Alison's Wonderland

The pain was small and short, the backward prick of a needle, and then he was holding one of my long hairs in his fingers. “Golden thread,” he said, “to bind you with.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The sound eased the nervousness in my stomach and made me feel sick and stupid at the same time. “That? A hair?”

Without saying anything, he pushed the coffee table out of the way, then pressed both hands to my shoulders, easing me back. Scooting my hips forward as though I was a mannequin. With just his fingertips, he pushed my shirt up, then laid the hair across my stomach, the thinnest of gold threads. A breath would blow it away.

Down on his knees, he looked up at me, sending me swimming in blue. “Last chance, Elly,” he said, and his teeth were big when he smiled. “You decide.”

He didn’t wait, just curled his fingers beneath my skirt and hooked them into my panties, began to ease them down my thighs with tiny pulls. Bit by bit, until he caught them and pulled them over my knees. His tongue curled along the inside of my thighs, meaningless circles that echoed the turns of my stomach, the spinning ache that made me want to push my hips up from the couch.

With the very tips of his fingers, he pushed the fabric of the skirt up along my thighs, watching me with every inch of skin he exposed. Until I was naked and he was dipping his head between my thighs, glossing his tongue along the heated space between. And still I let him do all these things. I wanted him to do all these things. Only a thread, a hair, nearly invisible, holding me still.

“Wait…” I said. But he didn’t. He dragged his tongue like a cat along me until I was panting, the hair across my stomach rising and falling with each breath. So much as a movement would send it curling and spinning, off into nowhere.

His eyes stayed on the hair even as he slipped a finger inside me, then two, curling them upward, pulling me forward with that small gesture that made me cry out and reach forward to thread my fingers lightly into his hair. I breathed and breathed, careful not to aim my exhales at the hair that lay across my stomach. His thumb touched my clit, and I rose and jerked, the hair slipping just a bit. Settling into a slow, rhythmic circle, his thumb made me want to call his name, to beg him not to stop. I bit the sound back, my teeth hard over my lips.

He laughed, the sound vibrating along my skin. He lapped me between words, until each draw of his tongue sounded like language and each sound felt his tongue. “Don’t…move…”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. Trapped and yet not. My outside still enough that the inside was all I could feel, the pleasure that wove itself through me with its golden promise of release.

“Please…” I begged. I wasn’t ashamed. I wasn’t caught. I arched my body—not the outside, not my skin and bones, but the desire that rose in me, uncoiled itself into a long thread of pleasure. Asking for more, keeping my stomach perfectly still beneath the length of golden hair, while the rest of me spun and spun and spun.

“My name, Elly,” he said.

“Oh…” I clenched my teeth, trying to keep my movements still. “Please…”

He began to pull his thumb away from me, slowing his circles. Sliding his fingers from me. His retreat left me already empty. I wanted to shove myself over him, then sink his fingers inside me with a fast, hard pierce. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Name,” he said softly, flicking his thumbnail along the hardened point of me until my breath caught in my throat.

“M-master,” I called out, my rasped voice rising in the air between us.

He grinned that dangerous grin of his, making me want to take it back, but it was too late. He was tightening his thumb back to my skin, cocking his fingers inside, his tongue curling over and over my skin until I was sure I was melting beneath the soft spin of his touch, turning liquid, turning gold.

The Three Billys

Sommer Marsden

“Philomena Fitzpatrick Troll,” she said. She said it louder than necessary because they stood there with their buckets, tarps and ladders looking like a ragtag bunch if there ever was one. And they had dirt on their boots. Dirt that crumbled into little brown piles on her perfect black-and-white tiles. What had Harry been thinking? They were a wreck. All three of them. And what kind of name was Three Billys Building anyway?

“Nice to meet you, but we just need to get access to the second floor and—”

“I understand,” Philomena interrupted. Rude but necessary. The big one did the talking. He had the beginnings of a goatee, which almost made her laugh because she was thinking of the fairy tale. Instead, she smoothed her brown dress and squared her shoulders. “In the future, please use the service entrance so as not to…” She let the sentence trail off as she raked a disapproving gaze over her now-marred floor.

“Sorry about that. First day and all. We weren’t sure, Philomena.”

“Ms. Troll.”

“How unfortunate,” he thrust.

“How clever,” she parried.

He grinned. This big Billy. Philomena felt a blush start at her cheekbones and burn a blazing trail well south of her cheeks. “This way,” she said. She took off at a smart pace before he could see her face coloring and her breath quicken. The big one was going to be a problem. Staggeringly tall and broad with nearly black hair, and eyes that flashed an emerald-green. Philomena had noticed those eyes right off the bat. A bad sign for her.

Usually, she could focus at work. It took an act of God to pull her from her head librarian duties. More than a few men had come along thinking she would be some fantasy, like in the music videos and movies. They flirted and waited for her to come undone for them and turn into a bookish wet dream. But Philomena kept her focus. When she was at work, she was all about work. And these days, work rated number one with a bullet in her life. Because she didn’t have much more.

Now he pinned her with those haunting green eyes and she had to put more swagger in her walk than she felt. They clomped behind her. Oafish and messy. Oh, she could just picture the debris sifting from their boots and that horrible paint-splattered ladder leaving gouges in her impeccable walls. It did not occur to her until halfway up the staircase that three pairs of male eyes were now pinned to her swaying bottom. The thought almost felled her, nearly brought her down like a dry tree in a February ice storm. She stilled and someone chuckled, a small knowing laugh. Had she been a betting woman, Philomena would have laid easy money on the big Billy. She closed her eyes, wrangled a deep breath and forced her sensible square-toed work heels to continue.

At the second floor, she surveyed the water damage. The rugs had already been torn up by maintenance. A pipe had ruptured in the ceiling, the water raining down from overhead, not from the sprinklers, but from the water pipes that ran under the third floor. She tried to remind herself (yet again) that the situation could have been worse. There could have been damage to the third floor—the archival floor. She blew out a sigh and indicated the mess. “Here we are, gentlemen.”

“The man who hired us,” said the middle one, “where’s he?”

“Harry is off today. He’ll be here tomorrow. As, I trust, will you.” Philomena had nightmares about contractors who showed once and then never came back. She’d heard horror stories.

“Bummer. He’s a nice one.” The small one was a bit shifty. He had a nervous thing he did with his chin. Thrusting it forward like he was chewing cud. She found the tic mesmerizing in a completely inappropriate way.

“Now,” she hurried on, trying to focus, “as you can see, there’s some damage to the wall over here. And down at the checkout counter where you came in.” She walked to the far wall. The floor above the checkout was metal gridwork. Wrought iron and fancy. Meant to let the patron look down to the level below. If she put her head back, she could see the domed ceiling above in the archives.

She turned, and the biggest man was right on her heels. Those gorgeous green eyes took a lazy tour of her chocolate-brown wrap dress and her sensible heels. Damn it all if she didn’t start blushing all over again. He leaned in and then past her, but she felt the soft dark brush of his warm breath across her bare neck. “So the water just ran right over the edge and down the wall. And this all happened after closing time?” He turned his head but kept his body angled, his generous mouth a bare two inches from hers.

In her mind’s eye, Philomena could see those big dusty hands with the ragged nails settle on her hips. She could see the busted knuckles flex as big bad Billy’s powerful palms hauled her in and pulled her flush to his hard angles. She imagined with bizarre clarity what those full pink lips would feel like crushing down on hers and how hot his tongue would be working past her own swollen lips. The raspy sound his calluses would make as he pushed her dress up, dragging his work-abused hands up her stockings until—

“Right?”

“Calluses,” she blurted, and then bit her tongue so hard her eyes blurred. How asinine. “I meant ‘correct.’ That is correct. The mess sat all night long. And it was during a heat wave. The water shorted the air-conditioning unit, creating mold and mess and more water.” Her tongue tripped over the words as if it had never formed such things before.

The towering Billy touched her forearm and the sensation of his skin on hers made her shiver like she was cold. “You okay?”

“I am fine, Mr.…um, Billy…”

“Benjamin.”

“I thought you said your names were all Billy,” Philomena squeaked.

“Billy Benjamin. The little one is Billy Samuels and then there’s Billy Midlin.”

“Ah. Thank you for the introductions. Now, about the floor.”

His breath stroked her skin again as he leaned in to hear. Philomena felt her mouth sag open just a little, her heart did a little flip-flop in her chest and she felt intense moisture between her legs. This was the point where men started doing math in their heads, she thought. What did women do?

“What about it? This seems to be the only part of the floor up here unharmed.”

“What I am trying to say is, during operating hours, people will be passing through on the first floor. Please refrain from walking over this section during work hours. There might be…” She pointed to his shoes.

Billy Benjamin laughed and clomped his chunky boot on the floor until a small chunk of mud flaked off. Why? She wanted to grab him and shake him and demand to know why! But then her gaze returned to his mouth and her mind turned from mud to mush. And her insides turned molten hot and her pussy followed suit. Work. She was at work.

“You have a thing about dirt, don’t you?”

Philomena could only nod. The other two men were placing drop cloths and making a horrible racket. Big Billy—Billy Benjamin—had eyes only for her. He moved in farther and Philomena took a staggering step back as her heel went to war with the wrought iron gridwork. It gave him an excuse. He reached out, his hands latching on to her forearms. No. Swallowing her forearms right up.

“I do.” Her voice was strangled and not at all as authoritative as she wanted. Even though her mind went down a verdant dirty path the moment he touched her, she tried to hold on to her head librarian persona. “I also have a thing about being manhandled. Please let me go and keep yourself and your men from walking over this section during patron hours. Thank you.”

He leaned in, his mouth so close. He smelled of cinnamon and mint and coffee. A very yummy, very warm smell. “No problem, boss lady Troll.”

“Yes. Right.” From below came the ding, ding, ding of someone pressing the red button for assistance. Saved by the bell. Literally. “I’d better go answer that.”

“Hurry, scary boss lady. Get back down below.” He winked when he said it and the wink sent a fireball of attraction rushing from the deepest pit of her stomach to the warmest recesses of her body. She straightened her spine so hard her whole body clenched. Bad move. The clenching made the desire run amok and she nearly, nearly, mind you, leaned in and kissed him before her brain could even think it over. Thank goodness, she managed not to do that.

Thank goodness. Right?

“I would suggest you get to work now, Big Billy.”

Time stood still then. Everything froze, including her unstably beating heart. Had she just called this colossal, handsome, green-eyed man…Big Billy? To his face?

He barked laughter, green eyes dancing, narrowing and darkening a bit with predatory glee. He looked her over and the gaze itself was like strong fingers sliding over her skin.

“Big Billy?”

Yes. Yes, she had said it out loud.

“Sorry. My apologies,” she choked out, and ran on her unsteady heels from the scene of the crime. On the first floor, safe behind her library counter, Philomena prayed for death. It did not come.

Right after lunch as she was checking out a gentleman with a substantial stack of books on the practice of Wicca, the first dirt shower came. A small clod rested on The Layman’s Grimoire, then a faint sifting decorated Everyone Witchcraft. Philomena steeled herself, looked up and got a nice piece of silt in her eye for her efforts. “Please, Billy! Please, I asked you three not to walk over me during patron hours.”

She mumbled her apologies and wiped the books clean and got the somewhat bemused customer on his way. Then she threw her head back, hands on hips, blood boiling as the boots did another pass overhead. It was the little Billy. The jaw thruster. But damn, what was his name? “Helloooo! Do you hear me?”

He paused, looked down into her eyes, grinned, jaw moving a mile a minute. “Sorry. Billy. Big Billy told me to hit the switch and the switch plate is over there, lady.”

“Ms. Troll,” she corrected.

“Right.”

Philomena bit her lip and steamed. She couldn’t argue, though. The switch plate for the main bank of lights was on the far wall. Which meant walking over her. “Fine. But that’s it. Please!”

“I’ll give it my best. Otherwise, take it up with Benjamin.”

“Ri-ight,” Philomena growled and wiped down her counter with some cleaner and a paper towel. This would not do. Not at all. But she knew that she would just have to soldier on. The more hours the three Billys could get during the day, the faster they would be done. And then they would be out. Them and their mess!

Next was a regular, and Philomena knew exactly what would be in his stack when he started self-checkout. Second World War, civil war, Korean War. War buff. Mr. Sinclair was his name, and he flirted shamelessly, but was 110 percent harmless. “Are they getting the upstairs all squared away then, Ms. Troll?” His voice was a mellifluous balm after the rattle and racket from the second floor.

“Not soon enough, Mr. Sinclair.”

He slid his stack over her way and cleaned his glasses with his shirttail. “I can tell you’re a wee bit worked up over the upheaval.”

Some insistent buzzing thump came from above her head and she cringed. “Yes, well…” More dirt! Right into her keyboard and right on top of Mr. Sinclair’s bald pate. A rage of blush fired her cheeks and she bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Still, Philomena threw back her head and though she tried not to, she howled, “Why are you walking over my head, Billy…the middle one!”

The middle Billy—dark blond hair with snowy-blue eyes—stopped and squatted. He gazed down at her, a mischievous grin split his rugged features. “Sorry, there, Philomena.”

“Ms. Troll!” The words ripped out so fiercely that her throat hurt. Mr. Sinclair’s watery brown eyes flew wide. The dirt on his scalp slid to the left. “So sorry, Mr. Sinclair. My deepest apologies.”

“Ms. Troll, I was told to plug in the sander, and the three-pronged outlet is right under the switch plate. So…” He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. If it’s a problem, I can send Billy. Big Billy.” He chuckled, stood and his boots threw off more ick as he went. She dodged, and Mr. Sinclair scuttled off with his goods.

What could she say? Nothing. And she most certainly did not want to deal with Big Billy any more than necessary since he seemed to scramble her brain faster than a martini. Philomena wasn’t much of a drinker, and she didn’t seem to be much in the way of handling big handsome contractors with flashing green eyes.

Again with the cleaner and towels. Philomena kept looking up. She felt watched. Maybe it was simply the bizarre and overtly steamy mental movie playing in her head that had her on edge. No matter how hard she scrubbed the counter, she could imagine kissing him. That big, huge, irritating man. Kissing him on the lips and down over the stubbly jut of his jaw. Biting just below where his pulse jumped in a steady beat and down along his broad throat. Over the swell of his Adam’s apple, and then her kisses, in her head at least, went due south and she had to take a deep breath to steady herself. She could shut her eyes and feel the heat of his mouth closing over her nipple, tracing her hipbone and then lower still. Parting her legs and then feeling his lips, so close to where she wanted him, kissing the very top of her thighs. How would it feel to have his lips on her clit, probing her? How would his kisses feel when his heat closed over her willing pussy and licked her until she clutched the bedsheets in her trembling hands and—

Something hit Philomena on the head. Something hard. Definitely not dirt. Her eyes flew wide. “What the hell!” The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She ran her fingers over her scalp. Then she spotted the weapon. A blue ballpoint pen on the floor. “Simon! Simon?” One of the assistants came scuttling out.

“Yes, Ms. Troll?”

“Watch the counter.” Her eyes had found him. Over her. Hovering. Smiling!

“Oops! Sorry, Ms. Troll. I had to hook up the—”

Big Billy. The main man. The head honcho. The thorn in her side. The burr in her ass. Philomena pointed a finger at him and glared. “Stay. Right. There. Mr. Benjamin, I am coming.”

“I look forward to it.”

She blinked and her body responded with a warm flickering wave of excitement. “Do not be crude! Do. Not. Move.”

Simon looked as if he wanted to die on the spot. Instead, he wiped the counter again. Hers would be the cleanest counter in the land when all was said and done. Philomena stormed up the wide, stone steps, trying so hard to force aside the mental images that had her melting hot so that the anger that had her equally hot could emerge.

He had listened. There he stood, poised on the intricate floor, dirty work boots in a defiant stance. He held an industrial yellow three-pronged plug in one hand. His beat-up, faded jeans slung low on his hips and his cocky smile spread on his lips. “Mr. Benjamin!”

“Ma’am?”

“I…” Philomena blinked. What? You must work but you cannot plug that in? How dare you try for electricity? A grounded outlet? What?

“Yes?” He took a step toward her just as one of the other Billys, unseen at this point, fired some big machine in the rear of the stacks.

“I…I am very concerned because…” Damn. There she went again, trailing off. Her mind taking a right turn and putting her on her back with this big, dusty, cocky man climbing on top of her. Somewhere in the mental scenario he had lost his shirt. How had that happened? And a hard ridge of male excitement pressed the faded cotton of his fly.

“Because I didn’t obey?”

“Well, yes. I am the—”

“The boss. You are the boss. You’re used to being the boss, aren’t you, Troll?” He took three big steps and there he was again, in her personal space. Invading her turf. Setting her on edge. But in the most bizarre way. Her nose tingled with the dark and spicy scent of him. Her nipples peaked, and between her legs she went hot and wet in the blink of an eye. Her hands turned to fists and her heart felt as though it would pound its way right out of her chest.

“I…I…”

Billy Benjamin leaned in so that only the smallest slice of air rested between their lips. “You might write the checks, but you are not the boss of me, Troll.”

“Ms. Troll.”

He leaned in farther still and Philomena heard her heart over all of it. Over what sounded like a sander and someone hammering and the rain on the skylight in the archives above them. Thunder boomed outside, and inside the cage of her chest.

“I…” She smacked him. That fast, out of nowhere. Her hand landed and they both made surprised noises at once. His low and guttural, hers high and breathy. “Oh, my God. I am so, so very sor—”

He 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.