Gotta Have It

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  For some reason, he reveled in the way her mouth fell slightly open, her beautiful eyes disbelieving as they looked into his. His skin burned as he slipped a finger beneath the tie of her dress and began to undo it. Clara offered no resistance. The flush in her cheeks belied her excitement. That was predictable—this was neither out of the ordinary nor uncomfortable for her.

  What surprised him was his own reaction. Greg’s cock was long since at its hardest, pulsing beneath his jeans even as he felt the familiar heat in his face at the awareness of everyone watching him. The halter strap slid loose and dropped. A collective intake of breath joined the music in the room.

  Clara stood and twirled, landing on his lap in a reverse cowgirl position. Arching her back, she let her head fall on his shoulder, her body gyrating against him. Greg’s hands whispered over her breasts as he glanced around them. Many at the party were practically drooling as they watched silently. He met Chip’s eyes, and self-consciousness was momentarily subverted by a surge of satisfaction—he suspected Chip had made the suggestion provocatively, never expecting Greg to concur.

  Clara held her long curls atop her head as the song ended, turning her profile to Greg over her shoulder. He forgot about their audience as she met his eyes, the unabashed mischief in her blue gaze sparking his own breathless and unfamiliar spontaneity. Watching her this closely, Greg had seen the seeming paradox of how fully attuned Clara was to herself even as she reveled in others’ eyes being on her. Her energy was electric, and he sensed it coming from deep within her, emanating out, rather than the other way around.

  For the first time, Greg understood that energy—the sincere, vibrant love of every inch of potential her body held. The same impulse sizzled forward in him, fueling the urgency to pull every stitch she wore off of her with the same focus and attention she had used to put it on.

  Underlying which, he saw now, was unbridled carnality.

  Clara gave a startled shriek as Greg stood and swept her from her feet in one motion.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  “You’re leaving? You just got here.” The voice was Chip’s.

  Greg looked down at him as Clara’s warm arms came around his neck. “I imagine in my position, you’d be pretty eager to get her home, too.” The giggling crowd began to part as Clara, still topless, waved and blew a kiss. “Thanks for the suggestion, buddy.” Greg gave Chip a nod without malice and carried Clara out the door.

  HANDS FREE

  Effie Merryl

  He lay on the bed on his back, naked and proud.

  The smile on his face was a delight as I dangled the keys in his face, along with my breasts, heavy and full, draping both across his chest. With the tip of my tongue, I wound my way down, then stopped. He would have to wait awhile.

  He tried to reach me with a foot, but I was too quick. Darting away, I laughed. If only I was always this confident. I’d never had such power over a situation in my life. I wasn’t sure I liked that part of it but he seemed to, and I was happy to be game. Straining at the tightening metal cuffs, he tried to reach an outstretched finger to my nipple as I danced a little way out of touch. This was fun, in a tempting sort of way.

  Moving to the bottom of the bed, I grabbed both of his feet, holding them together. His cock tensed and moved higher, tighter, bigger than I’d ever seen it before. I resisted the urge to kiss it as I let my tongue trail a way up the inside of his legs. Fingering the tattoo on the outside of his calf excited me. He excited me. I felt my own wetness and resisted touching myself. I was throbbing, swollen and needy. I watched his straining cock waving back and forward, anticipating my moist lips soon upon him. If only this moment could last. I wasn’t sure I could hold on much longer. But I had to. It was all part of the thrill. I’d never indulged in handcuff games before. This was a first—for us both. So he said, anyway.

  Skirting over the top of his dancing dick, lightly trailing my taut nipples over his glans, I wound my way farther up his chest. This was easy—and exciting. Kissing his parted lips, I darted my tongue into his soft mouth. Then I asked him what he would like.

  His grunt was enough for me to know that he would like anything I was going to give. I moved to his arms and kissed the underside of his firm biceps and followed down into his underarm. He tasted delicious, of strong man and sex sweat. I let my hand trail up his thigh and glance across his cock. It was hard, it was hot and he was ready.

  I moved off the bed and started again at his feet. This time I opened his legs into a V and allowed myself to nibble my way up to his balls. His smell was fantastic, his body fit and I ached for him to touch me. I felt him arch his back as I neared the spot. I stopped and looked up at his face. His eyes were closed, brows furrowed, and I wondered if he was concentrating, resisting, what? I raised my head, my long black hair falling onto his penis. As he thrust his body at me, I took it as my cue.

  “Don’t you like it?” I teased.

  “Don’t stop now,” he groaned, one eye flicking open to look at me.

  “Naughty boy!” I chastised. “What are you doing?”

  He pushed himself up toward me again, “Just…do it….”

  I knew I had to—soon—his cock was tight, dark red and oozing precome. He was about to burst. I didn’t know where to start. Well, I did, but I wanted to savor every moment, every drop. I also wanted him in me.

  But I could wait. I lowered my head over his hardness, which was bigger than I’d ever known him. I licked him up and down and round and round. And then it happened and he was filling me up faster than I could swallow him. I groaned as his pleasure flowed through me, and his twitching continued as I mopped up with my tongue, until he became too sensitive and he begged me to stop. Bringing his knees up, he almost cracked my nose, but I moved fast. Without his hands to hold himself, I cupped his spent cock in my hands until it fell asleep again and it was time to let him go.

  Next time was my turn, and I hoped he wouldn’t make me wait too long. It was going to be hard to be patient. Especially as he liked to tease me so.

  REMEMBERING THE WRINKLES

  Penelope Friday

  I love his every wrinkle. I look at them and imagine that I can date each one. Ed teases me sometimes, pointing out that when he first knew me, his skin was youthful and unfurrowed, suggesting now that it is the pressure of our marriage that has caused him to look so much older: “I’m really only twenty-five,” he tells our friends sometimes, “it’s just that marriage to Belle has aged me unnaturally. That’s what you get for marrying an older woman.” Of course, that last statement is true: he’s never let me forget that I am a full six months older than he is! And I smile sweetly and suggest that I might tell our friends how he got those marks of age; we grin at each other and agree not to cause any more scandal than we already have.

  Oh, yes, he and I know how many of those wrinkles came to be. Good living, good loving and very good sex are to be blamed—or possibly praised—for the lines on his face. That one there, for example—the laugh line at the side of his mouth. I’m certain I know when that appeared. It was after the night in that medieval hotel in Bath, when we celebrated our tenth anniversary in appropriate and very enthusiastic style. We realized, coming downstairs the next day, how lacking in soundproofing the hotel was; we talked loudly over breakfast about the strange, bedspring-creaking ghosts that must have been haunting our room. Ed refused to meet my eyes as we conversed, but the quirk of his lips, creasing his face on the right-hand side, when I suggested that perhaps the ghosts had been trampolinists, gave away his amusement. Yes…I look at that line and remember it all. As well as the morning after, I have in my memory the night before, with his hands on my breasts, his mouth everywhere. Ed used his body to show me just how much he loved and desired me, even after ten years.

  Even after ten years! It seemed a monumental length of time then, but we laughed at our younger selves as we undressed each other in Paris on the long weekend we arranged to mark our twenty-fifth year together. I had som
e saggy bits then: breasts not as perky as they once were, a tummy that was certainly not youthfully flat, legs that I was aware were puckered with cellulite. And Ed looked at me as I lay naked on the four-poster bed and said—the wonderful thing being that he truly meant it—“You’re as beautiful as ever, my darling.”

  To me, Ed’s salt and pepper gray-and-white hair made him look just that little bit more like Sean Connery (something you’ll find few women would see as a misfortune). Those lines around his eyes? I was reminded of how they got there as I lay beneath him as he came inside me, his eyes clenching shut with the intensity of his passion—an expression so familiar from years of lovemaking that, if I had not already been sated by his pleasuring of my body, it might have made me orgasm just to witness while I felt him pulsing inside me.

  People think that sex inevitably deteriorates with age and familiarity. What appalls me is when I meet other married couples who think the same way. “Well, it’s not the same now, is it?” I’ve heard too many women murmur these words when they know their husbands can’t hear them. No, of course it’s not the same. How dull it would be if it were! Some things Ed and I tried early on and rejected: it didn’t do it for him, it didn’t do it for me; it made us laugh so much that the erotic side got lost. Other things, yes, we’ve been doing them for years—decades. Because they work, and sometimes, you don’t want whistles and bells—or blindfolds and whips!—but just simple raunchy sex. But still? Oh, trust me, there have been moments in the last year where we’ve tried something new. I don’t believe that will change, no matter how long we are together.

  I look at my teenage grandchildren and know that they have silent pity for Grandad’s and my decrepitude. They would be horrified to think that their parents still have sex, let alone their grandparents. Susie, I think, has only recently lost her virginity, at seventeen. She has a new look in her eye now, as if she knows all about everything. If only she knew, she is only beginning!

  Yes, I am familiar with Ed’s body—I know him, as a man; I know what he enjoys (most things) and what he doesn’t. I know the right words to say, the sensual, loving remarks I whisper in his ear that make him turn to me with a look in his eye that says he wants me, wants me here and now. The grandchildren, of course, see the look and think, Oh, isn’t it sweet? They’re still so fond of each other, bless them. Oh, children, you have so much to learn! Maybe my skin is lacking a certain elasticity, and the age spots on my hands do not add to my beauty; maybe Ed’s stamina is not what it once was, but believe me, we have forgotten more than the younger generation has even had a chance to learn.

  Each generation believes that it is the first to try things—that they, and they alone, have reached the pinnacle of sexual experiences. And who am I to criticize? In my youth, did I imagine that the older people I knew might have dabbled in bondage, could have tried spanking, submission, even something as comparatively innocent as oral sex? Of course I didn’t. The world would have caved in; the Angels of God would have come down from Heaven and trumpeted the birth of a new Lord before I thought such a thing! When other elderly friends (oh, I have accepted that I am elderly, alas!) say to me, “Well, young people weren’t like this when I was young,” I have to hold back a smile. For young people are still very much what young people were…it’s just the elderly who have changed—or possibly, scandal of scandals, they haven’t. I’ll admit I still find it hard to believe that my parents or grandparents, bless their souls, trod the same sexual, sensual path as Ed and I. And yes, I look in the mirror at my wrinkled skin and laugh at my prejudices, still so similar to Susie’s.

  And then I look at the wrinkles my husband—my lover—has, and I remember the years of love and loss, of sex and support. Every wrinkle tells a story, and the stories on Ed’s face make me love him more than ever.

  And by the way, the sex is still fantastic.

  LEAVES

  Elise Hepner

  I’m full, about to fall like autumn leaves. I can feel the height of my orgasm hot in my cheeks as they flush. He’s pulling my glossy hair taut, anchoring me to the earth as the tension in my body eases and pulses in quick succession. When his eyes flit over my body as it warms, despite the crisp air around me, my lower lip is trapped between my teeth.

  When my fingertips trace his smooth skin, playing along the line of his hip that meets his balls, he cries out for me. To give him pleasure is my greatest gift. But I was never selfless; I expect him to return the favor. He does it often, vigorously, taking me when I’m not sure I want to be taken. But I’ll follow him anywhere as he positions me, the scent of fertile earth at my back. Darkness mounts me, tracing shadows across his face. I’m writhing in a dance of lust.

  A gasp cuts away my moan when he slips his tongue between my breasts. I know where he’s headed, though it is still a surprise. Every exploration of my skin is like new. The callousness of his movement as he grasps the flesh at my hips grounds me to the pleasure.

  When he brings me to his mouth, trapping my nether lips between his teeth, he is telling me he’ll never let me go. Rain pelts my scorching wetness. Scented dampness and his manly musk fill my nose, an intoxicating concoction that makes me ignore the dripping wilderness. I feel as if we’ll set the bark around us aflame as he flicks inside me with his tongue, and he traces patterns with his nails on my ass, points his tongue in jagged lines along my labia. I lose my head to sensation in the slightly public place we’ve inhabited with our lust. When he takes my hand and repositions me, there are no cautious looks over my shoulder.

  There’s bark against my cheek as his hip cups my ass against the tree. I can feel his growing urgency escalating my skittering pulse. Each deliberate touch binds me as his possession, and he won’t wait any longer to take me. His fingers have stopped their jagged exploration and I wonder at his sensual gifts, knowing he is dangerous, doling out both pleasure and pain. Both are equally addicting. Fingers embed red landmarks in my flesh, at my waist and hips, and the blooming marks on my fair skin coax my mind to flirt with pain. A low hiss curves my lips into a smile, legs trembling from the sensory tremor he’s unleashed: a gift I will accept.

  My nipples caress the roughness of the tree, tugging at my skin. The seductive pull creates a burning flame across my breasts that he enjoys extinguishing with his tongue. We’ve played this game before and I know our roles. His commanding thrust inside me makes me tingle from temples to toes, a fullness that bows my spine, edging him in farther and brushing deep inside. When his groan slips across my back, we grind together. And I am glad of the perfect fit we’ve shared for years.

  He screws me to the tree, wasting no more time in hunting for my orgasm. He will rip it from me and force it out. It cannot come fast enough. I find his lips so soft against my own, but the texture of his mouth doesn’t match the kisses, so full of thorns. They cannot keep my echoed moans from hiding and slipping from tree to tree. Like our first time, I can’t hold back—I was never good at discretion. I tighten under him as he slows his rhythm. I know I’m able to fall again.

  THE COPILOT

  Mike Bruno

  It’s so irregular as to be unheard of, in this post-World Trade Center era of travel, for a pilot to be seen roving the aisles of a commercial airliner in-flight, but when, out of sheer boredom, I glanced up from my perch in the aft galley, the glowing white of the first officer’s uniform shirt was floating toward me up the otherwise dark aisle like a ghost in an old Scooby Doo cartoon. I guess they get as bored in the cockpit as we get in the cabin on these all-nighters, nothing out the window but black ocean in every direction, a limited number of conversational partners, and three hours to go before landing, no naps allowed. At this point in the flight, any distraction is a welcome one, so I offered a reasonably friendly “Hey” when he reached the back of the airplane, even if standing up straight from my position lolling on the galley counter was more than I could manage.

  “How’s it going?” he half asked, the suggestion of a European accent so vague as to possi
bly be imagined. He could as easily be from Minnesota as Norway. Somewhere Great White North like that, though; somewhere where they feed their menfolk like farmhands and they store all their fat in nice tidy bundles under slabs of muscle.

  “I’m ready to be there,” I said, soliciting the requisite airplane small talk chuckle, which he provided. “You’re a long way from home,” I added, rolling my eyes in the general direction of the flight deck.

  He grunted assent. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Captain’s that boring?” I asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “He’s boring as hell,” he confirmed. Then he raked my body sprawled across the counter, ass akimbo, with his glittering eyes. “But that’s not what I mean.”

  I raised an eyebrow at this salty attitude. Yeah, I had broken my own rule the night before and joined the crew at Duke’s in Waikiki for a couple of sunset mai tais, and it’s possible that the opportunity to see this iceeyed wall of meat in shorts and a pair of flip-flops had been a deciding factor. But he gave off a distinct chicksonly vibe, winking at the waitress, flirting with my friend Shonda. Even when we stumbled across the street, just the two of us, for Korean barbecue at the International Marketplace, his rum-fueled friendliness was tempered by constant (if halfhearted) references to some wife.

  “Dude, I wanted you to come up to my room last night,” he insisted, stepping closer. The invitation rang a distant bell, now that he mentioned it, but we were half in the bag at the time, and I was wiped out. I just wanted to wolf down my bulgogi, climb into bed and pass out watching old reruns. Boozy small talk in oddly close quarters with a married pilot wasn’t tempting, even—especially?—if that pilot was distractingly handsome.