Gotta Have It

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I did as I was told, presenting myself to him on all fours while taking his cock, still coated with a thin sheen of me, into my mouth. He blew on my hole with gentle precision, like a kid with a bubble wand, then nuzzled his face in my crack, the stiff curls of his beard sending a surprise tickle spiraling around my most sensitive spot.

  When I heard him spit on his fingers, I knew what was coming… but I had no idea what to expect. He whispered sweet nothings in his scruffy smoker’s voice, coaxing me to let go. The first digit probed politely, then slid inside me, so slippery it was almost imperceptible, like a teenager sneaking in after curfew.

  “Flip over,” he said, making a pedestal with pillows for my pelvis. “I want to fill you up until you feel like you’ll burst.”

  Silence descended as drops of saliva dripped from his lips and landed like dew on my asshole. (“Deflowering,” indeed!) As the head of his cock burrowed into my hole, an unprecedented pressure shot up my spine. Searing, stinging shocks reverberated through me the farther he penetrated, followed by sweet relief when he pulled out. Pain, pain, pleasure. Pain, pain, pleasure. Pumping, pumping, pumping. With each slow but insistent thrust, my torso arched like an animal being skewered; I gripped his hairy thighs, trying to temper the agony. I closed my eyes and bit my lower lip to keep from screaming, “Stop!” As promised, I didn’t really want him to.

  Once my body had swallowed him up from tip to shaft, I clenched his cock in tandem with his thrusts, and soon he showered me with warm, pungent jizz…like I was a bun receiving its drizzle.

  “I like you all wet,” he mused when he collapsed beside me. He traced swirls in the reservoir of come on my stomach with one hand and rode the hills of my bum with the other. “You’re gonna be sore. No way you’ll forget me for a few days.”

  I smiled silently as his eyes twinkled blue in a hue even Crayola couldn’t replicate. I wouldn’t forget him anyway, sodomy notwithstanding.

  “Let’s have some buns,” he said, perking up out of postcoital cuddle mode. “Since you sent me that picture, I haven’t been able to think of anything else.”

  I presented him with my masterpieces.

  “I’m going to be really indulgent,” he said, rubbing his hands together, then scrounging through the fridge, “and put butter all over these!”

  My hot buns, his lube, I thought. This man has an appetite practically on a par with mine!

  “Sit down,” he said, indicating the dining area. As the buns spun round and round in the microwave, I lowered myself down onto a chair, the suggestion of an exquisite ache building deep within. “Watch me eat.”

  There’s nothing I love more than watching a man devour my food. He unrolled the pastry, delicately separating the folds like he would my labia, until he reached the innermost coils, slightly underbaked and the same buttermilk shade as my body. He nibbled the pecancovered parts from the first roll, then unrolled the second and repeated his sweet seduction.

  “Mm-mm-mm,” he moaned. My buns had won him over…in more ways than one. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, up the ass appeared to be my preferred path.

  When he finished, he wet a napkin at the sink and swirled it around his beard. I wondered if he was cleaning the traces of my cunt or my buns from his face. I hoped he’d miss a spot. I wanted him to have a sticky reminder of me all day long.

  “Food is all about love,” he mused. “As is music.”

  If my expertise was in edibles, his was aural. Blood sugar restabilized, he picked up his guitar and serenaded me. I watched his fingers contort around and coerce the guitar chords… those same fingers that had only moments ago been plumbing the depths of my buns in every sense.

  I was mid-giggle when his girlfriend called. Though their relationship was open, she’d recently insisted on being included in our sex sessions. I didn’t really want a package deal—just his package—and had thus far managed to avoid her.

  Now we were busted.

  “I’m, um, just eating some rolls,” he stammered into the phone.

  His wide-eyed expression told me that she’d correctly translated his statement to “I just butt-fucked the erotic food blogger we’ve been following online.”

  “I’ll go,” I said when he hung up.

  “I think that’s best.”

  I hadn’t even merged back onto the highway when she called my cell. As suspected, she was pissed… but not because her boyfriend had fucked me.

  She was upset because she’d wanted a taste of my hot buns, too.

  FEEL THE BURN

  Thomas S. Roche

  Wow,” said Amanda disappointedly. “That’s really impressive.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s been a while since I opened it.”

  “That’s not an actual used condom, is it?”

  “No, I think the wrapper just tore.”

  “And please tell me that’s—”

  “Lube,” I said quickly. “Liquid Silk. It looks like—”

  “Yeah,” she cut me off. “I know what it looks like. But I guess it wouldn’t be white and creamy if it were old, would it? Is that a business card?” She picked it up and said, “A realtor named Hung Marfgussen tried to pick you up?”

  I snatched the sodden mass with its faded print and said, “His name was Herb Rassmussen, and he wanted to sell my house.”

  “Wow,” she said, singsong sarcastic. “Pervy. You’re more of a player than I thought.”

  “Look, I know it’s a pretty sad play bag,” I said.

  The contents of said play bag were scattered across the bed; after an extended period of singlehood, I had met up with Amanda at a friend’s party, and we had hit it off. We had “seen each other” six or seven times in the month since, each time with sensuously vanilla but resoundingly satisfying results.

  This time, before we started shedding clothes, we’d gotten to talking, and she confessed to me that she’d hooked up with me because she’d heard I was into “that pervy stuff.” She dug that big-time. Her last boyfriend had loved to spank her; she adored having her nipples tweaked “until I scream,” and she really liked “the pain,” as she called it. “You can always hurt me,” she’d purred with the credulous excitement of the beginning player. “Consider that an open invitation.”

  Then she had asked, in breathy tones ripe with erotic promise, to see my play bag.

  So far it wasn’t going well.

  The play bag: for those uninitiated into the ways of the perv community, this is the thing you pack with restraints, whips, chains, clips, clamps, paddles, safesex materials and the like. You bring it along when you go to a “play party,” which is a bunch of people in a room having sex or doing BDSM, or some combination of the two. When one meets a person at such a party with whom one intends to get frisky, going through the bag amounts to a kind of foreplay.

  The funny thing about a play bag, however: if one doesn’t show due diligence in keeping it organized, just a few play parties can render it a confused mess. This one had been sitting in my closet unopened for eighteen months, since the screaming fight that occurred, following my return from such an event, with a thengirlfriend, soon-to-be-ex. It bore a few scars from that last play party. These scars took the form of leather restraints with their fake-fur tiger-striped lining gone matted and hard with dried lube, condom wrappers bled onto an antique Ping-Pong paddle, a bayonet for an AK-47 that had actually started to rust, and an ancient, crusty pair of panties that had been sliced neatly at the sides.

  “It’s all right,” she sighed. “I’m a woman. We’re used to being disappointed by a man’s equipment.” Deadpanning like Paula Poundstone on Valium, Amanda could be devastating. “Although…this is more disappointing than most.” She pursed her lips: she was also a smartassed masochist, it had been clearly established through her single spanking and a Facebook quiz titled “What Kind of Pervert Are You?”

  She perked up: “What’s that?”

  She seized the tiny jar and held it up.

 
It was so small, it had been easy to miss, and I’d missed it.

  “Tiger Balm,” I said, and snatched it back from her.

  She snatched it back.

  “What is it?”

  I grabbed it back from her.

  “It’s like…a muscle balm,” I said.

  She grabbed it back. “What’s it for? What’s it for?” she repeated insistently, giggling.

  “You really don’t know?” I asked.

  “Of course I don’t,” she said. “What’s it for?”

  Oh, what I did next was mean, so very mean and unethical. You, reader, should never do it.

  I said: “Let me show you.”

  “Show me?” she asked.

  “Spread your legs.”

  Amanda never wore a stitch beneath her flowing cotton hippie skirts. She liked to “feel free.” This was a turn-on to me and also made it easier to fuck on a moment’s notice, which both Amanda and I seemed to be pretty into.

  It almost made it easier to do horrible, unethical things to her. She smiled and did as she was told.

  “The thing to know about Tiger Balm,” I said, as I smeared a significant amount on two fingers, “is that it starts out feeling like not a big deal, and—lift your shirt, baby.”

  She did. As she showed me her teacup-sized tits—I had known already she wasn’t wearing a bra—I smeared a considerable amount on her clitoris. I followed it up with a pair of smears across her nipples.

  “—Becomes one,” I said.

  “Becomes what?” she asked.

  “Becomes a big deal.”

  She looked at me blankly.

  “What’s it do?”

  “It makes you less sarcastic,” I said.

  “Oh, I doubt that,” she sneered.

  “Let me wash my hands.”

  “Wash your hands?”

  “You’ll thank me later.”

  I got up and went into the bathroom; I had some hand soap stashed under the sink but had to dig for it. Once I got it out, I scrubbed down my hands and fingers carefully; damned important to get the stuff off with something that cleans oil-based products away.

  The moaning started before I returned; she was spread out on the bed, legs wide, tits exposed, skirt and shirt up. She was undulating softly.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” she mewled. “Damn you. Damn you! Damn you. Damn you!” She worked her hips crazily and squirmed on the bed; her eyes opened wide and she stared at me; they were glazed with pleasure and pain.

  “Sometimes there’s laughing,” I said as I took off my clothes.

  She shook her head, moaning softly as she squirmed.

  “No,” she said. “Not laughing.”

  “Does it feel good?”

  “Define ‘good,’” she said, and writhed wildly.

  For the uninitiated: Tiger Balm on mucous membranes causes a sensation best described as… well, it’s best not described. But it’s hard to ignore. I got my clothes off and crawled onto the bed; she arched her back and aimed her nipples at me, her lower lip trembling as I kissed her, hard. She kissed me back as her hand came up greasy from the open jar she’d stashed beneath the furls of her hippie skirt. She had her greasy fingers up and down my shaft, smearing the substance from my balls to my cockhead before I even knew what was happening.

  “Oh, boy,” I said ruefully. “You know you’re smarter than you look?”

  “You mean not as dumb as you thought I was?” she breathed, and took my hand and pulled me onto her. “Come on, let’s feel the burn together.”

  So we did, fitted together hand in glove as the burning hit us like a herd of wild horses; it was a very long night.

  TRIXIE

  Jen Cross

  She had hot-handed hands. Now, what the hell does that mean, you’re asking me, and it’s the same question I asked myself when I first thought it: That girl has hot-handed hands—wait, what? Now, Janine, my boy, just what is that supposed to mean? But it’s the only way to put it: her hands were not just hot, not just precise and predatory; they were like more hands than hands.

  I’m getting ahead of myself, though it was her hands that I noticed first, then wrists, then those thick forearms that burned with goldenrod fur….

  Didn’t I say I was getting ahead of myself? I just need you to understand that what I first noticed about Trixie Bottoms was her hands, and not, as one might assume, her substantial and treacherous and unrivaled posterior. No. It was the way her hands reached out to the audience during every one of her numbers, how they dove and turned and pulled, poked and prodded at the air like it was a body—like, maybe it was your body or, you know, my body.

  Trixie did old-school striptease and burlesque, the shimmy and shake behind feathers and leather and fringe, but instead of strutting to old forties’ standards, she danced to these crazy mashups. She was famous for that show she did at Pride one year, where she pulled off a catsuit to reveal a body utterly encased in glitter (and just how to get a body that flush into—or more to the point, out of—material that tight, was part of Trixie’s magic and mystique), and how I heard it, she did it all, slow and 1960s sin-lady-like, to Doris Day’s “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” up against Trent Reznor screaming, “I wanna fuck you like an animal.” Seriously.

  She performed at the dyke bar in town one Thursday a month during happy hour, happying everyone into getting ready for the weekend and buying just a little more to drink. That first time I saw her, some buddies from work had taken me out for beers to celebrate my getting laid off and getting dumped, all in the same week. Now me and that ex had been arguing for a good long time about sex: not enough sex, not the right sex, you know, and naturally the last thing I wanted was some sexy burlesque just three days after one more girl told me I was too damn closed, but what’re you gonna do when your buddies promise you more T&A than you can shake a stick at? That’s right: you shove your throbbing, broken heart into your back pocket and you grin with them all the way to the show.

  I wasn’t even a little tight by the time Trixie flourished out onto the floor. I sat on one of the few stools at the back of the room while the whole rest of that burly crowd shoved up into Trixie’s fire-breathing eyes, her full goddamn lips and those tits that introduced themselves into your consciousness by way of the ancient underdeveloped parts of your brain stem and made you feel as though maybe all would be right with the world if you could just wrangle your lips right into that soft skin there. Since everyone else was busy trying to get a little closer to Trixie, I almost felt like I had the whole bar—the whole performance—to myself.

  And so it seemed like she was bumping and grinding, packing and unpacking all that desire just for me—I mean, down into me. Once her hands got going, I had to cross my legs, and I’m not the kind of butch who crosses her legs all that often, if you know what I mean. You don’t know? I mean, I’m usually the one trying to get the girl to need to cross her legs, at the same time trying to get ’em uncrossed, open even, trying to get inside—and all through this agitation with a girl, I keep myself open and spread, safe, impenetrable.

  But Trixie, with those fucking hands, those hot-handed hands, she picked up my black-eyed stare from on the floor where I’d dropped it, handed it back to me and watched me watch her dive and swan bomb her way all into me. I couldn’t get up off my chair when she finished, when my buddies clapped me on the back and asked if I was coming out with them to the next joint; couldn’t move when the place was emptied and the lights came up all bland and brazen and normal; couldn’t move when the bouncer said, “Hey, you need something? We’re closin’ up.” I couldn’t move till she came out of that dressing room, washed of taint and stain, in her street clothes, holding a fattened duffel bag in her left hand.

  Her stage makeup was gone except for some heavy thick black still smeared around her eyes, a little glitter still glinting, lost in the wild curls of that red hair, now pulled up behind her head. Her T-shirt, torn off at the sleeves and down into her cleavage, said EAT AT
JOE’S. She wore jeans that pushed and curled around her every ostentation, and old green Chuck Taylors. She stopped walking when she saw me still sitting there, made a weird kind of eye contact with the bartender—a shrugand-nod kind of exchange—then strode over to me.

  I cleared my throat, tried to stand, couldn’t. “Trixie—” I started. She put three fingers of her free hand to my chest, settled me back on my stool, and said, “We’re gonna do this, listen, you call me Joe. Got three rules. First is, I don’t respond to Trixie ’less I’m getting paid; you got a bunch of extra cash, you better tell me right now, and I’ll work out a whole different scene for you, honey.” She snapped those precocious fingers and stopped for a beat, but when she saw I wasn’t about to open my mouth and sing to her about my dividends, she slitted her eyes and grinned. “Second is, I drive. All the time. Even from below. Gimme your keys, honey. You got a car, right?” My sweaty fingers managed to unclip and hand over my key chain, which she took from me without a glance, with the barest scrape of fingernails (or was that metal?) against my palm. “The third I’ll tell you on the way. Come on—” and she tipped her hand at me, waving me toward her, two short come-hithers and there was something coming hither all right, all up between my legs, goddamnit.

  Then she walked away, heading toward the door, no hesitation, and I watched her, stunned and broken and horny. Before the cold night air hit her face, though, suddenly I could move, damn, suddenly I was following her to my little Honda, aching where I hadn’t ached in a long time, something rusted creaking open, desperate to hear what rule number three was.

  POLICE DOGGING

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  It’s not my imagination. Police officers really are getting younger—and hotter. Not that I should be noticing the incredibly blue eyes beneath the peaked uniform cap, or the broad shoulders leaning in the car window as he orders me to wind it down farther. I should be scrambling off my husband’s lap and pulling the straps of my dress back up over my shoulders, not letting them dangle so this handsome policeman gets a perfect view of my big, bare tits with their lust-crinkled nipples. Everyone says they’re my best feature, and this man certainly agrees, if the way his gaze keeps flickering down from my face is any indication.