Women in Lust

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Instead, she performed a few ballet steps in the sunbeam, then hunted quietly through the box of “misc” for antibiotic goop and a Band-Aid.

  RIDE A COWBOY

  Del Carmen

  I want to fuck you.”

  Rita didn’t know who was more surprised. She, at the words that came out of her mouth, or Nate, who looked at her like a steer caught in headlights.

  “What?” he asked.

  Rita pretended the last minute hadn’t happened. She waved her pad at him. “What would you like to order?”

  Nate lifted an eyebrow, a knowing look in his eyes.

  She steeled herself. Hopefully whatever cut he gave her would not be loud enough for the other diners to hear. The last thing she needed or wanted was the town gossip mill looking in her direction.

  “I’ll take the blue-plate special,” he said, “the steak medium well, heavy on the gravy, four biscuits. Coffee. Black.”

  Rita wrote furiously and reached for his menu.

  He held on to it and forced her to meet his eyes, his questioning, hers resolved.

  He let go of the menu. Rita forced herself to walk slowly toward the kitchen, all the while yearning to run from the room. She put in the order and kept walking down the hallway, out the back door. Leaning on the wall, she took deep breaths to calm her racing heart and covered her face with her hands. She shook her head and dried her sweaty palms on her apron, a blush hot on her cheeks.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She couldn’t believe she had given voice to her secret obsession, and to Nate’s face, no less. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had leapt onto his horse and ridden for the hills.

  But he looked so hot in his tight jeans, and whenever he wore his white shirt and leather vest combo, all she could think of was riding a cowboy—Nate, to be exact. She’d ride him until he was wild and sweaty, until she’d quenched her lust for him.

  Rita heard her name being called. She straightened her hair, her Mexican lace blouse and her spine as she entered the diner.

  Nate’s eyes followed her, as she filled coffee cups, took food requests and chatted with her customers. Aside from refilling his cup, Rita ignored him. On any other day, she would have rejoiced at having him linger over his meal so she could steal glances at his chiseled features, his dark wavy hair, and the big bulge in his jeans. She’d built fantasies around him and that bulge. Her favorite was the one of them fucking in a booth, ending with his tongue on her clit and his cock in her mouth. On any other day—but not today. She wanted him to leave so she could soak her head.

  Rita put the check upside down in front of Nate and quickly stacked the dishes. “I’ll get these out of your way.” She was talking too fast, a clear sign of nervousness.

  Nate caught her hand. She froze.

  “Is there something else you want?” she asked, not meeting his eyes.

  “You.” He ran his fingers across her skin.

  “What?” Did she just squeak?

  “You.” His voice was confident and strong. “Your breasts cupped in my hands, my tongue in your mouth, my dick…”

  Rita pressed her fingers against his mouth and looked around frantically in case anyone had heard.

  He pulled one of her fingers into the dark wetness of his mouth. Her eyes looked into his. Hunger stared back. She saw his eyes drop to her breasts. She imagined him sucking her nipples and desire pooled in her cunt.

  For a second, they were alone with their desires; only the tinkling of china brought them back to reality. He let her pull her finger free, but she couldn’t resist stroking his lips.

  “What time do you get off?” His hand was still hot on hers.

  “I’m closing tonight.” Her voice was breathless.

  “I’ll be back to fuck you then.” He stood in one smooth movement. The heat of his body was intoxicating as it pressed against her briefly. The warmth of his breath caressed her neck and sent shivers down her body.

  Rita took the plates and headed toward the kitchen. She watched Nate walk out the door. He had a tight ass and a swagger. Very John Wayne. Very sexy. She looked at the large clock over the counter: two hours to closing.

  Closing time crawled closer. Customers came and went. The kitchen closed. Rita was finally alone. She pushed tables and chairs around, preparing the diner for a private seductive encounter.

  Her panties were damp with lust.

  Maybe he wouldn’t come. Doubt plagued her, but she pushed it away. He’ll come, she told herself. He’ll come, in more ways than one. A smile touched her lips.

  Candles, she thought. They needed candles. Rita ran into the kitchen and grabbed a handful and some matches. She had just finished lighting the last one when she sensed the man at the door.

  His silhouette screamed cowboy: hat, vest, tight jeans, bulge.

  “Say it again,” he asked.

  “I want to fuck you.” She trembled as he crossed to her.

  The room was dark, except from the soft candlelight and the glare coming from the kitchen window. Rita took in Nate’s handsome features, the hunger naked on his face. Never had she craved a man more.

  He tossed his hat onto one of the booths and reached for her. His mouth was hot and wet on hers, his dick hard against her belly.

  “I want to be balls deep in you already.” Big hands cupped her breasts. She had taken off her bra earlier so the lace from her blouse was rough against the sensitive peaks. She almost came when he sucked her nipples through the lace.

  He caught her moan with his mouth. His tongue demanded entrance and was welcomed.

  She was his for the taking and he took. He pulled her skirt and panties down in one move, and boldly slid his fingers over her swollen clit and wet pussy. He inserted a finger, then two. She bucked against them and grabbed on to him for fear of falling.

  His shoulders were hard beneath her fingers, warm against her palms. She opened his shirt, sculpting and rubbing his chest. She couldn’t resist pressing her nose to his throat. He smelled of horses, grass and manly sweat.

  She heard his intake of breath. His hands were rough on her hair as he pulled her lips to meet his. He devoured her, his lips sucking and licking. He tasted of pure ambrosia. Suddenly, he released her and removed the rest of their clothes.

  Her naked cowboy was built: wide chest, fine muscles, strong thighs and a big dick. Her hand couldn’t close completely around his thickness.

  She knelt in front of him and ran her hand up and down his shaft. It was a beautiful thing—long, thick, hard and pointing straight at her. She rubbed her face—cheeks, nose, lips—against his sex. She swirled her tongue down his length, tasting the muskiness. She licked the drop of come on the tip of his penis and took him into her mouth, opening wider, and wider still, to accommodate his size.

  Rita felt his hands in her hair as he thrust his dick deeper into her mouth, until the tip of his penis touched the back of her throat. She grazed him with her teeth. She could do this all night, she thought, and continued sucking harder, fucking faster. Her mouth moved up and down his cock.

  He pulled out of her with a small popping sound.

  “I want to be inside you first.” His voice growled with lust as he pulled her up. Taking a quick look around, he grabbed his pants and headed for the back booth she had prepared.

  He sat and she mounted herself a naked cowboy, her cunt rubbing against his hard penis.

  She laughed as he pulled a strip of condoms from his pocket.

  “I have more if we run out,” she whispered against his lips.

  The condom was rolled on quickly and she seated herself fully on his cock. His hands anchored her on his lap. She threw her head back, her body arching, as her cunt stretched to accommodate his thickness, stretched to suck all of him in.

  She rocked slowly at first, looking for a good rhythm. She took him in as deeply as she could with each downward thrust. He thrust upward, again and again. Their ride was fast and furious.

  She rode her cowboy long and hard. His th
rusts escalated, giving neither one relief. Hunger and need drove them, until the only sounds in the room were their moans and the soft slap of their heated sweaty bodies coming together.

  She could feel the pressure rising within her. The hurting was so good and suddenly too much.

  He grabbed her hips; his calloused fingers pressed into her heated flesh. He brought her down until he was balls deep inside her. He thrust deep one last time and her orgasm burst open. Her whole body shuddered with pure pleasure. She heard his shout echo throughout the room.

  They collapsed into each other’s arms. He buried his face between her breasts; her head rested on top of his. They clung together as the aftermath of their passion rumbled inside them. Her hands were around his torso, his around her waist. Delicious shivers danced on their skin.

  She felt a gentle tug at her breast. She sat back against his thighs, but tightened the lips of her vagina to keep him inside her. Their eyes and then their mouths met.

  “I love the service here.” His voice was husky from their shared passion. “I’ll have to come more often.”

  “You will,” she promised.

  Their laughter was soft and intimate and just the beginning, for they had all night to explore each other and the many surfaces of the diner. She was looking forward to riding her cowboy into the sunrise.

  QUEEN OF SHEBA

  Jen Cross

  You really wanna know about the best time? Well, there was this one guy, back when I was in school. But you have to promise you won’t tell Max. Okay?

  At first, I thought Jimmy was just really into foreplay. He’d say, “Can I touch you?” And before I was done nodding, he’d have reached out a calloused hand to my body, maybe resting it on one of my thighs or against my belly for a second, but he was always only interested in my pussy. His eyes would glaze a little, he’d moisten his lips and get focused like a cat.

  When Jimmy really got going, my pussy would feel like it was molten, you know? All melty and hot, like—well, I’m getting ahead of myself here.

  Jimmy, with that mouth and tongue, those lips. He’d push up every single pillow behind me and set me back against them, prop my feet up and over to either side of my mussed single bed. After he’d sort of enthroned me, got my butt and hips propped up and thighs splayed, he’d just sit back for a minute and look at me, those ruddy cheeks flushing and his eyes bright and almost—if it weren’t for the cocky set to his jaw, the way his grin pulled a little too tight to one side of his mouth so you’d never be sure he wasn’t about to crack up—almost reverent.

  He never did, though—never cracked up, never laughed at me. He just liked to keep me perched on that edge of nerves. But really, maybe I just couldn’t read him, after all those months, and there was something else altogether going on behind those eyes and that half-cracked grin.

  I can’t even remember exactly when or how we met. We were both scholarship students at a school full of kids whose parents had been planning for their darling Jacks’ and Janes’ educations since the moment of conception. I do remember him coming to meet a study partner of mine who was in one of the huge survey classes I was drowning in. I’ll never know what it was he saw in me and we never were much for talking, but a few nights later, Jimmy showed up at my door with pizza and a couple of Dr. Peppers and a small bundle of flowers that he’d picked on his way over, snatching them from one of the university’s landscaped gardens. I was charmed—and a pretty horny and somewhat easy lay. Thank goodness.

  He’d look at me for so long that I’d start to cover myself sometimes—the staring was so unusual and here I was, a girl who hadn’t been much for nudity, even if no one else was around. In high school, I’d been one of those girls dressing in the bathroom stalls for gym for the first two years, till my friend Jackson, you remember him, pointed out one day that I had bigger tits than most of the girls in my class, and that if anyone said anything it’d be out of pure jealousy. I didn’t exactly believe him, but I risked changing by my locker finally and except for a wisecracked, “Well, shit, look who’s finally joining us out here,” there were no other comments. I mean, what was I even expecting?

  Except maybe the way my mom used to cut her eyes at me when I’d be getting ready for school in the morning, wondering why I bothered with doing my hair or putting any color to my lips—looking at me like I thought I was the Queen of Sheba, when I was really such a cow.

  With Jimmy, there was something else going on. He’d look at me like I was beautiful, the way someone pauses, kind of dumbstruck, before a stunning work of art or a breathtaking sunrise, stops to really be present with that spiderweb caught with morning dew stuck up there between the peeling paint and cracked window frame of your first apartment—you know. I mean, the only person who’d ever told me they thought I was beautiful was my dad, and that was when he wanted me to let him watch me in the shower. And then, in high school, if some guy liked you, you knew that as soon as he told you how pretty he thought you were, you’d hear him joking about you with his friends. I used to hate that feeling, how the big openness of longing and being longed for got dropped, reverted back into a kind of pit of loss and shame and embarrassment; when I realized that maybe they were just kidding after all—do you know what I mean?

  But things with Jimmy were strange and different, and of course, he was hard to believe. When I tried to cover myself, he used to just say, “Wait—please, Steph,” and even though I’d keep my hand on the sheets, I wouldn’t pull them up over me, over my curves, the pushes of flesh around my belly, the little hairs darkening my thighs, or, sure, the split of my pussy or my breasts. Over the months we were involved, I got more comfortable, even sometimes spreading myself wider for him, more open—like I deserved to be so displayed, like I was exquisite, unique.

  Sometimes he’d touch himself while he looked, his cock hardening behind the fabric of his boxers and khakis with its preternatural twitching, and I would clench inside myself, feel the rose blush spread from my chest.

  Don’t tell me you don’t know what it was. I knew. But still, I loved it.

  He’d brush his fingers through my thick pubic curls, loosening the free hairs, and then he’d bend forward, dive in. His body would sort of fold. He wanted inside me and sure I know that as a whole person, I didn’t exactly exist anymore when he got into that wet fleshy focus, but at the same time I knew in that moment that I was being revered.

  Now, like I said, I had reason in my life to believe that my body would never be reverenced, so when he put his mouth on me that way the very first time, when his throat opened and his warm, damp breath eased and heated across my pussy, propped up and open as I was in my little chilly dorm room, I just about started to cry. I mean, the wet prickled all around my eyes and my nose started to run. When I sniffled, Jimmy raised his eyes up to me sharply, not exactly in surprise, but not exactly knowing either. He just smiled, pulled one hand off my thigh and caressed my cheek.

  “You are so beautiful, Stephanie—”

  And this is what happened in my head: now, I know that I am supposed to be a self-actualized woman, and it doesn’t matter, or shouldn’t, whether a man wants me or not or thinks I’m cute and yes, I know, I’m smart and believe in the power of reasonable footwear and warm clothes in bad weather and I was raised on feminism and will never disavow my own inner strength, but—and it kills me that this has turned out to be true—I got so wet when he said that to me, so thick and soft and open, so scared that maybe he didn’t really mean it and, oh, I just wanted to quit thinking so much and feel what he was about to do.

  Jimmy helped me with that right away, dropping his head back down between my thighs and letting his tongue smooth slow and wide up from the bottom of my pussy to my clit, and I gasped and let my legs fall farther open, which was nearly impossible. He’d ripple his tongue up across me, never exactly settling in any one spot but instead touching my whole pussy, all at once. Then he’d focus back in, suckling hard and fast, with such a quick change that I’d see
stars and start to beat the bed.

  My hips got good and stretched that season with Jimmy—he could spend a whole lot of time between my legs. At first, thinking he was just really into foreplay, like I said, I figured he’d give my pussy the same few licks and half suckle that my other boyfriends had offered, anxiously humping the mattress in anticipation of the real thing. But no. Jimmy languished there, lavished attention, bathed me in sensation and pleasure, built a kind of longing I hadn’t known before—and, frankly, haven’t known since. Now, that’s just between us.

  Jimmy would use his hands to hold me open, and his whole mouth, his nose and chin and cheeks. He’d fuck me with his tongue, then lap at me with the full flat of it, wriggle the tip across my clit, then capture the fat little head between his thin lips and suckle first gently, then more sharply, as I came. And came. And came.

  He got me off so many times when he was down there, like that was the whole point. Can you imagine? He may have come in his hand or his pants sometimes—I never really knew; I was too busy screaming and lost in the pillows, grabbing his head, shoving my hips up into his face, sometimes capturing my tits in my own hands (if I wanted any other part of my body to get some attention, I had to give it myself; Jimmy was nothing if not focused).

  I felt gluttonous, fat and lazy and joyful, those few months—like I had something someone could gorge himself on, and yet I came out the other side deeply satiated.

  I offered to return the favor, though I was terrified he might accept; I’d always gagged on boyfriends’ cocks in the past, and I couldn’t keep it up for very long in those days. But Jimmy dismissed my offering, not as ridiculous, exactly—more like something sweet but silly, like how your folks smile at you when you tell them you’re going to build them a big house on the moon someday.