by Alison Tyler
He stopped moving and Abby glanced at his face. He was looking at her. Still waiting? Sweat gleamed on the delicate skin below his eyes and on his eyelashes. The grip on his cock did not slacken. “I’m not going to apologize for this,” he said evenly, eyes moving to indicate the stockings. She thought it was the stockings.
“Did I say you should?” Abby asked, coming into the room. “I’m wet. I like it.” She knelt down between his legs, pushing them farther apart to make room for herself. He said nothing, neither inviting nor rejecting. She ran her palms from his ankles to the tops of his thighs, burrowing her fingers under the elastic. He had them on for a reason. His fingers flexed and his cock jerked in his hand. “Do you mind?” she asked. He still did not speak. He was guarded, Abby realized, waiting to see what she would do. But his fingers opened and Abby’s fingers replaced his on his cock. She squeezed firmly. He was hot and silky and slick from a little precome that emerged from the slit on the head of his penis.
All that she knew of him, Abby thought, was drift, flotsam pushed up by the tide and left on the beach. It was politeness and manners and social mores. It didn’t do much for her. It made him like everyone else, nodding and smiling at the appropriate moments. But this was a man with wary blue eyes and shaved skin and stockings and a hot erection growing and throbbing in her hands. This, she wanted. She moved closer, shifting her grip to the base of his cock and taking him into her mouth. He made a soft sound, the switch from the pressure of her hand to the warmth of her mouth making him flinch. She sucked him gently, giving him time to adjust, letting him go long enough to lick and kiss her way up the thick shaft and run her tongue around the rim of the circumcised tip. She lifted her head to look at him. “Do you want this?”
“Yes,” he finally spoke. “I do.” He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “A lot.”
Abby nodded, sucking the length of him back into her mouth, as much of him as she could take. She moved her head, pushing him to the back of her throat and breathing through her nose to keep from gagging. His breathing changed, becoming fast and uneven. His hands fisted in the sheet and she wondered if he was reluctant to touch her. Sort that out later, she thought. Or now? “Hold my head,” she told him. “Move your hips.” He did it with an alacrity that was gratifying. She gripped his legs with her freed hands and let him use her. She held herself immobile and he thrust his cock, hot and purplish, in and out of her mouth, hands tightening in her hair.
Her own fingers curled, pressed, making runs in the stockings, then rents, then great tears. She tangled her fingers in the material and laid scratches into the smooth skin of his thighs. Men were always hairy and this one wasn’t. It excited her and she flattened her tongue on the underside of his shaft, soft, soft and wet for him to slide against. He came, stiffening in every muscle, arching beneath her. Slowly he relaxed, breathing like a bellows. Abby rested her face in the crease of thigh and groin, breathing as hard as he was, breathing in the scent of him, licking the salty taste of come from her lips. His hands, open now, rested on her head. “Jesus, Abigail,” he said, something like wonder in his voice. “That was no bird-watching hike in the park.”
“No,” she agreed, smiling and turning her face to kiss his cooling skin. “I think that was much better.”
NIGHT VISITOR
Cheyenne Blue
She comes to him in the deepest hour of the night. His bedroom door opens and there’s a crack of light from the living area, swiftly extinguished as she closes the door.
He’s instantly awake, eyes following her shadowy shape as she moves into the room. In the light of a thousand stars through the window, he can see she’s wearing a towel wrapped around her body, tucked tightly between her breasts to hold it in place.
“Are you okay?” The words lodge in his throat, for she drops the towel.
It pools at her feet and she’s naked, gloriously naked. She walks toward him, the dark patch between her thighs mysterious and beckoning. She stands by the bed and her smile is a secret, inward one. Then she’s pulling back the quilt and sliding inside.
He can hardly breathe. “Thea,” he says, and then more urgently, “Thea.”
The words are stopped in his throat for she’s kissing him as if she’s falling into him, her tongue sliding into his mouth, and her hands, oh, my god, her hands, are on his body, running down his chest to his groin. She palms his cock, running her fingers along his length.
He bucks up into her hand willing her to continue, even as some befuddled part of his brain is wondering, why here, why now? They’re housemates and their friendship has never included benefits—until now. But he doesn’t think too hard, as her hands caress him closer to the edge. He stares up at her as she rears over him, her body gilded with starlight, dusky with shadows. She’s beautiful even when she’s slouching around the house in manky sweats, but naked, her short spiky hair tipped with silver, she’s ethereal and otherworldly.
He has to be sure even though he fears he’ll shatter the mood, so he says her name once more, and then when she remains silent, her gaze on his cock, he repeats it again.
She lifts her eyes to his face, tips her head to one side as if she’s heard a whisper in the shadows and kisses him. She’s not gentle; her lips mash into his and he tastes the copper tang of blood where she’s caught his teeth. Without breaking the kiss, she straddles his prone body and her moist pussy is hot on his belly.
He touches her then, his hands stroking up her thigh, dancing over her waist, fingertips grazing her nipples, and when she pushes her breast into his hand he circles, pinches lightly.
His cock prods her backside, but she seems in no hurry to impale him. So he concentrates on her pleasure—nipples, skin, and when he can no longer stand it, her pussy, slick with arousal. He wishes he could taste her, push his face between her thighs until he’s as wet as she, but her legs are tight around his waist and he can’t move. So he uses his fingers in light, flickering movements on her clit.
Her face is curiously distracted, as if she’s only half in the moment. He feels a twinge of unease—she can’t be asleep, can she? But as if she senses his concern she smiles and lays a hand softly against his cheek. He wishes she would say his name, but he’s reassured by the touch.
And doubt is blown out the window as her vise grip eases and she rises, positions herself and sinks down, taking him inside her, a smooth movement, no fumbling, no hesitation.
He’s wide-eyed with the ecstasy and the completion of a long-held dream. His fingers find her core once more. He knows he won’t last, and he wants this to be good for her too.
He grasps her hip, urges her on, and then he’s feeling her internal muscles flutter around his cock in rhythmic pleasure pulses. “Oh, god,” he starts to say, but he can’t continue as the pleasure is so intense. Physical feelings, yes, but they’re overlaid with a veneer of caring that he’s never let himself show before, not to Thea, never to her with her wisecracks and cocky, independent attitude.
As he pours himself into her, he thinks he might love her. He closes his eyes, winds the words into a tight knot so that they can’t escape.
She swings off him, and the cool air caresses his cock to softness.
He opens his eyes and she’s once again standing by the bed. She bends and retrieves the discarded towel.
“Stay,” he entreats, holding out a hand for her to take and be drawn back to his embrace.
She turns without a word and the sound of the door closing feels like the end.
He lies and watches the numbers on the clock turn over until morning. In the hours before dawn, he’s besieged by doubts: maybe he just ruined a wonderful friendship. What will she say in the morning? And he wonders, horrifyingly, what if she was asleep all along?
He’s sitting at the counter nursing his third mug of coffee when she appears.
“Morning,” she trills, and as she always does, asks, “Any more coffee in that pot?”
Not trusting his voice, he waves at the pot and
she pours a mug and sits down next to him.
“You’re quiet,” she says, and her eyes are inscrutable over the rim of her mug. “Did you have a bad night?”
There’s a sick, dark feeling in his stomach and he has to swallow hard before he can trust himself to speak. “I had a great night actually.”
“Good.” Her palm rests against his cheek for a fleeting moment, just as it did in the frantic dark hours past. Her voice hums with satisfaction. “So did I.”
TRIPARTITE
Georgia E. Jones
I was new in town, which made me the fresh meat. It was intimidating. As soon as everyone sniffed around and took a turn they’d get bored and go back to whatever they were doing before I moved in, but I’d been through a divorce and wanted no part of it. I needed wingmen, and in Will and Adam I had them.
There was sexual attraction, to be sure. Adam glowed with it. It was the first thing anyone noticed about him because, like a boxer with a solid left hook, he led with it. He propositioned me first thing; I declined, and after that we were friends. Will was harder to read. It took him four months to ask for a hug, but when he made his interest known, there was no mistaking it. I was tempted. Extremely tempted. But I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, least of all myself. Instead of friends with benefits, we became friends with attraction.
We met for drinks. We went hiking. They showed me the best places to swim and where to pick berries in the summer when the heat lay low in the thickets and there was no breeze anywhere.
In August they took me swimming at Daylight Beach. It was small and hidden and only the locals knew about it. The tourists congregated on the bigger beach to the east, noisy with kids and dogs and radios. We stayed near the water all day long and past it. It was dark when we started to hike back to the truck.
The path was thin and twisted, lined with the roots of bay and oak trees and the cinnamon-barked madrones. I stumbled twice on things they seemed to see in the dark. “Stop here,” Will said, when we reached a small clearing about halfway to the truck. “The moon is coming up.”
I stood, catching my breath. Days were hot on the coast, and the nights cool. I shivered, wearing nothing but a thin T-shirt over a damp bikini top. Adam saw it or felt it.
“Come here,” he said, and put his arms around me. I leaned against him, grateful for the warmth, ignoring the frisson of desire that sifted through my skin and down into my belly.
“Hey,” Will said softly, a protest. He came up behind me, moving closer until I was caught between the two of them. Adam was built solid and low to the ground. Will was taller, his chin resting on the top of my head. I stood still, absorbing the heat and scent of them. Adam’s cock rose up, pushing against my belly. He wasn’t the type to apologize and I liked it, unequivocally. I canted my hips backward, pressing my ass against Will, an invitation, and got an answer in the sweet rise of his flesh against mine. I was wearing an old cotton skirt and I lifted it in handfuls. If they thought that was a bad idea, they could tell me.
Adam sank to the ground, pulling me with him. I ran my hands across his belly before pulling down his trunks and putting my mouth on his cock. He made a strangled sound, and I sucked on him, hard, crouched between his thighs, not giving him a chance to adjust. Will lifted me to my knees, stripping off my bikini and touching me, spreading me open, nudging me with the head of his cock. He knew exactly how much sex I hadn’t been having since the divorce. Then I was filled up; the hot, thick length of Will inside me and hard thrust of Adam’s cock in my mouth. It was what I wanted, bone deep and mindless. I couldn’t establish any sort of rhythm, clenching around Will and grinding back against him. He said something—the dark voice of a cautionary tale—and held my hips in broad-palmed hands and did it for me.
I sucked on Adam, licking him up and down, cupping his balls in one hand then taking him as deep as I could until he touched the back of my throat. Adam came first, crying out, his hands fisted in my hair. I swallowed and rested my face against his belly, feeling Will thrust harder and harder, my own pleasure rising toward orgasm, but it was going to take longer than he had, so I just tightened around him as hard as I could and held on until he came.
We lay in a warm heap of tangled limbs. I measured my breathing against theirs, first Will’s, then Adam’s. After a time, Will said, “She didn’t come.”
Adam sat up. “We’ll have to do something about that.”
“Let’s,” said Will.
Adam didn’t say anything else, just picked me up and put me where he wanted me, which was straddled across his lap with my back against his chest. “I want you inside me,” I said, tilting my head back on his shoulder, and he did me the favor of taking me seriously.
“Give me a minute,” he said. He pressed his cock into the small of my back. He reached around and dragged his hand between my legs, smearing the wetness on his cock, then more on my nipples, then on his lips, acting generally like a man with all his favorite foods in front of him who decides not to choose one but to have them all. He lifted me and pushed inside me and I shivered all over, not from cold. It was strange, having two different cocks in quick succession. I arched, squirming on him.
“No,” he said, brusque. “Hold still.” And he held me down, thighs spread wide.
Will knelt between my legs and touched his tongue to my clit. He licked me all over, like he liked the taste of me, all around my clit, trying different angles until he found one that made the strong tendons in my inner thighs go weak.
Adam was whispering in my ear. “Come, come, come,” and I was dying to. I was desperate to move, trying to close my thighs around Will’s head, trying to move on Adam’s cock, throbbing inside me, and he held me down and made me take it until I broke, spasming around him, against Will’s mouth, in waves and waves for what felt like a long time.
I drifted, warm and sated. I slowly became aware that Adam had tipped my head to one side and was gnawing on the spot where my neck ran into my shoulder. “Yes,” I said. “I want you to. Do it.” He gasped—relief, I felt it—and began to thrust, strong and unrestrained. I gripped his thighs, the muscles flexing under my hands. Will stood up. His cock was hard from making me come and he stroked it. The moon was up, round and full. In the dim, white glow I could see his blue gaze resting where Adam moved in and out of me. I lifted a hand and Will came closer on delicate feet. I pried his fingers apart and wrapped my hand around his cock. “Now do it,” I said, and he covered my hand with his and began to pump until he came.
I kept laughing on the way up the trail, drunk with love. I fell once and didn’t care and after that one of them kept a hand on me. I sat between them in the truck, the heater blowing warm air on my feet. Will drove. Just before the turnoff to my place he said, “Unless you say different, you’re coming to the cabin.” They shared an old cabin in the pines above the bay.
I didn’t say anything.
Inside, they took my clothes off together, one piece at a time, and rolled me under the covers. The bed was big and soft and I sighed, closing my eyes. “We’ve worn her out,” Will said.
“She’ll be fine,” Adam said, and he had the right of it. I reached for Will, curling my fingers around the muscle of his forearm at the widest part, where it tapers down to the wrist. “Will this be awkward in the morning?”
He dropped a kiss at the corner of my mouth. “Only if coffee makes you feel awkward, sweetheart,” he said.
Adam pressed a kiss to my temple. “We’ll be in the other room if you need anything.”
I could hear them in the next room, maybe talking about what had happened, maybe just talking like people who can spend all day together and still have something to say to each other at the end of it.
I was naked. I wanted to stand up and go to them and spread myself across their laps and ask for more. But my eyes wouldn’t open. My body wouldn’t move. I lay quietly in the bed and listened to the sound of their voices, the low murmur of water falling over stones.
LIFT A FINGER
Jeremy Edwards
It’s Friday night. Exhausted from her workweek, Glenda intends to enjoy a completely lazy evening alone.
She’s a little horny, frankly. But she doesn’t even want to lift a finger to gratify herself. It’s too much effort. All she wants is a peaceful night.
No, she tells herself once again, as she studiously ignores the clinging caress of her underwear, she isn’t going to lift a finger to spread her lower lips—to stimulate those patient nerves or exercise those dormant muscles. She’s simply not going to bother. Not tonight.
She’s restless down there in her knickers, though, she can’t deny it. She’s watching TV, but her pussy’s itch for attention keeps getting her attention, through a game show and another… until, almost involuntarily, her hand drifts lazily between her legs, while she watches a sitcom and tries to focus on her glass of wine.
And now that her hand has somehow made it to her pussy, her precious inertia favors keeping it there. So she lets her fingers lie comfortably upon her panties, but she vows to disregard the tiny throb of her clit against the inert heel of her hand.
The subtle grinding motion of her hips, under the cozy flannel throw, is relaxing at first. It isn’t anything she’s planned on: it has simply begun to happen while she’s been zoning out on the couch, her hand in her crotch.
Soon, though, the pivoting of her hips has taken on an urgency that starts to distract her from her program—and from her resolve to be passive. She answers the petitioning of her hips with soft, yet indisputably deliberate, strokes to her pussy. Then, before she knows it, a lone finger is exploring the edge of her gusset and the tender, moistening flesh beyond.
