Neal Boulton's BastardLife

“I want to get my clit pierced.” 

She stared down at the marred counter rather than up into his dark eyes. “My clitoris,” she stammered after. Maybe “clit” was too colloquial. What was the proper way to ask for what she wanted? She quickly scanned the walls of the tattoo parlor/piercing studio, landing on an image of a impish Devil Girl with a spiked tail stuffed violently up the ass of a innocent-looking Angel Girl. Maybe “clit” was okay.

“You’re not ready.” 

When she looked at his face, she saw that he was grinning—the lines deepening around his eyes. He liked her. She could tell. She’d guessed that when he’d pierced her ear, his breath on her skin so she could feel the heat. The flash of pain had been over in a second—far too quickly—the whole experience taking less than ten minutes from the time she handed him her neatly folded cash to when she walked out the door onto the glittery grit of Melrose Avenue.

Afterwards, she’d spent hours sitting on the fire escape of her apartment, touching the silver hoop in the middle of her right ear, twirling the metal, holding it. She had the usual ear piercings from when she was a teenager, but this one, high up on her ear, felt different. Somehow the new hoop there had made her life the tiniest bit less lonely.

Weeks had passed before she’d had the nerve to go back. She was a good girl, after all, with a respectable job and a decent salary. She wore sensible clothes, low-heeled pumps, suitable for work in an accounting office on the Miracle Mile. Piercing/Tattoo studios weren’t places her friends visited, or discussed, or fantasized about. Nor were the boys who worked there. Tattooed boys who made her heart race.

She requested nipple piercings next, standing in front of the counter wearing a white t-shirt and a white bra, chinos from Talbots, glossy brown penny loafers. He gave her a hard look this time, as if he didn’t believe what she’d said. Not someone as normal—or in her mind, boring—as she was. Embarrassingly normal. The freckles on her pale skin. The sleek dark hair that would not hold a curl. Slim-hipped body. Hardly any curves.

“You’re sure?” he’d asked once he’d taken her into the private room, and she had tried to look brave as she removed her shirt and sat down, flinching when the sticky plastic coating on the chair met her skin.

Her breasts were extremely sensitive. Wearing the right—or wrong—bra would create such pleasurable friction she could almost climax. So when he rolled her dark pink nipples between his gloved fingers, she’d had to stifle a moan. Her eyes were closed the whole time. If she stared at him, she might say something. Something she’d regret? Perhaps.

Something she wished she’d said now?

When he’d told her to prepare herself, she’d licked her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth, something she did when she was scared. “You’re sure?” he’d asked again, right before sliding the needle through, and she’d simply said, “Yes. Please.” 

For a month, a solid month after her nipples had healed, she’d been able to make herself come by tugging on the sterling rings adorning her tits. Just a little tug to start, working harder, imagining him pulling them with his mouth, biting into her. On weekends, she’d started wearing tight t-shirts without bras, loving the way her decorated breasts looked beneath the stretchy fabric. Yet soon the ache started up again. That and the loneliness. 

Her belly button was next. She didn’t have to get naked this time. She lifted her shirt, let him see her nearly concave stomach. His breath here made her clench her thighs together under her knee-length plaid skirt. 

“Breathe, baby.”

She looked down at him, startled. Had he called her baby?

But he didn’t repeat the word. Didn’t act as if he’d said anything unusual at all. She wondered if he understood the big picture—they were working down her body in a silver-studded game of musical parts. If he did, he kept quiet, professional in every sense. She watched his head bent over her, and thought of telling him that at night, she envisioned him fucking her asshole, the gloves, the lube. The tears that would streak her face when he thrust in deep.

He’d only touched her with gloves so far, and somehow they existed in her fantasies. Every last one.

There weren’t many places left. She could have gone with her nether lips. But why wait? She was going to have her clit done, and she knew exactly how it would feel. She’d done the research online, understood the procedure.

How many times had she imagined watching him slip on the rubber gloves? Smelling that sweet sickly scent of antiseptic. The sensation of him touching her through that barrier, coaxing her clit to attention before slipping on the clamp.

“Not your clit,” he said, looking at her. “The lips first.”

Her eyes widened as he slid a photo album forward. Here were close-up shots of women, bejeweled parts on display, and she blushed immediately, even though she’d been fantasizing about this moment endlessly. Each time she went to the studio, she’d meant to ask for this, but had failed herself again and again. What else would she have to pierce to make him understand?

“The clit’s extreme,” he said. 

But she knew, she wanted to say. She knew what it would be like: The needle. The slow thrust forward. The pain shot with ribbons of pleasure. She was going to come when he did it. 

“You’re not ready.”

She hadn’t been expecting this. The customer was always right, after all. She had the money. She had the nerve. But then she realized—her clit would be the finale. The end game, and she nodded—fine, let him decide. He led her back to the private room once more, and this time, for the first time, he seemed to really see her.

The door was shut. He came forward, slid his hands up under her skirt, pulled down her simple white panties. Her throat was tight. He turned her sideways, unzipped the skirt, let the fabric fall. Now she was half naked, and that felt wrong. He understood, pulled the t-shirt up over her head. This was better. Totally naked, with her silver-ringed tits on display, her belly button decorated, her body so pale and pretty. 

Jesus, pretty. For the first time ever, that’s how she felt.

He sat in her the chair, spread her thighs, handed her a mirror. “Like this,” he said, “we could pierce you here,” and she trembled all over. “Or here.” The shivers wouldn’t stop. Her teeth were chattering. She couldn’t speak.

 “You have to hold still.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide, breath hitching. And then he bent forward and licked the ring on her right breast, then the one on her left. He kissed his way down, pausing to tug on the barbell adorning her belly button. Fucking god, he was—he was kissing her. Licking her. His soft hair tickled her naked skin. She shifted her hips, lifted her hips. He was there, between her legs, spreading open her lips, kissing between.

“You’re not ready for your clit,” he said again, looking up at her. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready. We’ll do it together.”

“Yes,” she said, “fine,” she said. Whatever he wanted, was what she wanted to say. As long as he would keep touching her. But he didn’t. He stood back up, got the instruments.

“Hold still,” he told her, as he had every time. There was no stiller than what she was like right now. Her breath was frozen. Her heart raced. He pierced her just as he’d said. Not her clit. Not yet. She sucked in her breath when she looked down her body. Shaved sex. Beautiful ring right there at the top.

“We’ll get to your clit,” he assured her once more. Now, he pinched her between his thumb and fingers, stroked his gloved thumb over her swollen clit so she closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.

“And it’s going to hurt,” he said, and she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter—because he was talking to her the way he spoke to her in her fantasies. He was saying the things nobody ever had said out loud.

“Because that’s what you need, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she managed, a rush of breath, hardly an answer.

“But you need so much more. You need a collar here,” and one gloved hand went to her throat, pressing once against her. “And you need a bowl of water on the floor by the bed, where you can lap it at night if you’re thirsty.”

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered, and there were tears in her eyes now, tears spilling.

“It’s been so scary, hasn’t it? All those thoughts in your head, and nobody to tell them to. Nobody to listen. You’ve been so lonely.”

Like he had been there, with her, in her nearly empty apartment. Sat at her side on the fire escape. Looked out into a city of millions of people and been all by herself. And then he bent down and licked her in a circle, a circle within a circle, and she came. Vibrant. Colors behind her shut lids. Like every orgasm she’d had thinking of him, thrusting his gloved fingers up inside her, fucking her ass with two fingers overlapped while he sucked hard on her clit. She came in shudders, in waves, and then fell back, limp in the chair. But even as she came, understanding flooded through her.

Somewhere inside, she’d pierced him.—For BastardLife by Alison Tyler

Photograph by the amazing Igor Amelkovich. On sale now and worth it.

From the book Dirty Girls: Erotica for Women (Cleis Press) by Rachel Kramer Bussel. On sale now, and worth it.—N.B.

I wasn’t expecting to meet the sexiest guy in New York City during one of the hottest days of the year, but sometimes the best things come to those who wait—in line, at a bodega, in the middle of August. I could see the last bag of hard, cold, perfect ice just waiting for me, at the end of the line like my own personal pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, and my whole body shivered in anticipation. I clutched the magazine I’d been holding close to me to cover my nipples, which were sticking to my skimpy tank top. It had been too hot for a bra, too hot for anything but the barest minimum of clothing, hence the tank and a skimpy black skirt that fell loosely against my hips, exposing just the tiniest curve of my belly. My nubs hardened even more when I caught sight of that vision of beauty bound within a large plastic bag, cube after cube practically speaking to me as I stood there dripping, melting, burning.

My short skirt clung to my body as much as the minimal scrap of fabric could, molding to my ass and hips as I stood there, sweltering. I tried to fan myself with a subscription card from the magazine, meanwhile fantasizing about jumping naked onto a pile of ice, the vision momentarily slaking a tiny bit of the heat suffusing my body. It was one hundred and five degrees for the third day running, and everyone in town was feeling the burn. Like a fool, I’d taken an apartment without air conditioning back in January, figuring I could install it when I needed it. Ha, I thought, no such luck. By the time I could afford it, the heat wave was upon us, and an air conditioner was as rare as a pot of gold—or the perfect boudoir partner. I wanted that ice, and I wanted it bad.

Then something up front caught my eye. I’d have noticed the ripped hunk anyway, the one in just a tight, white tank top, frayed jean shorts and sandals, the ones whose muscles were perfectly chiseled, sculpted into his arms as if planted there by the gods, not the kind you get from copious, overdone workouts like many of the bulging guys you see staggering down the street here, like the weight of their extra firmness is too much for them. His body was lean and natural, like he’d always been able to heft huge bags of ice or swooning women with ease. Then I took a look as the guy swiped the chilly bag, my own personal treasure, scooping it into his arms as easily as if he were picking up a pack of peanuts. I kept looking as he took what was rightly mine, cradling the cold bag against his incredible body. For a moment, I imagined him cradling me in his arms in the very same way, then tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me off to his bed. I didn’t know who to be jealous of more, but one thing was certain—I wasn’t giving up on either one. At that point, it wasn’t just a matter of desire, but of survival. Everything about this hunk was perfectly proportioned, and when he wiped the sweaty swoop of hair off his forehead, I caught a glimpse of pale, piercing, incongruous blue eyes. I shivered, despite the store’s lack of air conditioning, then marched forward, as proudly as I could in my elevated flip-flops, wishing I’d worn heels that could click authoritatively on the tiles.

“Excuse me,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder, “but I think you’re holding my ice.” I put my hands out, as if ready to accept it. I had absolutely no claim to the large bag of frozen water, seeing as how he’d gotten to it before me fair and square, but I wasn’t just hot and cranky anymore—I was horny. The heat felt different now, less oppressive and more sensual, like it was tempting me to melt into a puddle on the ground or strip off all my clothes.

He gave me a onceover, a very slow eye-fuck that took in every inch of my body, from my cropped red hair, freckles, deep brown eyes and lightly glossed lips, to the tiny gold hoops in my ears, my shoulders on display from the thin white tank top, to my nipples, which I knew were visible through the skimpy layer of white. He kept on looking, moving on down to my loose black skirt, lingering there as if trying to figure out what kind of panties I had on (white mesh bikinis, but he couldn’t tell), and on to my long, lean legs, strong from hours of strolling up to Central Park from my East Village apartment and hiking across boroughs, reveling in the views from the Williamsburg and Brooklyn Bridges. I’d always thought treadmills were cheating somehow, robbing walkers of the fun to be had from zooming through nature, even citified nature, in a new pair of sneakers. I was grateful for all that strolling as he took in my thighs and knees and taut calves before reaching my just-pedicured, magenta-painted toes, sitting prettily atop my flowered pink elevated flip-flops, which gave me a few more inches over my 5'7" official height.

I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw because he stuck out one chilled, dripping hand and said, “And what exactly is your name, my dear?,” while keeping the ice hugged close to his chest. I looked up at him and shivered again, before I even shook his hand, from the way his eyes seemed to read my every thought. When our fingers met, I gripped his hand tightly, afraid of staggering.

“Doris,” I said, wishing for the umpteenth time for a sexier name, a Katerina or Veda or even a simple Amanda. I often wished I had the guts to simply christen myself anew each time I was introduced to someone I wanted to impress, but knew I’d get caught in my own web if they ever tried to flag me down with my fake name. So Doris it was, even though I’d never really felt like a Doris. I was a girl who’d do a cartwheel on the sidewalk, even now, at thirty. I was liable to flash my boobs at a party just for fun, run through a sprinkler in a new dress, or creep into a graveyard on a dare. When I was ten, I vowed never to be as matronly as my name would imply, and the contrast seemed to amuse him.

Without returning the courtesy of introducing himself, he said, in the huskiest voice I’d ever heard, part radio announcer, part Isaac Hayes, “Nice to meet you, Doris. Now, we have a little problem here, because as far as I’m concerned this ice is all mine, and you know what they say about possession being nine-tenths of the law....”

I stepped closer, resting one manicured hand on the ice, enjoying the chill that traveled through my fingers and digging my claws into the gleaming plastic. “I was never all that good at math,” I said, laying my long-abandoned Southern accent on as thick as I could, “but I’m pretty sure that means there’s one-tenth of this ice for me, isn’t that right?” As I said it, I fished out a cube and held it in front of his eyes like a hard-fought treasure, a girl’s pirate booty on our mini summertime ship. I took the piece of ice and slowly brought it over to my exposed chest, rubbing it against my hot skin and immediately feeling better, especially when I saw him stare intently while I dipped it down below the neckline of my tank top, taking a tour between my breasts before emerging back onto my visible skin. I rubbed it around my chest, then tossed my head back and stroked my neck with the quickly-melting cube. I’d been dreaming about giving myself an ice-bath all day, though had thought I’d be doing it in private.

I had cooled myself off enough to slake that initial bout of heat that had been plaguing me since I stepped into the un-air conditioned store, but another, better kind of warmth had quickly spread through me once I started talking to the sexy stranger, one that started from inside and spread outward. One that ice alone simply wouldn’t be enough to chill. I had a small puddle with a tiny bit of ice, no longer a cube, still in my hand, so I just went for it—I held out my wet palm to his lips. “Want some?” I purred, my voice letting him know, if I hadn’t already, that I was offering much more than water. Instead of taking what I was sure had to be his big, rough tongue, and lapping up my offering, he took my hand, brought it up under his shirt, and pressed it against his chest. When I was done marveling at how strong and solid his muscles were, I thought I felt the beating of his heart.

He held his palm flat against the back of my hand as the water dribbled down his chest. Then he slid my hand along the firmness of his body, down his torso, and out from under his shirt. I let it drop back to my side as if in a daze, the chilly numbness belied by a special tingling matching what the rest of my body was feeling. I’d gone into primal, animalistic mode; all I cared about was getting the two things I most wanted in life at that very second—the ice, and the man, but not necessarily in that order.

He stepped closer, and I had no idea what was about to happen, when the clerk cleared his throat in an unmistakable sign of annoyance. He didn’t need to say a word. My cooled-down cheeks heated up again, and I stepped away from the man who still hadn’t given me his name. I snatched the bag and threw the three dollars down on the counter. I would have stalked out, but I was too turned on by my unexpected encounter with the ice man, plus I didn’t feel it was totally fair to abscond with his ice. Alright, the real reason I paused and looked over my shoulder was to make sure he was watching. I let the heavy bag drop down to my side. It’s hard to feel seductive in the kind of sweltering heat that makes any attempts at fashion or hairstyling, or even smiling, pretty much moot by the time you get down the stairs. But he’d managed to make me hot in the best kind of way, and he, and I, deserved some kind of reward for it. He walked over to me, swaggered really, his eyes boring into my body like he wanted to see inside.

He purposefully brushed against me so the ice touched my legs. “Ready to cool off . . . with me?” he asked, stepping around to stand in front of me and stare deeply into my eyes. I melted, again, his for the taking. And take me he did. He slipped a hand into mine as naturally as if we were a long-time couple off for a lazy stroll, but there was nothing lazy about the tingling our joined hands set off throughout my body. I almost didn’t notice the blazing sun and thick humidity, because I was so focused on touching the sexiest man I’d ever seen. I wasn’t sure whether to look at him or at the ground or straight ahead, and didn’t even know what anyone else seeing us would think of me in my ratty clothes paired with this absolute hunk. I didn’t really care, but it felt so surreal that I kept my head down and didn’t say a word, lest I stammer something utterly ridiculous and nix what promised to be the highlight of my summer.

Thankfully, we arrived soon after. I was totally aroused, but slightly nervous as well, not that he’d harm me in any way, but I just didn’t know what to expect. What if the climax of our day, so to speak, had already happened as I traced myself with ice before his, and the storekeeper’s, eyes? I needn’t have worried. “Relax, sit,” he said, guiding me to a sumptuous chair, conveniently placed right in front of his working air conditioner, before whipping off his shirt. I only got a brief glimpse of his firm, muscular chest before I sank into my new throne and relaxed instantly, forcing any doubts from my mind. He stayed behind me and pushed my head forward slightly so he could massage my neck, his powerful fingers digging into my sweaty skin, pushing deep, their effect rippling through my body. It almost felt like he were touching my pussy, and when his tongue brushed against the back of my neck, I shuddered, almost crying out as I gripped the sides of the chair. The chilly air blowing against me, combined with his magic hands and hot tongue, had my nipples hard.

I forgot about the fact that I didn’t really know him at all. Sometimes, in a city of millions of strangers, you just have to take a chance and let your body make the decisions for you, as I’ve learned over the years. And my body was saying yes, please, more, harder. I leaned forward, offering him my skin, and he accepted, lifting my top over my head. I liked having my back to him, a sudden bout of shyness making me want to keep my breasts to myself for a few moments, let him get to know them slowly. He took his time, leaving his hot breath on my neck and shoulder blades, suckling on each earlobe, until I felt once again like I was melting. Somehow, despite feeling like I was going to die from heatstroke earlier that day, I wanted the heat this man was causing inside me, I wanted him to make me burn with desire.

He kept going, saying little save for grunts, moans and murmurs of approval as he wet my backside with his tongue. “Put your arms on the side of the chair,” he said, and I instinctively did as I was told. Simply responding to his order sent shivers all along my body as I waited to see what he’d do next. What he did was beyond anything I could have imagined. The first shock of it had me clutching the chair arms so tightly I thought I might break them. He’d taken an ice cube and began rubbing it against my skin—starting at my belly, right above the droopy waistband of my skirt. I squirmed, ticklish, yet also overwhelmingly turned on as trickles of icy water dripped down my stomach while he moved the melting cube against my belly. I didn’t know if he was going to head south or north, nor which one I preferred. My entire body was calling out for this stranger’s touch.

He let the chill settle against the cloth of my skirt, clinging to me, before taking the ice and running it up my stomach, between my breasts, then around each nipple. My hard little buds strained forward; I looked down to see them anxiously trying to get his attention. He was crouched before me, staring at my skin as he made it pucker and goosebump, contract and retreat, reach and react. He kept going with that one piece of ice, which had now become the world’s most powerful sex toy. He ignored my nipples and brought it up to my neck, then along the edges of my face, chilled streams of water trickling down my body. He rubbed the cube over my brow, then down my nose. My lips parted into an automatic O, my mind forming an image of his cock as I did so, but it wasn’t his cock he fed me at that moment. He pushed the ice, along with two of his salty, sweaty fingers, between my lips, and I closed them, sucking hard. With each swallow, I tried to pull him in tighter. With the ice lodged against the roof of my mouth, I felt my pussy tighten as well.

I opened my eyes to see his staring right back at me. The air conditioner was blasting onto my neck, my hair tangled against my back, but I didn’t care. He eased his fingers out of my mouth, then pushed them back in, slowly, clearly mimicking what he wanted to do to my cunt. He pushed gently against my tongue, and my body convulsed, the last sliver of ice sliding seamlessly down my throat as I let him invade my mouth. He had me, all of me, at that moment, as I opened up thoroughly for him. This was no longer about simple hot or cold, or ice or air, but about pure, raw, selfish desire. He slipped his fingers out, and as much as I was tempted to clamp my teeth around them and keep them there as long as I could, I resisted. He turned, giving me a view of that firm ass again, the one I wanted to squeeze, but even though he hadn’t bound my arms to the chair, hadn’t given even the slightest order, I knew he wanted me to stay still.

He stepped away for a minute and returned with three ice cubes. He put the smallest one in his mouth and smiled at me the best he could. Then, taking one in each hand, he again started painting my body, treating each arm to a little ice bath before he moved in for the kill. He pushed my wet skirt up against my waist, revealing the panties that were little more than wet rags by that point. I was sure my swollen lips had to be visible through the fabric, had to be daring him, taunting him, begging him to touch them. He did, in his own way. With his left hand, he began rubbing one piece of ice against my nipple, which reacted immediately. With the other, he roamed along my inner thighs. I wrapped my ankles around the legs of the chair, curling my toes for good measure, spreading myself as wide as possible for what I hoped would be the ultimate invasion. He teased me so well I thought I might break the chair as he went everywhere with that ice but where I needed him most.

While the softened edges of one piece of ice rubbed against my nipple, so cold it almost hurt, yet had my pussy pounding out a plea for more, the other smacked against my inner thighs, darting up to the edge of my underwear, playing along my bikini line, teasing me with the promise of relief before dancing away, down to my knee, where it tickled. When he’d made my entire inner legs wet, the water quickly drying against my skin while I remained in my spread-wide position, he brought the remnants of the other cube to my free nipple and pressed each bud against the ice with his thumb, mashing them against the cubes until I cried out again. My face contorted in pleasure as his knee settled between my legs, my clit practically hugging it as he let those two cubes melt into oblivion.

But still he didn’t let me have his cock. Apparently, he was going to make up for his ice-stealing antics by treating me to the finest in icy pleasure known to woman. With my nipples hard and dripping, my lips open, my legs spread and my body primed, he surveyed me, looking at me with eyes that seemed to bore all the way inside me. He certainly didn’t feel like a stranger, and it wasn’t only because I’d given him my name. I didn’t need to know his to feel the powerful connection between us; even if it was “only” sex, it was the kind of soul-changing sex that I knew I’d remember forever. He took one of my hands and placed it on his cock, letting me feel exactly how hard he was. Silently, I stroked him slowly, locking my legs even more firmly against the chair as my pussy clenched in anticipation.

Guiding my fingers with his, we eased down his zipper, and one of the most beautiful dicks I’ve ever seen emerged. He shrugged off his shorts, standing totally naked before me, a perfect specimen of manhood. What had I done to deserve this? I marveled. I licked my lips, hoping he’d let me have a taste, but instead, he let me pump his cock, feeling it pulse and harden, before he gently removed my hand, then tugged me upward so I was standing. My skirt fell down again and he lifted it up, but didn’t take it off, tucking its hem into the waistband so I was once again exposed.

He knelt and settled himself between my legs, then eased my panties off with his teeth. I closed my eyes to better savor the sensations, and heard fumbling before more ice found its way to my belly, along with his tongue against the slight curve there while he let the water drip downward. He tugged on my skirt with his teeth, pulling it away from my body enough for the water to make its way toward my sleek pussy. I don’t normally go totally bare, but with this summer’s heat, every added bit of hair had felt like an unwelcome intrusion, and I’d grown to like feeling totally smooth. I was grateful for the decision as the chilled water made a beeline for my cunt.

Finally, the skirt came off, pushed down slowly with his strong hands as he followed the ice’s path with his tongue. Cold and then hot, object and then flesh, had me writhing, bucking up against him, silently begging for more. He could have done almost anything to me in that moment and I’d have craved it, calling out for more as I did. “Yes!” I yelled, as he dexterously shoved his tongue, ice and all, into my pussy. I couldn’t help but sink slightly lower onto him, my hands going above my head even though they had nothing to hold onto but each other as my legs slightly bowed outward. He kept plying me with his tender tongue, the ice’s burning cold sensation tickling my inner walls even as his tongue kept it moving, only giving each tender bit of flesh a momentary hit of its power before pressing into another needy part. And then the ice was gone and it was just his tongue, fat and wide and hungry. Then his nose, too, was there, nuzzling my clit while his hands made their way to my hips to steady me. He feasted on me like I was the answer to all his prayers, while I stood there, letting the blessed heat of his tongue send shivers through my body. I looked down to see his head planted between my legs, but he wasn’t thrashing all around; his tongue was doing most of the work. When he eased it out and sucked directly on my clit, pulling it between his lips, then his teeth, before shoving two fingers deep inside me, I came so hard I thought I’d collapse, but he held me steady, flattening his tongue against my clit as he rode out my orgasm with me.

I should have been satisfied with that, but I wasn’t. I was greedy, and wanted all of him. “Please,” I said, tumbling down to the ground and straddling him, pressing my heat against the proud statue of his cock.

“Wait,” he said, pushing me back slightly, then reaching for another ice cube and making me watch as he ran it along his balls and up and down his dick. I’d never seen anything like the show he was giving me, and it was a sight to behold as the water dripped down his cock until it was totally wet and shiny. He offered me what was left of the ice cube, and I took it in my mouth, before just going for what I wanted and taking his dick between my lips as well. He moaned the moment I let my tongue meet the underside of his cock, my mouth stretched wide in the way I love best. But I eased back, my pussy clamoring for some attention as well. With his eyes trained on mine, he slowly slid a condom over his hardness, then beckoned me forward.

When I sank down onto him, it was like fucking the perfect blend of hard, male cock and ice dildo. He was solid yet cool, and I tumbled forward while his hands went to my ass. We kissed while my still-hard nipples mashed against his. It felt like spontaneous combustion, a rocket boom, an explosion rocking my overwhelmed body, and it didn’t last long. We were both so ready that when he bit my lower lip and said, “Now,” his voice raw and gritty, I came, just like that, for him, for me, for this chance meeting.

Later, we dumped as much ice as his freezer could produce in his bathtub, and laughed to ourselves as we competed about who could stay in the tub the longest. I stayed over that night and, wouldn’t you know, the next day the heat wave broke. It was down to a more manageable eighty degrees, and I left his place to return home, blasting my many fans, wondering if it had been a dream even as my pussy throbbed and my body remembered every second. I never saw him in the flesh again, but believe me, every time I fill my glass with ice, I remember what he did to cool me off, and I smile.—Rachel Kramer Bussel

“Take off the counterpane.”

The boys were ahead of them. Not that the two couples were racing, but the blond stud was already on his back, head on the white-slipped pillow, slim hips arched. His dark-haired lover crouched between his thighs, licking that tender skin, working slowly to the blond’s impressive hard-on.

Somehow Lia knew exactly how that would feel.

“Come on, baby. Help me with the counterpane.” Ry was in a hurry to catch up. Lia could tell. Still, she turned to him, confused by his request.

“The what?”

“Bedspread,” he said, his British accent stronger now that he was aroused. “Who knows how many people have shot their load onto those ugly watercolor flowers.”

“How many do you think?” Lia asked as she helped him wrench back the heavy quilted comforter—abloom in gaudy burnt orange and lemon yellow blossoms. She was looking at the boys again. For the first time in her life, she wished she had a cock—and she wished that the dark-haired Romeo was sucking her, right down to the root. She could almost feel his full lips on her skin—pretty, cupid-bow lips.

Ry gripped her chin and forced her to face him, his own lips bending into a half-smile. “Slut.” He elongated the word, really hitting the “l.” “That’s your favorite part, isn’t it? Thinking about all the other people who have fucked in this bed.”

“One of my favorite parts.” She pulled her chin out of his hand and stared back at the other couple, who didn’t appear to mind in the least—the blond was tall and fine-boned, the darker one well-muscled, with tattoos scrolled over his skin. She’d hardly ever paused to notice gym rats before, but this guy did something to her. She watched the naked wrestling on the other bed—and she sighed out loud when the one with the chestnut hair hissed under his breath:

“Roll over.”

That was something Ry said to her, in just the same way:

“Roll over. Show me that sweet fucking ass of yours.”

Now, she watched as the top started to rim his lover. Fucking god. More than talking to Ry about who’d abused this hotel room before, she liked seeing what the two boys would do.

Her heart pounded at the way the brunet roughly pulled apart the blond’s cheeks and licked in a tight circle around that tiny pink bud. She clenched her  own thighs together. Ry had never done that to her. Nobody had. But she desperately wanted to own that experience, a tongue against her there. Wetness. Warmth. She thought that the sensation alone might make her come. Would it feel like Ry was suckling her clit? Would it make her feel like a boy?

The brunet didn’t wait to see if rimming would make the blond come. He gripped a bottle of lube from the faux walnut bedside table and poured a shivering handful between the lean man’s taut cheeks. Lia moved forward. She wanted to be as close to the action as possible. She watched hungrily as the dark-haired boy slid one hand over his own rigid cock, lubing himself up, before pressing just the head against the blond’s hole.

Right then, Ry grabbed her. 

It was as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment—as if he knew what was going to happen next. His touch made Lia groan. All morning, she’d been thinking of this situation. While working in her sterile little cubicle downtown, she’d fantasized about what Ry had told her, where he’d wanted her to meet him for lunch.

Not to eat. But to fuck.

From outside, she could hear the noontime traffic. Through a crack in the window, she could smell the fried calamari sizzling in the kitchen of the downstairs café. But all that mattered to her were the people in this room.

Ry pushed her down on the bed and ripped her pleated violet skirt to her waist. She wasn’t wearing panties—he’d told her not to when he’d instructed her to meet him at this hotel, on a Thursday at noon. This was the sort of thing Ry did from time to time. Keeping her off guard. Keeping her guessing.

The boys had already been going at it when she walked into the room, and she’d looked from them to Ry and back to them again, catching the grin on Ryland’s face—seeing that he knew how excited she already was.

They didn’t know the boys’ names. But names didn’t matter. All that mattered was watching them—she and Ry on one bed, the dynamic duo on another.

With her skirt pulled up to her ass, naked skin beneath, her pussy pressed hard against the crisp white sheets. She focused intently on the men—oh, the noises that they made. Those were almost as sexy to her as what they were doing. But then Ry did exactly what she’d fantasized about moments before. He slipped a pillow under her hips to raise her, parted the cheeks of her ass and pressed his tongue to her hole.

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Why hadn’t she let him do this before? He made one spiral, and then another. She shut her eyes for a moment, because the wave of pleasure was almost too extreme—then opened her eyes and stared down at the forest green carpeted floor—speckled with bits of lint. Ry slid one hand under her waist and touched her clit.

“Oh, baby. You’re so wet. Look how wet you get when I lick you here.”

Her cheeks burned as shame flooded through her. She couldn’t speak. Ry’s tongue between her cheeks turned up so many different emotions inside of her. Is that why she’d never let him do that before?

He licked her again, then moved back and pressed the ball of his thumb to her asshole. He didn’t push it in, he simply rested his thumb against her. She waited. He didn’t move. She waited another second. He was as still as she was. Finally, Lia couldn’t stand the tease. She was the one to push back, to thrust back, so that his thumb was inside of her and she was panting. 

“You want it, don’t you, you little slut,” he said. She loved when he talked to her like that. His accent made her feel exceptionally dirty. She had no idea why. Her eyes went back to the boys. The top was fucking the blond now, and at a rapid speed. She saw things she hadn’t noticed at the start. The blond’s nipples were pierced, his chest was waxed, smooth and bare. The brunet had a tattoo of an anchor on one shoulder, a 40s style tattoo that made her want to trace the outline with her tongue.

“What are you thinking?” Ry asked, but she hook her head. He gripped onto her curls and pulled back hard. A shudder ran through her. His thumb was out of her ass now, and she could feel the head of his cock against her. Poised. Ready.

“What are you thinking, Lia?”

“That I’d like to lick him,” she said. Her breath was coming faster now. “That I’d like to be him,” she continued, unable to hold back as he pushed his cock into her. She wanted it all, and all at once. She wanted to be the boy on top, licking the blond’s hole. Then fucking him. She wanted to be the blond, getting rimmed, getting fucked. She wanted to touch them, crawl into their bed, be a part of the game. Turned inside out by the way they moved, the way they fucked.

There was a picture on the wall. A sailing print. Gold frame. The room had that antiseptic smell of cheap cleaning products—but beneath the scent was the odor of so many other guests who had romped here before.

But they hadn’t been doing this, Lia thought. They hadn’t been fucking in tandem like she and Ry and the duo on the other bed.

It wasn’t a race—she knew that—but now the couples were moving beat for beat. Ryland was deep in her ass. The brunet was fucking the blond to the same exact rhythm. Their groans were a background melody. 

Their very breathing was in synch.

When the movie ended, Lia came. Ry’s cock was deep in her ass, and his fingertips stroked her clit, stretching out her orgasm.  She sighed and pulled off him—feeling dirty and used and clean and set free. Ry reached for the remote control and turned off the porn channel. Through the bathroom door, she could see those familiar cheap white towels—nearly threadbare. Too thin to be much use. She’d shower anyway, then head back to work—her ass sore, her body humming. 

Ry said, “Next time, we’ll take out an ad. Describe exactly what we want.”

She looked at him, then at the dark box of the TV screen, and she nodded.

Because next time it was going to be for real.—For BastardLife by Alison Tyler