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  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.

  “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 fuck
ing 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.

  “You’re tough, you can take it,” she teased, starting to build a rhythm. His cock was now hard and jutting out from his body, precome glistening in the candlelight. She clasped her hand around the base of it and began to slowly stroke.

  As absolutely surreal as the whole scene was, he couldn’t keep from studying her face and thinking how incredibly beautiful she was. More than the latex cock entering his ass, it was that fact that made him feel so uncharacteristically vulnerable.

  She opened her eyes and saw him staring up at her. Very casually, she reached out and slapped him across the face. The act and the resulting pain brought him back to the moment, and suddenly, he was about to come. She sensed it and leaned close.

  “Come for me” she whispered.

  And after a brief moment, he did what she asked. With a guttural noise, his body tightened and warm fluid pulsated from his cock onto her hand and his stomach. Then everything stopped, and there was just the sound of Richard’s breathing. Melisa extricated herself, reached down and wiped him clean with her panties. She walked to a nearby table and tossed his clothes to him. As he dressed she switched on a table lamp, and he could clearly see a digital video camera on a tripod pointed directly at him.

  “Fuckin’ hell, what’s that about?” he said, unable to conceal a surge of panic.

  She waved him off like someone dealing with a child. “Calm down. It’s not what you think.”

  Moments later he was fully dressed and standing at the front door, disoriented and still feeling vulnerable. He had no idea what to do—shake her hand? Kiss her cheek? Melisa had put on a silk robe and was holding the small digital video camera. After a moment, she reached out and placed it in Richard’s hand.

  He looked down at the device, “I don’t understand.”

  She put a hand on his chest and pushed him outside, then responded. “As we both well know, that tape is worth a helluva of a lot of money. But…” she paused for effect, “only if you can handle thousands of complete strangers seeing you in such a…completely personal and vulnerable moment. So, you know, it’s up to you.”

  And with that, she shut the door.

  Richard stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Then he turned and walked out into street. After a moment he shook his head, held out the little camera and dropped it on to the asphalt below. He brought a foot down on it and heard a cracking noise. Then, with a step forward, he kicked the device, soccer style, into the valley below. As he began to walk away, Richard broke into a loud soccer chant. “No one likes us, no one likes us, no one likes us, and we don’t care! Let’s go Millwall! He clapped loudly three times and then continued to walk in silence.

  Redi-Wash

  By Jax Baynard

  He could detect several scents: jasmine, sandalwood, gardenia and something citrusy, orange or lemon, he wasn’t sure which. They were the only two people in the coin laundry. It was 1:00 a.m. on a Thursday night, and it was cold out. Sensible people—people who got up at six or people who were not chronic insomniacs—were at home in bed. Maybe she was a student, but she looked older. Her laundry was on the spin cycle. She waited to put it in the dryer, idly flipping through the pages of a magazine, her dark hair falling forward on one side of her face, tucked behind an ear on the other.

  Taking a chance, he said, “Been sampling at the perfume counter again?”

  Looking up in surprise, she said, “How did you know?”

  “The girls in my dorm at college. They used to go shopping and put on all the samples at the department stores.” He sniffed in appraisal. “Right now, I’d say you were wearing about four different perfumes.”

  “Six,” she said happily. “It gives everyone a headache, but I like it.”

  “I like it, too,” he said. “No, really, “ he assured her when she laughed. “I do.” She had a round face and broad cheekbones. Black, gull-winged brows were the only severe note in her face. There was a wrinkle over the left brow, suggesting that she was in the habit of raising it often. Her expression was open and friendly. In a big city, and especially late at night, women stared at him with suspicion, even though he was a regular-looking guy. Five feet ten inches tall, sandy hair, thin lips but a nice smile. Solidly built, though he had heard himself referred to as stocky, a designation he did not particularly mind. Very angular people made him nervous.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. “I mean aside from the obvious.”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

  “Chronic?” she said.

  “Define chronic,” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “Pipes froze,” she said. “Then burst. It’s a hellish mess.”

  “Sorry,” they both said at the same instant, and then smiled—conspirators.

  Her machine whirled to a stop. She transferred the clothes to a dryer, doors gleaming in a long bank, and filled it with quarters. Then she put more quarters in a machine three doors down and started it up again. The still-damp clothing began to tumble slowly, dreamily falling from top to bottom and around again.

  “Yours?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “My good deed for the day. People get stingy with the quarters. Then they come back, and it’s late and they want to go home, but their laundry is still wet.”

  From a distance, he could catch only a lingering trace of her perfumes: a source of regret. She had closed the lid on the empty washer and was looking at the magazine. “Would you like to take the quiz?” she asked.

  “What quiz?” he said.

  “The Beauty Magazine quiz,” she said. “Fodder for idiots. But,” she added prosaically, “if you can’t sleep you’ll have to take what you can get.”

  “Fine,” he said, standing up. If it meant being near her, he was happy to be fodder.

  “Are You a Romantic?” she asked seriously.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he said.

  She laughed, fishing a pen out of her bag. “I warned you.” He was standing next to her, inhaling the smell of her skin, dense with scent, and the acrid overlay of old detergent and dryer sheets. She leaned her elbows on the washer, pulling the top off the pen with her teeth. “Question one,” she said. “Would you have sex on a first date? Yes or No.”

  “Yes,” he said. She made a mark on the page.

  “Question two. For your first date would you bring, a) roses, b) daisies, c) orchids, or d) carnations?”

  “E,” he said. “All of the above.”

  “That’s not an option,” she said, “but I’ll give it to you anyway. Question three. After the f
irst date, you call her in, a) one day, b) three days, c) seven days, or d) three weeks?”

  “This is painful,” he said.

  “Answer, please,” she said sweetly.

  “If it was a good date, I would call her that night. If it was a bad date I wouldn’t call ever.”

  She slanted him a look. “Are you trying to fail the quiz? Fine. We’ll call that A.” She marked the appropriate box.

  He reached out a hand and brushed back her hair, pushing the mass of it over her other shoulder. He breathed her in, happy. “Tell me to stop,” he said quietly. “And I will.”

  Her eyes remained downcast on the page. “Don’t stop,” she said. “Question four. You are having a quiet evening at her place when her ex calls, insisting he needs to talk. You, a) shout profanities and storm out, b) get up and make chamomile tea, c) open a fresh package of batteries for her vibrator, or d) announce, ‘It’s him or me babe’—and let her make the choice.”

  He ran his hand down her back, a long back, widening into hips. “Did you pay for this?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “I found it under a chair. Which one?”

  “Uh…” He struggled to recall the choices. “Next time I find myself in that situation, I’ll try C.” His hand moved past her hips, down to the hem of her dress and below. “Question,” he said. “What are my favorite kind of stockings? Answer: A, thigh-highs.” He knelt down and kissed the exposed skin of her thighs. Continuing upwards and pulling aside the ridiculously tiny piece of material masquerading as underwear, he kissed along the seam of her…a flurry of words presented themselves, none of which seemed quite right. He would affix a name to it later, when he remembered this moment. He licked up and then down, opening her with his tongue. He captured her clit and sucked gently, all his movements holding a certain determination but lacking aggression, as if the words he’d spoken were a kind of vow and not what a man says when he wants to get his hands on a woman. Under his mouth she grew wet and aroused, the smell of a different kind of potency altogether. Her knees flexed. She reached into the capacious bag from which the pen had emerged and handed a condom back to him.