“Come here, Dan. Put the next one where you want it.”
I smiled, showing teeth, moving my tacky hands to her knees to open them. Her gentle, coaxing touch made me shiver.
“We’re going to get stuck together.”
“Would that be so bad?”
It wasn’t bad at all.
THE PINK TEAM
Kelly Rand
Lisa looked through the clear blue water of the swimming pool and saw a hot pink ring at the bottom of the deep end.
They’d been playing a ring-toss game earlier. Lisa had been on the pink team. They’d lost to Craig’s blue team. Now it was night, and she hovered in the shallow end, staring down at the evidence of her loss.
The party had moved inside, but Lisa couldn’t bring herself to get out of the water yet. She hadn’t swum all summer. She’d felt sheepish when she’d stripped off her T-shirt to reveal pale shoulders compared to everyone else’s golden tans. She’d been even more sheepish when she noticed Craig looked like he’d spent a weekend baking in the sun.
In the pool, alone, with long shadows overtaking the backyard, she didn’t have to worry about that. She liked the slow, gentle song of the crickets. The scent of hot dogs and hamburgers still wafted from the cooling grill. Inside, the dining room lights created a yellow glow.
She bent her knees and let her legs whoosh through the water. It felt like going against some broad current, like when she put her hand out the window of a moving car and cupped the wind in her palm.
The patio door opened and Craig headed down the steps, lazily holding a beer. “Are you coming in?”
She shrugged. “What are they doing?”
“They’re about to play poker. Not your favorite thing, I know.” He walked to the side of the pool and sat on the edge, dangling his feet in the water.
She bobbed for a moment, glancing down at her white stomach through the rippling water. She moved slowly backward toward the opposite wall of the pool. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“I knew you’d be surprised,” he said. “But it seemed like a good way to get you to talk to me.”
Lisa couldn’t help but smile. Craig had always been persistent. They’d dated since they were sixteen, nine years off and on. They’d been apart two months this time.
She dipped back in the water until her hair was submerged, forming a long wet fan over her shoulder blades. She reached the side of the pool and felt the water jet against her tailbone, explosive and insistent.
“We’re here then,” she said. “Talk.”
Craig smirked. “You’re mouthy since that ring-toss game.”
“No. I’m mouthy since you made out with some other girl at the bar.” She moved her fingertip against the water-jet nozzle and it sucked at her skin. When she pulled away, the thin stream gushed against her.
“I told you it was a mistake. I was drunk and stupid.” He took a swig of his beer and his gaze drifted to the deep end of the pool. “One of your rings is down there.”
“I know.”
“Want me to get it?”
“No,” Lisa said quickly. “I can get it.” She’d never been the strongest swimmer. She hated the temporary disorientation of being underwater, but she bristled at the notion of needing Craig’s help.
She felt his eyes move over her and looked away, letting her legs float outward. Earlier, as a water volleyball game had gone on around her, she’d held her breath and closed her eyes, seeing how long she could float on her back before she felt that sharp fear of sinking. She’d focused on her own tentative breaths. The sounds of the game through the water had been muted and foreign.
Craig set down his beer and stripped off his T-shirt. His shoulder bore an already fading tattoo he’d gotten at eighteen. He smirked as he lowered himself into the water and waded toward her.
Lisa kicked to a standing position and covered the water jet with her hand, feeling it gush against her palm. “What are you looking at me like that for?”
The smirk stayed. “Like what?”
She looked back at the ring through the darkened water. A breeze whistled through the bushes and caught her damp shoulders. Her water-wrinkled fingertips felt like parchment when she rubbed them together.
“Don’t come over here,” she said. She wasn’t returning the smirk, was she? She didn’t think so until he kept advancing, bobbing buoy-like, his eyes the same blue as the water.
“Really?” he said. She remembered that voice. She remembered it from when she was sixteen and snuck the phone into her room to talk to him in bed. She remembered its whispered late-night hush.
“Really,” she repeated, her back against the side of the pool as she listened to the gurgle of the water filter and the steady hum of distant crickets.
When he reached her, his warm arms encircled her. She closed her eyes, knowing she was about to be kissed, and tasted chlorinated water on their lips.
She didn’t want the air to rush out of her lungs. She didn’t want to push her hips forward. She didn’t want the kiss to grow fervent, to deepen until it seemed his tongue was licking her heart, but she found herself slipping her arms around his submerged shoulders. When he grabbed hold of her hips and lifted her, she felt the water jet rush between her legs, and she broke the kiss to suck in a breath. “Wait,” she mumbled. “We shouldn’t…”
“I know,” Craig whispered. “We shouldn’t.” When he let go of her legs, she thought he was going to slip away, but he grabbed her hips and turned her to face the water jet.
His arms slid around her from behind, fingers clasping her bikini bottoms to tug them down. She squirmed in Craig’s embrace, head falling back on his shoulder, but he spread her open with his fingers to keep her tight against the flow. The jet gushed an insistent stream on her clit.
She bit her bottom lip, and it matched the tight white bite of his teeth on her ear. “Hold still, baby,” he mouthed, and she hated that she did. She hated that the heat of him against her felt so comfortable. She hated that the slipperiness of their bodies made her think of cock.
He pushed closer to the jet, keeping her spread with two solid fingers. The tickle became anxiety, a need so desperate a noise escaped, and her thighs trembled in helpless orgasm.
“Stop,” she said, nudging against the overstimulation. He shifted enough that the jet hit her hip, and she yanked up her bikini bottoms.
It covered her just in time for Beth, the party host, to open the patio door. “Are you guys coming?”
“Yes,” Craig said, arms still around Lisa’s waist, and pushed her wet hair to the side to kiss the back of her neck.
Beth watched them curiously, walking to the edge of the patio and craning her neck to look in the pool. “Is that one of those rings in there? Can you grab it?”
“Sure,” Lisa said, wriggling out of Craig’s arms. She dove deep into the water, moving her limbs with solid strokes, submerging into the private darkness where the bottom was slick and the water enveloped her like a warm, safe place.
HEADACHE
Sherry Reid
Last year, Karen started getting migraines—bad ones. The pain would be so bad that I’d come home to find her curled up in our bedroom, which was as dark and quiet as she could make it, crying into the pillow. My wife had never had this kind of headache, nor the other symptoms, before. Because we were in our midtwenties, that didn’t surprise anybody, not even the two neurologists we saw.
“They’re stress related,” the second doctor had said after reviewing the first expert’s charts and asking Karen dozens of questions about everything from her diet to whether or not she drank. “Try yoga,” he’d added, as if Karen weren’t already doing that three times a week.
When we got home after that appointment, I told her I’d be back in a little while. She had no idea what I was up to until a few days later, when a couple of guys pulled up with a hot tub.
“This is perfect,” she’d whispered, hugging me tightly.
“I just hope
it helps.”
“It will.”
Frankly, I’m not entirely selfless; I knew that putting in a hot tub meant sexy time in the privacy-fenced backyard. In my defense, though, I really was thinking of Karen’s head first.
When I got home last night, Mittens, Karen’s Siamese, was waiting for me by the door. Instead of her usual, constant chatter, she walked up to me, her tail down, and started pawing at my shoe.
“Bad day, huh?”
Mittens sat down and looked up at me.
“I understand, girl. You can go off duty now.”
With that, Mittens hopped on the couch and turned around, several times, in circles. Her self-assigned job was to let me know, before I started making noise, that Karen was having a bad one. During times like that, gently closing the front door sounded, to her, like firing a cannon next to her head.
Kneeling down, I untied my shoes and slipped them off. As I made my way to our bedroom, I quietly stripped, letting my clothes hit the floor as I went. When I cracked the door and peeked inside, Karen was curled up in the fetal position. She moaned softly.
Without saying a word, I crossed the room and peeled the comforter off my wife. She wore only her bathrobe, untied, which meant that she’d already tried soaking in the tub. Sometimes, that worked well; other times, like yesterday, it made her feel worse.
“Hey,” she whispered.
“Hey,” I replied, my voice as quiet as hers.
She cringed. “Hurts.”
“I know, baby.” During a follow-up with the second doctor a couple of weeks ago, he’d told us that orgasms sometimes help—something about blood vessels. The only reason we didn’t immediately go to that remedy—it worked almost every time and didn’t make her feel dopey, unlike the medication—was because my consulting firm was still struggling to survive. Calling me to come home early just wasn’t an option most of the time; in the future, I hoped to be able to do just that whenever she asked.
“Help me.”
“I am, honey.” I pulled the blanket and top sheet the rest of the way down. Karen’s bathrobe was open, revealing most of her body. Typically, I would take my time, starting with a kiss that explored her entire mouth. Last night, though, she needed to come.
Instead of ogling her some more, which wasn’t helping, I put my hands on her ankles and slowly straightened her out. She shifted from her side to her back and spread her legs. Through all this, she kept her eyes closed, probably because there was some light in our room despite the heavy-duty curtains.
Kneeling at the floor by the foot of the bed, I kissed the inside of each silky knee. I could smell her pussy, which was starting to dampen just a little. As I kissed my way up each leg, being as quiet as possible, her smell wafted my way. The bright-red pubic hairs that made up her neatly trimmed bush glistened even in the almost-nonexistent light.
“Please,” she said, almost whimpering.
“Anything for you,” I replied, deliberately breathing on her pussy. My reward, a soft moan, escaped her lips.
I parted her lips with my thumbs and flicked my tongue across her clit. When she sharply inhaled, I knew she was focused on my tongue; better not break contact. Slowly, I licked my way down to her hole, so warm and wet.
“Yes,” she whispered.
When she felt better, she was as enthusiastic as could be; what they say about redheaded women in bed is true, at least in my wife’s case. If she’d been in the mood to jump me at the front door—something that happened on a semiregular basis—she would, at that moment, be sitting on my face, grinding her clit into my lips while telling me to lick harder.
Last night, though, she could give only subtle responses when I wrapped my lips around her clit and suckled it like it was one of her nipples. Now her breathing quickened, but just a little; that was enough to encourage me.
While I sucked and licked her, I trailed my first finger down to her hole. Slowly pressing into her got a “God, yes,” so I sped up just a little.
One of her hands ran through my hair. Light pressure pulled my face tighter against her. “Just like that,” she whispered. “I’m so close.”
Nothing made me happier—or hornier—than those words. As I kept fingering and sucking my wife, she grew wetter—and louder. One thing I’d learned, rather early in our marriage, was that she loved when I crossed two fingers inside her. I pulled my finger mostly out and crossed it over the middle one before I thrust forward again. She gasped and tightened around me.
“Oh,” she groaned. “Oh god.”
I withdrew my finger, but kept lapping up her juices until she stopped moaning and writhing. When her orgasm tapered off into the occasional, satisfied moan, I crawled into bed and pulled her close. She curled up against me, her head on my shoulder, and sighed.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Glad you’re feeling better.”
“So am I.”
For several minutes, we just lay there. Her breathing slowed and deepened.
“Still awake, babe?”
She didn’t reply; she’d drifted off to sleep. I closed my eyes and smiled because, when she woke, her headache would be gone—and she’d definitely show me her gratitude.
PUSHING BOUNDARIES ON PUBLIC TRANSPORT
Victoria Blisse
Kev likes to push boundaries. He spanks me to my limit, ties me so I can’t move and teases me until I beg him for relief. We have a safeword but I’ve never used it. He pushes me, but he never takes it too far. I only fall further in love with him.
He’s the affectionate type; he loves to hold my hand in public, to caress and kiss me. I enjoy it most when our embraces draw attention, so part of me hopes someone will look up and notice that his hand is down the front of my skirt as he kisses me. It’s not too likely—we’re sitting in the back row of seats on the top deck of the bus—but if someone walks up the stairs and glances this way they might see my flushed cheeks as I try desperately not to cry out with pleasure.
The bus is pretty full; the sun has tempted people out and now they’re packed in together, fighting to feel the relief of the fresh breeze slipping through the small slits that pass for opened windows on public transport. It smells of petrol and plastic, old chips and cheap body spray here at the back where the young and rebellious usually gather. I am neither one and feel like I’m trespassing in my sensible skirt and my plain V-neck T-shirt.
When he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me in for a kiss I should have said no, should have pushed him away, but I didn’t. It’s hard to say no to Kev. His free hand reached up and squeezed my breast as we kissed. My breath hitched and my pulse raced off like a thoroughbred horse on derby day. I’d think of something more original but his touch drives all inventiveness from me. Hell, I find it hard to think at all. I just feel.
“Someone might see,” I hissed but his fingers continued to meander down over my curves then dipped below the waistband of my skirt.
“So?” he replied with a wink and a smirk and I found myself incapable of thinking of a measured response as he glided the pad of his forefinger up and down the damp crotch of my knickers. All I managed was a solitary moan that I clamped between my teeth before it drew attention to us.
And so I’m here, trying so hard not to scream, pretending to be a good girl while wickedly sexy urges take over my thoughts and movements. He doesn’t content himself with teasing outside the barrier. Oh no— he nudges the material out of his way and strokes over my plump cunt lips. I bury my head into his shoulder to hide the pleasure and the shame that lights up my face. I luxuriate in the cool cotton of his top. It eases the warmth of my flushed cheeks. It’s a sharp contrast to the heat generated by his knowing fingers on my pussy. I shift my head slightly and kiss his neck. It’s an expression of my pleasure as his fingers continue to probe between my wet folds. I increase the pressure of my lips on his skin as he rubs my clit up and down with a rhythm he’s sure will push me to my climax. He lets out a deep purr of contentment, heightening our p
leasure as his fingers push harder.
“Don’t look up,” he whispers, “but there’s a guy watching us.”
I freeze but he continues to tease me. He’s not going to stop until I come. I can’t look up in case it breaks the spell. I don’t want to panic and pull away from him, because I want this orgasm. I want to be his bad girl; I want to break free of the monotony of my life and enjoy the risk, but if I open my eyes and see disapproval I know I won’t be able to carry on.
But I can’t help peeking. I turn my head slightly and look through the gap between his arm and my curls and I see him, a few rows in front of us to the left. He’s stretched out over the whole seat, body cocked toward us. I don’t see disgust written on his face; I see lust. The breath I’d unconsciously held blows from my lips and the pleasure brewing inside me intensifies.
“You like being watched, don’t you?” Kev’s velvet whisper elicits the slightest nod from me.
“Fuck, you really are a slut, Violet. Letting me finger you like this on a bus of all places with a man watching us and getting off on it, too. I hit the damn jackpot with you.”
His words, his touch and the situation pool in the bottom of my stomach and weigh heavy there. I need to let it all out. I need to liberate the ecstasy that is cranking up inside me to the uncomfortable level where I can feel it thudding like my favorite rock song on full blast.
My legs twitch as I strain to keep them in the same place. My hips thrust up and down in time to Kev’s beat even though I’m trying not to move, to be discreet. I can’t suppress all this energy though. It’s buzzing through me, tightening my skin and constricting my insides, making me pant and gasp as I struggle to breathe through the pleasure. It builds to that point of pain, the precise moment when you know it’s all or nothing. I throw my head back as Kev’s thick, hard finger rubs that one crucial time and plunges me into bliss.
It’s funny how two things happen when I come. First, everything else is blocked out as my body eats up the orgasmic energy shooting through me. Then my senses are heightened and everything comes back to me and slaps me back into reality.
The Big Book of Orgasms Page 8
