The Siren

“Rules are rules,” I answered breathlessly, and he chuckled in response. I grabbed the waistband of his jeans to pull him close again. “We only have fifteen minutes, so you’d better make them count.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, returning his lips to mine. We made out furiously as he reached behind me to unzip my skirt. As soon as it dropped to the floor, he spun me around and placed my hands on the sink. I looked into the mirror in front of me and saw the reflection of our lust-filled faces, which gave me thrill. Number nine pushed my hair to the side and trailed a line of sensual kisses down my neck, making my eyes flutter closed as another rush of wetness flooded my pussy.

“God, I want you,” he whispered, his voice hot in my ear as he ground his erection into my satin-covered ass cheeks.

“Then take me—before we run out of time.” I was so turned on that I was practically panting. From behind me I heard the rasp of his zipper being lowered and the rustle of a condom wrapper. Then, seconds later, I felt him pull the crotch of my panties aside and thrust his hard cock inside me in one firm, smooth stroke.

As he hit bottom, he sighed into my mussed hair. “You feel so good,” he whispered, pulling out and then rocking his hips against mine to slide his dick inside me once more. I bucked back toward him with every inward stroke, loving the feeling of his thick shaft stretching me and filling me. My body was acting of its own accord in response to my sexual hunger, my hips circling and grinding against him. I was so hot and wet that I was halfway to orgasm before we’d even started. But when he reached down the front of my panties to stroke my swollen clit, I let out a helpless whimper that I barely managed to stifle. My excitement was rapidly reaching its peak.

“Are you going to come for me, twenty-seven?” His words were interspersed with gasping breaths as he continued to take me higher and higher.

“Uh-huh,” was all I could utter, writhing against him and letting my body speak for me.

“Good—I’m going to watch every second of it,” he said. I looked into the mirror once more, focusing on his handsome face as his fingers and cock took me over the edge. I cried out loud, staring into the reflection of his ice-blue eyes as I shivered through my climax.

Seconds later, he moaned softly, and I felt his cock pulse within me. His hips jerked erratically as he came, holding me tightly in his arms.

Just then, we heard the warning bell sound from the bar, announcing that intermission was over. Breathless and laughing, we rushed to make ourselves presentable and rejoin the crowd.

It didn’t matter what his tag said—he was definitely number one on my list.

Permission

By Justine Elyot

Now that I am in the middle of this long-term dream, alone with my

campervan and a card deck of differing possible futures, I am not sure how to deal with it. Perhaps there are too many years of asking permission behind me. Perhaps I need someone’s permission to pursue the adventures I never had and be the person I never was. The freedom is strangely terrifying—just me, my cup of tea and the open road. Or rather, the open golf course, which stretches out beyond this car park, all twee and trim with its scissored grass and perky little flags.

And suddenly it is just me, my cup of tea and the golf ball which has splashed rather neatly into it, covering my jeans with milky stains.

The golf ball seems to be my guide. It is telling me something. Expect the unexpected, perhaps, or Don’t park near a golf course.

I fish out the unassuming oracle and frown at it until it brings me my fate, in the shape of a man wearing-trousers and a shirt and a sheepish expression.

“Sorry, sorry, oh God, did it fall in your cup?”

“It’s fine. Tea from a flask tastes like plastic anyway. Here. Go back and swing, or drive, or whatever you golfers do.”

“Swinging and driving both sound like more enjoyable alternatives.” He loosens another shirt button and pops the ball in his trousers pocket. “Swear not to tell anyone, but I hate golf.”

I laugh. “I don’t blame you. Why play then?”

“Friends thought it would cheer me up. A few rounds after my last day at work before I go home to my empty house.”

“Christ. Life has it in for you, eh? I know the feeling.”

He shuffles his feet inconclusively. He wants to stay but he feels he ought to go. He has a handsome, open face and gorgeously tanned forearms. For the first time in my life, I see that I am in a position to give, rather than seek, permission.

“I’d ask if you fancied a cup of tea, but that was my last. I’ve got half a bottle of whisky in the van, though.”

He smiles, edges a little closer to my folding chair and leans on the van bonnet.

“That’s a very handsome offer. Don’t suppose you have ice?”

“Alas, no.” I stand, and I am very close to him, close enough to feel his warmth and smell a mannish combination of toil and aftershave and breath mints. The base of his throat, disappearing down inside the loosened collar, is flushed. He has full lips but his eyes are tired. I forget what I was going to say. “Um.”

“As it comes is fine,” he prompts, and I galvanize my sluggish self, heading inside the van to the coolbox.

Something has happened to me, I think, trying to put my finger on what it might be. Everything seems to have moved slightly, my perception of my surroundings smudged like a charcoal drawing. Is it a paradigm shift? I keep having those. I think it’s something to do with him. Whoever he is.

When I pour him his double measure of the spirit my hand shakes, and he has to keep moving the cup around underneath the glugging neck of the bottle.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I can’t look at him.

“You’re nervous.” He puts a steadying hand on my forearm. I drop the bottle.

“Shit!”

In my panic I simply stare up at him, breathing in jagged arrhythmic gasps. The thought comes to me. I can have you. If I want to. Nothing stands in my way but your permission.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is gentle and his fingers are still on my sleeve.

“I’ve never been—” I stammer, trying to frame the thought and failing. “I could do anything,” I finish lamely.

He blinks.

“I mean, I’ve been trapped for years and now I’m not, and there are things I want to do, but I’m not used to doing things I want to do, and when I look at you, you make me realize I want to do them…”

“Things like this?” He bends his head and kisses me.

I hold the breath, hold the kiss inside me, stare at him in wonder. He understands.

“Exactly. Exactly like that.”

“Then do them.”

Yes. I put my hand on his cheek, hold his face still and cover his lips with mine. He tastes better than whisky, smokier, more fiery. I want to drink him up, explore him inside and out, take and lock that man shape and size of him in my memory. It’s a lush, fat feeling, and I grow lush and fat between my legs with each new collision of mouth, teeth, tongue. His hand fits the small of my back perfectly, and I mold myself around him, maintaining and deepening the connection until our bodies are so close there is nowhere else to go, no other border to cross except that final, ultimate line. And that is the one I want to cross the most.

“I want to be bad,” I tell him, wrapped up and coiled around him, my lips against his ear. “I’ve never been bad. Will you be bad with me?”

“You don’t need to ask me.”

We manage a four-legged tumble into the van where my narrow bed lies white and neat, ready for mussing. I am on top of him, horizontal, pinning him down, having my way with him. The novelty of being near an attractive man who wants me spurs me on, makes my hands unbutton and stroke, makes my mouth nip and lick and kiss, makes my legs spread and rub. Lust chases nerves away, and I seek and find his weakest spots, relishing the throaty sounds of abandonment I win from my passionate stranger. He likes pressure behind his ears and gentle sucking bites on the soft flesh of his neck. He likes my palm, flat against his hot chest, jumping slightly with each thud of his heart. He likes my pelvis, nudging the hard mound in his trousers, grinding and teasing it until I have to take pity and unbuckle his belt.

Space is tight in the camper, and every maneuver brings a clash of elbows or a bump of heads, but we don’t care; we laugh at the discomfort then muffle our laughter with kisses. Between grunts and squeezes, between pinches and ouches, we lose our clothes and our inhibitions. Down to our underwear, we slither and slide, trying to fit body parts wherever they will go. He has freckled shoulders broad enough to hang on to and a stomach that could never be used as a washboard, but who wants to use a stomach as a washboard anyway? I enjoy his yielding flesh, squashing my breasts up against it before sitting up on my knees, straightening my back and letting him look at me. I have been afraid to let men look at me, but now, seeing the hunger in his eyes, I can’t think why I hid myself for so long.

“Get that bra off, you hot little minx,” he says, in such an upper-crust accent that I want to squeal and giggle. The combination of cut-glass vowels and filthy talk is potent; I reach behind and unclip. Release the breasts. Feel his eager hands on them, the rough skin catching my nipples in a way that ignites my crotch. I moan and sway on top of him, grinding down on him, inviting him inside. “Do you let just any man undress you and feel your tits?” he asks politely, steadying me with a hand on my bum.