The Siren

“Yes,” I groan, losing myself inside this fantastical reality, this real fantasy.

“And do you let them take off your knickers and fuck you hard, too?”

“All the time.”

“Good. Because that’s what’s going to happen.”

We grab for each other’s waistbands simultaneously, ripping off the final barriers before my mystery man quickly adds a prophylactic one of his own, then we are preparing, circling, inch by inch, closer, closer, then we are touching, the bulbous head stroking my soaked underlips, prodding my clit, taunting me. This is what you could have. This is what you want. This is what you need. What is he waiting for? I gasp urgently and try to wriggle into position so that I can impale myself on his mocking tool, but he is waiting for something. Waiting for what?

“Do you want this?”

Oh! Permission!

“God, yes, please, put it in me, fuck me.”

“All I needed to hear.” So easily he speeds inside, so quickly he fills me to the brim. I laugh with the unexpected delight of it, a person on a mystery tour finding herself at her dream destination. I work him, he works me, we work together until we come, hard, slapping each other’s arses, swearing and howling and making the van rock on its wheels.

“I’m Nick, by the way,” he pants afterwards. “I don’t know where you’re going, but if you want company…”

“I’m Lisa.” I kiss his salty forehead and think. Just me, a cup of tea and the open road? Or just me, a man and the open road?

I’ve had my fill of tea.

Star Fucker

By John Albert

Richard had never planned on coming to a strange place like Los Angeles. When the envelope arrived, the twenty-five-year-old part-time bricklayer and full time Millwall Football club supporter had all but forgotten the day he and some of his hooligan mates had applied for the Green Card lottery. But a year later he was a world away from of London’s dreary East End, living in sunbathed Los Angeles and hunting celebrities. Paparazzi was what the rest of the world called them.

* * *

Still in her twenties, Melisa should have had a long career ahead of her. Her first few movies, a set of teen horror films, an innocuous romantic comedy and a critically heralded art film, had all been successes, and the one-time child beauty pageant contestant was earning millions. But now all that was in jeopardy as she descended into the typical Hollywood rabbit hole of drugs and public debauchery. After drunkenly collapsing on sidewalks, crashing a car into a taco stand and an arrest outside an after-hours club with a bag of Ecstasy in her purse, she was on the run from the paparazzi. Her handlers had persuaded her to lay low and wait out the media frenzy, which, of course, only made her image that much more valuable.

In the month since her drug arrest, it was Richard alone who had twice caught her. The first was a shot of her smoking a joint in a friend’s backyard, the second time, he found her on the crowded dance floor of a gay club with her shirt off, dancing among a sea of young men. Since then Richard had become obsessed, repeatedly checking his sources of valets, assistants and doormen, and endlessly prowling the streets of Hollywood and Beverly Hills in hopes of a lucky sighting. He had stopped watching soccer, stopped fucking models and could hardly sleep. Sometimes he wondered if, like millions of others, he had fallen for Melisa’s sneering gamine charm. It had now been several weeks without a single sighting, and his editors were baying for an image of her to quench the public’s hunger for titillation masquerading as moral condemnation.

Then, earlier that day, word had arrived. The disgruntled assistant of a sadistic talent agent had been on a call and heard that Melisa was holed up at the hillside home of a celebrity yoga instructor. And so, as the sun slowly descended into the nearby ocean, Richard hiked up a Topanga Canyon hillside through some dry desert brush toward the large picture window of a mid-century home. His mind raced as he imagined finding something incredible like Melisa eating a girlfriend’s pussy or snorting lines of cocaine. Near the window he paused to check his camera. There was a slight rustling in the bushes behind him, and before he could look up, a jolt of electricity seared through his body sending him fluttering into unconsciousness.

* * *

Richard awoke in a candlelit room smelling of incense. As his head began to clear, he realized that he was sitting on a couch, completely naked, and there was a woman standing a few feet off. He knew instantly it was Melisa. She was watching him, holding a small drinking glass, wearing only black satin panties and high heels. He had spent endless hours of the last year gazing at her image, but there in the flesh, he realized she was far more beautiful than he had ever realized. She approached him, leaned in close as if she was about to kiss him, but didn’t.

“Hello,” she offered, deadpan.

He could smell her breath, and it had the tartness of red wine.

“‘Ello there, love,” he responded, attempting to sound unfazed.

She handed him the glass, and for some reason he took a sip. It was whisky, unlike any he had tasted before. The smoothness betrayed its price tag.

“You can leave or you can stay, “ she announced calmly. “But if you decide to stay, we will do this my way.”

Richard nodded, aware of his heart pounding. “Oh, I’m game, love.”

“I thought you might be. You’ve demonstrated a certain obsessive interest in me over the last few months, haven’t you, Richard?”

“You’re a beautiful girl. Who wouldn’t be interested?”

Melisa didn’t respond. Instead she reached down, removed her panties, brought them up and held them in front of his face.

“Contrary to what you people write,” she said, “I do wear panties.”

Then slowly—teasingly—she passed the shimmering material across his face, letting him breathe her scent. He could smell her pussy—an intoxicating mixture of musky sweetness. She dropped the panties onto his already hardened cock.

“Put them on.”

He hesitated and smiled a tad awkwardly. She met his gaze and arched her eyebrows with disapproval. He shrugged and slid them on. The material was tight and constrained his cock and balls. Melisa reached down and, with a long fingernail, began to stroke him.

“Does this feel good?” she asked

He could only nod, as if in a trance.

She slowly slid a finger into her pussy, took it out and placed it against his lips.

“Suck,” she commanded.

He opened his mouth and she slid the finger in, then out and back in again, slowly fucking his mouth.

“How do I taste, baby?”

“So fucking good,” he purred.

“I want to fuck you.”

“Yes—let’s,” he offered, unable to contain a blissful smile. This was really what he had dreamed about all those hours hunting for her. He may have disparaged her name in public, calling her a little whore to coworkers, but there, with her in person, he realized he was completely smitten.

“I don’t think you understand me. I want to fuck you.”

It was obvious from his expression that he didn’t understand. She held up a leather harness with a medium-sized dildo attached to it. His eyes widened. She leaned in and kissed his mouth, her tongue invading his. At the same time her hand began to rub his cock through the panties. A warm moistness began to spread into the material. She lowered her head, slipped the panties aside and took his cock in her mouth, then withdrew and looked at him.

“Well?” she asked.

“Why the hell not?” he offered, his voice cracking slightly.

She pulled the harness on and fastened it around her waist. Next she pushed his legs back toward his ears, slid the panties off , reached down and applied some lubricant to his ass.

“Good boy,” she cooed, her eyes barely open. And then she entered him.

“Fucking hell…” he muttered, wincing.