by Ily Goyanes
Rae couldn’t take her eyes off of Lucy as she came, the look of pleasure on her face so intensely powerful. It was that same Christmas-y feeling as a solid blow to the jaw, except better. It was so much better. It was Christmas and the Fourth of July all at once. All fireworks and snow, every celebration, every joy, all wrapped up in one fantastic moment.
Lucy slowly returned to consciousness, let her body drop back into the blackness and pulled Rae close, wrapping herself around her.
“Rae, you fuck like an animal,” she moaned, kissing Rae’s ears and neck and throat.
“That’s what I saw in you when we sparred that day, and when I walked into the locker room and saw your blood on my face, it was like a beast had been unleashed. I wanted to fuck you right then. I still do. I want more.”
Lucy unwrapped her legs from Rae’s body and bobbed in the water. “Well, Sugar Rae, there’s plenty more where that came from. Let’s pack up. We forgot about dessert. How about some chocolate cake back at my place?”
Rae followed the path of silver shore, admiring Lucy’s skin glowing white as her nakedness emerged from the water.
Midnight words lapped at the shore as they dried off.
Fuck. Dream. Taste. Moon. Soft. Sing. Lips. Love. Lust. Night. Good.
A GOOD WORKOUT
Sinclair Sexsmith
You check out my ass in the mirror across from mine, and that’s when I know that you want me. I’ve got one of those too-small towels wrapped around my waist and another too-small towel draped over my shoulders, and so do you. The half-dozen girls in the locker room are wearing their towels up over their breasts, with a second one twisted up on their heads. But we don’t need that. Your hair is the same length as mine, cut way above the ears, but yours has that faux-hawk, which tells me you might be a few years younger than I am. Mine I sweep up and over in a wave like I took a palm full of product and ran my hands over my head—which I did.
I wash my hands and head for the steam room, catching your eyes in the mirror for just the quickest inviting smile. I can feel the pulse in my muscles from the 5k run I just finished on the treadmill and the quick set of weights I lifted to keep my shoulders strong and open. My neck feels loose, my fingers feel heavy, my thighs feel solid.
When you chose the treadmill next to mine, I didn’t think much of it. I read you as a guy for a full minute until you stopped walking and started running, and I stole a glance and noticed the smooth girl curve of your chin. Your run was lithe—supple and graceful, full of ease. I struggled with my breath and concentrated on my feet hitting the treadmill. I slowed down and caught my breath, sped up and pushed myself, slowed down again. You stayed steady, one foot in front of the other, sweating but not out of breath, listening to your iPod while I watched a rerun of “Sex and the City” on one of the flat screens.
When I left the weights to head down to the locker room, I thought I felt your eyes on me, but I didn’t turn around to look. You were doing assisted pull-ups by then, your blue basketball shorts bunched by your knees as you knelt on the machine and your biceps popping. I heard you groan only once.
Not that I was watching.
And now I lay myself out on the high bench in the steam room. I’m the only one in here. I unwrap the towel and let my skin sweat the work out of me, feeling my muscles relax, the blood still pumping inside, the tingling sensation that rises after using my body. I breathe in and out, focusing on the place where my body hits the air, the place at my nasal septum where the air is leaving my body, cooler from inside my lungs than it is in the steam. I can’t stay in here too long, but I love how it leaves my body supple. It feels like a cleanse, a good sweat, while working out feels like a release of toxins.
I always have the urge to run my hands over my body, feel my skin slick with sweat, open my legs and let everything get washed by the hot steamy air. I always think of that story from Nancy Friday’s book My Secret Garden where two women in the steam room get it on—definitely a story that told me I liked what these women did together a little bit more than I expected.
I let my body sink into the tile bench and for a short minute all is still; then the door opens, releasing a gush of steam and sucking in cool air in exchange. I don’t have to look up to know it’s you. It seems obvious in this moment that you’d follow me in here. You sit on the bench below mine and your head is aligned with my knee. You sigh, hands on your thighs, legs parted. I can just make out your shape through the white steam. The back of your neck starts to drip. You take the towel from your shoulders and reveal your chest, small and tight and muscled, your nipples hard and pointed, rosy pink. I have the urge to reach out and twist them, feel them hard between my fingertips. I resist.
When you lean your head back and I feel your hair touch my knee, I take the hint and shift, bending my knee up over the edge of the upper bench. You sigh again, this time more of a groan, and your desire is palpable. Your eyes are closed, but you turn your head and your face is between my thighs. My heart pumps faster in my chest and my stomach rises and falls. You only wait a beat before turning your hips and gripping my inner thighs in each of your hands. You take a long inhale of the wetness that has gathered, my pubic hair thick and wet, already swelling. You take my clit in your mouth without fanfare, just slide it right in and run your tongue along the shaft. Your hands grip harder and your throat opens to take me deeper, your nose buried in my flesh. I know I must smell, musty and thick and sour, and you lap it up with your tongue, your lips pursed, shoved against me hard.
You bring one hand over to cup me underneath and I feel your fingers gently in my crack, palm against my opening, holding my lips like I have balls, high and tight and smooth. I feel your finger find my asshole and shift my body to give my consent, pushing gently against, and you slip inside, just to the first knuckle, easy with all this steam. I grip your hair, because that’s what a faux-hawk is for. Long enough to grab on top and move your mouth around how I want it, where I want to feel it. I fuck your mouth while keeping your head stationary and you work your finger gently and firmly in my tight hole, your tongue wide and throat open. My hips open and I thrust into you, ready to come, thinking about shooting as my clit pulses and contracts, my body shuddering.
I pull your head back as I get supersensitive to the touch and you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, look up at me through the steam.
I grin. I breathe and feel my feet on the floor, get my bearings and don’t waste time. You are on the edge of your seat; I easily grab your waist and flip you around, your ass against me, my arms around you, one hand pushed between your legs and the other twisting those pink nipples. As my fingers find you wet and open you bring my other hand up to your mouth and suck two of them down, tongue swollen, lips wet. I keep my grip around you as I plunge two fingers inside you deep and you groan again, that same release that all those pull-ups had you uttering, the same instinct to buckle and pulse overtaking you. I pull my fingers out slick with your juices and find your clit, start jacking you off, the shaft of it hard and swollen under my fingers, throbbing with my touch.
You quicken under me.
I pull you back against me and our bodies slide against each other, your back against my large chest, my nipples still hard, my stomach against your lower back, your ass against my pelvis. If I had a cock it’d be in your ass right now, and as soon as I think that I can feel it, and you press back against me as if opening up, squirming, and I keep my grip as I reach around you to jack you off. You aren’t easy to get off, I can feel it, that barrier between us, but I can feel how you like to be taken, how you like to be a boy under my touch, how you like to bend over and give it up for me, because that’s how I like it, too.
Our bodies are talking to each other without our heads getting in the way. Our cocks are hard and thrusting, and I am thrusting, and you are thrusting into my palm. Your hand pushing my fingers deeper into your mouth though it is open and you’re breathing around it, I feel your breath cooler than the air. My arms are
dripping with sweat and steam; I can feel it rolling down my skin. You groan and I feel the vibration of your tongue on the pads of my fingers. You shudder and your back arches and I hold you up. Your other hand goes down on top of my hand between your legs and you start working it faster and faster, just a little bit up and right of where my fingers were, moving me over, until you stumble forward just a little and I feel your stomach crunch, tighten, your shoulders curl forward, your muscles shaking against me, and you come in my hand with a gush of heat and liquid.
You get ahold of your heavy breathing like you did on the treadmill and come back to a soft even in and out, your arms holding you up, bent forward over the low bench. You straighten up your body and lean back against mine for a moment, then grab your towels, wet and heavy on the tile bench of the steam room, and whip around. When your hand grips the handle of the door you catch my glance for a minute and give me that cute sly boy half smile, and then you’re gone.
I sit on the lower bench for a moment, feeling my breath again, my body spent and tired and ready to go home. I rinse off quickly in the shower. You’re still in the stall two doors down when I enter, but you’ve left by the time I am done.
I do a quick fix to my hair in the mirrors over the sink and you’re almost done putting your faux-hawk back up in place behind me, our towels wrapped back around our waists, slung over our shoulders, as if nothing happened, when a woman walks in with a start. “Am I…what are you…wrong…uh?”
We catch each other’s eyes in the mirror. Usually this type of thing gives me butterflies and cause for concern. Usually I am an impostor in women’s bathrooms and locker rooms; usually I am seen as an outsider, potential predator, problem, misfit, outlaw. But here there are two of us, and we just chuckle as she very obviously scans our bodies for signs of hips and breasts and then, embarrassed to be staring, scurries off.
By the time I’m done with my hair and emerge into the changing room where the lockers are, you’re dressed and shoving your gym clothes into a barrel bag. You make a point of coming over to get a tissue right next to where I’m standing, unlocking my locker.
“I don’t usually…uh…” you stammer, not talking to me but talking near me, keeping your chin low, shifting from foot to foot. Your handsome face gives you away: you’re a pretty boy, and you date pretty girls. Not hunky butches.
“I know,” I say. “Me either.”
Your eyes twinkle as you look at me one last time. “See you around,” you toss over your shoulder. “Good workout.”
LUCKY NUMBER THREE
Beth Wylde
To Peggy, the world’s most amazing fan. Remember the Doctor’s orders. No more unsupervised hockey games!
Whoever coined the phrase, third time’s a charm, should have his ass kicked. This is our third attempt to win the championship, and though we’re making the other team really work for the title this year, the odds of us winning are not good.
We’re all tense as we watch Brooke, our right wing, race down one side of the rink with the puck guarded tightly in front of her. We desperately need her to score. We’re down by one point and time is running out.
Like a bat out of hell, one of the opposing players moves in beside her. A warning roar goes up from the crowd but it’s too late. Number twelve’s stick connects with Brooke’s lower leg and she goes down in a heap. The referee blows a whistle on the penalty, sending number twelve to the box, but the damage has been done.
“God damn it.”
Coach’s profane exclamation isn’t unexpected. We all just witnessed the incident firsthand and share her frustration. While number twelve is grinning as she makes her way to the penalty box, Brooke takes her time getting up. It’s obvious that she’s favoring her right ankle.
“Tanner, you’re in. Cross is out. Get your ass out on that ice.”
I hop up off the bench, clutching my stick from more than just anxiety. My knee is killing me. It throbs in time with my heartbeat and only my stick and my resolve keep me standing. I have plenty of experience dealing with pain though. We all do. Hockey is not a gentle sport.
Desire is my sole motivator now. This is it. My last chance to be on a championship team. I don’t have time to be hurt. I’ve got a job to do, and nothing, not a damn thing, is going to keep me from it.
My body has been sending me gentle warning signals for months, but subtlety is not one of my strong points. I’ve ignored every ache and pain, pushing myself harder than ever before through each practice and game. I’m not going to be able to ignore the signs much longer. What I’m feeling now is anything but subtle.
“All right, Steph. One point. One frigging point. That’s all we need.”
Coach’s gruff voice snaps me out of my funk and I turn to face her for last-minute instructions. Her deep tenor matches her build. Like most of us she’s tall and thick and built to brawl. Tiny, tender women don’t survive very long in our world.
At five foot seven I’m actually the smallest member on our team, but I’ve still got enough power and muscle to back up what comes out of my mouth. I’ve yet to lose a fight. On the ice or off.
Coach’s directions leave me confused, but I have to choose my words carefully. Aggressive attitudes are part and parcel of the game, but Lyza is famous for her sideline outbursts. She has a nasty temper and she doesn’t like to be questioned.
I take a deep breath and let my inquiry fly. “We’re down by one. Should I try for two goals instead?”
Coach shakes her head. She’s too deep in the zone to be pissed. Thank god for small favors. “Not enough time left. We’ve got just over a minute. I’m not worried about winning right now. Go for the tie. We can beat their asses in overtime. I want that fucking trophy.”
Her command leaves no room to argue. I nod in understanding and slam my helmet into place before heading out onto the ice. Brooke is on her way toward me, prepared to warm my empty spot on the bench. The look on her face is equal parts pissed and pain. I know exactly how she feels.
As we pass side by side she brushes against my shoulder. “Crush those bitches.”
Her plea is a war cry in my ear that leaves my blood boiling. Brooke wants this win almost as much as I do. Losing is not an option. Not anymore. I’d do just about anything to win. I hope the devil isn’t standing somewhere close by with an offer for my soul. At this point I might just sign it over.
As I skate into place the announcer breaks the situation down to the crowd. We have the home-ice advantage so he is rooting for us to win. It’s a nice perk. “Tanner comes in for Cross. Penskey gets two minutes in the penalty box for that underhanded move she just pulled. Cross seems to be limping a bit. Let’s hope she’s okay.”
The crowd erupts in the stands as the referee raises the puck high then drops it. Game on. As we fight for possession the fans go insane. The noise inside the arena is nearly deafening. Sweat stings my eyes and the adrenaline level is in overdrive. My leg gives a twinge to remind me of my stupidity, but I push past it. There will be plenty of time to recuperate once the game is over. If we win I might even give retirement a thought. Coach has been looking for an assistant and I know I can do the job. Younger women keep popping up every season and it’s getting harder and harder to compete against them. I refuse to leave if we lose, though.
A quick glance at the scoreboard reveals we have forty seconds left. I’ve got control of the puck and my teammates plow me a path down the center of the ice. It’s now or never.
I’m almost close enough to try for the goal when two members of the opposing team manage to break through our defense. They veer off to surround me, one on each side, and gaining fast. I know I’m in trouble. Just a couple more feet and I’m guaranteed to make the shot, but from where I am, it is still too risky. If I miss, the game is over. No time to try again.
Then Mulligan, our right defense, is rushing to my rescue. Dee Mulligan, number three, is the biggest, baddest, butchest player in the entire league. I thank god every morning that she’s on our
side. I wouldn’t want to face off against her for all the money in China. That scenario would be all the retirement incentive I’d need, whether my knee was screwed up or not.
It doesn’t hurt that Dee is also really nice eye candy. She’s tall and muscular with dark skin that hints at something more than just white bread in her family tree. Her black curly hair is cut really short in the back and there’s not an ounce of fat on her frame. Dee has starred in more than one masturbation fantasy of mine. It’s impossible to watch her at play and not get turned on. She’s a beast on the ice. Aggressive to the max. Team showers have been especially stressful. It’s all I can handle to see her parading around the locker room half naked and totally unashamed. Her body is a work of art.
She turns to the side and flashes the big number three painted on her back as she aims one beefy shoulder at the woman barreling down on my right. I wince in sympathy as they make contact. Even over the roar of the crowd I can hear the impact. The girl goes down in a tangled heap of her own arms and legs, spinning madly until she hits the wall with a meaty thud. She’s definitely going to feel that in the morning. Hell, she’s probably feeling it right now.
The woman on my left is in collision range and there’s no one to hold her off. I rear back and smack the puck with every ounce of strength I’ve got. Before I can follow its path the bitch hits me hard and we both go down. My knee sends up a final plea for mercy as it is wrenched to the side. Based on the lightning bolt of agony that shoots up my thigh I know I’m done for good.
