Gotta Have It

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

I picked up my favorite vibe, Big Blue, to see how much it cost (two chips, what a deal!) and a little blue tag like the ones used to mark notes in textbooks fell off it. I picked up the tag and noticed that it had writing on it, too. It read, Orgasm included. Now that I looked closer, maybe a quarter of the items had similar blue tags attached.

  I glanced at Cara, who had found an empty corner of the bed and was perched on her knees, her arms in front of her, suggesting the pose they’d be in if she was wearing the pink furry handcuffs (only one chip!) stretched between her hands.

  I crawled over to her, pinning her against the wall. I kissed her again, and she let go of the cuffs and brought one hand up to gently brush my cheek, while the other went between my thighs and started rubbing my cunt through the jeans so teasingly that my knees went weak. She purred and extracted herself from between the wall and my very horny self.

  “Now, I know what you’re thinking…” She ran her thumb along her lower lip as she talked, and I listened, hypnotized.

  “You could have a pretty nice time here with me now for three chips, right? Well, you probably could, but imagine what kind of night we could have with twelve?” She giggled. “We might not sleep till Monday!” She danced away and headed to the nightstand on her side of the bed and pulled something out of the drawer.

  “But I know you, and I know you have zero patience, so I have something to tide you over till you earn the rest of the chips by finishing your grading.”

  She passed me a box, and I grinned when I read the packaging: it was the twenty-four-setting vibrating egg I’d been admiring for weeks. It cost one chip, and I gave her one. Laughing, I turned to go back downstairs, box in hand.

  “Wait!”

  She was holding something flat and black, the size of her cell phone.

  “Should I hold on to this part, then?”

  I stepped forward to see what it was. Well, that was interesting. The egg came with a remote control…and it had a blue tag on it. I grinned.

  “Yes, I think you should.”

  RED LIGHT

  Angela Caperton

  Alan waved off his assistant’s predatory approach and closed the door to his office, finding solace behind the thick barrier, welcome after his twentyhour air adventure returning from Ptuj, Slovenia, and three more hours of meetings as soon as he passed the threshold of Lorman Engineers.

  Alan ripped off his tie, sucking in breath with ridiculous glee. He fell into his oversized, lumbar-supportenhanced chair and stared with travel-burned eyes at his monitor’s black screen. Six days: he’d been gone for six days. He flopped to the right and automatically tapped the power button on his desktop, closing his eyes, silently praying against reality that his email inbox would only have a few waiting messages. Ptuj and his time in Ljubljana had been fruitful, but there’d been no real time to see to other business. Hell, he’d barely had time to talk to Casey, and now he felt a wave of guilt that he hadn’t gone straight home to see her before the office claimed him.

  Six days: not the longest they’d been apart in eleven years of marriage, but this had been the first time they hadn’t been reunited immediately.

  As his computer booted, Alan looked at his phone, the red light above the tiny stenciled VOICE MAIL blazing like an accusation. He squinted in defense and looked at the LED display: 18.

  18. Hell, only 18, after six days in Eastern Europe? Should he worry about his job?

  He pulled his cell from his pocket and smiled as he flipped it open to read the text message from Casey. I’m hungry, are you? Pick up something sweet?

  Alan chuckled. Hungry? He’d passed ravenous when he had politely turned down the second gorgeous blonde whore sent by the executives of the Ptuj contractors. One of the women, the chief engineer said, was an international lingerie model.

  Resolute, Alan hit the message button on his phone, grabbed a pen and cleared documents from his blotter. Bracing, he listened to the voices coming through the speaker.

  “Alan, Martin Lowry here! Call me about the Masters project!”

  Beep!

  “Mr. Rasto, this is Rich at Schlein Borland. We’ve a new angle on the Lokfar Reserve. You can reach me at…”

  Beep!

  He scribbled, he replayed, his vision blurred as voices bubbled into an incoherent mess, numbers ran together, client projects spilled into each other and he viciously shoved the top sheet of his blotter over to expose the next to continue scrawling messages his assistant would struggle to decipher next week.

  Pen poised, he waited for the next message, ready to scribble names and numbers, his eyelids closing as fatigue began to drown his brain.

  “Such a sweet weeping cock, the perfect size to split my wet lips.”

  Alan’s heart crimped painfully, his breath puffing. He sprang forward at full attention, eyes wide with shock as he nearly fell out of his chair in the reactive effort to grab up the receiver. His fingers stuttered over the buttons on his phone to stop the message, as his mind cut on the sharp edges of what he’d heard. What he should do—delete the message, of course—was not what the adrenaline-fueled blood flow to his cock wanted to do.

  Fingers still shaking, Alan glanced around his office and through the narrow windowpanes that bracketed his closed door. Bodies moved in the offices beyond, but no one noticed him. He settled back in his chair, stared hard at the buttons on his phone and hit PLAY again.

  “Such a sweet weeping cock, the perfect size to split my wet lips. Yes, yes, oh, please, baby, I want to touch it, to taste it.”

  The deep, sultry voice shivered down his neck and spine, pooling lust in his groin. Who was that? It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t put a face to the voice. It had to be a joke, or maybe one of the Slovenians had thought a little spice would enhance their chances of winning the contracts. Alan almost curled over his desk, tense and completely absorbed by the message.

  “Mmm…do you like the red lace panties, garters and bra? My nipples are so hard they sting against the lace and my pussy’s slick; the panties are nearly drenched. See? I’m ready for you. I don’t need them anymore.” He heard cloth against skin, and then her breath hitched. The sounds of fingers on flesh teased his ear. His mouth dried as the unmistakable sound of wet stroking chimed behind her soft pants and impatient moans.

  “Oh, yes, baby, use your fingers, yes…one, fuck yes, two… Oh, god, baby, yes! Your finger in my ass feels so good! God, my clit! What are you doing…to…” The enthusiastic cry nearly deafened Alan as the mystery woman’s orgasm vibrated through the receiver. His free hand closed over his rock-hard cock through his trousers. Holy shit, could he be any more turned on? His imagination raged with visions of ass slapping and hard, mindless fucking. He needed to jerk off, needed to come hard and fast to the sound of that voice, but the trim shadow of his assistant passing his door jolted reality home.

  “Oh, baby…you are fantastic. I want more. Can I have more, please?” Her sated sigh and playful giggle tempted him to unzip his fly. “I’ll be good. I promise,” she whispered seductively.

  Alan’s heart bumped erratically in his chest. More? He could think of a thousand things he’d like to do to this woman and bending her over his desk to fuck her from behind was just the beginning.

  “Okay, baby. I’ll wait, but I won’t wait long. I’m so horny, baby, and I need you. I’ll leave the garters on, but that’s it. Don’t let me get cold, baby….”

  The beep announcing the end of the call barely registered. Alan stared blindly at the red light on his phone, one thought thumping through his brain in perfect time to the twitch of his cock.

  Who the hell was she?

  He staggered up to the front door of his house, his cock still semihard even after an afternoon of mind-numbing meetings. He hoped the women in his office hadn’t taken notice of his appraisals as he tried to see if he could unlock the mystery of who had left the message. No one he saw or spoke to seemed to fit. He’d listened to the message again before leaving and then, with regret, he
’d erased it. The last thing he needed was his assistant hearing the recorded phone sex. He might never know who’d left the message and maybe, for the sake of his marriage and his job, that was best. Still…

  He turned the key and then the doorknob, opened the door and froze.

  The strawberry-red garter circled her waist, with thin straps holding up black stockings that skimmed over firm, shapely thighs. Hard nipples defied the chilly air of the foyer. He looked up into the wicked, smiling face of his wife.

  She lifted a small black box to her lips and spoke, the sultry, sexy voice blasting blood back into his cock.

  “Good timing,” she said. “A little longer and I’d have had to come looking for you.”

  MY FEMME

  Evan Mora

  I’m standing in our garage, door shut, single bulb burning, which might seem like a strange place to be on a hot summer night in the city. But I heard her, my boi, a couple of blocks away, and I know it’s her ’cause the rumble from her engine is the biggest, baddest sound around this organic-Pilates, Prius-loving neighborhood.

  “My Femme,” she calls her. Her 1978, twenty-fifthanniversary edition, vintage teal-blue Corvette. She’s got a 5.7 liter engine and can do zero to sixty in 6.6 seconds flat. Not that I care about any of that technical stuff. But she sure is pretty. She’s got more curves than a Playboy playmate, and she turns heads like nobody’s business.

  When I’m behind the wheel, T-bar roof open, Farrah locks flowing, I’m like a straight boy’s wet dream come true. Sid, she calls me a cocktease, which may or may not be true, but it does make me giggle when boys stop in their tracks and mouth slack-jawed “whoas” as I cruise by, a femme in the Femme….

  When Sid’s behind the wheel, it’s an entirely different story. The boys, they give her a thumbs-up and want to know what’s under the hood. But the girls—I’ve seen them—bite their lips and flash their smiles, wondering who this butch Daddy boifriend is and how they’re going to get themselves a ride.

  And she’s given plenty, I know, in her bad-boy, backalley, late-night past. But not to me. Never to me. Sid and me, we met in the winter, when the Femme was sleeping peacefully, dreaming dreams of spring. By then, we’d U-hauled it to a tree-lined street in the east end, setting up house like respectable thirtysomethings and sipping chai lattes with the neighbors.

  But I’m jealous. It’s crazy, I know, but true nonetheless. I’m jealous of all the open-mouthed cries and wide-spread thighs that have graced the inside of that car. I want to feel the slip-slide of sweat-slicked leather beneath my ass and Sid’s fingers pumping into me. I want to fill all the air inside that car with the smell of my sex and the heat of my body and the breathy sounds of my moans.

  So here I am, standing in our garage, waiting like a predator to pounce. They’re in the back lane, Sid and the Femme, so close I can feel their vibrations. The door begins to rise like a peep show window on my strappy heels, painted toes and thirty-four inches of smooth, tanned legs that disappear under my micromini. Sid revs the engine appreciatively, and the sound goes right to my pussy.

  The car edges forward with a throaty purr, the tip of her hood coming to rest between my legs. Sid kills the engine and closes the garage door, and for a moment, there’s only silence. Then the passenger door opens and I saunter ’round, bending low so I can look inside. Sid has a hard time looking past my bikini top and the ample cleavage on display. You see, I know my boi, and I know what she likes, and I know how to get what I want.

  “Get in,” she says, voice rough with desire. I lower myself in and close the door.

  “Get rid of the bikini top.” It lands on the floor, and heat flashes in her amber eyes.

  “Show me,” she says—fuck, she makes me wet—and I cup my breasts with my palms.

  “Pinch them,” she says, and I tug at my nipples, until they’re pebble hard and I’m squirming in my seat.

  “You got anything on under that skirt?” I spread my legs open wide and Sid groans; she’s a sucker for a fresh Brazilian.

  She leans over me, vintage leather creaking, the subtle musk of her cologne surrounding me a heartbeat before her tongue is in my mouth and her fingers penetrate my cunt.

  We kiss, we combust, we go up in flames. I wind my arms around her neck, thread my fingers through her hair, stroke my tongue against hers. All the while she teases me, explores me, testing my wetness with her blunt fingertips, painting them along the length of my pussy.

  “Wider,” she whispers against my lips, and I inch my ass toward her, one foot on the dashboard, as open as I can be. Three fingers replace two, then four replace three, and Sid fastens her mouth to my breast, licking and sucking the rigid peak until I’m just about ready to explode.

  “So fucking wet…” She’s pumping me now, the wet sound of my pussy a shameless turn-on.

  “I want you to fuck yourself on my fist,” Sid says, her tongue lapping up my mewing assent. She holds her hand still, leaving the rise and fall to me, letting me work my cunt down over her knuckles, stretching wide, so wide, until she slides inside. I can feel her hand, and it feels so good, balled into a fist deep inside me. She moves slowly at first, then faster and harder, until her forearm is pistoning into me.

  “Now,” she says against my lips, then her tongue fills my mouth once more. I moan, half lost, and slide my fingers to my clit, circling then stroking in rhythm with her thrusts.

  “That’s it, baby….” She tastes like salt, her sweat and mine. We’re panting instead of breathing, and my frenzied crescendo of “Yes, baby, yes, baby, oh, fuck, yes, baby!” ends with a rush when my hips snap up and my cunt clenches around her fist, and I come so hard my back arches off the seat of the ’Vette like a bow.

  In a minute or five, we untangle ourselves with as much grace as we can, given the confines of the Femme. She reeks like sex, and I know I’ve got a smug smile on my face, but I don’t bother to try and hide it.

  “You pleased with yourself?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I am. ’Cause Sid and the Femme? They’re mine.

  I lead the way out of the garage and back to the house, making sure there’s plenty of sway for my boi’s hungry eyes to follow. Right about now, she’s got a hard-on the size of Texas, but luckily, there are still plenty of hours until dawn.

  GENESIS

  Shanna Germain

  I don’t hunt them down. They come to me. Pretty boys with their unread books and their dirty bike bags and their soft, sad mouths. Their I-don’t-care T-shirts and their long lashes and their please-love-me eyes: blue and green and brown and, once, a boy with one chocolate brown and one ice blue. Hot and cold all in the same face.

  “Ms. DeKay?” they ask, as they knock tentatively at my office door. “I had a question about…” Or, sometimes, “I was hoping you could help me with…”

  I teach Bible as Story. And there is much these boys want to know.

  I’m a teacher, but I’m not their teacher. That’s important. The college doesn’t have explicit rules against screwing a student because they can’t believe that anyone would ever. Robert Douglas is a Christian college after all, not one of those fly-by-night new colleges. Those aren’t my words, of course. I believe in science and sex, the difference between fiction and fact. They gave me the job before they realized what I taught, exactly. And now they’re stuck with me, as it were. I stay for the money. That and, of course, the boys.

  The college is coed. There are virtual harems of young women who walk the halls and the lanes of this land. The boys want them without end, their fresh beauty, their glossed hair and eggshell skin. Their desire for me is something else. A desire to learn, to know how to move about in the world, to capture those downy creatures that sashay and snicker, that have not yet taken to painting their faces with kohl and hope.

  On my lunch hour, I stretch my legs out long on my desk, show off the black knee-high boots that usually stay hidden beneath my ankle-length pencil skirt. I keep my hair appropriate—the long dark strands captured and
wrapped inside a hair band, but who can blame me if a few bits escape, curling around my face and at the back of my neck?

  Today’s boy is tall and lean, with curly black hair whose length is just on the edge of rebellion twisting around his ears; big hazel eyes behind thick lashes. He wears cowboy boots, black and pointed, and their sounds mark his shifting feet.

  “Ms. DeKay?”

  “Sarah,” I say. I run a finger along the inside seam of my boot, keep reading the book I hold in the other hand. It’s a new one, some reheated story of Queen Esther. It’s poorly written and poorly told—Esther never would have done half these things—but I like the way the boy shifts, uncertain. Unwilling to enter, unwilling to leave.

  His swallow is audible. “Sarah,” he says.

  “Yes?” I look at him over the edge of the book.

  “I was hoping… I heard you could help me with…” Shift go his feet in his too-cool cowboy boots.

  “Have a seat.” I gesture toward the chair near my desk, the one next to my raised and booted feet.

  He sits, legs spread slightly in his dark jeans. His hands rest near his knees, loose fists that don’t know whether to open or close. He can’t look into my eyes. His gaze bounces over my book, my desk, my skirt and then settles on the boots.

  “Which story?” I close my book with a soft snap and set it to the side of my desk. The movement shifts my button-down shirt, and I watch his gaze swing from my boots to the top button, slide up the length of my neck and settle, finally, on my face.

  “Genesis 17:17,” he says. One of his fists opens fully, reaches up to touch the desk’s edge, right against the sole of my boot. His knuckle brushes the inside curve of my foot through the leather. It’s a small gesture, a barely there, a could-be-accidental touch, but we both know it’s not.

  I make a small sound in my throat. It could be a cough or a breath, but it’s neither. It’s a response and an invitation. His nervous energy slides away, as suddenly and completely as if he’d dropped a pen. He shifts forward in the chair, a single finger sliding up the length of my zipper. It’s a hard press, the kind I can feel through the leather as it pushes over the curve of my anklebone, up the inside of my calf.