by Alison Tyler
“Do you know what I really like?” she asked. She wanted to giggle. She wanted to tear off her clothes, tell him to forget the game, and find a good seat across his lap.
But rules were rules.
And she wanted to win.
Slowly, eyes glazed, he shook his head.
His eyes flickered to hers and then to her breasts, locking there as if he thought they held the secrets of the universe.
She took one breast in each hand, took the hard tips between thumb and forefinger. It must be that wine of his. Or that bod of his—all lean muscle and elegant accent. Or maybe it was just him—the man she’d lusted after for far too long in secret dreams she’d never admitted to anyone.
“What I really like,” she said, voice raspy and thick, the way she’d always wanted to sound and never had, “is a guy with a bite to him.”
She pinched the tips of her breasts. Hard.
She almost had him there. Saw it in the jerk of his hand, the hot flare in widening eyes, the tension knotting his shoulders.
Smiling, her eyes shut as she let herself go for it. Let her slicked fingers roll on hard nipples even as she thought about having his hands on her instead.
“I could play with them all day. I have, you know. I’ve gone into the bathroom at work”—such a lie—“and locked the door, and undone my blouse like this, and then rubbed and squeezed and pinched. I have these things I bought. From a catalogue. With little clamps—they’re vibrators.” That was true. “They’re not like a man’s teeth. Not as good. But I pretend.”
She tugged. Pulled. Put her head back and moaned at how good it felt. Then she looked at him.
And the sight of him—lips parted, eyes glazed, hand holding back that thick bulge in his trousers—just about had her losing it.
Stare locked on him, pulse quick and hard in her throat, she kept at him. “I pretend it’s your mouth on them.”
That broke him. His stare jerked to her face, then he launched out of the chair and across the room at her.
His mouth wrapped over her fingers. She threw her head back as his mouth found the place she most wanted it to be and lightning arced into her. He leaned her back, his hips pressed against her thigh. She pulled her hand away and pressed more of her breast into that hot, hungry mouth.
He lifted up, loomed over her, eyes dark. Then dragged off his shirt, buttons popping. She blinked. She’d never had a guy ruin a shirt for her.
Gaze roaming, hands following after, she took in the hard muscles of his chest, the dusting of dark hair spread across his pecs, the firm, tan skin.
“It’s a sin to ever put you in a suit,” she said.
He grinned. Then pushed her breasts together and took both pink tips in his mouth. She gasped and squirmed as he tormented. She bucked as he bit down.
Soft, then hard.
So amazingly hard she lost it.
Lights burst behind her eyes. Exploded as muscles clenched. The world tightened to searing, delicious sensation. She rubbed against him, wished she had him filling her. Instead, he sucked harder. She arched to him, body pulsing, muscles contracting as her hips jerked and she went over the edge.
She’d lost the game—she’d climaxed first. But he’d cheated. He’d broken the rules and touched her.
Opening her eyes, she said with a smile, “Looks like we’re going to have to play for the best two out of three.”
JOEL A. NICHOLS
THINK OF BASEBALL
GRINDING HIS TONGUE INTO HER, Rick Sullivan mouth-fucked his wife. It was something he knew he had to do, and he wanted to do it better than her friends’ husbands. He knew they talked about it and hoped that Callie was the happiest. He licked her pussy lips, pushing them apart with the blade of his tongue. She tasted salty and wet, and each new slick of her juice coating his chin was hotter than the last. Wispy pubic hair tickled his nose as he lapped at her. She squirmed around beneath his face, flexing and bending her hips and ass as he electrified her cunt.
For most guys, thinking about baseball would slow them down with their wives. Rick had to think about mowing the lawn. If he thought about the game, he shot right away, at the bottom of the first. He wanted to last as long as he could, wanted her to come every time, so she didn’t think anything was wrong with their sex life.
Rick licked his index finger and ran it up her thigh, slipping it inside her as he nibbled her lips and flicked his tongue at her clit. Callie moaned and spread her legs. Rick rocked from side to side as she dug her pink toenails into his waist, and then buried his whole face in her. He finger-fucked her slit and kept tonguing, licking his own finger as it disappeared into her. Every few beats he pinned her clit down with the tip of his tongue, thinking about the princess and the pea, and stroked it feather-light. She grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him off her pussy.
“I want you to fuck me,” she said, letting go of his head and leaning back on the pillows. Rick’s scalp burned.
She lifted her knees and reached down to guide his cock into her. He was huge—too huge to wear swim trunks in the summer because he invariably fell out the leg hole of the longest trunks—and even when she was already relaxed and aroused from his mouth and fingers, she always grasped him and fed him into herself slowly. But after that first stroke, Callie left it up to him. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt him fill her up. Rising against his hips, she welcomed his girth from the inside with hot, moist friction. Rick leaned over her and nuzzled her neck, biting her earlobe as his weight fell over her chest. Her nipples were hard against him, her breasts warm against his hairy chest.
He drilled her, over and over. She was breathing heavily and wet flooded her thighs. It was always like that when she was getting close, when Rick was sure that he was hitting all her spots. He felt himself lagging and reached down. He grabbed his balls, then jerked the bottom of his dick. His cockhead was still buried inside her as he pumped the bottom. Callie pressed her fingertips over her clit and bore down with her legs, gripping him tight. She moaned, driving her fingertips into his thigh. “Harder,” she growled, tugging at his hip. “Fuck me harder. Now. Harder.” The last syllable disappeared in a gasp.
Rick let go of his dick and slid it all the way in her. His balls smacked against her ass. His knees started to burn, and another wave of wet sluiced out of Callie. Her head was thrown back and the corners of her lips curved up. They pounded away at each other until a damp sheen of sweat covered them both. She started to come again, grasped his hips with both hands and pulled him into her. She let loose a gasping moan.
Rick bit down on his lip and pretended to come, bucking his hips, grinding them into his wife. He said, “Fuck, yeah” and “I love you.” He pushed his cock all the way in and shook, pumping an imaginary load deep in her.
“Holy…” Callie said, trying to catch her breath. “It feels like I’m floating,” she whispered. They mashed their lips together and deep-kissed. Rick rolled onto his stomach to hide his hard-on and threw an arm over her breasts. Callie’s eyelids fell shut. Her cheeks were still pink with the flush of orgasm as Rick rolled on top of his big cock. The pressure he’d built up wouldn’t go away until he could stroke it out, and he never could with her. When her breathing was regular, Rick stole out of bed, his hard-on still red and stiff. It pointed his way out through the breezeway and into the garage.
Rick had played second base in high school and shortstop in junior college. Coaches were always impressed by his hard work and quick legs. He was a good catcher and a not-bad hitter. His team plaques hung on the wall of the garage, team photos stretching back to Little League. In every one of those group pictures, Rick was easy to pick out: the redhead with a sideways smile.
Rick had a big, red, metal toolbox tucked against the wall with all the memorabilia. The heat of his cock warmed his thighs in the cool garage. It was still wet with her juice and jutted out from his tight belly. Above the toolbox hung a varnished baseball bat all the teammates had signed at graduation. Matt Deichman had signed r
ight at the top, ringing the thick end with a bad-boy scrawl. Deichman had been the first baseman. Rick closed his eyes and remembered watching him watch the batter. It was the best part of baseball that year, for Rick: he had to keep his eyes on Matt Deichman because that’s always where the ball was going to come from.
Even back then his cock would start to fill up inside his tight jock. And when he thought of standing in red dirt, waiting for Deichman’s move, he felt a low ache in his balls, a missing piece of pleasure.
He stroked himself slowly, shaking his big dick from the bottom and letting its weight make it harder. The first times he’d gone out to the garage in a bathrobe, afraid that his wife would catch him. But he knew she never woke in the night, especially after he’d fucked her like that. Rick reached up and hefted the baseball bat off its hooks. He rubbed the circular ridge at the bottom against his cock, which slicked a wet trail on the smooth and cool wood. He smacked it against his stomach a couple of times and his cock was back to full girth, red and pulsing hot.
With perfectly squared shoulders, Rick took two shadow swings. As he released his elbows and arched into the ideal hyperextension, his dick thudded first against his right thigh and then rebounded against his left. Whenever jealous guys in the locker room razzed him about his meat that was long even when it was soft as dough, Deichman never said anything. Sometimes a blushing Rick would watch to see his reaction when they started up, but Deichman never raised an eyebrow. Rick knew from watching out of the corner of his eye in the shower that Deichman’s dick wasn’t nearly so hefty.
He hit imaginary homers, and swing after swing his dick slapped against his thighs and belly. In the night cool, his nipples stood hard and goose pimples rose on his naked chest and legs. After a few more practice hits, he tipped the bat down, aiming the thick end at the floor of the garage. He ran it along the length of his cock. At the blunt end—where Deichman’s name lay in black marker—the bat dwarfed his dick. But as he slid the two shafts along each other, Rick’s meat gained ground on the bat. It was thicker than the handhold and felt just as heavy as the varnished wood.
Rick spit in his hand and wrapped his palms around his dick and the narrow end of the bat. It took both hands to reach around the shafts, and Rick sighed as he squeezed his thick cock up against the bat. The contrast between the fire of his skin and the inner cool of the wood made his balls grow tight, and he moved the bat like a joystick.
As he stroked, he imagined that the bat was Deichman’s hard-on. It was something he’d seen in one of the fag rags he kept hidden at the bottom of the toolbox: a porno dude jerking himself and somebody else at the same time, struggling to wrap his fingers around that much cock. Rick closed his eyes and pumped away with both hands, feeling a tightening in his balls.
The bat slipped from his grasp and clattered to the cement floor. Rick stood stock-still for two breaths, listening for his wife’s footfalls from their bedroom, his hand a vise around the base of his flagging dick. After those beats of silence, he whacked it into his damp, open palm. It made a wet crack, and at both the friction of the slaps and the sound, his dick flared again. By now he’d been hard for almost an hour, and he was starting the feel the fluttering in his chest as his heart struggled to beat enough blood into his massive tool.
He squeezed the skin up around the base of his shaft. Spitting into his hand again, he slicked the crown of his cock and started pumping his fist with long, even strokes. After a few seconds, he bent over and picked up the bat. He balls hung heavy in the open air. This time Rick held the baseball bat at the blunt end. He crouched and straddled the bat, grinding the narrow end into the cement. He eased the end where Deichman had scribbled his name underneath his balls and leaned into it, letting the pressure build against that thin strip of skin between his ass and his balls.
Rick rode the bat, squeezing it between his asscheeks. His face and body flooded with heat as he imagined for a second crouching over Deichman, imagined the baseman’s dick playing at the edges of his ass. Rick clenched and unclenched as he stroked himself, making the image disappear and pulling his length through his slick fist. He licked his thumb and slid it around the ridge of his cockhead.
Deep inside his balls and ass, the pressure built and he leaned into the bat standing smooth and hard against his asshole. He beat his cock two-fisted, smacking it against his palms and kneading it up and down, up and down. The floor of the garage was cool along the burning soles of his feet. Rick flexed his legs, opening up his ass in the night air. He gave one last hard push against the blunt end of the baseball bat and his spine lit on fire, a rolling ball of heat that uncoiled from inside him and floated across the surface of his skin in a wave of pinpricks.
The bat clattered to the garage floor as Rick grunted and started to explode. His knees shook as the last surge of orgasm crested. With weak limbs, he bent and picked up the heavy baseball bat. He palmed the slick blunt end, rubbing his wetness into the varnished wood. He took one last look at Deichman’s signature, then hung the bat back on the hooks next to the rows of photographs. Then he followed the breezeway into the house, padded through the kitchen and into the bedroom. He slipped in next to his wife, curled up next to her, and collapsed into sleep.
KRISTINA WRIGHT
SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN
GETTING TIED UP SHOULD BE A PRELUDE to good, kinky sex, not a drunken party game. Unfortunately, this was one party game that had gone horribly wrong. What had sounded like a good idea when they were all doing shots of tequila in the kitchen, laughing and brushing up against each other, seemed like a very, very bad idea when one was tied up and sitting in a dark closet. Tied up and blindfolded. Burke squirmed in the chair and tested his bonds.
No deal—they weren’t budging.
He could hear his girlfriend Caroline’s laughter on the other side of the door. She was three sheets to the wind and feeling horny. He could tell because when she closed the closet door on him, she had said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be the one to finish you off.”
He groaned. Finish him off. At the time, he’d thought she meant sexual release. Now he was thinking execution. He strained against the ties around his wrists. And they were ties, his ties. Ties that had been hanging in the bedroom closet but were now wrapped around his wrists in the hall closet. Wrapped tight, too. Caroline sure knew how to tie a mean knot.
The fact that she wanted him tied down and helpless didn’t bother him. What bothered him was that she intended to send her friends into the closet, one by one. Which wouldn’t even be so bad, except that two of the six people in the living room were guys. Burke, despite some drunken experimentation during college, was very much straight. The fact that he couldn’t see anything, even when the door opened, only made things worse. He was pretty sure he’d know a guy’s touch from a girl’s, but he didn’t like feeling this damned helpless.
His cock, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind at all. It was standing at attention, or as much at attention as it could while he was clothed and sitting down. He shifted uncomfortably, with hopes of adjusting, rather than freeing, himself. He groaned in frustration.
“Wait for me, baby,” a female voice purred.
He hadn’t heard the closet door open and he couldn’t tell if it was closed. Were they watching? No, that wasn’t how the game was played. Seven Minutes in Heaven was played with the door closed so no one outside the closet knew what was going on inside the closet. It was cold comfort, under the circumstances.
He felt a soft, feminine hand on his face. He was pretty sure it was Natalie, Caroline’s best friend from college. Burke didn’t know Natalie very well. Hell, he didn’t know any of Caroline’s friends very well. That’s what this little party was all about. Now that they were living together, Caroline wanted him to get to know her friends better. This wasn’t quite what he had in mind.
“I’ll go easy on you, sugar.”
The voice was a sweet, feminine Southern drawl. It had to be Natalie, though his first impression of he
r had been anything but sweet. She had a bit of a hard, aloof edge to her. Or so he thought. She seemed anything but aloof as she ran her fingers through his hair and bent down to nibble on his earlobe.
“Natalie, right?” he croaked, trying desperately for some levity even while his cock threatened to rip through his jeans. Why was this turning him on so much?
“Right, sugar,” she breathed in his ear, rimming it with the tip of her tongue. “Nervous?”
He laughed. “A little. This is an unusual getting-to-know-you strategy.”
“Don’t worry, Caroline gave us some ground rules.” Her laugh was low and sultry. “We’ll be good. Well, as good as we have to be.”
Burke realized he was leaning into her lips, willing her to nibble down his neck. “What ground rules?”
Taking the hint, she slid her hands down to his shoulders and leaned in, nipping at his neck. “We can kiss and touch, but no actual sex is allowed. She just wants you hard and ready for her.”
It wasn’t great, but he’d been afraid he’d end up naked in here. He relaxed, allowing himself to enjoy Natalie’s attention. She licked and sucked his neck for a couple of minutes, hard enough that he knew he’d have a mark or two to show for it. He wondered if Caroline had stacked the deck against him by telling her friends exactly how to drive him crazy.
“Oh yeah,” she drawled, “I forgot. We can undress you, as much as your restraints will allow.” She bit down on his neck. “Should I unzip your pants?”
“No, please,” he said. He sounded breathless even to his own ears. “I’d rather keep my pants on.”
Natalie laughed softly. “Your call, sugar. But at some point, those pants are going to get opened and Mr. Happy is going to come out to play.” The knock on the door startled them both.
