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The Best of 2013
Of Canes and Men
by Sacha Lasalle
By Amanda Earl
By Daina Blue
Because I Could
Fetish is a Six-Letter..
By felicia Mansur
By G. Russell
By Helen E. H. Madden
A Man in a Kilt
Girls Gone Wild
By J.Z. Sharpe
Girl on a Swing
By Mike Kimera
A Walk in the Park
Inside Mr. K
Other Bonds Than...
Back When We ...
My Brother's Wife
By Nikki Isaak
By Remittance Girl
The Dinner Party
By Robert Buckley
By William S. Dean
Jesse Brimley is preparing to masturbate.
While everyone else attends a production meeting two flights down, Jesse downloads a short film from the internet, a fisting scene between two women. Tucked safely within the last alley in a maze of cubicles, she has little chance of getting caught. The risk is enough to be exciting without becoming a distraction.
As the progress bar creeps steadily toward completion she peeks over the edge of her cubicle.
At twenty-two Jesse is lucky to have scored a paying internship and, aside from masturbating on company time, works very hard. The other graphic designers encourage her enthusiasm while envying her fresh perspective, which they also mourn in themselves. Her green mohawk is subject to some lighthearted teasing, as is the predictably black wardrobe. On the whole they respect her, because she is already an exceptional talent, and loves the business of graphic design. The gothic gloom and insurgence threaded through her appearance is undermined everyday by her professionalism.
Today she feels less than professional. Chances are Clarity Design Incorporated can track its own internet activity, but she ignores this probability. This morning's behavior isn't dictated by common sense. Jesse isn't thinking about her job and what she stands to jeopardize.
She is thinking of a girl.
Last night she and her friend Lillian attended Clarity's Christmas party. Lingering near the open bar long enough to get tipsy, they eventually returned to Lillian's loft. Perched on pillows, the two women sat in the middle of the expansive space. Between them rested a leather-bound binder.
'Most of my clients are into the bondage scene. This is my private collection.' Lillian handed the binder to Jesse. 'I don't show it to just anyone.'
Thumbing through the explicit photographs of leather, latex and skin gave Jesse a sense of intimacy between herself and her mentor. A secret. Their secret.
Retrieving the binder, Lillian flipped to the back and unzipped a concealed pocket. Inside were a series of 5x7 prints, which she arranged on the floor.
'Finished these yesterday.'
She reminded Jesse of a fortuneteller preparing a Tarot cards, flipping one, then another, pausing between each revelation.
Jesse's gaze fell upon a shaven pussy, a pink flower exaggerated by a pale pubic mound. Draped in serpentine coils over and around its rosy pout was a stainless steel chain.
The second photograph showed one of the metal links nuzzling the tender vaginal folds. The sequence continued with the chain gradually disappearing between the ruffles.
In the final photograph only one link remained visible, its smooth, rounded edge resting within the soft pinch of labia, peaking out at the world like a nocturnal serpent.
Jesse wanted to be objective, to consider aesthetic merit and composition but a succession of hot sparks had begun to accumulate in her belly. Over the course of seven exposures the chain had evolved from a cold, lifeless object to a determined, heat-seeking creature, settling within the vaginal nest.
'They're beautiful,' was all she could whisper.
OH FUCK MY PUSSY, OH! OH! A scream erupts from the computer's speakers, yanking Jesse back into the present.
'Shit shit shit.' Frantically fumbling with the mouse, she locates the volume controls and lowers the noise.
The movie is a short loop, lasting less than a minute; close-ups of a feminine hand snared by the clasping mouth of another woman's cunt. Lubricant drips down the slender wrist like honey, peeling off in strings, the relief of tendons in the forearm visibly shifting in its invasive effort.
Steel tipped army boots rise from the linoleum floor and rest against the desk edge. Gathering the long wool skirt up into her lap, Jesse feels the air upon her naked sex, fingertips measuring its wet kiss.
On screen the fine, wet wrist turns turn left, then right, slow deliberate movements extracting tinny groans of pleasure.
Do it! Fill my pussy!
Jesse remembers her own wrist meeting the clutch of Lillian's pussy. She smells the oceanic leak trickling toward her elbow, hears the whimpers echoing throughout the loft. The memories flash in time with a series of close-ups flickering on the screen: A glistening, pink ring swallowing the aggressive limb. A tongue scoops at the steady stream of lube and sexual resin creeping out of the widened passage.
Do it! Fill my pussy!
Jesse finds slippery purchase on her clit, as all four fingers of the other hand press into her dripping sheath. They don't get very far, but her pussy is taut, clamping down on their reach, their wet progress resonating louder than her sighs.
Prickling warmth fills her chest, running through her belly, flashing behind her eyes.
'Oh, oh. '
The movie loops three more times before Jesse can climax in time with the anonymous woman in her computer—
Do it! Fill my pussy!
Her body spasms. The keyboard rattles across the desk.
Jesse rocks in ebbing pleasure, hands pressed to her pubic moss. Receding like the tide, her orgasm brings comfort and calm.
A shadow looms over the desk.
Garret Bishop, Clarity's star graphic designer, Jesse's boss, scratches his head. He glances between the computer monitor and Jesse, focusing on neither.
Do it! Fill my pussy!
Jesse Brimley is ready to throw up.
* * * *
Stanley Plimpton is bored.
It used to be he could do his job, other departments would do theirs, and that was enough. Now management' wants everyone participating once a week in a group production meeting. This means he has to sit through an hour of progress reports on printing equipment, and some malarkey concerning the imaging department's computer link whatever the fuck system hook-up bullshit.
He's a fixture here, last of the old guard. At fifty-one he feels at least ten years older, which is partially due to being surrounded by people ten years his junior. They all seem to understand what all this technical crap means, and the crap seems to change every week. There was a time when the machinery stayed the same, and you knew what to tell customers and the press people knew who was running the show. Now the rules change every day and computers are involved, and instead of pressmen he's forced to negotiate with a bunch of nerds.
'Hey there, sleepy head. Too much exercise making you groggy?'
Then there's the faggot. Look at him, all smiles and queer cheer.
'I'm trying to listen here. Do me a favor and fly away.' Goddamn fairy.
But Jeffery doesn't fly away. He sits down right next to Stanley, a picture of youth, charm, and gay without apology. It hasn't hurt sales any, though Stanley can't understand why. And the kid's always so friendly with production staff, laughing and joking. Doesn't he know they're the enemy; that they're the first reason deadlines are lost; that they'll come up with every excuse in the book to postpone any deal the sales rep secures with a client? Got to push them, make them do the work, not coddle them.
The whole industry is turning to shit. Queers and computers. Fuck.
Every month another one of his clients gets dropped into the faggot's roster. 'Just giving the kid some work to break him in,' says management, but Stanley knows when someone's trying to screw him, and refuses to lose his job to a goddamn sissy.
After last night it's a wonder the whole company doesn't lynch the little fucker. Who in their right mind holds a company party at a gay club, for chrissake?
It hadn't taken Stanley long to see how messed the place was. Pansies on Parade. Left the party early, found a real bar. Got a little tipsy sure, but made it home okay. Woke up this morning with a headache. And a boner.
Took some doing, jerking off with a hangover. Usually Raquel Welch drops by or maybe Angie Dickinson, to help get the job done. Not this morning.
Instead of Raquel's titties in his face he saw Gloria from Accounting. She was wearing a bikini, wading in and out of the surf, hair full and wavy and blowing around her pretty face. She stuck her ass out at him, giving it a little shake before her replacement appeared.
What was her name? Oh yeah. Anya. One of the designers. Great tits. Enjoying each pleasurable tug, he saw her bend over to pick up a pen, then to retrieve a folder, then to grab her purse. His recollection had her bending over all over the office, the round cheeks of that sweet ass just begging for a good poke. For a second Stanley could picture her crouched over his cock, prompting new wet sounds to emanate from his bouncing fist.
Only that goddamn hangover was stopping him from blowing his wad, so his mind kept digging, and Raquel Welch returned, shaking those boobs, then Angie Dickinson, oh Angie baby I love you, but no, she faded too. Then he saw. no, not her. Not the freak!
But Stanley couldn't shake her from his mind, and his dick only got harder. Pretending she had long hair helped too. Instead of those friggin' bald patches and green spikes he imagined long, wavy strands like Gloria's. She really wasn't all that bad looking, if a guy paid attention. She was sucking on a pencil, like always. How come he never noticed that before? Always got a pencil in her mouth. Full lips covered in black lipstick, big round eyes circled in heavy mascara. Then she was sucking on his finger. Then it was his cock, and she sucked and sucked and sucked and Stanley tugged and tugged, cumming all over his grip.
'What's up Stan, got ants in your pants or something?' The faggot speaks.
'Don't you worry about what's in my pants, Tinkerbell,' says Stanley.
'Oh, I just love it when a man shows his bigoted side. Screw political correctness and tell it like it is. Good for you!'
'When you pretend to be straight, I'll pretend to enjoy your company.'
' Butch and stupid. But so sexy on you!' Jeffery then pinches Stanley's cheek; as a grandmother might a child.
Stanley stands up, gripping the smaller man by the collar. Unable to suppress a snarl he lifts Jeffery into the air.
Their coworkers rush forward, some of them shouting, attempting to pry them apart. Jeffery is like a gazelle to Plimpton's elephant and, despite a healthy exercise regime, no match for his rival. In a desperate move he kicks at Stanley's shins. Stanley responds by throwing him to the floor.
Stanley turns, finding Garret Bishop in his face.
'Fuck you want?'
'Back off, Stan.'
'Are you telling me?'
'Just back off.'
'Shit,' says Stanley, cruel grin spreading his red cheeks. 'I can't figure you out. All this time I thought you were doing the broad.' A meaty finger pokes the air in Anya's direction. 'Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you want to get with your boyfriend here instead. Is that it? You want to bang Jeffery, you fuckin' faggot?' And this time Stanley pokes a finger into Bishop's forehead.
Later Stanley will say it was a sucker punch. A lucky shot. Witnesses will say otherwise.
Sucker punch or not, Stanley Plimpton is out cold.
* * * *
Anya Milovic is struggling to recognize herself.
For a moment she forgets the naked man in her bed, concentrating only on her body's new profile. From a mirror resting on her bureau, the reflection stares back in equal wonder. The line of her body is familiar, from the short bob of hair to the smooth reach of her neck, into the broad strength of shoulders and soft swell of breasts, the line of her torso narrowing into the smooth, concave terrain of hips, belly and ass. This is what she expects to find, what she sees whenever naked in front of a mirror. Yet after the awkward exercise of securing the straps around her thighs and hips and adjusting the dildo several times, Anya is still surprised not to find a pubic mound and its thatch of black curls. A phallus, long and thick and blacker than the darkest thread in her crotch's nest shatters her expectation of familiar continuity.
Less than two days ago she would have walked away from this bed. If not walk away, she certainly wouldn't have worn a strap-on, and Garret wouldn't have presented it to her. There'd be no reason for either of them to behave in such a fashion. Until two days ago theirs was a simple routine of meeting after work, having sex, then working side by side the next day, anxiously awaiting their next rendezvous.
Anya was a fresh recruit when she started fucking the head of her department, and Garret agreed it was an affair best kept under wraps, at least for a while. But after three months their secrecy became a burden. Or had it become boring, too predictable maybe? Difficult to tell sometimes, why we instigate change.
Whatever the truth of it, they decided to come clean with their peers, and chose the company party as an appropriate stage. Except no one seemed to notice when they held hands. Snuggling at the bar didn't raise any eyebrows either. People were too busy coming to terms with their surroundings.
This year's elected Events Coordinator had exacted his revenge on those who'd granted him such a thankless position, or maybe it was simply his way of guaranteeing he never be labored with it again. Whatever the case, he'd picked the city's hottest gay club for their annual Christmas bash.
On the ground floor was the lounge where an all-male team of servers worked
the crowd, offering a selection of canapés from silver trays. Their uniforms were very shiny and, like the upholstery, very red. The constrictive nature of their trousers defied logic.
Guests had assembled in a cluster, like a wagon train defending against attackers. The men looked nervous, joking amongst themselves, afraid to look around, as if the landscape might blind them, or worse, turn them. Instead they focused on each other, but not too much because that would be awkward too.
Anya was happy observing the lounge from its perimeter, boyfriend at her side. Boyfriend. She'd yet to say the word out loud.
'Care for a nibble?' The fresh faced young man held out his tray, a Lycra tank top clinging to his meticulously chiseled torso. Though he addressed them both, his eyes remained on Garret in shameless appraisal.
After the party, Anya suggested the two of them stay. When the regular crowd of bodies began to fill the lounge she started feeling a little stuffy, and Garret led her up some stairs, where they came upon the dance floor. The air was thick with testosterone, the musk of men, and it reminded Anya of sneaking into the boys' locker room in high school; she felt so out of bounds and naughty, breaking the rules. The pounding music took hold of their bodies. They flowed and ground and slid against one another, through each other. A conga line started somewhere in the middle of a Cher remix. Anya and Garret joined in. She remembers clinging onto another man's narrow waist, watching the muscles in his back. When she stumbled, her cheek slid between his shoulder blades. After that she could taste his sweat on her lips. When Garret started grinding against her bottom, Anya reached back and groped the bulge trapped in his trousers, her actions camouflaged by the strobe lights and synthetic clouds of fog.
High on the heady mix of perspiration, alcohol, and sexual need, they retreated once more up another flight of stairs to a patio on the roof of the building. A small enclosure protected from the outside elements, with no illumination save a weak flicker from the stairwell. A slight draft whistled through closed sliding glass doors. City lights sparkled across a sea of rooftops, reflecting on beds of frozen snow.
'Nobody's here,' said Garret.
Dropping into a couch, Anya quickly reached for the zipper to Garret's trousers. It was a frantic series of stops and starts, fighting through the darkness to find him with her mouth. She drew him in, feeling the silken head pulsing between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. She delighted in the sound of her mouth's slurping entrapment of the bloated mushroom cap, persuading his balls to tighten with a gentle squeeze of her palm.
For a while Garret persuaded her to slow down, measuring his strokes, holding her head in his hands. She wanted to go faster, bring him to the brink and feel him teeter, but he wouldn't have it.
There was further fumbling for position as strong hands guided Anya over the edge of the couch, peeling her stockings down to her ankles. Then it was her turn to moan into the darkness, plunging fingers withdrawing all too soon. She'd expected at this point to feel the thicker presence of a cock nudging her wet folds. But Garret seemed to have some trouble, slipping beyond her moist cleft, pressing instead against a pout too tiny to receive his thrusts. She reached back to assist his aim. He slapped her hand away. When he slapped it away a second time she realized his aim was true.
She remembers the shocking enormity of his finger sliding inside her tight cavern.
Her reflection in the mirror is startling too. Lubricant dribbles from a tube over the length of her new cock, making slippery sounds between her fingers as she strokes its girth.
She steps to the edge of the bed where Garret waits with his ass in the air and his face in the pillow.
Anya doesn't quite remember begging for his dick in her ass, but she does remember getting used to his finger as it pushed inside.
Now she's getting used to the appendage jutting out of her crotch and smiles down on its glistening protuberance. She recalls how the second finger made her wince, kind of like Garret is wincing now except she's used more than spit to wet her finger so it slips in more easily. When she pushes a second finger into her boyfriend's ass he's already begging for more.
A hard slap to his buttocks leaves a pink handprint as Anya orders him to spread his cheeks with his fingers. Seeing the tiny hole so exposed, she considers how difficult it must have been for Garret to find her own taboo mouth in the dark. With only spittle and pussy juice to ease the friction, his first thrust hurt, bringing stinging tears to her eyes. The pain ebbed as he slowly fucked her, the pleasure gathering in his strokes.
Garret is begging again.
She holds onto his hip with one hand, guiding the head of her cock with the other.
Garret reaches back to help and Anya slaps the offending hand away.
Anya Milovic gives her reflection a smile of recognition.
* * * *
Garret Bishop is thinking of a man.
Wrapping paper is strewn across the bed in strips, while propped against the headboard Anya examines his gift with wonderment.
'You know, this really wasn't necessary. I'm already very satisfied with your natural assets.' Wide eyes roll toward Garret, who lies across the foot of the bed. 'But thank you. Very sweet.'
Garret plucks the dildo from her hands, rests it on his shoulder like a pet. 'It's not just for you.' Garret waits for the words to lose their ambiguity. When it seems they have not, he presses ahead. 'The other night, at the club.'
'Ah. Yes. That night.'
'Upstairs, on the roof.'
'I got it.'
'Well, I didn't really give you much warning before, you know.'
'I know. I'm still sore.'
'It's alright. Next time you want to open that door, remember to knock first.'
'So, you liked it?'
'Sure. But like I said, I'll need a little more prep time.'
Garret moves across the bed, places the silicon cock in her lap, and his lips against her earlobe. 'Show me,' he whispers.
Another gift box sits on the edge of the bed. Garret hooks it with his foot, pulling it near.
Soon the wrapping is reduced to torn ribbons. Anya gazes upon the strap-on harness now resting beside the dildo in her lap.
Her smile says it's okay. Her eyes say she will.
Relief and excitement flood Garret's chest as he rests his head on her shoulder in dizzy appreciation. His hand, the one with the bruised knuckles, is raised to her lips. Garret feels a pang of guilt while watching her kiss each one, her pink tongue flicking.
Just the way Jeffery did yesterday morning.
After dropping Plimpton, Garret had taken the stairwell at a clip, making for the third floor bathroom. He'd almost made it when the adrenaline caught up with him. Through a haze of little blue sparks he saw his intern, and nearly passed out in her cubicle. Sex sounds coming from her computer. Sex smells on her fingers as she helped him into the bathroom. Surreal.
'Am I fired?' she asked, leaning against a tiled wall.
Garret simply waved her off. 'No,' he said, and watched the door close behind her green mohawk. 'But I might be.'
He'd already filled the sink with cold water, was soaking his hand in it, when he caught sight of Jeffery in the mirror.
Garret didn't turn around. It felt easier somehow, safer, to watch the approach of Jeffery's reflection. Neither man spoke as Jeffery walked up to the sink, gently taking Garret by the wrist and bringing the swollen hand from its cold bath, to his mouth. The mirror distorted things slightly, making it less than real. Like watching a mugging through one's apartment window, security and detachment provided by the thin pane of glass. Watching another man kiss his hand was like watching television.
Anya has started nibbling on his fingertips. She pulls two of his fingers into the wet vacuum of her mouth, her rolling tongue signaling promises to his growing cock. Cupping the rest of his hand like they were balls, she mews like a kitten, desperate, thirsty. Garret talks to her now, telling her how good she does it, how good she did it on the roof of the nightclub. He throws in details of that evening like the moment she reached back and fondled him in the middle of the dance floor. 'Drove me crazy,' he says.
But he doesn't mention the strong fingers that gripped his waist, or the hot breath that beat upon the sweaty back of his neck as the conga line tightened its ranks. That was when the fingers on his hips slid forward, the stranger's groin rhythmically bumping against his buttocks. The man was hard. Garret bumped back, felt his own cock quickly thicken. Music pumping. Lights flashing. Fog machines started casting a dense mist down from the ceiling, blinding everyone, and the line tightened again. Stranger pressed hard against him now. Fingers crept toward his groin. Heavy breaths tagged his earlobe. 'Ditch her,' said the voice.
At that moment Anya stumbled, nearly collapsing onto the floor, and Garret pulled her into his chest. Laughing hysterically at the near tumble, Anya fell back, her plump bottom registering Garret's swollen cock. Instinctively she reached back and massaged its girth, her actions concealed by the fog.
Trapped between the stranger's grinding advance and Anya's teasing fingers, Garret was near delirium.
Garret reached back, catching the bulge in his palm. He squeezed, heard a moan next to his ear. The stranger was bigger, thicker too. Garret squeezed once more. Then Anya was tugging him away from the crowd, toward the stairwell. Looking over his shoulder Garret saw nothing but fog and strobe-lit shadows, but he could still feel the cock in his hand.
They retreated up another flight of stairs, excited and ready, into an abandoned patio. 'There's no one here,' he said, his meaning clear.
They moved to a couch, Anya quickly taking him in her mouth. Garret relaxed into the cushions, eyes drifting across the view through sliding glass doors. Tall stacks of chaise lounges along the snowcapped roof, beyond these, Boston's skyline.
Garret sensed movement in the shadows between the stacks of chairs. Two men. One standing, the other kneeling in front of him.
Garret's fear of discovery was quickly replaced by a voyeuristic thrill. Listening to Anya's mouth pop back and forth over his cock, he watched the other couple with fascination.
The man who was standing had tossed his head back. Blissful smile. Eyes closed. When the eyes opened, they rested on Garret.
Must have been hiding up here with his friend. Had they heard Garret and Anya come up the stairs, taken their fun outside? Didn't matter now, everyone was busted.
Except Jeffery was still smiling, still locking eyes with Garret. Their respective lovers, oblivious, continued sucking the erections in front of them.
Jeffery turned himself sideways, offering Garret a better view.
After a while Garret took Anya's head in his hands, slowing her down, drawing out the plunging pace of her mouth to match what he was seeing, synchronizing her with the man sucking off Jeffery.
Pulling himself free, Jeffery removed a chaise from one of the stacks and pushed the other man face down onto it. Garret followed suit, bending Anya over the couch, hurriedly rolling the stockings down her legs, desperate to keep up with the action outside.
Garret saw Jeffery kneel over his lover's spread buttocks and spit between the pale globes. Garret pushed against Anya's sopping pussy, gathering the resin on the head of his cock in slow swipes. When he looked up again Jeffery was fucking his man in the ass, and egging Garret on with a wicked grin.
Without asking, Garret tested the virgin hole above Anya's cunt. He only had to smack her hand away twice, when she attempted to adjust his proximity. She was game, trembling.
At first it appeared impossible, the tiny muscle refusing to accept such an enormous burden. Determined, Garret smeared his cock head with spittle, mimicking Jeffery's lubrication method. He pushed again.
'Ohh god!' Anya punched the couch pillows. 'Ahh!'
Soon he and Jeffery were together again, fucking in unison, eyes flashing back and forth. Their thrusts quickened, and soon Jeffery's smile was replaced by an expression of helplessness. His body went rigid, hips jerking spasmodically against his lover's bottom.
Garret came hard, losing himself in the exquisite pleasure of Anya's tight clutch. He buried himself deep into her belly, growling through his climax. Looking once more through the glass, he saw the mischievous smile return before Jeffery collapsed between the other man's shoulder blades.
Now Anya is feeding him the silicon cock. She's wearing the harness, the black shaft growing out from her crotch. His mouth is clumsy at first. She even yells at him to be more careful with his teeth. It is bigger than his own, impossible to consume, but he fits as much as he can down his throat before the gag reflex pulls his head back.
Anya applauds his efforts. 'Good boy. Suck my cock. That's it. That's it. Such a good boy.'
When she tells him to turn around Garret feels a sudden rush of warmth toward her. When manicured fingernails pry apart his buttocks, and the slick head of a cock rests against his anus, he's ready to propose.
But when and the manicured fingernails are cutting into his hips, and the enormity of the phallus stretches and fills him beyond anything he'd imagined and the unbelievable pain dissolves into deeper pleasures, he does not think about how wonderful and brave his girlfriend is for playing this role, or the changes this moment will bring to their relationship.
He's thinking about soft lips kissing his cold hand through a mirror in a third floor bathroom. And blue eyes fucking him through the view of a sliding glass door on a rooftop.
Garret Bishop is thinking of a man.
Copyright © 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
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