Got a Minute?, page 3
“And then he comes, and we get our money shot, send him on his way, and fuck each other senseless.”
“You just want to see him in the flesh? Nothing more?”
“He’ll be our boy toy, our hired hunk. I know that it’s crass and dirty but the thought just gets me so worked up.”
“I’ve never even seen one up close before,” she practically whispered, although we were alone.
I crawled across her, my body hovering over hers, as I fished out my favorite, totally unrealistic, shiny red dildo. Then I planted myself in front of her, straddling her body before slowly taking the head of the silicone toy in my mouth. I teased her with my stellar blow job skills until she snatched the toy away from me and, pounding me with it, made me cream all over.
I was assigned the task of finding Mr. Hunk, and I took my job seriously, staring hard at almost every guy I passed. Finally, I overheard some girls at work talking about a male friend, Tom, who hadn’t had sex in over a year. He was climbing the walls.
“All he wants is to look at a woman at this point. He’ll take what he can get.”
I waited until the crowd had dispersed to inquire if he’d really just be content to look at a woman—or possibly two. I trusted Lauren with my secret—she’s been a loyal friend forever. I whistled when she called Tom-the-hunk’s photo up on her computer screen. He was shirtless, hair blowing in his face on the beach, and his muscles practically jumped off the screen at me. The faint outline of his dick was impressive too.
“We’ll take him!” I proclaimed, as if I were at a male meat market.
“Let me ask him first,” she laughed, but the next day, she confirmed that he was ready, willing, able and eager. “He thought it was too good to be true.”
“Oh, it’s true all right,” I said, looking forward to speaking with him myself.
I liked making the plans, negotiating with Tom over just what he could and couldn’t do. “But what if I want to kiss you? Or squeeze your breasts? Or lick you all over? I’m good!” he boasted. For the first time in ages I had the urge to throw a guy down and have my way with him. But that wasn’t what our rendezvous was about.
I had been extremely curious about how he’d react to my butch girlfriend, but when we finally got together, they treated each other not like rivals, but equals, shaking hands proudly as they sized each other up, Dana wrapping one arm protectively around me.
We had him sit in our comfortable armchair while we got on the bed, huddling close. He didn’t want any music on, so we just talked to him as he took off his clothes. “Show us your cock, Tom. We’re dying to see if it’s as big as we think it is,” Dana said, getting even more into his show than I was. As he took off his shirt, her hands moved down my sides, squeezing my skin until she reached my hips, then pushed on. By the time she got between my legs, I was halfway to orgasm. I’d never truly thought I’d be in my bedroom with Dana and a naked man at the same time, but within a few minutes, there was Tom, stripped down and as hard as a rock. His impressive cock stood proudly before us.
“Show us what you do at home,” I said, licking my lips as I sat up, getting on my hands and knees. He walked right up close and then wrapped his hand around his dick and began sliding it up and down. Dana instinctively handed me our bottle of lube. Tom nodded a silent thanks, then let me squeeze some of the cold, clear liquid into his palm. My gaze flicked from his cock to his face as Dana began fingering me, adding more and more until I felt stuffed full. “Yes,” I squeaked, my voice high, the way it only gets during sex, as Tom began beating off faster and faster while her fingers slithered inside me, curling and pushing and pressing and teasing. She knew just how turned on I was by this forbidden, elusive glimpse.
“I want you to come at the same time,” she said, her voice stern but kind as she used her other hand to manipulate my clit. I swallowed hard, restraining myself from asking for a taste of the fat, gorgeous dick before me. I smiled at Tom—Yes, she’s fucking me good, my lips told him without speaking—and he groaned, pumping harder and harder. We gave each other a series of looks until finally my head rolled back as Dana stopped restraining herself in any way and simply slammed inside me. I shut my eyes and surrendered myself to her touch, and I could hear Tom coming, his breathing quickening and then subsiding. When I opened my eyes, the room seemed to spin for a second as I took in the bright lights and Tom’s come all over his hands.
“You can kiss him—on the lips,” Dana whispered in my ear, and so I did, while she hugged me tight, letting his lips part mine in one of the most passionate kisses of my life. Tom left soon thereafter and Dana kept me up most of the night, while in my head I relived that magical interlude again and again. Not many girls would be able to handle a minx like me, but thankfully, I’ve found someone who can more than keep up with my games.
Next time, I’m going to fulfill her biggest fantasy…. I just have to get her to tell me what it is first.
FRENCH POSTCARDS
Teresa Noelle Roberts
Jack drew the line at shaving his legs. Isabelle countered with black velvet stockings that belonged in a racy postcard from the 1890s, back when the pictures were all pale skin and voluptuous curves. Jack was pale enough, but he didn’t have curves, even dressed in a black lace dress so short that his garter belt peeked out, high heels, and the velvet stockings. He was a tall, lanky young man transformed by costume and makeup into a willowy siren, neither boy nor girl. A wide black leather collar disguised his Adam’s apple and lace-cuffed gloves softened his bony wrists, but hints of five o’clock shadow deliberately peeked through the makeup that Isabelle had applied. She left his long hair wild and curly.
Wearing a dress and stockings that matched his own, she put a leash on him and took him out dancing. She wore Docs instead of heels so that, short as she was, she appeared to be leading a beautifully ambiguous captive giant.
Then she brought him home and stripped off both his dress and hers. A long-haired boy and a cropped-haired girl, each in a garter belt and black stockings. Hard cocks saluted between each pair of stocking-clad legs, but it was her purple silicone one that entered him that night, driving into him, moving against him, taking him over the edge.
They slept together in a heap of discarded velvet and lace, stained with makeup, lube and come.
THE RIDER
Clare Moore
Damn, she thought. By Pony Express company rules, the rider had only two minutes to dismount, throw the mailbag onto the other horse, mount up, and spur off.
She was alone at the station; her daddy was off to town. He’d be gone all day. But she’d been planning this for some time. It had to be a day when both her daddy was gone and her favorite rider was coming through.
This was that day.
Every time he came through, she thought about it. She watched him approach from the distance, coming closer and closer, then heard the heavy thumping rhythm of the galloping horse, and the commotion of horse, rider, and horse exchange. All in a heart-pounding flurry of an instant.
The rider was young, maybe eighteen, like her. And strong. With a slight moustache, a neckerchief that flowed out behind him, and a wide-brimmed white hat, pulled down tight on his brow. He was handsome. Not like most of the other riders who charged through her station, all timeworn and battered.
And he was polite. First it was “Ma’am” with a tip of his hat, each time, until she yelled out “Bess!” once as he galloped away. He gave a wave of acknowledgment. From then on it was always “Bess.”
Then once, to her surprise and delight, after he quickly swung up into the saddle, he held tight on the horse’s reins, leaned down, and placing his free hand on the thick of her long hair, he kissed her. Then he kicked the horse, and riding away, he turned in the saddle, smiling, and raised his hat.
The next time was her turn. She was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, like always. But this time, just before her rider was due in, and after she looked quickly around to make sure her daddy was back in the barn, she unbuttoned the top three buttons of her shirt, and pulled the fabric open. She wasn’t wearing anything else underneath. In her hand she grasped a folded-up note.
He came. Same as always. Through the trees, riding hard, into the station’s yard. When he got up to her, he saw her open shirt, and her firm round breasts inside. He stared, almost tripping over himself when his boot hit the ground. He threw the mailbag up onto the other horse, turned to look into Bess’s smiling and anxious face, then swung up into the other saddle.
“Here,” she yelled, holding up the note. When he reached for it, she drew it back to her breast, forcing him to touch inside her shirt. He got hold of the note, and smiling, shook his head in amazement. Then he was off. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching her rider disappear in the cloud of dust. She heard him yell, and could just barely make him out, holding the note above his head with one hand and waving his hat with the other.
She buttoned up her shirt, and folded her arms tight up against her chest, her heart beating hard.
Now she was alone at the station; her daddy was off to town. This was the day. She had until 2:15.
First she went out to the barn, straightened it up as best she could, and on the new hay, in the empty stall, spread several bright print blankets. She hauled buckets of water in from the well, poured them into the wooden tub on the back porch, and took a long bath, scrubbing every inch of her body.
She went to the cabinet beside her bed, took out the treasured bottle of eau de toilette that had been her mother’s, dabbed some on her neck and carefully between her breasts; then hesitantly and slowly, dabbed some between her thighs, then replaced the bottle.
She took her newly washed plaid shirt from the shelf, slipped it on, and stood before the cracked mirror. She fiddled with her long hair, first tying it back, then letting it out to flow over her shoulders and back. The watch on the table said 1:35.
Once more she stepped in front of the mirror, and unbuttoned her shirt. Pulling it open, she gazed at her young lean body; with her thin waist, tight stomach, and full breasts; then buttoned the shirt back up.
Another look at the watch. She grasped it in her fist, picked up her boots and jeans, and walked out the front door. From the porch, she looked toward the stand of trees, then toward the barn. She walked over to it, opened the doors, put hers boots in front of one door, and hung her jeans on a nail above the boots. She hitched the spare horse to the post near the door, then looked at the watch, and clinched her fist again.
She touched her neck where she had dabbed the perfume, then walked quickly back to the house, over to the cabinet, and again took out the small bottle. Another dab on her neck, and again between her breasts. She replaced the bottle and hurried back outside to the barn.
She stood in the shadows in the barn, just inside. Standing facing the open doors, she slowly unbuttoned all the buttons of her shirt and, gripping the watch, she closed her eyes. She could see her handwritten note in her mind: Ride hard, knight of the desert. Claim your treasure, your reward. Your Bess.
She knew he would be there for only an instant. By company rules, the rider had only two minutes to dismount, throw the mailbag onto the other horse, mount up, and spur off. She had to be fully ready for him. She held the watch in one hand. With the other, she felt her breasts, then slid her hand down over her quivering stomach, resting it between her thighs. She spread her legs, and slid her fingers inside, thinking of him and what was about to happen, and gingerly caressed herself.
She opened her eyes. In the distance, in the stand of trees, she saw the cloud of dust, then the figure on horseback. She stood straight, with her hands at her side. In an instant the rider was in the yard. Her heart was pounding. She watched from the darkness as the rider rode in, and pulled his horse up. She tensed as her rider let the reins fall, then turned to the barn and quickly walked toward it. He stopped, and lowered his head to shade his eyes with his wide brimmed white hat. Then he saw her.
He continued his walk, and stood before her. He gently pulled her shirt open. Impatient, she dropped the watch and quickly grabbed his belt and unlatched it, and his jeans, and his underclothes, just as she had rehearsed in her mind many times at night in bed. Her aggressiveness seemed to remind him of the urgency of the situation, and he grabbed her breasts hungrily with both hands. His body had already responded, and came out hard through his unbuttoned underclothes, held by her stroking hands.
With a firm but gentle grip, she pulled him toward her as she backed up to the blankets. Never letting go, she sat down, then lay back, still pulling him, then guiding him between her thighs, into her open and wet self. Then she released him. He drove himself in the rest of the way, but held himself up so he could watch her face, with her eyes closed and mouth open and gasping, as he repeated his accelerated thrusts.
She grabbed his wrists, and met his rhythm until at last he burst inside her, filling her with an excitement and warmth she had not experienced before.
When she let go of his wrists, her hand found the dropped watch. “Rider,” she said, holding up the watch in front of him. He stood to his feet, put himself together, buckled his belt, and looked down at Bess, still lying on the blankets on the hay with her shirt open, her firm breasts heaving atop her panting chest.
The rider tilted his wide-brimmed white hat. “Bess,” was all he said, then turned and left the shadows of the barn. She propped herself up on her elbows and watched as he picked up the mailbag, mounted the horse, and spurred it away.
She watched as he raised his hat in farewell, then she lay back and fell asleep, to dream of knights in the desert.
WAKE-UP CALL
Aimee Nichols
Emma stared longingly at the phone on the counter in front of her. Around her, the early afternoon shoppers milled about the department store’s various counters, thankfully not approaching hers. She was far too distracted to harp on the virtues of night replenishing cream. Every cell in her body ached to pick up the phone and ring Lana. She needed to have that honey-and-gravel voice ricocheting through her head again. Lana invaded Emma’s thoughts to such an extent she was rendered useless, standing there at work staring fixedly at the phone as if awaiting a call from God.
Two months ago she would have scoffed if anyone had said she would feel this way, but two months ago Lana was just a name her friends mentioned sometimes.
The phone rang, jarring Emma’s nerves and sending her heart pounding.
“Good afternoon, Ashton’s beauty department. Emma speaking.”
The voice that responded was more acid-and-metal than honey-and-gravel, and it enquired after some imported cleansing lotion. Emma dealt with the query and hung up, surprised by the resentment she felt toward the customer for not being Lana.
That was it. There was no point denying the urge to make the phone call; her need was not going to simply go away by itself. She glanced around surreptitiously; no one was heading for her counter, so she picked up the receiver and dialed Lana’s number.
“Hello?” The voice sounded huskier than usual.
“I’m ringing from work.”
“Hi, honey,” Lana answered lazily. “You woke me up. I was just in the middle of a wonderful dream where I was Angelina Jolie’s erotic maidservant. I seem to recall a lot of knives.”
“Sorry,” Emma murmured. “I thought you’d be up by now.”
“It’s all right, baby. What can I do for you?” Emma felt a jolt go straight to her clit, and her nipples hardened under her white cotton bra and regulation crisp white shirt. She crossed her free arm over her chest, certain people would notice. This was totally wrong. If anyone even suspected what she was about to do, she’d be fired on the spot. “I was hoping you’d play with me,” she whispered into the mouthpiece. “I can’t stop thinking about your body, and the thought of fucking you is making my knickers wet. They’re sensible cotton knickers, the type my mother would approve of. Except I don’t think she’d approve of this.”
She was rewarded with a throaty laugh.
“That’s delicious. I can see you clearly now; the eager-to-please baby dyke beauty consultant with a head full of dirty thoughts and panties full of juice. What would your rich, middle-aged customers think if they knew you were a raving pervert?”
Emma was warming to the game. There was an unadulterated thrill in watching people wander past oblivious to her arousal.
“They’d probably be excited,” she said. “Maybe it’d let loose all those fantasies they hide away behind their bridge club and hair appointments.”
“Or maybe they’d think you’re a dirty slut.”
“I’m definitely a dirty slut when I climb onto your lap and start kissing you, running my fingers through your hair and pressing against your stomach, grinding against you so you can feel how turned on I get just from being near you.”
Emma heard Lana catch her breath, and allowed herself a smile that was one part triumph and three parts arousal. “I like to tangle my fingers in your long red hair, then close my fist around a handful and yank it so your head snaps back and your eyes widen in surprise. You’re even more beautiful when you’re immobilized and don’t know what to expect, you know that? Your throat’s exposed, and I understand vampirism completely when I kiss and suck and bite your translucent skin, leaving pale red marks that slowly fade as I turn my attention to your breasts.”
Lana moaned, softly but tellingly. Emma imagined her sitting on the side of her bed, legs apart, pressing the receiver to her ear with one hand and touching herself with the other. Her breathing became harsh and jagged at the thought, but she worked hard to control herself, doing her best to make it look as if she were simply dealing with another customer’s routine beauty requests.
“I raise your breasts, soft and full, and stroke your nipples with my thumbs. They respond wonderfully, hardening and extending.”
