say.

  Juice seeps into her gusset. My right hand goes deep, beyond the waistband, grasping as much of her bottom as I can take in one pawful. I visualize her adorable behind as it would look bare, hanging over the shelf of my thighs to be squeezed and patted al fresco.

  Carmen writhes as I caress her cunt and fondle her bottom. She is raw pleasure.

  I slow down, making all the strokes everywhere count double, triple. The pleasure incarnate in my lap—aka my writhing wife—deepens to ecstasy, then orgasm. Carmen is coming, her business skirt in heat and her blouse shimmering in the moonlike glow of my reading lamp. She makes a noise in her throat and once more kicks her free foot against the chair while clutching my leg wantonly with the other.

  Eventually most of her body relaxes, but her hands become restless and busy. She unzips m
y corduroys, and then drops to the floor to fully expose me. My pants are at my knees, my shirt rolled tightly to the navel. My crimson cock stands straight up, dominating the landscape of my pale thighs.

  She makes herself comfortable, and then ducks her head as if bobbing for apples.

  Technically, Carmen is on rather than in my lap now. This is quite acceptable.

  A black forest of hair, soft like a velvet drapery, pampers my groin. Even more than the open-ended kiss of her mouth around my cock, it’s the casual flirtation of her hair upon my bareness that’s going to put me over the edge.

  She stimulates the underside of my ball sac while she sucks me. And what’s even better than this tickly treatment whereby she garnishes the blowjob is the knowledge that it arouses her to touch me there. I look at her hair, and I’m sure that her knickers are remoistening, that her clit is pulsing between her legs from blowing me, and especially from tickling me between my legs.

  I’m thinking about that pulsing clit when I come in her mouth.

  I take a minute to cool down, and when I open my eyes Carmen hasn’t moved, except to let my cock fall from her lips. So she’s still on her knees, and suddenly I’m very interested in taking her panties down and entering her slick cunt from behind.

  I lift her shoulders, slip out from under her and onto the floor, and grab her ass.

  “Fuck, yes, pull them off,” she laughs when I tug on the bikini briefs. “Get those fucking panties out of here.”

  Oh, man, they’re damp.

  Now the seat of the chair is empty except for Carmen’s arms; they sprawl across it, steadying her as she points her rear toward gratification. I slap the fleshy cheeks, whisper a feather-light finger along the crack…and soon I’m hard enough again that I can slide into her pussy.

  She’s pure deliciousness all around my sex, and it’s an act of richly rewarding concentration to slow down once more and drag sensation along her attentive walls.

  When she’s as full of heat and pleasure and me as she can possibly be, I stroke her clit—and she screams across the upholstery. I deliberately tip myself backward, taking her with me, so I can feel her ass cheeks burning onto me while she keeps coming.

  I pump into her with everything I have to offer.

  Carmen is in my lap.

  Slave Market in Monochrome (A Fantasy)

  By Kristina Lloyd

  A woman is in a cage down an alley. She’s probably me. I’m crouched in a cage down an alley, seeing myself from the outside. The scene is noirish, light glinting on cobbles, its edges lost to shadow. My owner sits in a chair several feet away from me, reading a newspaper. He’s a slob and doesn’t give a monkey’s about me. A slave market is taking place nearby. I’m poorly trained and too easy, so me and my owner, we don’t make the grade. He’s having to try and sell me from his own patch. He’s bored, he’s on lunch, newspaper and cold chicken.

  A bunch of guys come swaggering down the alley, all testosterone and tattoos. Their tattoos have no color. There are places in my head too dingy for ink. The men are amused to find us, and they reckon I look okay. They want a closer look, but my owner’s on lunch. He can’t even be bothered to stand up. “Help yourself,” he says. “The cage isn’t even locked. She’s too stupid to escape.”

  The men order me out of the cage, and I comply, of course. Here the narrative can fork in any number of directions. But it’s always the same dark place, the same debasement of being used by barbarians. So let’s say they make me lie back on the roof of the cage, legs spread for them. I’m wearing something dreadful, a black, faux-leather bikini because my owner has no imagination.

  One of the men opens my mouth with his fingers and tells me to stick out my tongue. I do. He peers in like a depraved dentist. “Good mouth,” he announces. “Should be able to take a lot of cock.”

  “Check out her cunt,” says another. I’m immediately filled with fingers and my bikini bottoms have magically disappeared.

  I’m wet and I can’t hold back a tiny gasp of need. The men laugh. They gather round, watching my face as the fingering guy drives deep inside me. He twists and pushes, trying to get his hand in as high as he can. He flicks at my clit with his other hand. I’m losing my composure, and they like this. Someone scoops my tits out of my awful bra. My nipples are hard, tight points and unknown fingers roll and pinch them. The point is not to give me pleasure but to shame me by highlighting how turned on I am already. But it does give me pleasure, and so does the shame, and when I moan, I’m surrounded my smug smiles and laughter.

  My owner is still reading his newspaper. All he cares about is an easy sale. He’s not even interested in protecting me.

  The men say things like: “Look at her, she’s lapping it up” and “Yeah, work that little cunt, make her scream.”

  Someone calls over to my owner. “We’re going to make her come. That okay, mate?”

  “Yeah, do whatever you want,” he says. “If she complains, just beat her. Though she’ll probably like it.”

  The men borrow a Hitachi wand from all the pornography I’ve watched and set its big, buzzing head to my clit. This is fantasy, so no need to find a socket or worry about disturbing the neighbors with the noise. The men want to know what I look like when I come, how I sound and how long I take. This will decide the sale.

  They concentrate on me, hopeful and curious. I can’t help but respond to the vibrations. Someone has his fingers inside me, another nudges the wand against my clit. They are focused, methodical and cool. “There she goes,” one says softly as I start to groan. They watch, waiting patiently as I get closer to coming, my body arcing and tensing. “Looking good,” another might say or “She’s nearly there, keep it steady, boys.”

  They’re entertained by how helpless I am, how incapable I am of resisting the pleasure they’re inflicting. Someone might toy with my nipples or tip my head back to take a mouthful of cock.

  This fantasy has no conclusion. It ends when it’s served its purpose. Sometimes, it plays on a loop in my head, jump-cuts to another scene, gets jettisoned for something else.

  But I know what’s going to happen. They’re going to make me come. When I’m right on the edge, I’ll hear them saying, “Oh yes, come on. Come for us, come. That’s right, good girl.”

  They’re pleased with me. They like how I come. They’d buy me if they could but they can’t because I’ve generally moved on by then.

  There’s a woman in a cage, and it isn’t even locked. Yes, that’s probably me. But I’m not stupid. I can lock it any time I want.

  In the Cold with You

  By Victoria Janssen

  Evan had come home from the war at last, but she couldn’t worship him with her body, much as he tried to worship her.

  Snow fell. A John Wayne movie played, forgotten, across the room. Theresa caught glimpses of it as Evan licked and sucked her nipple, his big hand kneading her hip. She scrubbed her palms over his dark crew cut and shifted her hips, trying to let herself melt into him, but the rattle of bullets from the television made her back tense.

  Her nipple felt raw from too much attention. He’d been trying to arouse her for half the movie, and suddenly she wanted to scream.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She fled to the kitchen, clutching her unbuttoned blouse to her breasts. She could still taste him on her tongue, apple pie and Evan.

  “Theresa,” he said. He’d buttoned his jeans over the bulge of his cock and balls. “It’s okay.”

  His dark eyes were soft as he gazed at her. It wasn’t fair. He was the one who’d been shot at and had his friends blown up with bombs. She’d been here safe all along, eating pizza and going to a safe office every day. “It’s not okay! You’ve been gone a year and—I wanted you so much, every day, and now I can’t…”

  “I love you. I’ll still want you tom
orrow. I can wait.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s just been a long time for us.” He paused. “What if I just hold you?” When she didn’t reply, he said, “Maybe if we got away for a while—”

  “I want a baby,” she said, then clapped her hand over her mouth. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t say that. He’d only been home three weeks, three weeks that should have been their honeymoon, delayed for over a year. When she looked up, Evan was gone.

  Before her sob could escape, he returned, buttoning up a flannel shirt.

  He took a chair and crossed his arms on the table. The clock ticked.

  “I thought you were going to leave me. Just now.”

  “Till death do us part, Tessie.”

  “It’s been weeks and we haven’t…haven’t fucked. You must be going crazy.” She stared down at the table. “I shouldn’t have said what I said just now.”

  “If you want a baby, you want a baby. I’d like it, too, you know.”

  “I thought you were going to get killed. Every day, I thought, what if he dies?” She closed her eyes. “Women survive it every day. But I’m still scared.”

  “I’m home now,” he said. “I’m not going back there. I’m going to be a software drone for the rest of my life.”

  “I don’t know why I can’t—”

  He waited. When she only stared at him, mute, he said, “Can we try something, tomorrow?”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “Snow day for you, and I don’t have another interview until Thursday.”

  “What if I still can’t—”

  He grinned. “Then we’ll play backgammon.”

  * * *

  Tuesday’s heavy snow sent Theresa home at noon. She found Evan sprawled on the couch.

  “Hey.”

  “What’s your plan, Ev?”