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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.
