Women in Lust

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I am thirty-one years old and currently work as a server at an all-you-can eat Brazilian steakhouse. Most of my shift is spent watching various-sized humans devouring as much protein as they can, in the form of meat brought to them on skewers, which is then sliced thinly and placed into salivating mouths, chewed enough times to get through the gristle and blood and then swallowed. The competing scents of meat from various animals and limbs has caused me to become vegetarian. It is just too much to take sometimes. However, the pay is good and I met my boyfriend here. We don’t have to mention him, though; it doesn’t seem fair to either of us.

  I know you have a wife. She is blonde with enough curves to appear like a cursive lowercase q. Her tits are swollen like flesh-covered marshmallows swelling out of her tops. My tits are small and unclaimed by bras or cleavage. But maybe you need change. I have less to hold and play with, but my nipples are hard like thimbles. They are expressive and overdramatic. One boyfriend even called them challenging. I don’t know your wife’s name or what she does for a living, but I know that she holds your ears when you eat away at her cunt and scratches at your head when she is just about to come.

  I like to pretend that you know I am watching you, from below your window, as I walk my dog and pause just as we approach your apartment building. I first noticed you on a Thursday evening at close to six. I looked up for some reason. Your giant window, which exposed your living room, was also exposing you. I didn’t see your face then, though I noticed your hand moving up and down with such speed that I worried about possible skin erosion. I was shocked and turned on, frozen at the image of you fucking yourself.

  At the restaurant where I work, I am not naïve about what happens below the tables. Meat can be a turn-on to carnivorous men who are paying twenty-five dollars for unlimited flesh. I have seen men in ties and wingtips fondling their wives/girlfriends/ mistresses’ thighs with their sausage-like fingers, squeezing their way toward panty lines and neatly manicured bushes. There are some nights I yearn for you to walk in and request a table. As I lead you to your seat, you press your erection into me. My thighs part and with each bite of picanha, alcantra or linguica you take, your eyes grow even needier for me. You leave your blonde wife, who nibbles on prosciutto or hearts of palm from the salad bar, and retreat outside for a breath of fresh air. I’m outside pretending to smoke a cigarette, which I no longer care to smoke, but use as an excuse to leave my station.

  “I see you watching me,” you say.

  “I didn’t…I wasn’t sure if you noticed.”

  “I work harder when I know you are watching.”

  Then I am bold enough to take your hand, which smells like garlic marinade and your wife’s perfume probably made by a pop star or aging diva, and place it under my skirt that ends just above my knees. I’m not wearing underwear in this fantasy because women never do in imaginings such as these. You fondle my bush and appreciate the way I’ve grown it longer than your wife’s and then slide into my cunt, claiming it as yours. As you turn one finger into two and then three, I remind myself that I am at work and your wife with inflated lips and bleached teeth is waiting for you in the restaurant. I cannot come. Even in my fantasy.

  It is a Sunday and I know you have today off from the hardware store where you work, just six blocks away. My house is full of boxes and blank walls and I cannot bear to think of leaving you. My neck hurts from standing outside your window; where are you today? What dirty thoughts throw you against the wall with hand over dick and come shooting upward? I need you.

  As I am about to continue on with my dog, I notice you walking from your kitchen into your living room. You are so long and tall. No clothing claims your skin and I love how hair haunts only small patches of your body: around your nipples, a tightrope toward your belly button and a dash over your stomach. You are standing almost as erect as your dick, which is more narrow than thick, but long enough to impress. I know where this is going.

  “What are you looking at?”

  Blonde woman with gym-membership abs and false eyelashes interrupts my lustful voyeurism and I immediately recognize her. Shit. Your wife.

  “Umm, I thought I saw a bird carrying a worm.” What?

  “Are you staring into my window? I live there. With my husband. Who are you?”

  I never had any interest in exchanging words with your wife, whose nose looks more expensive than my student loan debt. But I couldn’t just stand there, silent.

  “I’m Kelly,” I gracefully extend my hand for her to shake, which she does, piercing my palm with her press-on lacquered nails.

  “Do you know my husband? You look familiar to me.”

  “I work at…” Why does it matter? “I live in the house at the end of this street. I don’t know your husband but I’m a huge fan of his dick.” Wouldn’t it be great if I really said that? “I live in the house at the end of this street. I don’t know your husband, but I happened to notice that he’s…preoccupied.”

  She looks up with her bright blue eyes enhanced by contact lenses and good lighting and sees him: her husband, the masturbator.

  “You’re disgusting. Stop staring at him.”

  And because I know my time is almost up in this city, I look at her and smile, exposing my off-white, crooked teeth. “He has a really impressive cock.”

  Even after the words come out, I can’t believe I have spoken them. Your wife, whose neck reveals her true age, is quite shocked, too.

  “You are filthy,” she says, walking away and shaking her surgically enhanced ass.

  I needed boxes, packing tape. I was going to have to make a trip to the hardware store. I honestly didn’t know if you were going to be working. When I walked in, you were ringing up a woman doused in denim who was purchasing lightbulbs. I looked at you, objectifying every inch of your body, though I don’t think you noticed.

  When you were done, you asked me if I needed any help. When am I ever going to get the chance to talk to you? I was tired of waiting, fantasizing, overstimulating my imagination. The encounter with your wife was awkward and uncomfortable and I was running out of time here. She may have even said something to you, outing my perversion.

  “Do you have any boxes you’re getting rid of? I’m moving.”

  “We just broke a bunch down. But you can check in the back, maybe by the Dumpster.”

  “Can you come with me?” You could have said no. I could have found them myself. But you followed.

  “You live on my street.”

  I nodded and smiled and blushed.

  “I see you watching me.”

  If I had breasts, they might have collapsed at that moment, exploded upon the impact of your breath on my skin.

  “I wasn’t sure if you noticed.”

  “Tell me why you watch.”

  “First tell me why you fuck yourself so often. I met your wife. She’s—”

  “I’m sure you know firsthand: if you want a job done right, then you might as well do it yourself.”

  “So then you prefer your hands to someone else’s?”

  “I’m at work. I can’t do this now.”

  I grabbed as many boxes as I could carry and began walking away, severely disappointed, though I’m not sure what I had been expecting to happen.

  “You need help? I can carry these boxes to your car.”

  “I didn’t drive. But I only live a few blocks away.”

  “Let me ask my boss if I can leave for a few minutes.”

  “Oh, it will take longer than that.”

  We are walking to my house, our hands entertained by boxes and my eyes absorbed with what I know is inside your pants.

  I drop the boxes on my porch so I can unlock my door. You follow me in.

  “Where you heading?”

  “New York.”

  “Alone?”

  “With my boyfriend.”

  “I have fifteen more minutes.”

  You drop all the boxes you were carrying, a lot more than I was. Sweat drips down your fo
rehead and I ask you if you need a cloth or something cold to drink.

  “I have fifteen more minutes,” you repeat. “You know what I want.”

  I don’t think about my boyfriend while you unzip your jeans and pull them down a bit awkwardly. Your boxers are crumpled and torn. You have more hair than I thought you had. I’m not judging, just noticing. I grip your dick and squeeze hard enough to push a sound out of you, a grunt or muffled breath. It is thicker than I expected, which is a pleasant surprise. It is sweaty and tired and curious and uncircumcised. My tongue pushes itself out from between my lips and spreads itself along the ridge of your dick. My spit mixes with your sweat, creating a salty, cherry-flavored marinade. I lick your cock in long, heated strokes. Up and down, drizzling my taste buds along the sides of you. I love how expressive a dick can be. I grow jealous of your erection, wishing I could produce one of my own.

  You are fucking my mouth as I push my fingers inside my underwear and finger my clit, flicking away at my miniature erection. You expand in my mouth as I suck on skin cells left there by your hand. For a moment, I wonder if your hand is jealous, realizing how much better I am at making you come.

  Come. Come. Come.

  My teeth retreat while I suck and blow and lick and hum over your cock. You arch your back, silently informing me that you are about to—

  Come. Come. Come, my tongue demands.

  You try and push away, but I want all of you. My cheeks feel swollen and tired, desperate for completion and the power of your cock claiming my throat. I want to know what you taste like.

  When you come, will it taste similar to Costella, with its rich seasoned flavor, or more like top sirloin with its garlic infusion and rusty aftertaste?

  After you came, your dick retreated back into its plaid boxer shell and you wiped away your remaining come with your fingers and dried them on your pants. It wasn’t supposed to be romantic or end in an embrace. We never kissed and I still don’t know your name.

  ORCHID

  Jacqueline Applebee

  I think I have the hots for Viktor.” I adjusted my stockings and stepped out of the toilet stall. My best friend and fuck-buddy, Peggy, gawped at me. “The new guy? Viktor from Accounts?” I nodded. “Viktor with the long brown hair?”

  I sighed. Viktor had glossy hair and bright green eyes. He was a beautiful man.

  “Hang on.” Peggy dried her hands. “You cannot have a crush on Viktor. He’s, you know…”

  “He’s Russian?”

  “Not that.” She poked me. “He’s vanilla!” she finally blurted. “Wendy in Personnel dated him when he first started here. She told me all about him. Face it, Katie. He’s vanilla, and you’re a slutty submissive bottom.”

  “I know,” I said with a sigh. “But vanilla folks need sexing-up, too.”

  “You can’t date a vanilla guy, Katie. It’s not natural.”

  “I can do whatever I want.” I thought for a moment. “I can do whomever I want, too.”

  Peggy shook her head. “Would you even know what to do with him?”

  “I’ll find out,” I said weakly. “I’ll look it up on Wikipedia.”

  Peggy was having none of it. “Raspberry ripple—that’s what you are, Katie. Raspberry ripple with extra sprinkles and a chocolate flake. You won’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting off with him. Viktor will never look at a pervert like you.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I tried to put it out of my head, but Viktor was like an itch I couldn’t scratch away. I saw him everywhere, gazing down from his framed photo on the wall as employee of the month, standing in line in the cafeteria or chatting on the phone, his beautiful voice a melody to my ears. I didn’t know why I wanted someone like him. He was nothing like the other men I’d been with, stern tops and domineering businessmen. Even the female security guard on the front desk would make me drool. But Viktor was different. He was soft spoken, considerate, and smart as all hell. Maybe it was his vanilla nature that made him so exotic to me.

  I saw Viktor outside work one day after lunch. A few teenage boys were kicking a ball to and fro in the parking area. Viktor did a fancy move, intercepting the ball as he walked by. He balanced it on his head, and then balanced the ball on his chest. He twisted around, and then kicked the ball to the boys, who smiled and waved at him. Damn, he was good with children, too. Viktor was perfect.

  Peggy walked by, watching me eye up my Russian. “No, Katie. Viktor is vanilla. He will not want to spank you. He won’t know the first thing about restraint.”

  “Get lost. Stop bugging me.”

  “He’s coming this way,” she said, and then scampered off. “I’ll be in touch,” she yelled over her shoulder.

  I swallowed as he walked toward me. I spun on my heels and practically ran inside the building. I jabbed the elevator button, willing it to arrive quickly. But the elevator was not quick enough. I squeezed inside, and then I pressed the button for my floor. I looked up when I heard his voice from the foyer.

  “Hold on.” The door swished shut just as he stepped inside. I couldn’t be in the same elevator as my fantasy guy; it was inhuman.

  “Hello, Katie. Is that a new dress?” He sounded nervous, as if he was desperate to make conversation. Why would he be nervous with me?

  I shook my head, desperately trying not to speak. I was sure my voice would come out with a stammer if I did. My mobile phone chirped to life. Peggy was on the other end.

  “Viktor is vanilla,” my friend hissed. “He will sneer at your crystal butt plug. He will never use a cane on your arse.” I pressed the phone to my chest, silencing her chatter.

  Viktor leant across me to press the button for his floor. “I was made employee of the month again,” he said, looking almost embarrassed.

  “I heard. That’s three times in a row, isn’t it?”

  Viktor nodded. “The director gave me a special gift: tickets to see the 39 Steps in Piccadilly Circus. I have two tickets.”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “Would you like to come with me?”

  “Vanilla!” I could still hear Peggy’s voice. “He will laugh at your floggers. He will pour scorn over your spreader bars. Stay away from him.”

  I clicked my mobile shut, and then I looked at Viktor, smiling. “Sure, that sounds like a lovely idea.”

  Viktor grinned and exited the elevator. As soon as the door closed, I pressed Peggy’s number. “Listen you crazy bitch, quit calling me. I’m not listening to you. I’m going to shag that pretty Russian if it’s the last thing I do!” I clicked the phone shut. The doors opened suddenly. Viktor was still standing outside. Had he heard me? I inwardly cringed. He must have thought I was absolutely mad.

  There were positives of being out at work as a bisexual woman. I didn’t have to dress up for the office. Most people seemed to think bisexual meant that I ought to dress like a whore. So, as a result, my black lace tops were as welcome as my microminis and my lip piercing. Straight people sure do think weird.

  I got dressed for my date. I wore dainty earrings shaped like tiny coiled whips; they were too small to discern unless you got really close. I found a black dress that was short, but not scandalously so. I actually looked quite subdued.

  The 39 Steps was a hoot, of course. I especially liked the part of the play when the hero and heroine were handcuffed together, fleeing from the law through the Scottish Highlands. I wondered what it would be like to kneel in front of Viktor, hands shackled, eyes shut. My mobile vibrated against my lap; I knew I should have left it at home. I sighed when I saw that it was a text from my annoying friend. Vanilla is vanilla, it read. He will never blindfold you.

  I started to feel a little down. Viktor and I went for a meal in Covent Garden when the play ended. I picked at my salad, but had no appetite.

  “Are you all right, Katie?” Viktor asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look like something is on your mind.” He squeezed my hand; it was heavy, solid. I shivered as I imagined that
hand on my rear, spanking me hard and fast. It was never going to happen.

  “I think I’d best go.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think this will work,” I said pointing between the two of us.

  “Is it because I’m Catholic?” Viktor asked, looking distressed. I shook my head. “Then it must be because I am Russian.”

  “You’re vanilla, Viktor.”

  Viktor looked at me blankly. “I am white, of course.”

  I almost smiled at that. “Look, I enjoy being tied up. I like being ordered to suck cock.” A waiter crashed into our table as I said that. He blushed furiously, and then backed away. “I mean, surely you have to know about me.”

  “I thought it was an office rumor, that people were being cruel.”

  “I don’t think you’ll like me if you get to know me. I’d rather be just friends, Viktor.” It was a barefaced lie, but he was too gorgeous a person to lose completely.

  “Let me make up my own mind about that, Katie.” He held out his hand. “I am sure we can come to an arrangement that will be good for both of us.” We walked outside and hailed a cab to his place near Finsbury Park.

  “So if I am vanilla, does that make you strawberry?” he asked as we entered his building.

  “Apparently I’m raspberry ripple with extra sprinkles and a chocolate flake.”

  “I still do not understand. Is vanilla an insult?”

  I turned to Viktor on the threshold of his apartment. “I didn’t mean it as one, but now that I think about it, vanilla could be taken that way.”

  Viktor kissed me lightly on the lips, the barest brush of his mouth on mine. “Vanilla is also a type of orchid.”

  “Really?” I hadn’t heard that one before.

  “It is a highly-prized flower that must be treated just so, or else the precious stamen will be lost.” Viktor ran a finger over my breast. My nipples ached for him to squeeze them. “The sensuous fragrance is a well-known aphrodisiac, too.”

  My mouth hung open. I gulped as a thrill of desire shot from my tongue down to my clit. Viktor grinned at me, and then he led me inside, but instead of heading to his bedroom, he ushered me to the bathroom.