Girl Fever by Sacchi Green

will cover that personally.”
    I felt a small, surreptitious slap on my derriere as she followed me into the office, pulling the door tightly shut behind her.

    I turned to face her.
    â€œA woman who runs early, huh?” She grinned. “Well, then, let’s see how early you can be for the dinner party in my pussy.”
    She licked her lips. Then she went all elbow-awkward as she tried to untie her apron at the back.
    After hours of low-idle fantasizing, I was now aflame with the thought of getting my tongue all over the meal nestled in that peach crotch seam. “Here,” I said breathlessly, reaching around to take hold of the straps. “Let me do that.”
    â€œOf course,” Gail acceded.
    She abandoned the apron to me and mirrored my embrace.
    â€œAfter all,” she murmured in my ear—squeezing my ass so hard now that I squeaked with desperate excitement—“you probably have a system, don’t you?”

PROJECT RUNWAY
    Sharon Wachsler
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    I t’s you, babe! It’s you!” Marla turns from the mirror where she’s buttoning her pressed, white shirt.
    Modeling the new red dress and spiked heels I bought for her fortieth birthday party, I execute a careful twirl. The short rayon skirt billows up around my thighs. Marla catches me at twirl’s end, sliding her hand up to squeeze my ass.
    â€œI guess you like it, then?” I bite her earlobe, tonguing the silver stud. She’s got on her dress shirt, black slacks. A silk tie with delicate pink petals lies on the hamper, waiting.
    â€œI’d like this”—she slaps my ass—“in anything—in a trash bag.”
    â€œLike on ‘Project Runway’?”
    â€œExactly like that.”

    â€œWell, then, I guess there’s no need for finery.” I make to slip away, but she pulls me in tight.
    â€œFinery is good, too.” She kisses down my neck to the V of the dress, her hand sliding under the fabric, gliding to my breast.
    I gasp. “I need to sit down.”
    Marla hoists me off the toilet lid, plants herself on it then pulls me back down onto her lap. She rolls me over onto my belly, with my forehead resting on the cool floor, my thighs across her lap.
    â€œThis isn’t exactly—” I start. Oh. Um. Fingers run up and down the backs of my legs and ass, making scratchy-nailed spirals on each upturned cheek.
    â€œDon’t start a run in my nylons,” I mumble. Rip them off.
    â€œAre you telling me what to do?” Marla’s hand smacks my ass; my clit reverberates against her thigh.
    â€œOh, no, I’m just not sure this is the time—” I say. Please, please, hit me again.
    Her hand whistles down. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! I scream and moan and wriggle. All I see is red, a tent of red around my head. The dress, I realize, she’s pulled up my dress. My head is swimming in it. I’m so wet. Too wet. “Your pants,” I moan. “They’ll stain.”
    â€œFuck my pants,” she grunts. And I do. I hump against her leg. Her hands, my ass, all has turned red; I can feel it. I see it in the red around me. Whistling smacks, shrieks piercing air, her hand coming down, coming down, coming down. I love you, my mind whispers.
I love you, Marla, I love you, love you.
    â€œUhn!” It’s her—her voice, sweating out the sound, muffled by my dress.
    And a rip. There go my panty hose. And the high keening, is that me, like a siren as she pushes two fingers in? No matter. I writhe and ride, wailing, to the rhythm of her slaps and thrusts.
    â€œCome now!” Her voice, suddenly rough, pushes me over. I howl, pulsing against her fingers. I hold her inside me, letting her feel my power, my inner strength, squeezing. Finally, opening.
    My throat is raw. My cunt is raw. My ass burns. I feel fresh and spent, together. I can still hear the screaming.
    â€œUps-a-daisy,” Marla calls