Gotta Have It

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Ding-dong.

  I do a quick inspection of the table, arranging the plates and glasses into a less disturbed-by-fucking pattern. I open the door to a chorus of hellos, smiles and proffered wine bottles. I make sure there’s enough champagne to keep everyone happy while I check on the pasta sauce and my hard-on dies down. Ceyenne descends the stairs wearing a little slip dress and a justfucked look. After the obligatory small talk we sit down for dinner. The food is excellent, the wine superb, and we think we’ve escaped, exchanging a few knowing winks and smiles between us, trying hard to ignore the lovely imprint of Ceyenne’s ass on the edge of the table, which everyone notices. Giggles flow contagiously. Ceyenne feigns embarrassment. I try to look innocent. One of our guests tells us that we really should have drawn the blinds.

  Oh, shit.

  And another tells us we were very audible through the door as they waited to ring the bell at just the right moment.

  Aha.

  We don’t make it to dessert, but I make it under the table just in time to watch Ceyenne get fucked on the glass table; our quickie was an hors d’oeuvre for a fullon all-night orgy.

  But that’s another story….

  MISSED CONNECTION

  Tigress Healy

  Dear Stranger,

  The newspaper will probably never print this missed connection because I’m going to be frank, but it’s worth a try. You were in the health food store downtown today, wearing a knee-length summer dress with flowers on it, leaning over the tofu, checking the expiration dates. I was next to you doing the same thing. I was wearing a yellow V-neck shirt and yellow pajama bottoms. Our arms brushed and I got shivers. I believe you did, too, but you tried to play it off by saying, “Excuse me.”

  Your voice was sweet and soft. You’ve probably never thought about being with a woman before. You’re probably highly religious, married with kids and secretly bored out of your mind. I would love to show you a good time. No one has to know but me and you (and the readers of this ad if it goes to print). I’ve been married before so I know what it’s like for your pussy to be on fire because the sex has gotten stale, and to know you’ll never cheat… with another man.

  Since it’s confession time, I was looking down your shirt today, licking my lips. Wholesome as you were, you weren’t wearing a bra. I have to be honest—I wanted to see your tits pop out because seeing the top of them dangle made me horny. Your face was so pretty and your ass so plump and round that seeing your full tits might have just made me come right there.

  Oh, how I wish I could have licked your nipples and watched your head roll back. Stood behind you and claimed your healthy milk-makers with both hands. Kissed your neck and slipped my finger underneath your dress, into your panties and into your pussy hole. I would’ve finger-fucked you till you cried out in pleasure.

  Wouldn’t it have been amazing to have kissed and groped each other as we leaned against the refrigerator, in public, you in that dress, me in my pajamas? Can you imagine the produce guy standing behind his cart to hide his hard-on? He would discreetly touch it while people gathered to watch us vegetarian goddesses devouring each other.

  Tell me you wouldn’t like it if I stuck my head under your dress and began to lick your clit, sucking it like hard candy, teasing it with the tip of my tongue. Tell me your body wouldn’t tighten, and you wouldn’t grab my head and hold it there, clenching your thighs so I couldn’t move. Tell me you wouldn’t stand there trembling and coming in front of all those people, if only we lived in a world where that would be acceptable.

  The fantasy that I’m telling you about was so strong that I abandoned my cart and left the store. In my car, parked away from all the others, in the shade, I spread my picnic blanket across me, lowered the seat back and opened my legs. I rubbed my clit with my middle finger while touching my nipples with my other hand and began to fantasize again.

  This time you had come up to the driver’s side of my car and asked to come in. I pulled the seat back up, threw the blanket in the back and pulled you in. You sat on my lap facing me. It was a tight squeeze behind the wheel, but we managed. You took off your dress and threw it in the back, too. You were all heavy tits and hard nipples. I immediately sucked them; squeezed them; rubbed your nipples against my cheeks; slid my hands across your back; stuffed both tits into my mouth and licked them while fingering you.

  You stuck your hand between my legs and felt my wetness. You licked my juices off your fingers. I let the seat back down and pulled you down to me. Your tits mashed against mine. We ground our pussies together, moaning, bucking, fucking, and shouting out to God.

  I squeezed and smacked your ass. You were deep under a spell of kissing and rubbing your pussy on mine and whispered that this was not your first time. We climbed into the backseat as a delivery truck was coming in. Perhaps the driver could see us. We performed as if he could. You let out all your sexual desire and repression, sucking my pussy lips and squeezing my ass. As my juices spilled out of my pussy and onto the seat, you slid up to suck my titties and went right back down to eat me again, while I writhed and screamed out my passion: “Baby, eat me! Eat me, stranger, eat me!”

  That phrase made me come. I shook for about twenty seconds before popping out of my fantasy and composing myself. I went back into the store and finished shopping, but I didn’t see you again. If you are even remotely interested in acting any of this out, please call…

  TIES THAT BIND

  Daniel Burnell

  I knew it would happen, if not that night, then the next one. It’s why we fight, sweetheart: to test the limits of our love and the point of no return.

  In our bed, alone for the second night in a row, I understood something I couldn’t when we fought: you had come home dragging two days before, something gone wrong at work, wanting to forget it. If I could have read your mind, it would have said, Leave me alone. It was one of those days. We each get to have them. Our marriage isn’t just about feeling things mutually; it’s about submitting to the other’s feelings we can’t possibly understand. But I don’t read minds. You have to say it. “Don’t speak.” “I need some space.” “Give me a blow job.” Just say it. I would have obeyed.

  But I had made up a different script in my mind. I was feeling sexy and wanted to try on the dresses I had just bought, one for your cousin’s wedding, two for vacation. With each new dress I was going to say, “Now take it off me.” A dress isn’t just about how it looks, it’s about how it feels when your husband strips you. I was going to say, “Feel me up. I won’t keep any dress if my breasts and your hands don’t agree.” I was going to say, “Shove your hand hard into my crotch.” A dress has to pass all the nice tests and all the fun, naughty ones.

  But you were in a different mood and cruel.

  “So this is why I’m selling my soul. God, woman, you’re like a child with money.”

  The battle was on. We both said many cruel things, and you retreated to your study that night and the next, with no dinner.

  It was past midnight. The sound of your footsteps started my heart pumping hot blood in swelling waves through my body. My mouth ached, my nipples hardened, my pussy throbbed to the wild beating of my heart as you stood over me, my breath quick and shallow in the quiet of our house. I knew not to speak. My quickened breathing said all I had to say.

  You yanked me up, sat me at the edge of the bed, the grip of your hand so strong and urgent. I was naked, pliant, panting like a scared animal. But I wasn’t scared yet. My pounding heart rocked my body like a boat on a tide.

  I saw the streetlights reflected in your dark eyes and the three untied ties draped around your neck. How those hanging ties accentuated the sculpted muscles of your chest. But what did they mean? I was so turned on, the air clung like cloth to my body. You were hard for me and so close I longed to take you in my mouth but, no, that was what I wanted and I knew I must wait for what you wanted.

  You knelt between my legs and tied a tie around my neck with a Windsor knot. What d
id it mean? How concentrated and intent you were tying the knot you tied every day. The silk slid over my breasts like whispers of kisses, and I arched up for you to kiss them for real. But no, my wish again, not yours. Torture. Aching. Wild confusion.

  You stood me up and handed me a tie. I knew you wanted me to return the favor. I always like tying your tie, sending my hero into battle, but I’d never done it with my heart beating so hard my hands fumbled with the knot. When I was finally done, you slipped the end of your tie through the loop of mine and the end of mine through yours and, yanking down, brought our mouths together, as if we were kissing marionettes. What did it mean, this puppet kissing? Some new side of you was revealing itself. You were so hungry for me: your strong lips, your searching tongue; how I wanted to surrender to you, your cock inside me, to let your desire ride me where it wished to go. But no.

  You knotted your last tie around my wrists, binding them in front of me. Now I was leashed and bound and a bit scared. I didn’t know you. Change was in the air, along with a whiff of danger.

  I repeated your warrior’s quote to myself: Battle as if the future was as fixed as the past. Battle, without fear, as if you were already dead.

  You guided me by my leash to your study, where you had cleared the desk and pushed it in front of the window. You led me to the desk then went around to the other side and tied the tie binding my wrists to the security bars. You lay me down across the desk. Now I was completely exposed to you and didn’t know if you were going to fuck my face, my pussy or even my ass, which I had never wanted you to do before. But I would have welcomed it all. I wanted to be pounded, I wanted to become new just like you. But no.

  “What should I do to you?” you asked.

  “Anything you want.”

  Then I heard the telltale sound of scissor blades opening and closing, scissors that could kill.

  “What should I do to you?”

  “Anything you want.”

  My heart was crashing.

  “Will you marry me again? Until death do us part.”

  “Yes, yes, I will. Even if you want to kill me now.”

  You cut the tie binding me to the security bars, cut my wrists apart and lifted me off your desk. You smiled at me, your slightly crooked, manly smile; the streetlight shining way back in your eyes like a lantern in a dark and mysterious room. How I loved you then. How I knew you. How I would never know you.

  You kissed me with the tenderness of rescue as you cupped your hands softly around the sides of my breasts. You have done many things to my breasts but that soft cupping of your hands to my shape brought me near to fainting. You allowed me to lean my weakened body into yours, my nipples like cool coins against your hot skin. You breathed hotly into my ear and we swayed together, with your lips pressed softly against my ear.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will.”

  You lifted me up and carried me across the threshold of our bedroom. You set me down on our bed and entered me so easily, fully and deeply I knew you were the shape I was made for, that we would marry each other again and again in a continual flowering.

  I knew you would fuck me slowly this time, patient jaguar that you are, slowly and for a long time. And you did. But first you had something to say.

  “I quit my job today. You know that book I wanted to write? I’m going to write it.”

  I thee wed. I thee wed.

  EAT ME

  Marina Saint

  Eat Me.” Okay, the hamburger didn’t say those exact words. In fact, it didn’t say anything. But oh, how I heard it talk to me. I was at an elegant, upscale restaurant with my husband; the kind of restaurant with multiple forks and spoons, cloth napkins and waiters who touched up my water glass after nearly every sip. If the place oozed anything, it was pomp, not perversity, but I couldn’t help it. My mouth watered and my pussy tightened as I looked at the juicy, tempting hamburger on the stranger’s plate.

  The older gentleman was about to pick it up. My lips opened, slackened, my eyes were wide. I knew Ben was watching me like a hawk when his hand reached for my knee under the table. I gasped when he touched it, then looked up at him, guilt and panic flashing across my face, but I couldn’t deny it—the sight of the hamburger had made me horny.

  “You want it, don’t you, Beth? You want to open your mouth and slide that hunk of meat between your lips. You want to bite into it and have its tasty juices spurt in your mouth. Don’t you? Admit it,” he said, knowing he had me. We’d both made a solemn vow to quit eating meat altogether and return to our vegetarian roots. We’d met at a yoga retreat where we’d dined on tofu and spinach (deliciously spiced tofu and spinach, I might add), and I’d exulted in finding a guy as committed to good health and the environment as I was. But ever since I’d found out I was pregnant, I’d started dreaming of meat, all kinds of juicy, succulent meat, in both my waking and sleeping states. When I’d told Ben about it, he’d pressed me for more.

  “There’s just something so…sensual about it. Like I could eat it raw, with my bare hands,” I’d growled, then grinned.

  He took me in his arms and kissed me, hard. “Turn around,” he said, “and close your eyes.” He rarely talked to me like that, so I barely had time to ponder his order. I just did it, planting my hands on the kitchen counter while I stuck out my ass. He pushed up my skirt and slid his hand inside my panties. I was soaking wet. Ben shoved two fingers deep into my pussy and I cried out. “Tell me about it, Beth; tell me what you want for dinner.” It was surreal, yet it made perfect sense, to be telling my husband about the great big steak I craved while he finger-fucked me in that special way he has that makes me crumble. I trembled as the words tripped over themselves, the forbidden images of butcher’s trays and sausages and meatballs swimming through my mind. Finally, I had to break part of his order to look up at him as I came, spasming against his fingers. It was the most powerful orgasm I’d had in a while. “Maybe that’ll get it out of your system,” he said, then hummed as he went to the freezer and took out some veggie burgers.

  “It’s not funny!” I wailed. “I really want it. The baby, the iron…” I trailed off, knowing that I wasn’t fooling anyone, let alone myself, with that line of reasoning.

  “It’s just a phase,” he said, but I could tell he was amused, and when I walked over to him and cupped his crotch, I found that he wasn’t just entertained, but tantalized as well. I unzipped him and took out his dick, the one piece of meat that was safe to eat.

  “You want it, too, don’t lie,” I said, my thumb running over the slit at the top. “You’d love a pork chop or sloppy joe,” I continued as I wrapped my fist around his dick. I continued regaling him with every meaty meal I’d eaten growing up as we both got horny for flesh of the edible kind. Our fridge was filled with soy this and organic that, competing versions of mock meat that were delicious, but didn’t quite have that special zing.

  We’d agreed to let the subject go, but that burger brought it all back and then some. I bit my lip when the waiter walked over, unable to turn away from his crotch. Ben was onto me and ran his hand up my leg. “I think we’re ready,” he said. “I’ll order for both of us. Filet mignon for me, and a well-done cheeseburger for the lady.”

  I gasped. It was just a game, wasn’t it? We wanted to raise our child as a vegetarian, if not a vegan, didn’t we? On some level, that was still true, but I couldn’t deny that I wanted what he’d ordered. My very wet pussy certainly didn’t lie. I felt completely out of place at this fancy restaurant, where we were ostensibly celebrating our anniversary. By now I’d forgotten why we’d chosen it when we both usually prefer our local veggie-friendly diner or Mexican joint. But maybe it had chosen us; maybe the meat wanted us to eat it. I’d never been one to deny anything that made my pussy pound so fiercely. “Wait a minute,” I said, as our server started to walk away. “Could we get those…to go?” I asked, my cheeks reddening.

  Ben laughed, but that didn’t stop him from bending me over our dining room table, a pillow bene
ath my belly, when we got home, the burger in one hand as he shoved his cock into me. “Open wide,” he said, and fed me the meal I’d been hard pressed not to devour in the car. As he pounded into me, filling me all the way up, those juices I’d salivated over earlier filled my mouth. “Good girl,” I thought I heard the burger say as I savored every last bite. Sex and food, I learned during the rest of my pregnancy, are inexplicably intertwined, and sometimes, your food knows what’s best for you. I recommend that if a burger ever begs you to put it in your mouth, you do so immediately. You can thank me when you’re done.

  JARRET

  Shane Allison

  I stand in the doorway watching you, shirtless, sift through stories and poems strewn across your desk. I have dreamt of massaging those buff shoulders, licking along your hot spine in the summertime. You’re really tense in this spot. The elastic of your underwear shows from the waistline of your cream-colored cargos. I clear my throat to let you know that I’m standing there. You struggle to put your shirt back on. The office reeks of honey mustard from the chicken nuggets Todd had for lunch. Deborah pops in and asks if there are any poems to review. You told me once how you would like to stick your dick between her tits. I’m convinced she’s the reason you have your shirt off.

  My dick stirs erect in my underwear, the loose-fit jeans. My balls are tight and high. Deborah leaves with a folder of unread poems. Here you are with a hard-on. The bulge gives you away. I want to throw you over the desk and have my way with you. I want to rip off your shorts, tear away at the boxer-briefs with angry hands, your dick popping out of its cotton cocoon. I bind your wrists with phone cord, stuff a poem in your mouth to keep you from screaming. I take your swollen dick. You can’t control your hard-on or the spit that I use to lube it up as I suck you hard, as I go down on you balls deep, as your pubes tickle my nose.