Afternoon Delight Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Alison Tyler

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Praise

  Introduction

  AFTER MIDNIGHT

  EARLY BIRDS

  BREAKFAST IN BED

  COUNTRY PLEASURES

  FORBIDDEN FRUIT

  NOONER

  ANOTHER HOLE WEEK

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Sunday

  CHLOE’S CONFESSION

  BACK WHEN

  POPSICLE IN THE LIBRARY

  MORNING, NOON, AND NIGHT

  WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD

  DISCO QUEEN

  STRAIGHT-LACED

  TO FEEL SEXY

  ON ISLAND TIME

  VIEW OF A ROOM

  DATE AT SOUTH STATION

  KNIT ONE, PURL TWO

  MATINEE

  BLACK LIGHT

  NIGHT SHIFT

  SQUARE LOOPHOLE

  THE AWAKENING

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  Also by Alison Tyler

  Best Bondage Erotica

  Best Bondage Erotica 2

  Caught Looking (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)

  Exposed

  Frenzy

  Got a Minute?

  The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica

  Heat Wave: Sizzling Sex Stories

  Hide & Seek (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)

  Hurts So Good

  Love at First Sting

  Luscious: Stories of Anal Eroticism

  The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica

  Naughty or Nice?

  Never Have the Same Sex Twice

  Open for Business

  Red Hot Erotica

  Slave to Love

  Three-Way

  A Is for Amour

  B Is for Bondage

  C Is for Coeds

  D Is for Dress-Up

  E Is for Exotic

  F Is for Fetish

  G Is for Games

  H Is for Hardcore

  I Is for Indecent

  J Is for Jealousy

  K Is for Kinky

  L Is for Leather

  For SAM

  Summer afternoon—Summer afternoon…the two most beautiful words in the English language.

  —Henry James

  There was a disturbance in my heart, a voice that spoke there and said, I want, I want, I want! It happened every afternoon, and when I tried to suppress it it got even stronger.

  —Saul Bellow

  INTRODUCTION

  Imagine twenty-four hours of sex—from an early morning wake-up call, through midafternoon quickies, to late evening romps. The stars fade. The hot white light of dawn appears. Time for a new day and a new way to play.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Early Birds” are ready to go before sunrise:When our neighbors first decided to have construction workers come and drill loudly every morning starting at six, I was ready to murder them. I’m not by any stretch of the imagination a morning person. Even after my first two cups of Earl Grey tea, I’m still what you might call slightly sullen—or what my husband Perry might call grouchy. At least, I was, until Perry found a way to ensure that morning is my favorite time of the day.

  Andrea Dale serves up “Breakfast in Bed” of the bondage variety: Delicious aromas tickled my nose. Aw, he’d brought me breakfast in bed! Before I even opened my eyes, I started to sit up.

  That’s when I discovered that he’d also managed to tie my hands to the brass headboard.

  A collection of panties—and the memories each pair calls up—forms the basis for rocking afternoon sex in Sophia Valenti’s “Chloe’s Confession”:There were so many pairs scattered about, I could walk across the room and never actually have my feet touch her hardwood floor. There were cotton boy-shorts, lacy thongs, satin briefs—far too many to count. I bent down and picked up a pair of ruby red silk string bikinis from a nearby pile. As I toyed with the slick material, it felt like water slipping through my fingers. My cock twitched in recognition as I lost myself in the mental image of the garment stretched tightly across her sleek, shaved mound.

  N. T. Morley’s “Black Light” uses neon paint and 1970s-era lighting to illuminate a couple’s late-evening phosphorescent sex life:“And everyone can see,” Mike said into her ear, his thumb working her clit.

  It took her a moment to realize what he’d said; by then, he had slid three fingers into her, out, in again, then out; she’d already undone his belt buckle and had his cock out and was about to bend forward to take it in her mouth. She was moments from his cock and both of them smeared with paint, when it dawned on her what he’d just said.

  “What?”

  He looked puzzled. “Everyone can see,” he said. “You were watching.”

  With one orange-glowing hand, he gestured over to the webcam propped on a tripod, pointing right at them.

  From predawn pounding to late-night lust, Afternoon Delight is filled with sex ’round the clock. Are you ready for your wake-up call?

  XXX,

  Alison Tyler

  AFTER MIDNIGHT

  Nikki Magennis

  Come to me, baby. No, don’t turn on the light. Feel your way across the room. Careful. Watch your feet. Follow the sound of my voice. You know where I am—where I always am at this hour. Sitting in the window, letting the blue night chill my skin.

  I love the small hours. Silence, stillness. Out of the blackness, your slow breath, the sudden warmth of your touch. Fingertips counting down my spine and reaching into the shadows, seeking out the hot spots. Spreading me out naked in front of the window—it’s enough to make the moon blush.

  EARLY BIRDS

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  When our neighbors first decided to have construction workers come and drill loudly every morning starting at six, I was ready to murder them. I’m not by any stretch of the imagination a morning person. Even after my first two cups of Earl Grey tea, I’m still what you might call slightly sullen—or what my husband Perry might call grouchy. At least I was, until Perry found a way to ensure that morning is my favorite time of the day.

  We end almost every night together with some form of sex. If we’re super horny, we’ll go at it like rabbits, doing it once, then waiting a little while, then doing it again (one of the benefits of being partnered with a younger man is that at twenty-seven, Perry can pretty much go all night, while I, on the cusp of forty, am just hitting my sexual peak). But in the mornings, I used to prefer blankets over blow jobs. I’d feel his erection pressing against me, and slide away from him. It wasn’t that I didn’t lust after him, I just didn’t think I could get it together enough to offer up the proper enthusiasm for the act, and if you’re not gonna be into it one hundred percent, why bother?

  But the drilling must have lit a spark in Perry’s mind, because one day, it wasn’t his cock I felt on me, but his tongue. There. Yes, right there between my legs. He’d kissed his way lightly along my hips, then down my thighs before parting them. I felt his sexy stubble brushing against my delicate inner thighs, that area I used to be so embarrassed about, with its pale, soft wiggliness. But Perry loved to linger there, nipping at my skin, teasing me with light brushes of his tongue along my sex. And that’s exactly what he did as the drilling played outside. Just when I started to buck up against him, though, he did something even more amazing: Perry slipped his fancy, expensive headphones over my head.

  Immediately, the drilling was no more, and in its place was Portishead, music to fuck by if ever there was. Or rather, in this case, music to get head by. I was awake yet relaxed, w
ith two huge, fluffy pillows behind me, allowing me to watch as my hot young hunk slowly slurped his way to my center. He kept looking up at me for approval, his wicked, boyish grin making me melt. I spread my legs wider, letting them drop down to give him better access.

  Before Perry, I thought I was so sexually sophisticated. I’d bedded more guys than I could even remember—though all the women I’d seduced stuck out in my head loud and clear. There were only a handful, but they were memorable, and I thought of their heavy breasts, spankable asses, pretty lips, and wet, open pussies when I masturbated. Some of the guys were memorable, too, like the one who’d fucked me on top of his car, or the one who’d given me my first rabbit vibrator.

  But there was one act I had never really been able to let go about, and that was getting head. Sure, I got regular bikini waxes. I was in touch with my body, stroking my pussy every night, using all kinds of vibrators. I loved my cunt; I just didn’t love being on the receiving end of a tongue. I felt antsy, anxious while it was happening, like it was something to get over and done with, not a sensual feast in and of itself.

  I don’t know if Perry had been with girls like me before, or simply intuited what he had to do, but he never pushed. He accepted my refusal of head as calmly as he accepted that I wouldn’t fly overseas and didn’t like shrimp, no matter how many times he taunted me with cocktail sauce. I’m a stubborn girl, and that’s part of my charm. I had figured we were over the oral sex battle, as I’d dubbed it in my head after one too many exes had practically forced their mouths on me.

  But Perry was sly. He made sure he had me hook, line and sinker, and the night we got engaged, once he had that gorgeous amethyst glinting on my ring finger (we’re nothing if not untraditional), he started telling me about his ex, Maya. Maya was The One Who Got Away, and, I’d always be jealous of her. I told him that I’d marry him as long as he finally spilled the beans about her. And so he did, giving me everything I’d wanted to know and more about their three-year relationship, including the fact that she’d demanded to have her pussy licked every day. Yes, even when she had her period. Even when she had a cold. Even while they went camping.

  “I thought I knew a lot about women and how to please them before that, but Maya showed me so much. She made me really love the taste of pussy, and not just the taste, but the feel, the shape, the force behind a woman. I ate her out in so many different positions and places. She made it hot for me, made me crave doing it. She showed me how versatile an act cunnilingus can be.” He signed contentedly, and I looked down and saw that his cock was hard. Rock hard. Sticking straight up. Was I jealous? Well, Maya was the one who had run off with a fashion designer and left him crying into his bowl of Wheaties (literally, that’s what he was eating when she broke up with him). And I was here.

  But, okay, yes, I was a little jealous. I’d be letting this Maya bitch get away with being the one who was most prominent on his tongue if I never let Perry go down on me. So it was pure, seething jealousy, I’m a bit ashamed to admit, that finally got me over the getting-head hurdle. I told Perry he could try, but not to expect miracles, or waterfalls. I wasn’t a gusher; I wasn’t the type to climax from his mouth alone.

  Or so I thought. “Climb on top of me,” he said, indicating his mouth. He wanted me to straddle his face. That was the most embarrassing of all the oral sex positions. “Really?” I asked, stalling.

  “Yes, really.”

  And so I did. I clutched the headboard and held on for dear life. Perry took his time, running his tongue along my lips, letting me get used to the sensation. You can probably guess what happened—after about half an hour, a good twenty-five minutes longer than I’d ever let cunnilingus continue, I came, and boy, did I come! I came all over his mouth, his chin, his neck. I exploded, from the inside out. I dug my nails into the wood of the headboard. I was hooked.

  As Portishead unwound into my eardrums, I reveled in another glorious orgasm thanks to Perry’s tongue. He went on, sucking my clit, swirling his tongue in just the right way, adding his fingers into the mix, until I did it again. I probably made noise when I came, but with the headphones on, I didn’t hear.

  He slipped them off and whispered, “Your turn,” in my ear. He was naked, and his cock beckoned to me. And in case you’re wondering, it’s not a one-sided deal. I love giving head. The drilling was still going on but suddenly I didn’t care. I lunged for his cock, my body primed from my previous orgasms. Sometimes I think I’m a real-life incarnation of Linda Lovelace’s famous film role. When I get aroused, I want something in my mouth. Wait, scratch that—I want Perry’s cock in my mouth. Anything else is just a poor substitute. So after I’d come, being able to suck him in all his hard, aching glory, was like whipped cream on top of a banana split. I opened my mouth and ran the head of his circumcised cock against my tongue. He reached for the headphones and put them on himself this time, and as the sun sliced through the window, I swallowed his nine-inch hard-on, and my pussy responded in kind, acting like it hadn’t just been treated to his tongue’s tender loving care.

  No, my pussy demanded to be in on this action, so with one hand wrapped around his wet, slippery cock, I reached below with the other and began diddling my cunt. I looked up, saw Perry’s eyes on me, and knew he was taking it all in—my mouth tight around him, my frantic breathing, my searching fingers. He, like me, couldn’t enjoy getting head unless the giver was turned on as well. We’re a perfect match like that. I took him all the way down, just the way he likes, and shoved four fingers inside myself. I moaned, and tried to say, “Oh, yeah,” but the words just hummed against his shaft. His hands had been behind his head, the picture of leisure, but then he moved to stroke my hair, mussing it. He likes to see me messy and wild as I suck him. I turned my head from side to side, tears of joy filling my eyes as I moved faster, rocking my hips in time to my mouth.

  I let go again, in a different kind of way, the buzzing of our arousal drowning out any noise coming in from outdoors. “Hmm,” I practically screamed, but again, a scream that was muffled by the hard dick in my mouth.

  “Yeah, baby,” he said softly, plunging his hands into my hair, that pressure just right as I kept going. He stroked my cheek, then my neck, then shifted so he could sit up slightly and pinch my nipple. I moaned and effortlessly deep-throated his entire cock, keeping my lips pressed against his pubic hair as long as I could before rising upward. “Come on my face,” I blurted after sucking in a few breaths.

  He held his cock and I rubbed it against my cheeks, my lips, my neck, wanting to get as much of it in me, on me, as I could to make it a part of me. Perry slowly pumped up and down—he’s not one to jerk himself crazy fast. I watched as his dick emerged from his hand, swollen and stretched so tight. I stuck out my tongue and used the flat width of it to lick his crown, then turned the pointed tip to touch his sweetest spot. Then I sucked just the head, while he squeezed and pumped. My breath was escaping in trembling gasps, my cunt tight around my fingers, when I felt the first hot spurt of his warm cream. I stilled my hand inside me and focused on the feel of the facial, the sensual bath of lust that he was giving me. I’m so honored that Perry wants to coat me like this, to grant me his delicious semen. He spattered me till there was none left, then kissed me lustily, smearing his juices all around. Then we got in the shower for some steamy, slippery fucking.

  That’s how I came to be a first-thing-in-the-morning blow job queen, a role that has continued even after our neighbors’ construction ended. Is our morning oral wake-up call better than our nighttime fucking, or our afternoon quickies, or our postwork sex sessions, or my “emergency” solo time with my vibrator under my desk at work? It’s hard to say. I like it all. I can tell you that getting and giving head right along with the sunrise is the perfect start to my morning. If you knew Perry, you’d understand.

  BREAKFAST IN BED

  Andrea Dale

  Believe me, it was one of those good dreams. You know, the kind you just don’t want to end. It doesn’t
even involve specific details, or flying, or the next day’s lottery numbers.

  It involves sweaty limbs sliding across sweaty limbs, skin aflame with a thousand sensations, and a pleasurable throbbing pressure between your legs that intensifies, and you don’t have to do anything, just revel in the sensations of the orgasm that’s coming any second now….

  The kind of dream that always—always, dammit—gets interrupted.

  As we lay spooned together, I felt my husband’s breath on the back of my neck, then a series of light, playful kisses at the nape. Struggling up through the layers of sleep, I murmured a protest.

  “The kids are at your mother’s, remember?” he said, nibbling on my earlobe.

  Right. I stifled a yawn, still unwilling to reach full wakefulness if I didn’t absolutely have to respond to a crisis. It took me another moment to fully comprehend that Cal was feeling frisky and intent on taking full advantage of the fact that we would not be interrupted by a pair of small, shrieking pajama-clad bodies who would fling themselves onto the bed and demand Count Chocula and the DVD of Shrek 2 for the billionth time.