“Do you ever think about fucking someone else?”
He asks it quietly, casually, as if the concept has just occurred to him. His fingers trail over my hip and then move lower, so that the very tips of his fingers graze my naked pussylips. He bites hard into my bare shoulder, making me squirm, and then he croons the words again. “Do you, baby? Do you ever fantasize about making love to someone else?”
He wants me to tell him—he thinks he wants to know—but I know better. Questions like that are loaded. So of course, I just grin and half-shrug, and moan out the pleasure that I get from his touch. I don’t give away my secrets so easily.
But yeah. Yeah I do. Doesn’t everyone?
I think about the handsome green-eyed man who sits at the counter at the one good cafe in town. I’m always there with my little family, and he’s always there all by himself. Every Sunday morning at 8:30. All by himself with the paper. He’s older than me by far, silver-haired and well-worn in his jeans and his turquoise corduroy shirt. But he’s good-looking in that tough cowboy sort of way, and he’s strong and straight-backed, and I watch him drink his coffee and read the paper, and I think about him.
I dress better than I need to on Sunday morning’s at 8:30, putting a little extra effort into my outfit. I make an effort, and I think he notices. I think he knows I’m dressing for him. When we walk into the cafe, he always looks my way, and I see him memorizing the way I look, as if storing up my image for later use. At least, I hope that’s what he’s doing.
Sometimes, I imagine what I might say if we were to find each other all alone together. Maybe back by the payphones near the two tiny restrooms. I try to picture our conversation, try to hear it in my head. Could I tell him I have such a crush on him? No. No fucking way. Not in a small town like this.
So instead, I fantasize. I think about him sliding me a note that tells me where and when to meet him. Some place safe. Some place close. I think about him taking off my carefully prepared outfit, my polished black boots, crisp jeans, white long-sleeved shirt. I close my eyes and feel his hands on me, stroking me, playing with my long black hair. Then I think about the first kiss, and what it would feel like, and what it would mean. And after that first kiss, I think about him pushing on my shoulders, forcing me down to my knees, and watching me as I undo his fly and free his cock. I think about him grabbing my hair and pulling me forward, hard, so that I just barely have time to open my mouth before his cock slams down my throat. I think about sucking him hard, sucking to the very root of his cock, deep-throating him to show him how much I want him, how much I want to give him pleasure with my mouth. And I do. I want to make him come, want to swallow every drop of him down. I think about him taking his cock out of my mouth, jacking it in his hand while I watch jealously. I think about him rubbing his cock against my cheeks, slapping my face with it, before sliding that length back down my ready throat.
“Do you ever think about fucking someone else?”
Yeah. Oh, god, yeah.
I think about the roughness of his skin against the softness of mine. I think about the way he watches me when I enter the cafe, the way he carefully gazes at me over the top of his paper, never smiling, yet fully acknowledging that he knows what I know—we both think about each other.
Fantasize, I should say.
Because I can see it in his eyes. I can see that he thinks about me when he comes, and this is what makes me dress a little better, and walk a little straighter. The thought of him jerking off to an image of me is what makes me touch myself late at night.
That image blends to an action-picture of him fucking my mouth, of him using me. I can see this so clearly: I’d be naked; he’d be clothed, his jeans split open at the front, his hands so tight on me, gripping me, holding me.
I can feel his cock slipping back and forth between my lips, thrusting hard and forcefully into my mouth, and I know somehow that it would be good. Sex like that with him would be everything I think it would. Hard and quick, so that we could breathe again. Fast and furious with a vicious yet delicious climax, his hands on my shoulders leaving marks on me, bruising me with the intensity of his caress.
It’s my number-one fantasy, sucking off this stranger. My favorite bedtime tale that I tell myself again and again. I change the location. I change the position. But the story is always the same. Me on my knees for a man whose name I don’t know, letting him take his pleasure from me.
I make myself come every time to these thoughts, my body squirming, my hips rising, and in my head I see myself going up to him and saying a slightly altered version of the query my lover asks me: “Do you ever think about fucking me?”
But I don’t have to do that.
I know that his answer would be, “yeah.”
About the author:
Alison Tyler is undeniably a naughty girl. Perhaps this is why she has such fun editing the series Naughty Stories from A to Z 1 & 2, and Bondage on a Budget 1 & 2 (all Pretty Things Press). Her short stories have appeared in anthologies including Sweet Life 1 & 2, Best Women’s Erotica 2002 & 2003, and Erotic Travel Tales 1 & 2 (all published by Cleis), and Wicked Words 4, 5, 6 & 8 (Black Lace).