Sweet Life 1

by Violet Blue

  You pull up to the curb. “Thanks,” I say.

  And you don’t thank me; you just say, “See you” as if it was nothing.

  I get out of the car. By now it’s two o-clock in the morning, and the last thing I want to do is be alone on these streets. Lucky thing the parking garage is right here.

  I look around one last time, remembering all the nights when, coming back from an expensive dinner in the Castro or Noe Valley, you and I took a little detour and drove past this low-rent red-light district, me craning my head to get a better look and you chuckling, knowing the surge of fantasy that was going through my body and mind at the moment I saw the tawdry hookers parading their wares to the passing cars. I remember how you would reach over and slip your hand between my thighs, stroke my pussy through my jeans or under my skirt. How you would tell me how wet I was, how some day you were going to turn me out onto Capp Street. And that night was tonight—finally, like the sudden realization of every fantasy I’ve ever had, every sex dream I’ve ever confessed to you.

  The Latino parking attendant eyes me suspiciously, his eyes devouring me with everything he’s got.

  “Busy night?” he asks as I give him the ticket. The side of his mouth twists in a smile.

  “I’ll say,” I tell him.

  “That’ll be twenty dollars.”

  I can’t help but smirk as I bend down and take the crumpled bill out of my black knee-high boot. I hand him the money; he hands me my exit ticket.

  “Take it easy,” he tells me, and I blow him a kiss.

  As I mount the onramp to the bridge, the Lexus ticking and purring, I try not to speed; I want you to get home before I do, so that you’re showered and clean, scrubbed rosy and lying in bed, maybe even thinking about me, your cock hard when I walk in still dirty from my walk on the wild side, my mouth watering to taste how clean your cock is.

  Because then I’ll get to make you dirty all over again. Just the way I like you. Though I doubt you’ll ever be as dirty as me.

  Into the Labyrinth

  XAVIER ACTON

  I love five things about Club Labyrinth.

  First is the club it’s held in, with its dozens of corridors leading nowhere, its many shaded crevasses and poorly lit booths where you’re lucky if the black-garbed cocktail waitress or latex-clad Peachy Puff girl—usually a cross-dressed guy—even bothers to tell you not to smoke, let alone to stop necking (and she never takes your order).

  Second is the music they play, all dark-trance with a fetish edge, grinding rhythms mingled with moans and cheesy propositions. For me it’s raw sex distilled into the most bewitching kind of rock ’n’ roll. If you were going to be sarcastic you might tease me that it reminds me of my youth, which maybe wasn’t that long ago but still seems a distant memory—except when I’m hanging out at Labyrinth.

  Third is the smell, if you can believe that—incense and cigarettes, whiskey and bodies, musk and wine. Any other place, any other time, the cocktail of odors would sicken me, but there’s something special about the way that dark maze stinks that evokes the adventurer in me.

  Fourth, and here we’re getting to the good part, is the way the women dress, or is that girls? They seem like girls to me, I guess, but most of them have been of legal drinking age for long enough to see a president come and go, so let’s call them women for the sake of argument. The place has a dress code, one of the only clubs in the city that has one and actually enforces it. Man or woman, you’re not getting through that door if you’re not wearing some sort of leather, latex, or PVC—and not just on your feet. Chain mail and pirate shirts will get you laughed at and sent sulking back to your car. As a result, the women there are clad without exception in materials natural or synthetic—but very, very kinky…high leather boots, shimmering black latex bustiers, barely legal miniskirts, glittery silver tights. Let’s take Katrina, for instance: That night when the really interesting stuff started to happen, she was wearing black patent leather hotpants and a matching, skin-hugging bustier that defied gravity the way it stayed on her. Her dyed-black hair was teased into a voluptuous mane, and her tongue piercing flashed whenever she spoke.

  The men are dressed similarly, if less flamboyantly, as I was this particularly night when the really interesting stuff started to happen—in PVC pants, knee-high boots, and a low-cut latex tank top. It was steamy as hell as I danced up behind Vanessa, and the sweat that slicked up the contact of her bare back and my upper chest wasn’t a result of just the dancing or the temperature of the smoke-laden air.

  Because that’s the fifth and final thing I love about Labyrinth: Vanessa. She loves dancing on a floor full of freaks like she loves nothing else in this world. And she loves teasing me while she’s doing it, knowing I can’t take my eyes off her. And knowing I can’t take my eyes off how close she’s dancing to Katrina. Who had been flirting with her for weeks, while I watched, wondering if it would go anywhere. And knowing, that night, that it was about to.

  Perhaps I’d started the whole thing, acknowledging to Vanessa that I thought Katrina was hot after that first night we’d chatted at Labyrinth, about the tighter-than-tight Hello Kitty shirt Katrina had been wearing—no bra—and the Pochacco lunchbox Vanessa was carrying. Any comments I’d made in the past about that lunchbox being a vaguely undignified accoutrement for a woman of thirty simply vanished into thin air when I saw Katrina coveting the damn thing. She and Vanessa made eye contact for half an hour as they traded lipstick, shopping tips, phone numbers. Vanessa teased me that she wasn’t going to call Katrina, just to get back at me for drooling over her so much. Until I pointed out that Vanessa had been drooling even more than me. “Yeah,” she finally admitted. “I guess I was.”

  But still she didn’t call, claiming shyness, which was the silliest thing I had ever heard. Vanessa wasn’t shy—maybe she was only busy, or maybe she was a little uncomfortable with how much I’d liked Katrina. Which was silly, too, because if there’s a woman who could truly turn my head away from Vanessa, I certainly haven’t encountered her yet. But I didn’t push the issue, didn’t remind Vanessa that she still had Katrina’s phone number. And there things stood: a vivid fantasy of mine, Katrina and Vanessa making out on the dance floor at Labyrinth.

  Until the three of us bumped up together on that very same dance floor, a few weeks later. And I knew somehow that this time there would be nothing left to my imagination.

  Katrina and Vanessa didn’t talk. Neither one bore cartoon characters, so maybe there was nothing to talk about—and the music was far, far too loud out there, anyway. Instead, they made eye contact, and as they ground closer and closer in time with the music, Vanessa wriggled her body like a stripper. I expected Katrina to back away, but she didn’t. Instead, their slow dance continued until they made contact, their bodies against each other, Vanessa’s bare belly touching Katrina’s as their hips synchronized perfectly in a split second, as I hovered back a foot or so, watching incredulously.

  And that’s when Katrina, who for all I knew didn’t even have a last name, kissed my wife.

  It wasn’t one of those “girl-girl” kisses, either. It was hard and hot, mouths open, teeth grinding as Vanessa gnawed on Katrina’s lower lip, the way she likes to do to me. That’s one thing about Vanessa: It’s all teeth and tongue when she kisses you, as if she’s a tiger left alone with her meal, never mind that it’s still alive. I saw Katrina reacting, her arms snaking around Vanessa, pulling her close as she parted her legs slightly and as Vanessa let her thigh slip between them. They kissed hungrily, and I felt myself getting hard in my skintight PVC. I backed off another step, suddenly feeling superfluous, as the second most beautiful woman in the world kissed the most beautiful. At that instant, I just wanted to watch.

  Which is what everyone else on the dance floor apparently wanted to do, too; I could feel the eyes all around, drinking in the scene of my wife kissing a beautiful stranger, their half-exposed bodies grinding together in time with Miranda Sex Garden.

  I
was about to pull back farther, not wanting to disrupt the gorgeous scene, when suddenly I felt a hand on my belt.

  It was Vanessa, reaching back to grab me and pull me in. Which would have been a little less convincing if at that moment I hadn’t felt a second hand, this one gloved in lace, caressing my cheek, sliding into my longish hair and pulling me.

  It was Katrina: Like synchronized swimmers, the two women pulled me hard into their scene, my hard cock meeting Vanessa’s ass, her pert cheeks smooth and inviting through her short latex skirt.

  And Katrina, breaking her lip-lock with my wife, pressed her lovely lips to mine, and I felt her silver-spiked tongue caressing mine, coaxing me in further. And when her lips left mine, Vanessa’s were there to replace them, as Katrina began kissing Vanessa’s neck.

  “Is this all right?” I shouted over the music, so overwhelmed by the sudden realization of my fantasy that I couldn’t believe it was actually happening, or that it was actually OK.

  “That depends,” Vanessa shouted back. “Is it all right with you?”

  “Definitely,” I yelled.

  “What?”

  And I kissed her, hard, telling her all she needed to know. Katrina’s tongue was flickering into Vanessa’s ear, teasing it. And eyes all around were watching us, some jealous, some fascinated, some turned on.

  “Let’s get private,” shouted Vanessa.

  “Where?”

  “In public,” she answered, and took my hand and Katrina’s, tugging us along. Katrina laughed, leaned toward me, and kissed me on the lips as Vanessa dragged us off the dance floor and down one of the many corridors of the club.

  We’d acquired an entourage, but as Vanessa led us through the depths of the darkness we lost them all. When she’d found the hallowed kiosk she’d been looking for, she dragged us in. It was a little corner, one so far back that almost no one ever stumbled in even though it was complete with a garish, lime-green couch from some hellish thrift store. The funny thing is, though, I’d never seen anyone so much as making out on the thing. This time I knew that wouldn’t be the case.

  Vanessa guided Katrina onto the couch, then climbed on top of her and pulled me down. We made a sandwich, the two women making out as Vanessa quickly unzipped Katrina’s bustier. She had small, firm breasts with pierced nipples. Vanessa began to kiss Katrina’s breasts and ground her ass against back my crotch. Her knee came to rest between Katrina’s legs, pushing hard into her crotch so that Katrina moaned. Vanessa was a good three or four inches shorter than Katrina, a good eight inches shorter than me, so she fit perfectly between us, my mouth kissing the back of Vanessa’s neck—one of her favorite things—while I watched her tonguing a beautiful pair of breasts.

  Then I felt one of Katrina’s hands slipping between my legs, caressing my cock, as she grabbed my hair with her other hand and pulled me down to kiss her.

  If I hadn’t already been hard, I would have been. I felt Katrina’s open palm gently squeezing my balls, moving up to press against my hard shaft through the tight pants. She began to unzip my pants.

  We’ve always been ostensibly nonmonogamous, Vanessa and I, but it had literally been years since I’d felt another woman’s hand on my cock. There was a different texture to it, a different way Katrina gripped me—more tentative, perhaps, than Vanessa’s sure hand, but equally exciting. Katrina and I kissed hard, our tongues mingling, Vanessa’s body curled neatly between us, Vanessa’s mouth on Katrina’s nipple, sucking. I moaned as Katrina began to slowly jack me off.

  “People are watching,” she said when our lips parted for an instant.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw two or three clubgoers watching us, fascinated, trying to look nonchalant. When I looked back at them, they scattered. Then Katrina was pulling on my hair again, twisting my face insistently around, pressing her lips to mine, kissing me. God, her mouth tasted good—clove cigarettes and Jack Daniels. She let go of my hair so that she could let her hands gently snake down Vanessa’s back, curving over her ass—until they reached the hem of her short skirt.

  And pulled it up.

  I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me that Vanessa wasn’t wearing anything under there; if she hadn’t planned the whole thing on the phone with Katrina, it just couldn’t have gone so smoothly. And in this age of safe sex, how could Katrina, who seemed like a vaguely responsible girl, have known that Vanessa and I don’t use condoms with each other?

  Which she must have known, from the sure way she reached up, took my cock in her hand, and guided it between Vanessa’s spread thighs.

  I’ll give her this, too: She gently parted Vanessa’s lips with her fingers, sliding one fingertip into my wife’s pussy to make sure she was sufficiently lubricated. And she certainly was—more lubricated than I had felt her in months, which I discovered as soon as my cockhead found her familiar entrance. I thrust forward, my cock sinking smoothly into Vanessa as her back arched and she moaned. Which is when Vanessa hoisted herself more fully onto her hands and knees—giving Katrina the room she needed to pull up Vanessa’s shirt, and start caressing my wife’s breasts with her tongue.

  All the while, I could feel Katrina’s hand against the base of my cock, against my balls as she rubbed Vanessa’s clit with her thumb. That’s usually all it takes to get Vanessa off during intercourse, and while I knew it well, I had never felt another woman’s hand doing it while I fucked Vanessa. Which was enough of a thrill to drive me toward my own orgasm, but not before Vanessa’s arms curled around Katrina’s head, gripping her close as I felt the first spasms begin in Vanessa’s cunt.

  She didn’t utter a cry, or maybe I just couldn’t hear it over the music. She only shuddered, and her pussy spasmed again, and again, and again as I felt my climax coming as I thrust faster and faster into my wife. And then I threw back my head, feeling droplets of sweat scatter all about me, and I came harder than I’d come in as long as I could remember. Gasping, I felt my cock squeezing deep inside Vanessa’s tightened pussy. I felt Katrina’s hand caressing my balls and the shaft of my penis, coaxing the last droplets of come out of me.

  Katrina hoisted herself back up to the head of the couch so that she could kiss Vanessa deeply. Then she locked eyes with me, and I knew what she wanted. I leaned forward and kissed her, hungry for her taste and thankful for her indulgence. But if anyone was indulging anyone, it remained to be seen.

  I caught a blaze of light out of my peripheral vision, turned my head, and was inexorably blinded.

  “Bouncer,” shouted Katrina, and started giggling. The bouncer dropped the flashlight, locked eyes with me in a way I like to think Katrina never would have. He was a big, beefy guy with a goatee and a Psychic TV tattoo on the back of his hand. My eyes dazzled, I saw him only as a silhouette as he made an obvious movement—pointing toward the exit.

  Thrown out of a fetish club: long one of my fantasies. I zipped up, climbed off Vanessa, and helped her to her feet. Katrina pulled her top back on and Vanessa yanked her shirt down. The bouncer was still standing there, not saying a word, tapping his booted foot impatiently.

  Vanessa and I, as one, like synchronized swimmers, turned to Katrina. As if we’d choreographed the whole thing beforehand, we made the same gesture the bouncer had: a distinct indication of the door. But this time, our eyebrows were raised.

  A smile broke across Katrina’s face, and she nodded mischievously as the bouncer stepped up behind me.

  The three of us didn’t let the door hit us in the ass on the way out.

  The Last Train

  P. E. BRINK

  Why did I let myself get talked into this? Alex wondered. It was late at night, and he was riding the last train of the evening.

  He sat on a hard orange subway seat, facing forward in the open square of seats next to the door. The motion of the moving train pulled him comfortably backward.

  On the other side of the entrance was Jack, on one of the pairs of seats that faced sideways. Jack was dressed in the same postwork uniform as he was: sla
cks, white dress-shirt, top button unbuttoned where the tie had been. Jack had dark hair, a slightly bent nose, too much eyebrow. Alex worked out with Jack twice a week. He’s well built, thought Alex, with a brief pang of envy until he remembered that he, too, had added some muscle. Then his eyes took in the girl, and the envy returned with a vengeance.

  Sitting next to Jack, on the seat between Jack and the entrance, a beautiful and young-looking girl sat with one leg casually draped over one of Jack’s legs. Her blonde hair was done in a ponytail, and she wore a white crop top that exposed her bellybutton. The outlines of her bra were clearly visible. Her breasts were on the small side, but sufficient to pull the hem of the top away from her body, leaving it not quite in contact with her stomach. She wore a short beige skirt that showed off long thin legs, white socks that barely rose above the ankle, and shiny patent black mary janes. She looked, thought Alex, about sixteen. Only a careful study of her long legs and face, with the slight signs of maturity there, would allow an observer to guess her true age, which Alex knew was twenty-nine.

  Her name was Tori, short for Victoria. My wife, thought Alex. Tori and Jack exchanged a kiss. Jack had asked Tori to dress up this way. He had said it would enhance the atmosphere of adventure.

  Alex watched as Jack placed his hand on Tori’s thigh just where her skirt ended. I agreed to all this, Alex dimly remembered. Jack had chosen his seat for him, and he had agreed not to move until the last stop. “Sit there, pretend you don’t know us,” Jack had said. Tori removed her leg from its awkward position over Jack’s knee, but did nothing about the hand.

  Tori had agreed to everything, too. In fact, she had looked more than a little enthusiastic. Which was when Alex first started to wonder whether the whole “adventure” was such a good idea.

  Jack put his arm around Tori, his hand hooking under her shoulder on the other side, two of his fingers resting against the side of Tori’s left breast.