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]