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]

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]

"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]

Ring Bell for Service

"Dammit, I wanted to fuck you in that tent," you complain, grabbing me with one hand while the other rings the bell. You're dripping rainwater all over me, but it doesn't matter. We're both drenched.

"Well, now you get to fuck me in a sleazy motel," I say. You grope my ass through my pajamas, soaked from our dash from the campsite to the car, then shove me toward the check-in counter, pinning me against it. Your hands continue their assault. You know that being manhandled like this makes me hot.

"Quit it!" I hiss, anticipating company, but you keep going. You kick at my foot, knocking me off balance, and I widen my stance to compensate. You take the opportunity to slip a hand between my legs and I stifle a gasp. You twist one nipple through wet fabric until I groan, "Stop."

But my back's arching and you know I'm close. You spin me around and wrap your lips around the other nipple, then push pajamas aside and slide a finger into me, my moans suddenly loud in the empty room as I start to come. You thrust again, again, propelling me higher - another finger, deeper, faster - until my cries turn into a wail. You urge me on, making me come harder...

Then there's a movement in my peripheral vision and I realize the room wasn't empty at all. I look and there's the clerk, watching, rapt. And that makes me come the hardest of all.

[written for Alison Tyler's "motel sex" contest]

Hustle

It's strange being home again. Three months we've been at college, but it feels like years. And now we're back - different, but the same - and my half-dozen boys do not want the night to end.

So, as I stand to go, I'm not surprised when they swipe my car key right out of my hand. The six of them are quick, sneaky, work as a team. I watch, helpless, as the keyring arcs across the room, is passed hand to hand, and, predictably, ends up down someone's pants.

When we were kids, that was the end of the chase. An unbreachable border, that waistband, between a girl and her male friends. A fail-safe.

But they don't know how three months have changed me.

The counterpoint to their jump and jive, the foil to their fancy footwork, I walk slowly toward him. I sense their collective gulp as they realize the game has changed.

The room is silent. I feel like I’m in a dream.

I draw close, reach out, unbutton, unzip. He holds still as my fingers slide inside, search for my quarry, brush against him accidentally, then deliberately. He’s hard. His breath hitches. As I grab the key with one hand, the other hand wraps around his cock and strokes him once, twice. He’s trembling. I lean forward and, in a movement so daring I wonder at myself later, take him into my mouth, suck mercilessly. Swallow.

Game over.

This time I make it to the door.

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