by Alison Tyler
The sun burned hot on the back of my neck, and the sweat ran in runnels down my thighs. My panties were damp, but that wasn’t only the temperature. Taking my hand, Pippa lead me beyond the baseline to where the wattles dropped golden flower globes onto the ground. Here the hard court ended and the grass began—long grass, uncut and starting to whither with the fierceness of the Australian summer.
With a long look, she grasped the hem of her top with both hands and pulled it over her head. A plain white cotton bra hid firm breasts, heavy with wide dark nipples. I touched one with my fingertip, watching it instantly tighten. Her skirt dropped away, leaving her in those ridiculously frilly tennis panties.
Swiftly, I stripped off my own damp singlet and let my shorts drop to the ground. I never wear a bra—don’t need one with my boyish chest—and my panties were plain, serviceable cotton. I kicked my clothes away.
She reached for me at the same instant as my hands sought her body. We sank to the ground, and my face was in her breasts as I palmed her nipple and bit gently on its partner. I had expected her to be more passive, more diffident in her approach to sex. The jaunty ponytail, the whole tennis thing had led me to expect that I would be the aggressor. But Pippa was fighting for the upper hand, trying to push me over onto my back so that she could feel my breasts.
For a moment, I gave way, and abruptly I found myself on my back with her astride me. Our panties touched and our thighs rubbed together. My palms smoothed her inner thighs, finding the curve I love so well. Her fingers rubbed my nipples and I sighed in pleasure, closing my eyes against the bright sunlight that filtered through the trees. When her hand crept under my panties, I raised my hips, encouraging her to remove them. She took the hint, and immediately her fingers were there, sliding over the lips, then dipping inside. Pippa shifted, lying between my spread thighs; one finger, two, then three slipping slowly in and out, sliding easily in the moisture, curling around, pressing up, stretching me, finding my G-spot with easy skill. She pistoned fast, fucking me with her small hand, a welcome penetration. When her thumb passed over my clit, the spasms started, intensified, and burst in a rolling golden wave of pleasure. My back arched from the ground, and my mouth opened in a soundless scream.
When the spasms eased, I became aware of our surroundings, the dry grass stalks in my back, the shrill of the cicadas. Pippa raised up and pressed her fingers to my lips, forcing me to taste my juices. I allowed it for a minute, while my breathing slowed, steadied, and then I pushed her hand away.
My turn.
Still on my back, I encouraged her forward, guiding her thighs so that they settled on either side of my head. Turning, I pressed a kiss against their lean curve. Her panties were gone, kicked away to lie in the grass. Instead, there was her bare pussy inches from my mouth, covered with downy blonde hair, musky with the scent of summer. I learned her with my fingertips, tracing the lines of her lips, feeling the texture of her moisture. And then, when the longing became too much, I tasted her, savoring the starburst of her cunt on my tongue. I was gentler than she had been; I lapped with short, gentle strokes, then pushed my tongue in deep, seeking paradise.
Pippa’s thighs clenched about my head, clamping on my ears so much that the pressure created an artificial sea-murmur in my ears. Her hair had worked loose from the ponytail and curled in damp tendrils against her neck. But I didn’t let her come. As she worked up to her peak, as her moisture flowed freely over my mouth and chin, I eased back and pushed her off my face, an abrupt motion that had her sprawling in the grass. She stared up at me, the sex-flush spreading down over her pale breasts.
I parted her legs and reached for the tennis racket. The handle was worn smooth from years of sweat and firm grip, and it was fat and hard. I eased it into her cunt, letting her relax around the intrusion. Then, letting it rest, I put my mouth back down to her snatch again. This time, I kept going, tonguing her hard, lashing her shivering clit with long, wet strokes. When she came, the racket quivered in her cunt, trembling against the side of my face. I pulled it out and handed it to her. Her fingers closed around the grip, and she mimed an imaginary backhand slice.
“I think this racket’s just played its best match,” she murmured. Her sleepy, cat-slit eyes told it all. I rested my head down again onto her thigh and let my fingers tangle in her soft pubes.
My words vibrated against her skin. “Fancy a rematch sometime?”
ERICA DUMAS
THE BIG TOUCHDOWN
GREAT,” YOU SAY, pulling the station wagon in at the top of the point, into a parking place shrouded by trees. “The perfect spot.” There’s no view from here, but it doesn’t matter; we’re not going to be looking. The only lights are angled shafts from one faraway klieg light. We get into the backseat and start to make out. From the second our lips touch I can feel your cock growing in your blue jeans. Our tongues intertwine as I slip my hand under your football jersey and stroke your muscled chest.
“Ohmigod,” I say enthusiastically, “I couldn’t believe it! That was so great when you caught the pass and ran fifty yards for the big touchdown!”
“Yeah?” you say, smiling, all arrogant and pleased with yourself.
I giggle. “Yeah! I was sooooo proud of you!”
You kiss me, hard, your tongue deep in my mouth as your hand touches the swell of my breast under the tight poly-cotton cheerleader uniform. Your palm gently presses my nipple as it stretches the fabric. “Did it make you wet?” you ask with a wicked smile on your face. I look into your eyes and say breathlessly, “Yeah.” Then, with a broad smile: “It made me want to suck you.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” you say and lean back.
I can’t resist it any longer. As you stretch out on the backseat, I lower myself and push my face against your crotch, feeling your cock swelling in your blue jeans. I whimper softly as I press my lips around your bulge, fumbling with your belt. You grab your buckle and unfasten it yourself, then unzip your pants, revealing your cock, outlined in white jockey shorts that seem to glow in the faint light. How does Mom get her whites so white? I wonder. I reach into your jockeys and pull out your hard cock. I lick the head, tasting your salty pre-come, then take your cock in my mouth and listen to you moan softly as I start to suck you off.
“You looked so good running through those routines,” you say as my head bobs up and down in your lap. “I couldn’t wait to get you alone after the game. Why do you think I ran so fast?”
My mouth slides off you and I beam up at you. “You’re just saying that!”
“No, really.” Your voice is hoarse. “If your ass hadn’t looked so fine every time that skirt flew up, I wouldn’t have been able to run like that. I couldn’t wait to get a piece of it.”
I giggle and slide your cock between my lips again, feeling my pussy surge with every thrust down. You’re moaning again, a little louder, getting more excited as my hand works the shaft of your cock and my tongue circles the head. Your hands find the back of my cheerleader jersey and unzip it, pulling it forward. I ease my arms out so you can reach down to stroke my breasts through my sports bra. When you pull it up, I moan louder. Your fingers stroke my nipples through the damp material. You’re getting closer, your arousal mounting as I bring you nearer your orgasm with every swirl of my tongue.
You pull me off your cock, both of us panting.
“Kristi, please, just let me put it in a little,” you beg.
I blush deeply. “Mi-i-ike!” I say, drawing your name out into three syllables.
“Please. I promise I won’t come. I promise I’ll go slow.”
I’m panting hard now, my pussy throbbing so hard there’s no way I could say no. But I play the game, looking up at you insistently.
I clutch the front of my jersey over my breasts. “You promise? You promise you won’t come?”
You make an X over your chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” Looking up at you, I say, “All right. But just put it in a little.” You’re on me in a flash, pushin
g me back into the seat, your mouth hot against mine, your tongue plunging deep into me. Your fingers slide up my skirt and down my gold and green regulation panties, the same color as my skirt. Your hand finds my pussy, and you know in an instant just how wet I am for you. Your finger slides into me easily, but I gasp as if it’s a surprise to me. Then I moan softly and wriggle deeper into your grasp.
“Promise you’ll go slow?” I beg.
“Promise,” you say and claw at my panties, pulling them down my thighs. They peel away from my pussy all sticky and wet. I put my legs up and you slide my panties over my ankles. You lean forward onto me and I spread my legs, leaning back as you lift my sports bra over my breasts.
Your mouth on them feels good, and I lie there running my fingers through your hair as you urgently tongue my nipples. I lift my hips slightly, and you reach down to guide your cock between my lips. I’m so wet you could drive into me with a single hard thrust. But still I say, “You promised. Go slow.”
You slide into me gradually, the first wave of pleasure hitting me when your head pops into my cunt. My mouth opens wide and I gasp, wordless, inarticulate with the pleasure of your cock filling me. I don’t want you to go slow: I want you to pound into me, fuck me so hard I scream. But I whisper, “Go…slow…Mike…. Please…go…slow….” You obey, moaning against my breasts as you ease your cock in as deep as it will go. I wrap my legs around your body and pull you deeper into me.
“Is it all right?” you ask breathlessly.
“It’s…good,” I gasp. “It’s…great.”
You start to fuck me slowly, and I twist and writhe under you as I pull you harder onto me with my legs spread wide and curved around your hips. “You can do it harder,” I whimper softly, and you begin to fuck me faster, pumping into me as I drag my fingernails across your back. I’m close, maybe closer than you are—but I’m not sure. That’s why when I hear your breath quickening I moan softly, “Don’t…come….Don’t…come….”
But it doesn’t matter, because just saying it turns me on more, “Please don’t come!” I beg as I hear your moans, your cock pulsing faster into me, and then I reach my orgasm, my legs tightening so firmly around yours that you stop thrusting and I beg, “Don’t stop! Please don’t stop!”
You start fucking me again, harder than ever, struggling against the uncontrolled tightening of my legs around you. Your cock feels huge as I tighten around the thrusting shaft, each spasm of my orgasm growing stronger as you fuck me. When my climax shudders to a halt, I pull you so firmly against my body with my legs that you stop thrusting again. I press your face between my hands and push your mouth to mine.
You start fucking me again, even harder this time, even faster. I untangle my legs from yours and spread my thighs wider. “Come inside me,” I beg, moaning. “Shoot your come inside me.”
You look nervous, unsure.
“It’s all right,” I sigh. “I want you to. Come inside me.”
Your back arches, your head rolls back, and you moan as your cock pulses deep in my pussy. I can feel the wetness, drowning out even my own. “Yes, yes, yes,” I sigh as you slump on top of me, and I caress your hair, kissing the side of your face. Your cock slides out of me, and I can feel the wetness of your come leaking out of my pussy, so dangerous, so taboo.
Still panting, you glance at your watch.
“What time do we have the babysitter till?” you whisper.
“Eleven,” I say.
“It’s ten thirty,” you tell me. “We really ought to get going.”
I nod and kiss you one more time. You climb off me and hunt for my panties, but they’re hidden somewhere in the darkness of the backseat. “Forget them,” I tell you, and we both get into the front seat.
Before you start the car, I kiss you again, hard. “How does it feel to have made the big touchdown?” I whisper to you when our lips part.
“Great,” you smile, “every single time,” and then you turn the key.
SHEILA DARE
PLAY ME
GIVEN THAT SHE’D ONLY PLAYED STRIP POKER once back in high school, this should have set off more warning bells. Back then, she’d won the pot, then lost her virginity. This time the stakes seem far higher. High enough to give her vertigo.
After draining her white wine, she plunked her glass on the room-service cart and asked, “Who goes first?”
He dug a quarter from his pocket. “Flip for it?”
“Heads,” she called. It came up tails.
He smiled. A lazy smile that had her throat tightening. He walked back to his chair, sat down, wine in his hand, eyes glittering and eager. Her mind blanked. She glanced around the hotel room.
What was she doing here? This was business, and he was supposed to be the competition for a prime account. But sharing a cab back from LidoSoft’s corporate offices had led to sharing dinner and war stories of the last time they’d met to duel in business. Then to after-dinner drinks in his hotel room and this bet.
“You want the LidoSoft account, don’t you? Badly?” he’d asked, voice smooth, sexy mid-Atlantic Brit at its best.
She’d stared at him, toyed with a strand of dark hair that brushed her shoulder, then tucked it behind her ear. “And you don’t?”
He shrugged. He’d taken off his jacket, pulled his tie loose. He looked better like this—rumpled, accessible, and without pin-striped gray hiding the lean muscle of him. What was it about a rolled-up, white shirt cuff on a man?
“It’d be a nice morsel,” he said. “But it’s not even an appetizer for a company like BGG.”
She’d given him a look over her wineglass that said, Sure, sweet stuff, tell me another. But she knew it was the truth. An ad agency the size of BGG didn’t need LidoSoft. She and her brother did.
He only smiled. Then he said, “It’s a dangerous competition we have going. Care to make it even more interesting?”
She’d pulled in a breath, known she ought to make a joke and head back to her room. Only she’d feel a hick. And she’d shaken off the dust of small-town Nebraska for the big city years ago. Reckless with wine, she said she was game.
Now she lifted her powder-blue skirt, eased it over the tops of her thigh-highs, and wondered just whose game this was. His gaze flickered to her legs. Locked there. His hand tightened around his wineglass. Heady stuff to keep a man’s eyes on you like that. To keep his eyes there—the top man at the top agency in the country. Her breathing quickened. She liked the rush of this. She liked these wicked rules.
Pure, raw daring lifted her pulse.
She looked down at herself. Wet her lips. Could she really do this?
Inching the skirt higher, she let her fingertips brush the black lace that topped her thigh-highs. Then she looked at him.
“I hate panty hose.”
Glassy-eyed, he nodded, then said, “Sign me up and we’ll start a movement against them.”
That voice—throaty with lust—pulled another flash of heat from her. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, kept lifting the skirt.
She’d worn black lace. A skimp of it. Now she ran her fingers over the front, touching dampness.
“Don’t like underwear much, either,” she said, and slid the black lace down, letting her skirt fall back into place as well.
His stare flashed to her face. Aroused. Excited. But not shocked. Not startled. Still far too together.
She’d have to do better.
Hands fumbling, she started with the buttons on her blouse, keeping her stare fixed on them as she undid them. The bra matched the undies. Cream silk undone, she looked at him. He’d drained his wine. The glass lay in loose fingers.
She set her mouth.
She’d nail him. She’d see him, head back, moaning, eyes lost to passion. She’d have him lose his cool—and the game. For once, she was going to go up against him and win.
Pulling her skirt high, she lifted it to her waist, then stepped wide, spreading her legs like a hooker out to entice a paying client. She’d nev
er done anything like this. Heaven, but did it feel good! Powerful.
Freeing. Sexy as hell, and so bad it made her smile. Heart pounding, she wondered why she’d waited so long to be so bad.
Reaching down, she put one finger into the wet slickness between her legs, then spread the softness she found with her fingers. Her arousal filled the room like a hot sea. She wiggled her hips and looked at him. “Like it?”
He nodded as if she’d stolen his words and he couldn’t find them again. She could see an interesting bulge lift the front of his gray trousers. Could she make him so wild he dragged her onto the floor and slammed into her, velvet hard and sweetly hot? But no—not the time to go there now. This was about winning. About making him lose it.
She pushed two fingers into wet warmth.
The pulse jumped in his throat. It pounded in her.
Eyes drifting closed, she turned, leaned a hand on the bed, gave him a show of her ass and the view from behind. She kept her fingers rubbing, slipping in and out again. Heat washed over her, through her. Her eyes closed with raw pleasure. Closed with the excitement of him watching.
His stare pushed her on.
Leaning on the bed, she wiggled again for him. Spread her legs wider. Made it easy for him to see. She could see, too. In the mirror behind him. Thighs white above black stockings. Lace tickling round cheeks. Powder-blue skirt bunched around her waist. Pink lips parted and moist. She’d never felt so hot. So wet. So turned on.
Sighing, low, deep, she rubbed. Faster now.
Her hips jerked as a moan slipped out. She gave in to the heat. Just her and her fingers. She knew how to do this, how to do herself. But having him watch. Bad, oh, bad, oh, so very good.
Opening her eyes, she watched him.
He had his hand on his trousers, palm pressing down. Her breath quickened. She was close to the edge, but that would lose her the game. So she straightened, turned, and sat on the bed.
Time to crank up the heat.
Gulping down a breath, she brought wet fingers up and pulled off her blouse. She pulled in a breath and the scent of sex that drugged the air. Slipping silk off her shoulders, she smiled. Air conditioning slid over her skin and the room smelled like hot need. Tugging her bra down, she left it fastened so it pushed up her breasts, kept them lifted and begging for his touch.
