Gotta Have It

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  She kept staring as he raised his hand, far enough that she could see it as it aimed for her cheek. He used to take her over his lap, spank her ass and pull her hair, but that seemed like child’s play compared to what they both liked to do now. She still bent over for him, still wanted him to spank her, by hand or paddle or belt, but they were in too deep to turn back. He slapped her face again while keeping his eyes trained on hers. “Thank you, Max,” she said, and couldn’t stop the two tears that trickled down her cheek, surely falling over the freckles that dotted her skin.

  “Good girl,” he said, his voice a little more purr than growl, before slapping her again. She was so tempted to shut her eyes; to focus solely on that one sense, touch; but he wouldn’t let her, or rather, she wouldn’t let herself. She kept looking at him as her left cheek bore the brunt of his smacks; he liked to use his dominant hand, to get the most out of their play.

  The tears flowed faster and each “Thank you” took on greater import as she realized how many things she was thanking him for. There were the slaps, of course, but there was so much more than that. There was the tenderness with which he stroked the tears into her skin, the way he pressed his meager nails into her collarbone, the way he grabbed her long black hair and pulled her face back to get the last few blows in. Then there was the way he bit her lower lip, hard enough that she thought he might draw blood. Soon his knee was between her legs, pressing against her wetness. His tongue dove into her mouth, strangling her for a moment, his lips so big, wide, open. She shut her eyes then, whether she was allowed to or not. She opened them when they finally parted.

  “Please,” she murmured. “Please.” She was shaking by then, trembling, broken in some powerful way only he could fix. She wasn’t sure what she was asking for, exactly, but she knew he’d know. He always did.

  VERONICA’S ASS

  Matt Conklin

  My wife, Veronica, has the sweetest ass I’ve ever tasted. I mean that both literally and figuratively. It’s curved so perfectly I can only imagine some divinity somewhere intended it to be used the way I use it, the way she likes me to use it. I’ve been with women who loved nothing more than having their nipples sucked or pussies licked; one loved to have her feet massaged and swore she could come that way.

  But my Veronica is an ass girl and rightly so. When she strides out of the house wearing a clingy red dress paired with matching heels and either fishnets or bare legs (and sometimes sans panties), her ass is what gets noticed. She is a curvy, sensual woman who never misses a chance to play up her assets or let me play with them.

  If we’re standing in line waiting for a movie, I’ll stand behind her and “accidentally” brush against her sweet cheeks, while she’ll find any opportunity to bend over and show off her greatest asset.

  A typical morning will start with her prodding me awake, rubbing her luscious, naked body against me. She’s smooth all over, with long, silky brown hair that tickles my skin. I’m pelted all along my chest and arms, but she says she likes it, nuzzling her cheeks against my nipples, seducing me before I’ve fully woken. It’s when she turns around that I fully rise, in all senses of the word.

  Her butt beckons to me, the pale, round skin so inviting. I reach for those cheeks and squeeze, and she moans. I pull them apart and she gasps. I lift my head and grab her so my tongue can nuzzle her pussy and she squats over me, her ass resting against my forehead, my tongue deep inside her wetness. I greet the day by greeting her pussy, my dick getting hard. Sometimes it wants to fuck her ass, to enter into that forbidden hole—well, forbidden for other people, not pervs like us.

  Other times I’m content to simply fondle her butt, to see where it leads me. This morning, in fact, I ate her to an orgasm that had her trembling so hard she almost toppled over. She laughed as she caught herself, then turned around to kiss her taste from my lips. Her pale, lightly freckled cheeks were red, her eyes dancing as she wiggled around me. Something in me stirred and I sat up and positioned her so she was bent over the bed, ass in the air. Except as gorgeous as it was, that wasn’t enough, not at that moment.

  “Step back, Veronica,” I said. “Show me that beautiful ass and your pretty pink lips.” She whimpered and did as I said, bending so her hands were wrapped around her ankles. There are times when I want to take her so hard, viciously, I suppose, even though she’s the love of my life. Maybe because we’re both so secure in what we have, we can treat each other the way some people only do in fantasy. Who knows, really?

  All I know is that when I pressed her body tight to mine and slammed my cock hard inside her, she felt so tight, so perfect, so wonderful. I grabbed her asscheeks and leaned forward, maximizing the effect. “Hold on, baby,” I said, and looked down, watching as my very hard cock disappeared inside her. Somehow, even after all these years, that sight never gets old and always feels a little bit like a magic trick. Not that my dick disappears, but that it feels so damn good, like I’m a virgin again.

  I feel her twisting, squeezing me inside while her hips rock just enough, and I grunt. I slap her ass, then slap her back, loving the noise, the freedom to grab her and use her in any way I please, because I know her so well. I reach for that shiny hair and tug, bending her head back, while my other hand seeks and finds her clit. I pinch it just enough to feel a corresponding tug deep inside.

  “That’s it, baby, I’m gonna come soon,” I say, and we shift again so she’s back to the original position, head tilted on the bed so I can see her, hair spilling onto the sheets. Her eyes are closed, but it’s like I can see inside her mind, and I watch her as I feel my come burst out from me and fill her up. Tears spring to my eyes as I struggle to catch my breath. Veronica’s ass—her whole body—brings out something in me that makes me feel like I’d die happy if I died fucking her.

  I pull out and we kiss softly, then less softly. She slips into her purple silk robe, then sits on my lap, but I can still feel the globes of her ass pressing against me, so warm, so delicious. “Put on your thong,” I tell her. “The one I like the best.” I know she still has my come inside her, that it’ll probably drip out and wet the fabric, and that makes me smile.

  She gets up and, like a burlesque dancer, drops the robe down so I can see her perfect backside and then that ass. I want to bite it and spank it and stroke it and fuck it all at once. Instead I watch her put on the thong, then check herself out in the mirror. I see how it perfectly bisects her bottom and know that all day, when she feels it, she’ll think of me.

  There are people who say it’s hard to keep the sex alive in a marriage, and maybe it is; we’ve certainly had our moments when it wasn’t smooth sailing. But whenever I’ve been even vaguely tempted to stray, all I have to do is think about Veronica’s ass to know that there is nothing better in this world. I’m a lucky man, and I make sure Veronica—and her ass—knows it.

  PUNISHMENT BEFITTING THE CRIME

  D. L. King

  Mr. Grant, these books are late. That’s the second time this month you’ve had late returns, and two of them have waiting lists.”

  The librarian’s desk sat inside a circular granite enclosure with a marble countertop running all the way around, with the exception of an open entryway at the back leading into the office beyond. It was raised, making everyone who came to the desk feel small.

  Ted Grant’s hopes were rewarded; the head librarian was on duty tonight.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Carmichael, but I had to work late every night this week. I didn’t mean…”

  “That’s Mizz Carmichael and I don’t want to hear any excuses.” She looked down at him over her black, horn-rimmed glasses, her blue-black hair in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, the point of a pencil tapping its staccato rhythm on a ledger page.

  “But I…”

  “Silence!” she whispered. She thumbed through the ledger. “You’ve had late returns at least once every month for the past, let me see, seven months.”

  Ted got out his wallet. It was beginning to feel like he

was supporting the library single-handedly. “How much do I owe?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid you’ve gone beyond the fine stage. Come around to the door marked NO ADMITTANCE.”

  It seemed the rumors might actually be true. Ted had been working on finding out for himself for quite a while now. He’d been diligently bringing books back late ever since that friend of Frank’s had brought it up at the poker game. He’d said, “That bitch of a head librarian punishes guys who break the library rules.” He’d said that he heard she’d actually spanked some guy for bringing his books back late. He’d said it like it was a bad thing. Everybody laughed and made lewd remarks. That was all right; they weren’t library types. He’d have been surprised if they read much more than the back of the cereal box or the sports page.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He began to fantasize about what kinds of punishments Ms. Carmichael might mete out to guys who didn’t follow the rules—and now he was going to find out.

  He walked around the desk and fidgeted as he waited for her to open the door. He felt like a little boy who’d been sent to the principal’s office with the exception that a trip to the office in elementary school had never produced a hard-on. He crossed his hands in front of him just as the door opened and Ms. Carmichael, red lips pursed, gave him her most severe look yet. She led him to an office behind the desk.

  “Sit here, Mr. Grant.” She pointed to an old-fashioned hard-backed wooden chair. “It’s late and I have to close the library. Don’t move and don’t touch anything.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He listened as the clicking of her high heels on the tile floor receded. He fidgeted on the chair, adjusting himself. The office smelled of books and library glue mixed with a faint trace of perfume and… was that sex? It must be his imagination, he thought. His pants had become uncomfortably tight.

  The sound of her heels grew louder until the door opened again. “Come with me,” she said, and led him out the back door of the office and down a dingy hall, into the bowels of the library. He followed behind, mesmerized by her bottom in its tight confinement, swaying from side to side until she stopped him at another door. “This is my special place for dealing with bad boys who flaunt the library rules,” she said. His cock twitched in his pants. She looked at him pointedly. “And don’t think I can’t see that you are a very bad boy.”

  The room was small. The walls were lined with bookbinding equipment and a plethora of paddles, canes and whips. A worktable sat in the center of the room with a few old books on its surface.

  “I don’t hold with flaunting of the rules or habitual lateness; it’s like stealing.”

  “But it’s not stealing, it’s more…”

  “Take down your pants and place your hands on the edge of the table.”

  He began to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants. As he slid them down his legs, he said, “I didn’t mean to steal anything, I couldn’t…”

  “And the underwear.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He removed his underwear and his cock sprang up against his belly.

  “Yes, now I can see that you are a very, very bad boy who must be taught a lesson.”

  He felt her hand smooth the skin over first one bared cheek and then the other as precome dripped from his straining cock. There was a brief pause, and then the feeling of wind against his bottom right before a great, hard smack struck his right cheek, soon followed by the same sensation of wind and a hard smack on his left cheek. He felt the breath leave his lungs.

  “I will give you seven strokes of the paddle for the seven months of late returns.” She continued with the harshest paddling he’d ever had until, in the end, he was sobbing. She hung up the paddle and gently caressed his burning rear and, as he leaned down to pull his pants up, he realized that yes, there was a definite odor of sex.

  “No more late returns. If the behavior continues, I’ll be forced to take more drastic measures.” She opened a drawer in the worktable and among the contents he spied chains, clamps, weights, butt plugs and electrical devices before she closed it again.

  Trying to keep the smile off his face, cock painfully hard, he followed her back to the front office and made for the door. “Ahem,” she said. “Aren’t you forgetting something? That will be three dollars and sixty-eight cents, please.”

  He left with a hand on his bottom and one on his cock, dreaming of the many late library books in his future.

  LIES

  Kristina Wright

  Let me tell you a lie. Let me tell you many lies and one truth. Let me tell you many truths and one lie. Will you be able to tell the difference by the earnest way I say the words or the soulful gaze in my eyes? Does it matter what is truth and what is lie as long as it feels good?

  A man comes to my bed, a man who is not my husband and never will be. He is young and lean and dark and beautiful. His rich brown skin makes my skin, with its uneven beige tones and haphazard tan lines and orange-brown freckles and silver and mauve scars, look milk white, almost alabaster. I like the way his skin looks against mine; I like how my paleness is illuminated by his darkness, especially in the waning light of day.

  Naked limbs entwined with his, I am beautiful, and I have no desire to be any place else. He is where my desire lives. He is home.

  He watches me, this man who I let into my bed. He lies there, watching me and absently rubbing his stomach, dark eyes studying a woman he doesn’t really know, will never know.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

  I smile and tell him nothing. He doesn’t believe me. It is, I think, the only thing he doesn’t believe.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I turn his words back on him, deflect his interest in me. It works. He tells me things I don’t really care about. He knows nothing of the world. His empty words splash against me like rain or semen, sitting on my skin until I wipe them all away, unaffected.

  I listen and smile and stroke his stomach for him. Then my hand moves lower, stroking his dick because that’s what I want. He thinks I do it for him. I know I do it for myself.

  This man is younger than me by more than a decade. That’s more of a boy than a man. My boy-man: mine, but not really. He could be with someone much younger, is in fact married to someone his own age, a woman as shallow as he is, as vanilla. His perfect match. Yet he pursues a relationship with me with such recklessness as to suggest he loves me. It’s not love he seeks, I tell myself. It is wisdom, which I do not have, or maternal compassion, which I do.

  Whatever he thinks he seeks in me, he also believes he finds, for he stays with me long after he should leave, stays even when I am carelessly cruel and taunting. I don’t know why I hurt him, why I say such awful things. I am not an unkind person by nature, yet I am often heartless when it comes to him. It is as if his vulnerability, his trust, his youth, are too appealing to leave unscathed. I must scar him as I have been scarred.

  He lies to me, my boy-man. Lies about everything and nothing. I know he lies and sometimes it makes me feel tender toward him. Other times, I want to slap him, hurt him. I scream his lies back at him, hate in my voice. I don’t want the truth, I just want him to be a better liar.

  He says I intimidate him. He says he is scared to say the wrong thing, to tell me the truth. Maybe that’s another one of his lies.

  “I’m sorry, so sorry. I’m truly sorry.” He begs and pleads and promises no more lies, and his apology is the biggest lie of all. “I love you too much to lie to you again.”

  He will never stop lying, this I know as surely as I know the feel and taste of him in my mouth. I slip down the bed and show him what love is.

  “I love you,” I whisper to his dick, hard against my cheek.

  “Are you telling me the truth?” Sometimes he catches me off guard—a flash of knowledge in his dark eyes. My heart races when I think he might finally realize I’m as big a liar as he is. Then I reclaim control.

  “Why would I lie?” I counter, licking him into incoherence.

  Dodge and weave and parry and spar. Hurt, but avoid being hurt. It is my art, my skill. It is what I’m best at, besides sucking his dick.

  “I love you,” he moans. Then silence, as I suck the only truth that matters from his body.

  He pulls me up beside him when I finish, but he will not kiss my mouth. I taste like him and that makes him squeamish. I lean in and kiss his closed mouth anyway, ignoring his expression. I laugh and lick my lips. I can tell whether he’s had juice for breakfast. Juice makes him sweet.

  This is the moment when I have the least interest in him. After he’s come, when he’s soft and warm like a kitten. I don’t want this sleepy-eyed boy with the lopsided grin and grateful eyes; I want a man with demanding hands and a rough voice. A man who knows how to get into my head and spin me around until I don’t know which way is up. I never lose my balance with my boy-man. I never lose myself. I hate him for that.

  He touches me in the growing darkness. Eagerly, a little awkwardly, like a child seeking a puzzle piece for its shape rather than the bit of picture it reveals on its glossy surface. Shape found, he sighs; it’s rounded, soft, wet.

  He fondles me silently and his silence is both reverential and irritating. I want him to pull my hair and spank my ass and talk dirty to me. I want him to hold me down and fuck me hard. Instead, he strokes my clit gently, like a worry stone. It’s enough, for now. I ignore the cravings my body will never know with him. I fantasize about someone else.

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