Gotta Have It

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Please” sounds as alien on your tongue as “thank you” or “I love you.” Please is a verb describing what I should do for you. Please is what you make me say on my knees, naked and needy in front of you, begging for your cock and maybe your attention. Your cock at attention. The tension in your cock.

  “It’s me, Beth.”

  I can hear the need in my voice like a burn on my face transfiguring me into something damaged but compelling.

  “I want…”

  You.

  “I wanted…”

  Everything, anything you can do to me.

  “To let you know that…”

  I only feel when you touch me; am only visible when you look at me, only alive when you use me.

  “I’m alone for a few days…”

  And you could fuck me like the first time when you made me lie naked on my marriage bed wearing only my wedding ring and finger-fuck myself to a frenzy for your amusement, before you tied me and fucked me harder and better than my husband ever has, not because you wanted me but because you knew I would remember it—remember you—every time he enters me in his gentle loving way on that bed in which I conceived his children and betrayed his trust.

  “So if you’d like to come over for a meal…”

  I’ll serve it wearing the tiny plastic maid’s outfit you bought me because you knew my tits would fall out of it and I would look like a slut but would wear it anyway because you told me to, and I’ll kneel under the table while you eat and I’ll suck gently on your balls, letting the drool run down my chin and keeping one thumb up my ass and one in my cunt as you’ve taught me to do—as I suspect you teach all of us to do, all your stupid sluts.

  “Call me…”

  Names. Filthy names. Names that make me writhe with shame and excitement, names I want to live up to. Names that should be branded in my flesh as a warning to the world. Names that have stripped me of who I was and left me only with who I thought you wanted.

  “On my mobile.”

  The one you made me get. The one my husband doesn’t know I have. The one you pushed, condom-covered, into my cunt when you had me tied and helpless—although I am always helpless with you even when I am not tied—and threatened to ring so I’d know what phone sex was. The one I’m using now to offer myself to you because you are the only route I have to myself anymore.

  I end the call, but that doesn’t break the connection. I am leashed to you by a need that is stronger than I am.

  Sitting, waiting for your call, waiting for you to say if, how and when you will use me, I start to cry. It is not the betrayal or the humiliation or the crippling tug of my need-leash that brings the tears. It is the knowledge, sure, certain and cruel, that one day you will let go of my leash and I will trail it after me, becoming tangled with it, maybe choked by it, until I die.

  CRUSHED SATIN ORGANZA

  Carmel Lockyer

  Here’s the problem: Sonya isn’t even my friend. She’s my sister Vannie’s friend, but Vannie is working as a nanny in Montreal and can’t afford to fly back home, even for Sonya’s wedding.

  So it’s down to me. I have to wear the bridesmaid’s dress and take Sonya out on her hen night and appear in the photographs, smiling sweetly as my sister would have done. I’m a surrogate bridesmaid.

  And I hate Sonya. Always have, always will. She’s a stuck-up killjoy with all the humanity of a brick. The only reason people don’t agree with me is that her good looks blind them to her true nature.

  Take the wedding dress—it’s gorgeous. A tiny sheath of white and crystals, like an icicle. And what are the bridesmaids wearing to set off this vision? Crushed satin organza whipped up into salmon-pink frills like halfdeflated balloons, in a color more like surgical appliances than anything else.

  It’s deliberate. Sonya won’t risk anybody upstaging her on her special day, so she’s going to make us look as ridiculous as possible. And for Vannie’s sake, I’m going along with it. She sent me an email saying, “Cass, you’re the best sister in the world, and it’ll be the next best thing to being there myself.”

  So I’m standing in this tiny cubicle, pulling the hideous gown over my hips, when the curtain is thrust open and a woman steps in. She’s wearing a black skirt suit, her black hair in a tight knot and matte red lipstick that together make me think of female Russian spies. She looks as happy as I feel.

  “Vanessa,” she says, and it’s not a question.

  “Nope, Cassandra.” I enjoy her look of surprise—she’s got stern but beautiful features, like a ballet dancer. “Vannie can’t make it; I’m her stand-in.”

  The woman glares. “I made this dress to fit somebody called Vanessa.”

  “I’d noticed.”

  Vannie is slimmer than me. Like a lot of women who like women, I also like to have a body that performs well, so I have bigger muscles than Vannie, and I’m not ashamed of them.

  The woman assesses me. I give her the evil eye back. She must be a dope to be doing this for Sonya. But she is a gorgeous dope. I’m thinking Fonteyn, in her white dress, dancing in Swan Lake. She has the long bones and elegant moves of a dancer. I’ve always had a thing for dancers, ballet girls in particular; there’s something about the way they move that’s like a slo-mo orgasm, a fuck underwater, screwing in rose-petal liqueur. Okay, so I’m a bit of a dope myself when it comes to romance.

  She leans forward and twitches the dress up from my hips to my waist. “You’re very solid,” she says.

  “You’re very rude,” I reply.

  “Top,” she gestures and I realize she expects me to take off my underwear. I grin and unfasten my grubby sports bra, pinging it almost into her face. I’m not ashamed of my body and I don’t care about any woman looking at it, even this poisonous Sonya-chum.

  She hoists the dress up around my breasts. Her hands are warm and soft, which surprises me, as I’d expected lizardlike coldness. My nipples respond by crinkling like dried plums, becoming dark and wrinkled and acutely sensitive. The back of her hand brushes one, and I suck in air, looking down to see that her nails are the same matte red as her lips. When I look up, she is staring at me with a strange half smile.

  “I assume you are one of those people who find my niece attractive,” she says icily.

  “And I assume it’s none of your business,” I reply, although I can feel heat rising from between my thighs like a column of fire at this woman’s touch. “But I’ll tell you this: your niece is as repellent to me as a dead frog, and I’m only doing this because she’s managed to fool Vannie into believing that she’s a nice person.”

  “Ah,” the woman breathes, tipping her head to one side. “You have gorgeous tits.”

  I blink and let go of my part of the dress so it falls down where I’ve been clutching it. The woman tilts her head the other way and looks down at my full thatch—I don’t bother with underwear. The women I like to fuck generally have Brazilians, and there’s a nice juxtaposition between my wild pubes and their groomed delicacy. Call it the Lady and the Tramp look if you like, and I do.

  The next thing I know she’s wrapped one red-tipped hand around my left breast and pulled me forward so that her red lipstick is being equally shared between her mouth and mine. She’s an expert kisser with a doublejointed tongue that slithers and darts all round my mouth. I’m getting weak in the knees, and I can hear the dress rustling as I rub my naked body against her beautifully tailored suit. I can imagine dancing with her, although if she has this effect on me with a kiss, she’d probably have to drag me around the floor like a wet mop. I let myself collapse against her—me, the tough cookie, giving way to this delicate flower.

  But she’s not so delicate, after all. Her other hand cups my ass and her sharp knee comes forward. I clamp my naked thighs around her leg and thrust, pressing my clit against the faint friction of her hosiery, feeling my wetness slicking its way onto her as she pinches my nipple and digs her nails into my bum, and I come, panting.

  She steps back, expertly w
iping lipstick from her face with forefinger and thumb, and looks me up and down.

  “You’re going to need a lot of fittings, Cassandra.”

  For a moment I’m crushed by her comment, until I see the spark in her eyes.

  “In fact, I think it might be easiest if you come to my house—that way I can get to work on you whenever I need to.”

  She flicks up one eyebrow, and I grin stupidly.

  “Yeah, great, whatever you want,” I say, like a big silly dog wagging its tail.

  She leans forward again, hooks her finger into my wet pubes and tugs me toward her. “Of course it’s whatever I want,” she says. “You’re going to be my reward for having to deal with my ghastly niece.” She slides her finger over my clit until I want to howl with pleasure.

  And then she’s gone, sliding the curtain back into place before I’ve even thought of a reply. I bundle back into my clothes, smelling her lily of the valley fragrance mingled with my own juices and the sweet smell of girlsweat.

  Outside the cubicle there’s a gilded chair, and on it there’s a piece of paper with a telephone number in bold, black handwriting. I pick it up and fold it carefully into my dungaree pocket. I think it’s going to take a lot of fittings to get me into that salmon-pink, crushed satin organza, flouncy dress.

  NOT ON THE MOUTH

  Cole Riley

  The young man sat in the expensive hotel room. He examined the bulging biceps on his bulky upper arms, his rippled belly muscles and his thoroughbred runner’s calves with a performer’s tense anticipation. He was Omar, the high-priced escort from Martinique.

  “Hey, Mrs. Maxim says she’ll be late,” the man at the front desk said into the telephone. “She’s stuck in traffic. That’s all she said.”

  “I can wait,” the young man grumbled, folding his legs beneath him on the dark plaid sofa.

  He was used to waiting. Much of this job was wasting minutes, marking time until the first sizzling kiss, the first electric caress, the first stroke of the flesh in delight.

  He paced and paced, his shoes wearing out the rug. The lock sounded musically with the turn of the key.

  A stylish woman, looking at him the entire time, moved quickly into the bathroom and slammed the door. She locked the door, took off her coat, and sat on the toilet. Soon there was a cigarette in her hand, shaking more than usual.

  Through the door, the young man’s husky voice could be heard, although she wanted him to be quiet. Drama like this must be milked and appreciated.

  Paying for it. Paying for dick. Man-crazy bitch. She could hear them saying that. Even her friends would say it. Even her Mom and Pop would say it. But so what? Most women wrestled with that temptation to throw themselves out there and get fucked. Really fucked.

  It had been a long time since any man had touched her. Or even a woman.

  “Are you going to come out of there?” the young man shouted.

  “Be right out.”

  “You’re not Mrs. Maxim?” he asked her. “Who are you?”

  She didn’t say anything. She was very quiet.

  “Explain yourself.” His voice was hard and stern.

  Again, she kept her silence, her hand over her mouth.

  She lit another cigarette, trying to buy time so she could figure out what to say. She was speechless, but she knew she would eventually have to open that door and go out there.

  “Time is money,” he said harshly.

  “Let me finish,” she said. “Then I will come out.”

  She glanced in the bathroom mirror, took a tissue and wiped away her lipstick. Yes, she was drunk. Wobbling, she sat back down on the toilet and removed her high heels. Next came the gray pantsuit, the white blouse, the tight girdle, the white lace panties and the bra, which she always had trouble with.

  She went out into the room with the bed in it. The décor was like that of any number of the swank hotels in midtown. Her nudity wasn’t a problem to her—or to the young man, who was already in his briefs.

  Once she sat on the bed, she thought she saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He knew her. He had not seen her in over five years. She was once a houseguest of his family, had grown up in the old neighborhood. His mother, who had always reminded her of the actress Raquel Welch, had been a very good friend of hers. In fact, she’d introduced her to her husband.

  If he knew her, he didn’t let on. He treated her just like a regular customer, until he fired up a cigarette. He freed his dick from his underwear and stroked it gently. He could feel her eyes on it.

  “Damn, it’s big,” she stuttered.

  He got on his knees and crawled over to her after mashing the cigarette out. She couldn’t look at him or his dick.

  “You’re not Mrs. Maxim?” he asked again, slyly. “Who are you?”

  “Mrs. Iyer,” she lied. He knew her as Mrs. Meer.

  “Does your man have a big dick like mine?” he teased.

  She kept quiet.

  “Does he fuck you like I am going to fuck you?”

  He moved in for the kill, pressed his hot lips against her neck.

  “Not as good as you,” she whimpered in anticipation. She fought an urge to drop down and put the swollen thing in her mouth.

  He put his powerful hands on her body, tracing her breasts tenderly and then pinching her big nipples until she moaned. His mouth covered them and her head rolled back in pleasure.

  “Can he eat pussy like I’m going to?” He smiled wickedly.

  “No,” she groaned. Her husband made her wait.

  She was hot and wet. She didn’t care whose son he was. This felt good.

  Her juices were soaking into the mattress, as she wiggled her ass and spread her legs to receive him. He slid his mouth over her hairless sex, probed her button and explored her hole. She was his. He placed two fingers inside her and moved in and out until she was out of breath. Her fingers clawed his massive shoulders.

  “Take me, Omar,” she pleaded with him. “Make me your bitch.”

  His head was still down there. He was making her crazy. Her voice sounded shrill, desperate and needy. She didn’t give a shit. She wanted him.

  Suddenly, he was pulling her legs up, her moist sex making noise, yet he paused to admire the view. He had always wondered what she looked like down between her thighs. He used to imagine her naked: the dear friend of his mother.

  When he eased into her, she covered her head with the pillow. She was full of him to her cervix, at least it felt like that. He was good at this. He pumped into her, sliding his big dick this way and that, stretching her. He wanted to feel all of it. In no time, she was yelling, moaning, pleading, shouting, yet he didn’t stop. Sweat poured from her body.

  She covered her face with the pillow again.

  She thought she might go nuts. Her body was responding to his dick in her like a hopped-up teenage cheerleader. It was no way for a woman to act when she was more than twice his age. She felt him pull out and position himself so he could yank her buttcheeks up into his hands and suck her clit like the pervert he was.

  She shouted and came, hard. He put it back into her and gave her the most vigorous pumps he had in him. His ass was going around in frenzied circles while she held on to him.

  Afterward, he hugged her close, her face nestled against him. He leaned over, puckered his lips to kiss her. The feeling was overpowering. He needed to be close to her, the friend of his mother.

  There were tears in her eyes. Her hands were trembling with so much feeling, but she turned her head to make a point.

  “Not on the mouth, please,” she said, cold and distant, breaking his heart. The performance was over. Now, it was back to real life.

  HOT BUNS ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  Erica Rivera

  I always preempt my booty calls with porn.

  Sink your teeth into my buns, read the text I sent to my lover. Attached was a picture of my homemade pecan rolls, dripping with caramel. I deliver! Just say when!

  To my reli
ef, he was just as eager for the rolls as I was for another roll in the hay.

  Now! he responded.

  We’d only have an hour, but the way he fucked me, that would be plenty. His style was almost schizophrenic: bunny kisses interspersed with spankings. He’d given me a peek at the wide, wild world of BDSM, and I was hooked. Next on the menu? Anal.

  “I’ll be gentle,” he’d promised during our previous in-person negotiations. “I’ll go slow. If you want to stop, we’ll stop. But you won’t want to.”

  Today, my back door would be open for business. I sped down Cedar Avenue, cursing the Dumbo-eared teen slogging along in a rumbling sedan with double tailpipes in front of me.

  “Time’s a wastin’!” I wanted to yell. “Every red light is one less orgasm!”

  My clit throbbed against the crystal adornments of my thong. By the time I arrived at the rendezvous point I was so wet, I thought I’d drown in my juices.

  “Cup of coffee?” my lover asked, swaggering casually toward the kitchen. His jeans were tight in all the right places, accentuating his rock star-skinny figure.

  “No, thank you,” I said. He attempted small talk about an upcoming concert of his, but the words didn’t register. My hunger was so fierce, it made me deaf.

  “You don’t want to hear about this, do you?” he asked, patting his wife-beater-sheathed chest, the coils of dark hair already glistening with sweat.

  “I just want to get off.”

  He stopped short of reaching for a mug of java one drop from overflowing on the countertop.

  “I can handle that,” he said.

  I couldn’t get naked fast enough. Soon I was straddling him on the couch next to his abandoned cowboy hat—the article of clothing responsible for our first having hooked up. Had we more time, I would’ve ridden him in proper cowgirl attire.

  After an onslaught of orgasmic shudders thundered through my body, we moved to the bedroom. He stretched out on his back, arms open wide.

  “Put that pretty little ass in my face,” he demanded.