by Alison Tyler
Jim nudged at my entrance. “Ah, but you want it,” he taunted. “Don’t you? Want to feel this inside you?”
And I did, oh God, I did. I wanted him with an urgency I hadn’t felt for a long time. “No,” I protested, getting bolder. “No, you’re a bastard. I don’t—”
Jim drove into my depths, filling me with his meaty weight, then clamped a hand to my mouth. “Shut up,” he said, hips lunging in a frenzy. “Don’t care what you think. Just gonna use you. Use this body, use your holes.”
His nastiness made me reel and I panted into his hand, my breath making his palm hot and humid. I wondered if he was still mad at me for the slap, if anger was fueling his lust. If so, then I would hit him more often. Below the sleeves of his T-shirt, the freckled hills of his biceps flexed and tensed, and I adored that he’d kept his clothes on. Our nudity has long been commonplace and our lifestyle doesn’t allow for impulsive, frantic, fully-clothed sex. Or perhaps that’s what we told ourselves.
“Slut,” he gasped.
He released my mouth, grabbed hold of the belt across my breasts and pulled. My upper body curled forward and he held me that way, using the leather as a handle or harness, his fist by my cleavage as he fucked me hard and fast. With my trapped arms, I was utterly at his mercy, a rag doll jerking to his rhythm. The belt chafed my nipples and he fucked with such jackhammer ferocity it sent the blood soaring to my head. Before long, I fancied my consciousness was trying to escape my mind and I cried out, dizzy and delirious, the bumping of my clit making my pleasure coil quickly.
I came in a whirl of sensation, my cunt clutching and rippling as white pinpricks of light danced in my dizziness. Jim gave a brief, smug smile, but he didn’t let up, his cock ramming thrusts into my thick, swollen flesh. Then he released the belt, snatching himself free as I fell back onto the bed. Knees either side of me, Jim shuffled up my body, pumping his cock, his bright, greedy eyes fixed on my breasts. Heat colored his face, tendons taut in his neck as his fist shuddered. My body shook with the vigor of his movements, the rumpled bedclothes growing uncomfortable beneath me. He seemed to be taking a while, glancing up from my breasts to the wall, then down again. Much as I love to see the spray of his orgasm and revel in his pleasure, it was the friction of the bed linen against my skin that made me wish he’d hurry up. Plus we had a table booked for eight.
“Come on me,” I said.
Jim grunted appreciatively.
“Come on my tits,” I said. Again Jim grunted. Encouraged, I continued talking dirty, something I generally shy away from. “Come hard, shoot over me,” I urged, my tongue loosening. “Give me your come. Your…your hot come. Drown me in it.”
Jim peaked with a dark, guttural cry and the soft rain of his orgasm spattered onto my skin. It felt wonderful and fresh, its tangy scent filling my nostrils. Jim panted for a few seconds, then slid a hand across my belly, smiling down as he smeared his liquid over my skin. His silky, sticky fluid was a soothing contrast to the itch now prickling on my shoulder blade, an irritation heightened, of course, by my disabled hands. I could see a gray woollen blanket had escaped the cotton sheets, and I rubbed my shoulder, seeking to scratch myself against the fabric that was the source of the problem. It only made matters worse.
I gave Jim a little more recovery time, then, when he rolled onto his back, I blurted, “Jim, I have this damn itch. Will you get it for me? No, don’t untie me! Just scratch. I can’t bear it. My right shoulder. Down a bit. Down, down. In a bit more. Yes, now up. Just…yes! There! Yes!”
Jim scratched me as hard as he would scratch himself, his clawed fingernails scrubbing my skin. I groaned in blissful relief, sounding unintentionally orgasmic, then laughed at the sound of Jim laughing at my noise. And then our laughter grew, bubbling and sporadic, one sparking the other off until we were laughing for no reason except laughter itself, riding the high of how we’d delighted and surprised ourselves by having sex the way we used to.
When Jim unfastened the belt, he printed kisses where he’d scratched me. Passion doesn’t die, I thought as I flexed my shoulders. It simply settles into something else. And instead of obvious, flashy excitement, there’s the steady glitter of mineral veins in the rocks that sustain us. And there is this, too, the easy laughter, the comfort of his arms, and dinner in Paris on the evening of the day I nearly got hit by a bus, but he saved me. I slipped a hand under Jim’s T-shirt, nuzzling up to his chest, and over and over I told myself, I am lucky, I am lucky.
Rites of Passage
ADR Forte
He looks around the room, at the curtains moving in a breath of air disturbed by his entrance. They’re new. He doesn’t register details, but he notices the light, dim and golden. Cloth that matches the curtains is draped over the furniture. The material is smooth, shiny and dark, some shade of red.
Behind him, footsteps click on the floor.
“Like the decor?”
He turns to see her standing there. She shines in the dimness like a white candle: white dress and pearls and shining pale hair twisted into a knot. The joke he wants to make about the wedding being next week dies on his lips. Instead he clears his throat.
“It looks… It’s great,” he says as she takes a step closer. He can smell the light perfume of her hair, feels the hair on his arms rise at her proximity. From habit, he reaches out to put his hands on her waist, but she catches them halfway, shakes her head.
“No,” she says with a reproving smile.
He hasn’t heard them come in, but other women have materialized: her sister. Her best friend, who let him in not five minutes before. Five minutes before and she was wearing jeans, carrying a wine bottle and a cell phone, looking every bit the slightly frazzled hostess. Now she glitters in red, like the curtains and the room.
Another face, another friend.
They’re all in red, and none of them smile. Their faces are those of the women he knows: ordinary girls, pretty girls, yes, even girls he thinks of as hot. But tonight… Tonight they’re more than that. They’re sexual, feminine.
He swallows, and looks back at the face of his fiancée—this woman he knows so well, that he plans to spend his life with. She lets his hands go and he lets them fall to his sides.
“This is my special night,” she tells him. At that, they all smile.
“I want you to be there,” she’d told him.
“But…” he protested, not sure what his reasons were for objecting. He’d searched for some, because she was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.
“It should be your night out,” he said. “With your girls. For you to—” he’d waved a hand at the hair neatly coiled on her head “—let your hair down one last time. Go wild.”
She’d laughed.
“And why would you want me tagging along, anyway?” he added. “You’re gonna be stuck with me forever.”
He’d been teasing, but something in her eyes had unsettled him just a bit, as it did from time to time—in those moments where they were alone and she was silent, like after they’d made love, lying exhausted but sleepless among tangled sheets. The way she looked at him as if staring right through muscle and bone to some other part, something even he couldn’t see. He liked to joke that she knew him inside out, but deep down some part of him knew it was more true than he could ever imagine.
Really true. Scarily true.
“I know,” she said, and it felt like cold water hitting his back, leaving him short of breath and tingling. He’d looked away to mask it, to keep his composure because they were in public. A noisy, crowded café where they’d sneaked away from lives and jobs to have lunch, because even twelve hours apart was too much.
“Bring Tom,” she told him. “So you won’t feel so out numbered.”
He’d rolled his eyes at her and smiled, but he knew he’d be going to the damned bachelorette party.
He exhales. Anticipation warms his stomach. Don’t kid yourself, he thinks. But he can’t help it. He cracks a smile, raises an eye
brow, but the flippant words won’t form. Silence keeps its hold on him as her matron of honor, Diane, steps around and takes his hand.
“Come on over here,” she tells him, as if they’re all just getting together for drinks and dinner, instead of the five of them alone with him, the atmosphere so charged with sexual tension he wonders if this is no more than a seriously perverted dream.
In heels, Diane barely reaches his shoulder, yet he lets her lead him to a silk-draped chair. He tries not to think about the small fact that she’s the matron of honor as he sits, and his gaze strays to the neckline of her dress. It plunges far lower than anything he’s ever seen her wear, far lower than anything he would ever have imagined her daring to wear.
He forces himself to look up, ignoring the thud of his heart and the surge of arousal in his crotch. This has to be a test, just a test. Something they’ve read about in some damned magazine to see “how does he handle temptation” or some other fucking nonsense. Or maybe they’re just doing this for their own amusement, for a good laugh at his expense, to see if he can deal with it.
Either way, he’s failing miserably. He knows it as they form a half circle before him and he sees light shining through flimsy cloth, revealing a curvy hip here, a narrow one there. Slender waists and delicate breasts and full, lush ones. His dick wakes up fully and enthusiastically, and robs him of any ability for rational thought.
His bride-to-be stands directly before him, between his knees.
“Dearest,” she says. There is laughter in her tone, teasing, and her gaze is turning him inside out again. It takes him a few seconds to realize she’s unbuttoning the neck of his shirt. Before he can say “wait,” before he can ask questions, she pulls it up and off with Diane’s help. His T-shirt follows the polo, yanked over his head, whisked from sight. It happens too fast even for disbelief.
Some part of his brain that still works finds it amusing he can be bare-chested and still feel as if he’s sitting in the middle a furnace. Well, in a way he is. Funny that.
Her sister steps between the others, glasses of wine in hand. She gives one to Diane.
“And this one for you, Sean,” Emma says, holding it out to him. “We thought we ought to get you a little drunk first.”
The glass is almost full and as her fingers brush his, wine spills. He looks down, expecting to see the cold drops sizzle, because he’s burning up. But no, they only trickle down his chest, and one drop falls to his stomach, just above his navel. He looks up to see them exchanging glances.
“Go ahead,” says his fiancée to her sister. She steps back, her hand swept outward in a gesture of invitation. Making a gift of him.
He opens his mouth to protest, but what the hell exactly is he going to protest? And in God’s name why?
His future sister-in-law kneels between his legs.
Blond hair and red sequins flash for a second and then thought evaporates at the feel of her tongue, wet and cool, on his skin. It heats up as she licks the spilled wine from his chest, as she licks her way down skin with no wine at all on it, down to the single, stray drop.
He realizes his muscles are taut to the point of pain only when her tongue completes its exploration of his navel and she lifts her head. He exhales, wincing at the discomfort of his pants being much, much too tight across the front now, and laughter tinkles all around him.
Someone nudges the glass in his hand.
“Drink up, lover boy.”
Obedient and dry-mouthed, he does, draining half the glass—a good thing, because his legs are abruptly forced wider to make room for another perfumed, satin-clad body kneeling at his feet. Aislynn this time. Aislynn who’s incredibly fucking hot and very married.
He swallows the tart aftertaste of wine and feels the tug on his zipper, welcome relief from the pressure on his dick. He closes his eyes, retaining the barest thread of concentration to keep his glass upright as hands free his erection. As other hands pull pants and underwear down.
Jesus Christ. They’re undressing me. No, they’ve fucking undressed me. I’m naked in front of them all, and two women I have no right to even look at are playing with my dick. Jesus. Fuck.
He opens his eyes and takes another swallow of wine.
“Chug it!” a voice, soft and wicked, teases at his ear. What the hell, he thinks. He drinks it all, and as quickly as a hand takes the glass from him, a soft mouth touches his, sucking, tasting, nibbling at his lower lip. With his free hand, he reaches out, his fingers tangle in short, baby-fine hair and he pulls her closer, kisses her harder. Flor, his beloved’s best friend. Nearly a sister, too.
But then, what does it matter, when he feels tongues sliding wet along his hard-on? When he feels one warm mouth sheath his dick and the pressure of another on his scrotum. He groans against Flor’s mouth, but a hand on his chin pulls him away, turns his head.
Long nails scrape his neck and the scent of Diane fills his head as her tongue finds his. Going by instinct, he reaches out and his fingers find cloth over warm, yielding flesh. Still kissing him, she guides his hand inward. He pushes the low-cut material back, feels her nipple rub against his palm as he caresses her.
Need rises in his crotch and he thrusts upward into the warm mouth sucking on him.
Laughter.
“Easy, Emmy. We don’t want him losing it yet.”
Her mouth releases him.
Emma. Dear God, her sister’s been sucking him off. Well, if he wasn’t going to hell before, he is now. Comforting that if he dies tonight, he knows where he’s headed, and at this rate, they just might give him a coronary.
Diane bites his lower lip one last time and steps back. Hands tug at his dick and he sees Aislynn wrap the band of rubber around it, around his balls, cold and alien against his aroused flesh. They giggle as they snap the ring closed.
“We want to keep you up all night, Sean.”
Oh God. He is going to hell tonight. There isn’t any way he can survive this.
But there’s more at stake than that. He looks up, over the sacrilege being carried out against his private parts, and finds her standing just beyond the circle. Watching.
He pleads silently. Tell me if I’m failing you. Tell me if I’m losing you forever because of this. But her eyes are in shadow and her perfect face like a magazine cover. She gives nothing away.
Angry desperation boils through him. He sits up, pushing their hands away, tries to stand up, but Flor’s hand on his chest shoves him back.
He sees her brows draw together and she shakes her head.
“Don’t fight us, dearest,” she says.
Diane slips something cold and clinking down over his head. He feels it tighten around his neck and he pulls, tries to turn, but looks back at the sound of her voice again.
“It’s fastened to the table. And you can’t take it off.”
His pulse pounds in his throat, under the metal around it, and he lifts his hand anyway to test the clasp, to find the lock—a real lock, a hardware store lock, and nothing that he’s going to break.
Flor runs her fingers down the side of his face. He feels them brush perspiration away.
“Come on,” she says. “Give me your hand.” He feels smooth, hot skin and silky hair curling around his fingers. He takes a deep breath and turns to look at her. Smiling, she moves his fingers farther under the skirt hiked up over her narrow hips. Sticky softness between her thighs, flesh so hot he feels answering heat creep into his face.
Biting her lip, she closes her eyes and leans one knee on the edge of the chair beside him. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he moves his fingers just as carefully, finding her, making her squirm. A hand touches his dick, caressing the shaft. Another runs down his chest and over his stomach, cups his balls. Bare breasts touch his arm, his leg.
Kisses distract him. Kisses everywhere: from his mouth, to his shoulders, to his scrotum, to his calves. His other hand is seized, commandeered, dragged across taut nipples or between soft thighs. He doesn’t have the skill to m
anage both hands, to drive Flor to the edge and keep track of which other woman’s tits or pussy he’s being forced to stroke. He can’t think with the hands stroking him, the lips kissing him, with the incredible, insanely maddening tightness that builds between his legs, a sensation he’s never felt before.
The fucking cock ring. Dear God. And the wine is taking effect, blurring the edges of control.
He focuses on Flor, pinches her clit, pinches the nipple in his left hand. Elicits moans of pleasure from both women. He glances around to see Aislynn, one hand between her legs, the other using his hand to pleasure her breasts, her head flung back in delight.
Oh, fuck this.
He closes his eyes and prays to whatever gods of carnal delight there are for help, giving in to pleasure, moving his hands and his hips in mindless rhythm. And that sadly out numbered, still-sane part of his brain tells him he’s crucified between their bodies: collared and bound, arms outstretched, legs spread. Fucking Jesus. Seriously.
And she’s watching. Watching him.
Laughter fills his throat. He thinks he might be just a tad delirious.
He’d proposed one night as they sat on the garden swing in her backyard. The full moon turned the diamond in the ring a bright, opaque shining white. On her milky skin it looked like magic, and he felt dizzy when she kissed him.
“Are you sure?” she’d asked after a moment, spinning the band over and over on her finger.
“How can you ask that?”
“Because I have this tendency to demand the impossible,” she said, half-sarcastic. Mostly serious.
So he’d kissed her again, his head so light with euphoria he might as well have been stoned out of his mind.
“I don’t care.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that.”
He’d just laughed.
