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]