Sudden Sex

by Alison Tyler

  “Tell me what a dirty girl you are,” he hissed.

  Panting and sweating, I babbled out the truth of my darkest desires. “I love sex. I love cocks ramming up inside me. I love getting tied up and spanked on my pussy. I love shaving myself so I can be perfectly bare all over just for you.”

  Frank answered each confession with a deep grunt of pleasure. He was losing it now and so was I. The prim Victorian bed squeaked beneath us. I jerked my hips up and up, desperate in my need, the knot of pleasure in my belly growing hotter and bigger until it exploded, bursting from my throat in a wail of release. Abandoning all propriety now, Frank bellowed rudely as he came into me: fuck oh fuck Eva fuck.

  Afterward we lay in each other’s arms, marveling again that each time brought something wonderful and new.

  “That masturbation log is a pretty perverted idea,” I said, snuggling close. “We’d better come back soon, or I’ll be reading my twisted fantasies to you all night.”

  “Did I go too far? Be frank now.” Sean grinned.

  I felt another sweet twinge between my legs. “No, honey, that’s your job.”

  RIDING THE 5:15

  Sophia Valenti

  I’d noticed him before, the young man with the dark, searching eyes. Our paths had crossed occasionally in the evenings—that is, whenever I was able to get out of the office quick enough to make the 5:15 train. He’d glance my way the second I’d board the car, and then he’d keep his eyes trained on me for a long while, conveying his interest with his unyielding gaze. I’d catch him out of the corner of my eye and could never hold back my smile. I liked the attention—and our little routine. He’d stare at me patiently, appreciatively, waiting for some sort of hint, a sign that would encourage him to sidle up and talk to me during our thirty-minute ride to the suburbs. But no matter how many times our paths crossed, I never acknowledged him—until last week.

  It was the evening before a long holiday weekend, and it seemed as if everyone in the city had hightailed it out of town by midday. I rushed from my office and through the steamy streets, eager to head home. The air was thick and damp, feeling as if the city were on the verge of one of those violent summer downpours—the ones with heavy raindrops and striking claps of thunder. Electricity seemed to be already coursing through the air. Or maybe it was the sensation of my own frazzled nerves resonating within me. Either way, I soon realized I had three blissful days to unwind and indulge myself however I wanted. And that lit a spark in me, one that set me in a mood for some adventure.

  By the time I descended into the station, my thin sundress was clinging to my curves, my skin hot and damp. I hurried across the empty platform, hearing an announcement that told me my train’s departure was imminent. Clutching my purse, I hustled down the last few steps and into the train, the doors closing behind me a second later.

  I glanced around the car, seeing that it was empty—except for one familiar passenger.

  There was my handsome stranger, reclining in his seat, with his tie loosened slightly and the first few buttons of his shirt open. He appeared relaxed and as ready for the weekend as I was.

  Boy, did he look good. Rather than ignoring him, I stared directly at him this time. After all of those weeks of one-sided admiration, I felt I’d earned the right. Brazenly, I let my gaze trail from his intense eyes to his full lips and manly jaw, before taking in his broad shoulders and legs crossed casually at his ankles. My eyes then reversed their path, heading upward before locking with his. His lips quirked up in a smile, and my cheeks flushed with heat. I felt like all of my senses were on high alert.

  Feeling bold, I sat directly opposite him, and his smile grew wider.

  “Just in time. Lucky you,” he said, extending his hand. “My name’s Paul.”

  I put my hand in his, enjoying the feeling of his strong fingers wrapping around my palm. “Hi, I’m Maya,” I answered, my voice nearly a purr. “But it remains to be seen how lucky I’ll get.”

  Paul sat up a little straighter, but his easy laugh let me know that my words didn’t shock him. But what they did do was add an extra dash of sexual tension to the attraction that was already sparking between us.

  He and I made small talk about our jobs and the weather, politely filling the time, until the conductor came by to check our tickets.

  “This train’s nearly empty,” he said to us. “Enjoy the peace and quiet. I know I will,” he added before disappearing.

  “Mind if I join you?” I asked, nodding toward the seat next to him.

  “Not at all,” he answered, smiling wickedly as I took my place at his side.

  Reaching up to his face, I caressed his stubbled cheek with my hand. He growled low in his throat, nuzzling my palm. I leaned in close, kissing him and inhaling his scent, enjoying the sensation of his soft lips pressing against mine. Paul threaded his fingers in my hair, tightening his grip and making me gasp into his open mouth as his tongue began to tease mine.

  When our car cleared the tunnel, sunlight streamed in through the windows, and as the train picked up speed, so did we. Before long we were kissing wildly, lost in our embrace, as the train rhythmically rocked along the tracks. Paul’s hands slid down my body, caressing me through my flimsy dress as he lavished my neck with kisses. Despite the train’s air-conditioning, I felt red-hot inside.

  When Paul’s hand slid up my thigh, I moaned with longing. Not able to wait, I wriggled out of my panties, and then straddled his lap.

  “This is a much better seat,” I whispered.

  “I’d have to agree,” he said, his intense stare thrilling me to my core. I felt as if he could see into my very soul, instantly reading the depth of my desire for him.

  We resumed our lip-lock as Paul brought his hand up under my dress again, finding the split of my body and using his thumb to circle my clit before flicking it gently. I was on the edge, but I needed more.

  “I want you inside me—now. I can’t wait,” I told him in a heated whisper.

  Deep down, I knew there was a chance we’d be discovered, and while that excited me, I knew it might also call an end to our game. And that was something I couldn’t tolerate. I was hot and wet and desperate; there was no time to lose.

  I reached into my purse to fish out a condom. Paul’s face lit up with a half-cocked smile, and he hurriedly opened his pants. His erection sprang upward, and I stroked it affectionately before rolling the latex along his length. Then, with my dress billowing around us, I lowered myself onto his cock, sighing as I took him inside my body.

  Paul brought a hand to my hair once more, tangling his fingers in my tresses as I began to ride him. I started off slow but increased my speed, feeling the rhythm of the train pulsing within me as we sped to our destination. Outside, the sky grew dark and fat raindrops slammed against the windows, turning the world into swirls of gray. Paul reached underneath me, his thumb once again finding my clit, and I ground against him lewdly. Working my hips, I quickly sparked my climax, biting my lip to keep quiet, while he grabbed my hips and powered his cock in and out of me. Our mouths met once more, and a few seconds later, a loud crack of thunder came, masking the sound of Paul’s orgasmic groans, but I felt their vibrations in our kiss as we rode out the last spasms of our climaxes together.

  They say that life’s about the journey, and I’d have to agree. But the journey’s even better when you have company that’s as sexy as Paul.

  PEACH-COLORED PANTIES

  Thomas S. Roche

  About four o’clock, I called Tess into my office and told her to close the door.

  “Is that a new skirt?” I asked her.

  She brightened. “Yes, Sir. Brand new. Do you like it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Lift it. I want to see what you’re wearing underneath.”

  She looked at me shyly, her hands dropping to the hem of her skirt—but she did not obey. Her pale face went pink, working toward crimson.

  “Is this really necessary, Sir?”

  “Of course,” I tol
d her. “Dress code. Remember?”

  “Yes, Sir, of course,” she said, toying with the hem of her slate-gray, pleated skirt. “But you’ve never checked before, Sir.”

  “Oh,” I smiled. “I’ve checked. You just didn’t know I was checking. Those little skirts you wear. You tend to forget how short they are. You bend over quite a lot for a secretary, don’t you?”

  She stammered, “I don’t know, Sir.”

  “One might think you were going out of your way to flash me.”

  She shook her head nervously, her face reddening more deeply as her ample breasts heaved.

  “No, Sir. I didn’t realize I was flashing you.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said with obvious suspicion. “You just want me to know what color panties you’re wearing every single day, then?” Before she could stammer an answer, I chuckled. “Then again, it’s not like I haven’t encouraged you, Tess. Why do you think I keep all the client files on the bottom shelf? God forbid you should kneel to do the filing.”

  “Kneeling bags my stockings,” said the blushing secretary. She glanced down shyly at her thighs; for the first time in weeks, the lacy tops of her nude-color stockings weren’t visible. I didn’t even know for sure if she had a garter belt or stay-ups!

  “You were kneeling yesterday afternoon,” I said with a sneer.

  “That’s different,” she blushed. “My job duties required it. Besides, the pad under your desk is smooth. It doesn’t ruin my stockings the way the carpet does.”

  “Well,” I said. “That’s reasonable. But you know the rules around here, Tess. Panties and bra must match.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said, still toying with the hem of her skirt. Her breath was coming quickly; her lips were parted, glistening with lip gloss and spittle.

  “Since I can already see your bra,” I said, “I won’t ask you to open your blouse—you’re half-hanging out of it, you know?”

  She glanced down at her tits and bit her lip flirtatiously. Those once-milky, now-crimson mounds could be blamed almost as much as her very short skirt for my calling her in to my office. I probably wouldn’t have been so obsessed with what sort of panties Tess was wearing if I hadn’t spent half the morning transfixed by her upthrust mounds. The improbable sky-blue satin top into which she had crammed herself was at least a size too small. But it was her lacy bra that made me really curious. Somewhere between a millimeter and an inch of her lacy bra was visible at the edge of her plunging neckline. It was a peach-colored bra; it was not at all far from the hue of her skin.

  It made her look naked.

  If she was wearing peach-colored panties under her skirt, I wanted to see them.

  On any other day, I’d just wait till she did her filing.

  But her new skirt was far too long. She could file all she wanted; I wouldn’t see a thing.

  And speaking of Tess’s breasts, they provided me with tangible evidence of her mounting arousal. Her nipples had gotten so hard that they showed right through her red satin top, tenting its fabric. She had been flashing those tits at me all afternoon. She had bent over to deliver me an unasked-for cup of coffee (“Just the way you like it, Sir. Hot and creamy…”) or the Jackson report (“So you can see every detail of the case, Sir,”) or the take-out menu from the Dim Sum Café downstairs (“I know you skipped lunch, Sir, and they’ve got delicious buns.”) Every time she did, she made sure that she bent over, tucking her ass up high in the air and placing the document or coffee cup or whatever on my desk with a decided firmness, remembering to wiggle as she did it.

  As if that wasn’t enough, those nipples—which now peaked the sky-blue satin of her top so suggestively—had been in evidence at various times through her workday so far. Each time, I could see her nipples, dark beneath the rippling, suggestive texture of the nearly see-through blue blouse and the lace, tenting both.

  I spent much of each workday getting acquainted with my secretary’s under things—often without her “noticing” or letting on that she noticed. But today I was thoroughly transfixed by the way the peach-colored bra offset her lovely, creamy skin.

  I wanted to know if she had peach-colored panties.

  “Up,” I told her, nodding at her skirt.

  Tess said, “Yes, Sir,” and raised the thing up to her waist.

  My eyes went wide. My jaw dropped. I gulped.

  My secretary wasn’t wearing peach-colored panties.

  In fact, she wasn’t wearing a damn thing under that skirt. Not even pubic hair—not a whisper of it.

  Her red lips twisted in a smile.

  She panted slightly, obviously pleased. “I shaved this morning after you left for work,” she said. “Do you like it?”

  “Y-y—” was all I managed to choke out as I rose from my big leather chair. I came around the desk quickly, as Tess pirouetted and planted her perfect, bare ass on the edge of my desk.

  I was on her in an instant.

  I had this whole big thing planned out; I was going to chastise her for flirting with me, threaten her with some sort of civil charge of sexual harassment, blah blah blah; I had a whole huge monologue in my head, to be delivered while I bent her over my desk and gave her the spanking she so richly deserved.

  But when I saw her complete absence of peach-colored panties, a spanking seemed pointless.

  Instead, I kissed her hard and felt her up. Tess held her skirt up to her waist and wriggled against me. Feeling the smooth, easy access to her slicked-up sex, I dropped to my knees.

  I buried my face between her smooth thighs. I licked her smooth sex and slipped my fingers up in her, working her clit and her swelling G-spot until she was ready to come.

  Then I was up and ready to fuck. She got my pants open, shoving them over my hips. They dropped to my ankles. I entered my secretary easily, in one even thrust. Tess’s ardor ruined yet another J. Crew dress shirt—I’m still finding buttons weeks later.

  When I was in her deep, buried to the hilt, I kissed her hard, our tongues entangling as I gave her blouse the same treatment she’d given my shirt. Private practice can be murder on a married couple’s bank account—because of all the ripped-off clothes.

  I lowered and raised my hips till I found just the right angle—then grabbed her hair and held it tight. I looked in her eyes while I worked my cock precisely up and down, reaching between us to thumb her clit as I thrust shallowly at just the right angle—I knew it so well. Her mouth dropped open. She moaned. I gave my secretary slow, jagged thrusts—just the way she liked it, ma’am, hot and creamy. She came in a minute and a half, maybe longer. She shuddered and howled and melted into my arms while her pussy clenched me rhythmically.

  I let Tess catch her breath, purring into my ear as she settled into soft, even afterglow.

  Then I took my pleasure with my secretary.

  It had certainly turned out to be a fruitful professional relationship. Months ago, it had become painfully necessary that my small private practice needed a part-time secretary.

  Tess was, at that time, working at home as a contractor; a morning person, she was up at six and done with work before noon. When I left for work at eight or nine, she’d be locked in her office in sweats and a tank top. Afternoon, she relaxed or ran errands.

  But even so, I wouldn’t have suggested her for the job if her filthy little mind hadn’t gone there right off the bat—suggesting that whatever lucky young slut I hired would end up bent over my desk with great frequency.

  And she certainly had—with great frequency.

  I came with a shudder, Tess’s body clutched tight to me, her legs spread wide across my desk. It was the best time we’ve had since my wife started working for me.

  Which is why I’ll never forget the day my secretary didn’t wear peach-colored panties.

  RESERVED

  Jax Baynard

  The house was one of those old summer homes on the bay: one big room with a porch and two smaller rooms off the back. It was no treat in the winter when the wind blew off the wat
er with a damp chill and the lack of insulation made the house hard to heat, but in the warm weather the rickety house was full of charm. The view was all grandeur: an expanse of water held in the wide curve of the bay, the mountain rising from the foot of the far shore, cloaked now in the brown grasses of summer, with the darker green of oak and bay in the gullies and the lighter green of willows growing in the streambeds.

  Jackson didn’t own the house. He was renting. Abigail parked on the road and walked up the narrow drive. Common wrens twittered in the bushes and out in the marsh she could see an egret standing on one leg, stately, looking for lunch in the tall reeds. They were friends. They’d met, had a few beers, gone hiking. She liked him, but she wasn’t sure how much. He hadn’t put on the hard press. He was even-tempered, reserved. Maybe he was waiting for something. Abby didn’t know; he hadn’t told her. The door stood ajar. The house was quiet and cool. She didn’t call out, thinking he was working outside. The house was somebody’s second home. When he had time, Jackson paid the rent in labor. He cleared brush, fixed fences, replaced broken windowpanes. He liked to sit in a wooden chair in the evenings with a beer in his hand, watching the marsh and cataloguing his next round of chores.

  Abby left her shoes by the door and prowled to the back rooms, curious. In summer, everyone lived mostly out-of-doors. She’d never seen the rest of the house. She was brought up short, silently, in the doorway to the bedroom. She’d found Jackson. Not the man she thought she knew—the modest East Coast geologist with the lopsided smile. This Jackson was naked and held his penis in one hand, working the shaft slowly in his tight fist. He had no hair at all on his body. Except for the hair on his head, a sandy brown, he was shaven smooth all over. And he was wearing stockings, flesh colored thigh-highs that clasped the top of his legs in lacy elastic bands. His eyes were closed. Abby stood, barely breathing. Her belly flip-flopped, the desire surprising her. Looking at the familiar face, reddish color staining his cheekbones, it was as if a finch had metamorphosed into an eagle. Not so modest, nor so reserved. He had a kink or two and that made him interesting. Her eyes went back to his cock. He moved slowly, teasing himself. Near the beginning, then, she thought. She watched the way his hand curled tight around the flesh, viscerally felt the pleasure he was giving himself and wanted it to be her hand. The thought made her go wet in a liquid rush.