by Alison Tyler
“I shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine,” she said woozily, staring up and puffing on one of the usually forbidden American Spirits that always seemed to come out when the wine flowed. When she looked back down, Aidan had a wicked smile on his face and a pair of handcuffs dangling from one outstretched finger.
“But I’m kind of glad you did,” he said, and winked at her.
Stephanie had to stifle her natural nervous giggle, a skill she had learned after law school when she started taking depositions. It had bled over into her private life, but the wine had suppressed it somewhat, so a tiny sound escaped, something closer, perhaps, to a chuckle crossed with a titter crossed with a faint, ever so slightly enraptured moan.
“What do you think you’re going to do with those?” she asked.
“Get up against the fence and find out,” said Aidan, standing up.
Stephanie knew the fence he was talking about; it rested along the edge of the rooftop patio, the place where residents—drunken residents—seemed most likely to lean over, lose their footing, and plunge twelve stories to set off some poor street-parker’s car alarm in a dramatic demonstration that Darwinism was alive and well. Made of square black steel bars, it curved inward about six feet above the floor of the patio, its topmost rail creating the perfect place to secure a pair of handcuffs—something Aidan had commented on just the week before, when they’d moved in. At the time, a shiver had gone through Stephanie, but it was only one week and half a bottle of Shiraz later that it actually seemed like a good idea.
Her eyes lingered on the railing with the hint of trepidation that told Aidan, immediately, that she was going to do what he said. Still she played coy, though, part of their game.
“All the neighbors could see,” she said.
“They’re either sleeping or horny,” said Aidan. “Guess which one I am?”
“You’re serious?” said Stephanie, a faint smile playing at the edges of her lips. Aidan plucked the American Spirit from between her fingers, took a drag, and dropped it to the patio. He crushed it under his foot and jerked his eyes toward the railing.
“You tell me,” he said, and Stephanie melted under that hot gaze.
“Is that a dare?”
“No,” smiled Aidan, rattling the cuffs as they dangled from his finger. “Just a very, very firm suggestion.”
She rose, only a little unsteady; now that she wasn’t looking up, she barely felt drunk at all. She could feel the heat between her legs as, barefoot—having doffed her shoes long ago to enjoy the warm radiance of the sun-baked concrete patio—she sauntered over to the railing and pressed herself against it, arms over her head, clutching the top bar.
“Your move, mister,” she said, cocking her body just so and feeling the cool night wind blow through her white silk blouse.
Aidan followed her, seizing one wrist and locking the cuff around it. He smoothly flipped the chain over the bar and cuffed Stephanie’s wrists over her head. Then he seized her hair with one hand and kissed her, hard, his tongue exploring her quivering mouth as his other hand found the top of her blouse and yanked.
In that instant before he pulled her shirt open, Stephanie had been afraid her mouth might taste too much like cigarettes for Aidan’s liking—that puff he’d taken didn’t match the five decadent cigarettes she’d drunkenly sucked down between sips of Shiraz and raunchy conversations with their dinner guests. But at the moment he began to undress her like that—fiercely, almost violently—she forgot just about everything except the heat between them.
She had half expected him to undress her like this—top first, exposing her breasts—but not with such ferocious disregard for her sixty-dollar blouse. The buttons popped free so that one hit the concrete patio and rolled; she could hear another clinking wetly into a wineglass somewhere, still a third clanking on the metal patio table. The sweat-moist silk that came free from her body, Aidan’s heat against her as he pressed his body to hers and pinched one nipple through her lace bra—it all combined in a swirl that made her totally incapable of doing anything except moaning softly into his mouth and melting into his arms.
When his tongue withdrew, however, she managed to whimper a breathless plea—disguised as a question.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked.
Aidan’s eyes turned wolfish in that way they did when he was about to fuck her just the way she wanted. “I think it’s a fucking great idea,” he said, and kissed her again, deeper, pinching her nipple harder. Stephanie squirmed against him, sensations in her nipple mingling as pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure, pain—and then his hand slid just a few inches over, enough to work the front clasp on her bra with one simple movement of middle finger, forefinger, and thumb, faster than Stephanie herself would have been able to do it.
The thin lace of her white bra came peeling away from her breasts, the night air cooling them as the sweat evaporated in what felt like wispy swirls of vapor. Her nipples hardened immediately, even more than they had when Aidan had started pinching them. They hardened so much that it hurt—until Aidan’s mouth moved down quickly and enveloped one firm bud, his tongue flicking rhythmically across it as Stephanie whispered, “Jesus!”
Her next sound was anything but a whisper—and the sound of Charlie Parker did little to camouflage the moan that erupted from her lips when Aidan began to tongue and pinch her nipples faster. She wriggled against him, grasping the bar as he mercilessly worked both of her nipples, one pinched between thumb and forefinger, the other suckled deep into his mouth. Her eyes roved wildly, windows spinning everywhere. There were a lot of apartments in the twelve-story building. One of their neighbors could decide to come out onto the patio for a late-night smoke. Some crazy young executive could decide to drop by one of the offices across the way, late on a Saturday, to pick up some papers; someone in one of the apartments opposite them could be hanging out in his living room and pull a Jimmy Stewart on her. Any one of them could see her—witness the details of her surrender. She opened her mouth to beg Aidan to stop—someone could see.
Then Aidan drew away from her breasts, a string of his spittle glistening in the moonlight, and reached for her belt.
The plea for him to stop never came—instead, she uttered a helpless moan as he undid the buckle and pulled her flared silk slacks quickly over thighs, letting them fall to her bare ankles. Stephanie pressed her thighs together, twisting her hips to one side, her body resisting instinctively even as Aidan knelt down, hooked his arm under her thighs, and lifted her just far enough to sweep her slacks out of the way.
Her blouse and bra open, her slacks gone, Stephanie stood with only her thong covering her, the cool night air reminding her with every tingle of her flesh that she was all but naked, here at the top of the world.
Kneeling still, Aidan looked up at her, firmly opening her thighs and licking his way up their insides, then lingering on her belly so that his tongue traced circles around her pierced navel. Before, Aidan’s body had partially hidden her front; she had felt less exposed. Now, her bared breasts were revealed for any voyeur out there to see, and the feel of that made her nipples harden more and her cunt go liquid as Aidan slipped his hands under the waistband of her thong and pulled the soaked slip of lace swiftly down her thighs.
When her thong was around her ankles, Stephanie stared into Aidan’s upturned eyes, recognizing the fire in them and the twisted smile on his face. Anyone could be watching. They should stop. They should really, really stop.
Then she lifted one foot and stepped out of her thong, letting Aidan open her legs as his mouth descended between them.
His tongue slipped between her swollen lips as his strong arms lifted her thighs onto his shoulders. Aidan had broad shoulders; it was one of the things she liked most about him, physically speaking. She’d never really noticed how perfectly spaced they were to serve as supports for her thighs while he went down on her. Then his tongue found her clit, and the biomechanics of her thighs were the furthest thing fro
m her mind—there was another kind of biomechanical equation that concerned her far more, and Aidan applied it with rhythmic strokes of his tongue, making Stephanie shudder and thrust her head back, through the bars of the railing—so there was nothing between her and the sky as she stared up, moaning unselfconsciously.
Two fingers slid easily into Stephanie’s cunt, the pads of them finding her G-spot as Aidan’s tongue quickened on her clit. She shivered all over as the cold night air met the rising heat of her almost-naked body. Aidan thrust in deeper and reached up to pinch her nipple as Stephanie mounted toward a quick, unexpected orgasm.
She writhed in the air, her hands gripping the bar and her thighs supported on Aidan’s shoulders. With her head thrust back through the wide spaces in the railing, she felt like she was floating in space. She could see lights in windows of the nearby buildings. She could feel phantom eyes watching her. Aidan’s hand moved from one breast to the other, working each nipple in a rhythm that matched his tongue on Stephanie’s clit and his fingers against her G-spot. She was on the edge, and he could tell—would have been able to tell, even if she hadn’t long ago given up being quiet and released herself into wild sounds of ecstasy, her throat aching with the cries she uttered as she closed in on her climax.
Then his fingers came out of her, his tongue left her clit, and he was up, positioning her knees over his shoulders, leaning into her so that her own shoulders pressed hard against the railing—so hard it hurt, not that she cared. Aidan got his pants open and worked his hard cock up the drenched length of her slit, teasing her clit just enough before fitting his cockhead into her entrance. Then he slid into her, and she cried out louder than ever as the sensations took her.
Stephanie came in the first few thrusts, hovering in space, feeling Aidan’s hand thrust between the bars and then twisting in her hair to keep her from hitting her head on them. She shuddered as her climax exploded through her, and Aidan’s deep soundings brought her orgasm higher, pushing her further with each thrust as he let out a moan and came inside her. She flooded hot and wet with his juice, feeling his mouth on her neck, sucking hungrily as his movements slowed and eased up.
When he withdrew, Stephanie was the one panting, her thighs too unsteady to hold her. He had the key ready, and unfastened the cuffs with one hand before catching her neatly to guide her over to a padded deck chair. She curled up in it, pressing her thighs together to shroud her liquid cunt as Aidan wrapped the blanket around her, the soft acrylic brushing her nipples so that she shivered.
Stephanie’s eyes flickered around at the surrounding buildings—seeking the eyes that had captured her, if any actually had. The idea of them—whether they were there or not—made her heart pound faster than the jazz rhythms still pulsing from the radio. She looked up at Aidan, who bent down and kissed her.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
She clutched his hand to her shoulder and smiled.
“On top of the world,” she sighed. “On top of the fucking world.”
Cropped
Greg Wharton
The air is thick with the scent of damp earth from this morning’s weekly watering of the jungle of houseplants. Buffy bathes, and the bright California Sunday afternoon sun streams in onto his orange feline body through the bedroom window.
He stops his grooming for a moment, focusing his gaze up and over the end of the metal bedpost to his humans on the bed, but quickly loses interest in their Sunday games and rolls over to warm his furry stomach in the bright stream of light.
With a hiss the riding crop comes down again on Tony’s balls.
SNAP!
“So beautiful…”
And then again twice, this time against the underside of Tony’s deep red and painfully hard cock.
SNAP! SNAP!
“Ah… What an angel. Look at that porn-star dick!”
SNAP!
Tony is in his favorite position: on his back in the middle of their queen-sized bed, his legs pulled back into an extreme V over his head, ankles cuffed and snugly roped to the top corner posts. He’s naked except for a pair of socks, still damp from the run they took together earlier. This splayed-wide position leaves his cock and balls available to Shane’s administrations and his asshole stretched open and ready for any abuse he’s so hoping will come.
SNAP! SNAP!
The crop slaps twice on his upper belly just above the spot where his cock points, then grazes up his chest to his nipples, first one and then quickly the other—each adorned with two small plastic clamps—and taps them none too gently, causing a bright flash of pain and an angry yellow light to explode in Tony’s vision.
Though he is completely secured by his ankles, Tony’s arms are free. It took some time to get used to the personal restraint he has to show, not instantly cringing and flailing his arms when something happens. But he knows that Shane takes great pleasure in watching his eager bottom writhe under his firm and talented hand, and even greater pleasure—being a true Sadist through and through—in the fact that Tony has to control his own arms and hands while being tortured. So Tony learned to let the energy from the endorphins roll out in waves from his arms that lay flat on either side of his body, much like a gymnast would use them for balance, and only occasionally do they even grip at the flannel sheets when the urge to flail them becomes too great. He then stretches out his fingers, letting the release of control and the resulting energy fight any panic.
“Come on, baby. Don’t hold back, Tony. You know what I love the most. Make some noise, beautiful man.”
Shane’s deep brown eyes drill into his.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! up the underside of his right leg…
“AH…oh oown oown… AEE—”
Then quickly SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! down his left.
“AE AE AE… Aaaaaaaah… FUCK!”
SNAP! sounds the crop on his right asscheek, then SNAP! on his left. Trying his best to breathe deep and full, readying for what is coming, he nonetheless holds his breath and bites down hard on his bottom lip when it comes.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
As Shane crops his asshole the endorphin waves start to roll in earnest. Tony can only focus on specific details: the brilliant red color of the roses on the bedside table Shane had delivered to him this morning along with fresh pumpkin muffins and the Sunday paper; the silver and turquoise of the ring on his lover’s wide hand that firmly holds the shiny black riding crop now buzzing with so much psychic energy that it leaves colorful trails, as if he were doing acid; Shane’s full pink lips and brilliant white teeth as he sneers and smiles to show his pure pleasure and enjoyment.
Tony takes a long, deep breath. He smells the wet houseplants, the roses, the newsprint from the Sunday paper. He smells Shane, whose body gives off a scent like no other when excited and relieving Sadistic urges or delivering pleasure. And he smells himself: his funky, sweaty feet; his own acidic scent that comes with pain and pleasure; and he smells his own asshole. His own asshole’s ripe and consuming scent—though he would never admit it to anyone but his lover Shane—that turns him on immensely.
He tries to lift his ass higher, but the position leaves very little movement capability.
“That’s it, love. Who’s my ass slut? Come on…tell me. Tell me!”
SNAP!
“I am!”
SNAP!
“What do you feel?”
His body heats up, every inch of his skin crackling with electricity, his asshole awash in sensations he is unable to clearly describe. And Shane knows he has difficulty defining it, which gives him even more pleasure in asking him to.
“Baby, I need you. Please fuck me. Now…please… Don’t make me talk, fuck me, I can’t—”
SNAP!
Shane lays the crop on the bed next to Tony’s head, and dips his face to Tony’s aching asshole, lapping and tonguing the hot pucker, and groaning deeply like a hungry beast over its kill. He then floats—or so it seems to Tony from his position—off the bed. He gently picks up Bu
ffy and places him in the hall, closing the door. He then lifts, from its hook on the wall, the soft leather blindfold and fits it over Tony’s head.
And while Buffy whines and meows many hours too early for his dinner outside their bedroom door, Tony hears the familiar sound of the bottle of lube opening, then feels the cool wetness as it’s squeezed into his still hot and stinging asshole. All other sensations melt away when he feels his lover’s thick cockhead begin to probe; all is now focused on his asshole and Shane’s hard cock. And as the cock slides in, slowly but without any hesitation, his vision of blackness behind the blindfold soon explodes into bright white.
Girls in the Hood
Jolie du Pré
Doneshia and Chavale were almost there. They cut through a lot with grass growing up through cracks in its pavement and strewn with broken glass and paper scraps. A cluster of idle men, languid, with bloodshot eyes from too much drink, leaned against the dented, rusted cars that sat in the center. Damn cars been here forever, Doneshia thought.
“Aay, come over here a minute!” one man yelled.
Doneshia took Chavale’s hand. “We ain’t interested!” she yelled back.
One more block of apartment buildings until Chicago Avenue. The one on the corner was abandoned, but you could often hear faint voices inside.
“Come on, girl!” Doneshia said to Chavale as they crossed Chicago.
Tyrell was on the other side standing with Reigus and Mike.
“Hey, Ty,” Doneshia said, pulling Chavale close to her.
“Hey, where y’all goin’?” asked Tyrell.
“To the store.”
“Why don’t you give me a couple dollars? I’ll pay you back.”
