by Alison Tyler
She moans when I began to tease her breasts with my lips and fingers. Those beautiful nipples are my best allies. All I have to do is suck and tweak them for a few moments, and she’s whimpering for my cock inside.
Tonight I refuse to get near her pussy for a full twenty minutes.
Since we started playing our game, I’ve learned something about myself, too. I love “breaking” her, using her own arousal against her to reduce her to pure animal desire. I love it when she sweats and pants and begs me to fuck her. There are no sweeter words a man can hear.
Finally I relent, because I’m not sure I can hold out much longer myself. I make her spread her legs so I can examine her. Her lips are as smooth as white chocolate, the inner flesh swollen and moist like strawberries. The vulnerability gives me another wicked idea. I gently slap her right on her clit. She shudders. I wait. Her eyes are squeezed tight, and a slight smile plays over her lips. I spank her vulva again. She spreads her legs wider. Bingo.
It’s then I spring my assignment on her—writing down all her fantasies, in a notebook, just for me. I add in an oral recitation in the nude for good measure. I know from the way she arches up and gasps that she likes the idea very much.
Now I can’t wait a second longer. I kneel between her legs and slide inside her to the hilt. There’s another reason I love these weekends. Her cunt is somehow silkier, hotter, tighter. She pushes up, grinding her shaved slit against me. I realize there’s just one thing missing: I want to be inside her head, too.
“Tell me what a dirty girl you are,” I choke out, knowing this will drive us both over the edge.
And so she tells me how she loves to get fucked and bound and spanked and forced to admit she likes it all. With each new confession, my cock throbs, and her walls grip me like shrink-wrap. I know she’s going to come soon by her ragged breath, the way her left thigh jerks, the low moan rising in her throat. I hold out until she screams, and then finally I let go.
Old Judge Frank Purcell probably never had this much fun in his life.
Afterward Eva laughs and kisses me and thanks me for being such a perfect master. I’ve done well this time.
But, to be frank, I know for us the best is yet to come.
DRESS CODE
N. T. Morley
We’ve got a dress code for her when we go out together.
It’s not that she has to dress a certain way. It’s that if she dresses a certain way, it’s acknowledged she’s asking for it. When she wears certain clothes, she knows things will happen to her.
Things. Dirty things. Very, very dirty things, and things she couldn’t ask for. Couldn’t bring herself to ask for. So she asks for them by wearing what she knows will get her what she wants. And she always gets what she wants.
Fiona and I have been together for eight years, married for five. When you’re together that long, your sexual relationship is guaranteed to have its ups and downs. We were having a “down” for a while—I’m not going to speculate as to why; we just were. Then things changed.
Now we have an understanding.
We go out together on weekends. We go out to eat—nice restaurants, usually. Never family places. After, sometimes we go to a movie—though we rarely make it that far into the evening. Sometimes we do other things.
We go out together, and Fiona dresses like she wants it.
She wears short skirts, low-cut blouses, fuck-me dresses. High heels. She wears her hair long, now, and it cascades over her bare shoulders.
Her skirts are never very long, but some are shorter than others. The heels on her fuck-me shoes are all very high, but some pairs are higher than others. She can finally walk in heels in relative comfort; all those hours on the stair-stepper gave her something even more practical than having the world’s most spankable, lickable, fuckable ass. She knows how to wiggle it. She knows how to show it off.
Just how short her skirt is—well, that gives me a hint of what she wants, but I won’t know for sure until I know what she’s wearing underneath. Sometimes I can see a little hint of what she’s wearing underneath—when she’s wearing a garter belt, for instance, and sweet sexy stockings with lace tops and seams down the back that lead all the way to heaven. Sometimes I can see her garters, because her skirts are very short, and she’s never very careful about not flashing.
She likes other guys to look—and she likes that I know they’re looking. When we’re at a bar or a restaurant or some other public place, she even goes out of her way to wait until I’m watching her—and I usually am—before she takes a slow circuit of the place, wiggling her ass and letting me track all the bug-eyes that follow her as guys try to be discreet.
She likes the tops of her stockings to show, so when she’s wearing a garter belt or even if she’s just wearing stay-ups, I get a glimpse of what she’s got on underneath.
But I never really know what she wants—not until I get a private moment. That’s our agreement; I don’t get to know what she’s wearing underneath until after we’re out in public; she even makes me wait in the living room while she gets dressed. I can’t feel her up in the house, and I can’t do it in the car.
And Fiona’s not some drunken teenager; she can flash without flashing. She never shows her pussy—just her legs, her thighs, her ass and everything up to her pussy. I’m the only guy who gets to see it, the only guy who gets to feel it. And I don’t get to see or touch or taste it until I make a point of doing it in public.
Fiona always chooses public places. Depending on where we are, it might be an hour into the evening; it might be two. It might take a long time before I get enough privacy to nudge my hand between her legs.
The rule is, I’ve got to do it before dessert, or by our third cocktail if we’re just out for drinks. If we go to a movie, the designated feel-up has to happen by the end of the first act. Fiona took a screenwriting course; she can always tell when those fucking acts end, down to the minute—but I can’t. So I just make sure that shit happens by the time the credits are finished rolling.
At restaurants, she always asks for a table so I don’t have the luxury of hiding what I’m doing in the darkness of a booth. I have to do it out there in the open—under the table, or up against the bar, or sneaking a hug and copping a feel while I’m helping her on with her coat.
Sometimes I do it right there in the full-on open, not under a table or anything—somewhere lots of guys can see what I’m doing. Sometimes I do it that way because my flirty little wife has gotten my dick so hard that I can’t put off feeling her up for another goddamn moment. Once, she teased me so bad I shoved her up against the jukebox and shoved my hand up her skirt. She liked it. She pushed her ass back against me and let me slide my fingers into her, once I found out she wasn’t wearing any panties. She liked it, all right; she liked it a lot. The other guys in the bar—they liked it too. If anything, more than Fiona did.
Most of the time, I’m a little discreet, at least. Most of the time I just nudge my hand under the table and slide my fingers up her thighs. I know it’s totally nonconsensual of us—I mean, we haven’t gotten everyone’s permission to do this right out in the open, right?
It’s not like we go to family restaurants or PG movies or anything. But yeah, I know it’s pretty dirty of us to do it where people might see.
I’ll tell you—you spend an hour being teased by a girl who looks like my wife, and see if you don’t shove her hand up her skirt right where someone might see.
And, see, what happens next is determined by the code. What she’s wearing under her skirt is all-important. She goes one of three ways.
Sometimes she’s got panties on—always something skimpy, French-cut, revealing. Always very sexy. That means she wants me to take her home and fuck her as soon as possible.
I rarely make her wait. She’s always wet; I’m usually hard. We go home and screw; we do it rough and romantic or slow and deep. It’s always good; the tease makes the game.
That’s one way it can go.
Other times, she wears something even skimpier—G-string style, with no ass at all. Just a thin little thread up her crack, like the butt floss they wear on Brazilian beaches.
That means she wants it hard. She wants me to take her home and do her—not just fuck her but do her. It means I can do whatever I want to her. Bondage. Role play. Dirty talk. If she’s wearing a thong, I can even spread her perfect, toned, stair-stepper asscheeks and have my wife’s snug little butthole. And when she’s up for that, Fiona always wants a spanking first. That’s how she gets in the mood for sodomy. Hell, could a man be any luckier?
But there’s a third way things can go, and you’re not going to like it if you objected to the fact that I feel my wife up in public.
If Fiona isn’t wearing anything under her skirt—I mean, no underwear, whether or not she’s wearing a garter belt—it means she wants something else.
She doesn’t want to go home first.
That’s where my promise comes in. I always have a place in mind—never knowing whether we’re going to use it.
Sometimes it’s a park near the restaurant; other times it’s a rest stop. We’ve done it in the car, with people watching. We’ve done it in a grove of trees. I’ve shoved her up against a brick wall in a sleazy dark alley.
One time it was a porn shop. I pulled her skirt up and sat her down in my lap right there in the video booth.
She liked that. It scared her a little, but she liked it.
I haven’t taken her back there, but I’m trying to think of a dress code she can use…something she can wear under her skirt to let me know she’s ready for more sex in a porn shop video booth.
Until then?
Every Friday and Saturday, what she wears underneath tells me just what she wants…and so far I never fail to give it to her.
Because a wife should always get what she wants, right?
CONSEQUENCES
Cheyenne Blue
Ty:
Ty used to say he liked his chocolate and his women dark. Chocolate that was black with cocoa, bitter enough that it kicked on his tongue, no sweetness to be found. Women so smooth and black skinned that they seemed to suck the light in like a black hole, abrupt and acerbic, no simpering submission.
Met Michelle:
Michelle liked women more than she liked men, but sometimes she craved a cock that was veined and warm, that wasn’t strapped on. She wasn’t beautiful; she was handsome in an imposing, supercilious sort of way. Men were often intimidated by her six-foot-two frame and haughty expression.
At the hospital:
Michelle was an operating-room nurse, a job that suited her no-nonsense attitude. Besides, as she was fond of telling people, she liked her patients unconscious so she didn’t have to talk to them.
Ty and Michelle quite literally bumped into each other when Michelle was coming off shift and Ty had been visiting his idiot of a brother who’d gotten himself beaten up again. They did the excuse me dance in the corridor, stepping side to side in unison, unable to pass.
He said:
“Excuse me…excuse me…excuse me…” until they both gave up and stood still and took stock of each other.
She said:
“We must stop meeting like this,” accompanied by a smile for the predictability of her words. And then because the first collision had left an impression of strength and hardness, and because she had broken up with her girlfriend two days prior, she said, “I’ve finished for the day. D’you want a beer?”
He did:
He took her to a bar; one he knew well, but his friends hadn’t discovered yet. They drank double-strength mojitos until he’d had enough rum to process the signals she was sending him. He put a hand on her thigh; her smooth, dark thigh; running it along under her skirt, until his fingertips rested on her damp panties.
There was a question in his eyes, but she stared straight ahead, and her expression remained impassive. He was about to remove his hand when her strong one covered his, pressing it firmly to her leg.
Finally, he thought, exultant, and his cock, which had been lengthening, stiffening every time she touched her full lips to the frosty glass, rose to full tumescence.
He took her hand and moved it to his groin.
She did:
Finally, she thought, exultant, and sank lower in the seat so his fingers were pressed firmly against her core. The swelling under her palm pulsated hot promise that thrilled her more than his fingers.
She leaned toward him, seeking his lips, wanting to know the taste of him.
They did:
He met her halfway and they kissed. They both tasted of rum and the sharp tang of lime juice and mint, and his tongue met hers, started the dueling dance that their bodies would reproduce later.
He broke the kiss and stood, his hooded eyes and outstretched hand making his meaning clear. She rose too and took his hand. Together they left the bar, went out into the moist warmth of the Florida night.
“There’s a quiet place behind the parking lot,” she said, as she did not know him well enough to take home.
He nodded and they half walked, half jogged, with the urgency of their lust, through the parking lot to where a small park, more an abandoned square of grass, was hidden. They stepped over the outstretched legs of a homeless man, and into the shadows in the corner, the deep wine-dark shadows that would hide them from sight.
He stripped his shirt off, up over his head in one movement.
She flicked the buttons of her blouse, baring her lace-covered breasts to his view.
He thumbed open the buttons of his fly, and hooked a thumb in his briefs, lowering them enough that his cock sprang free, thick and dusky, mouth-wateringly hard.
She took her cue from him and raised her skirt meaning to lower her panties. He dropped to his knees in front of her, and hooked his fingers in the elastic, dragging them down her legs; her long, firm legs; rocking forward so that his nose nudged her mound, and his tongue pushed its way abruptly through her folds into the depths of her cunt.
She wound her fingers into his hair for stabilization in a world that was suddenly quaking and pushed her hips forward. One part of her mind registered that here, finally, was a man who could suck pussy as well as any woman, but the thought flew from her head like a bolting horse as his tongue curled around her clit and reality fractured into a million shining pieces.
He rose, smiling and a little bit arrogant for he knew his skill in that department, and debated the finish line. The ground was damp, the tree was rough, and he was considerate enough to think of her back against the jagged bark.
She made the decision for him, pushing him back down to his knees. Straddling him, she grasped his cock, shuffled into position and lowered herself to meet him. Once inside her, his thick, warm cock pulsated fatly with life, and she stopped the words he was going to say with her mouth and took control, riding him hard and fast, to the edge of pain but no farther.
She came before him, but close enough that she marveled at their synchronicity. His eyes closed briefly, his face clenched, and his cock spasmed inside her.
She rested her forehead against his hair for a moment, remembering other times, other places, other women and men, and with an ungainly movement as her knees were shaky, she levered herself away from him.
He hesitated, torn between the urge to accept the moment for what it was, and the desire to see her again, to learn the different facets of her, to see what they could be together.
The consequence was:
Her skirt floated back down into place and she pulled the gaping front of her blouse together. “Well,” she said. “See you around then.”
She turned to go.
“Wait,” he said.
And she did.
BOOKENDED
Alison Tyler
What do you say the morning after fucking a stranger in your bed? Gina had no idea. She wasn’t the sort of girl to engage in one-night stands. Andrew didn’t know her last name, her favorite color, w
hether she liked to sleep on her side or her back.
Actually, he did know the answer to that, because he’d punished her ass soundly enough that Gina had spent the night sleeping on her stomach. So maybe there are different rules to waking up with a man who has whipped you with his belt and made you come like nobody else ever has before.
But Gina was still at a loss.
“I work,” she said in the morning. “All the time.” For proof, she opened her calendar to show him all the blood-red lines of meetings and deadlines crisscrossing the dates.
He sat in bed against her pillows, looking at her. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. She couldn’t figure out if he was one-night stand material or something more. She hoped for the latter.
“So you don’t date.”
“I don’t date because I’m always…”
“Booked,” he said, finishing her sentence. “I get it. But you’ll make time for me.”
She wasn’t good at this sort of thing—the way you were supposed to behave if you wanted to get a man. One of her best friends bought almost every new self-help book that hit the shelves—Gina made fun of the titles, calling them, “Men Who Think Women Suck… and the Women Who Suck Them.”
“I don’t want you to think I expect something from you,” she said shyly.
“But you should,” he said.
Her heart kept speeding up, whenever he spoke. “What do you mean?”
He set her datebook on the bedside table and reached for her. She went to him willingly, but was surprised when instead of pulling her into his arms, he spread her out over his lap. She was wearing only his shirt, half buttoned, and he pushed the tails up to her waist and began to stroke one hand over her naked asscheeks.
