Alison's Wonderland. Alison Tyler

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t let her finish. He grabbed both of her fluttering wrists in his harsh grip and dropped the thick yellow snake of cord. “You think you rule the world down there under the fancy floor. Barking up orders and making our job that much harder. You think you are so scary, Philomena. But you’re not. My God, look how small you are! And you do a piss-poor job of handling sexual tension.”

      He pushed her into a small storage room and shut the door. Philomena did her best to bark out a sarcastic laugh as if to say, You don’t scare me, you dirty labor person! Instead, the noise became some kind of sultry sigh that made even Billy Benjamin pause. She caught herself then. “There is no sexual tension. You are clearly insane.”

      “Yeah?” He stepped into her then. His belly to hers. The fly of his jeans to the skirt of her dress. His broad hard chest to her wildly struggling breast. Her body tried so hard to suck in air, but all she managed to take in was more and more of the scent of him.

      “Mr. Benjamin—” That was as far as she got when his hands clamped down on her hips. Without thinking, Philomena pushed her pelvis to his pelvis. She slid her body against his, feeling his hard cock between her legs. Wishing she was feeling it sans fabric and panties. He seemed to read her mind, because his hands bunched the fabric of her dress in his hands, hiking it up, drawing the dress up slowly like a curtain. Then he lost his patience and shoved his hands under the hem. Fingers on her hosiery. She started to wiggle to help them down, but Billy had other plans. The sound of her nylons tearing filled the teeny, tiny closet.

      “Those were new!” She said the words with wild displeasure, but her legs fell open for him and she shivered with fresh whorish delight.

      “Tough shit. I’ll buy you another pair,” he responded, his mouth buried between her breasts. His tongue darting into her cleavage until she held his head to her chest like she was drowning. “I can’t breathe,” he said.

      “Right. Sorry.” She let him go as he dropped to his knees, growling and grumbling about her bitchy nature all the way down. Her fingers flitted over his soft flannel shirt as he put his mouth to her thigh and began kissing. It was as if all her dirty fantasies had come true. “You smell nice and sweet for such a bossy prude,” he growled, and put his mouth over her small satin panties. The heat of his mouth bled into the fabric like a stain.

      “I’m not a prude,” she managed to say, plucking at his wide shoulders.

      “Yeah?”

      She nodded, silent but gasping for air. He tugged her panties and she arched her hips for him. Would her heart give out before his mouth finally touched her? No. Because there it was. On her pussy, licking and pushing at her until she threw her head back and let him eat her any way he pleased. This was better than being in control.

      “You don’t scare me.” He pushed his fingers deep inside her and curled them. The room swayed a bit.

      “I know.”

      “You’re bossy but not scary. At least to me.” Curl, curl, curl went his fingers. Flick, flick, flick went her cunt. Heat flooded her limbs, her hair swished.

      Close. So very close.

      “You don’t need to be that way so much. Calm down a little. Unwind.” Oh, she would unwind, all right. Right here. Right now.

      “Yes, you’re right. Yes, yes, yes!” Philomena cried. She did not need to be so rigid. Looser and more relaxed could be good.

      She tugged this big Billy up and attacked his zipper. “Look, I’m not a closet sex person.”

      He nodded. Helped her trembling hands.

      “But you…You are…what? Magical? Brave? Maddening? Whatever. I’ve been having dirty fantasies about you, and now…” The pants were down and she took him in hand. Big, hard, warm.

      “And now what?”

      “Now let’s do this.”

      He laughed softly and kissed her again. His mouth tasted like vanilla and mint and her. He moved between her thighs, pushed at her, hooked her leg around his waist. Slid in effortlessly and started to move. Philomena had to grit her teeth not to come right there. “See how soft you can be?” He pushed into her harder.

      “Yes.”

      “See how flexible you can be?” He thrust higher, faster, holding her bottom in his big hands. He angled her, and the head of his cock bumped her G-spot perfectly. Philomena was grateful for his size, because her knees sagged and he held her up.

      “Yes, I can be. I do see. I need to…”

      “What?”

      “…ask you…”

      “What?” His mouth settled on her—kissed her, bit her just a bit too hard and in the perfect way.

      “Can you fuck me harder?”

      “That I can do, Ms. Troll.” And he did. Harder, faster. He drove into her until she scratched at flannel and stubble and man and came hard. Again. Heart racing, lips kissing.

      “Philomena,” she said.

      Philomena did not care that her dress was crooked or her hose were ruined when she left the closet. She did not care when a clod of dirt fell on Mrs. Tasselmeyer and her knitting books. She did not care when Small Billy walked over her. Or Middle Billy. Or Big Billy, who stopped to smile down at her and wink. Tapped his watch. A few hours and they’d go out for drinks. And then maybe food at her place. Or him at her place.

      When they started the sander directly overhead and her patrons complained, Philomena just smiled her secret smile, because she might not be scary and she might be small, but big had definitely been the right word for Billy. Big Billy.

      David

      Kristina Lloyd

      It’s hot today. I have a problem with the heat because I sweat and my sweat is pink. Pink sweat attracts notice, forcing me to flee to another town to preserve my secret. But damn it, I like this place and I want to stay.

      When I was mortal over forty years ago, I was a woman who lived for parties, sunshine and attention. I would dance barefoot on beaches on warm summer evenings, and late at night I’d still be there, laughing around a campfire with my beautiful friends, hippies in beads hoping to save the world through sex, love, peace and hashish. I look at my generation now and wonder if we couldn’t have tried a little harder.

      But no matter. They’re not my generation anymore.

      My sweat is pink and it’s a problem.

      A passerby tosses a coin onto the cloth at my feet. Quite a pile I’m getting today. It’s the sun, you see. It brings people out, makes them loose with their cash. And this loose cash is making me feel loose with my morals.

      I stare blankly ahead. I’m coated in white body paint and wreathed in a toga, my hair coiled high and dyed a bright chemical pink. My arms are held in an elegant curve, chin angled to the left. I am a busker, a living statue, and I’m very good at my job. Crowds gather. They stare and smile. A few will move tentatively closer. “It’s like she isn’t even breathing,” they’ll whisper.

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