Open

Dream-lovers have always demanded of me, “Open your legs.” They are hungry for my surrender, for the evidence of my desire and all of my secrets laid bare.

You demanded of me, “Open your heart.” You feasted on my slick-swollen desire itself, my weeping ardor-springs.

Then there were no more dream-lovers — only you.

Mix Tape

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“This time, I want to be there when you listen to it,” he insisted. “I make all these mix tapes for you, but I’m never there when you listen to them.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the point? Trust me, I enjoy them. Very much.”

“Just a couple of a songs, then. Are you really in such a hurry?” She didn’t know why she stayed.

He hit play. Eyes closed, she fell into the music. The room disappeared; there was only the black velvet of the sound against her bare skin.

She inhaled the deep bass; the beats washed over her in waves, caressing her like the hand of a titan. It vibrated in her lungs and shook her body, and the sweet treble lifted her, her limbs moving on marionette strings.

In amazement and unbearable arousal, he watched her nipples stiffen and strain against the lustrous fabric of her blouse. Her hips gyrated, twisting, grinding against an invisible partner as the music pounded into her. Unabashedly she squeezed her breasts, presenting them like a sacrifice to the puppeteer choreographing her movement.

When the last notes faded, her eyes fluttered open. Her expression was unguarded, her need obvious. He gathered her to him, catching her before her legs failed her. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, knuckles turning white. When his knee slipped between hers, she shuddered her release against him.

Covers

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She knew exactly where to turn; when she stood the book on its spine, it fell open just as the rugged pirate captain was about to ravish his reluctant, virginal captive. The maiden was, as usual, falling victim to a bad case of Stockholm syndrome. She wouldn’t mind, of course, because the captain was going to show her a world of earth-shattering pleasure and inevitably fall in love with her against his better judgement, and then give up his lady killing ways forever.

It was nothing terribly novel, but no one reads these things for the plot. So, as far as any of the other library patrons were concerned, she was reading “Gone with the Wind.” It was the perfect cover: it was thick, had literary value, and no observer would bat an eye if she was looking a little flushed. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help furtively glancing over the top of the books now and then, just to see if she had any observers.

How many other women had turned this book face down here on their sheets, unable to read further without quelling the heat these words had stoked? Did their scents linger on the pages where their eyes had lingered? She tried to imagine who they were, and whether they had relinquished their own lives for a moment to stand on weak knees on the captain’s rocking cabin floor. Did they also shiver when he ripped the sheet from their hands, and smoldering eyes fell upon their bare forms for the first time?

She felt his hungry eyes on her even then, following her curves in exacting detail. He would have her. He knew that it was only a matter of time before he plundered her mouth and her body and made her cry out in passion, and she ached with desire. Closing the book, she headed for the ladies’ room.

She let the door swing shut behind her and closed her eyes. The doorknob turned and lights flickered out with a click. Someone had followed her! She froze. In moments, she found herself pressed into the tile wall by a strong, masculine body. Her nostrils filled with his scent — soap and sandalwood.

He kicked her knees apart and, pushing her thong aside, entered her deeply. He filled her again and again and bit her shoulder tenderly, muffling her cries with his palm. It wasn’t long before she pulsed around him, and, satisfied, he pumped his seed into her.

Slumping against her, he listened to her breathing slow. “You alright, love?” She nodded silently, her cheek still resting on the cool tile.

“I watched you cross and uncross your legs like that, and I just couldn’t take it,” he breathed. “I had to lend a hand. Or something.”

“Or something.” She giggled, turned, and planted a kiss on her lover’s lips.

Wanting quietly

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She wanted to wait, and so did he, and someday they’d be each other’s firsts. So, they always stopped short — not that she didn’t want more; it would simply be improper and immodest to want more. So, she couldn’t say. But she knew — even though he never mentioned it, how could she not know? — that in the solitary night he stroked himself to the thought of her, her narrow waist and silken legs, and she wanted to watch.

She wanted to watch him lose control. She wanted to see the surrender in his eyes when he reached the point of no return, wanted to hear his breath catch rhythmically as he covered his fingers in his seed.

She wanted to imagine that she wasn’t on a contraceptive, and she wanted his cum-covered fingers to dip down between her legs, to massage it into her clit, to smear his potent seed all over her, and in her. He would mark her with the scent of his spent pleasure, perhaps even put a child in her belly.

But she was young and green and did not know how to ask for such things. So, in the solitary night her wet fingers were in her mouth and on her body, and she waited quietly.

Floodlight

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There are a few clues that you have an audience, though you don’t know exactly who it comprises, or how many. You’re on a stage, for one thing. You hear the rustle of clothing in chairs — not yours, because you aren’t wearing any. A hot spotlight floods your belly, breasts, and thighs with light, and with your head tipped back on the bench, your face is hidden but you see the magnified image of your bare pussy projected behind you.

A hand caresses your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and circles your breasts, capturing a stiff nipple between its fingers. You dare not lift your head to identify its owner; whoever it is is skilled and your amplified gasps and groans fill the room. Your skin has never been so sensitive, you think. When it finally approaches your pussy, your hips are lifting to meet it, and your thighs are damp with moisture.

Even though your lips are already swollen and spread of their own accord, the fingers of your partner (you can’t quite tell from what’s visible on the screen — are the hands male? Female?) pull them further apart for the camera, and coax the hood of your clit back to display the sensitive tip in full view. Your pulse of pleasure is unmistakable.

For the first time, your ears fill with the rhythmic sound of wet stroking, hands and lips on cocks and cunts deep in the darkness before you. Tentatively, you lift your own hands to squeeze your breasts. You only have a moment’s satisfaction before they are swatted away and your nipples are left to strain skyward for attention.

Your frustration doesn’t last long. Two, then three fingers plunge into your soaked center, stretching you wide and searching for the swollen knob that will undo you. It isn’t hard to find; your moan is desperate and keening when the fingers find their target, and your hips lift, gyrating rhythmically before a hand presses you firmly down against the bench. You watch helplessly as a finger begins to stroke and manipulate your clit, and the other hand, bathed in your juices, pumps its fingers mercilessly in and out.

The rising pleasure hits you like a runaway train — it’s climbing far too fast; your consciousness is filled with nothing but moans and wet and clit and cunt. The thought that the sounds and sight of your pussy in orgasm would be magnified for your watchers takes hold of your mind, and you are rising, rising beyond your control –

Riding the edge for a moment, you explode in screaming, quivering convulsions, misting your thighs with your pleasure and squeezing the fingers again and again. They haven’t for a moment stopped moving, fucking you through your orgasm, coaxing every shuddering aftershock from your limp body.

Your mind is still swimming with pleasure as darkness takes you, limp and sated. The floodlight still beats down on you, and the faint cries of your watchers as they climax seem far away as you slip into blissful sleep.

The Choice

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“I don’t want to share you with anyone else,” he says. “When you’re mine, there will be no one else for either of us.”

You would fit so perfectly together. How would he taste, how would it be to be possessed? You would sample the passion he promised, but he denies your curiosity. “I won’t help you make this choice,” he whispers into your hair. “I could make it for you right now, but I won’t.”

You exhale sharply as the wave of heat rolls over you, and your lungs scream for air. Visions flash through your mind — his mouth slanting across yours, biting, plundering, tasting your soul — a hand buried in your hair, exposing the hollow of your neck — pressed between his body and the wall at your back, your thighs parting for his insistent knee – your breath comes heavy; you stifle a moan.

It is as if your desire played plainly on your face, so knowing is his gaze. And you are utterly lost.

The First Time

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The first time you straddled a man, your heart pounded in your chest and your lips were dry with the shock of it. You had always before kept your knees together, your ankles demurely crossed. The hot, unfamiliar stretch in your hips and thighs was testament to that — it didn’t seem like your knees needed to be so far apart to be on either side of him.

A frisson of heat bloomed at the juncture of your thighs, and you’re heavy, swollen, and soaked. When you rocked your hips, there was precious little friction to be found, but you were spread wide and impaled on an invisible stake. You had little leverage to lift yourself up, and no purchase to be gained against the sinking cushions of the seat.

But his arms encircled your waist protectively, and you pressed your breasts flat against the firm wall of his chest, and all was right. When you finally found the means to stand, the telltale stain of your fluids glistened on his thigh.

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