One Night Only Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  SEEING STARS

  CHASING FATE: EXIGE

  CITY GIRL

  SUBWAY SUBTERFUGE

  PERFORMANCE ART

  LET SLEEPING DOGS COME

  HOLE IN YOUR POCKET

  MAID SERVICE

  CHASING JARED

  BREATHING

  WHORE

  JUST A LITTLE TRIM

  THREE PINK EARTHQUAKES

  BELLE DE SOIR

  THE SPOILED BRAT

  AN AUDIENCE OF ONE

  CHOCOLATE CAKE

  TOURNAMENT

  ROCK STAR REWARDS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION: ONE CHANCE

  The train slid to a stop, the motion pressing a nicely firm cock against my ass. I grinned, now sure that I wasn’t the only one getting all hot and bothered. As the car began to move again, I shifted my hips subtly to press a little harder against him, using the swaying rhythm for extra oomph. I felt one twitch of his cock, then another. I was feeling pretty smug when I felt lips against the nape of my neck and I stilled. He gave a swirl of his tongue at the base and I moaned out loud. A puff of breath against my skin let me know that he was amused, which prompted me to resume my subtle lap dance. His hand dropped to my hip, pulling me even tighter against him, making me more aware of each movement while his lips continued to explore the back of my neck. My heart was tripping; I was getting wetter by the minute.

  —“Subway Subterfuge,” by May Deva

  One chance to take what you want: that’s all you get. I know you’ve done it at least once before.

  A furtive make-out session in a movie theater—or parked car—that turned into a desperately quiet grope-and-grind session.

  The stranger in a public café, park or bar who turned your dials and, miraculously, zeroed in on you, too: did you rut or suck like animals in the unisex restroom behind a locked door… or was that only in your mind?

  Did you ever sneak a silent slice of mutual satisfaction under a table, or into your dorm when your roommates were sleeping mere feet away? What about playing “hall pass” with your sweetie so that you could feel the thrill of his basest need to use you, in a car park, in a filthy side alley, or on crisp hotel sheets usually reserved for specialty escorts?

  It’s okay—you don’t need to have acted on your naughty impulses. This book, and all its nervous, adventurous, realistic and frolic-minded characters do it all for your entertainment and inspiration. Of course, if you have tried out a one-night, one-time tryst, the satisfied characters in this collection will have you feeling in pleasant, heady, and familiar company.

  One Night Only is a compendium of the most refined zipless fuck fantasies imaginable. Even if you’ve only ever longed for a one-night stand, a quickie with a hot and dominant customer at work, getting your hands and mouth on a longtime crush, or picking up a little side action while indulging in a mistaken identity opportunity…it’s all here to feed your wildest fantasies and stoke embers in your hottest memories of one-time fantasy fulfillment. The stories here are about women and men (and couples) who are erotic chance-takers, each and every one of them—and all of them emerge deliciously satisfied.

  “Seeing Stars,” by Alison Tyler, begins our adventures with a girl who works at a popcorn stand in a revival movie house and studies astronomy. Over-the-counter nervous flirtation leads to a sexy stranger promising to show her the stars—and she takes him up on what turns out to be a heated, romantic offer.

  In “Chasing Fate: Exige,” by Kev Henley, a sexy car thief is zooming around in a stolen Lotus when he spots a hot girl he knew in high school (a year or two previously). She jumps in—they race, flirt, and do it on the hood when neither can take the tension any longer. Emerald’s “City Girl,” goes back home to the Midwest to a county fair. To her surprise, she sees a hot cowboy, and cruises him, sneaking off for a surprising fantasy fuck.

  May Deva’s “Subway Subterfuge” tells of a young woman attracted to a hot guy on the subway; they move to the back of the crowded car where we find out she’s the one driving the anonymous public encounter. “Performance Art,” by Cynthia Hamilton, gives public sex an unexpected twist. A tourist in France gets turned on at an exhibit of erotic installations. A male tourist has the same reaction, and what happens next for the unsuspecting art patrons is equal parts arousing, shocking and even a little bit adorable.

  “Let Sleeping Dogs Come” involves a chance meeting at a book expo that ends with a surprise oral encounter. At an upscale hotel, a slacker provides some very wicked “Maid Service”; author Jan Darby offers an empowering revision of recent headline events. Another sort of accommodation is provided by a woman with a longtime secret attraction when her old college crush crashes at her apartment, in Donna George Storey’s “Hole in Your Pocket.”

  Trendy food trucks never looked as tasty or satisfying as the one in “Chasing Jared,” by Heidi Champa; she’s a fan of the burgers and the chef making them, and one late night she tracks the truck down, goes inside, and before she gets her burger, decides to order off-menu. The college girl in “Breathing,” by Daniel Burnell, silently dares the fear of getting caught when she passes out on a basement couch at a party and wakes up to sneak mutual satisfaction with a shy guy pal from drama class in a dark room full of people, all without words.

  The best thing about each of these stories, besides the hot sex and great writing, is the thrill of the unplanned—and “Whore” by D. L. King does not disappoint. In it, a neurosurgeon with a sexy new dress stays over an extra night after a boring conference only to get picked up by a distinguished older guy in the hotel bar for a truly smutty coupling, with a twist that befits the story’s title. In another city and another world, Austin Stevens’s “Belle de Soir” follows a young woman who goes to work as a high-class hooker for just two days with the plan of heading for Europe on the money she’ll make, not expecting to get more than the needs of her pocketbook met.

  Sexy fun at the trendy punk salon is what we find in “Just a Little Trim” by Kristina Wright. A hot former Marine comes in for a trim, and we find ourselves surprised at what a clever, horny hairdresser can do with a minimum of time and cover at the shampoo station.

  Truly outrageous public sex on a whim revs up in “Three Pink Earthquakes” by Thomas S. Roche. This San Francisco story will have natives wondering how much is true in this narrative of a woman getting sleazy under a table with an Italian tourist couple—first the woman, then her husband, in a Castro gay bar. More turnabout happens in “The Spoiled Brat,” by Lily K. Cho; in it, a recently divorced woman goes out to celebrate her lesbian sister’s birthday at a gay bar when a gay male couple invite her to dance and ask her home with them.

  The most edgy, intense story in this collection is “An Audience of One,” by N. T. Morley, in which a Hollywood B-actress gets to live her most extreme sexual fantasy just once, all arranged by her boyfriend, and including a deserted scary neighborhood and faux-forced-group-sex. Staying on the edge, “Chocolate Cake,” by I. G. Frederick, finds us with a woman who, at home, is a Domme to two submissive males yet lets herself be picked up while traveling by a hot dominant guy, for a change of pace.

  “Tournament,” by Abby Abbot, is the most unpredictable story in the lot; here, a college girl plays online chess and she’s out for both blood and money when she agrees to an in-person match. The meeting and the match feel tense and dangerous and finish with an unusual, frenzied erotic battle. Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Rock Star Rewards” tells of a famous female rock star with an appetite for hot but submissive male groupies.

  Passion and lust play by different rules in One Night Only; these are st
ories about what happens when we have just that one chance to ask for what we want—and we take it. If you’re looking for instant gratification sex and a catalog of encounters that show what happens when we need it now, you’ll find your thirst for unplanned new experiences quenched in these pages.

  Just because you’re all grown up doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the thrill of sex without a plan. Enjoy the adventure. You have one night and One Night Only.

  Violet Blue

  San Francisco

  SEEING STARS

  Alison Tyler

  I have that morning-after look.

  The morning after the night before.

  My tortured curls are misbehaving. My dark eyes are ringed in yesterday’s kohl, which looked so sexy around nine p.m. but is raccoon-inspired this a.m. My clothes are—well, my clothes are pretty much what my clothes are always: jeans and a T-shirt, Docs and leather wristbands, a thrift-store Edie Sedgwick sweatshirt shrunk a few sizes too small so that it fits. I mean, really fits. What’s different about me is that I’m up. The sun’s peeking out, and I’m awake—two facts that usually do not occur simultaneously. See, I work nights at a retro theater in L.A.—nights, meaning, I get off around two. That’s not the only place I work, but it was where I was working last night, when he walked in.

  You’ve heard the clichés: The bells. The whistles. The flashes of bright light. Our connection was different. The popcorn began overflowing the stainless steel kettle, startling me even though I am the popcorn girl around here. I ought to know how to deal with the familiar sounds of tiny explosions ricocheting off the glass.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Or behind. I go to school, hit the books, work the popcorn shift. I study in between movies—most of the demand for popcorn comes before the show starts and at intermission, which gives me plenty of time to do my coursework. Last night, my head was in the stars. Literally. I’d been studying for my astronomy final. But I was prepping for the intermission rush and he appeared at first pop.

  Sounds like a song from the fifties, doesn’t it?

  He was dressed in a fashion nearly identical to mine. “Adult still-in-school style,” I call the look: black jeans, some leather and chrome hardware. I struggled to remember what double feature we were playing. The themes call out to different segments of the population. Was it Sid & Nancy and Last Tango? Or maybe…?

  “Don’t burn yourself.”

  He was right up at the glass by then, leaning on the counter, which is a no-no. There’s a sign, handwritten by the owner. PLEASE DON’T LEAN ON THE GLASS. I didn’t snap at him. I didn’t point out the obvious. The popcorn kept thundering out of the kettle, and I felt my cheeks go as pink as a Good and Plenty.

  What were the movies? A nice detective mystery? Something noir?

  “Would you like popcorn?”

  He shook his head.

  “Candy?” I did the tried-and-true Vanna White move, motioning to the display of goodies with a spokesmodel gesture. I didn’t have the hair flip down. Not with my tangled mane.

  He smirked.

  Damn, we really did look similar. He had dark hair, too. Longish like mine. Big dark eyes. Was he wearing liner? Were we showing Velvet Goldmine? He was built slim, long limbed. His lips were almost pretty.

  “Do you get tired of the smell of hot butter?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you get tired of people asking you what you’re reading?”

  I nodded.

  “What are you reading?”

  I smiled. “Astronomy.” I held up the text.

  “You like stars?”

  “When you can see them.”

  “How about tonight, after you get off?”

  “How about tonight, after I get off, what?” Except I knew. I knew exactly what. It was put your lips together and blow time, wasn’t it?

  “We go look at some stars.”

  “I’ve never heard fucking called that before,” I said, thankfully finding my moxie somewhere deep in my 501s.

  “No, really,” he said. “I’ve got a roof in mind.”

  I had something else in mind. I felt that connection, the way he looked at me. And it had been slow lately—the romance in my life. Not that there hadn’t been comers, but there hadn’t been anyone pushing my buttons the way I need them pushed.

  “You can’t see stars in L.A.,” I said after a moment. I wasn’t going to roll over that easily. “The sky’s too bright.”

  “Try me.”

  I gazed at him. This man had a look I liked. Oh, I’m no narcissist. I don’t mean that I liked him because he looked like me. He had an underlying quality that made me think I could ask for anything and he’d give me what I wanted: A little dirty around the edges. A little beat-in. Besides, my kernels hadn’t been popped for quite a while.

  “Theater closes around two tonight,” I said. “Are you game for hanging out?”

  He brandished half of the torn paper ticket. “I bought the ticket,” he said, “I’ll ride the ride.”

  Studying didn’t work much after that. I mean, I didn’t work much at studying. All I could think of was the way he’d looked at me from across the lobby. The way my knees had gone instantly weak, my pussy immediately wet. I handed out popcorn at the intermission. I made change. I poured sodas. I dug the metal shovel into the crushed ice. But my mind was on the man. I even considered ducking into the ladies’ room to rub one out. Just so I wouldn’t be such a bundle of nerves when the movie’s fin finally came. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t leave my post, couldn’t imagine leaning up against the tiled wall and touching myself—well, that’s not true. That I could imagine. But somehow, I felt I’d be cheating. Cheating him, cheating me.

  He wanted to show me the stars. In a city where all you have to do to see one is know which supermarket to visit, which hair salon to book a cut at, which bar to dive in. I couldn’t remember a more romantic proposition.

  When the movie ended, I did all the closing-down things I do every weekend night. Made sure the popper was off. Locked the cash box in the owner’s office; said good night to the projectionist. I went outside, and there he was, waiting.

  “Do you have a car?”

  I nodded. “But it’s not here. I live within walking distance.” I motioned, vaguely, toward Melrose.

  “You’ll go with me?”

  “You’ll take me home after?”

  We smiled at each other—silent answers to spoken questions. The after was my way of saying yes before he’d even propositioned me, wasn’t it? The after told us both all we needed to know.

  In L.A., in a land of high-end vehicles that are lovingly washed more often and more carefully than most people’s own children, this man drove a pickup truck. Not a tricked-up, monster-tired showcase, either, but an old, rust-colored Chevy that looked as if its parts were held together with twine. He held the door for me, and I slid in. There were peanut shells on the floor. Gum wrappers in the ashtray from Doublemint. My favorite.

  He drove me into the hills, to one of those vintage apartments where the extras used to live when Hollywood made the type of movies we show at our theater: wrought iron railing on the balconies, the kinds of details missing from today’s stucco nightmares. The place wasn’t well kept—in fact, it was a lot like his truck, a lot like himself. Good lines, but smudged around the edges.

  He didn’t take me inside. He grabbed an old army blanket from the bed of the truck and then took me up the back stairs. To the roof. Nine floors up.

  To the stars.

  We were already in the Hollywood foothills, and now we were up on the rooftop, and I could see a few lone stars twinkling overhead.

  But I didn’t care about the stars anymore. He spread out the blanket. He spread me out on the blanket. I let him. I let him peel off my sweatshirt, my T-shirt, my bra; felt him work the ties of my Docs, pull off my stripy socks, demolish my white knickers, kill the jeans. I was naked and he was dressed, and the stars were above us, the way the stars always are.
r />   He took my hands and put them over my eyes.

  “I thought you wanted me to look at the stars,” I said. Smart-ass: that’s me.

  “I do,” he said. “You’ll see them. Trust me.”

  My hands smelled like popcorn and licorice whips. I kept my eyes closed even under my fingers. I felt him moving on the blanket, felt him parting my thighs, getting in between. He kissed the insides of my legs, nipping gently. I groaned and arched, hips moving against that scratchy, khaki-colored blanket. Army surplus: I had one in the back of my own beat-up hoopdee truck. It’s like they come regulation with trucks like ours.

  We were nine floors up, but we were on top of the world, on top of Los Angeles. His mouth crested over my pussy, not locking on, not licking in. He was teasing me. I was shuddering.

  School takes most of my time. I’m not going to be a popcorn girl forever, you know. But this—I’d forgotten about this. Bliss. That white-hot connection you get once in a double feature, that’s once in a long time coming.

  He moved his way down, kissing along my thighs, moving lower and lower, to the backs of my knees, my calves. I kept my hands over my eyes. But I peeked. I opened my eyes and looked through my fingers. He seemed to know exactly when I did, because he said, “No cheating. Close your eyes.” How had he guessed? Had I shifted on the rough blanket, crunching the tiny rocks beneath me? Had I breathed in deeper? I pushed the questions from my head and let myself float in the way he was making me feel: weightless. That’s the first thing I noticed. As if I were flying on a magic carpet rather than an old army surplus blanket. He touched and stroked his way back up my body, not stopping in the middle this time, going higher, cradling my breasts, kissing and nipping. He reached my mouth and I was ready for him, hungry for him. I realized that I liked the way he felt—clothes on to my clothes off. I wasn’t cold. That surprised me. I’m always cold. But he warmed me with his body on mine, his lips on mine. As he kissed me, really kissed me, he worked one hand between our bodies. I felt what he was doing, ached for what he was doing.