? & M

"I'm not a sadist, you know."

He says it periodically, like he wants to remind me.

The first time he said it I actually thought he was joking. On our first date, after all, he'd been the one who had pulled and twisted my nipples, harder and harder, until he could no longer interpret the noises I was making.

"I'm not really sure where your pain/pleasure line is, here," he'd said, still mauling me.

"Neither am I," I panted, "but keep going."

By the time he had his fingers inside me I was begging him to smack my ass.

That was a great first date.

The next time he told me ("I'm not into pain games"), I thought he must mean he didn't want to anymore. But we'd stand in his living room necking, too impatient to make it to the bed, and he'd hurt me and then slide his hand into my panties and feel how wet I was.

"You," he'd murmur, "are what they call a pain slut."

"I am?" He'd pinch, and I'd gasp.

Clearly, he wasn't quitting.

So the next time he brought it up, I know I looked at him funny, and finally he spelled it out for me.

"I don't get off on causing you pain," he said as he wrapped his fist in my hair and pulled. "I get off on getting you off."

And then he bit me. So fucking sweetly.

I don't care what you call it, baby, just don't stop.

[written for Alison Tyler's S&M contest]

Oh, my.

Enter to win $500 worth of sex toys from Babeland.

Vesti la Giubba

It's stupid how fast he turns me on. Even fully clothed. When he grabbed my ass and told me to wear the gloves, just like that I was hot for him. Elegant on the outside, maybe, but underneath? Just another weak-kneed, wet-pantied girl, aching to be fucked.

He knew it, too. He slipped the usher a twenty to stand watch, then closed the curtains to our private box. The music began and so did he, smooth and slow so as not to draw attention. The zipper was easy. Shimmying out of the dress was tougher, but soon I was sitting there without a stitch on. -- Wait, I'm lying. I still wore the gloves.

I kept my eyes forward, prayed no one would look over. I was shaking: aroused, ashamed, my nipples hard, pulsing like twin beacons in the dark.

He waited until the applause to grip the back of my neck and pull me down face-first into his crotch, and when he forced his cock between my lips I could feel it in my cunt. Suddenly blissfully mindless, I slipped off the seat, knelt in front of him.

All at once, his come was hitting the back of my throat and somebody was slamming into my pussy from behind. I bit back a moan before he clapped his hand over my mouth. I twisted in pleasure, came so hard it was like I'd been punched in the gut.

Sighed.

Then wanted more.

Shameless.

He snickered, pinched a nipple, commanded, "Encore."

[written for Alison Tyler's pin-up girls contest]

[The cover girl that inspired the piece is here.]

The Iceman Cometh

When I stumbled over the skate lace and went down, I should have rolled. Instead I landed straight on my butt. So undignified.

He skated toward me smoothly, totally in control. He looked concerned, but was that also the hint of a smile? He hoisted me up and said I should ice it right away.

In the office he retrieved the first-aid kit and handed over a disposable ice pack. I pressed it gingerly to the sore spot. His eyes lingered on my ass. My face burned and I struggled out of my parka. Instead of helping, he took the ice pack and held it to me. His touch made me shudder shamelessly. What can I say - it'd been a while, and he was so handsome.

"Lose these." He jerked my jeans halfway down my thighs, his hands groping my ass like he had every right to do so. Bending me over the desk, he slipped his fingers between my legs until my head spun and my pussy flooded. "Please," I begged. He grabbed my hips and buried his cock deep, drove into me mercilessly, mauling my ass to create a mirror image of the original bruise. When he pulled up my sweater and twisted my nipples, I came with a groan, convulsing uncontrollably.

When Dan gets home from his trip tomorrow he'll discover the marks, deliver me a whole new set for being such a desperate slut.

Next time I might fall again, on purpose, dizzy with desire.

[written for Alison Tyler's laces contest]

Mastermind

I've been angling for hints all day, but you're obstinate. I know you have a plan. You always have a plan.

I don't know if you're going to bring me to a shadowy stairwell, push me against the wall and grope me until I'm wet and panting, then up to a chaotic rooftop party where nobody minds when you spread my legs and thrust your fingers into me, hard and deep...

Or if you're going to dress me up and take me out, pulling me down dark alleys on every block, teasing me (vibe nestled against my clit, pretty jeweled plug in my asshole, clamp on each nipple) until I can barely walk, and on a crowded, brightly-lit corner I have to beg you to take me home and fuck me, passers-by staring...

Or if you're going to lie to a bar full of strangers that it's my birthday, bend me over a barstool and spank the hell out of me, inviting them to help, hiking up my skirt to expose my panties and then my bare skin, and when I groan, all those hands mauling my ass and swollen pussy, you shove your cock into my mouth to shut me up, and we'll get kicked out, arrested maybe, but I won't stop you (or whoever it is that's started pounding into my aching cunt)...

Funny, you always call me your naughty girl, your dirty slut, but you're the one with the ideas. Me? I'm just along for the ride.

[written for Alison Tyler's naughty contest]

The Divorcee Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even

"Greedy," they call her. One year since her husband left and this is what her new lovers call her. She had loved him, fiercely, but now that it's over she can admit they'd always been mismatched in bed. Ten years of her sex life gone. No wonder she's so hungry now. Famished. She always wants more.

It's a mystery where most fantasies begin, but this one she remembers. Flipping through some magazine and oh. That picture. Nothing was showing, even, but her imagination seized upon it. How it would feel to have that many hands on her. The cocks, the mouths. She'd stopped breathing, thinking about it.

Tonight isn't going to be quite like that, she knows. She isn't lithe and untarnished anymore, and neither are they. But the details still inspire. The arch of her back, his thigh solid against her. Strong fingers stroking her jaw and working their way down the back of her jeans. Soon he'll lift his head and suck on her nipple, bite down. In a moment his hardness will nudge her lips apart and slide home. She will be laid bare, spread open, pinioned, stretched. She will take him in, and him, and him.

Does it count as being taken when you give yourself so freely? She wonders how many it would take to quiet the clamor inside her. She doesn't want oblivion. She just wants to be here, now. She wants to wake up. She wants those years back. She wants, she wants.

[written for Alison Tyler's three guys & a girl contest]

Written on the Body

I guess I'd misunderstood him over the caterwaul of the espresso machine. I thought he'd asked if he could draw me, and I'd blushed as I thought about undressing in front of him. He was so young. I thought he'd be disappointed.

But I said yes anyway.

I'd been wrong, I realized the first day. He didn't want to draw me at all. He wanted to draw *on* me. He started slow, inked a city skyline across my inner arm with a fine metal nib. I tried not to twitch. It almost hurt, but not quite. It was innocuous; I couldn't understand why I was so turned on.

Next meeting: A landscape, vast plains between my shoulder blades, watercolor felt-tips that were really more like brushes. His breath on my skin gave me goosebumps, and I was glad he couldn't see how my nipples hardened with each slow lick of the pen.

The last session. I wasn't prepared for the bold strokes of black. This time I couldn't hide my arousal from him as he marked me from breasts to thighs. I was embarrassingly wet, dizzy with want. He grinned, bent his head, and drew the moisture from me with his lips, his tongue. He loomed above me and I finally drew his cock deep inside. He stretched me, pinned me down, fucked his living canvas with abandon, his visions now made flesh. And then he drew the orgasm from me, sweat and ink and come staining our bodies, indelible.

[written for Alison Tyler's tattoo contest]

(Fund) Raising the Roof

Wandering around the museum had been amusing for a while. Dinner was decent. But now, deep into the silent auction, I was bored as hell.

And then. His voice.

What he said wasn't important. A car with its headlights on or something. It was the deliciously gravelly, slightly drawling, disembodied voice itself that got me.

I found him at the information desk. Tickets were usually sold here but tonight it was just him, a lone guard keeping out the riffraff.

He looked at me, leered really, and I blushed. He beckoned me behind the desk and without a word started to touch me, sliding his hands under my dress, stroking me through my panties. I gasped, sighed, instantly wet. His mouth found my nipple and his fingers parted my pussy lips. I moaned, incoherent with sudden desire. He leaned me against the desk, undid his pants and began to fuck me, finally, finally murmuring in my ear. Cock and voice both drove into me, propelling me upwards. I came hard, dimly aware of being way too loud, my cries echoing in the entranceway like Muzak for perverts.

Later someone told me: our sounds had been piped throughout the building. Who knows whether I'd leaned on it accidentally or he'd purposely flipped the switch, but that entire crowd of hoity-toity rich folks had heard me pant and groan and wail my way through orgasm.

The benefit did better than ever that year. Turns out no one particularly likes a silent auction.

[written for Alison Tyler's sound and hearing contest]

Flashback

As we push through the crowd, you start to grumble. Disneyfied, you gripe. Sanitized. You miss the pre-Giuliani peep shows, you claim, although I know you never indulged. You were still an innocent then, another wholesome midwestern boy newly arrived. But you like to reminisce.

I grab you, ford the stream of passers-by. "Peep shows, huh?" I murmur, stealthily unbuttoning underneath my coat. You catch on fast, lean in, shielding me from view so you can get your eyeful. I really only mean to flash you my bra, but you slip your hands inside and undo the front clasp, cupping my tits. You kiss my neck, push me against the wall. I realize too late that you've pinned me there at the elbows, nudging my coat open to expose me.

"No," I whisper, but I can't free myself. My nipples throb and ache in the cool air and my cheeks burn. A lanky hipster type stops to look. "Hold her," you say, and the guy grips me hard enough to bruise. Kneeling, you grin up at me, neon reflecting in your eyes. "Crossroads of the world," you muse, lifting my skirt. "A juncture. Everything converges here." You pull my panties aside and dive in, burying two fingers in my cunt. My captor sucks on one nipple, bites down on the other as I groan and start to come, oblivious now to bystanders.

-- Yeah, I didn't know about that webcam either. Broadway and 46th Street. Um, oops.

I ❤ NY.

[written for Alison Tyler's ❤ contest]

All my little words

The inimitable Alison Tyler was kind enough to interview me for her Trollop Salon.

And I'm still blushing. :)

Hood Ornament

He's waiting in the parking lot, leaning against the car, watching me. When I get there he kisses me, long and slow. He pulls up my shirt, sucks on my nipples, gropes my ass--and then pulls away.

"Thought I told you to lose those," he says, disappointed.

"What?" I half-laugh. "I thought you were kidding. You always say it's such a cliche."

He frowns. "Wrong answer."

He turns me around, pushes me down over the hood. My breath rushes out in a startled yelp. He lifts my skirt and yanks the offending panties down to my knees. When the cool air skitters over my exposed flesh I realize how wet I am.

"Shame I've only got the one," he mutters. There's the telltale clink of the buckle. "Bind your wrists? Or whip your ass?"

My heartbeat thumps hollowly against the car. He's never used anything on me but his hand.

He strokes my clit with the leather tip, once, like a tongue. I shudder, hear myself moan.

Then a burst of noise as a rowdy bunch of college boys spill into the lot. I move to stand and pull my skirt down, but he stills me with a look. I gulp. Blush. Close my eyes.

I can tell when they notice us. There's an abrupt silence, then a disbelieving snicker or two. I can feel their eyes on me. I want to disappear. But, also, my pussy throbs.

"Say," he says mildly. "Any of you fellas wearing a belt?"

[written for Alison Tyler's leather contest]

Talk Hard

"Why is it," you murmur, "that you let me do such dirty things to you but won't tell me your fantasies?" You smack my ass, watch me writhe.

"I don't know," I manage. "It's just so...intimate."

"And this isn't?" You slowly work a finger into my [DELETED]. My head spins.

"Point taken." But I'm silent. Distracted.

You take your hands away. I whimper. "Tell me," you say.

"Well…" I falter. "We're at a restaurant." You touch me again: instant reward. "You grab me. By the restrooms. You tell me not to scream. You drag me inside, pull my shirt up to cover my eyes. You use my panties to tie my wrists behind me."

You turn me face-up, spread me open, rub against me.

"You push me down, shove your [DELETED] into my mouth. Harder than usual. I realize I never saw your face. You could be anyone."

You slide into me just a bit, then out, holding my hips so I can't wriggle onto you.

"You [DELETED] my face," I pant, "a little too roughly. I can't catch my breath. You hit the back of my throat over and over…"

You grunt, but don't move.

"And then you hoist me up, bend me over the sink and thrust into me, and I'm coming --"

You groan, finally slamming into my [DELETED]. One, two, three strokes…

And you pull out, leaving me open-mouthed, gasping. You head for the door. "Get dressed," you say, grinning. "I'm taking you to dinner."

[written for Alison Tyler's "[DELETED]" contest]

The Good Humor Man

That was the summer with the heat wave. That was the summer when it was so hot for so long that we ran outside with the neighborhood kids every time the ice cream truck went by. I tried everything that year - Toasted Almond and Bomb Pops and Push-ups and Hoodsie Cups with the flat wooden spoons that tasted like my childhood.

That was the summer we both got a crush on the towheaded college kid that drove the thing around. I'd never seen you like that around another man before. It was like you wanted to flirt but couldn't quite figure out how, so you just got tongue-tied and goofy. I could see you blushing even through the heat.

And late one night we found him parked at the ballfield long after everyone had gone home. All he had left were boring old popsicles, and I got so distracted by the prospect of you going down on a guy that I practically started fellating that neon monstrosity without realizing it. Which certainly got both of your attention, and I leaned in and kissed you, and then him, multicolored tongues mixing crazy new concoctions. And you and I knelt together in front of our Mr. Softee (who was, in fact, not at all soft), and we licked and sucked him until he melted with pleasure, his come sweeter than any ice cream I've ever tasted. And then we brought him home, all three of us sticky and dripping and grinning.

[written for Alison Tyler's "eavesdropping erotica crafts dessert" contest]

The Reunion

Confession: I hate netspeak. LOL especially makes me want to hurl Merriam-Webster's at the monitor. But there's one that goes back, in non-abbreviated form at least. Back to the days of hideous feathered hair, rainbow suspenders, and deely boppers.

That's why I'm not surprised when my best friend texts me from inside the reunion: "OMG, you'll never believe who's here!" We children of the eighties have rights to that one, I think.

And it's him. That unreachable one. God I lusted after him, but he was so out of my league it wasn't even funny. Then, a miracle: senior year he played Orsino to my Viola and he had to kiss me onstage, in front of everyone...but he didn't have to, um, suck face. The kiss was mandatory, but the mesmerizing swirling undertow of his tongue, perfectly slippery, shockingly intimate - that was his choice.

So now I give it back to him tenfold. Now I can reach him, grab him, pull him to me unthinkingly, blind with 20 years' worth of desire. And it's rampant hormones and roiling emotions all over again, and I kiss him, in front of everyone. His cock swells against me, remembering.

And I push him down and I undo him, and it's my tongue circling hypnotically now, slicking him with spit. And it's me who climbs him now, scaling the heights of the popular boy, my cunt gripping him like a fist. We both come fast and hard, gasping, shuddering. In front of everyone.

[written for Alison Tyler's "WTF? STFU!" contest]

Test Drive

This time, our little ritual may actually get us kicked out. This time you're really pushing it. Usually we just lie down together, bouncing experimentally, making a show of scrutinizing prices and features. The truth is we can't afford any of these beds, but we like to pretend.

But tonight something's gotten into you. Tonight when we lay down on the most plush and pristine floor model in the place, you pulled me close and kissed me lingeringly. You acted like we were home alone, in our own creaky hand-me-down bed. Tonight you teased my nipples, slipped your hand between my legs, made me squirm and shudder. The store was deserted, you said. No one would see.

Tonight when the salesman told us the store was closing, you made me ask how much weight the bed would hold, because I wanted to have two men at once. Tonight you invited him to touch me and watched while he stroked me through my panties. Tonight you pushed my face into the mattress and told him to finger me until I begged to be fucked. Tonight I begged and you shoved your cock into my mouth while the man thrust roughly into my pussy and I came for what felt like forever and I took it all and didn't spill a drop of come onto those clean white sheets.

Tonight we bought a bed and you made sure that tomorrow, when they bring it to our house, they'll send two delivery men.

[written for Alison Tyler's beds contest]
[The bed photo that inspired the piece is here.]

The Hardest Part

"I've wanted to fuck you since the first moment I saw you." He says it matter-of-factly. Conversationally. The bastard.

I pause for a long moment, struggling to keep my face impassive. I can't decide whether to jump him or punch him. Finally I snap, "What the hell took you so long?"

He shrugs, grinning now, challenge in his eyes. "I try to wait until I can't stand it anymore," he says. "I like the anticipation."

And then he's on me--biting my neck, pawing at my tits, pinning me against the wall. He pulls my shirt up, finds my nipple and sucks. I swoon, delirious. He doesn't kiss me. This isn't about romance. This is about heat, about desire, about him getting inside me as soon as humanly possible.

He hikes up my skirt, gropes me through my panties, then pushes them aside. Without warning he shoves a finger into my cunt, and then another. I open to him readily, gratefully, panting and groaning with pleasure, and then his hand is over my mouth. "Shut up," he murmurs, and whirls me around. I barely have time to brace myself against the wall before he slides inside and begins to fuck me, grabbing my hips, pounding into me relentlessly. I come so hard I see stars. I feel his cock twitch and pulse a second later.

Breathless, we slump against each other.

"So," he says, "was it worth the wait?"

I kneel, take him into my mouth. I'm not waiting anymore.

[written for Alison Tyler's "seven dirty words" contest]

"Do You Take This Man..."

Josh had been teasing me mercilessly all day, groping me when we were alone and whispering dirty things in my ear when we weren't. The end result being that, regardless of how inappropriate it was, I was now sitting for my wedding pictures with a soaking wet pussy.

"Now the garter," the photographer prompted, and I groaned. The stupid garter. I thought it was tacky, but Josh hadn't budged, saying that he deserved a few shots of his bride showing some leg.

I sat, and Josh knelt in front of me, sliding my dress up one thigh. I was so worked up that, even through stockings, his hands felt so good on me that I almost closed my eyes in pleasure before remembering where we were. I glared at him, pulling the skirt back down an inch or two.

But when he slipped the garter on, he held the hand closest to the camera motionless while his other hand crept under my dress and between my legs. As soon as he brushed against my panties, my resolve crumbled, and he knew it. He pushed the silky fabric aside, slid a finger into me, then another, and began to thrust hard and fast while his thumb circled my clit. Completely helpless under his touch, all I could do was take it, blissfully.

So it was that under the watchful eye (and lens) of the photographer, my husband-to-be brought me to the final orgasm of my unmarried life.

Best wedding photos ever.

[written for Alison Tyler's "photography" contest]

First Date: August

In the diner, they talk. She wants him to touch her. She could scoot forward on the seat, rub her crotch against his knee. But she doesn't.

In the lobby, they wait for the movie to start. Nobody's around. She wants him to touch her. She could lean in close and kiss him, but she doesn't.

In the movie, he puts his arm around her. She sinks into him, grateful. She wants him to touch her more. She takes his hand, places it on her knee. He gets the picture. He's slow but deliberate, makes his way up the inside of her thigh, watching her squirm and grimace. At the top, he does not grab or squeeze or stroke, like every other boy in the world. He taps, gently, as if he's asking to be let in. She's dizzy, can barely breathe. He pushes her panties aside and there's skin on skin and she's ridiculously wet and his finger slides into her and her whole body is suffused with joy.

In the hotel room, he's touching her already and she's not quiet anymore. She's on all fours on the bed and he's spanking her, hard and sweet, and his fingers are inside her and they can both feel her cunt contract. She would weep with relief but she's too busy laughing.

She knows he isn't hers. He belongs to someone else. Eventually, things are going to change.

But for now, at least, she is exactly where she wants to be.

[written for Alison Tyler's "change" contest]