69

by Alison Tyler

“No, thanks,” I told him. “I already have one.”

  He smirked. “Let me in?” He held up a bag. “I have medicine.”

  I let him in. His “medicine” was a bottle of Bloody Mary mix and vodka. While I made the drinks, he excused himself. I thought he’d gone down the hall to the bathroom, but after a few minutes, I went to look. There he was in my bedroom, sitting amidst the rumpled sheets, blowing up balloons.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He didn’t stop.

  “If one of those things pops, I’m going to hit the ceiling.” Mine wasn’t an awful hangover, more of a dull throb.

  “Then don’t pop any.”

  I felt something tighten in my chest, and I took another sip of my drink.

  “What is it about the balloons?” I asked, but I was starting to understand, even then. He’d already blown up more than ten, and they looked so festive decorating my bed. I thought of the way I’d felt when he’d touched my cheek with the ruby-red one the night before. A wave of excitement ran through me.

  “Don’t you like them?” He rubbed one of his palms against an inflated raspberry-colored balloon, and I suddenly had two separate but equally strong desires. I wanted him to rub me like that, and I wanted to touch the balloon myself. But a new thought suddenly popped in my head.

  “It’s January first,” I said cautiously. “What party store was open today?”

  He smiled at me. “I have a stash.”

  I nodded. That made sense. Panty admirers would own drawers filled with knickers. Shoe enthusiasts would have big bills from Manolo. Why wouldn’t Josh have canisters containing deflated balloons? While I watched, he began to blow up one that had looked dark purple but turned lighter as he filled the orb with air. My heart was starting to beat faster. Maybe the drink was working, or the aspirins I’d swallowed earlier, or perhaps anticipation was the new cure for the average hangover. My headache had disappeared.

  “How many are you going to inflate?”

  He looked at the bed as he tied the belly-button-like knot on the bottom of the violet balloon. “I’ll cover the bed.”

  “And then what?”

  “Fuck you on them.”

  “You’re somewhat presumptuous, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t want me to fuck you on the balloons?”

  “I mean, we just…”

  “You’re not going to say we just met, are you? I’ve lived upstairs from you for three years.”

  “But we just…”

  “Started talking about balloons and sex last night? Yeah, sometimes it takes a party to break the ice.”

  “I’ve never…”

  “Been screwed on balloons? I got that feeling when we were necking behind the bar. But you liked the thought, didn’t you?”

  “You keep…”

  “Putting the words in your mouth. I know. I’m good at that. Usually, I let other people put the words in my mouth. When I’m not acting, I tend to do the opposite.”

  I grinned at him. He was making January first much more memorable. That’s for sure.

  “Do you want to help?” he asked, shaking the bag of balloons at me. “Or do you want to watch?”

  “I’ll watch,” I said, doing exactly that as he plucked a dark green one from the bag and began to fill the balloon with air. They were so lovely. My bedroom is all white, which made a perfect canvas for these bright, synthetic colors not often found in nature.

  “You can touch them,” Josh said as he deftly tied another knot.

  I walked toward the bed.

  “But take off your clothes first,” he added.

  “I will if you will,” I countered.

  Josh stood. The balloons bounced. Together we peeled off our clothes. Then we were naked, me sitting with the balloons all around me, Josh blowing up a cobalt one that was twice the size of his head. Christ, this was sexy. Who knew? Who knew being surrounded by all sorts of balloons would be so crazy-exciting?

  That’s simple: Josh knew.

  I lay down on the bed and started to move them, so that they were all over me. Josh watched as he blew up a Creamsicle-hued balloon.

  “I think you have enough.”

  “You can never have enough.”

  “I mean,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice steady. “I think I’m ready for you to fuck me now.”

  He moved closer to me on the bed. The balloons shifted and bumped around us. I had the sensation that we were not alone—an odd feeling to have when the party you’re sharing your mattress with has been blown up by your brand-new man. But there it was. I felt as if the balloons were participating. When Josh spread my legs, balloons seemed to kiss my skin. When Josh climbed between my thighs, balloons filled the space where he’d been. They made a soft, rustling noise that I found wildly erotic. I closed my eyes as Josh thrust inside of me, but he said, “No, look at me. Look around you.”

  I did as he instructed. I met his eyes, and then I turned my head. I saw the balloons bounce on the bed as Josh pounded into me. I had been holding myself still, keeping myself contained, and then Josh picked up a balloon and held the pink party favor in front of me.

  I saw him through the stretch-sheer rubber. I took the balloon from him, and I ran the fat side down his chest, using the knot as a handle. Josh groaned, and I felt his cock grow even harder inside of me. I won’t say that this was a normal day of fucking at my house. But I will say that I was more turned on than I’d ever been before.

  Josh handed me a yellow. The sunlight made the balloon translucent. I stared at Josh through the lemony surface, seeing his expression change, seeing the way he looked as he grew closer to climax.

  I wondered if he’d done girls using balloons while I’d been alone in my apartment. Had I ever heard random popping noises? I couldn’t remember. If I had, I wouldn’t have thought to make anything of them. Who imagines a neighbor screwing amidst buoyant, rubbery balloons?

  Then Josh said something that made my pussy clench even tighter on his rod.

  “Are you a popper?”

  “What do you mean?” I panted.

  “When that balloon popped last night and that woman screamed, did you like the sound?”

  “Of the popping,” I confessed, “not the screaming.”

  “Tell me when you’re going to come,” he said, and he reached next to me, pulling something hidden beneath my pillow.

  The balloons bounced and shifted with us. Josh handed me one and then another. Soon we were fucking in a pile of the pretty orbs. He slid one hand under the balloons to touch and stroke my clit, and I started to whimper. He was stroking me so sweetly, and the balloons were bouncing so prettily, and then I was teetering so…

  “I’m going to…” I told him.

  “Right now?”

  “Now!” And as I said the word, Josh popped the violet balloon. My whole body reacted. My pussy tightened, my heart raced, but thankfully I didn’t shriek. Josh arched into me as the pop seemed to echo in the bedroom, and I felt him reach his peak. He slipped the pin onto my bedside table and then cradled me in his arms.

  “You know,” he said softly, as balloons kissed and bumped around us, “my New Year’s resolution was never to hide my balloon fetish from a girl again.”

  “Mine was never to spend another New Year’s by myself,” I confessed.

  Josh grinned. “I can promise you this,” he said, “You may now officially be a looner, but you’ll never be alone.”

  Every Dollar

  By N.T. Morley

  “So what do you think?” Jesse asked the man, who looked Megan up and down suspiciously. “You want her? Come on, guy. Let’s not mince words. This is one fine piece of ass. Tell me you don’t want a piece of this wrapped around your boner, buddy. What was your name
again?”

  “Brett,” said the man. His eyes roved shamelessly over Megan’s upper body, taking in the outline of her breasts under the tight top of her sundress. Her tight push-up bra held and separated her firm tits quite dramatically, but the upper cups were mesh and stretchy, see-through. They didn’t do much to hide the growing distension of Megan’s tight dress as her nipples hardened under Brett’s approving gaze.

  Jesse grinned.

  “I see you looking at them,” he said. “Come on, Brett. D-cups. D-cups, Brett! You’re telling me you don’t wanna shove ‘em together and rub your cock between them? Blow your load all over ‘em?” Jesse made a show of snapping his fingers, as if he’d just realized something. “Oh! Or maybe you’re a facial man. You wanna slamfuck her tits, but squirt your jizz on her face.” He never looked at Megan as he said, “Smile for the man, darling. Smile for the nice man. Show that pretty smile he can paint with his fucking steaming hot load.”

  Megan smiled. Her face was red—very red. She breathed hard. Her tits heaved. Brett never took his eyes off her knockers until Jesse told her to smile; then he looked her in the face and saw her big, full, red-painted lips pursing and parting as she smiled, teeth apart so she could trail her red tongue gently along the edge of her freshly capped teeth. She trembled slightly as she tipped her chin down, then back again, fixing Brett’s gaze with her bright-green bedroom eyes.

  She licked her lips.

  “And that mouth?” said Jesse, glancing around conspiratorially to make sure no one else who was availing themselves of the tail end of the Beaumont’s Sunday brunch buffet could hear. “With lips like those, you know she sucks cock like an expert,” he said. “And I don’t mean some $20 hooker walking the street who sucks thirty dicks a night, though—” he elbowed Megan a little “—if I let her have ‘em, she probably would. This girl cannot get enough hard dick down her throat. Ain’t that right, Megan?”

  Megan shot Jesse a vicious look, then looked back at Bret and smiled.

  She winked and pursed her lips.

  She gently caressed her throat with her fingertips, as if to suggest how right Jesse was.

  “But when I say expert,’ said Jesse, lowering his voice even more, glancing around the restaurant and leaning forward and gesturing to Brett to do the same. “I’m talking about the kind of first-class slut who makes cocksucking her life. Show the nice man your lips, baby.”

  Megan did. She parted. She pursed. She made a kissing gesture and gave him the slow once-around-the-lips circuit of the tip of her tongue.

  Brett stared as if in a trance.

  Jesse purred: “You want those lips wrapped around your dick? Just say the word, man.”

  Brett tore his gaze away from Megan with some effort.

  He sneered. “I don’t know. How long you been married?”

  “Three years,” said Jesse.

  “I bet she’s still nice and tight,” said Brett.

  Megan felt a ripple go through her; anger warred with excitement. She took a deep breath. Her cunt had given a rhythmic clench when she heard herself spoken of in such crude terms. When she shifted slightly to the side, she realized how wet she had gotten. She wasn’t wearing underwear. She was pretty sure she was so wet that once she got up, the back of her sundress would show a hint of moisture. She reddened. Her nipples stiffened. Her clit throbbed, erect. She wanted very badly to touch herself, and the fact that they were in public only made that craving more acute. Every word the two men traded made her want it more.

  “Tighter than when we got married,” said Jesse. “And she was a virgin.”

  Megan was never good with the poker face; she gave Jesse a disapproving sort of “fuck you” look, which Brett picked up on. She had not been a virgin when they married. Christ, she’d been thirty! What kind of a virgin bride would find herself, three years later, pimped in a high-class restaurant by a husband who talked about her cunt as if it were real estate?

  Brett frowned disdainfully. “Yeah? How does that work?”

  “Kegels, buddy. Kegels. Exercises. Hundreds of ‘em a day. Makes her tight little hole feel like a miracle. Stick yourself in this one, it’s like Brigitte Nielsen’s got your prong in a headlock.”

  Okay, that last part was sheer artistic license, and pretty out of place. Brett was closer to Megan’s age than to Jesse’s, and she wasn’t even sure he knew who Brigitte Nielsen was. To tell the truth, it was fairly obvious from the guffaw that followed the metaphor’s delivery that even Jesse knew it was one of those dime-novel sentences that had gone horribly wrong before it landed on Brett’s unfortunate eardrums. Jesse was good enough at them that he was usually forgiven, but this one was pushing it.

  Nonetheless, the first part was true—Megan had been doing Kegels. When they’d started this whole swinging thing, her list of Please’s, Yes’s, Okay’s, Maybe’s, Um’s, Meh’s and Fuck You’s had been dominated by three “Pleases” with multiple happy faces: “Pimp me,” “Nutella” and “Forced Exercise.” She now did 100 a day, so calling that “hundreds” might be pushing it, but on the days when Jesse had time to “make” her do them, planting her on the couch and making her spread her legs and lift her skirt and count them with a “Sir” in between each one, they always squeezed in some extras because Jesse disapproved of how wide she’d spread her legs as she did them or ‘cause she was “eyeballing” him. So, okay, “hundreds.” That’d have to do.

  She did a few enthusiastic ones right then, just for kicks.

  She was so turned on she felt the Kegels in her eyelids.

  “So she’s tight, then,” said Brett.

  “Sister Mary Josephine tight,” said Jesse.

  “Nice,” said Brett. He thought about it a minute, looked Megan in the eyes and gave her a hard, cruel, grab-your-hair kind of look. “Anally receptive?”

  Megan went gooey up inside; her half-dozen Kegels had started her clit aching and coaxed her sex to get even wetter.

  Jesse leaned in close and chuckled.

  “You mean, does she take it up the ass?”

  He spoke to Brett, but with his mouth close enough to Megan’s ear that the heat of his breath caressed her neck.

  “Darling, open your purse for the man. Will you?”

  Megan obeyed, so fucking turned on that her hands slightly trembled. She’d hung her “whore purse” from the chair; it was white with little silver sequins. She undid the clasp, held it open, and showed Brett what was inside.

  He was impressed: five kinds of lube, including two in tubes called “A-Love” and “Rear Glide” respectively.

  Brett nodded fervently.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m sold. When do you need her back?”

  Jesse nuzzled Megan’s neck; she felt goose bumps going down her back.

  “Oh, take your time,” he said. “Our room upstairs is paid till tomorrow morning, but I’ve got some shopping to do, if you know what I mean. So…go ahead and use her till midnight. Gives you ten hours to do everything you ever dreamed of with this perfect little piece of ass. That good enough?”

  Brett looked at Megan hungrily.

  “That’ll do,” he said.

  Brett reached into his blazer and took out a fat white envelope. He transferred it from one hand to the other and handed it to Jesse under the table. The very gesture made Megan’s clit throb so badly she had to shift her body and steady herself on Jesse’s arm just to keep from humping the chair.

  Jesse took the envelope. Making sure Megan saw, he opened the envelope and fanned ten $100 bills.

  Brett winked.

  “A little extra,” he said. “For the anal. I’m gonna give it to her good.”

  “She likes that,” grinned Jesse.

  Megan’s tits heaved as she panted, squirming excitedly.

  Jesse put the envelope in his j
acket pocket. “Enjoy your afternoon and evening,” he said with a grin. He kissed Megan on the cheek, threw a twenty on the table to cover their drinks, and without another word he was gone.

  Megan stared at Brett, breathing hard.

  She knew in five, maybe ten minutes she and Brett would be upstairs in her hotel room.

  Minutes after that, Brett would be inside her, on her, all over her.

  She knew it from experience; her husband had just pocketed the same ten Franklins that had circulated among the four of them for—what was it, a year now?

  Eight hundred, when a figure was quoted, for whatever service was demanded, always with a “little extra” for some kinky “specialty” decided on the spur of the moment.

  The weekend before, it had been Brett himself pocketing the envelope in a rundown Marina Highway bar called the “Captain’s Cave,” the extra $200 being “Jersey Whit’s” additional charge for couples as long as she “don’t have to suck no saggy bitch titties” and would be subjected to “none of that weird lesbo freak shit.” Say what you wanted about Brett’s wife Whitney—she did have significant instinct for the dramatic, as Megan and Jesse discovered once it became clear that the sucking of “saggy bitch titties” and Jersey Whit’s enthusiastic participation in “weird lesbo freak shit” were just a few over-the-knee spankings and a dog collar away.

  It was Megan who’d handed over the cash then, because the weekend before she’d pimped Jesse—and from what he told her, he’d earned every dollar.

  But, like all relationships, this one took effort to remain spicy. The renting of spouses could get dull if, now and then, surprises weren’t introduced. That’s why, when Brett started to get up, Megan leapt at him and grabbed him and shoved her hand under his jacket and tweaked his nipples and kissed him hard on the mouth, their tongues tangling as she tasted mimosas, honeydew, Brett’s one double Johnnie Black on the rocks and the familiar bite of hours-old female sex. Good old Whit, thought Megan. Body of an angel, morning wood of a frat boy.

  When, over Brett’s shoulder, Megan saw Whitney make a “Sorry” gesture and hotfoot it into through the bright gold doors of the elevator just before they closed, Megan broke the kiss and purred, “I’m worth it, Mister. You’ll see. I’m gonna earn every dollar.”