by Alison Tyler
The bliss I’d soaked in earlier amplified as my curves fit to hers. She gave little pants and gasps between the jarring impact of Jason’s body behind hers. God, I knew that feeling so well.
Olivia had loved me softly, tenderly wiping away the stress of the day. Jason was hard and fast, taking his frustration and turning it into extreme pleasure. My body tightened around his fingers as Liv’s teeth pulled at my lower lip.
From the way Jason’s hand was positioned, I knew he was touching us both—bringing us to the tenuous precipice of orgasm.
“You gonna come, baby?” I asked.
Her answer was a drawn out, “Yes,” of hot air against my skin.
Watching her eyes close, I knew she was deep in the throes of her pleasure, and I wanted that too. I pushed against Jason’s hand, seeking and finding more friction. Olivia’s mouth was at my nipple, tongue lapping and teeth pulling the ring there as my orgasm began. My head fell back, eyes tightly closed, and I let out an unintelligible noise of pleasure.
In my postorgasmic haze, Olivia kissed me slowly before she got up, likely headed to the bathroom. Jason’s body covered mine in her absence and once she’d returned, the three of us tangled together, lucky me in the middle.
“I love it when you guys get started without me,” Jason confessed.
We laughed together, much like we’d loved together. We conquered hardships together and it wasn’t always idyllic and perfect, but it was perfect for us.
SEASONAL AFFECTED DISORDER
Gina Marie
The air smells clean and sharp like minerals, tastes like new snow eaten from a mitten. I can hear cars up on the road above the river, but we are alone down here in the alders and scrub. Wet ferns are brushing my fingertips. I touch them back, wanting. Always wanting. My breath is coming out in little puffs while he fingers my zipper and reaches down the back of my jeans to squeeze my ass. The breeze is cool, but the sun is warm on my face and heats a little triangle on my chest that is exposed when my boy pulls off my jacket and reaches up inside my silk thermal shirt to pinch a hard nipple. The moss is bright green. The leaves are gold, bronze and yellow. A little snow has dusted the distant hills. It could be autumn, or maybe it’s winter or early spring. I don’t care. It’s not raining. I am outside and the river is singing as it curls around the bend and froths and pools against basalt boulders.
We were driving along scouting for wild mushrooms, singing along to the radio, drinking whiskey and eating pork rinds when he suddenly pulled over and said simply, “Here.” Of course, I knew exactly what he meant by this and followed him greedily into the ravine.
There is a shotgun blast in the distance. It excites me for some reason. Bear season? Deer season? I imagine myself playing a game where I am running naked through the woods. Running away from hunters. Playing hide-and-seek for real, following the deer trails high into the mountains, bleeding a little onto the snow to throw them off.
“You are an animal,” my boy says, licking at my earlobe and unzipping my jeans, his warm fingers probing deep inside. “A very, very good, naughty animal.” I hear a fish jump in one of the slack pools nearby. I can see the ring of ripples out of the corner of my mind and their glossy, smooth humps excite me. “What kind?” I ask, taking his balls in my hand through his faded denim and holding them tight in my fist. “What kind of animal am I?” He bites at my neck. “A fucking beast of an animal,” he says, “A horny little fucking beast. An excitable little fainting goat.”
The word goat—fuck! That makes me horny. Like the sound of a fish jumping and the smell of snow-chilled air and yellow leaves and river currents. Like everything makes me horny. My pants are now around my ankles and my silk thermal leggings are halfway down my ass. A sunbeam is warming the edge of my thigh, but my nipples are as hard as rock hammers. He is kissing me gently while talking dirty about excitable, fainting, fucking beastly, horny goats and rubbing my clit. Steam is puffing from my mouth. I hear another car winding around the curve slowly, then stopping, tires crunching. A cold breeze flutters the leaves and ruffles the water. A second shotgun blast echoes through the trees and a couple of ducks take off from the shore of the river. His face is between my legs. I am arched against the base of an ancient moss-covered oak. There are oak galls scattered everywhere. He fingers my quivering insides while sucking on my clit, sucking hard, finding the place that makes me melt, makes me scream. Head back, legs spread, I come hard, screaming like a talon-gutted rabbit, thighs quivering. My boy lifts his face from my wet crotch, his lips and the tip of his nose shiny with my juice. “You are a very good animal,” he says again. “Good for eating.” Then he chops me up and makes a stew out of me right there against that tree.
He pulls my face down by my ponytail, pushing my hungry lips over his bone, then spins me around and takes me from behind. His cock is wet from my mouth, slippery with my juice, hot and hungry and hard. My face is pressed against the damp moss of the tree trunk. A squirrel crouches on a fir branch and chatters. My boy’s strong hands are gripping my hips while he pumps wildly into me. In my mind, I am running naked through the woods. I am a very good animal. I am a very bad animal. In my mind, we are crashing through the trees, scratched and bleeding from the branches and thorns, daring to be chased, wanting to be caught until we end up here, against this old oak. He is moaning as he pumps me fiercely. Little bits of moss are clinging to my lips and it turns me on. His hands, his hot cock, the river, the sunbeam on my neck, the smell of his skin, it all turns me on. He convulses hard with orgasm, pulsing against me, groaning low and soft like water on spawning gravel. The poor oak shudders and a couple of galls fall to the ground. This makes me want it all over again, of course, the galls falling like that.
We rearrange our fabric and head up the hill. My crotch is sloshing with every step. From the road, I look down toward the river and spot the tall oak. I can see a patch of matted ferns where we were very bad animals. Somebody had a nice view. This, of course, makes me wet all over again. I look over at him and boy is he grinning, having just realized the same thing. The sun angling through branches makes me want to spin. What time of year is it, anyway?
THE SCRIBE
Tabitha Rayne
I’ve just hitched up my skirt. I’m kneeling and the hem is up at my buttocks, almost exposing them, but not quite. The familiar tingling anticipation sweeps over my flesh as I part my thighs, just a little, and lift one of the implements laid out before me. I always start with the smallest—the finest.
I hold my breath and close my eyes, letting my head fall back, jaw slack, in the pose that signifies the beginning of my ritual.
I run the tip of the long, fine shaft up the inside of my thigh, swirling and sweeping as I go, imagining the pattern it makes on my skin. My hand is shaking and the hairs on the back of my neck bristle in delight. If you really concentrate on your body, you can feel which nerve endings are connected. For example, if you arouse or tickle the tiny fine hairs just at the corner of your mouth, it sends a tingling sensation to the inside of your elbow—if you follow the line and sweep just there, you can trace a path all the way to the heavenly dip and peak of your sex. I defy you not to try it now. Go on, let your hand reach to the side of your mouth, go on…
The door. I hear the door open. My thighs clamp shut in shame and I’m shuffling my skirt back down when he strolls into the room.
“What’s going on here then?” He sounds like he’s being jokey but I’m so humiliated and ashamed at being caught that I can’t read his expression. I have a flashback to the same scene when I was small, only it had been my mother who’d walked in then.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she’d screamed in an explosion of fury, and I’d stared at my stained skin and cried.
“Nothing,” I stammer, gathering my pens and brushes to my bosom and scrambling to stand.
“Come on.” He stoops low and I surrender back onto my heels. “Show me.”
He stares at me with those eyes. Those a
rtist’s eyes that scrutinize, study, absorb and analyze. He knows my body intimately, inside and out. I’ve posed for him a hundred times and lain down for him a thousand.
He eases the pens from my grip and lays them on the floor. His fingertips are cold as he gathers my skirt and pulls it up to my resisting fists that are balled into my lap.
“Please, let me see.”
I watch the curling ink come into view as I relax my hands. Hard black scribbles both adorn and sear my flesh.
“What’s this?” he asks with curiosity, not anger, and I feel I might tell him.
“It’s mine.”
“Your what?”
“My arousal,” I say. He slides his palms onto my thighs, tugging the fabric up farther, and sighs. I tremble, thinking he’s going to chastise me for marking myself so viciously.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, and shuffles backward so he’s on all fours staring at my work. He leans in and parts my knees, inhaling my dampening want. He reaches out and picks up one of my pens. A Rotring thick-nib fountain pen. One of my favorites. “May I?” he asks tentatively, and I am wide-eyed at his request.
“Of course,” I whisper, quivering. I lean back on my palms and spread my thighs wide. He is intense as he makes the first mark. A long sweeping scroll from knee to groin. I shudder as he stops short of my thickening pussy lips. I hold my breath and indulge in the sensation of the ink drying. That’s it. That’s the nirvana I’m after. It’s such a subtle, tiny triumph; you have to be in a very special place to perceive it. It’s like being licked by a tiny angel. He does the same on the other leg, slower this time so it dries while he’s still applying it, raising goose bumps in its wake and shooting a nerve tentacle of pleasure to the peak of my clitoris. The rising carries on its journey and I fill my chest with breath to meet it at the tip of my nipple before it retreats back to my pussy. He’s on to a brush now. He swirls my Japanese sable bamboo onto the wet charcoal block, round and round until it’s good and swollen with moisture. He bids me to unfurl my knees and lie back like a Vitruvian man.
He paints the soles of my feet, between my toes then over the arch and ankles. My whole being is centered in the tip of the cool fibers as he continues, swirling and caressing every dip and curve of my body. My stomach flutters as he makes his way over first one knee then the other, writing, drawing. I feel letters being teased onto me, then shapes and waves. I am losing myself in this slow careful ecstasy. At last the brush swoops over my mons, intertwining with my own curling fibers. My pussy is slick with desire now, and I wish he would dip into me. I open my legs as wide as I can and tense my buttocks, forcing my entrance high. He obliges and sinks his face onto me, inhaling and breathing me in. He parts my thighs farther with his forearms while a finger from each hand opens my plump, ripe lips. He waits for a second or two, just watching my pussy twitch and contract in anticipation. I reach down and grab his hair, pulling him onto me, my bud, my cunt. He flattens his tongue down the whole length of my sex and I groan as he expertly points and darts into me then back to my clit, where he swirls and laps and paints all the patterns he has made on my legs. Just as my inner muscles begin to convulse in that tell-tale peaking, he stops and lifts his face away.
“You like to feel the ink drying, don’t you,” he says, then blows gently onto me, ruffling my pelt. It is sublime. He crawls up over my body keeping my legs thrust apart with his own meaty thighs. I can see him bulging through his trousers. I know he wants me, I know I’ve turned him on. He pulls at his zipper and his cock falls out heavily, full with want and desire. A thick, feral musk fills the room as our scents meet. I reach down to pleasure him, but he grabs and pins me by the wrists over my head with one of his hands. With the other, he grabs his shaft and guides it to my opening. He lets go and just hovers there, pressing lightly until my pussy can bear the teasing no longer and I lift my hips to urge him inside. He releases his tension and sinks into my hot clutching depths and I can hear us both groaning in the distance as I become that point, that tiny point where everything begins. It is minuscule and expansive at the same time and he stretches me beyond myself as he thrusts his solid dick in and out, faster and stronger until I feel raw with his ramming. He slides three of his artist’s rough fingers into my mouth and mimics getting head until they are soaked with my saliva. He grabs my breast on the way back down and squeezes, causing me to squeal in pleasure as the shock waves travel to the desperate nub between my lips. With his fat cock buried deep inside me, he starts thrumming my clit with his three fingers, bringing me off in a flurry of heat and moisture. I breathe through each wave as they build and build until my pussy is spasming and my clit is peaking, and I’m thrashing about underneath him begging him to go on, to fuck me, to give me everything. And he does. The surge comes from deep within his balls and out through his shaft into me, spurting heat and wet and I clench around him not wanting to let him go.
He collapses on top of me and we pant softly together, our hearts almost meeting through the boundary of our chests. Eventually he flops off to the side and closes his eyes, falling into a gentle twitching doze.
I sit up to look at the mess that has been made of my thighs and the cloying shame of defiling myself threatens to spoil my bliss—until I see what he has drawn. On each thigh in the most exquisite design, two birds hold a delicate banner containing the most beautiful script. My breath is taken from me as I read the simple words: I love you.
COME TO THE LIGHT
Maria See
It was the fourth time we’d had sex. Each time before, when we were done, she rushed to cover her breasts with the blankets as I reached over to turn on the nightstand lamp and to get my after-sex cigarette and the ashtray. I’d finish my cigarette and head to the bathroom. When I returned, her men’s tank top was back on.
The first time we were together, I begged for her breasts to come out and play. Her luscious, hot-as-hell DDDs. It was obvious that she was not going to free them on her own, but her protest was weak, a “No,” that whispered, Keep working me and I’ll give in. I want to give in.
She didn’t like her breasts because they “weren’t butch,” she said. Because they presented her curvy female body to everyone she met.
Oh, but they were butch. Sade just didn’t think the words butch and breasts belonged together. I, however, thought they were a match made in heaven.
It’s no secret that I’m a breast woman. But butch breasts are a special type. Breasts belonging to a butch—to a butch who is my lover—always feel like they are a present just for me, one normally wrapped and hidden from the world, its ribbon only mine to pull. Butch breasts are rarely displayed in the manner that I often display my breasts, my cleavage a focal part of my outfit. No, butch breasts only take special outings. They only make an appearance when it’s deserved, or when their need for touch cannot be silenced. Either situation is one I’d take any day.
But like I said, Sade didn’t share in this adoration of mine. At that time, my mouth, my hands and my skin had all only known her breasts in darkness.
I wanted her to see my mouth on her breasts. I wanted her breasts to turn her on.
I reached for the light again. It was not because we were done.
She grabbed the comforter.
I turned on the light and opened the nightstand drawer. I removed a blindfold from the drawer and handed it to her.
“Put it on me,” I told her.
“Put it on me but leave the light on.”
I paused for a moment, and there was silence.
“I know you see your breasts,” I continued. “You see them in the shower, and when you dress. It’s me who you want to hide the vision of them from. So do that. But no blankets and the light will stay on.”
She gave no verbal response. She took a deep breath and placed the blindfold on me. I felt for the covers and threw them from the bed.
I straddled her, my knees at her sides and my tongue slowly, lightly licking each areola, my lips closing around each nipple, my
teeth biting them with an application of pressure the purpose of which was not pain, but, instead, to hold them in place while the tip of my tongue nimbly circled their extremities.
I had intended to make a show of it for her, but I don’t know if I succeeded; I may have become distracted and selfish. I moved my lower body to the right, my right leg then between her legs, my left leg on the outside of her right leg. I placed my dripping pussy on her right thigh and started to ride.
“Is this okay?” I asked, removing my mouth from her nipple as I moaned, as my juices ran down the sides of her leg. “Do you like watching me?”
She didn’t say anything. She started to moan, too.
NIGHT HEAT
Vida Bailey
The storm wakes me. The heavy weather has finally broken and brought with it fresh relief. I slide out of bed and sit behind the curtains. The window seat surrounds me, a little box of moonlight and flickering lightning. Thunder rolls the pouring rain from the clouds and I can see it spitting and bouncing on the street, when the moonlight allows. I grow cold, nipples stiff, shoulders shivery. But I don’t go back to bed. The street is deserted, all cats and foxes sheltering from the storm. The room lies dark behind the thick curtains. This is the witching hour.
I hear the sheets move at the stir of a body. The bed creaks, feet pad close. The curtains pull aside, open to the dark and the warmth of the room. Of him—bed and sleep heated. I know that smell well; so many nights I’ve lain beside his sleeping figure and inhaled the air he exudes in sleep. Heat and sweat and sweetness, redolent of the weight of dreams. He slips in beside me, letting the dark into my little light hidey-hole. The rain has stopped. The moonlight shines on him and silvers his naked body, rendering his brown flesh pale.
