Alison's Wonderland

by Alison Tyler

  The note was unsigned, but it made my heart sing and my pussy…well, my pussy started to pound like it had just seen an old friend.

  Iris, I couldn’t hold back any longer. You are so fucking sexy I cannot stop thinking of you. I want to see you, touch you, make you come with my tongue followed by my fingers and then with my cock. I have a feeling you’ll like it; I’m big and thick, the way you’ve described the perfect dick, and I can last a long time. I want to bend you over the bed, spread those long legs of yours, then sink so far inside you…

  I took the note and rubbed it against my breasts; this was as close as I’d come to flirting, to a sexual interaction with another human being, in longer than I could remember. To some women, that would be no big deal—in fact, it might be a relief, a two-month sex vacation—but for me it was starting to feel like a slow death. The note brought me back to life, even if I couldn’t answer it. The writer went on to say that he was one of the researchers who was in the background, one of dozens who were studying my every move. This made sense; watching me so intimately had to have an effect on those doing the study. Even though they could see what I was doing, nobody had to know what the note said, but for good measure, I ripped it up and placed the scraps in different wastebaskets, keeping a few in my private box for safekeeping.

  But there would be no way to “sneak out.” The researchers had made sure of that when they’d devised the study. The money was nothing to sneeze at, and I couldn’t afford to fuck things up, even for a fuck that sounded so damn juicy I had to make myself come right then and there. The next morning, there was another letter, this one even more graphic.

  I see you haven’t deigned to respond, but that I’ve gotten to you. I didn’t expect much more yet, but you have five more weeks. Five times seven is thirty-five; imagine that many more notes, maybe I’ll up them to twice a day. What if I told you I was going to stand outside your door with my dick in my hand, jerking off?

  He was killing me. I knew what he described was impossible; someone would surely notice. I was surprised they didn’t have cameras in the hallway, but I think you have to pass some special security clearance to get to be part of the study. When the day of my next evaluation arrived, I stared at my questioners, wondering if they knew. “So, Iris, please tell us about your mental state and how it’s affecting your…desires.”

  I wanted to lie, but I was also starved for conversation, so I shared some of what I was feeling. “I’m not sure I can go through with this, especially when there’s so much temptation. I don’t have a job lined up or any way to pay my bills, but this feels like being a whore, only in reverse. I’m selling myself by not having sex, and that feels wrong, like it’s going against my nature.”

  “What do you feel will happen if you don’t have sex soon?” one woman asked, her pen dancing along the edge of her lips. Even an only vaguely phallic object like an ordinary pen was enough to have me imagining her sliding the pen into my pussy; once a lover had inserted a lipstick, just a small, simple tube, but he’d gotten me so turned on beforehand that I had come like a shot. I was even willing to switch teams if that’s what it took.

  “I feel like I’m going to explode. This is different than a typical dry spell—not that I’ve had one of those in a long time—because it’s not that I lack the ability to get a man. That I know for sure.” I paused and stared at each of them significantly, hoping one might cough or blush or otherwise reveal himself. Maybe he wasn’t even in the room, but I knew that everyone on the project watched these taped sessions.

  “Being with a man, one who’s hard for me, who wants me, wants to do things to me and have me do things to him, when he whispers in my ear…it doesn’t just make me come. It makes me feel alive. Powerful. Like I can conquer the world. Sex is better than caffeine, better than getting high, better even than skydiving, which I’ve done. There’s nothing that rivals the feeling and right now I basically feel like I’m starving to death, slowly, like I’m shriveling up.”

  They all nodded intently, their expressions unchanged, while I was starting to feel even more depressed about my situation. Would I have subjected myself to an experiment where my food intake was drastically reduced? Was I letting them assume that “oversexed” women were inferior in some way? I wanted to make a statement, but even more, I just wanted to get fucked.

  That night, another note arrived. This one held more urgency, and was also tender in its way.

  The way you talked about sex as a matter of life or death was so poetic. I know exactly how you feel, Iris. It’s not just that I want to fuck you so hard that you scream, want to feel your juices spurt all over my cock, want to tie your hands above your head, straddle your face and sink my dick deep into your mouth because I know you love swallowing as much cock as you can. It’s all of that…and more. I’ve never met a woman like you, who knows exactly what she wants and goes after it. Who talks about cock and sex like they’re life affirming, rather than just something fun to do. I jerked off while I watched you speak. I pictured myself shooting all over your skin.

  His words made my breath come fast and furious, my clit swelling up.

  “I bet if you snuck out at three in the morning, they wouldn’t notice.” He was starting to make me angry. I had a month to go and he was asking me to sabotage my livelihood, all over a good fuck? I mean, would he really be worth sacrificing twenty thousand dollars? What about my rent? He hadn’t mentioned stepping in to pay my expenses himself, though I guess that would’ve turned me into a more traditional kind of whore.

  I ripped up the note angrily and vowed not to read the next one. Except the next one came the next day, and it was a photograph. Of his dick. Unsigned and untouched, because what more did I need to know? It was so beautiful, so perfect, that I held the photo to my lips and kissed the shiny surface, then quickly shoved it into my jeans pocket. Would I be disqualified for receiving these communications? From then on, the messages came every day, sometimes twice a day. My mystery man spun elaborate fantasies about what he wanted to do with me, about where we’d fuck, who he’d show me off to, how he wanted to dress me, about taking me to get pierced, about spanking me in front of a roomful of people. I wound up telling the researchers at our next meeting.

  “These—these letters have started arriving,” I said. “The writer claims to be someone involved in the project and says that he wants to fuck me. How twisted is that, right?” The researchers just let me talk and talk, and then listened as I read a few out loud. When nobody seemed to be shocked, I started to wonder if maybe there was no man after all. Was this just a trick to get me to leave and save them all some cash?

  Yet that couldn’t be true. I shook my head, then ushered them out and climbed into bed. I was getting my period, thankfully, and knew that should take some of the edge off. Except that unlike usually, when all I want is hot chocolate and Chex Mix and fluffy pillows, now I wanted sex, hot, mad, messy sex that would make me forget I even knew what a cramp was. I fell asleep early, and my dreams were vivid. There were a variety of men, different looks, shapes and sizes. One had long hair, like he was in a metal band, and he was extra talented with his tongue. Another was built short and bald, but with a giant cock. They kept coming, literally and figuratively, and when I woke up, I was so turned on I was barely aware that it was the middle of the night.

  I was almost ready to take the risk. My pussy was telling me to do one thing while every other part of me was telling me to do something else: the right thing. I stood up, not caring that I was naked; the people watching me had seen me in the buff plenty of times. I slipped on a purple silk robe, then tied the belt around my waist. I turned on the lights and checked myself out in the mirror, making sure I still looked good. They’d set me up with a jump rope and exercise bands so I could get some exercise, but nothing beats walking around New York.

  Then I heard the sound, a soft knock on my door, so quiet I would’ve thought the noise was coming from my imagination if it wasn’t the middle of the night.
But the wee hours had arrived, and noise was scarce even in Manhattan. I wasn’t scared, because none of my friends even knew precisely where I was. I had sent them a mass e-mail letting them know I’d be MIA for two months. I walked over to the door, but instead of looking out the peephole, I pressed my ear to the door, then whispered against the crack. “Who’s there?”

  “You know exactly who it is.”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  “But you still want me, don’t you? Without even knowing what I look like or anything. You’ve been thinking about me. I can tell.”

  “Why are you torturing me like this? Is this a twisted kind of test to see just how horny I really am?”

  “No, Iris, I swear. I just saw you and felt this instant connection that went beyond my job or responsibilities, beyond right and wrong. And I know I told you all about my cock, but really, it’s about more than that. I think I’m meant to be with you.”

  His voice sounded anguished, and finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I undid the latch above the door and then turned the knob. The man standing there was pretty much the man of my dreams—tall, probably about six feet, bald (that’s my thing), big and strong. He was wearing jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt, and had some stubble on his chin. I just stood there, though. If I let him in, everyone would see, and if I left the room, everyone would see.

  “You’re even more gorgeous in person, Iris.”

  “What’s your name?” I had to know at least that.

  “Raymond,” he said, then just stared at me. Suddenly, this wasn’t just about his cock or my dirty dreams. I could feel the air between us becoming even more charged. Without thinking too much more about it, I grabbed my key and slipped into the hallway, knowing I was likely closing the door on my chance for twenty thousand dollars. That would mean the past month had been wasted, too.

  He led me to another room and there the tenderness stopped. “I know exactly how you like it, Iris, probably better than you know yourself,” he said as he slipped two fingers inside me. I shut my eyes and floated on his voice, his touch, because if I pondered it too much, I’d realize I was with a complete stranger, one who’d been watching me intently for weeks. It wasn’t like picking someone up at a bar, where you’re both blank slates.

  He did, indeed, know exactly what he was doing. He not only bent me over the bed, but shackled my wrists together with padded cuffs. When my whimpering got too loud, he taped my mouth shut. As many kinky things as I’d done before, no one had ever done that. I could make noise, but no sounds come out, staying trapped inside me, with only the music of his belt whipping across my bottom and my heavy breathing, in and out of my nose, and the sound of his cock entering and leaving my pussy filling my ears. I cried, but they were happy tears, tears of release, tears that told me the price I’d been asked to pay was too much. I couldn’t sell my sexuality short like that, and after five (I think) orgasms for me, Raymond switched things around, uncuffing me and removing the tape so I could suck his extra-hard, ready-to-burst cock.

  His fingers stroked through my hair and I played with my sore but still throbbing pussy as I knelt before him. “You’re so beautiful, I’m going to take good care of you, Iris.” I sucked harder, and was rewarded with a burst of his salty fluid in my mouth, a sign that he’d enjoyed this as much as I had.

  I slept fitfully, knowing I wasn’t going to return to the study. There was a knock on Raymond’s door at seven, and I didn’t even bother putting on the robe. “Iris, we know you’re in there,” I heard when Raymond didn’t open the door fast enough.

  He flung it open, and we were faced with the entire committee staring disapprovingly. “The experiment is over. You can go. You’ll get your check in the mail,” the lead scientist said in a clipped voice.

  “Thank you,” I said, not wanting to ask more. I was going to get my money and this sexy man who wanted me as often as I wanted him?

  I only found out later, when I got a copy of the report, that they’d concluded that “oversexed” women like me simply couldn’t resist the temptation of cock. As it turned out, the notes had started as part of the experiment, but Raymond had gone rogue. And thank goodness for that.

  Now we do our own form of experimenting, but it’s not for money, and it’s just between us. I live with him, and don’t have to worry about anything…especially where my next orgasm is coming from.

  Dancing Shoes

  Tsaurah Litzky

  When I was little, about seven or eight, my favorite fairy tale was “Cinderella.” That was because my two older sisters, Claudia and Patricia, were always picking on me. My mother sent me off to school with them in the morning, thinking I would be safe, but as soon as we turned the corner of our block they would start razzing me.

  Claudia, who was two years older than me, would run a few steps in front of me. “You’re so little,” she taunted, “if someone saw you behind us they would think you were our dog.” They would then both cackle uproariously like the little witches they were. Trying to hold back the tears, I would struggle to keep up with them, catch my shoe in a crack in the sidewalk, stumble and fall. I would fantasize that a handsome prince would come and rescue me, and whenever I was alone I would practice dancing so he would notice me at the ball.

  As I grew up, I became fascinated by shoes, maybe because I saw every new pair as the ones he would find me in. I did meet many handsome princes, and while some of them rescued me, none of them ever rescued me for long. My hope of meeting a prince who will stick around is still with me, as is my fascination with footwear. I own maybe thirty pairs. When I first moved to this neighborhood twenty-five years ago, I was delighted to find the local shoemaker only a few blocks away.

  Natasha Shoe Repair is the name of the shoemaker’s shop up on Clark Street. The owner, a bald man with steel teeth, looks the same as he did when I came to the neighborhood. Once I asked him the secret of his youthful appearance and he said he drank vodka for breakfast. His steel teeth make his smile quite scary, but actually he is a genial man. He has been calling me Miss Moscow all this time because he thinks I’m Russian, too.

  Das vadanya is how he always greets me. I keep telling him that my grandparents were born in Russia, but not my parents, not me. I’m as American as popcorn at the movies and Mickey Mouse, but he persists. “Das vadanya, das vadanya,” he keeps repeating until finally I respond with what Russian I know. “Balalaika, beluga, Baryshnikov,” I answer. This usually calms him down, and he then rings the little silver bell that stands on the counter because he is not a fixer of shoes. He spends the day standing behind the long counter at the front of the store where he repairs watches and sells the knockoff designer handbags that are in a glass showcase below the counter. When he rings the bell, he summons the real cobbler from a small room in the rear of the store where the cobbler, who is his employee, mends the shoes. These back-room cobblers usually stay a year or two and then they are replaced. I think some of them must leave to open their own shoe-repair shops, but I don’t really know.

  The soles of my orthopedic sneakers—they are called MBTs—are all worn out. I decide to bring them in to Natasha Shoe Repair. These sneakers were so expensive, I lived on tofu and spinach for three months to afford them. It was worth it. Not only do they make me two inches taller, walking in them is like walking on helium.

  When I get there, the bald Russian is nowhere to be seen, so I ring the bell myself. The man who comes out from the back of the store is not the pale, squat, tubby guy I am used to seeing. This man is slender with a wiry build and big dark eyes like a faun. His thick, brown hair is close-cropped and curly like a Brillo pad. He wears a black T-shirt, black jeans and a white canvas apron. Even behind the thick canvas of the apron, I can make out a bulge between his legs. He is wiping his hands on the sides of the apron, long powerful hands with thick but graceful fingers. The sight of them makes the inside of my thighs shake, and I think about his upper lip tickling my clit while those fingers grasp my ass, caressing it.
Because I am immediately thinking like this makes me realize how lonely I am, how hungry for hot cock inside me.

  “What you need?” he asks in a foreign accent I cannot place. What I need is those fingers ripping off my blouse, my skirt, pulling down my panties, but I cannot tell him that. I show him the sneakers.

  “Hard job?” I ask apprehensively. “Too much work?”

  “No problem,” he answers, giving me a crooked, zigzag smile. “Come back Tuesday, ten dollars.”

  “Ten dollars?” I can’t help exclaiming. The fancy shoe store where I brought the sneakers had told me when the soles wore out they could be repaired there for one hundred and thirty dollars. “Sure,” the shoemaker says. “You nice pretty lady.” He fishes a yellow ticket out of the pocket of his apron and tears it in half, puts half in one of the sneakers and hands the other half to me. His admiration surprises and confuses me. He looks to be in his early thirties, at least twenty years younger I am. I nearly bolt out the door, but then I remember I haven’t even thanked him. I am wearing my brown alligator pumps and orange fishnet stockings. When I turn to say thank-you, he is still standing there, and—do I imagine it?—he is looking at my legs.

  When I come back to pick up the sneakers, once again the bald Russian isn’t there. I ring the bell, and the shoemaker comes out to greet me. His hands and wrists are all stained with black dye, which makes them look even sexier, as though he is wearing high leather gloves. “Your shoes ready,” he says, and takes the ticket I hold out to him. Our fingers touch and a warm jolt of electricity runs through my body.

  He vanishes back into the interior. I can just make out a large sewing machine, a rack of steel hammers of various sizes, rolls of leather on a shelf. He rummages below the shelf and pulls out a white plastic bag. He brings it to me, opens it and pulls out the sneakers to show me. When he upends them to display the soles, they look better than new; the seamless rubber gleams dark as the mysterious night.