Gotta Have It

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I removed my leather trousers and discarded them onto a neighboring chair, unabashed and naked with the exception of my panties, which I pulled upward into my moist pussy as I rubbed my clit through the sheer fabric, relishing the delicious friction of the cloth against my sodden cunt, gazing upon the flashing neon of the street outside, imagining myself boundless and liberated, as emancipated as the grinding eight-track. I moved the garment to the side to place a teasing finger inside myself, dramatically spreading the cloth like a curtain’s revelation.

  “Lesson two: surrender to instinct.” I ripped off my panties and reached toward his cock, sensing new vitality as the shaft hardened, the head pulsing with the arrival of ardent new blood. He had begun to remove the Bob Seger jersey when I touched his chest in protest, whispering, “Leave it on, baby. I want to nail you with that ugly thing in my face.”

  I mounted him, grasping his erection and guiding it inside me, swallowing ardently as its length caressed my lubricated depths. I began with slow, deliberate strokes, fucking him in synchronization with the music. All decorum vanished, the world evaporated, as we entered a primeval world of grunting rhythm. I watched the mosaic of pulsing signs as we rutted like animals, united in liberated candor with the anxious lights as I screwed him with mounting fervor, teasing my clit as I increased the ferocity of my barrage. I imagined, fancifully, his cock emerging from my throat as a shiver rose through my pussy, animating my nipples and the tendons of my neck, inspiring me to groan, “And lesson three is…” gasping as I struggled to articulate my course reflections. “…Achieve release.” I grimaced, feeling myself come along with my proclamation, slapping my clit to hasten my orgasm, shuddering in elation as he withdrew. I grasped his cock and began to suck it as a fusillade of come detonated inside my mouth. I laughed impishly, consuming the salty effusion; I allowed the semen to descend my throat, a liquid prize of conquest. The eight-track rumbled in darkness, a pure expression of primal rapture, as I indecently drooled on the Seger shirt, leaving a deliciously filthy stain.

  TIME

  Cecilia Tan

  On the eve of our twentieth wedding anniversary, I spoke of the passion we’d kindled on our very first date. “How many times did you have sex that night?” someone asked. I don’t know how to answer the question. We made love that whole night, and by night, I mean from the moment we got into bed until we both decided to get out of it, regardless of the state of the sun or moon.

  How many times did he penetrate me? Is that what they meant? If so, the answer is surely in the thousands. He slid his cock in and out of me slowly at times, faster at others, sometimes the slowest when I begged for it faster, and sometimes the fastest when I could barely contain the lust boiling out of us both.

  How do you measure time? You don’t feel it passing, because time has ceased to be measured in seconds or minutes or hours. Instead it is counted in the ticktock of heartbeats, in the pendulum swing of thrusts, on the sudden high-pitched cry that bursts out like a cuckoo from a well-wound clock.

  Well, then, how many times did I come? How many did he? I can answer truthfully that I lost count. You may as well ask me how many times we’ve made love since that night. How many times have I parted my thighs to welcome his body into mine? The answer could be hundreds, thousands.

  No, wait, I have it. How many times have his hands slid down my skin, how many times have his lips sought the place on my neck that makes me wet, how many times have I gripped his buttocks, leaving nail marks that might as well spell out the word Deeper? Who can say that our passion is less now than it was? No one. So, how many times?

  Once. Once and forever.

  DINING IN THE DARK

  Elizabeth Daniels

  Sascha misquoted me.” As I watched Alison dress, I waved my fingertips beneath my nose and savored the fine bouquet of her pussy. “What I said was, ‘When it comes to sex, women are like chefs. Each one has a specialty, and even the same dishes are never prepared exactly alike.’”

  Alison bent over to pick up her panties, briefly displaying the spanked red burn of my handprints across her pale buttocks. “So are you claiming to be a connoisseur of women?”

  “That raises my level of expertise beyond what I would say, but something like that, yes,” I said with more modesty than I felt.

  “So what…‘dish’…is my specialty?”

  “Sucking cock,” I said without hesitation. “Although you’re a lovely assfuck too, darling.”

  “What’s the rest of me, chopped liver?”

  “Of course not. I’d hardly be in bed with you if you were. I don’t fancy liver.”

  She yanked a short dress over her head with enough force to create a new neck opening, had the dress been misaligned. “Is that what passes for British humor? It’s not funny.”

  I laughed. “Don’t get so outraged. All I’m saying is, having sex with women is like going to a five-star restaurant. Everything on the menu is going to be outstanding, but there’s always a course that’s the chef’s specialty, which has the perfect combination of textures and tastes. That’s so for women as well.”

  “What about men?”

  “They’ve the advantage in technique, of course, but a completely different way of handling the goods. More rough and ready. I’m done with men. I much prefer women. Overfamiliarity leads to shortcuts. It’s takeout versus gourmet sex. No contest.”

  “If you had two women both giving you a blow job, you’re claiming you could tell who was giving you the blow job based on—what?”

  “Her approach, of course. No two women take on a cock the same way, love.”

  She paused to study me through a pale froth of tousled hair. “Care to put that to the test?”

  “Depends upon who and what you have in mind,” I said cautiously. “I’d have to be mad to decline being the main judge in a cocksucking contest, but neither do I want to place my most valued in the center of a catfight.”

  “Castillio’s on the Upper East Side is doing a dinner in the dark tomorrow, and I’d like to go. You’re still friendly with Sascha, aren’t you?”

  “You talk to her more than I do. We’re friendly enough that we wouldn’t draw blood if we saw each other again. But what’s a dinner in the dark?”

  “What you’d think. A restaurant sets up dining, seats everyone at a certain time and douses the lights.” Carefully, she applied lipstick to her ripe, warm mouth. “The theory is that it helps focus you on the taste and texture of the food by eliminating one of your most obvious senses, but I’m told the best meals are served under the table, as it were.”

  “I’d have a go at the sex side dishes, but what about the actual food? How would you know you weren’t being given cat meat?” I asked, revolted. “Why can’t we have a little gathering here?”

  “Coward.” She blotted her lips and blew a kiss to her image in the mirror. “I think it would be fun. And it would tempt Sascha. She’s quite the exhibitionist.”

  “And a virtuoso skin-flutist as well. Are you certain you want the comparison?”

  “I’m not worried,” she said airily. “Who knows? It might be fun. If your gourmet sensibilities won’t force you to starve, that is.”

  “I’ll try it, but I’d rather focus on being eaten than on eating what I can’t see. Tomorrow it is. You contact Sascha and make the reservations, though. I’ll pay, but I’m not setting this up.”

  “Coward,” she said again, with a wicked glint. Then she kissed me and was gone.

  Unsurprisingly, the steak au poivre was bland, the salad forgettable. Dessert was far more intriguing. While the crème brûlée was pedestrian and predictable, its accompaniment was not. Without regret, I put down my spoon to concentrate as my mystery girl unzipped my trousers and began preparing a tastier dessert offering.

  At first, I worried about the volume of her uninhibited slurps and sucks, but the chorus of sound effects from the tables around me convinced me that we weren’t the only diners with sex on the menu. Then I stopped car
ing. My partner was going after my cock as if it was chateaubriand and she was coming off a five-day fast. All I had to do was lean back and enjoy being devoured.

  I’d said every woman had her signature sex dish, but I’d never had oral sex from a world-class sex chef. I could have cried from the perfect marriage of ingredients and techniques: swift, stirring tongue; spicy rubs beneath the meaty head; slow, gumdrop sucks on my balls. Delectable. I tried to hold out and savor it as long as I could, but her skill made my cream rise in record time. Almost with regret, I added my own barely stifled refrain to the mating songs around us. Though I was finished, she wasn’t; she went over my cock as if cleaning the last savory traces of crème fraîche from a spoon. Had I the strength, I would have begged for a second helping, although I wasn’t certain I could have survived the experience.

  As I finished catching my breath, the lights came on. Everyone around us was beating a hasty retreat to his or her seat, but Alison and Sascha were both sitting precisely where they had been, both wearing the same bright lipstick on the same smug cat smiles.

  “Ready to make a guess, James?” Sascha asked in tones of rich dark wine.

  I was fairly certain it wasn’t Alison; Alison’s sucking could make a lollipop climax, but she could never take me to such exquisite depths in her throat. Yet my admittedly rusty memory didn’t lead me to believe it was Sascha, either. Sascha’s tongue technique was more like the licking of an ice-cream cone, not the sublime strokes that had basted my cock. And neither of them had ever swallowed, much less drained me limp.

  “I think I know,” I bluffed, watching their faces for clues.

  “Are you quite certain?” Alison inquired archly.

  I began to answer, but stopped as our waiter returned to our table to collect our plates.

  “Thank you,” I said to him.

  He lowered long lashes over demure angel eyes. “My pleasure, sir,” he said.

  And licked the corner of his mouth.

  DOWNPOUR

  Elle

  It is the first clap of thunder that begins to thin the local crowd, brought together this hot, muggy evening for a soul concert in the park. Lamar and I are here for date night, our sixth as a new couple, hoping to strengthen our budding relationship by sharing a common connection to our youth—the exhilarating and sexy old-school music of Frankie Beverly and Maze. While we both grew up in California—he in Los Angeles, me up north in the Bay Area—it wasn’t until we’d each landed back east six months ago that we’d met through a mutual friend. While we chatted at her cocktail party, we learned that both of us had packed a huge amount of living in the separate and successful lives we’d already lived—college, long-term marriages, children, successful careers, widowhood and divorce. Now, both in our midfifties, we are starting over, hopefully together.

  The gentle summer breeze that earlier in the day had blown warm breath beneath butterfly wings suddenly becomes wicked and without warning turns dusk into darkness and hijacks the concert. The heavy clouds drop fat raindrops with an ever-quickening pace, causing the musicians to vacate the bandstand and their fans the open field before it. A sudden deluge of summer’s first thunderstorm quickly clears the remaining stragglers. The downpour fills the air with its own form of percussion—thunderclaps and the wind whooshing through the treetops, accompanied by Mother Nature’s fingers drumming against the roofs of the concert shell and parked cars.

  “Why don’t you dash and get the car,” I suggest as I quickly throw the wet remnants of our romantic picnic into the basket and try to clear up our belongings. With everything packed, I stand, warm rain following the salt-and-pepper spirals of my soaked hair before dripping onto my face. I look around. We are suddenly all alone in this wet world, left at the bottom of the hill that only minutes ago was a sea of neighborly faces.

  I reach out to help Lamar up. He grips my wrist but doesn’t move. No words are spoken. Instead, he looks up, his eyes devouring me. My soaked torso, now encased in thin wet cotton, is on display like Venus de Milo in the Louvre. My white sundress clings to my chest, revealing every curve of my breasts and the slightly raised bumps of my nipples. It adheres to my hips and stomach, revealing my pubic mound, making Lamar’s eyes grow wide with devilish intent. I shiver. Not from chill, but with delicious anticipation.

  Thunder rolls in the distance as he pulls me back down to the blanket. I straddle his body and lean my face toward his. Our gazes meet and we smile in mutual consent. He brings his lips down to meet mine, our tongues giggling together before singing harmoniously in the rain. I am drowning. Not in rainwater but in desire. Desire fueled by a wantonness I’ve never before, in my half century of living, possessed. I am here in an open field, about to fuck my lover, warm water dropping from the sky, baptizing our union. The scandalous nature of the moment does not escape me. Neither does its sensuality and romance. It all excites and delights me.

  Lamar exposes my bare chest to the elements by unzipping my dress and pulling it down to my waist. This unexpected water massage against my naked skin awakens every nerve of my body. He lifts his head to kiss my breasts, and I watch the rain fall on his face as he suckles my nipples, pulling hard, forcing them to grow longer and harder in his mouth. They become antennas to my drenched clit, sending waves of carnal desire south, which is now sopping with two kinds of natural wetness. This man, the rain, the spontaneity of the moment thrill me, and I reach up and lift my arms to the sky in joyful gratitude. I feel alive and young and beautiful in ways I never did even when I believed all those things to be true. As Lamar releases my breasts, I lean back without fear or embarrassment and let the raindrops land on my beautifully imperfect, seasoned body. He gazes in awe and I feel him grow harder under me. I open my mouth and drink in the tears of the sky, then lean down, place my lips to his and share the cool drink. It dribbles down his face as Lamar bites his lip in delight. I stick my hand between my legs and fumble with his belt and zipper, finally releasing his beautiful cock into my hand.

  I suck in more of the damp smell of grass and summer night rain as I guide Lamar into me. The thunder booms again as his dick consumes all the open space of my greedy pussy. I gyrate against him, adding nuances to my movements for maximum pleasure. I first move slow and sexy, like a rain dance to the gods. His hardness rubs up against the network of nerve endings wiring my box, igniting an electrical fire that sparks throughout me. My slow grind becomes more raw and demanding. I clench my inner muscles and grip his dick, holding on as I intensify the ride. As we both feel his rod grow longer and harder, Lamar’s rapture expresses itself with facial contortions resembling everything from physical pain to emotional surrender.

  His capable hands reach up and pinch my nipples hard. The tweak zings my clit like an electric shock, turning pain to pleasure and causing my insides to contract against his dick. We both let out elongated yelps of passion. Our screams get caught up in the rain and carried away by the wind, leaving only grateful satisfaction behind. Lamar sits up to hold me close, and together our wet bodies experience my orgasmic shakes and shivers.

  The first sighting of lightning off in the distance causes a newfound urgency based on both survival and sexual need. The grunts and moans of effort and ecstasy mingle, adding vocals to our impromptu summer concert. I quicken my pace and Lamar’s pelvis rises to meet my every stroke. Our bodies are one with united purpose and our unrelenting fucking sets off a series of shudders, each quaking harder than the next, giving Lamar an escalating orgasm that begins in his feet, travels up his legs, causes his arms to clench me tight enough to expel my breath, and make me pray to God, before leaving his dick pulsating between my legs.

  We collapse on each other as steam rises from the warm, wet ground and the deluge turns to drizzle. We are in sync with nature, and I feel refreshed and renewed. And alive. One final shot of bliss mixed with the nowchilled air causes me to shiver in Lamar’s arms.

  “We’re too old for this,” he tells me with a soggy giggle, as he catches his breath.<
br />
  “Au contraire, my love,” I counter. “We are finally old enough.”

  NEED-LEASH

  Mike Kimera

  I’m sorry, Mr. O’Neil is in a meeting. If you’d like to leave a message, I can put you through to his voice mail.”

  She sounds young and sexy and I wonder if you’ve screwed her, and which hole you used and if she enjoyed it, and if you came, and if you hurt her the way you hurt me and if she wanted you to and why I care so much.

  “Ma’am?”

  So she thinks I’m old and confused and to be smiled at patiently because you’ve used her holes more recently than you’ve used mine.

  “Shall I connect you?”

  Our last connection was in the stairwell of your glass and concrete phallus of a building, and I let you rip my hose and force yourself into the first hole your cock found. One hand covered my mouth and the other mauled my breasts, tearing a button from the silk blouse I’d worn because my nipples stretch the silk the way my desire for you stretches my morals until I let you use me from behind, pushing me into the ugly metal railing while I leaned out into the heartless concrete shaft of the stairwell so symbolic of you. You fucked me and fucked me and fucked me, until your hot come scalded my asshole and tears stained my cheeks, and something that might have been love but could just have been relief at feeling alive at last twisted in my guts.

  “I’m putting you through to his voice mail now.”

  She’s glad to be rid of me and my silence that could be helplessness or aggression but is unlikely to be anything she wants to deal with.

  “This is Dan O’Neil. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message.”