Semen was being pressed up from the place where my orgasms started, rising as my balls drew up. I looked down at where we were joined, watching her pubes move ever so slightly against mine, feeling her pussy milking me.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
It was like looking into joy. I watched her eyes go wide, her pussy shuddering around me. Semen rose like lava through my cock, erupting in long, slow, never-ending pulses. Our orgasms sparked like pure energy between us, fusing us together as we offered all of ourselves to each other: body, heart, mind and soul.
“I love you,” I whispered, feeling my own eyes heat as tears streamed down my wife’s smiling face.
“I love you, too.” She leaned forward and snuggled into my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her while my cock softened and gradually fell free. The lights of downtown passed brightly by outside the windows. The lights of home. Come Monday, I was sending out resumes for L.A. again. My life was with Karen. I was going to spend it with her.
QUEER FOR MIKE
Shane Allison
I feel Mike’s eyes on me when I walk out of the break room to our usual meeting spot. I’m scared shitless of getting caught, but more excited by the way my dick is twitching in my pants. It’s been so long I was starting to forget what his dick tasted like. I fish the keys to the storage closet under auditorium seven out of my pocket, then push the big, gold-plated key into the doorknob and turn. I pull the white string hanging from the single lightbulb. The smell of rot and rust infiltrates my senses. The room is disgusting, yeah, but it’s the only place we both feel safe enough to go. We know that if we get caught, it will be both our asses, and Chris, our meathead of a boss, is the type that’s itching for you to give him a reason to can you. He can’t stand gay people. He hasn’t come right out and said, “I hate fags,” but I see the way he looks at me, like I’m something nasty he wants to scrape off the bottom of his shoe.
We can’t do anything at my house, ’cause I live with my folks, and Mike has a roommate and a girlfriend. He’s so deep in the closet you couldn’t find him with a search warrant. I don’t care what he does one way or the other. I just like sucking his dick. I’ve asked for more hours, so I can start saving up to get my own crib; Mike could come over whenever he wants. He said he would if I had an apartment.
I have only thirty-five minutes until my break is over, so he better hurry up. I can’t wait to get his dick in my mouth. At work sometimes I can barely contain myself from checking him out, thinking about what he looks like without clothes on, but I keep it together for Mike. I don’t want to fuck up what we have. The thought of sucking on his big, low-hanging bull balls keeps my dick thumping against the cotton wall of my underwear. He loves getting his balls worshipped. Fuck, I’m horny.
He knocks three times to let me know that it’s him. Jesus, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. My palms are sweaty. I crack the heavy, black door open slightly.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Did anybody see you?” Mike asks.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, nobody saw me. I was careful.”
“Come on, let’s go through here.” Mike starts to make his way through another part of the storage room where cleaning supplies and paint cans have been stored.
“There’s more head room in this part,” he says. Mike starts to undo his belt.
“Let me do that.” I fuss with the silver-plated buckle, the black, genuine leather strap. My dick is so hard it hurts. Mike’s pants plummet to his knees. Silken strands of blond hair coat his thighs. I wish we could get naked. If only there was more time. I can’t wait to get my own place.
“Hold up. You have the only set of keys, right?”
“Got ’em right here,” I say, holding them up. I can tell Mike is nervous. That makes two of us.
A hint of skin shows itself from the slit of his boxers. It’s the head of his dick. I work the rest of it through lovingly with my fingers. It’s fat and the perfect blush. His piss-slit is like a teardrop. I start to massage his dick, pushing a tender layer of foreskin up gently toward the head, forcing a pearl of precome to pool at the teardrop tip. I catch it with my tongue. It tastes sweet and salty. I take the head past my lips. He’s about seven inches, cut. I don’t care for dicks longer than that. I suck, hugging it tight, squeezing him with my big juicy lips. Fuck yeah! I drop to my knees and tug his boxers and black pants down to his ankles. His thighs are so firm. I cup his ass in my hands for leverage as he fucks my mouth.
I want Mike to fuck me, but every time I bring it up, he says, “I don’t think so. That’s for Danielle.” She’s the girlfriend. She used to work here at the movie theater. That’s how they met. She’s pretty. I’m jealous, but what she doesn’t know, right?
If the musk from his golden thicket of crotch hair was a drug, I’d be addicted. I take his balls into my mouth. I bet Danielle doesn’t do this. Mike slaps his spit-wet dick against my face. I want to eat his ass, but he says the idea grosses him out. “Not if you’re clean,” I tell him, but it’s not enough to convince him. He pushes his dick back into my mouth.
“Danielle doesn’t like sucking cock,” he once told me. Yeah, she doesn’t look like the type. What she won’t do, I will.
I stare up at him with watery, red eyes through wire-framed glasses, lenses smudged from grazing against his belly. Mike puts his hand on my head like he’s about to pray for me. He skull-fucks me harder. The muscles in my face are on fire, like my jaw is going to pop out of place, but I don’t protest. His pubes tickle my nose. Mike’s belly presses into my face until it hurts. I can’t say anything. I don’t do anything. I don’t want to piss him off when he’s this deep in. Mike knows I can take whatever he’s got. I hold onto his chubby ass as he fucks my mouth nice and hard.
“Take that cock!” he says. Yes, Mike. Yes. He holds me by the back of my head and presses my face into his crotch. Warm tears trickle down my fat face. He’s so deep down my throat, but I don’t gag. Mike likes it when I don’t gag.
“Fuck, I’m coming…I’m fuckin’ co—”
Mike holds me as he spurts down my throat. He pauses and then gently slides his dick out. A web of come stretches from my lips to his slickened dickhead. Spit and come travel hot down my throat. Mike likes it when I swallow.
Sweat burns my eyes. I wipe them with the sleeve of my shirt.
“What time is it?” he asks.
I pluck my cell phone out of my pocket. “Nine twenty-five.” I have ten more minutes until my break is over.
“We gotta get back. Chris is probably wondering where we went.” He takes a few paper towels from a stack on the shelf and wipes his dick clean of my saliva. Mike pulls up his boxers and pants, tucking in his dick.
“I’ll walk out first,” he says, “make sure no one sees you.”
I walk out when I think he’s far enough away. I head to the men’s room to relieve the strain in my pants. I think of Mike fucking me, as I sit in the stall jacking off. I want to taste his ass like his come on my tongue. The butterflies are gone.
MEETING CUTE
Vanessa Madison
You don’t see a lot of single guys at midnight romantic comedy screenings. I prefer that hour; I’m a romantic, but also a loner, one of millions in the Big Apple. The theater is usually almost empty, even when the movie stars Justin Timberlake, and I can sit wherever I want with my popcorn and dirty dreams. Yes, I have them; I’m a film buff, but usually have to see them twice to make sure I know what happened; there comes a moment when I insert myself into the fantasy, when my desire overtakes the heroine’s. Maybe that’s ironic because in real life my desire has never overtaken anything except my vibrator—or rather, vibrators, a rotating cast, leading men and women who take on personalities of the kinds of lovers I want to have…someday. I’m twenty-three but sometimes feel like an old maid.
I’m snug in my seat with my medium popcorn and large Coke when the credits start and someone sits do
wn next to me. I stare straight ahead at first, but my right arm betrays me, its hairs standing on end as the stranger settles in. Can he feel what his presence is doing to me? I know my skin is flushed with color and warmth; I feel the heat in other places as well. I’m wearing jeans and a simple yellow top. It’s an everyday outfit, for an everyday movie. I go every week, because that’s how I get my fix. Today, though, my panties are so wet I can barely focus. If you asked me either character’s name, I wouldn’t know. I reach for my popcorn but when the man’s arm brushes every so lightly against mine, I spill it all over us.
“Let me help,” he says, rescuing the almost-empty bag and giving me my first glimpse of his face. He’s looks younger than me, but his voice is all man, no hint of boy. He’s definitely flirting with me—even I can tell that—but it’s a silent kind of flirting, as befits our location. I’d be mortified to get kicked out of a theater where the staff greet me by name. He kicks aside the kernels as best he can, then switches bags so I get his full one. “You can have mine,” he says, and I blush again, my dirty mind betraying me. Of course he means his popcorn, but suddenly I wonder what else of his I could have if I wanted it.
“Thanks,” I whisper, taking the bag and shoving some salty popcorn into my mouth before I overthink what I’m doing. I could move away, pretend I haven’t seen him, pretend my nipples aren’t hard. But I don’t want to; all of a sudden I want to be this new split-screen me, half of me watching the drama unfold before me and half of me living a drama that has my heart pounding so loudly I’m having trouble deciphering the onscreen dialogue. Who am I to behave this way? I think, before I catch myself. What way? I’ve barely done anything except admit silently, secretly, that I’m wet, from a five-second interaction with a stranger’s fingers, tangling over popcorn.
But I can’t deny it. I am. And it’s not just my pussy that’s excited. My nipples are hard, my mouth is dry. I bite my lip to remind myself that this is real then try to figure out what to do. He’s coming on to me, isn’t he? Because if he isn’t, I can only imagine what happens when this guy gives a girl his full attention. My body wants him—okay, I want him—without knowing the first concrete fact about him. He could be Justin Timberlake for all I know—well, another quick peek confirms that though he’s indeed incredibly hot, he is not, in fact, Justin Timberlake.
But that peek is what gives me away, because he turns to look at me and winks, followed by a grin that further melts me. I stare back, both of us aglow from the screen, trying to smile with my eyes because I’m sure my face is burning up. He lifts a piece of popcorn, just one lone kernel, and holds it up to my lips. I open them, and he places it on my tongue, watching my mouth the whole time. This is even bolder, because anyone could see us. It’s just popcorn—except, of course, it isn’t.
My proper side wants to look back at the screen, but I can’t bring myself to turn my head. I want more—not popcorn, but him. He pulls out a Twizzler, smirking at me when I smile. How have I never noticed the erotic nature of my favorite licorice before? Suddenly I’m picturing him slapping it against my ass, or twining together the extra-long ones and tying me up. I blush, grateful once again for the dark. He dangles the candy in front of my face before holding it out toward my lips. I open them and he slips it inside; it feels sacrilegious to eat it like this, slow and sensual, the red coil’s sweetness practically melting against the heat of my tongue. I should be chomping it, sinking my teeth into the dye-brightened candy, tearing if off with gusto. Instead I’m slowly letting my teeth dig into the suddenly soft, chewy morsel, reluctant to let go because it will disconnect me from this stranger with candy.
I eventually force myself to take a bite, letting my eyes close; by now I’m fine with him knowing that the movie has ceased to be at all relevant to our rendezvous. I’m chewing when I feel the light stroke of the Twizzler against my lower lip, and my whole body shudders. If he can do that much with just a whip made of candy, what could he do to the rest of me? Tears spring to my eyes; I’m just so overwhelmed by what’s happening. He leans closer and simply breathes into my ear, the rushing sound the perfect complement to the one that my body has already created.
He keeps his hot lips there while pressing the candy between mine again, this time shoving more than a mouthful inside. He pushes the end of the Twizzler into my mouth, followed by his fingers. I wrap my lips around them and squirm in my seat, rubbing against the fabric almost involuntarily. The movement is slow, but it’s all I need. I clamp my teeth down on his fingers as I come. It’s not the crashing wave of a giant O, but the gentle sigh of the water brushing up against the sand, a prelude of what’s to come.
As my teeth sink into his flesh, he shifts, and I hear the popcorn fall to the floor, but I don’t care about making a mess anymore. While his tongue dabbles at my earlobe, I tremble. When I open my eyes, I could swear Justin Timberlake winks at me. I hope he’ll forgive me for not following the plot; as I turn my head for our first kiss, I’m too busy making my own.
CHERYL
Andreas Amsterdam
It had been a while since I smoked pot. Six years? I used to say I’d only smoke it from a source I trusted, and I didn’t know what Cheryl’s source was. So that was one rule violated. Pot makes me very uninhibited. Apparently it had the same effect on Cheryl.
It was a muggy July night and her air conditioner was old and finally gave up the ghost. So we had another reason to disrobe. She stood up, took my hand and walked me into her bedroom without a word, only a smile.
Cheryl shimmied out of her jeans. She was wearing black lacy panties beneath, neither everyday nor bringing her A-game. She took off her tank top and lay on her stomach on her bed. My jeans felt too warm so I took those off. I had taken off my shoes and socks in the living room while we smoked. I wore a black polo and matching cotton briefs.
There was some massage oil on her night table. Sandalwood. I kneeled by her side on the bed and started at her shoulders and neck, my progress being measured by her mmms. I went down her back, taking care of muscles on either side of her spine. I resisted the impulse to kiss and nibble. Cheryl jumped when I hit a juncture near the base of her spine, just above the crack of her round ass.
I apologized; she said she had just been startled. I resumed my ministrations along her lower back then briefly hesitated before adding some more oil and gently but firmly massaging her ass under her panties. Cheryl grunted slightly. I noticed she tensed up a little but didn’t say anything, so I continued rather matter-of-factly down the backs of her firm thighs, then her calves.
At her feet, I got off the bed and applied broad strokes with the palm of my hand to her soles, trying not to tickle her. I applied a little massage oil to each toe and stroked each one out. Then I went back up and did the back of each arm, very slowly. Cheryl didn’t say very much other than, “Mmm,” or some other small noise of approval.
My erection pressed against my briefs. I said softly, “Back’s done. Turn over, please.”
“Sure.” Cheryl rolled over and smiled at me. Her areolae were about an inch in diameter and her nipples were hard. She sat up and put her thumbs into each side of her panties and pushed down, then raised her legs and kicked them off. They landed somewhere on the floor. Her dark-blonde pubic hairs had been tamed but not shaved. I felt beads of sweat on my brow.
She lay back and closed her eyes. I knelt near her head on the bed and stroked her forehead gently, then her temples, neck and collarbone.
“Forty-two-D,” Cheryl said suddenly, opening her eyes to gauge my reaction. I was having difficulty maintaining my composure. Nice way to play the game.
“Oh.”
“All evening you were trying not to stare. Just thought I’d answer the question.”
I cleared my throat. “I was going to measure them some other way.”
“I see.”
I straddled her stomach, keeping my weight on my legs. I applied more of the oil to my hands and began massaging her breasts. We kept our eyes locked on
each other. I gently teased each nipple with my fingernails. Remaining in the same position, I diligently massaged each shoulder, then made my way down each arm.
“You have a lot of self-control.” Her words were just above a whisper.
“I thought you’d appreciate that,” I said to her in a deadpan fashion.
Her cobalt-blue eyes narrowed. “You’ll see…”
I sat back a little, still keeping most of the weight on my legs. I took each hand and massaged it, stroking each finger. I moved back and straddled her legs and massaged her abdomen. Then I got to her waist and massaged to within an inch of her pussy lips. Her ass rose off the bed suddenly, as if the action had been contained by force, then released.
“Problem?”
Cheryl shook her head. “Not yet.”
I nodded. I didn’t touch her pussy but massaged her hips before shifting to the top of her thighs. I massaged the tops of them, then along her inner thighs. She allowed herself to gasp. I pretended to ignore it.
I moved back along her legs and continued the massage down her thighs to her knees and calves, which seemed to have been freshly shaved. The hairs of her pussy were glistening. I’d maintained a small smile during all of this, as if I had a private joke, but now I chuckled.
“You’re a tease,” she accused me.
“Yes.”
I sat on the edge of the bed with my back to her and massaged her ankles and the tops of her feet, then her toes again, which elicited a low moan. My cock was throbbing. I looked back at her. She half-sat up and, with a feral look on her face, gestured for me to join her. I crawled up the bed toward her, and she met me halfway with a kiss. We knelt like that for a bit, alternating between nibbles on each other’s lips and tongues working each other. Her heavy breasts were warm against my chest. Cheryl broke from the kiss to tell me, “You have too much on,” and pulled the polo off me, revealing the lightning-bolt tattoo on my left bicep.
The Big Book of Orgasms Page 16
