Gotta Have It

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “So what exactly are you doing here at this time of night?” he asks. It’s a redundant question. This is one of the most popular dogging spots in the area, the top hit on any number of swinging websites. I’m sure the police monitor such things: why else would his squad car have swung into this parking lot at just the moment I impaled myself on Ray’s straining cock?

  We’ve been lucky until now, I suppose. We’ve been coming here for a good six months, and this is the first time we’ve had any kind of run-in with the law. It’s something that has been at the back of our minds ever since the night we originally parked up here and switched the interior light on to let the lurkers know the show was about to begin. It never put us off. If anything, it added to the thrill.

  And it is a thrill. I’ve had some of my fiercest orgasms riding Ray’s cock while anonymous faces press themselves up against the windows of our Volvo Estate, greedily watching every moment. Indeed, the night we wound the window down and let a middle-aged guy we’d never seen before stick his hand in and tweak my nipples as we fucked, I came so hard I almost passed out.

  Our behavior’s on the mild side, compared to some. One night a couple of weeks ago, a woman actually climbed out of her car, wearing nothing but a cheap white nylon bra and high heels. As her husband sat in the driver’s seat, fisting his cock, a queue of men built up, waiting to take their turn with her. We watched as one ripped her bra off, using it to bind her hands together, before sticking his condom-covered dick hard into her. Once she’d taken three men, we could hear her begging the fourth to fuck her ass, where she was still nice and tight. She looked so slutty, so magnificent, so utterly in control, and though I knew I could never go that far, I found myself wondering if I would ever have the nerve to let a stranger fuck me.

  If I tried to explain any of this to the young officer, would he understand? Or has he already marked us down as perverts, deserving of a charge of public lewdness and being named and shamed in the local press?

  His next words change the dynamic of the situation in the most unexpected way. “Tell you what,” he says, “instead of explaining it to me, why don’t you show me?”

  Ray and I exchange a look, and my husband’s cock, which is still lodged inside me, seems to grow harder than before. We both heard right. We’ve just been asked to fuck in front of a police officer. It’s such an outrageous demand, and yet it’s one that has my juices flooding out over Ray’s hairy crotch.

  “Anything you say, officer,” I reply, giving Ray’s shaft a swift squeeze with my pussy muscles. That spurs him into action, and he bends his head, his mouth closing around my nipple and biting until pleasure and pain mingle and my insides melt.

  I fuck my husband’s cock with slow, easy movements at first, rising up till he almost falls out, then sinking back down, taking every last sweet inch of him. His mouth and fingers are mauling my tits. By the time he’s finished there will be marks on the creamy, pillowy flesh, but I don’t care. It feels too good.

  “God, yeah, that’s it,” I hear the policeman say. “Pinch those gorgeous, fat tits.”

  It’s hardly the kind of language you expect to hear from a man who’s supposed to be upholding the law, and I look over to where he’s standing, up close against the cool glass. Even in the dim light, I can see he’s got his fly undone and his cock in his hand. He’s huge, one of the biggest I’ve ever seen, and his hand is a blur on that meaty column of flesh as he wanks himself remorselessly. Suddenly, he’s no different from any of the men who gather here, getting their kicks from watching a couple perform for their pleasure.

  I want to watch him for longer, but suddenly Ray is groaning and clutching on to the door handle as his orgasm explodes. Mine follows almost instantly, great sharp waves of ecstasy breaking in my belly and spreading out, out, out…. When I open my eyes, it’s to see a trail of come sliding down the car window, in tribute to the exhibition we’ve just put on.

  “So, are you going to charge us with anything, officer?” Ray asks, his voice still shaky.

  The policeman shakes his head. “I’ll let it go this time, sir, but if I catch you again, you know what’ll happen.”

  Oh, yes, I think. You’ll have to punish us. You’ll haul me out of the car, give my ass a good spanking and fuck me over the trunk with that enormous dick of yours. And I’ll love every last filthy minute of it.

  “Well, I’ll bid you both good night,” he says. “Drive carefully.”

  Ray and I hug each other close as we watch the guy who lives next door to us zip up his uniform trousers and make his way back to his squad car. Now that they’ve moved him to traffic patrol, we know our dogging adventures can only get more exciting.

  TIP ME

  Kiki DeLovely

  A longtime favorite regular from my other job, I spot you between the stacks with a furrowed brow and I immediately decide to make a risky, impulsive move, scribbling down some instructions before approaching you from behind. I gently cup your elbow with my hand as I turn to greet you with a slow smile.

  “Anything in particular you’re looking for?” I keep my gaze long and steady over my black frames.

  You’re caught off guard by several factors: first, my touching you; then, realizing where you recognize me from and finally, how I’m staring into your eyes unrelentingly. So you say nothing, can’t think of a damn thing to say. Instead you just slowly shake your head back and forth a couple of times.

  “All right then, I’ll be at the reference desk, should you need anything.”

  I casually slip the note into your back pocket, give it a little tap and give you a wink before I make my way back down the aisle.

  My hair may be neatly pulled back and the costume significantly more conservative, but there’s no mistaking those curves from behind as I walk away, much to your relief and chagrin. And was that the slightest hint of cleavage peeking out from beneath my white blouse? You wait for me to look over my shoulder just once before turning the corner, and now, safely out of anyone’s field of vision, you reach for the note: Bring singles tonight, rolled up tightly in a plastic sheath. No signature, just an unmistakable impression of those crimson lips.

  Everything I do is controlled and carefully calculated, so that little bit of spontaneity gave me a rush that lasted all day, and I’m still a little nervous that night until I see you walk through the doors. I see the look on your face as you position yourself in your usual spot, and I feel in control again. I finish my pole dance and do the rounds, saving you for last. I can feel you watching me from the corner of your eye, wondering what I’m up to, as I take my time making my way over to you. I don’t flash you my customary smile that you’re longing for to put you at ease. I don’t even say one word. All you get is that same unyielding gaze from this afternoon (the one that’s been burning in your mind’s eye for the last several hours), as I take your hand and lead you toward the back room.

  I wrap my fingers around your first two, during what seems like the longest walk of your life, and almost playfully allow our hands to swing just a bit. All the while you feel the rise in your pants begin already, making this all the more uncomfortable.

  I gesture for you to sit down on the tacky, red-velour couch and although still nervous, you begin to relax a little now that we’re alone.

  “Did you bring it?”

  You nod.

  “Let me see.”

  But before you can reach for it, I’m kneeling beside you on the couch with my hand deep in your front pocket. (That makes it twice today that I had the audacity to penetrate your protective layer.)

  “That’ll do.” And I hand it to you.

  Your hard-on is in full effect now, my fingertips having grazed it just slightly, but purposefully, on my way in, carelessly allowing the roll of money to brush up against it on my way out. I stretch my leg across yours and suddenly I’m straddling you, moving my body in time to the music, grinding against you with familiarity and ease. My breath hot against your neck, you close your eyes for a mo
ment and allow yourself to get lost in the fantasy. You love the feel of me, losing yourself in the movements of my body against yours, but nothing can compete with how you breathe me in. I wear a unique, sophisticated scent, which helps make it more real in your mind. The delicate scent on my skin mixed with the distinct smell of my pussy fills your senses, making you dizzy. You open your eyes and I stop my gyrations; our eyes lock hard, the tension tight. I bring my face so close to yours you think for a moment that I’m going to kiss you and you start to move in. Then you quickly remember where we are and stop yourself.

  I gently remind you, “House rules: you’re not allowed to touch me in any way.”

  You nod respectfully and I continue, leaning in, my breath hot in your ear, “But your money is.”

  Without taking my mouth away, I shift ever so slightly. You can’t see what’s happening, but you quickly catch on as you feel my hand glide across your rock-hard cock, and I exhale heavily with the weight of expectation. I lean back a bit to give you a view of my lacy black thong, pulled to the side, my fingertips already circling my hard clit. I’m glistening just as you knew I’d be.

  “So go ahead…tip me.”

  Needing no further encouragement, you stick those same two fingers I had ahold of before into the center of the wad of bills, elongating them as far as possible inside their plastic covering, and confidently slide inside me.

  MARXIST THEORY

  Elizabeth Hyder

  So what are the Marxists thinking about education?” Her lips curve into a smile that is coy but still shy, still naïve as she, a student from one of his lectures last semester.

  He smiles back, the hand that cupped her cheek now moving its thumb along her lower lip. “Marxist perspective on society’s educational system?”

  She nods the tiniest amount; his thumb slips between her lips. It’s not a mistake, but her eyes widen in a way that says without words that she hadn’t planned this.

  “They believe it’s unfair.” His voice wavers. Her tongue is pressing against his thumb, soft, warm and wet. “Their capital concern is, er, is capitalism. Teachers being agents of it.”

  “Really?” He notices for the first time that her voice is lower than normal.

  Her hands are on his wrist, moving his hand so that she can kiss the palm, the wrist, and lick a trail to the inside of his elbow. Her fingers find another place to be, sliding over the folds of his shirt to the buttons.

  “Go on.” So simply said, with that little growly undertone. He feels his cock twitch and can’t believe that a student half of his forty-some-odd years is the cause.

  “Teachers, as agents of capitalism, they… produce pupils. Pupil types, anyway…” His eyes slide shut as she presses a kiss to his collarbone. He can feel the breath from her nose on his neck, warm and tickling, and she’s climbing in his lap to get a better angle.

  “I—really, this shouldn’t—” he begins, but she silences him with a finger over her lips and a smile.

  “There’s a hidden curriculum involved, isn’t there?” she prompts.

  For the life of him he cannot figure out why she’s so obsessed with Marxist theory, but the weight of her in his lap feels good, the heat of her body pressing his down into the couch. It takes him a few seconds to parse what she says and then a few seconds more because she’s not wasting time at all, hips grinding down against his like the teenager that she no longer is.

  “Yes.” It’s more a gasp than actual words.

  Her hands are colder than her tongue, but her breasts, her breasts are bare and incredibly warm, softer than her tongue, and she wiggles and he squeezes and she moans.

  He hears himself continue, using the lecture voice, the lecture mind, because the rest of him is thoroughly entertained. “Marxists believe that teachers unconsciously implant the hidden curriculum into their students.”

  She arches against him, head tilting back, mouth open but silent. He doesn’t wonder when she shed her shirt or how her skirt got hiked up that high; he just appreciates the contrast of his pale skin against her dark and thanks God for the thin fabric of his slacks still separating the most important parts.

  Even if he’s throbbing with want. Even if he can feel her throbbing with want, thighs squeezing him tighter as he tweaks one of her nipples.

  “The aim of the hidden curriculum is to socialize young people into the role assigned to them by their capitalist class.” His lecture voice is still on; she likes it. She whimpers, grasping him.

  He makes a noise in the back of his throat; he can feel the little bit of fabric between them becoming soaked from her wetness. He wonders about panties but thinks maybe this is more planned than he’d imagined at first. “This is really getting you off, isn’t it?”

  She nods eagerly, looking at him now, directly at him. She opens her mouth to speak, but he squeezes one breast then and all that comes out is a cry, a lovely little cry that trails off down into a nonsensical, throaty sound as his free hand slides from between her breasts to between her legs.

  “Marxists have been known to acknowledge one thing within the educational system, you know,” he says, voice gone low as hers, like it’s a secret because it is, what’s happening is a secret and nobody can know, nobody can see.

  “Yeah.” Her eyes slide closed as his fingers skim her cunt, pushing her lips apart and making her gasp.

  One of her hands is on his shoulder, steadying herself, but the other is busy at work with the zipper on his slacks, and he can’t help but grin because the slipperiness is her own damned fault. If she’d just waited to get his pants off…

  It takes him a moment to realize what he just thought, but by then she’s saying it again: “Yeah.” When he tenses, she adds, “C’mon. I’m on the Pill.”

  She’s not going to touch his cock—she wants him to do it. Regretfully he does, but only to angle his cock so he can rock his hips up, groaning satisfaction as the tip glides into her. She echoes him, leaning into it, burying her face in his chest.

  He wonders if she’s okay, wonders if it’s her first time, but then she tenses and becomes impossibly tight around him. All he can do is choke out a needy little noise; his world might end if she stops this.

  “Marxists,” he tries; she moves on top of him, moves down to meet him. She feels so goddamn good he wonders why he ever spent so long avoiding the opposite gender. Oh, right: his ex-wife.

  He doesn’t get another coherent word out, not while they’re moving. Primeval noises are the only sounds until they slow, until it’s only her straddling his lap and petting his sweaty hair off of his forehead and smiling at him with that coy naïveté.

  “Marxists sometimes will agree that hero teachers exist.” The way that she shivers is goddamn enjoyable.

  “Hero teachers?”

  “Mmm. They battle against the evil of the exploitive capitalist relations.”

  She holds her breath for a moment, then laughs. He wonders if she realizes what he’s trying to say but then decides he doesn’t care and kisses her. Distantly he realizes that it’s their first real one and puts a little more effort into it. At least until she can no longer keep up, panting into the kiss as she grinds down against his hips.

  “Hold still,” he says, and clasps her hips and rocks up into her. He can feel it building in his belly, that delicious pressure.

  For her part, she wraps her arms around his neck and leans her face there, her hot, panting breaths matching the rhythm of his fucking.

  “Oh, god, Annie,” he groans, fingers maybe tightening too hard; he’s going to leave bruises. But it’s too much, the pleasure washing over him and that release, the feeling of his semen filling her cunt. He rests the side of his head against her shoulder, shaky hands releasing her hips and sliding around them instead to pull her body closer to his.

  She just hums her pleasure, languid, and then laughs softly against his throat before kissing it.

  “Next time,” she says, “you’re going to fuck me on a desk.” He can only a
gree and wonder exactly what he’s gotten himself into.

  THE DIRTY THINGS SHE SAYS

  Sinclair Sexsmith

  Back in my bedroom, I didn’t waste time. I pulled Kristen by her hair toward me and thrust my tongue in her mouth; moved her around, hands hard and thick on her torso. Pressed against me, she felt good in my arms.

  I stripped her and left my office clothes on, for now. I was already hard packing, and hard, and wanted to fuck.

  I pushed her back on the bed easily; kneed her legs apart and pressed my cock up against her, bare, through my slacks; kissed her, hard, felt her body under me.

  I pulled back after a minute and lifted myself up. “Take my dick out,” I ordered softly.

  She did: unbuckled and unzipped my slacks, palmed my dick in her hand, let out a low satisfied hum of pleasure when she touched it. I tightened my harness, lowered myself back on top of her, kissed her neck. “I want to fuck your mouth.”

  She arched in response, but whispered, “But I want you to fuck me.”

  I almost laughed: her desire was being handed to me on a silver platter; I took it gratefully. “No.”

  “Please, baby, I need it, I want you to fuck my pussy.”

  I do like the way she begs. I nearly acquiesced, but I said no again, pulled back to shift to my knees on the bed. I took her hair in my fist as she bent in front of me. “Do it real pretty, and I’ll fuck you.”

  She lowered her lips to my cock and kissed; swallowed; lapped with her tongue; ran it along her lips. I didn’t stop with the talking. “Baby, you suck it so good. That’s so pretty in your mouth, suck it deeper, yeah that’s it, good girl.”