G Is for Games Read online

  G IS FOR GAMES

  Also by Alison Tyler

  Best Bondage Erotica

  Best Bondage Erotica 2

  Exposed

  The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica

  Heat Wave: Sizzling Sex Stories

  Luscious: Stories of Anal Eroticism

  The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica

  Red Hot Erotica

  Slave to Love

  Three-Way

  Caught Looking (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)

  A Is for Amour

  B Is for Bondage

  C Is for Coeds

  D Is for Dress-Up

  G IS FOR GAMES

  F Is for Fetish

  H Is for Hardcore

  G IS FOR GAMES

  EROTIC STORIES

  EDITED BY ALISON TYLER

  Copyright © 2007 by Alison Tyler.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,

  P.O. Box 14697, San Francisco, California 94114.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman

  Text design: Karen Quigg

  Cleis Press logo art: Juana Alicia

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  Gratitude goes to those Gorgeous Gals:

  The Lust Bites Ladies

  and SAM, always.

  Sex is a body-contact sport. It is safe to watch but more fun to play.

  —THOMAS SZASZ, M.D.

  Having sex is like playing bridge. If you don’t have a good partner, you’d better have a good hand.

  —WOODY ALLEN

  What a wicked game you play.…

  —CHRIS ISAAK

  CONTENTS

  Introduction: Getting Lucky

  No Limits • MADELYNNE ELLIS

  Game, Set, and Match • CHEYENNE BLUE

  The Big Touchdown • ERICA DUMAS

  Play Me • SHEILA DARE

  Think of Baseball • JOEL A. NICHOLS

  Seven Minutes in Heaven • KRISTINA WRIGHT

  Who’s on Top? • EMERALD

  Playing for Keeps • EMILY DUBBERLEY

  Showtime • BONNIE DEE

  Check, Mate • RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL

  Nine Ball, Corner Pocket • MICHELLE HOUSTON

  Unfinished Business • BROOKE STERN

  The Game • ALISON TYLER

  About the Editor

  INTRODUCTION:

  GETTING LUCKY

  GAMBLING ISN’T SOMETHING I’m especially good at. Yet I do love A good bet, and I’ve been told that I have a poker face to be proud of. Sure, I adore the rush of the unexpected win, pulling in the pile of chips with glee. But truthfully, I’m not that bad of a loser. It’s the excitement of playing that turns me on.

  Maybe that’s why I like stories about games so much. The give-and-take. The way a player can lose the upper hand in a heartbeat, as in Kristina Wright’s savagely sexy “Seven Minutes in Heaven”:

  Getting tied up should be a prelude to good, kinky sex, not a drunken party game. Unfortunately, this was one party game that had gone horribly wrong. What had sounded like a good idea when they were all doing shots of tequila in the kitchen, laughing and brushing up against each other, seemed like a very, very bad idea when one was tied up and sitting in a dark closet. Tied up and blindfolded. Burke squirmed in the chair and tested his bonds.

  No deal—they weren’t budging.

  Some games have rules only one player understands, as in Bonnie Dee’s “Showtime”:

  I used to play a game that let me walk on the wild side without actually doing anything too wild. Although in my late twenties, when I put on my old high school uniform and pulled my hair into pigtails, I still looked enticingly illegal. I wore that classic pleated skirt with no panties underneath, slipped my patent-leather shoes on over white bobby socks, buttoned my white Oxford shirt over my braless breasts, and strolled down to the Blue Heron Theater, where the triple-X movies were shown….

  In other games, the rules are created as the players go along, as in Brooke Stern’s “Unfinished Business”:

  “It’s your game, Sarah. I don’t even know if you want to be real.”

  “I want to be real. I do.”

  “Then tell me why you’re here.”

  “I can’t talk about it, Alex. Just do it to me. Please just do it to me.” “Just do what, Sarah?”

  Silence. The rules of the game were very strict. It was her move. Alex couldn’t move for her.

  And then, of course, there’s something to be said for cheating, as in Sheila Dare’s “Play Me”:

  She’d lost the game—she’d climaxed first. But he’d cheated. He’d broken the rules and touched her.

  Opening her eyes, she said with a smile, “Looks like we’re going to have to play for the best two out of three.”

  So get ready, get set…are you feeling lucky?

  Then go…

  XXX,

  Alison Tyler

  MADELYNNE ELLIS

  NO LIMITS

  GREEN, RIGHT FOOT.”

  I edged my foot across the tacky plastic.

  “No limits.”

  No limits? It was the first thing he said to me. Our arms were cunningly entwined at the time, my nose pressed up against his arse, and his lips level with my right knee. Colored plastic, stuck to our palms and feet, squeaked and sighed with our every move. We were the final pair in a Twister death match, and I for one was going for broke.

  “No limits to what exactly?” I asked. How much strain my calf muscles could take in order to make this a victory for the girls? The naughty look in his shocking blue eyes suggested not. I suspected he had something far more risqué in mind. So possibly what he meant was that there were no limits to how big a spectacle he was prepared to make of us. Not that I was worried on that score. You don’t play Twister in a short skirt and fishnets without weighing up the consequences first. I knew exactly how much I had on display, and he couldn’t strip me naked with his eyes.

  “Left hand, red.”

  His palm slithered down my inner thigh, wakening hungry nerve endings, en route to its destination, the colored circle by my foot.

  Okay, make that no limits to how much of a conniving bastard he was prepared to be in order to win. Slapping his wandering hands away would mean taking my own off the mat. Bingo!—instant victory to him, as if I’d fall for that.

  “Mind your paws,” I hissed, instead.

  He stuck out his little finger in response and traced it along the sensitive bit on the side of my foot just below the ankle. He couldn’t know it was a sweet spot, but I shivered all the same and felt a spark leap right up my leg and into my groin. He did it again. This time my clit tingled with need, and heat seeped into my cheeks.

  “Stop that!”

  He grinned.

  I contemplated taking a bite out of his behind. It was rather attractive, now that I considered it. Firm, squeezable, and just perfect for scoring tiger stripes on with my fingernails.

  “Right foot, blue.”

  Ah, payback time. Now let’s see how good your balance is, I thought wickedly.

  Instead of taking the easy option and giving myself some breathing space, I moved in closer and slid a stocking-covered thigh beneath his chest. My skirt slid up my leg leaving him staring at the smooth pale expanse of skin between the fishnet and my thong.

  Gratified, I watched him wobble in response. H
e puffed a breath upward across his face, which lifted his feathery blond fringe. Not bad. I’d managed to get a reaction without resorting to touch.

  “Red. Left foot.”

  He swiveled on his right foot, turned, hit the circle—and suddenly we were face-to-face.

  He stared into my eyes, with his Cupid’s bow lips slightly parted, plump, soft, and ready to kiss. I watched entranced as he slowly licked his lips.

  “Left foot, green.”

  I brought my other leg forward, locked my arms against their protests as they took most of my weight, and somehow managed to keep my bum aloft.

  “Right hand, green.”

  The spinner was on speed dial.

  He leaned forward over me. “Think you can hold it steady?” he asked.

  “No sweat. Do your worst.”

  He laughed, dipped his head, and licked a bead of perspiration from my breast.

  I swallowed as his tongue tip lit sparks inside my chest: my nipples steepled in response, distorting the stretch fabric of my top. I wanted more and strained upward, eager to feel the brush of his tongue against those sensitive peaks. I no longer cared that he was resorting to touch. I wanted more and I wanted it fast. I stretched upward, but he lifted himself higher, out of reach. He was trembling, too, and when I gazed along the length of his supple body, there was no missing the pleasing bulge beneath his fly.

  My body seemed to liquefy at the sight, leaving a damp patch on my black lace panties. I wondered if he could smell my heat, my lust. I wondered if he guessed how much I ached to touch him.

  “Yellow. Left hand.”

  “No limits,” I whispered as I moved. “When are you going to fuck me?”

  He flicked his fringe out of his eyes with a shake of his head. “Once I’ve won.”

  I arched a plucked eyebrow. “You won’t win.”

  “Left hand, blue.”

  He shifted his weight to one arm and cupped his hand behind my head. His lips brushed mine. They teased, promising so much, fluttering over the surface in a gentle caress. He sucked at my lower lip, holding me captive when what I wanted was something deeper, hotter, and more intrusive. This tease was only exaggerating my need. Then his hips descended and the delicious bulge beneath his zipper brushed against my stocking top. I teetered.

  “Nearly,” he whispered, lowering his hand.

  Somehow, I managed to regain my balance.

  “Right hand, blue.”

  Damn it! I was cornered. My only option was to place my hand on the circle he already occupied. That’s not strictly legal, but I wasn’t beyond bending the odd rule.

  I stretched my fingers toward him and interlocked mine with his. He clasped me tight in response. We’d progressed from combatants to symbionts.

  Suddenly, the crowd surged forward, screaming incentives and put-downs, encouragement and outrage. One drunken fool barreled into us.

  I wobbled…my hand slipped. But even as I tumbled, he held on to me and we collapsed together, to the thunder of applause.

  On the mat, still tangled, he slipped his hand between my thighs to cup my mons. A single finger wriggled beneath the lace of my pants and into my wet heat. But the touch was fleeting, lasting only moments, before he pulled me to my feet. Hand in hand, we bowed. As the crowd applauded our efforts, he brought his stealthy finger to his mouth and sucked. He was tasting me, and there was no mistaking the pleasure in his eyes as a result.

  I tweaked the Twister dial with my toes and watched it spin. The colors blurred. I smiled. Our bout was declared void. But I knew that we were both winners and that there would be more than just hands and feet moving between us tonight.

  CHEYENNE BLUE

  GAME, SET, AND MATCH

  GATHERINGS AT MY BROTHER’S HOUSE were always dull, and this barbecue promised to be the usual mundane crowd of jawing suburbanites. My brother and his equally dull wife lived in one of Melbourne’s most mind-numbing suburbs, and any gathering they hosted was a boring cacophony of accountants, teachers, and housewives all clattering on about their kids. Not my scene at all. If it were up to me, I’d have spent my Sunday afternoon—the hottest day of the Melbourne summer so far—in my air-conditioned apartment exploring the possibilities of my new vibrator. But I had to go—it was his birthday and I’d promised.

  I arrived late, grabbed a beer, and looked around. Same old, same old. I made a mental note of the whereabouts of a few people I wanted to avoid and went to sit in a quiet corner, waiting until I could grab my brother, give him his present, and get the hell out of there. Even in the shade of a large wattle, the sweat rolled off me in waves, soaking though my singlet and into the waistband of my shorts. With nothing better to do, I idly watched the guests.

  I saw her almost immediately, and my gaydar gave a little ping. Hell, who am I kidding?—it leaped off the scale. I looked closer. She was younger than I was, maybe in her early twenties, and the sort of cool blonde preppy kid I normally avoid. She was wearing tennis whites—a fresh, newly pressed skirt and a sort of cute, bobsy little top. Her hair was pulled off her neck into a jaunty ponytail. I watched her chat to my niece’s kindergarten teacher, a desultory conversation that had her eyes flitting around the backyard, looking for escape.

  The second time her eyes swept over me, I stared back. Her gaze moved on, then snapped back as if it were on elastic. I chugged my beer, threw the can into my sis-in-law’s banked rows of flowers and waited for her to approach.

  It took, oh, two point six minutes. I had closed my eyes and was jerked up in my seat by the feel of an icy-cold tinnie rolling around the back of my neck.

  “Need a beer?” she asked.

  She moved in front of me, and her crotch was level with my eyes. The short tennis skirt swayed as she shifted, and her lean brown legs had the sort of glorious bowline to the inner thigh that I love. Curved and hollow. It always makes me want to rest my cheek there and savor the taste of things to come. This was no exception. I could see downy blonde hairs on her thigh, so fine they could be cobwebs.

  “Yeah, thanks.” I dragged my gaze from her legs and accepted the beer.

  “I’m Pippa.” She squatted down on the grass in front of me, and I could see her panties. White of course, to go with the tennis outfit. I could smell trouble, there in the salty waves coming off her cunt.

  “Excuse the clothes,” she continued. “I live next door, and I was going to play a set with my sister, but she changed her mind when she saw the free beer here.”

  “You have a court next door?” My interest was roused. Tennis is my game, too; I like the competition; the combination of skill, force—and of course the women in shorts. Martina Navratilova got a lot of dykes into the game; I’m no exception.

  “I do. Not a very good one, but I don’t care. I like a game.”

  “Me too.” I chugged my beer, and stood. “Wanna play?”

  She caught my double meaning, no doubt about that, but she didn’t hesitate. Her eyes raked me from top to toe, taking in the singlet and baggy shorts. “You got shoes?”

  “In the car. I’ll get them.”

  “That house there,” she said, jerking a thumb. “The court is at the back, behind the hedge. Very private. You can’t see it from the road or from here.”

  Her meaning was obvious, and a tingle of arousal ran from my nipples to my cunt, as surely as if they were connected by a cord. “Five minutes.”

  When I found the court, she was already there, practicing her serve. I watched for a moment, studying her long, loose swing and the way she threw the ball high, before pounding down on top of it. She was good. I picked up the spare racket leaning against the chair, walked to the opposite end, and bounced experimentally on the balls of my feet. Pippa inclined her head and batted a slow ball at me. I corrected my stance and drove back a forehand down the tramlines. For a few minutes we rallied back and forth, warming up. She was a club player, that was obvious—good control and heavy topspin. Not too much power behind it. I was more rough-and-ready, somewha
t wilder, but I had greater strength and occasional erratic flashes of brilliance.

  We tossed for serve and she won. I nearly missed her first ball—I was watching how her skirt flipped up, showing her panties as she smashed down on the ball. My return went wide. Fifteen–love. I concentrated on the second point, and we fought a long rally. Her long brown legs flashed around, and her breasts jiggled with the force of her ground strokes. A distraction for sure, but I held my own, making her run. Fifteen-all.

  For the next twenty minutes, we played with heavy concentration. I summoned the steel of my idol Martina and fought every point doggedly, my flashes of luck compensating for my erratic backhand. The sweat rolled, and my hair clung to my neck in damp spikes, but I kept fighting.

  She was three-two up and we were changing ends when I made my move. She handed me the water bottle, but instead of taking it, I grasped her wrist and pulled her closer—close enough that I could see her dusky nipples underneath the white top.

  Her smile was feline. “I didn’t think you really wanted to play tennis.”

  In answer, I wrapped my arm around her neck, bringing her close. I could see and feel the sheen of dampness on her cheeks, her parted lips and heavy breath before I closed the gap and kissed her. The day may have been hot already, but when her lips touched mine, the temperature shot up by another few degrees. Her hands—tiny hands, I noticed now—anchored my head and our mouths crashed together, opening, tongues tangling.

  Liquid her mouth and instantly liquid my cunt. Our hands explored her back, my shoulder, her waist, my breast. I dropped my head, seeking the curve of her neck and shoulder, pushing my face into the muscle, smelling fresh sweat and sunshine. My tongue lapped at her sun-warmed skin, salty like the sea.

  Pippa tilted her head, letting me explore, encouraging me with small mumbles of pleasure. Her scent rolled off her, intoxicatingly female. I fancied I could smell her salty cunt, curling through the humid area.