Women in Lust

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “And do you like that?” He touches my anus and I squeak. Which he seems to ignore as a regrettable aberration.

  “Yes! No! Sort of!” I can’t see his face, but my imagination presents me with him smiling. Supreme. A happy god, playing with me in ways other than physical. But when he speaks, he still imbues his voice with that thread of theatrical doubt.

  “Well, I’ll have to see what I can do then. Wouldn’t want to disappoint you after all this hard, serious spanking you’ve had in the past.”

  I open my mouth to protest that it isn’t all that much, but then, out of the blue, his first smack lands and it just takes my words away.

  It’s not a heavy slap, but not light, either. It hurts. And it isn’t by luck or blind intuition it’s landed right on the crown of one bottom cheek. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and has done all along.

  “That’s amazing,” he says, sounding strangely awestruck.

  That is amazing, I think, just struck.

  He’s hit me in the perfect place and with the perfect weight. Like Pavlov’s dog, my body responds. My pussy ripples in anticipation of more, more, more and my lubrication starts to seep down onto his jeans. Unable to control myself, I wriggle and rub myself against him.

  “Are you supposed to do that?” His voice is mildly questioning, but there’s nothing unsure about the way his fingertips trace the hot hand-shaped mark they’ve just created. And there’s nothing tentative about the way he slaps me again, on the other cheek this time.

  I squeal, already out of control in a way I’ve never been before. But of course, I’ve never been with a master this experienced.

  How on earth has it taken me this long to realize that fact?

  “I’ll bet you’re not supposed to do that, either,” he remarks, sounding joyful, as if he’s really enjoying getting into the swing of things. His arm certainly is, because he’s slapping steadily now. If I had brain cells left over to ponder such matters, I’d wonder what on earth I’d done to deserve this bounty, a man with a perfect natural gift for corporal punishment and a beautifully honed skill. But I have very little brainpower available at the moment, nothing left over from the writhing, the whimpering and the blatant and desperate way I massage my crotch against his hard thigh.

  He smacks and smacks. I squirrel around and sob. And what happens eventually is almost inevitable, I suppose.

  It all gets too much for me, and hitching myself up a bit, I sneak a hand beneath myself and slither fingers into my pussy. While he’s still spanking me, I find my clit and rub it feverishly.

  After that, I’m a lost cause, and within seconds, I climax hard. Very hard. Almost too hard. I jackknife on his knee, almost fall off, but he holds me tight. My pleasure soars as his fingers press my tender redness.

  I fall back into my body again as a sniveling, glowing, still-pulsing, incredibly happy mess. As I half slide and half fall in a guided fashion to the carpet at his feet, he reaches into his pocket and then hands me a handkerchief.

  “You’ve done that a hundred times before, you sly brute, haven’t you?” I accuse him from my lowly position as my brain clicks back into operating mode and I start to grin. “All that BS about making me tell you what my fantasies are… You’ve known all along. You could read the signs, couldn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me you were into exactly the same thing as me?”

  He cups my face, makes me look up at him. His eyes are radiant with knowledge and mischief and power, utterly entrancing, although there’s a base part of me that’s more interested in his enormous erection and is dying to check that out.

  “I suppose I should say sorry for stringing you along,” he says softly, the stroke of his finger beneath my chin an elegant counterpoint to the throbbing in my bottom and in my pussy, “but a master doesn’t usually apologize, does he?”

  The M-word makes the pulsation between my legs deeper, hotter—even though it’s barely minutes since I came. “No, but you still could have told me,” I persist, wondering and hoping that if I provoke him enough he might do more.

  “Indeed…indeed I could.” His beautiful eyes glitter with excitement, danger, desire and dominance, holding me utterly as he goes on to remind me of the party where we met, and how he sought me out. I’d wondered why he, this peach of a man, had selected me when there were much sexier girls on the prowl. I’m pretty enough, but I know I’m a quiet bloomer.

  “You’re right. I could—I can—read you. I could tell you shared my interests…it’s patently obvious from the way you carry yourself.” I shudder at the thought of me beaming out those secret signals, an open book to a cognoscento like Terrence. “So I decided to see how long it would take for you to admit it.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! You devious bastard!”

  “Tut tut…naughty, naughty,” he chides, but the look in his eyes makes me wetter and warmer than ever, “Why so cross? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Part of the game? The dance?”

  I want to maintain my mega-defiance act, play at being aggrieved, but the greater part of me, the truer part of me is thrilled, light-headed. He is my ideal, and I can’t believe my luck.

  “Um…yes, I suppose,” I answer with a last mulish flicker.

  “Finally, she admits it. I should punish you for being so obstinate, shouldn’t I?”

  My heart lurches. Can my steaming bottom take it? So soon? When I’m so red, so sore? But my sex lurches, too, gathering itself and readying. I almost come, without a touch, at the thought of more.

  “Yes, Master,” I whisper, lowering my head in acknowledgment, and starting to shuffle into position in order to get up and across his knee again.

  “Oh no, Vickie…not that. Well, not right at the moment.” He adjusts his own position now, conveying an eloquent message, and gilding it with a gentle but still delightfully devilish smile.

  Oh, yummy, I think, reaching out to lower his zipper.

  GUESS

  Charlotte Stein

  I know he’s there, because I can smell him. It’s that cherry lip gloss he knows I like, though god knows where he’s put it. On his lips? Too conventional. On his nipples? They’re small and perky and would look delicious coated in something slippery, but I doubt it.

  I’m betting on his cock; undoubtedly on his cock. And while I’m lying here blindfolded and largely helpless, he’s going to make me taste it—that cherry-scented, cherry-flavored curve of flesh.

  I can just picture him now, getting closer, with it bobbing between his thighs. His breath is unsteady, though his resolve seems to be holding, and every now and then I can hear him, moving in close.

  There’s just that hint of too close, like maybe he can’t quite help himself.

  I think that sets me off more than the blindfold—that sense of his bucking arousal, trying to lunge at me. How it excites him to the point of teeth baring and flushed cheeks, to think of me cut off like this: entirely unable to tell what he’s going to do next; not sure which body part he’s touching me with.

  Is that his finger, trailing over the curve of my hip? I’m spread out on the bed, legs wide to show off my already glistening pussy, so there’s plenty for him to go after. But he chooses just that tiny innocuous spot, with the edge of something light and small.

  And then I feel something moist and sudden, against the squeamish inside of my right elbow.

  Of course, the rational part of me tells me it’s his tongue, but my mind has long since stopped playing in that ball pool. I think of things jellied and weird—wild sex toys that self-lubricate, alien fingers getting ready to probe.

  Before long it goes away again, and all I can do is cry for more. I don’t care if it is an alien finger. I want to be probed. My skin feels so hot and tight, I’m sure he could just peel it right off my body if he wanted to, and between my legs is a taut, waiting sensation.

  My pussy wants to know, desperately, why he’s making me cling to nothing and come apart for so little.

  But I know why. I always know why. I
t’s because he wants me to guess.

  I try moist towelette, but he just laughs. He laughs as high and tight as I feel, and tells me, “Wrong, Vy, so wrong. Try again.”

  And then something as soft as breath stirs over my right nipple, so almost-not-there, it’s excruciating. My entire body gravitates toward it, but as I’m canting one way he somehow gets over me and tickles the other nipple.

  Feather, I think, and say so.

  “Come on, come on,” I say. “It’s a feather, a feather, I win!”

  But either the guess isn’t right or he’s a liar. I think he’s a liar. He’s doing this on purpose, so I’ll never win. I’ll have to stay blindfolded forever, wet and wanting, clit standing stiff and proud and just waiting for him to have some mercy.

  However, I know he won’t. It’ll be something coy, against that tender place. Something slim and barely there, and made out of ice so that I tear and pull at the bedsheets, when he finally presses it to my bud.

  But he’s a changeable, tricky sort, because instead, he trails something stuttering and sticky over my right cheek. Really he shouldn’t have, because it’s far too easy to guess. I can feel him shifting, very close to my head. I can smell the musky scent of him, made strong with precome and the sweat that will definitely be glossing his belly now.

  It’ll be pooling at the hollow of his back; behind his knees, too, I know, because I saw it all when I did this exact same thing to him. He had trembled, though, and I don’t think I’m trembling, yet. He had called out hoarsely, and begged me before I even got to crueler things, but I stay silent, apart from the guessing.

  In fact, I think he’s trembling more than I am, and making more noise, even with the roles reversed. His cock slithers over my cheek, too jerkily. The pillow feels like it’s juddering under my head, and I wonder if that’s due to the knee he’s got pressed into it.

  I think about him strung as taut as I currently am, and a flood of wetness makes itself known between my legs. My clit jumps, my belly fills up with tingles, and when he skirts a little bit too close, I stick out my tongue and catch the tip of his cock, just as I knew I would.

  I can never resist, or play the game properly. Not when he tastes so salty and slick. Not when he groans so prettily for me, low and throaty.

  Guess, I think. Guess what I’m going to do next.

  I think he goes with She’s going to try to suck my cock, because he moves away after a moment of reluctance, calling me a bad girl as he does. He makes an effort to force his words into a true reproach, too, but they waver too much for that. There’s an up and down note in them that sounds a little like laughter, and a lot like arousal.

  I love him for those twin things. They go together so well, though I never thought they would. He has a bright, sharp grin like a curving knife, and when he flashes it at me I’d do anything. I’d spread my pussy for him, my ass, just anything, anything he wanted.

  I can tell what he wants, right now. He says, hoarsely, “Guess what this is.”

  And I resist the urge to complain. I can hear his hand all slick on his cock, back and forth, back and forth, and I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to come all over me, before we’re even halfway through playing.

  No self-restraint. I’d call him a disappointment, but then again he knows how much I love hearing him go at himself. He’s moaning before he’s gotten to the third stroke, and then he pants out dirty words for me to delight in.

  “Oh, god, you look so hot all tied up like that. Really hot. Spread your legs so I can look at your pussy.”

  It’s not really part of the game, and my legs are kind of spread anyway, but I do it just the same. I spread them as wide as they’ll go, and then picture him staring hungrily at my glistening folds—because, by god, are they ever glistening. I can feel my wetness sliding into the crack of my ass, and everything down there feels sticky and swollen.

  Even if I couldn’t tell that myself, I’d know it from his reaction. He grunts, gutturally, and that slick shuttling sound speeds up—oh, does he really think I can’t guess what he’s doing? I hope he understands that I can always guess, when it comes to this particular thing. He doesn’t even need to touch me.

  I always know when he’s masturbating. It’s kind of how we came together in the first place, because we were friends and then one day we went camping, and by chance we had to share a tent. He thought he was being sly, in the darkness, in the middle of the night.

  But I guessed right off what he was doing. I knew even while dreaming, as my unconscious mind led me down naughty paths filled with hot guys moaning, breathlessly; hot guys licking their palms then circling their big, hard cocks…oh. He knows what I like, all right.

  Could be that this half of the game isn’t even about guessing, really. It’s about knowing. Knowing what will drive me wild and make me strain against the silly scarves he’s got around my wrists. I tell him to do it louder, louder, but of course he doesn’t obey. He gets his voice low and tight, and I have to fight to hear him.

  “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, look how wet and swollen you are. Oh, yeah, I just want to fuck that tight little cunt.”

  He’s a bastard—though no more of a bastard than I am. I made him guess with my pussy all over his face. I made him guess until he cried—though only because I know that’s what he likes.

  We’re too wrapped up in each other to ever play this game properly, now. Why guess, when you know?

  And he does know. He tells me he’s going to come all over my clit, which is definitely not part of the rules. He’s not supposed to tell me what he’s going to do, but he does so anyway, because he gets how much it turns me on. My hips buck without my permission, and I make a strangled sound when usually I can stay silent no matter what.

  His come all over my pussy? All over my clit? Just thinking about it makes me want to snap these stupid scarves and attack him. If I bend my thumb a certain way and close my fist, I think I can get out of at least one of them. I can, I know I can.

  But of course, I don’t. At the last second, I hold myself back. I wait for him to push himself over that final hurdle, to get so excited and so worked up that he just has to spurt between my spread legs.

  And he does. He even apologizes while he’s doing it. He tells me that he’s sorry, he can’t stop himself, he just has to come. Then he announces his coming, in desperate, grating tones—oh, those words. Those two words. I’m coming. I’m coming.

  I don’t know which is better: hearing him give in and use my body like that, or feeling the hot splash of it right over my clit, just as he promised. He’s good like that. At keeping his promises, I mean.

  And then when he’s done, and the room is full of the sounds of his pleasure dissipating—rough and ragged breath, guilty sighs—I feel that slickness sliding down between my legs. The edges of my orgasm flutter close, from nothing more than that slippery sensation.

  Though him talking brings it closer, I have to say.

  “Oh, you look all messy now,” he says. There’s a hint of tease behind the regret in his voice. I think I like that, best of all. Or maybe I like it more when he tells me, “Guess. Guess what I’ve done to you, dirty girl.”

  I love him, I love him, I love him.

  “I don’t have to guess,” I say, but he makes me. He makes me by keeping me on that fluttering edge of my orgasm.

  “All right,” I choke out, finally. I sound bitter, but I don’t feel it. “You’ve just done it on me.”

  “What have I done?”

  He usually sounds so bright and open. Most of the time he’s like a big kid, boyish and enthusiastic about every little thing. But now he sounds darkly pleased, like he’s got me right where he wants me. I should really tell him—you can have me there, anytime.

  “You’ve…” I struggle to think of the right term. All of them sound childish. “You’ve spunked on me.”

  That sounds the most childish, of all of them. I should have gone with come, but it’s too late now. He la
ughs, and I fight against the scarves. You fucker, I want to tell him, but I don’t mean it.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I guess I have. I guess you win, Pol.”

  Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I was too busy thinking you fucker, to process that he was actually going to hand over the reins. I win, and so now I get to do what I want and say what I want and make him, make him, make him.

  Which is what I like best of all, I know I do. So how come I don’t demand that he untie me? How come I don’t tell him to remove the blindfold? I can’t say. I’m not sure. Instead I just whine and wait for him to understand exactly what I want.

  And of course, he does. He’s my Stu. He always understands.

  He leans down before I’ve uttered a word and kisses the place he’s made a mess of. His mouth feels searing hot where the thick, unbearable liquid is cooling, and I don’t know what turns me on more, the fact that he’s licking my clit, or the idea that he doesn’t give a crap about tasting his own come.

  I’ve had boyfriends who refused to do this or that or the other—but that’s just not him. He never refuses to do anything; in truth, I don’t even have to ask. He just licks and licks and giggles at the taste, until I sink my teeth into my lower lip and grip the scarves as tightly as I can.

  My clit feels huge under his tongue, and it’s not a surprise that it hardly takes anything to make me come. I feel like I’ve been standing at that edge for an age, and all he has to do is circle my clit once or twice, maybe slip a finger into me, maybe make a sound that vibrates right through me and oh. Oh. Bliss spreads through my lower body, so sweet and fine.

  It gets a good grip on me and I struggle against it, briefly, but the feel of his big hands around my thighs, suddenly, and his tongue pressed firm and flat to my clit—yeah, that keeps me in it. I give everything I have over to it.

  To him.

  God, what it is to have a man who always knows, and never guesses.

  HER, HIM, AND THEM

  Aimee Pearl