Boink, page 2
Kat squirmed in my arms and I squirmed back. She grabbed my cock in her hand, running her fingers down the tense chiseled head and along the thick shaft. She parted her legs and guided me into her. Her warmth engulfed my cock. I felt her muscles rippling inside her, squeezing me. I sank deeper and just held her for a moment, silently.
“So, we’re gonna go to Spain, right?” she blurted. We both cracked up. I pulled out of her, laughing, and then pushed back in. Kat and I struck up a rhythm that advanced and receded. We broke into solos and twisted with each other. We improvised, made mistakes, got out of synch, and corrected our occasional awkwardness.
* * *
“Faster,∫ she panted, and I sped up. Her pelvis shifted and she forced my fingers deeper and higher up into her. Kat bit her lip and yelped. Then she let out a deep alpine sigh, and her body relaxed.
* * *
The two of us screwed for an hour. Our leg muscles burned from thrusting, and my left knee felt sore, so we stopped and cuddled, spent. We whispered to each other about mundane things, until we both tired of talking in low, throaty bed voices, and fell quiet. She reached over to the nightstand and grabbed a strawberry and shoved it at my mouth. I bit a chunk, and juice rolled down my chin. She licked it off, and before I could bite the rest of the berry, she had eaten it. Her stained fingertips dangled the strawberry leaf in front of me.
“Bet they won’t have these in San Diego.”
They don’t.
The rest of the weekend passed like any other mash-up of summer, when you realize that it’s almost done and that you wasted most of your time doing nothing. She seemed okay about me moving to San Diego for grad school, and that surprised me. I thought she would get all weepy and emotional, but instead I was the one fighting back tears when we had lunch at the diner, a few minutes before I had to catch my train back home. We ate sandwiches, paid, and left. As we walked around the corner she suddenly pushed me against the dirty brick and grabbed my face. We kissed, lewdly, for a minute. Then Kat let me go.
“That’s gotta last me a while.” She sighed, slapped my ass, and sent me off toward the wheezing Amtrak engine. I didn’t have the courage to ask her how long.
Back home, I packed my bags and bought my plane ticket to California. The strawberry patch turned brown at the end of August, so I plowed it under and covered the fresh dark earth with hay. Little plants like that survive for a few good years and produce fantastic fruit, and don’t let anyone tell you it’s hard. Growing strawberries is the easiest thing in the world as long as you don’t live in Alaska or Guam. They can be grown hydroponically, or in greenhouses, or on factory farms with black plastic fields. But they only last so long before you need to replant. They thrive on rich soil, water, room to spread, and not being stepped on. Strawberries do not need grand conceptions, or excuses, or phone bills. They last as long as they can.
Leaving Kat gave me that sinking feeling that everyone says is in the heart or stomach, but is really in your pancreas. It’s the same gravitational certainty like when you’re lying on a couch at an angle and it’s really slippery, and you start sliding off because you’re wearing silk pajamas. Kat never wore silk pajamas, and I never slid off the couch, but we could have. We could have been many things.
Right now, I’m a caffeinated fraction of an airport security guard’s day, dying a slow boredom death at the Cleveland airport. Outside the terminal, a hazmat crew removes a dirty diaper from the toilet of my connecting flight. In five and a half million hours I will be in San Diego, the victim of ultraviolet onslaughts and Chevron gas prices.
Five months ago I ate strawberries and cereal with Kat, who burps when she orgasms and never notices when milk from her Corn Flakes splashes onto her Buddy Holly glasses. Kat, whose brilliant mind tackles everything sideways. Kat, who I didn’t break up with or get dumped by, who faded from my life along with the strawberries I used to grow and pick in the morning when we woke up. We didn’t fight or love each other. We just faded away in the geography, while the sinking feeling and the fragrant memory of her strawberry ghost kills me every night and morning that they are gone from me.
The Wager
by EVA
LARGE PRIVATE UNIVERSITY
I’VE JUST STARTED TO GO down on her when there’s a knock on the door. Resting my head on Amy’s thigh, I look up into her face and we exchange mischievous glances. “Shall I get it?” I ask her. She nods, tugging a sheet around her body in a way that accentuates her nakedness more than it hides it. I grab my crumpled cotton kimono from the floor of our less than tidy apartment in the student ghetto of Boston, don it, and hurriedly tie the sash for the benefit of any watching neighbors—not that I don’t have an exhibitionist streak in me, but I prefer to flash people deliberately, not by accident.
Before I can decide whether I should appear eager or seductive I’m pulling the door open and grinning into his face. Hmmm. Suppose eager it is. Grabbing Kyle’s arm, I drag him inside and push the door shut with my hip. I kiss him on the mouth, knowing he’ll be able to taste Amy on my lips. He looks amused as we pull apart again, our eyes dancing over each others bodies. “You were late, so we started without you,” I tell him. He laughs.
I take his hand and lead him to the bedroom where Amy’s waiting. He sits on the edge of the bed to kiss her hello. The warmth grows between my thighs as I watch his hands slide over her plump hips, her long auburn hair spilling down her back as she caresses his clean-shaven cheek. They were lovers, once, before I knew them; now they’re both mine. I’m quivering with anticipation at the thought of being with them simultaneously, not sure who I’m more excited to share.
As soon as their lips part, I sit next to Kyle and tug on his jacket. “He’s wearing far too many clothes, don’t you think?” I raise an eyebrow at Amy.
“Hmm, yes, I agree,” she replies with mock seriousness. He lets us have the jacket. Then Amy goes to work on his shirt, while I’m undoing his fly. He’s playfully distracting us, fondling Amy’s breast, sliding his hand up my thigh, under my robe. We make feminine tsk tsk tsk sounds and giggle. Amy bites his shoulder, and I slide off the bed to pull off his shoes.
* * *
His fingers slide between my legs, one bends up to gently penetrate me. I gasp. Amy gasps too; I realize he's done the same to her.
* * *
Kyle pretends to struggle as we strip off everything but his underwear, and the beauty of his well-toned muscles distracts me momentarily from the tussle. We’re all laughing now as we wrestle, and Kyle is deliberately losing. “I’m being manhandled!” More giggles, and then I climb back on the bed. We sandwich him between us. He puts an arm around each of us and we snuggle close. Amy reaches across him to tug open the knot holding my sash in place, letting my robe fall open, revealing my breast for Kyle to eye appreciatively. She winks; he grins.
“We want to play a game,” Amy tells him, tweaking his nipple. Kyle’s fingers pull back my robe, revealing my hip and side.
“Oh, a game,” he says. “And how is it played? Something like this?” His fingers slide between my legs, one bends up to gently penetrate me. I gasp. Amy gasps too; I realize he’s done the same to her. I tweak his other nipple a bit harder and he yelps.
Amy and I smile at each other. “This game involves a blindfold,” I tell him, producing a long, opaque silk scarf from under a pillow and dropping it onto his chest with a flourish. We rub the silk temptingly over his skin, caressing his cheeks, neck, and chest. Our hands run lightly over his hips, still covered by his boxers. I feel the heat as my hand nears his loins. “So do you want to play?” I ask, smiling sweetly.
“How could I say ‘no’?” he replies with a curious look in his brown eyes. Amy gives his balls a little encouraging squeeze.
He sits up, and Amy holds the blindfold in place while I tie it. Kyle’s hands continue to move over our bodies, and I see his nostrils flare as the scent of our juices reaches his nose. He licks his fingers one at a time, like a little boy surreptitiously eating honey. “So do I get to pin a tail on something? Or maybe just pin some tail?” We laugh and shove him back down on the bed, pinning him by the shoulders instead. After exchanging a knowing look, we simultaneously stick our tongues in his ears. Kyle shudders.
I let my robe slide off and we remove his boxers without further ceremony. Amy and I start to work him over lightly with our mouths and hands, stopping occasionally to caress each other, or to kiss, knowing he’ll be able to feel and hear but not see us. My tongue is running over Kyle’s skin but I’m focusing on Amy, enjoying our combined power over him, wondering how hard we’re going to make him come.
* * *
My tongue is running over Kyle's skin but I'm focusing on Amy, enjoying our combined power over him, wondering how hard we're going to make him come.
* * *
We migrate down to his thighs and are nibbling at his most delicate parts, licking the soft skin of his cock, tugging at his scrotum, our hands caressing him and also each other. He’s grasping, unable to keep his hands to himself, lifting himself off the pillow to reach for our breasts and between our legs. We stop momentarily and I give Amy a wink. Then she bends to barely take the head of his cock in her mouth, and I push him firmly back down onto the pillow. Lowering my mouth to his ear, I tell him softly, “We have a little wager going,” and bite his earlobe for emphasis. Behind my back, I hear Amy move, causing Kyle to moan. “We have a bet about whether or not you’ll let us tie you up.” Amy moves again, and he writhes, momentarily unable to answer. “And if you don’t let us,” I say a little louder for her benefit, “there’s always the old-fashioned way.” As I finish my sentence, I straddle him, grab his wrists, and pin them to the bed beneath my legs. I bite his shoulder, neck, and jaw, and then kiss him, thrusting my tongue possessively into his mouth as I feel him lifting his hips.
When I pull back, Kyle says a little breathlessly, “Okay.”
I pinch one of his nipples. “Okay what?” I tease.
“You can tie me up,” he says.
Lovingly, Amy removes her mouth from his cock and begins to dig in the bag next to the bed. She emerges with a pair of black leather cuffs; lengths of chain with fasteners are already attached to the metal loops. Amy and I kiss as she hands one to me. The cold links drag across his chest, making him shiver. It’s short work for the two of us to attach the Velcro, firmly buckle the straps around his wrists, then secure the chains to the legs of the bed. There’s an inch or two of slack, and we watch him tug at his bonds, feeling the constricted range of movement.
I enjoy the spectacle of my athletic lover chained to the bed, a faint sheen of sweat beading on his upper lip. Kyle could probably break free if he panicked, but for our purposes he’s well and thoroughly caught. Chuckling softly in his ears, Amy and I let him know he is our prisoner. We each kiss him passionately, and our hands begin moving indiscriminately over exposed skin.
The level of play intensifies as we cover Kyle with tiny bites, pinching him, scratching down his sides, running our hands over his tightening muscles with firm strokes. Soon we’re both massaging his stiff cock, moving the foreskin over his swelled head and playing with his balls. I flick my tongue over his head, open my mouth and abruptly thrust him down my throat, then withdraw again using circular motions with my tongue. Amy smiles at me, and I stop to kiss her, taking a moment to tuck her flowing dark hair out of her eyes and behind her ear. It’s her turn again. This time I watch intently, not wanting to miss a second of it. Her eyes close; soft lips redden as they close around him. Kyle thrashes repeatedly and tries to thrust, but I am straddling one of his legs and have it lightly pinned down. He moans steadily now.
* * *
Soon we're both massaging his stiff cock, moving the foreskin over his swelled head and playing with his balls. I flick my tongue over his head, open my mouth and abruptly thrust him down my throat, then withdraw again using circular motions with my tongue.
* * *
With both my hands momentarily free, I reach over to the bedside table for the lubricant and coat the middle fingers of my right hand. My knee has already forced his thighs apart, and my fingers slide between them to find the tender bud of his anus. With circular motions, mirroring the movement of Amy’s mouth on his cock, I begin to coax it open, teasing the muscles to relax and let me in. With my free hand, I reach up to rub his chest. “Doing all right, sweet-heart?” I ask him. He manages an affirmative grunt just before Amy engulfs his cock again, causing him to cry out in surprise and pleasure. His muscles are relaxing, and I slide my finger in slowly, timing the little pulses of pressure to syncopate with the movement of Amy’s hands and mouth. I stroke her hair back from her face again, running my nails lightly over her back. Her eyes open dreamily and smile at me before drifting shut again. Inside him, my fingertip brushes the hard walnut I’m looking for and he moans deeply, pulling at the restraints.
From Kyle’s breathing I can tell he’s getting close, so I stroke Amy’s back and ask her (more for his benefit than for hers), “Should we let him come yet, my dear?” Her mouth releases him for a moment and the rhythm of her hand slows slightly.
“Oh no, I don’t think he sounds nearly desperate enough,” she says. I raise an eyebrow, as I apply a little more gentle pressure inside him, and he whimpers. Amy and I laugh and then kiss.
“Well, what do you suppose would make him more desperate?” I ask, playing along. Amy’s blue eyes are bright with suppressed laughter. She touches my face, and then runs her hand down my body to tease my vulva. Finding me wet, she leans forward, sliding a finger inside. “Oh, you are so clever,” I tell her, and reach across his body and between her legs to reciprocate, one hand now inside her, one inside him.
This proves to be very tricky. We find it difficult to keep a steady rhythm up on him and simultaneously on each other. Soon we’re both moaning enthusiastically, while Kyle encourages us, his body jerking. With determined smiles on our faces, she and I compete to see who can go the longest without breaking rhythm. We each try to render the other unable to continue through our mutual manipulation. Until finally, as if on a cue, we both shut our eyes tightly and begin to tremble.
Free from that pleasant distraction, we both turn our attention fully back to Kyle, who is obviously very desperate now. But Amy and I continue to take our time. I take his head in my mouth and tease the shaft with my fingernails. I can sense that Kyle is about ready to crawl out of his skin.
“I think he’s ready.” I say to Amy, inviting her to do the honors with a gesture. We both smile and exchange one more kiss before she goes down on him again and I slide up toward his face.
When I run my Amy-wet fingers over his lips he sucks on them greedily. I take them away and undo the loose knot of the blindfold, patting the beads of sweat on his forehead dry and pushing back his damp hair. Kyle opens his eyes, the pupils hugely dilated, with a wild look in them. His breath is hot and labored. Ah, beautiful. He’s right on the edge of climax. I tilt his head to center his gaze on me. “Feel that?” I ask him. “She wants you to come. Come for us, darling.”
He nods and then his face changes and he’s gone, his eyes rolling up and squeezing shut, his mouth moving in a cry that’s half a whimper as his cum begins to dribble down Amy’s chin. I stroke his face and when his convulsions subside, he looks into my eyes again. Very slowly, I withdraw my hand from him and find one of Amy’s, squeezing it tightly. As our eyes meet we exchange a look of deep satisfaction.
We snuggle together in the warm bed, recuperating in anticipation of another round. I am beginning to drift off, when I hear Kyle drowsily ask, “So what about that bet? Who won?”
The Mating Rituals of Choches & Sorostitutes
by JULIANNA
STATE UNIVERSITY
THE CHOCH IS A CURIOUS creature, living life one drink special at a time, stalking from bar to club, in search of his prey.
In preparation, he stands before his mirror and contemplates his image while going over a checklist designed to maximize his chances of “scoring”:
• Do I smell like Axe body spray?
• Are the ends of my hair still frosted, or do I have to wear a smugly tipped white trucker hat tonight?
• Do I have my pooka shell necklace on?
• Do I feel like wearing a Livestrong bracelet to show that I am trendy, or should I put on the pink breast cancer one to show that I care about women’s issues?
• Is my collar popped?
He takes equal care to ensure that when he does score his chances of procreation are negligible. He always carries a condom in his wallet, and sometimes two.
When the Choch has determined he is suitably groomed and accessorized, he will then “blow up the celly(ies)” of his boy(s). Choches are not lone predators. They hunt in packs. At least one pack mate is essential when taking shots, or when there are two or more “hot bitches” in the same bar.
Choches are relatively loyal to their pack mates. Once a Choch-Pack has formed, it can be difficult to separate them unless one member starts getting a noticeably disproportionate amount of female attention. Then, the other Choches will ostracize him, telling themselves and everyone else that he is a “faggot,” so they can relieve themselves of the embarrassment and/or self-loathing associated with not being the group’s alpha male when it comes to getting laid.
At eleven o’clock, the Hunt typically begins.
The Choch and his mates arrive at the chosen venue. Depending on pack size, they may choose to commandeer a table or go directly to the bar. Either way, a Choch will instinctively order a Vodka and Red Bull. If the pack gets a later start than usual, they may also decide to do a round of “Jägerbombs” (Redbull with a shot of Jägermeister)—guaranteed to “fuck their shit up.”
