by Cara Bruce
As if she were reading my thoughts, Jasmine caught my attention and looked to the side. “Should we retire to the bedroom?”
Mark’s eyes widened, and, I must confess, mine did too. Then I surprised myself. I became the kind of girl I always vowed I would never become. I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt and leaned across the table, brushing my fingers across the top of Mark’s hand. I raised my voice a few octaves, batted my eyelashes, and said, “Are you ready?”
“I’ve never done this sort of thing before,” he said.
“Neither have we,” Jasmine and I said, simultaneously. “That’s part of the fun,” she continued, standing up.
I took Mark’s hand, and he quietly followed us into the bedroom. “That’s a mighty big bed,” he said as he took note of our king-sized bed.
“The better to fuck you on,” I replied glibly.
I briefly wondered how horrified our parents and friends would be by this, which in turn turned me on.
“So do you want me to do one of you first, then the other?” he asked.
Jasmine clucked, shook her head, and put on some music. “Just follow our lead.”
I stood in front of Mark, inhaled deeply, and slowly undressed, swaying my hips to the subtle rhythm coming from the stereo. Mark grinned shyly, then helped me slip out of my shirt, skirt, and panties as he did the white boy-overbite-dance. Jasmine stepped out of her clothes and lay on the edge of the bed, watching as I slowly unbuttoned Mark’s shirt, kissing each new glimpse of pale, exposed skin. A thin line of hair ran from his navel to his waist, and I traced the trail with the tip of my tongue. He shivered, tentatively sliding his fingers through my hair. I pushed his hands away and stood, brushing my lips across his shoulders. He was tense, standing still as I pulled each of his nipples into my mouth, sucking them slowly and deliberately.
His breath caught in his throat, and I smiled, kissing the cleft of his chin before drawing my lips down his chest. It was odd, how different his body was from mine and Jasmine’s. I was at once enraptured and repulsed by the smooth flatness of his chest, the quivering muscles of his torso, his tiny, pink, erect nipples. I sank to my knees, rubbing my face against the front of his slacks. It was as if I was trying to slow time. I unbuckled his belt, enjoying the sound of leather hissing against slacks. I carefully inched his zipper down, listening as the teeth of the zipper parted. I could feel Mark’s cock against my cheek, not hard, but not soft, leaning against his left thigh.
He wore no underwear and I stared at his cock for a minute, moving to the side so that Jasmine’s view remained uninterrupted. His cock was thick, perhaps seven inches in length, and light red. A soft down of blonde hairs covered his balls and crossed over to his inner thighs. I ran my fingers along his inner thighs, then started squeezing his balls, watching as the malleable flesh seeped through the spaces between my fingers. He groaned, loudly, and again took hold of my head, urging my mouth toward his cock. I licked my lips, smiled up at him, and kissed the tip of his cock before licking the small slit, tasting the silver sliver of pre-cum oozing from the tip. Mark’s cock began to swell and, leaning forward, I wrapped my lips around the head of his cock and began suckling gently. He groaned again, tensing the muscles of his thighs, gripping my head more forcefully. Jasmine stood and moved behind Mark, pinching and twisting his nipples between her fingers as she grazed his neck with her teeth.
Mark bucked forward, and I carefully inched my mouth along his cock until my lips were pressed against his body. My throat muscles loosened around his girth and as the white boy began moving his hips, I bobbed my head up and down the length of his cock, tracing the thin veins with my tongue, squeezing his balls harder and harder.
“My God,” Mark said, his voice strained. “I’m going to come.”
“So soon?” Jasmine whispered, sliding her tongue along the sharp bumps of Mark’s spine until she was also kneeling, brushing her lips across the small of his back.
“It feels too good,” the white boy said, hoarsely.
I pinched the base of Mark’s cock between two fingers, hard, and let his cock fall out of my mouth. “You can wait. Trust me, you want to wait.”
His cock was rigid and throbbing and a violent red. His balls felt heavier in my other hand. I nodded toward the bed, and Jasmine climbed onto it, leaning into a pile of pillows against the headboard. I got on my hands and knees, shivering. I love the intimacy of such a vulnerable position. My forehead brushed against the tight curls of Jasmine’s mound, and I nodded to Mark. “Take me from behind,” I said softly.
White boys prefer a wide selection of condoms for the sexual act. It enables them to believe that they are sexually creative and adventurous.
On the nightstand sat the recommended wide selection: Trojans large and small, glow-in-the-dark condoms, condoms ribbed for her pleasure, condoms with innovative attachments dangling from the reservoir tip. He chose a ribbed condom, extra large, and tore the foil with his teeth, carefully sliding the latex onto his cock. For a moment, I was wistful, wishing we lived in a day and age where I could feel Mark’s come shooting inside me and slowly oozing out as we both fell, exhausted, onto the sheets. I spread my thighs as far apart as I could, wantonly exposing myself, moaning as Jasmine caressed my forehead with her fingertips. I lowered my lips to hers, inhaling deeply. Mark knelt behind me and pressed his chest against my back, taking my breasts into his hands, massaging them, and rolling my nipples between his fingers. I felt a surge of wetness between my thighs and imagined myself flooding the bed—the three of us, found drowned in pussy juice, film at 11.
I reared toward Mark, silently urging him to enter me, and when he did, I gasped, feeling my cunt muscles stretching around his width. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to look at Jasmine. Instead, I slid my tongue along the length of her pussy lips, from her clit to her ass, savoring the taste of her, gasping again as Mark pulled back and paused, the tip of his cock waiting at my entrance. My body quaked and I insistently rubbed my ass against Mark’s hips. He slid one hand up my back, clasping the back of my neck, holding my hip with his other hand. He thrust forward again, harder and deeper this time. A dull ache began pulsing from somewhere inside my body, and I tried to move all the pleasure from my cunt to my mouth to Jasmine’s cunt, swirling my tongue around her clit in furious circles.
He was a bit awkward at first, but Mark fell into a steady rhythm, putting his back into each stroke. As he tried to reach the deepest part of me with his cock, I tried to reach the deepest part of Jasmine with my tongue. Sweat fell from Mark’s forehead to my back, slowly trickling into a small pool right above my ass. I tightened myself around him, and Mark took firm hold of my ass with both hands. He began thrusting so hard, I thought I might be shoved inside Jasmine’s body. She raised her legs, resting her calves against my shoulders, her toes almost touching Mark’s shoulders. Never in my life had I felt so surrounded by passion and flesh and fluid. Mark’s thrusting grew more forceful. As his skin slapped against mine, I could feel him losing control. Jasmine’s thigh muscles tightened and she wrapped her fingers through my hair, holding my mouth to her cunt as her hips bucked violently. I couldn’t breathe. My tongue lacked a certain finesse, and as she came, she pushed me away and began trembling, cooing softly, as if she was exhaling for the first time that evening.
“I’m coming,” Mark grunted, with one final thrust, holding himself inside me as his back arched. He fell onto my body and I fell against Jasmine. The three of us lay there, panting, sticking to each other, and silent. I danced along the unsatisfying edge of an orgasm, and I felt a twinge between my thighs so sharp, at once painful and sublime, that I was strangely glad that I hadn’t come yet. Mark rolled off and lay on one side. I rolled to the other side, sliding my fingers into Jasmine’s hand.
“That was incredible,” Mark said.
“Indeed it was,” Jasmine murmured. “But now I’m jealous. I want you inside me too.”
Mark nodded slowly, wiping his forehead. �
��You’ve got to give me a minute.”
I laughed, loudly, but my limbs felt heavy and wasted. “I suppose we can be patient.”
I closed my eyes, resting my other hand across the soft swell of Jasmine’s belly. Half an hour later, I felt Jasmine’s lips brushing across my shoulder. I opened one eye, then the other, trying to gauge my surroundings. When I saw the sharp slope of the white boy’s shoulder hovering above Jasmine’s left side, I realized where I was, and smiled.
The white boy grinned proudly.
In sexual situations, white boys pride themselves when they are able to rejuvenate in a short space of time. Again, encouragement for their effort is highly recommended.
As if anticipating my next move, Jasmine placed her hand against Mark’s breastbone and dragged her fingernails along his torso, across his waistline, and lightly over the soft heaviness of his cock. I watched as she wrapped her hand around his shaft and began stroking him slowly and steadily until he was again hard and throbbing. I handed her another condom and she tore open the foil, placing the condom between her lips before lowering her head to Mark’s cock and sliding the condom along his length with her mouth.
“Neat trick,” I whispered, and she smiled at me, arching an eyebrow.
“I know a lot of neat tricks.”
I nodded my head to the side. “I don’t doubt it.”
Jasmine straddled Mark’s lap, rocking her hips back and forth, letting her still wet pussy slide over his hips and groin. Leaning forward, she slid her hands up his chest, pushing his arms over his head. Then, holding Mark’s cock between two fingers, she lowered herself onto him. I moved to my knees, kissing her sweaty arm, the shadowy side of her neck, her collarbone, then crawled up the bed and knelt over Mark’s face, offering him a good look at the glistening, dark-pink tissues of my pussy. I could feel his ears against the sides of my knees, as I slowly sank into his mouth, moaning softly as I felt his tongue tentatively licking along my pussy lips. I looked up and saw Jasmine staring at me. Her face held an almost painful expression that insisted I stare right back at her. There was no smile on her face, only a look of passionate concentration that forced another spurt of wetness from my lips to Mark’s.
Jasmine reached across the short distance between our bodies, taking my breasts into her hands and squeezing my nipples. I soon reached for her breasts. They felt heavy and full in my hands. I stared at her, almost in awe as I watched her seductively undulating along the shaft of the white boy’s cock. The white boy became an object, and I wondered what we would look like to a voyeur—two dark women riding a pale, thin white boy, eyes only for each other. My entire body tingled as Mark groaned and began licking my clit, lightly at first, then harder and harder until I thought I would explode. He paused, the painful pleasure subsiding until he began again. I began moving my hips apace with Jasmine, slowly, deliberately, with precision, punctuating each thrust by arching my back. It felt so sexy, knowing how hot we looked.
I could hear Mark moaning, groaning, and twitching beneath us. One of his hands was against Jasmine’s left thigh; his other hand was against my left thigh. I felt myself about to come. I could tell that Jasmine knew exactly what I was feeling and that I knew exactly what she was feeling. We never broke eye contact. She was grinding against Mark and drifting toward me until our lips met. She tasted cool and sweet. At first it was as if we were sharing our first kiss, our tongues becoming entangled as we explored each other’s mouths. We were kissing so hard that I knew the next day my lips would be bruised. I was trying to swallow her whole into my mouth, and she was trying to suck me into hers. As we came, we moaned into each other and—I swear—I felt her kissing the words I love you against my lips. As waves of pleasure rolled through my body, I slid forward, pressing my forehead against Jasmine’s. My arms were wrapped around her neck, hers around my waist, and for what felt like hours we just sat there, atop the white boy, who slowly caught his breath, staring around the room, dazed and confused. He left shortly thereafter, thanking us profusely, asking if we could do it again sometime. We just smiled and closed the door after him.
With proper care and feeding, white boys become very loyal and obedient and take well to training.
The Year of Fucking Badly
Susannah Indigo
“There is no such thing as bad sex,” I say to no one in particular.
We’re at the big oval table at the Empress Gardens, eating dim sum to celebrate the Chinese New Year when it all begins. It’s the beginning of the Year of the Ox, a year that’s supposed to bring the promise of new discoveries.
“Of course there is, Kenna,” my friend Bill replies. “Bad sex: sex so awful, so unexpected, so terrible that just telling someone about it later makes them turn away in laughter, or horror.”
“This really exists? Then why hasn’t anyone ever made a whole magazine or something about it?” I can picture bad relationships, bad love, bad breakups, but not plain ol’ bad sex, unless you’re counting boring sex and then if you do, boring sex rules half the world and is the norm rather than the exception.
Bill pauses and puts his hand on my knee.
“You want me to show you, Kenna?”
I laugh. Bill is my sweet friend, my occasional fuck buddy, and about as obsessed with sex as I am. He’s a Pig, as in the Year of, defined quite appropriately as a sensual hedonist. I know this fact because I work as a research librarian—an “information specialist,” they call us nowadays—and I get so many calls this time of year about Chinese astrology that I keep the chart by my desk.
I hike my black leather skirt a little higher as Bill watches, smiling.
“Hell, you know what I like, Bill. Most anything that moves.” Even that is putting it mildly. “What exactly would you do to show me bad sex? Take me home and fuck me for five minutes in the missionary position and then roll over and say goodnight?” I don’t talk this way around work, of course, where I wear my wavy red hair up in a bun, skip the leather, and leave the contacts home for my everyday glasses.
Bill offers to rape me if I want, which hurts my brain to think about. Everybody knows rape is not about sex. But if I let him rape me, is it still considered rape? I’m such a pervert I’d probably like it, no matter what.
“More stories!” says Bryan across the table from me, perhaps trying to deflect the conversation away from rape, which nobody ever talks about but most everyone fantasizes about.
“Define ‘bad,’ ” Mary says. I wave my little librarian hand. At least I can add something to this.
“Did you know that the word bad is thought to originate from two Old English homophobic words from the thirteenth century—baeddel and baedling—which were derogatory terms for homosexuals, with overtones of sodomy?”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I can’t recall why I remember this, but maybe, just maybe, it caught my attention because of the sodomy overtones.
Everyone at the table goes on to tell their own “bad sex” story. The boys’ stories almost always involve not being able to get it up, but those strike me more as “bad imagination” or even “bad ego” rather than bad sex. Let’s face it, women know. They sell enough cocks down at Good Vibrations to keep us girls happy for the rest of our lives.
I notice a trend. Every bad story seems to supply bare-bones details, elicits a gasp, and then trails off into “and it was so awful….”
I’m wracking my brain for a story of my own before my turn arrives. Nothing comes to mind, so I shrug and pass, and after a few more “it was awful”s the conversation turns to great sex. But the bad sex concept holds in my mind and I know there is no way to look this up at the library. Field research is required. I never pass on anything.
That’s why people like me become researchers, because the urge to know everything and anything about a subject is overwhelming once it slips into that certain mind-curiosity-groove. If there’s bad sex out there, I’ll find it.
“It’s sort of a scavenger hunt for bad sex, Holly,” I tr
y to explain to my upstairs neighbor and lover. We’re buried deep under her pink comforter eating chocolate chip cookies the next night. Holly is the Martha Stewart of my love life—candlelight and cookies and flowers all the time.
Walking into her place is like walking into Victoria magazine. Some nights it’s better than actual sex. She’s a Dragon—as into mind-touching as she is into body-touching.
“Sometimes I have bad sex with myself,” Holly offers. “You know, those nights when even your own fingers bore you to death?”
“Bad sex for one? Sounds like something Stouffers would make.”
Monogamy is not a fetish of mine, but still I feel a little guilty even though Holly and I have always been open about any other lovers we might have. I decided a long time ago that two lovers was exactly the right number for me. My other lover is a student named Keith, a Snake like me but from a different generation, twelve years younger. He knows what I need. He likes to use my hair to tie me up in strange places before he fucks me, and I’m immensely fond of that particular knot.
Holly agrees it might be a good project as long as I promise only to attempt bad sex. She’s an academic, so she decides to chart this all out for me. We decide that random bad sex would probably have to involve a stranger. We decide I need to keep a log of it all, and that there has to be a way to sort it out. She remembers the old Sears catalog ratings of “good/better/best” when buying products and decides that will do. Our final scale runs: Worst | Worse | Bad | Boring | Good | Better | Best—and that’s it, I’m off for the hunt.
Driving down Broadway the first night, I sense one problem: I’m already wet at the promise of getting laid by someone new. I try to control myself by reciting the Dewey Decimal System out loud.
The lounge at the Holiday Inn on Colfax is the first stop. I’m wearing fishnet stockings and leather, but my hair is pulled back in a ponytail and my turtleneck rides high, a sort of combo slut/cheerleader look. It doesn’t take me long to pick out a paunchy-looking, balding guy at a table by himself and start the flirtation.
