For those who like their erotica fast and frenzied, the genre’s most popular raconteur offers you 69: Sultry Short Erotic Stories of Need and Desire. In this delightfully dirty collection, Alison Tyler has gathered the crème de la crème of erotic fiction authors to pen sixty-nine brief romps–among them, Violet Blue, Donna George Storey, Thomas S. Roche, John Albert, Kristina Lloyd, Justine Elyot and Jeremy Edwards. Each story—from a woman whose boyfriend has a proclivity for old-fashioned lingerie to a British paparazzi who gets too close to his target, to a distracted writer who needs some special motivation to stay on deadline—will leave you dizzy with satisfaction.

69

Sultry Short Erotic Stories

of Need and Desire

Edited by Alison Tyler

Foreword by Violet Blue

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Countdown

By Violet Blue

Sixty-nine ingredients make this collection a powerful cocktail that slides over the tongue like sugar on fire.

These skilled eroticists choose words like intoxicants. The flavors elicit what I can only describe as an instant hard-on.

Now we girls know what this is like.

How fast will you become aroused? Dizzyingly fast. In the time you can count to sixty-nine. The time it took to read these sixty-nine words.

Introduction

Are you pervy like me? Come on. You can confess. We’re all friends here. Have you ever pondered the goings-on at your neighbor’s house? What are they doing behind those lacy curtains? Why are those drums beating so late into the night? Now is your chance to find out—because these 69 sultry stories are designed to give you a peek into the lives of those around you. These are the people you know: your friends, your acquaintances, your coworkers, even your boss. You pass them every day on the street, at work, when you do your errands.

No, you won’t find out where they went to college, or learn the name of their second cousin, or elicit whether their favorite color is citrine or turquoise. But you might discover what turns them on, what makes them wet, what makes them hard. And you might also discover that you share an overlap or two, at least where fetishes are concerned.

Short-shorts are a specific genre of sex story. These mini-escapades are pure slivers of life, solitary snips of celluloid, single cuts off a vinyl album. These are the stories you overhear on the subway between stop A and stop B, the bits of conversation you’re privy to while riding on the elevator, the whispered secrets you catch while surreptitiously leaning forward during happy hour at your local bar.

I’ve been fascinated, mesmerized, addicted to shorts for decades now. My own first naive attempts at fiction were abbreviated scenarios I penned for my girlfriends—situations starring their crushes, fan-fiction-type fantasies that took place on solitary sheets of binder paper. That’s about 250 words in my jagged-edged cursive.

Why do I place short-shorts on such a pedestal? Simple. The authors must pull out all the stops. There is no fat. No cheating. No padding in the bras.

This is the genre I can’t get over. I’m an addict, plain and simple. This is the sixth anthology of ultra-short fiction I’ve edited (my first was way back in the ice age of the early ‘90s), and 69 presented its own unique challenges. First, I needed 69 stories to equal 100,000 words. Now, nobody ever said I was brilliant at math, so I had to give my 30+ writers extremely specific guidelines. Sure, I could have collected 69 1449.92-word stories, but where’s the fun in that? (Besides, you try to find me .92 of a word. I dare ya.) I wanted to show a range from 100 words to 2,000 (which is the maximum count in this collection). Trust me, 2,000 words is not a lot of space to tell a tale. In a 500-word story, every sentence matters. In a 100-word piece there are no extraneous images. Every solitary beat carries weight. I look at the 100-word flashers as a type of amuse-bouche, designed to titillate and stimulate and whet your appetite for the next mouthwatering course.

Next, I wanted to be sure to hit the themes that thrill me—including BDSM, spanking, oral, anal, voyeurism, exhibitionism.… Hopefully, you’ll find your favorites within these pages. And maybe you’ll even discover something new or two to try.

Are you ready to put your ear to the crack, to press your eye to the keyhole?

I know I am.

XXX,

Alison

Contents

The Kitchen Kink

Hare Coursing

Pulse

Speed Mating

Permission

Star Fucker

Redi-Wash

Selections from a Bedroom Closet

Dress Rehearsal

Good Cop, Bad Cop (A Story)

Come at Six

Plus One

I Dare You

Two Ways

Manners

Another Country Heard From

Frosted Kisses

Summoned

His

Talk to the Hand

Three Days

Reclamation

Open

Frozen

The Welcome Wagon

Hot Cross Buns

Granny Panties

Touchless

Cast Party

Fall Back

Love, Honor and Obey

Permissive

Hot in the City

Add it Up

Crossed

The Funeral

Floating in Blue

Suite Surprise

Shoulders

Saturday

Based on a True Story

The Barest Offering

Hers

Translation

Dessert

Skill

Attic Moment

Satisfied Customers

Closing Distance

Friends in Need

Homecoming

The Long Afternoon

Naked Lunch

Just a Kiss Away

Goes

Waking the Neighbors

Ours

Mathematics

Laplanders

Slave Market in Monochrome (A Fantasy)

In the Cold with You

Listen

Come at Nine

The Eskimo Game

Reflection

Permitted

Never Alone

Every Dollar

A is for Anal, Z is for Zenith

How Early?

About the Authors

About the Editor

Copyright

The Kitchen Kink

By Alison Tyler

“This is too hard!”

“That’s what she said.”

“I am the she, James.”

“Then I must be the ‘too hard.’”

I play punched him. “I need the perfect story to kick-start my anthology, and I can’t concentrate.”

“Ah, poor baby. Are you all wet from perusing those naughty little tales?” He bent and kissed the back of my neck. “What exactly are you reading about?”

“Spanking, ball gags, whips, chains, strangers, ménages…”

“All in the same story?”

“No, not all in the same story.”

“Well, maybe that’s your problem.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Everything but the kitchen sink…”

“You mean ‘the kitchen kink.”’

“You’re not an editor,” I sighed dramatically. “You have no idea what it’s like.”

“Try me.”

I handed over a story. James began to read. “Oh, look. She’s going to get a spanking. Again. He just spanked her two seconds ago. Give the poor girl’s bare bottom a rest. She’s not going to be able to sit down for a week as it is.”

“I like that one.”

He riffled through the papers on my desk, then grabbed one and began to skim. “She’s about to blow him. But she just met him. Why would she get on her knees and open her mouth like that? She doesn’t even know his name.”

“You’re so judgmental.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I still don’t understand the issue.”

“I’ve read over a hundred stories, and I’m in that shuffling place. I keep reorganizing—this story should be at the front, this one should be near the end, this is perfect for the middle. But now I’m all conflicted.”

“Maybe I can help.”

I stared down at the papers strewn over my desk. “What do you mean?”

“You’re too close to all this smut. What you need is for me to put you over my lap, give you a nice, hard spanking, make you blow me, tie you down to the bed, and fuck you senseless. Perhaps if I do my job correctly you’ll even forget my name.”

“Tempting, but I have a big deadline.”

“That’s what she said,” he smirked. “But I’ve got something even bigger…” He put my hand on his cock, which I could feel was hard through his Levi’s.

“James, I’m working.”

“Not anymore.” He pulled the chair back from my desk.

“Look at all the stories I have to read.”

“They’ll wait.”

I pointed to the calendar. “My book is due in less than two weeks.”

“Two weeks is a long fucking time.”

He started unbuckling his belt. I set the red pen on the desk. “I guess I could take a short break.”

James grinned and helped me out of my chair.

“But I don’t need a spanking.”

“I’ll decide that,” he said, leading me into the kitchen. I watched as he sat down on one of our wooden chairs, and then I waited. Was he right? Was I so aroused from reading sexy stories that I couldn’t make any headway? And would a spanking actually clear my head or would it only heat my ass?

I was about to find out.

James pulled me over his lap and stroked my rear with one of his big, strong hands. “Are your panties wet from reading the stories or thinking about the spanking I’m going to give you?”

“Both,” I told him honestly.

He let his hand land on my bottom. I didn’t pretend to squeal or twitch. There was no true pain in this type of smack. But then he pushed my yoga pants down my thighs and began to stroke my panty-clad ass. I grew very still. He pulled down my bikini briefs next and started to spank me hard and fast on my bare skin. And what was that? He’d grabbed hold of a wooden spoon. In seconds, all thoughts of work evaporated, so when he asked, “Now, what were you complaining about before?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“I don’t know,” I murmured.

He spanked me until my ass felt hot and swollen, and then he pushed me down in front of him. “Open your mouth.” He cradled my face with one hand, and I parted my lips. James stood, and I raised myself up on my knees and began to suck his cock. “That’s a good little editor,” he crooned. “Make my cock all nice and wet. You know where it’s going to go.”

My mind stuttered, but I kept my mouth busy.

“I just have to remember where I put the cuffs.”

Christ, he really was going to prove a point, wasn’t he? “They’re in the drawer by the dresser,” I said when I took a breather.

“Good girl.” He pulled away from me and went to get the tools. In seconds, I had my hands cuffed over my head,and James was bending me over the Corian countertop. He’d gotten the lube as well as the cuffs, and I felt him drizzle the slick stuff between the cheeks of my ass.

First, he fucked my pussy. “Damn, you’re wet.” He thrust hard and fast, and I shut my eyes tight, my body practically humming with pleasure. But right when I was on the cusp, he pulled out and pressed the head of his cock against my asshole. I shivered and sucked in my breath.

“Relax, baby. It only works if you submit.”

He was right. His words unlocked me. Calmness stole over my body—the sensation of giving in always brings me peace.

As James drove forward, he said, “Now, what was your problem?”

“I don’t have any problems,” I panted.

He let one hand rest under my body, giving my clit the perfect amount of pressure. “You were all confused.”

I shook my head. Not anymore.

He stroked my clit as he fucked my ass. Being touched like that was overwhelming. I closed my eyes tight and held my breath. I could sense James getting closer, and I willed myself to come with him. James began to slide in and out of me at a quick clip.

“I’m going to…” I whispered.

“Do it,” he hissed back.

I collapsed against the smooth, cool counter, aware of how flushed I felt, my breathing ragged, my body shaking. James held on to me, his arms tight around my body, and then he undid the cuffs, rubbed my wrists and carried me to the bathroom for a shower.

“Now you can go back and try to choose your opening piece,” James said as he turned on the hot water.

“I think I found what exactly I was looking for,” I told him with a smile.

Hare Coursing

By Janine Ashbless

“What sort of a girl do you think I am?” she asked, slightly shocked.

“The prettiest one here,” said Brandon, who played guitar and electric double bass. He curled a stray lock of her long hair around his finger.

“Fun. Smart. Sexy,” added Erik. He was the lead singer of the duo.

“And just a little bit drunk,” Brandon added.

“I’d have to be completely bladdered to go with both of you!” she reprimanded, giggling. “That’s just so…slutty.”

“Slutty. What does that mean? That you’re not choosey? Which of us is the ugly one, then?

She gave them a sarcastic look over the top of her wineglass. They were both handsome—and they knew it. Handsome, and talented enough to be headed a lot further than playing for her great-aunt Elsie’s sixtieth birthday party. Their set had easily been the entertainment highlight of the evening. Now, out in the club parking lot, at the very edge of the light, all three of them were missing the buffet dinner. “Don’t be daft.”

“Don’t you think Erik’s hot?”

She lifted a brow. “He’s not bad, I suppose.”

“What about me?”

Both the men flanking her were as lean and fit as hounds, and they’d been flirting with her for half an hour now. She’d once seen a pair of dogs chasing a hare like that: one at each shoulder. “You’re okay, too.”

“Which one of us do you want to disappoint, then?”

“Maybe,” she said chirpily, “I want to disappoint you both.”

“Oh…I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Are you wanting us to fight over you?” Erik’s grin suggested he was not in a fighting mood. His fingertips had been on the small of her back for the last ten minutes, stroking her gently through her party dress. She hadn’t objected.

“Now that’s an idea.” Her tone was pert.

“Winner takes all?” Brandon’s voice dropped to a sexy growl. He ran the back of his finger over her cheek and she flushed.

“You’d like to see two guys fight for the right to fuck you?”

“Oh,” she protested, not quite happy with Erik’s choice of words but finding the discomfort compelling.

“Stripped down, maybe? D’you want to watch us wrestle? That’s pretty kinky of you.”

“I’d win, of course,” Brandon pointed out.

“Feck off,” laughed Erik. “Don’t listen to him. I’d kick his butt.”

“But it’d be a pity to waste so much energy, wouldn’t it? When there are so much better ways to spend it.”

“Make love, not war, eh?”

“You guys are bad!” She squirmed happily.

“I mean, think of the possibilities. Two men. That’s two mouths kissing you, love. Four hands, touching you all over. Two big solid cocks for you to ride as long as you liked.”

She shivered.

Brandon leaned in and kissed her cheek softly. “Two men sucking your breasts at once,” he whispered.

“A hand on your hot button,” Erik murmured in her other ear, tickling her with his warm breath. “Another up your sweet, wet pussy. Two others on your ass, stroking you in all the right places.”

“Oh!” she said, her body full of heat and confusion. With a man at either side and the wall of a flowerbed behind her rump, it was impossible to turn away.

“D’you like the sound of that?” Brandon asked. The lift of his hand drew her attention down to where her nipple had pebbled against the thin cloth of her dress. “It looks like you like it.” One finger circled the stiff point delicately, sending tingles of pleasure through her flesh. She stared, mesmerized—and then Erik turned her face toward him and kissed her, just as softly, his tongue brushing against hers in time to the other man’s caress of her tit.

No matter how the hare had zigzagged from side to side, there was always a hound there.

“Um,” she gasped, pulling back after a long moment. “We shouldn’t.”

“You’re right. You might drop your glass. Here—let me take that.” Erik slipped it from her unresisting fingers and planted it in the earth behind her. His body leaned in against hers as he moved, and she felt the hard jut of his erection. She knew she should be protesting. But Brandon still had her right nipple, flicking it, and she couldn’t think past that thrill of sensation.

“Please,” she said incoherently, turning to that man—and then it was his turn to kiss her. His mouth was smoky with rolling tobacco, his tongue warm and slow. She felt Erik cup her left breast, too, and a moan rose from the depths of her being.

“There,” Brandon said when he had finished kissing away her words and her breath. “Now, you did like that.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But…”

“But…?”

“I feel bad.”

His hand moved down from her breast, trailing over the shallow curve of her stomach, stroking in circles as it approached her pubic mound. “You feel fucking marvelous.”

“That’s not what I meant.” But her voice was uneven, and her hips tilted in response to his caress.

“Come on,” Erik murmured. “You must have thought about it. Two guys. Both focused on you, both trying to outdo each other—giving you everything you ever dreamed of. It must be a turn-on.”

“That’s just dirty,” she said, and whimpered as Brandon’s finger tickled the thin cotton shielding her swollen clit.

“Too fucking right, it’s dirty. Dirty is good. Dirty is his cock up your wet pussy while mine slips in and out between those amazing lips. Dirty is him licking you out from the front while I do it from the back. Dirty is both our cocks rubbing all over your beautiful tits. In fact it’s so dirty,” Brandon said, butting softly up against her, his arm wrapped right round her waist, “that the thought of it is making both of us hard as rock. And I bet it’s making you wet.”

She arched her back, pushing her breast into Erik’s cupped hand. “I’m not wet.”

“No?”

“Shall we prove it?”

Brandon gathered her skirt with his fingers, lifting it until he could slip his hand into the front of her panties. “Oh, you liar,” he admonished, grinning, finding her slit swollen and slippery. “Dirty little liar.”

“Oh!” Her clit sparked with the brush of his fingertip.

“You owe both of us a kiss for that,” said Erik. As his mouth claimed it, his hand joined Brandon’s down between her thighs. Between them they easily took control, their fingers light but insistent. The frictionless, tormenting pressure of their caresses on her clit and labia and the mouth of her cunt soon had her uttering stifled urgent moans against Erik’s tongue.

He pulled away—then used a hand in her hair to turn her to Brandon. “Now kiss him.”

Her lips were parted already, open. His tongue slid into her as easily as his fingers. But when she started to come she pulled abruptly away and jerked from one man to the other, rubbing her face against their skin and sobbing with pleasure as orgasm danced through her. She had to be held upright as she came, spinning down from her climax.

“That felt good, didn’t it?” Brandon’s voice was thick, like the hard cock pushing against his clothes and into her hip. Erik’s palm cupped and squeezed her pubic mound, rousing her again.

“Oh…yes. Good. Dirty. Good.” Her heart was hammering.

“You want more?”

“Yes.”

“Both of us?”

“Yes. Please, yes. Both of you. I want both of you.”

They both smiled. “Well,” said Brandon. “If you insist.”

Pulse

By Vida Bailey

Back me up against the wall, lean in, babe, your mouth close to mine, but don’t kiss me yet. Just out of reach. Breathe in the air that catches in my chest, the wanting.

Touch me. Catch a breast maybe, and push, and squeeze and fix me there, nailed to the wall with desire. Skirts pushed up, your hand between my thighs, firm, insistent, fingers working, finding the warmth, where I’m swollen against thin layers of Lycra and lace. Waiting for you.

Your mouth on mine.

Your mouth on me.

My hands in your hair—my heart in my mouth.

Speed Mating

By Sophia Valenti

Bars are totally not my thing. Yet that Friday night I found myself standing in one of the most popular watering holes in town. I’d arrived straight from the office, feeling just a little uncomfortable in my white silk blouse, black pencil skirt and pearls while everyone else in the jovial crowd was dressed so casually.

Why had I agreed to this? Damn that Michelle. She can get me to do almost anything. After much cajoling—and flat-out whining—she had convinced me to go with her to this speed-dating event. Yeah, I was single, but that wasn’t a problem for me. I was happy with my life, I’d argued. But when that stance didn’t work, she played the pity card, telling me that she was looking for a boyfriend and needed me there for emotional support.

Call me a sucker—I went. And that’s how I wound up in a crowd of murmuring singles, each of us sporting a numbered sticker. Michelle, with her bouncy blonde curls and blushing cheeks, looked beautiful and eager and had already caught the eye of several gentlemen. Meanwhile, I leaned back against the bar, trying to remain unnoticed by potential suitors for as long as possible while I sipped my cocktail and listened to the moderator give a rundown of the rules: The women would sit at one side of the table and the men along the other. Each couple had five minutes to chat, after which a bell would ring, signaling for the guys to shift down one seat. Sounded simple enough. I could pull off being friendly for a couple of minutes at a clip. Sure, I wasn’t interested in hooking up with anyone, but I didn’t plan on being impolite. I could smile through this for my friend’s sake.

I downed my drink and turned to place my empty glass on the bar, and that’s when I saw him. Chatting people swirled around me, but their noise and movements faded into the background. He commanded my total attention. With thick black hair and piercing blue eyes, he looked like he’d stepped off a movie set. I took note right away of his broad shoulders and muscular arms. He certainly filled out a T-shirt better than anyone else I’d ever seen. The cotton fabric clung to his toned frame in just the right way, giving a tempting hint of how well cut his muscles were. My gaze traveled down his flat stomach with unabashed slowness, wandering along his torso to his jeans.

I instantly got lost in a fantasy of what lay hidden beneath that worn denim. The man’s lips curled into a smile when he noticed my interest, but it wasn’t a cocksure expression. It was more of a friendly acknowledgment that made my heart beat a little faster. The look on his face gave no doubt that he was checking me out, too. I was pleased to see that he was donning a number. That meant our paths were definitely going to cross before the night was over—and I couldn’t wait.

A bespectacled woman holding a clipboard—clearly one of the event organizers—grabbed my handsome admirer and seated him halfway down the wooden table from me. I counted the seats—figuring that I had to struggle through at least forty minutes of chitchat before I could have the only one-on-one that I was truly interested in.

I have to admit that I barely remember my conversations with Misters One through Eight. I think there were a veterinarian and an accountant somewhere in the mix, but one well-meaning man blended into the next. I did my best to feign an appropriate amount of interest; they couldn’t really hold my attention. Whenever the bell rang and it was time to switch partners, the stranger would toss another smoldering look my way. Each flash of his eyes made my panties a little more damp, and arousal was swirling inside me with an ever-increasing intensity. I’d never before had such a profound attraction to a complete stranger. But I wasn’t going to waste any time overanalyzing the situation—who was I to argue with fate?

It was the longest forty minutes of my life, but eventually, I found myself face-to-face with the object of my barely concealed desire.

The stranger smiled broadly and extended his hand as he greeted me. I took his hand in mine, enjoying the feel of his strong grip.

“Hi, I’m—”

“No names—numbers only,” he interrupted, his words laced with a teasing tone. “Rules are rules.”

I laughed at his faux concern for the event’s regulations. “You’re absolutely right. Nice to meet you, number nine.”

“The pleasure’s all mine—” he glanced down at the number perched on my chest, “—twenty-seven.”

He sat down and held my hand as we exchanged playfully flirtatious banter. His fingers casually stroked the base of my palm, sweeping downward across my wrist as he spoke, keeping his eyes locked on mine. The sensation of his fingers against my skin sent tingles up my arm and straight to my pussy, which was very nearly molten by that point. I could have listened to him talk for hours; his voice was deep and sensual, and lulled me into a sexy stupor. I tried my best to keep up my end of the conversation when the only thing running through my head was I need your cock inside me. In truth, there wasn’t much that could be discussed within a five-minute time span. But by the time the bell rang, I knew for sure that I wanted him—and I wanted him badly.

This time around, the moderator announced that since we’d reached the halfway mark, we would have a fifteen-minute intermission. Number nine continued to hold my hand as he tossed his head toward the back of the bar, his eyebrow quirked up in an unspoken question.

I could barely contain my own wicked smile as I nodded, and together we left the table. Most of the crowd stayed up front, clamoring for the bartender’s attention, while he and I slipped into one of the restrooms, completely unnoticed.

I locked the door behind us and backed him up against the tiled wall, bringing my lips to his. He tangled his fingers in my long, brown hair as he returned my kiss with an eager passion. My hands roamed over his body, enjoying the feel of his hard muscles. Pulling his shirt out of his jeans, I slid my hands up his chest,and he groaned into my mouth as my palms glided against his flesh.

I wrapped my arms around him, stroking his back and bringing our bodies closer together. Grinding my hips against him, I felt the erection that was hidden beneath his clothes—so hard, so perfect, and all for me. Number nine broke our kiss to speak, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright as he held me at arm’s length. “Don’t you even want to know my name?”

“Rules are rules,” I answered breathlessly, and he chuckled in response. I grabbed the waistband of his jeans to pull him close again. “We only have fifteen minutes, so you’d better make them count.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, returning his lips to mine. We made out furiously as he reached behind me to unzip my skirt. As soon as it dropped to the floor, he spun me around and placed my hands on the sink. I looked into the mirror in front of me and saw the reflection of our lust-filled faces, which gave me thrill. Number nine pushed my hair to the side and trailed a line of sensual kisses down my neck, making my eyes flutter closed as another rush of wetness flooded my pussy.

“God, I want you,” he whispered, his voice hot in my ear as he ground his erection into my satin-covered ass cheeks.

“Then take me—before we run out of time.” I was so turned on that I was practically panting. From behind me I heard the rasp of his zipper being lowered and the rustle of a condom wrapper. Then, seconds later, I felt him pull the crotch of my panties aside and thrust his hard cock inside me in one firm, smooth stroke.

As he hit bottom, he sighed into my mussed hair. “You feel so good,” he whispered, pulling out and then rocking his hips against mine to slide his dick inside me once more. I bucked back toward him with every inward stroke, loving the feeling of his thick shaft stretching me and filling me. My body was acting of its own accord in response to my sexual hunger, my hips circling and grinding against him. I was so hot and wet that I was halfway to orgasm before we’d even started. But when he reached down the front of my panties to stroke my swollen clit, I let out a helpless whimper that I barely managed to stifle. My excitement was rapidly reaching its peak.

“Are you going to come for me, twenty-seven?” His words were interspersed with gasping breaths as he continued to take me higher and higher.

“Uh-huh,” was all I could utter, writhing against him and letting my body speak for me.

“Good—I’m going to watch every second of it,” he said. I looked into the mirror once more, focusing on his handsome face as his fingers and cock took me over the edge. I cried out loud, staring into the reflection of his ice-blue eyes as I shivered through my climax.

Seconds later, he moaned softly, and I felt his cock pulse within me. His hips jerked erratically as he came, holding me tightly in his arms.

Just then, we heard the warning bell sound from the bar, announcing that intermission was over. Breathless and laughing, we rushed to make ourselves presentable and rejoin the crowd.

It didn’t matter what his tag said—he was definitely number one on my list.

Permission

By Justine Elyot

Now that I am in the middle of this long-term dream, alone with my

campervan and a card deck of differing possible futures, I am not sure how to deal with it. Perhaps there are too many years of asking permission behind me. Perhaps I need someone’s permission to pursue the adventures I never had and be the person I never was. The freedom is strangely terrifying—just me, my cup of tea and the open road. Or rather, the open golf course, which stretches out beyond this car park, all twee and trim with its scissored grass and perky little flags.

And suddenly it is just me, my cup of tea and the golf ball which has splashed rather neatly into it, covering my jeans with milky stains.

The golf ball seems to be my guide. It is telling me something. Expect the unexpected, perhaps, or Don’t park near a golf course.

I fish out the unassuming oracle and frown at it until it brings me my fate, in the shape of a man wearing-trousers and a shirt and a sheepish expression.

“Sorry, sorry, oh God, did it fall in your cup?”

“It’s fine. Tea from a flask tastes like plastic anyway. Here. Go back and swing, or drive, or whatever you golfers do.”

“Swinging and driving both sound like more enjoyable alternatives.” He loosens another shirt button and pops the ball in his trousers pocket. “Swear not to tell anyone, but I hate golf.”

I laugh. “I don’t blame you. Why play then?”

“Friends thought it would cheer me up. A few rounds after my last day at work before I go home to my empty house.”

“Christ. Life has it in for you, eh? I know the feeling.”

He shuffles his feet inconclusively. He wants to stay but he feels he ought to go. He has a handsome, open face and gorgeously tanned forearms. For the first time in my life, I see that I am in a position to give, rather than seek, permission.

“I’d ask if you fancied a cup of tea, but that was my last. I’ve got half a bottle of whisky in the van, though.”

He smiles, edges a little closer to my folding chair and leans on the van bonnet.

“That’s a very handsome offer. Don’t suppose you have ice?”

“Alas, no.” I stand, and I am very close to him, close enough to feel his warmth and smell a mannish combination of toil and aftershave and breath mints. The base of his throat, disappearing down inside the loosened collar, is flushed. He has full lips but his eyes are tired. I forget what I was going to say. “Um.”

“As it comes is fine,” he prompts, and I galvanize my sluggish self, heading inside the van to the coolbox.

Something has happened to me, I think, trying to put my finger on what it might be. Everything seems to have moved slightly, my perception of my surroundings smudged like a charcoal drawing. Is it a paradigm shift? I keep having those. I think it’s something to do with him. Whoever he is.

When I pour him his double measure of the spirit my hand shakes, and he has to keep moving the cup around underneath the glugging neck of the bottle.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I can’t look at him.

“You’re nervous.” He puts a steadying hand on my forearm. I drop the bottle.

“Shit!”

In my panic I simply stare up at him, breathing in jagged arrhythmic gasps. The thought comes to me. I can have you. If I want to. Nothing stands in my way but your permission.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is gentle and his fingers are still on my sleeve.

“I’ve never been—” I stammer, trying to frame the thought and failing. “I could do anything,” I finish lamely.

He blinks.

“I mean, I’ve been trapped for years and now I’m not, and there are things I want to do, but I’m not used to doing things I want to do, and when I look at you, you make me realize I want to do them…”

“Things like this?” He bends his head and kisses me.

I hold the breath, hold the kiss inside me, stare at him in wonder. He understands.

“Exactly. Exactly like that.”

“Then do them.”

Yes. I put my hand on his cheek, hold his face still and cover his lips with mine. He tastes better than whisky, smokier, more fiery. I want to drink him up, explore him inside and out, take and lock that man shape and size of him in my memory. It’s a lush, fat feeling, and I grow lush and fat between my legs with each new collision of mouth, teeth, tongue. His hand fits the small of my back perfectly, and I mold myself around him, maintaining and deepening the connection until our bodies are so close there is nowhere else to go, no other border to cross except that final, ultimate line. And that is the one I want to cross the most.

“I want to be bad,” I tell him, wrapped up and coiled around him, my lips against his ear. “I’ve never been bad. Will you be bad with me?”

“You don’t need to ask me.”

We manage a four-legged tumble into the van where my narrow bed lies white and neat, ready for mussing. I am on top of him, horizontal, pinning him down, having my way with him. The novelty of being near an attractive man who wants me spurs me on, makes my hands unbutton and stroke, makes my mouth nip and lick and kiss, makes my legs spread and rub. Lust chases nerves away, and I seek and find his weakest spots, relishing the throaty sounds of abandonment I win from my passionate stranger. He likes pressure behind his ears and gentle sucking bites on the soft flesh of his neck. He likes my palm, flat against his hot chest, jumping slightly with each thud of his heart. He likes my pelvis, nudging the hard mound in his trousers, grinding and teasing it until I have to take pity and unbuckle his belt.

Space is tight in the camper, and every maneuver brings a clash of elbows or a bump of heads, but we don’t care; we laugh at the discomfort then muffle our laughter with kisses. Between grunts and squeezes, between pinches and ouches, we lose our clothes and our inhibitions. Down to our underwear, we slither and slide, trying to fit body parts wherever they will go. He has freckled shoulders broad enough to hang on to and a stomach that could never be used as a washboard, but who wants to use a stomach as a washboard anyway? I enjoy his yielding flesh, squashing my breasts up against it before sitting up on my knees, straightening my back and letting him look at me. I have been afraid to let men look at me, but now, seeing the hunger in his eyes, I can’t think why I hid myself for so long.

“Get that bra off, you hot little minx,” he says, in such an upper-crust accent that I want to squeal and giggle. The combination of cut-glass vowels and filthy talk is potent; I reach behind and unclip. Release the breasts. Feel his eager hands on them, the rough skin catching my nipples in a way that ignites my crotch. I moan and sway on top of him, grinding down on him, inviting him inside. “Do you let just any man undress you and feel your tits?” he asks politely, steadying me with a hand on my bum.

“Yes,” I groan, losing myself inside this fantastical reality, this real fantasy.

“And do you let them take off your knickers and fuck you hard, too?”

“All the time.”

“Good. Because that’s what’s going to happen.”

We grab for each other’s waistbands simultaneously, ripping off the final barriers before my mystery man quickly adds a prophylactic one of his own, then we are preparing, circling, inch by inch, closer, closer, then we are touching, the bulbous head stroking my soaked underlips, prodding my clit, taunting me. This is what you could have. This is what you want. This is what you need. What is he waiting for? I gasp urgently and try to wriggle into position so that I can impale myself on his mocking tool, but he is waiting for something. Waiting for what?

“Do you want this?”

Oh! Permission!

“God, yes, please, put it in me, fuck me.”

“All I needed to hear.” So easily he speeds inside, so quickly he fills me to the brim. I laugh with the unexpected delight of it, a person on a mystery tour finding herself at her dream destination. I work him, he works me, we work together until we come, hard, slapping each other’s arses, swearing and howling and making the van rock on its wheels.

“I’m Nick, by the way,” he pants afterwards. “I don’t know where you’re going, but if you want company…”

“I’m Lisa.” I kiss his salty forehead and think. Just me, a cup of tea and the open road? Or just me, a man and the open road?

I’ve had my fill of tea.

Star Fucker

By John Albert

Richard had never planned on coming to a strange place like Los Angeles. When the envelope arrived, the twenty-five-year-old part-time bricklayer and full time Millwall Football club supporter had all but forgotten the day he and some of his hooligan mates had applied for the Green Card lottery. But a year later he was a world away from of London’s dreary East End, living in sunbathed Los Angeles and hunting celebrities. Paparazzi was what the rest of the world called them.

* * *

Still in her twenties, Melisa should have had a long career ahead of her. Her first few movies, a set of teen horror films, an innocuous romantic comedy and a critically heralded art film, had all been successes, and the one-time child beauty pageant contestant was earning millions. But now all that was in jeopardy as she descended into the typical Hollywood rabbit hole of drugs and public debauchery. After drunkenly collapsing on sidewalks, crashing a car into a taco stand and an arrest outside an after-hours club with a bag of Ecstasy in her purse, she was on the run from the paparazzi. Her handlers had persuaded her to lay low and wait out the media frenzy, which, of course, only made her image that much more valuable.

In the month since her drug arrest, it was Richard alone who had twice caught her. The first was a shot of her smoking a joint in a friend’s backyard, the second time, he found her on the crowded dance floor of a gay club with her shirt off, dancing among a sea of young men. Since then Richard had become obsessed, repeatedly checking his sources of valets, assistants and doormen, and endlessly prowling the streets of Hollywood and Beverly Hills in hopes of a lucky sighting. He had stopped watching soccer, stopped fucking models and could hardly sleep. Sometimes he wondered if, like millions of others, he had fallen for Melisa’s sneering gamine charm. It had now been several weeks without a single sighting, and his editors were baying for an image of her to quench the public’s hunger for titillation masquerading as moral condemnation.

Then, earlier that day, word had arrived. The disgruntled assistant of a sadistic talent agent had been on a call and heard that Melisa was holed up at the hillside home of a celebrity yoga instructor. And so, as the sun slowly descended into the nearby ocean, Richard hiked up a Topanga Canyon hillside through some dry desert brush toward the large picture window of a mid-century home. His mind raced as he imagined finding something incredible like Melisa eating a girlfriend’s pussy or snorting lines of cocaine. Near the window he paused to check his camera. There was a slight rustling in the bushes behind him, and before he could look up, a jolt of electricity seared through his body sending him fluttering into unconsciousness.

* * *

Richard awoke in a candlelit room smelling of incense. As his head began to clear, he realized that he was sitting on a couch, completely naked, and there was a woman standing a few feet off. He knew instantly it was Melisa. She was watching him, holding a small drinking glass, wearing only black satin panties and high heels. He had spent endless hours of the last year gazing at her image, but there in the flesh, he realized she was far more beautiful than he had ever realized. She approached him, leaned in close as if she was about to kiss him, but didn’t.

“Hello,” she offered, deadpan.

He could smell her breath, and it had the tartness of red wine.

“‘Ello there, love,” he responded, attempting to sound unfazed.

She handed him the glass, and for some reason he took a sip. It was whisky, unlike any he had tasted before. The smoothness betrayed its price tag.

“You can leave or you can stay, “ she announced calmly. “But if you decide to stay, we will do this my way.”

Richard nodded, aware of his heart pounding. “Oh, I’m game, love.”

“I thought you might be. You’ve demonstrated a certain obsessive interest in me over the last few months, haven’t you, Richard?”

“You’re a beautiful girl. Who wouldn’t be interested?”

Melisa didn’t respond. Instead she reached down, removed her panties, brought them up and held them in front of his face.

“Contrary to what you people write,” she said, “I do wear panties.”

Then slowly—teasingly—she passed the shimmering material across his face, letting him breathe her scent. He could smell her pussy—an intoxicating mixture of musky sweetness. She dropped the panties onto his already hardened cock.

“Put them on.”

He hesitated and smiled a tad awkwardly. She met his gaze and arched her eyebrows with disapproval. He shrugged and slid them on. The material was tight and constrained his cock and balls. Melisa reached down and, with a long fingernail, began to stroke him.

“Does this feel good?” she asked

He could only nod, as if in a trance.

She slowly slid a finger into her pussy, took it out and placed it against his lips.

“Suck,” she commanded.

He opened his mouth and she slid the finger in, then out and back in again, slowly fucking his mouth.

“How do I taste, baby?”

“So fucking good,” he purred.

“I want to fuck you.”

“Yes—let’s,” he offered, unable to contain a blissful smile. This was really what he had dreamed about all those hours hunting for her. He may have disparaged her name in public, calling her a little whore to coworkers, but there, with her in person, he realized he was completely smitten.

“I don’t think you understand me. I want to fuck you.”

It was obvious from his expression that he didn’t understand. She held up a leather harness with a medium-sized dildo attached to it. His eyes widened. She leaned in and kissed his mouth, her tongue invading his. At the same time her hand began to rub his cock through the panties. A warm moistness began to spread into the material. She lowered her head, slipped the panties aside and took his cock in her mouth, then withdrew and looked at him.

“Well?” she asked.

“Why the hell not?” he offered, his voice cracking slightly.

She pulled the harness on and fastened it around her waist. Next she pushed his legs back toward his ears, slid the panties off , reached down and applied some lubricant to his ass.

“Good boy,” she cooed, her eyes barely open. And then she entered him.

“Fucking hell…” he muttered, wincing.

“You’re tough, you can take it,” she teased, starting to build a rhythm. His cock was now hard and jutting out from his body, precome glistening in the candlelight. She clasped her hand around the base of it and began to slowly stroke.

As absolutely surreal as the whole scene was, he couldn’t keep from studying her face and thinking how incredibly beautiful she was. More than the latex cock entering his ass, it was that fact that made him feel so uncharacteristically vulnerable.

She opened her eyes and saw him staring up at her. Very casually, she reached out and slapped him across the face. The act and the resulting pain brought him back to the moment, and suddenly, he was about to come. She sensed it and leaned close.

“Come for me” she whispered.

And after a brief moment, he did what she asked. With a guttural noise, his body tightened and warm fluid pulsated from his cock onto her hand and his stomach. Then everything stopped, and there was just the sound of Richard’s breathing. Melisa extricated herself, reached down and wiped him clean with her panties. She walked to a nearby table and tossed his clothes to him. As he dressed she switched on a table lamp, and he could clearly see a digital video camera on a tripod pointed directly at him.

“Fuckin’ hell, what’s that about?” he said, unable to conceal a surge of panic.

She waved him off like someone dealing with a child. “Calm down. It’s not what you think.”

Moments later he was fully dressed and standing at the front door, disoriented and still feeling vulnerable. He had no idea what to do—shake her hand? Kiss her cheek? Melisa had put on a silk robe and was holding the small digital video camera. After a moment, she reached out and placed it in Richard’s hand.

He looked down at the device, “I don’t understand.”

She put a hand on his chest and pushed him outside, then responded. “As we both well know, that tape is worth a helluva of a lot of money. But…” she paused for effect, “only if you can handle thousands of complete strangers seeing you in such a…completely personal and vulnerable moment. So, you know, it’s up to you.”

And with that, she shut the door.

Richard stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Then he turned and walked out into street. After a moment he shook his head, held out the little camera and dropped it on to the asphalt below. He brought a foot down on it and heard a cracking noise. Then, with a step forward, he kicked the device, soccer style, into the valley below. As he began to walk away, Richard broke into a loud soccer chant. “No one likes us, no one likes us, no one likes us, and we don’t care! Let’s go Millwall! He clapped loudly three times and then continued to walk in silence.

Redi-Wash

By Jax Baynard

He could detect several scents: jasmine, sandalwood, gardenia and something citrusy, orange or lemon, he wasn’t sure which. They were the only two people in the coin laundry. It was 1:00 a.m. on a Thursday night, and it was cold out. Sensible people—people who got up at six or people who were not chronic insomniacs—were at home in bed. Maybe she was a student, but she looked older. Her laundry was on the spin cycle. She waited to put it in the dryer, idly flipping through the pages of a magazine, her dark hair falling forward on one side of her face, tucked behind an ear on the other.

Taking a chance, he said, “Been sampling at the perfume counter again?”

Looking up in surprise, she said, “How did you know?”

“The girls in my dorm at college. They used to go shopping and put on all the samples at the department stores.” He sniffed in appraisal. “Right now, I’d say you were wearing about four different perfumes.”

“Six,” she said happily. “It gives everyone a headache, but I like it.”

“I like it, too,” he said. “No, really, “ he assured her when she laughed. “I do.” She had a round face and broad cheekbones. Black, gull-winged brows were the only severe note in her face. There was a wrinkle over the left brow, suggesting that she was in the habit of raising it often. Her expression was open and friendly. In a big city, and especially late at night, women stared at him with suspicion, even though he was a regular-looking guy. Five feet ten inches tall, sandy hair, thin lips but a nice smile. Solidly built, though he had heard himself referred to as stocky, a designation he did not particularly mind. Very angular people made him nervous.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “I mean aside from the obvious.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“Chronic?” she said.

“Define chronic,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“Pipes froze,” she said. “Then burst. It’s a hellish mess.”

“Sorry,” they both said at the same instant, and then smiled—conspirators.

Her machine whirled to a stop. She transferred the clothes to a dryer, doors gleaming in a long bank, and filled it with quarters. Then she put more quarters in a machine three doors down and started it up again. The still-damp clothing began to tumble slowly, dreamily falling from top to bottom and around again.

“Yours?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “My good deed for the day. People get stingy with the quarters. Then they come back, and it’s late and they want to go home, but their laundry is still wet.”

From a distance, he could catch only a lingering trace of her perfumes: a source of regret. She had closed the lid on the empty washer and was looking at the magazine. “Would you like to take the quiz?” she asked.

“What quiz?” he said.

“The Beauty Magazine quiz,” she said. “Fodder for idiots. But,” she added prosaically, “if you can’t sleep you’ll have to take what you can get.”

“Fine,” he said, standing up. If it meant being near her, he was happy to be fodder.

“Are You a Romantic?” she asked seriously.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said.

She laughed, fishing a pen out of her bag. “I warned you.” He was standing next to her, inhaling the smell of her skin, dense with scent, and the acrid overlay of old detergent and dryer sheets. She leaned her elbows on the washer, pulling the top off the pen with her teeth. “Question one,” she said. “Would you have sex on a first date? Yes or No.”

“Yes,” he said. She made a mark on the page.

“Question two. For your first date would you bring, a) roses, b) daisies, c) orchids, or d) carnations?”

“E,” he said. “All of the above.”

“That’s not an option,” she said, “but I’ll give it to you anyway. Question three. After the first date, you call her in, a) one day, b) three days, c) seven days, or d) three weeks?”

“This is painful,” he said.

“Answer, please,” she said sweetly.

“If it was a good date, I would call her that night. If it was a bad date I wouldn’t call ever.”

She slanted him a look. “Are you trying to fail the quiz? Fine. We’ll call that A.” She marked the appropriate box.

He reached out a hand and brushed back her hair, pushing the mass of it over her other shoulder. He breathed her in, happy. “Tell me to stop,” he said quietly. “And I will.”

Her eyes remained downcast on the page. “Don’t stop,” she said. “Question four. You are having a quiet evening at her place when her ex calls, insisting he needs to talk. You, a) shout profanities and storm out, b) get up and make chamomile tea, c) open a fresh package of batteries for her vibrator, or d) announce, ‘It’s him or me babe’—and let her make the choice.”

He ran his hand down her back, a long back, widening into hips. “Did you pay for this?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “I found it under a chair. Which one?”

“Uh…” He struggled to recall the choices. “Next time I find myself in that situation, I’ll try C.” His hand moved past her hips, down to the hem of her dress and below. “Question,” he said. “What are my favorite kind of stockings? Answer: A, thigh-highs.” He knelt down and kissed the exposed skin of her thighs. Continuing upwards and pulling aside the ridiculously tiny piece of material masquerading as underwear, he kissed along the seam of her…a flurry of words presented themselves, none of which seemed quite right. He would affix a name to it later, when he remembered this moment. He licked up and then down, opening her with his tongue. He captured her clit and sucked gently, all his movements holding a certain determination but lacking aggression, as if the words he’d spoken were a kind of vow and not what a man says when he wants to get his hands on a woman. Under his mouth she grew wet and aroused, the smell of a different kind of potency altogether. Her knees flexed. She reached into the capacious bag from which the pen had emerged and handed a condom back to him.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “Question five. You meet her mother for the first time. You say, a) I would have taken you for sisters, b) How do you feel about mother/daughter three-ways? c) Did you have your daughter when you were fifteen? Or d) Your daughter is so intelligent. I see where she gets it from.”

He stared at the condom in his hand, as if considering its various uses. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s how we’re going to work this.” He dragged his basket of laundry closer, angling it in front of him. “Keep your head down and no one can see you from outside. I will appear to be here alone, folding my laundry.”

“Right,” she said, “but you need to answer question five.”

He listened to her repeat the options while he opened the condom and rolled it on. “You are making this up,” he said through his teeth, positioning the head of his cock against her body and spreading her open with his fingers. He pushed inside, closing his eyes in the instant of hot, sweet invasion. She made a funny sound, a low squeal of satisfaction.

“You can read it for yourself later,” she gasped, “but answer the question.”

“D,” he said and did his utmost to move in such a way that question six would be obliterated from her mind. He spread his palms across her lower back under her dress, caressing the smooth skin. Then he stilled.

“Please don’t stop now,” she said.

He fidgeted with the basket. “There’s someone at the door,” he said, trying not to move his lips. He draped a button-down shirt across her back and started folding it clumsily. Only the hitch in her breathing gave away her agitation. She moved a little, tightening around him. A blonde woman stuck her head in, squinting at one of the dryers. “Not quite done,” he called to her inanely, an odd expression on his face, but she gave him a little wave and left.

The sidewalk was deserted. He didn’t waste time after that, holding her hips and moving forcefully until her back arched and her head came up. There was no point in pretending—the need to keep going warred with the need for caution and the orgasm hovered just out of reach. He chose, caution losing, deciding that if they got arrested for public indecency it would be worth it. He moved his thumb to her clit, sliding and pressing in time with his thrusts, steadier now. She was moaning, except the sound was more like a series of little squeaks. The feeling tipped over the edge into the glorious territory of the sure thing; a small territory to be sure—maybe four breaths between that and the flare of climax, lost quickly because he pulled out of her and got himself together, and then her, lifting the thigh-highs to their proper place and adjusting the thong.

“I have news for you,” she said, her cheek still pressed to the lid of the washing machine. “You’re a romantic.” The magazine lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“You must be mistaken,” he said. “Have you checked your math?”

“Check it yourself,” she said. “Beauty doesn’t lie.”

The blonde woman returned, holding a large cup of coffee. They folded the laundry in silence. He walked her to the door. Outside, the freezing air bit at their faces with sharp teeth. “Which way are you going?” he asked.

“IHOP,” she said. “The coffee smelled good.”

“It did,” he agreed. “I’m heading in the same direction.” They headed north, crossing Lexington and turning left on Baker.

“Have you ever had sex in an IHOP” she asked him, her breath frosty.

“I can’t say that I have,” he answered. “Although…with both of our baskets I might be able to work something out.” They walked together in the freezing night, each holding the other’s basket of clean, neatly folded laundry.

Selections from a Bedroom Closet

By Thomas S. Roche

“Know what would be hot?” She breathed warmth against the back of my neck. “If you picked my clothes for tonight.”

I had been working, focused on the task at hand, a document that required my intense scrutiny—so much so that I had not even noticed her coming up behind me. naked, steamy, smelling of shower.

But I noticed her breath on my neck.

My office is in the living room; city living has its drawbacks. She was forever scaring the shit out of me by sneaking up on me and saying things in my ear while I worked. This time I wasn’t scared, not even startled—just perplexed.

I reached back and took the hand she’d started trailing up my neck; I drew deep and smelled more glorious freshly-showered girl.

“Tonight?”

She made a disgusted noise. “Don’t you ever remember a social engagement?”

“I try not to.”

She spun my office chair around and sat in my lap facing me. I caught my breath, eyes roving up and down her naked body.

“Have you been working out?” I asked, equal parts snide and horny.

“Fuck you,” she said. She grabbed my hair and pulled. She shook my head violently. “Anne and Julian? China? Going away forever?”

I nodded fervently. “Right, right, right! It’s not forever, just for two years. Is that tonight?”

“In half an hour, Calendar Boy.”

“Fuck,” I said. “We’d better get moving.”

“As I was saying,” she frowned. “Wanna be my Slut Eye?”

“What are you talking about?”

She leaned in close. I smelled her more deeply: soap, shampoo and hot girl’s body. With her legs spread like that and me hunkered down in the chair from her weight, I could almost smell her sex—or , rather, I fancied that maybe I could.

She put her lips against my ear and said it more softly this time, her voice like a fondue-dipped purr.

She breathed, “Pick…out…my…clothes.”

She leaned back slightly, just enough so I could see her big bright eyes as she faked innocence.

“I’ll wear anything,” she said. “Anything you say.”

My eyes got narrow. I gave her the down-up.

“How ’bout that?”

She got that look on her face—that fucking look. No, not that one. Not the playful/played with, teasing/teased, sarcastic/skeptical eye-rolling what-the-fuck-ever that would have been perfectly appropriate—not that one. The other one. The one that says take me, and means it.

“If you like,” she purred. “I promise. Anything.”

I was hard inside of a second, two seconds, five at the outside. I smelled her, lifted her, put her on her feet like a china doll. I would have carried her to the bedroom Tarzan-style, but I’d done that once and left a bump on her head the size of a softball—now all trips from living room to bedroom were accomplished under individual power and navigation, whether upright or on all fours. We opted for upright this time.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

She sprawled out loose on the bed, which I’d cheerfully made with fresh white sheets and the newly-laundered white comforter around noon, working at home while she labored at the office. She liked it made; she loved the bed freshly made when she was naked. Liked it neat and clean and unsullied, our bed an innocent expanse of white comforter and carefully placed expensive pillows, a clean white virgin on the outside with a firm pillow-top whore keeping filthy secrets underneath.

She liked to spread out on it and let me see her body. I did that, trying not to look too hard, because to give her that kind of encouragement at this late hour would mean a tardy arrival for sure. So I just grazed my eyes across her casually spread thighs, and her belly, taut with the arch of her back, and her high tight breasts, perky with the closeness of her shoulders pressed together as she leaned up on her arms—as if she’d just happened to land in the exact position assumed by half the centerfolds from Marilyn on down. As if she’d just happened to shave fifteen minutes ago, with such caution that her perfect pussy showed not a hint of burn. As if she’d just, well, “felt” like pouting, panting, pursing her lips as she looked at me.

My girl: the short-con sex artist of the century. Take a chance that I’d pick a “nice” dress? Not her. Not in a million. Tonight’s soiree was for friends and acquaintances with whom she could be herself—which is to say, a sex fiend.

Our bedroom has a good-sized walk-in closet that had become hers, because I was a three-pairs-of-pants, seven-polo-shirts and one-fairly-decent-suit kind of guy. Her closet was crammed full. It had begun with two tiers of bars; I’d been cajoled into adding two more bars. The result was that it was packed tight with daily wear in front, and more obscure, strangely girly and/or historic concoctions in its dark, chaotic rear.

When asked to dress one’s girlfriend like a slut a man has several options, each of which is a competitive sport. I pleasantly went through all three options, as if I were competing for the gold medal at the boyfriend Olympics.

First came the obligatory. We had not been together all that long; there had not yet been time for a total rotation of wardrobe. In fact, I had seen it not too long ago, tucked at the back of the closet. Did she keep it for sentimental reasons? Fuck if I know. One thing was certain: she didn’t make it easy for me. She didn’t keep it near the front. But not to plunge into the closet and mine for the thing would have been to settle, I think, for the bronze.

“What the fuck are you looking for?” she asked peevishly, as I leaned half-in to the mess that was our closet. I ignored her. “Hel-looooo!” she cried sarcastically when I did not respond.

Then I found it, grasped it, and brought it out, dusting it off. I smoothed my hair back as I stumbled out of the mess of the back closet and held up the dress.

Her eyes widened; her lips popped open. I watched the wheels of her brain turning. I could hear them click and whirr between her baby-blues. She opened her mouth to make a sarcastic remark. She bit that back and opened her mouth to make a sickly-sweet, gooey remark, and bit that back as well. She couldn’t say a word at first; I thought I saw her eyes go slightly moist.

“Wow,” she said. “Just…wow.” It was the dress she’d worn on our first date.

“Wow,” she said. “Is that what you want?”

I shrugged, turned, put it away. I crawled back into the depths of the closet; I could almost hear her rolling her eyes. I could definitely hear her glaring at the clock—we were gonna be late. But then, we’re on California time, so…

I stumbled out holding it up: my prize, dusty and wrinkled. She let out a horrified gasp, gave me the look—no, not the take me look, the what the fuck, you lunatic? look.

Then, I guess, she remembered how she’d said “anything.” She looked the outfit up and down, watching it seethe there on the hanger, begging for sin. She leaned back on her too-perfectly-poised arms, wiggled her too-perfectly-positioned tits, let her spread thighs do that close-tremble-open thing that always does it for me.

She said, “Is that what you want, Daddy?”

It was her schoolgirl outfit—plaid, white, blue. That is to say, skirt, blouse, tie, respectively. She’d worn it to fetish party #3, at the Twenty-Third Street space, back before demanding work schedules and the comfort of cohabitation made us conveniently forget to bother being pervy anymore.

“Tempting,” I said. “But not quite right for a send-off to China.”

“If you pull out a Chongsam…” she warned.

“Do you have one?”

“Who the fuck knows? I forgot I had a schoolgirl outfit.”

I returned the schoolgirl outfit to the closet and made my way back in. This time, I didn’t go far. The dress I wanted for her was right near the front. It had been beckoning to me since the beginning.

I pulled it out and laid it on the bed, leaning in close to her. Now I could definitely smell her sex, alongside the scent of freshly-showered girl.

“Good choice,” she said, regarding my final selection. “Not exactly naughty, but…”

It was her cutest little black dress, but it wasn’t quite slutwear. She wore it often. It was short and reasonably snug. It was everyday wear, and yet as sexy as hell.

“Is that your final answer?” she asked as I leaned in.

“No,” I said. “This is.” I kissed her hard, my tongue against hers and my teeth grazing her permanently bee-stung lower lip. She took it, and liked it, and smiled when I finally pulled away.

“What else?” she asked.

“Else?” I said innocently.

She got a wicked look on her face. “Underneath. I’ll wear anything you want underneath. One of those thongs you like? You want me in garters?”

“No,” I said.

“No?” she asked. “No, what?”

“Just no.”

“So what should I—” she began, and it hit her; she looked surprised for a moment.

“Nothing?”

“Not a stitch,” I said, and a little shudder went through her body.

That was that; the game was up. I was on her. She made some faint bleating sound about being late for the party, and kept complaining until I kissed my wet way down her belly and planted my tongue hard and insistent between lips that still tasted like shaving cream. Then she stopped doing much except bucking and rocking and moaning and shuddering a little, as I slid my fingers into her and closed my lips against her swelling clit. Before she even knew what was happening I’d found the rhythm I knew like the beat of my heart—the rhythm that would make us on time to the party, or close to it. Then I broke it up and sent my tongue a dozen competing directions, teasing her until we were guaranteed to be very late.

When it was done—when she’d cried out in orgasm, and with clawing hands and pumping hips she’d taken that virgin bed and made it her whore—the little black dress had been tossed at some point off the bed and onto the floor. I looked up at her from between legs spread wider than ever. I needed a shower myself, or at least a face-wash.

“There,” I said. “Wear that.”

“Wear what?” she panted.

“That glow,” I said.

So she did, beneath the dress, and nothing else. And she wore it well—with the result that every soul who saw her that night positively knew.

About the glow, I mean.

As far as the underwear went, I think only I was the wiser.

Dress Rehearsal

By Sommer Marsden

“Right like that. Right there, baby,” Will whispered, and I shook my head. Why was my positioning so very important? When we’d started messing around on the sofa after lunch, he hadn’t said he wanted to pose me like a little doll. I was getting annoyed.

“William, could we possibly get on with the fucking? I am not a manneq—” I had to stop because he’d put his mouth right to my pussy, sliding that tongue of his along the seam of my sex, nudging my clit so that I thought my knees would give out and I’d be sitting on my ass.

“Sorry, baby. There is a point. Behave, Alyce, behave. After all, you’ll be on stage tomorrow in front of all those people. You’ll have to have some patience—and let’s face it—balls to do it, too.”

I snorted. “You have the balls in this joint. I am just an exhibitionist. I like to be the center of—oh yeah…right there,” I said, cutting my own damn words off as he licked more. Lapping and sucking at me like we were locked in August heat and I was something cold.

The sun bounced off our neighbor’s window and stabbed me in the eye, a bright golden shard of pure yellow light that made me squint. I grabbed the string to lower the blinds and Will’s muffled, “Leave it” rumbled up my pussy into my lower belly, making me shiver and shake, spiking my nipples and heating my blood.

He’d slipped two fingers into my deliciously wet cunt and was flexing them in a way that had my vision swimming with little shiny spots. Miniature, surreal jellyfish of light that meant my brain was getting too much blood. Or maybe it wasn’t enough blood? Who knew? Who cared? Because I was coming, a fast hot rush of pleasure that twisted up my insides, my pussy milking at his stout warm fingers as he fucked me with slippery digits in front of the window.

I caught a different kind of flash in my vision. The sunlight had moved just a smidge, and I saw the blur of a white arm as it…jacked off?

“Will, Big Tom next door is watching. And…diddling himself!” I hissed, trying so hard to be upset, irate, mortified. But I wasn’t, because Will was standing, dead center in front of the window where he had me posed—yes, posed—and unbuckling his well-worn jeans.

“I know that, baby,” he murmured. “And you know you love it.” He spread me with his fingers, taking a long, show-off moment to run the head of his cock along my slit, painting me with my own eager juices.

“Oh, you brat,” I said, but I laughed. I could see Big Tom in my peripheral vision. His arm flying and his hips pumping. A golden spear of light across his midriff, his ginger chest hair shining in the sun. Our windows really were very close.

Will had me by the hips, pushing only the crown of his hard cock into my pussy. He held me there, suspended as I felt eyes on me. Big Tom’s and his.

“How long has he been watching us?” I asked, gasping as he finally thrust.

“For a while now. He’s a big fan of yours, honey.”

I would have laughed, but Will was banging into me now. No gentle, lovely thrusts, but pure power and I thrilled at it. Two sets of eyes on me as I was trapped in the rough-and-tumble grip of my man. “I like fans.”

“I know you do, baby. You’re an attention whore.”

I hung my head as an orgasm sidled closer. Will reached around, thumbing my nipples until I got that tickle in my throat that means I’m done for. Very soon. “I am a whore. For you, for my craft.” This was no secret, really.

The air cracked, and I bit my tongue to muffle my cry. Will was spanking me, large whooping cracks of his palm on my ass. It was a real treat to have a spanking from him, it was something he saved for special occasions. Or if I begged—a lot.

“Now you’re a whore for Big Tom, too. And soon, your very own first actual audience.” He accented the last three words with firm blows. I shuddered under him, eating up the attention and the pain and the sound of flesh striking flesh.

This would certainly help my stage nerves. Every time I felt jittery I would feel the pinch of his fingers, the sting of his palm on my ass, the thought of a man jacking off watching us fuck. “I’m going to come again,” I admitted, hanging my head. My hair brushed the dresser top as I pushed back to take each thrust he gave me.

Another smack, and it came rushing at me. The air was too thin, the room too bright, the world turning too fast, for just an instant. And then it was all lost in that tumble of flickering spasms and pleasure that seemed to reach my toes.

Will banged into me one, two, three more times and then roared his own release. It was probably my imagination but I swore I heard Tom follow suit. Our windows really were very close.

“Now you’ll be fine,” Will said, kissing my shoulder, nibbling my neck.

“How so?”

“We’ll just count that as your dress rehearsal.”

My nerves were banished, my body seemed to hum. I didn’t feel any kind of fear. I sighed “I can do that. But in a few moments, I might need just one more. To make sure I have it right.”

Will chuckled. “Anything for your craft.” And then he kissed me.

Good Cop, Bad Cop (A Story)

By Kristina Lloyd

When Karen failed to get a Barbie doll for her eighth birthday, all the flowers in the family garden died. At the age of fifteen, Andy Edwards dumped her for Marnie Bell and Karen didn’t find out until Gemma Cosgrove passed the message on in double history class. The hummingbirds on the Chinese wallpaper in her parents’ dining room slid to the floor, lifeless.

Nobody put two and two together to make five. Why would they?

Ten years later, exactly 365 days after Karen had split with the man she’d imagined growing old with, she walked into Downtown, the contemporary art gallery where she worked, to discover the color had vanished from all the paintings. The images remained but the canvases were stained with a palette of grays—charcoal, dove, church mouse, pewter—and the blank extremes of soot black and ivory. Karen’s manager, Alicia Dean, was yammering on the phone to the police while their cleaner, a blond, dreadlocked art student called Stuart, picked through the contents of a rubbish sack. In the newly drab gallery, Stuart’s gloved hands were a flutter of garish pink.

“Man, this is well freaky,” he muttered.

Karen agreed, a sense of dread stealing over her.

Alicia snapped her phone shut. “Rozzers are on their way,” she said with plummy-voiced confidence.

A jolt of lechery charged Karen’s insides. Oh, for shame. She’d spent a year without cock, and now even the mention of men in uniform was enough to spark her lust. She was embarrassed but unsurprised. She currently couldn’t get through a single day without wanting to accost eligible young men in the supermarket, on the bus or in the street, and her definition of “eligible” was growing increasingly broad. At night, her dreams were orgiastic romps of flesh, chest hair and muscle, of deep voices, thick fingers, stubbled jaws and hot, salty skin. Oh, and of cock, too. Let’s not forget the cock.

Within a couple of minutes, two bobbies on the beat had arrived, a man and woman in high-visibility jackets, him in a traditional tit-shaped helmet. Five minutes later, a patrol car drew up, blue lights flashing, and two cops sauntered in, reassuringly mean in black combats, boots and bulky protective vests. They wore peaked caps with checkered bands, each with a black baton jutting by his hip. Karen grew moist at the sight of those batons.

The morning got really exciting when forensics came along and the gallery was cordoned off to the public. “Crime scene. Do not enter” read the yellow tape. Stuart left for college and Alicia began to cry. It fell to the female officer to comfort her and get busy with the kettle and the tissues. In the main gallery, crumpled white creatures in head-to-toe plastic swept dust into little pots, swabbed canvases and took measurements, photos and videos. If it hadn’t been for a minor royal due in town that day to open a new conference center, they’d have been ignored. But in a state of heightened security, anything suspicious required prompt investigation. The gallery bleeped and crackled with radio messages, there were mutterings about bioterrorism, and a general air of indecisiveness hung about the place, although the latter wasn’t, in itself, unusual.

Eventually, Karen approached the three male cops who were in the long gallery, clustered around a painting entitled “A Study in Blue.”

“Color’s this one meant to be, then?” asked Bryn, a freckle-faced man with barely visible eyelashes and pale, ginger brows. A copper copper, thought Karen.

Bryn’s colleagues laughed at his feeble joke.

Karen cleared her throat. “You should take me in for questioning. I know something about this.”

The policemen got suddenly serious. The sexiest of the bunch, Sol, a dark-eyed guy with a hard, straight nose, instinctively rested a hand on his baton and glared, his body tensed for action. Karen’s cunt tingled.

“What is it you want to tell us, eh?” asked the third cop, a barrel-chested man who looked ready to burst out of his protective vest. Karen hadn’t caught his first name and knew only that he was Sergeant Carter.

She chewed her lip, thinking, I want to tell you the colors have vanished because I’m desperately lonely and I’m not getting any cock. Instead, she said, “It’s private. If you don’t want to take me to the station, there’s a room in the basement we could use.”

The three men exchanged glances. Karen edged closer. She could practically smell the testosterone. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” she said. “I’m not dangerous.”

Sol narrowed his eyes at her. “Well, that’s lucky,” he said. “Because we are, ‘specially if you don’t cooperate.”

Sergeant Carter smiled. “But let’s start off with a friendly chat, eh?”

Ah, good cop, bad cop, thought Karen, pleased she had the measure of them.

“I’ll wait here,” said Bryn. “Radio if you need me.”

The Cellar Gallery downstairs, a room at the far end of a perfectly smart basement, was a poor exhibition space, prone to damp and rarely used. It housed the gas meters in a cupboard that was difficult to disguise, and its floor was cobbled. The gallery was a former bank built on the site of a workhouse, and rumor had it the cellar’s thick metal door with its small, prison-bar window was a remnant from an age of Victorian cruelty. A patina of verdigris mottled its surface, a sea-green wash in a basement leached of color. Karen pushed the door shut as Sol and Sergeant Carter entered, their boots heavy on the cobbles. Soft circles of halogen overlapped on the white walls, illuminating emptiness and picture hooks. Karen leaned seductively against the door.

The men were unmoved. “What’s this about then?” demanded Sol, his hand still on his baton.

Karen couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone with a fit, handsome stranger, and now she had two of them in uniform, all epaulettes and steely power. Their presence was intoxicating. Karen didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t thought this through. She glanced from Sol to Carter, bad cop, good cop, her heart soaring with so many wants. After a year alone, love, intimacy and warmth ranked high on her list of needs but right now, shut away in a cellar echoing with lost histories, Karen’s most pressing need was for a double dose of dick. She stumbled forward, half mad with hunger.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “The colors. Sometimes I make things happen. Weird things. I can’t help it. It’s because…”

She lunged for Sol’s crotch, fumbling for the bulk behind his flies.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, then it was all stations go. Sergeant Carter leapt to Sol’s defense, wrestling Karen to the cobbles with a deft tackle. He acted as if she’d assaulted a police officer, which upon reflection, she probably had, and he made no concessions for her being a member of the fairer sex. He was rough, fierce and surprisingly fast for one so burly. Within seconds, Karen was pinned to the ground, Sergeant Carter’s knee wedged between her shoulder blades, the stone cobbles cold on her cheek. Ignoring her cries, Carter twisted Karen’s arms to draw her wrists together and lock them in a pair of rigid cuffs.

“Get up,” he huffed, yanking her into a kneeling position.

Karen gasped for breath, her mussed-up hair strewn across her face. So much for good cop, bad cop, she thought. Outraged, she tossed her head and spat dryly, trying to blow strands of hair from her lips. “I only wanted some cock,” she snarled. “Jeez, talk about police brutality!” She glowered at the two men, her breath fast and shallow. “Well, don’t stop now, will you?”

Sol unzipped with an angry tug. “Hold her,” he barked, shuffling closer.

Carter swept Karen’s hair into a tail, twisting and gripping to make a handle for her head. “Now do as we say,” he warned, giving her head a little shake.

Before her eyes, Sol’s big cock bounced, his swollen end a dark, furious flush. He butted at her lips, and Karen engulfed him in one greedy, sloppy take. Sol groaned, angling himself into her reach while Karen gobbled and slurped. She wanted to open up to him, to feel him driving into the depths of her throat. Again Sol groaned. In the dank basement, his noise, so rich with dirty pleasure, was music to Karen’s ears.

Carter waggled her head then forced her against Sol’s body, her lips wrapped around his root. “Go on, take it,” he jeered.

Karen couldn’t hold Sol for more than a few seconds. She sprang back, gasping for air. Her heart flared at the sight of two cocks in front of her, both eager for attention. Good cock, bad cock, she thought as she bobbed from Carter’s length to Sol’s then back again. But no, it was all bad—bad, nasty and rough—and it was all good, so wonderfully good.

It got better and badder when Sol decided he needed to check if Karen’s cunt was as greedy as her mouth. Sergeant Carter hooked his hands under her armpits, maneuvering Karen so they were both seated on the ground, Carter behind Karen, Karen in the gap of his thighs. Karen kicked and squealed as Sol reached beneath her skirt for her knickers. She squirmed as he tugged them down her legs, all three participants getting off on the fight.

“Tiger, ain’t she?” chuckled Carter. Behind her, Carter’s protective vest was as solid as a superhero’s chest, and his naked cock nosed insistently against her trapped hands. He tucked his ankles under her legs, and with a shift and a twist he spread her wide, her shins trapped under his big, shiny boots. Spots of halogen gleamed in the leather toes, each black boot holding a miniature moonlit night.

Sol withdrew his baton from his holster. “Perfect, Sarge,” he said. His baton was long, black and menacing, a short handle jutted at a right angle to the shaft. Karen’s groin throbbed in anticipation, moisture sliding inside her. Sol crouched between her splayed legs, giving the snout of his baton a spit and cursory rub. He pressed the tip to her folds, wiggled the baton past her lips then slid its hard length inside her. He drove as deep as the handle would allow then left the shaft lodged high. Karen gibbered and wailed as he began levering the baton up and down, rocking it against her G-spot and ensuring her clit got a nice, regular bumping.

“She like that?” asked Carter.

“I’ll say,” said Sol.

Karen was beyond words although she was far from silent. Sol kept pumping the baton, and in no time at all, she was coming in enormous, grateful waves. “More,” she cried. “More. I have a whole year to catch up on.”

Sol and Carter rose to the occasion, and then some. They fucked her in turn before fucking her at either end, and Karen, still in restraints, could do nothing but take it, which was all she wanted anyway.

They were interrupted when the copper copper, Bryn, burst into the room. “The color’s back,” he cried before pulling up short. He gawped at the three figures half-naked on the cobbles. His fluorescent-green jacket lit up the room, his reflector stripes gleaming like pearl.

“Help yourself, there’s plenty,” said Sergeant Carter.

Bryn removed his helmet. “I’m married, guv,” he said. “You mind if I just watch?”

Nobody minded at all, and fifteen minutes later, when the four of them were finished, they dusted themselves down and exchanged thanks. Upstairs, the people from forensics were rustling softly, packing away their gear in bafflement. The gallery was ablaze with all the suns of the world. From picture frames poured the blues and gingers of Persia, Moroccan afternoons in hot pink and cinnamon, Mexican slums in terracotta and turquoise, the warm, earthy golds of African safaris, every fiery spice in every Asian market and every silk and sequin in every Indian sari. And in the darker corners, for those who cared to look, were tones of cobalt, violet, emerald green and crimson, because there’s color in the shadows, too.

Karen went from room to room, swimming through rainbows, her cheeks flushed with the glorious pigments of sexual bliss.

Come at Six

By Portia Da Costa

“I knew it’d be you,” he says, eyeing the evidence.

That bloody magazine. I knew I shouldn’t have taken it when I snuck into his office to borrow his ruler. But I’d never seen one in anyone else’s possession before. I thought I was the only person I knew who got turned on by spanking magazines. But clearly my hot new boss, Nick, reads them, too.

“Mine, I believe?” He slides the incriminating item from my partly open drawer.

I hang my head, hiding my blushing face and my excitement.

I’ve been at Bray Associates for a month. It’s just a basic office job, but I’m glad of it—and even more so when Nick, the owner’s handsome son, is around. I’m just another face in the admin department, but somehow, when he passes by, his wicked sexy smile seems just for me.

Trembling, I watch him flip the pages, his fingers long and sensitive, his gray eyes twinkling in a narrow, unsettling way.

“So, what’re we going to do about this?” His voice is arch and deliciously knowing. “We can’t have people stealing things, can we? That’ll never do.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t help it. It looked, um, interesting.”

“Interesting, eh?” He eyes me up, like a blond angel-devil, all challenging and provocative in his sober business suit. He was on his way out, but I sense that he wishes he weren’t. Checking his watch, he gnaws his plush lower lip,and then slides the magazine into his briefcase. Next he takes out a business card,and scribbles on the back of it.

“This is my address, Emma.” He’s giving me his home address? “Come at six, tomorrow night. And we’ll discuss the repercussions of office theft.”

As he walks away, I could swear that he’s whistling in happy anticipation.

* * *

At six the following evening I’m shaking in my stilettos outside Nick’s front door, more aroused than I’ve ever been in my life. His flat is in a large old house, and when I ring for entry, he buzzes me in. I’m almost dizzy by the time he opens his door.

Oh hell, he looks…edible.

Soft, worn jeans cling to his lean thighs, and a white shirt makes his summer tan gleam. His flaxen hair is shower-wet and slicked back, vaguely severe looking.

Me, I’m dressed in a simple black dress, suggesting penitence, I hope.

Smiling slightly, he escorts me into a cozy, masculine study smelling of lavender polish and leather upholstery. There’s a large wing chair by the fireplace and a cluttered antique desk against the window.

“Please sit down, Emma.” Nick sinks into his imposing, high-backed throne and gestures to a plain wooden chair a little way distant. Linking his fingers in his lap, he observes me as I perch on the hard surface and arrange my knees as gracefully as I can.

“Well, Emma, we’ve got ourselves a situation, haven’t we?”

“You’re going to sack me, aren’t you?”

“No, nothing like that.” His voice is quiet, but his fingers twist a little as if he’s edgy beneath the calm veneer. He reaches for a glass of red wine from the small table beside his chair and takes a measured sip, all the time studying me, his eyes dark and assessing. “You’re an asset to Bray, Emma. We don’t want to lose you.” He set his glass aside, “But on the other hand—” He pauses again, his fingers fisted against his chin in a pensive attitude. “We can’t let this incident go unmarked, can we? You need to understand that you can’t get away with pilfering.”

I suspect this is almost a royal “we” rather than company-speak.

“And h…how can we do that?”

I’ve known since yesterday where this might be going, but it still makes me shake and stammer.

“A misdemeanor deserves discipline, Emma. Don’t you think so?”

“Er…yes.”

“Good, then we understand each other?” His blond eyebrows quirk in amusement, even though his face is otherwise solemn.

I nod. Indeed we do.

“Very well then, Emma, I’d like you to stand up, take off your panties and give them to me.”

My mouth opens but emits no sound. I feel myself blushing again.

“Emma?”

My juddering knees make me awkward and clumsy as I struggle to obey, and somehow my simple white knickers hook themselves around my ankles like a lasso. But just as I stumble, Nick’s there, supporting me, strong hand beneath my elbow. He steadies me and then resumes his position in the wing chair, gesturing with his long fingers for my panties.

My naked bottom trembling beneath my skirt, I watch him peruse my knickers with disturbing intensity. Turning them this way and that, he assesses my response to him from their state. Then, apparently satisfied, he folds them and places them on the smooth leather arm of his chair, an accusing talisman.

Reaching for his glass, he sips again, making me wait. “Now raise your skirt and turn around, very slowly.”

Desire surges through me in a high wave, but I manage to obey. His eyes flick briefly to my crotch, but as I begin my slow revolution, they lock with mine just before I turn away. I still seem to see them in the polished, oak-paneled wall.

“Why did you steal the magazine?” His voice is deceptively mild.

“I don’t know…” I’m a liar. I did it to bring myself to this place and this moment.

“You took my property, Emma, and now you owe me something.”

I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me, Emma?” I hear him rise from his chair and cross to the desk.

I still can’t utter a word. I feel like a shaken bottle of champagne, ready to pop.

“Emma?” He’s close to now me. Very close.

“Yes!”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’ll be good. I’m sorry, really, I’m sorry.” Another lie.

“I’m glad to hear it.” I heard a whistling swish, something cleaving the air experimentally at high speed. Is it a crop or a ruler? I didn’t get a good look at the desk. “And you know this is for your own good.”

Hell, yes!

“Now, Emma, I want you to lean forward, elbows on your chair, face on your elbows, and then push your bottom up and towards me.”

Quivering, I obey him, loving the blatant presentation. When he nudges my feet apart with the toe of his shoe, my knees wobble, but I brace up, imagining him studying my pussy.

“This will hurt.”

As the blow falls, all notions of being good fly out the window. A white slice of pain slashes one bottom cheek, and my stiff legs almost buckle from its ferocity.

How can it hurt so much? It only feels like a ruler…

The sensation explodes anew; the same, stunning streak, bisecting my other cheek, balancing the stinging and the hotness.

“Oh, please,” I whimper, reaching around behind me even though it’s a cardinal sin.

“Emma!”

Snatching back my fingers, I berate myself for a poor performance. Just two smart strikes and I’m a cringing, sniveling mess. I’m letting my beautiful Nick down, just when I wanted to impress him. Summoning my pitiful fortitude, I bury my head, dish my back, and once again offer up my bottom to his mercies.

The blows resume with a rigorous regularity, each one finding a new area of my bare flesh with the bright burn of heat. I feel the lines forming in serried rows, an arcane branded grid. My bottom must be turning pink upon pink, stripes of crimson crisscrossing over rose.

Tears drip from my eyes and run into my hair, but I contain my blubbering. I won’t disappoint my handsome god again.

Three swift whacks fall on each cheek. Six strikes, each landed with perfect precision. At the end of my tether, I silently beg for it to stop, but simultaneously pray for it to carry on. Nick fills my mind and my heart, a prince of chilly elegance, yet incandescent with the splendid fire of discipline.

“Just a little more…” His voice whispers in my ear while his fingertips whisper, too, tracing my stripes, delicate yet infinitely painful.

“You’ve got to help me now.” The words seem almost to be inside me. “Reach around, Emma. Pull apart your cheeks with your fingers. I want to smack you there.”

Oh God, can I bear it?

Grimly I hitch forward on the chair, resting on my chest and shoulder to free my hands to the task.

“Be careful, Emma. Keep your fingers still,” he warns as my hands tremble on my own fiery flesh.

Again comes the awe-inspiring whistle of the ruler, and I steel myself. But it’s only a sighting swish.

Let it be over and let it be soon.

Finally they come—three fast cuts, exquisite and shocking, and delivered at a sly oblique angle across the vent of my behind.

I howl and collapse, tumbling to my knees in a heap. At last it’s over.

I hear footsteps, the clink of a bottle against a glass, the creak of leather upholstery. My prince is taking his refreshment after his labors.

“Come here.”

Sobbing, I attempt to straighten up—only to crumple again and then half crawl toward the wing chair.

“There, there,” he croons as I reach the blessed haven between his long outstretched thighs and kneel on the carpet before him.

My bottom is a swollen blazing mass, and I have to lean against his body…and against something hard that bulges beneath the denim of his jeans.

I don’t deserve it, and I might not get it, but he knows what I’m thinking.

“Maybe in a little while…” His voice is husky as he raises my chin and then puts his glass of delicious wine to my lips. “But first we have other things to attend to.”

His smile is sweet as I look up at him, his adoring slave.

“Well, sweetheart, I promised you’d come at six, didn’t I?” His gray eyes twinkle like stars. Clasping my hand, he urges to my feet. “If you can bear to sit on my knee, I’ll get you off.”

Oh, I can bear it. I can bear anything for you.

I come again at seven. I come at eight. And I come at nine, too.

Plus One

By Nikki Magennis

“I’m so sorry,” Izzy said, frowning at the computer screen. “This shouldn’t happen.”

“No,” the man replied. “But I’m kind of glad it did.”

She looked up to find his jade-green eyes fixed on her. Izzy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I think,” she said, “I haven’t had enough caffeine this morning.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, why not kill two birds with one stone?”

“Excuse me?”

“You get a break, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“When?”

Izzy glanced at the clock. “Half an hour ago. But—”

“Buy me a coffee. You can make up for the double booking and get your fix at the same time. If you like.”

Izzy looked straight at him. Yes, he certainly was hot. And he had the decency to be a little nervous—an uncertain smile flickered over his mouth.

She checked for danger signs. No obvious ax scars, no psychopathic thousand-yard stare. He had longish, dirty-blond hair and a dusting of stubble. Cords and a leather jacket. Unusual. They usually had an audience of elderly ladies for the lunchtime chamber concerts. Not scruffpot lovegods with hopeful grins.

“I promise not to mention the screw-up to your boss,” he said, leaning in tight so his warm breath tickled her ear. He was nearly close enough for his stubble to scrape her cheek. And he pulled away so slowly that it made her pulse misfire.

“I’ll get my coat,” Izzy said, her voice a whisper.

* * *

“I don’t do this kind of thing,” Izzy said, blowing on the surface of her coffee. The café was busy, and they were sitting in a cramped side booth. Opposite her, the guy let a smile spread across his face. She got a fluttering feeling in her solar plexus. Under the table, his foot butted against her stockinged leg.

“Herbal tea more your style?” he said.

“I mean—I don’t usually go out with strangers I meet at work.”

He nodded. He let his gaze dance over her face and down to her plunging neckline, where it stuck. She had to fight not to follow the trail his eyes took with a finger.

“That’s cool,” he said. His voice dropped through the floor. “To tell you the truth, I don’t usually do this either,” he whispered, just as Izzy felt his hand brush her knee under the table. Involuntarily, she gave a sharp intake of breath. He whistled, low, under his breath.

“I don’t know what it is.”

“What what is?”

“Something about you. You make me want to do crazy things.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.”

His knuckles grazed the nylon of her tights and dragged up over the curve of her thigh. He leaned over the table and brushed his mouth over hers with the lightest of touches, just enough to make her lips buzz.

“Wow.” He pulled back and looked her over like she was a creature from outer space. “You make me feel kind of reckless. I think I like it. What about you?”

For a long moment Izzy couldn’t answer him. She wasn’t sure if she was more stunned by his audacity or by the fact that she hadn’t pulled away.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said at last.

“It’s George.”

She nodded, let the tip of her tongue play over her lips where he’d kissed her.

“Izzy,” she said. “I think I like it, too.”

He shoved a knee between her legs.

“Shall I keep going?”

Izzy answered without thinking. “Don’t stop.”

He gripped her thighs. Izzy gripped the red leather of the seat. George’s jaw tensed and he clouded over. For a minute, she thought she saw something more than the lust of a stranger in his expression. As he worked his way over her, rubbing through the layers of material and nylon, they were silent. Izzy couldn’t help breathing harder, but she stiffened her spine and moaned and tried not to move.

Behind them, the waiters shouted to each other in Italian. Outside, the city rushed past in a blur of blue traffic. Underneath the table, George’s hands kept busy.

“Oh my God,” Izzy said, eyes widening.

“You like that,” George said, pinching harder.

“No—I mean, yes.” Izzy said, struggling to breathe. “Marcella. From work, she’s right over there.”

“I should stop?”

“No. I mean, please. Please don’t.”

“Did she see you?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re blushing.”

Izzy moaned, trapped in a cozy little booth, with a stranger’s hands between her legs. Her conscious mind screamed for her to run away. It seemed her body was pinned to the seat.

Suddenly, George pulled back, straightened up and took a sip of his coffee. His hand shook a little. Izzy was left teetering on the brink and ready to scream.

“What’s going on?” Izzy said, aware that her voice sounded desperate. She was also uncomfortably aware she would probably be prepared to beg.

George puffed air through his mouth.

“Go to the ladies’ room,” he said, sliding a knife from his place setting across the table. “Take this with you.” He nudged her hand with the blunt side of the blade.

“Whoa, I’m not—”

“Cut your tights,” George said, interrupting her. “You need to make it so I can reach you properly. Please.”

Izzy opened her mouth. There were no words in it. So instead, she slid the knife into her purse and got up, hoping her legs would still support her. She walked to the toilet and shut herself in the cubicle. Her hands were awkward as she sawed a hole in the nylon. The knife was blunt and it was hard to make much of an opening. She took hold of the edges and tugged, stretching the hole wider.

As she opened the door, she was startled to find her work colleague facing her in the mirror.

“Marcella,” Izzy said. “Uh. Hi.” Her pulse banged in her ears. The other woman dabbed lipstick onto her mouth.

“You okay, Isabella?” Marcella was Spanish. “Look a little bit hot.” She rasped her aitches.

“Yeah, I’m just…I ate chili.” Izzy turned on the tap to cover her embarrassment.

Marcella frowned. “Hmm.” She zipped her lipstick back into her purse and gave Izzy a rose-red smile. “Don’t be late back.” At the door she stopped and turned. “Nice looking hombre.”

Izzy tried not to check as she walked back to the table. Was Marcella nearby? Had anyone else cottoned on to them? What if the waiter came? Her train of worries was cut short as George grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her down next to him. Suddenly she forgot all the good reasons to leave.

All she could think of was how she’d like to kiss the smile right off his face.

“Don’t move,” George said under his breath. He tucked his hand between her legs. “Now remind me what’s happening here.”

“We’re having coffee,” Izzy said, swallowing.

“I was on my way to a concert,” George said, one hand brushing gently, almost casually, against her inner thigh. “But I the theatre over-booked.”

“Yeah. I fucked up. Everything went haywire. So right now you should be listening to baroque cellos,” Izzy said, her eyelids dropping low. “And I should be eating a cheese-and-pickle sandwich in the staff room.”

“And instead,” George said, as his fingers made contact with her bare flesh. Izzy jumped so hard she banged her knee on the underside of the table.

“On edge?” he said, grinning.

“Just barely,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She shifted in her seat, moved closer to him. George hooked the edge of her knickers and pulled them away from her, so that she squirmed from the lack of friction, the absence of pressure.

At last, he rewarded her with a single, gentle stroke of his index finger, running up the wetness of her seam. Twisting his hand, he placed two fingers tentatively over her clit and held them there while she pulsed against him, trying to wriggle and grind herself against his hand. He inhaled slowly.

“Man,” he said. “You’re so impatient.”

“God, yes,” Izzy said, trying not to growl. Unable to help herself, she rocked back and forth against his blunt fingertips. Bent over his hand, half of her hoped it wasn’t obvious what they were doing, and half of her didn’t give a flying fuck. Still, it wasn’t enough.

Not until he pushed a fingertip inside her, curling it up slowly until Izzy thought she would scream, did she catch a glimpse of the orgasm she was so desperate to find. With his thumb he pushed at her clit, nudging it insistently.

“That’s probably why you screwed up,” George said.

“How can you…talk?” Izzy said, gasping.

“You know you can learn. To concentrate,” George said. “If you practice.”

“Oh, yes.”

“You want to?”

“Oh yes, please.”

“You make me feel kind of dizzy, Izzy.”

“God, you’re making me want to come,” Izzy said, her voice rising.

“Cool.” George bit his lip and watched her. In the kitchen, a waiter shouted, someone dropped a knife on the floor. The world was small, loud and busy.

“So do it.”

Izzy looked at him. He smiled. His fingers pressed hard. And she did.

I Dare You

By Emma Hillman

“I dare you,” he said, his eyes glinting as he pushed his sunglasses up to rest on his head. He was sitting half-turned toward me, his left forearm casually draped across the steering wheel. He looked at ease, comfortable even. You wouldn’t believe he’d just told me to strip and straddle him. In the middle of the day. In a Walmart parking lot.

“Are you kidding?”

“You know I’m not.”

I wasn’t sure about this. Oh, I wanted him. I always did. But, right here? “Are you sure? Josh, it’s the middle of the day—”

He cut me off. “We’re just passing through. It’s not like we’re going to see any of them ever again. Come on, baby, where’s your sense of fun?”

Gone out the window, it appeared. I bit my lower lip as I thought of the logistics involved. “I want you, but I’m not sure about this.”

“Why not?” he countered straightaway. His right hand found my knee, and I shivered when it began moving up my thigh.

“I can’t get naked. Everyone would see me!”

“Ah, so that’s what’s stopping you,” he mused. “It’s the naked bit, not the sex bit.”

“Never the sex bit,” I replied. He was too damn good for that.

He smirked, obviously knowing what I was thinking. “What if I offer you a compromise?”

“Like what?”

“You only get your bottom half naked. That way, you’ll be hidden below the window.”

“Oh.” I licked my lips, thought it over for all of two seconds, then nodded. “You’re on.”

A wide smile graced his face. “Perfect. Hop on then, Jamie.” He snapped his pants open with agile fingers, his cock soon slapping against his T-shirt-covered abs. “I’m ready.”

“You don’t say.” He looked ready as hell, precome already leaking from his tip. I caught the drop with my finger and put it in my mouth, making him groan.

Before I could chicken out, I popped the button of my shorts open, slid down the zipper and wriggled out of them. I was only wearing a sheer lace thong so it was even easier to discard it. I let everything fall to the floor then looked up to find Josh staring at me, his right hand curled around his length. He caught my gaze and smirked, knowing how much I loved watching him masturbate.

“You don’t play fair,” I said, feeling juices spread across the seat beneath me.

“Ah, but what would be the point in that?” He let go of his cock and grabbed my hand. “You’re so fucking sexy, I can’t help but want to fuck you all the time. Did you like your present?”

I smiled. He’d bought me a collection of erotic stories, and I’d been reading for the past hour or so. I guessed he’d seen me fidget in my seat. The lusty words had kept me entranced, my imagination going wild as I thought of the different positions portrayed and how it would feel if Josh did…certain things to me. I licked my lips.

He growled, “Come over here, baby. I need to fuck you.”

I went.

I shoved him back so he could recline in his seat, and then I grabbed his cock and aligned myself. I sat down, taking him inside me, inch by slow inch. I gasped when he finally hit my cervix, but Josh chose that moment to start kissing me. He licked into my mouth, his fingers slipping under my top to pull my bra down. He pinched my nipples, the rough caress too much, too soon.

But my boyfriend knew me well. By the time his hands palmed my heavy breasts, I was so far gone I’d completely forgotten about the people around us. I heard voices in the distance, trunks being slammed shut, shopping carts being wheeled back. For someone who’d been scared of men seeing her naked, I didn’t even stop to think before moving onto my knees, one perched on the door’s armrest and the other on the console separating our seats.

Josh broke the kiss and growled, “Yes, baby, ride me. You’re so fucking tight. Oh yes, that’s it.”

I loved it when he talked dirty, I thought to myself as I rocked up and down. I clasped my arms around his shoulders and held tight, widening my stance a little so his pubic bone brushed against my clit. I moaned at the sensation and did it all over again.

Josh’s hands slid down to cup my butt, his nails digging into the soft flesh with apparent relish. He tilted his head down and whispered in my ear, “As soon as we stop for the night, I’m fucking your ass. Consider yourself warned.”

He knew what he was doing. Between his husky promise and his fingers burrowing into my cleft, it didn’t take long for that sweet fire to spread throughout me.

“I’m gonna come!”

“Race you there,” he panted as he rocked his hips up.

I screamed when my orgasm hit me. Screamed some more when Josh’s seed hit the end of me.

It was too bad we’d forgotten to close the windows. The good thing was that we didn’t get arrested. The car’s leather seats, however, will never be the same. Every time I see those dark spots, I remember our road trip and what happened. And then, I get wet and Josh notices, and well, let’s just say we’ve now learned our lesson. We always remember to close the windows.

Well, nearly always…

Two Ways

By Dante Davidson

Noel is watching me.

I can feel her eyes. I am naked and exposed. There is no place to hide. I know what I am supposed to do, but my hands might as well be tied behind my back. I am paralyzed, standing in front of the closet door, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I wish I didn’t have to. I don’t like to look at myself in this way. But she wants scrutiny, and I always try to give her what she wants.

Silently, I turn to the left. Then, I slowly work my way down my reflection, as if I’m looking at some other man—some hot guy I’ve just caught sight of in line at the movies. Except naked. I take in the tattoos on my arms, the muscles that ripple and flex when I move. I know she finds me attractive, but I don’t always see what she sees.

There’s a bottle of lube on the dresser table. I don’t want to go and get the K-Y, yet I do. There were explicit directions waiting for me when I came home from work. I won’t let her down. I grab up the bottle, pour a handful of gloss into my palm and then start to jack my cock. I’m semi-erect already, even though I tell myself that I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for her.

I stare into the mirror, and I work my hand up and down the length of my cock. Sometimes I feel like an object when I do this.

“You are an object,” she tells me. “An object of art. An object of lust.”

I’ve been manhandling the equipment for long enough to know how to give myself pleasure. But there is always something new about doing this for her. I’m the performer, and she’s the audience. I want to give her a good show.

The note said to strip down and jerk myself off in front of the mirror. I’ll admit I felt a deep shiver, a fierce thrill of anticipation, from reading her neatly printed handwriting, those straight up-and-down lines spelling out such dirty deeds. She leaves me notes often. Sometimes she likes to watch me take a shower. Sometimes she watches me sleep.

I pump my fist up and down on my cock. I tighten my fingers at the head. I’m good at this. She doesn’t have to tell me that.

What brings me closer to orgasm is the knowledge that she’s watching. She’s sitting on a chair on the other side of our two-way mirror. We had the mirror specially installed so that she could do precisely this: watch me. When one side of the mirror (within the closet) is dark, and the other side (the bedroom) is brightly lit, she can see me but I can’t see her. Sure, I know that she’s there. Still, I find the situation a bit disconcerting, to stare into my eyes and know that she’s staring back.

These mirrors are called one-way or two-way—like flammable and inflammable, and shelled and unshelled mean the same thing (look it up if you don’t believe me). I know which term I prefer. One way means that this is all about her pleasure. She gets off watching me masturbate. One way means I don’t count at all.

When she first told me she wanted to watch, I didn’t understand. I’d never met a girl like Noel before. She is forceful with her desires, shows no fear of her fetishes. She sat me down and said, “If we’re going to do this—if we’re going to be together—then there are some things about me that you should know.”

I thought she’d confess the usual types of secrets. Maybe she was deep in debt, or a former drug user, or perhaps she’d put herself through college by stripping or even turning tricks. I’d heard stories like those from all of my exes. This girl was different.

“I like to watch,” she said, and then she tilted my head up so that I was looking into her hazel eyes. “I mean,” she continued, “I need to watch.”

“Watch?” I repeated, dumbly, thinking TV or movies or sports…

“I’m a voyeur,” she said next, and I rolled the word around in my mind. I’d heard the term, but tossed out casually, not like this. She was serious. She was naming herself. “I need to watch my men in order to reach orgasm. Will you let me watch you? Will you let me watch you when you’re showering, when you’re dressing, when you’re playing with yourself?”

I said, “Yes,” automatically, before I even knew what I was agreeing to. I love her. That’s the truth. And her words were turning me on. That’s the bigger truth.

I know she’s in there right now, in the dark, touching her pussy. I imagine her leaning up against the cold glass so that she can be as close to me as a closet door will allow.

My hand pumps faster. I am growing more aroused by the second.

At first, I didn’t realize how serious she was about her fetish. I didn’t understand that sometimes when I was getting dressed in the morning she’d stand in the hall and peek through the crack in the door. But I became accustomed to her sly little ways, and I’ve grown good at putting on a proper performance. She has a fetish, but she makes me feel worth watching.

My fist works fiercely, a blur of flesh on flesh. I close my eyes and groan. I’m right there, on the cusp. I give her a warning, “I’m going to…” and then I come, hard, against the polished silver of the mirror. I hear her sigh in response, and that makes me smile.

She gets off and I get off.

In this case, there are two ways about it.

Manners

By Georgia E. Jones

The dream made sense in the way all dreams make sense, which is to say that everything that occurred seemed eminently plausible, while upon waking the conscious mind can make neither heads nor tails of events.

In Amanda’s dream she was walking across a meadow. Her feet were moving, yet there was no effort involved so it felt a bit floaty, yet entirely pleasant. It was warm and sunny, a dream meadow that clearly had never met an English spring, so sharp the crocuses had barely dared to put their heads above ground. Suddenly she was in a hot-air balloon, the basket lined with crystals and the balloon itself in stripes of purple and fuchsia, making it look like a balloon owned by Barbara Cartland, were she still alive and had she owned a hot-air balloon (in the dream it all made sense).

The balloon floated over the tops of the trees and Amanda was wondering how high it would go and whether or not she should be nervous when a handsome hot-air balloon pilot appeared at her side. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “I’ve done this before.”

She did not know him, but of course felt at once that she did. He stared at her with piercing, dark eyes. He looked rather how she imagined Heathcliff would look, but a great deal less mopey and tragic, and also more heavily muscled, though Heathcliff worked out of doors, so perhaps this was a facet of his personna that Bronte had simply failed to mention.

“My name is—” the pilot said. The steady streaming of the wind stole the words from his lips, but it did not matter. He put his hand on her arm, warmly suggestive.

Because Amanda was a person who spent much of her free time with Gaskell, Austen and the Brontes (minus Branwell), the words that sprang to mind were, “Sir, you mistake me!” A phrase quite unlike one any a modern woman (which she undeniably was, despite her choice of reading material) would employ. But his hand was large and warm, and the weight of it created a little frisson of excitement in the pit of her stomach and she thought she mightn’t say either of those things. After all, it was only his hand, and it was only resting, quite inoffensively, on her arm.

The balloon rose higher, seeming to require little attention from its pilot, who continued to study her intently. The treetops receded, becoming like the miniature trees she had seen at the train museum in the Vale of the White Horse, but she was no longer nervous. “May I kiss you?” the pilot asked. Amanda had never been asked for her permission. It seemed to be something men no longer did. They simply assumed you would, without bothering to actually find out, which perversely made her want to refuse. Being asked had the opposite effect.

“Yes,” she said. The wind carried the word away, but he had been watching her lips and lowered his head to cover them with his own. It was like being kissed for the first time, with the proviso that all the participants knew exactly what they were about. Amanda felt (and was slightly ashamed for feeling so) that kissing was oftentimes an arduous business, as if men were St. Bernards and she was a new squeaky toy. But the pilot was patient, waiting for her to open her mouth to him. He stepped closer, sealing their bodies together so the baffled wind must go around them. He kissed her slowly, open-mouthed, and it was so lovely she did not want it to end. He lifted her to sit on the edge of the basket, all well and good, except there was nothing but air below her.

“It’s all right,” he said in her ear. “We’re coming down.” She twisted her head and saw that this was true, but now it was water below them, not land. Amanda only had an instant to be alarmed by this prospect when the balloon turned into a boat, cleaving smoothly through a white-capped ocean. The pink-and-fuchsia balloon dissolved into streamers that flung themselves out behind the boat, a joyous capitulation to freedom. Quite naturally, they were on a bed and the pilot went on kissing her, as if that was all he intended ever to do. He held her face in his hands, angling her head back to kiss beneath her jaw, nipping at the delicate skin until she moved restlessly between his hands.

Usually by this point she was panicky, not because she wanted to stop, but because she disliked being rushed and men were over-eager to put their appendages in whatever location they most favored. Amanda had no objections to any of these places, but it was nice to be included in the scheme. Sex, for the most part, left her with the feeling that the gentlemen in question (she used the term euphemistically, being of the opinion that there were few males in the United Kingdom deserving of the honorific) had behaved immodestly and would not be entertained again.

Amanda was beset by an unfamiliar, strident urgency. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pushing herself against him. She was, to her dismay, beginning to pant. Just when she was thinking that their clothing was a nuisance, it disappeared, leaving her skin-to-marvelous-skin with the pilot. He seemed to know what she wanted and entered her slowly, before she could ask, pausing every so often to see that she was in agreement. She had a brief and hilarious thought of Oliver Twist saying, “Please, sir, could I have some more?” as she took all of him (anatomically speaking, a considerable amount) into her body. He moved with her; everything he did to please her pleasing him equally well, a delightful result of their combined efforts.

There was a sweaty, desperate minute when the striving threatened to overwhelm her—that despite his perfect attentions, she would not be able to achieve orgasm—and he stilled both of them and said, “No, look. Like this,” in the same way that a sighted person would direct a blind one. And he did something that later she could never remember, but which at once tipped her over the edge into a convulsive, shuddering climax that seemed to go on and on for a very long time.

Amanda woke, alert to the world. She lay in bed for a time, reflecting on the dream. She did not sleep with strangers, either in real life or in dreams, and certainly had never had an orgasm during one. She had read that some women did, but had dismissed it out of hand as the kind of clap-trap people thought up in order to sell magazines. She was reluctant to rise, lest moving dispelled the feelings, but it was Sunday and her garden beckoned.

* * *

Rory Callan strolled along the lane, unbuttoning his coat as sun and exercise warmed him. After a week spent unpacking and arranging in the temporary trailer, it was time to meet his neighbors. The Winthorpes, to the east, were nearest, but they were elderly and the missus was deaf. His neighbor to the west was the town librarian. He imagined her with buttoned-up blouses and low-heeled shoes. But books were his livelihood, so they would have that to discuss, at least.

He came to a low fence of rose brambles, and a white gate with a latch made from a rusted horseshoe and a length of twine. He let himself in and went up the path. Nearer to the house he found a woman pulling weeds with abandon from a round bed edged with small stones. He cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me.” She looked around, shielding her eyes from the sun. (His first thought was: They didn’t tell me the librarian had a daughter.)

“I’m Rory Callan,” he said. “Your new neighbor.” She rose, placing her hand in his. There was a thud. The sound of the other shoe dropping, he thought wryly. She was quite fetching. He had an immediate desire to use his grip on her hand to draw her closer. Instead, he let go.

A line appeared between her finely arched brows. “At Hartwell?” she asked. “But the house burned down a year ago, and all that’s left of the old place is the Round Tower.”

Rory Callan was enamored of the way the locals spoke. True, there had been a house (of decidedly modern origins) that had burned down in the last year. But “the old place” she referred to was in actuality the ruins of a fifteenth-century fortified manor house. He had been born in a small town, but had lived most of his life in London, and he was beginning to think his return to the country had been long overdue.

“Do forgive me,” she said, before he could answer. “I’m being unpardonably rude.” She brushed the dirt from her hands. “Please come in for a cup of tea. Would you prefer Lapsang souchong or Darjeeling?” And she motioned for him to follow her into the cottage.

She was attempting politely not to, but she was definitely staring. He was born and bred in England, held a British passport and both of his parents were British nationals, but nonetheless, people being what they were, he was now and then asked where he was from. “My great-grandmother was Malaysian,” he offered. “You’re seeing the bit of her that’s left in me.”

She paled. “It isn’t that at all. You must think me terribly rude. It’s only that…I know we haven’t met, but I feel as if I know you.” She looked down. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at sixes and sevens. Did you say you were living at Hartwell?”

He nodded, mid-sip. “I’m planning to restore the Round Tower first, then continue on from there.”

She laughed, a light, trilling sound. “You must have a lorry load of money and a lot of free time on your hands.”

“That’s about the size of it,” he agreed.

She put down her cup, her face the color of alabaster. “How vulgar you must find me! I thought you were joking.”

She had lost her composure, and over a trifle because he had taken no offense. “Look,” he said kindly, “it’s like this. I’m tired of living in London. I’m an antiquarian book dealer, which is now a job that happens mostly on the Internet. I’ve come into an inheritance and need a way to spend it. When I’ve finished with it, the Round Tower is going to be my library. I’ll build the house later. I need to do some research. Is there a local archive?”

“There is.” She took a deep breath. “I’m a librarian. I spend my time trying to save books no one wants anymore. It’s all about the Internet and e-books and electronic devices. Perhaps if I help you research your manor house, you could save some of my books?”

He considered her proposal. “Might I call again?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “We’re neighbors.”

He stood up, thanking her for the tea. He went to the door. “At the risk of sounding forward, might I call in tomorrow for tea?”

She blushed. Later, he came to think of it as the first thing he learned about her. She blushed when she was pleased. When she was embarrassed, she went ashen.

Amanda met his eyes, so like the eyes of the man in her dream it made her skin prickle. “I would like that very much,” she said. She came close to dropping a curtsy, but stopped herself just in time.

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