Women in Lust

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “I have never made love in this room before. It could be a not-so-vanilla experience for me, yes?”

  “Sex in the shower? Sounds good.” I stripped out of my clothes quickly, turned on the water, and got in. Viktor watched with eager eyes. I wondered what he’d make of the tattoos that ran down my back. “Aren’t you going to join me?” I asked, enjoying the feel of hot water over my skin.

  “You are rather nice to watch, Katie.” Viktor stood with his hands covering his crotch. Poor soul, but he was a shy one. I actually started to feel quite turned on being naked in the sight of a fully clothed man. I squished my breasts together, stroked over my bottom and bent over to drape my fingers over my toes. I smiled when I heard Viktor’s intake of breath.

  “Let me dry you off.” He held out a fluffy towel.

  “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “I want you in my arms,” he whispered. I sighed, but switched off the shower and stepped out of the tub. Viktor instantly surrounded me with the towel. He held me tight in a very strong embrace. I struggled a little, just to see what would happen, but he held me fast. Things were getting better and better. He kissed me, and this time his kiss was all consuming. I gasped, wriggling about in the towel. If this was what vanilla folks did, then I was over to their side like a flash.

  “You are a very strange woman,” Viktor murmured. “It arouses you to not be able to move?”

  “That’s right.”

  He pressed me to sit on the edge of the bathtub. “Then do not move now.” He swept my legs open. The towel fell down around me. Viktor ignored it; he went down on his knees in front of me, and then he bent his head to my cunt. I willed him to kiss me there, but Viktor only breathed over my sensitive flesh.

  “Please,” I begged shamelessly. “Oh, please, Viktor.” He grinned up at me. And then in an act of extreme sadism, he touched my clit with the barest tip of his tongue. I thrashed about like a crazy person, desperately pushing my whole crotch up to his face.

  “I told you not to move,” he whispered, and looked up at me. I took a breath, stilled. Viktor licked me again, tiny movements that were incredibly intense.

  “This is torture,” I hissed. “You’re killing me!”

  Viktor chuckled against my cunt. “Is this not exactly what you desire?”

  I froze as I actually saw the lightbulb flash above my head. Viktor was right.

  “You clever bastard!” I grunted.

  “Now, now, it is not vanilla to swear during sex.” He pushed a finger into my cunt, making slow deep movements. I wailed like a harpy. My clit throbbed. Viktor sucked on it, harder this time. I clutched at the back of his head and humped his face until I came noisily. The next time I saw Peggy I was going to give her a blow-by-blow account of how spicy this vanilla guy really was.

  “Quite enthusiastic, aren’t you?” Viktor wiped his face with the towel before he stood. I wrapped it around my hips and followed him out of the bathroom to his living room.

  Viktor served me wine and strawberries. “No raspberries, I’m afraid,” he said with a grin. “Although I am quite intrigued by the sprinkles part.”

  “Let me enlighten you,” I said, and then I shimmied out of the towel to stand naked before him. “Will you take off your clothes?” Viktor did as I requested, though I’m such a sub that I hated to give him any instruction at all. Viktor sat demurely on his sofa, still covering up his hard erection. Finally he gave up and removed his hands. His cock was pink and delicious looking. I rummaged in my handbag for a moment, tossed him an extra-strong condom and a sachet of lube. Viktor looked at me quizzically for a moment before he rolled it on.

  “Put the lube over the condom. I need you nice and wet for me.” As Viktor worked, I stood with my back to him. I planted one foot on either side of his feet. I reached back, held on to his biceps, and then I lowered myself down to sit. I could feel Viktor try to direct his cock into my cunt, but I angled myself so his cock prodded my asshole.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered.

  “You want to know about the sprinkles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let me show you how sweet it can be.”

  Viktor grunted as I slowly lowered myself down. Inch after inch of his length pressed inside me. I reveled in the way I stretched around him, savored the deep penetration that I loved. I didn’t realize my eyes were shut until they fluttered open.

  Viktor was rigid behind me. “Sprinkles,” he whispered. “Candy-colored sprinkles.” He moved carefully, slowly, and then he said something in Russian that I didn’t understand. I was all the way on him, impaled on my vanilla lover. I moved forward a little and then back. Viktor hissed. I raised myself up and then came down with a quick hard thrust. Viktor screamed. In fact, the man screamed like a girl. He held me by the hips, moving me up and down roughly. Every movement gave the same response. He reached around to grab a cushion, and then he shoved the corner of it into his mouth. I laughed as he gagged himself. I moved in a wild fashion, bouncing up and down on his cock, my arms flailing, my hips bucking. Viktor threw down the cushion and then he pulled me to him fully, holding me so tight that I could barely breathe. It was heavenly. His movements stilled, and then he sagged against me.

  “I suppose this means I am raspberry flavored now?” Viktor asked in a weak voice.

  “Don’t sweat it, love,” I soothed, patting his leg. “I think you’ve made me appreciate vanilla, too.”

  “We are an ice-cream sundae,” he said, starting to chuckle against my back.

  “A knickerbocker glory!”

  “With plenty of sprinkles.” He kissed my back.

  “Topped off with hot fudge sauce,” I replied with a laugh.

  Viktor froze. “Maybe we can save the sauce for next time?”

  I grinned. “To tell you the truth, I’m rather looking forward to you showing me how good vanilla can be.” I eased myself up with a wince, and then collapsed in his arms.

  “I will teach you about my style, and you will teach me about yours.” He kissed my hot skin. “Do we have a deal?”

  We shook hands. “You got it.” I snuggled closer to his furry chest. “Next time I’ll bring my ropes. We’ll have a blast.”

  “You are joking with me, yes?” Viktor asked hesitantly.

  “No.”

  My lover said nothing, but I could feel his cock stir. This would be the start of a beautiful friendship.

  CHERRY BLOSSOM

  Kayar Silkenvoice

  early or late

  to fall is a joy!

  cherry blossoms

  —Kinko-jo, eighteenth century

  I bumped into her in my ryokan in Kyoto. I smelled her exotic scent just milliseconds before my sleep-fogged brain registered the ledge I was supposed to step over in order to leave my suite—too late, of course. I tripped and fell to my knees like a penitent worshipper, one hand clutching the belt of her kimono, the other pressing down onto her foot. She staggered slightly, from surprise or the impact. I couldn’t tell which, but I feared the latter.

  “Gomen nasai. Daijoubu desu ka?” I stammered. I’m sorry. Are you all right?

  My partner had taught me that phrase early on in the trip, after he tired of apologizing on my behalf to all the people I bumped into. And I bumped into a lot of people as I was constantly staring upward in astonishment at the cherry blossoms that seemed to adorn all of Japan.

  Cool hands cupped my cheeks and tilted my head backward. Dark eyes peered into mine, eyes so dark I could not distinguish the pupils from the iris. “Are you hurt?” she asked me. Her voice was typically girlish Japanese, but her accent was pure Queen’s English.

  I gaped stupidly at her, a slow blush creeping up my torso and flagging my cheeks. Humiliation burned through me, but so did a peculiar excitement. I lifted my hand off her sandaled foot, the foot clad in those white socks with the split toe that had fascinated me since I’d first spotted them. I’d hoped to get a close-up view one day, but this was hardly what I’d had in min
d. I released my hold on her yukata, a simple blue-and-white yukata similar to the one I was wearing, and with her help, I stood up.

  “Are you certain you’re not hurt?” she asked again in her fluent English.

  I watched her rosebud mouth shape the words, saw her fine brows knit in that perfect oval face. Her skin was lovely, creamy and golden, like custard. She smelled of flowers and herbs, a concoction that was pungent enough to penetrate my daze. I wanted to gather her up and press my nose to her skin, smelling her everywhere. I was shocked with a fleeting mental image of her splayed on the low table that our kaiseki feasts were served on, and then my stomach rumbled, reminding me of why I’d been stumbling out of my room.

  Breakfast.

  “I’m fine, really. There’s nothing wrong with me that a cup of tea won’t fix. I need some caffeine. Too much sake last night, you know…” I babbled groggily and blushed again. My voice was so husky that I barely recognized it as my own. Too much sake indeed. The Gion District offered many late-night pleasures in addition to the geisha and their maiko, and my lover and I had partaken of them until nearly dawn. Thankfully, our ryokan did not have a curfew.

  I smoothed my yukata over my pajamas and tucked a lock of hair back behind my ear, then smiled hesitantly at the woman I’d unintentionally accosted.

  “Thank you for your help. I’m Sophie MacRae.” I bowed slightly and withheld my hand, having noticed that the Japanese had a thing about hands. They washed them compulsively, especially before meals, and rarely touched hands if it could be avoided.

  “Miyuki Futohara,” she said, and bowed to me, her eyes downcast.

  I was struck again by her beauty, by the music of her voice, the perfection of her skin and the symmetry of her features. I wanted to photograph her. I wanted to kiss her. But most of all I wanted to pull the decorative clips from her hair and run my fingers through it. I understood, with sudden clarity, how a woman’s beauty could inspire poetry, and songs and even wars.

  At that moment a young woman shuffled up to us. I recognized her as the innkeeper’s daughter. She was plain compared to the other woman, but she looked serene in her traditional Japanese dress, including a pale pink obi that bound her from breasts to hips. She bowed to me and gestured.

  “Your breakfast is ready, Miss,” she spoke in halting English.

  I blushed again, horrified. I wanted to groan, but I breathed out slowly instead. I was late, and the Japanese were sticklers about being prompt. Tardiness was considered disrespectful, if not rude.

  I bowed to the beautiful Miyuki. “Arigato gozaimasu.”

  She bowed in acknowledgment of my gratitude, her poise enviable.

  I bowed to the girl. “Gomen nasai.”

  As I followed the innkeeper’s daughter, I wondered if it was wishful thinking on my part that Miyuki’s eyes were following me. I stumbled again, feeling unsettled and breathless. My morning had gotten off to a rough start, but it wasn’t anything that breakfast and a long soak in the onsen wouldn’t fix.

  My traditional Japanese breakfast was a filling mixture of a half-dozen small dishes that in many ways were indistinguishable from any other Japanese meal: boiled rice, steamed fish, miso soup and nori. The difference was mostly in the presentation, I think, with the ceramic dishes being more rustic in appearance. When I finished, I walked across the tatami mats, slipped into my sandals, and did my best to glide gracefully down the cobbled walkway to the bathhouse. I desperately needed a soak, and the o-furo tub in my room was a bit small for what I had in mind.

  I entered the anteroom to the women’s onsen and stripped down, placing my clothing in a basket. There was a woman there with her child, but I scarcely noticed them. In Japan, there is no such thing as body modesty, or at least, not in a form that Westerners would recognize. Entire families bathe together, and businessmen often soak together, enjoying the naked communion, the sense of sharing that comes when there is no possibility of concealment. But as casual as they seem about nudity, the Japanese are sticklers about cleanliness, and those using the communal baths must follow a strict code of hygiene. A Japanese friend of mine made sure to educate me on the bathing customs, so that I would not embarrass the attendants with the need to explain to the gaikokujin why she had to leave the sento.

  There is something meditative about the bathing ritual, something as deeply sensuous as it is cleansing. I stepped under a showerhead and soaked myself, then sat on a little stool and slowly scrubbed from head to toe with a brush and soapy fingers. When every inch of me was pink and gleaming, I rinsed off, making sure there was no soap or shampoo residue. My skin tingled from the bristles of the brush, a tingle that bordered on pain but was a precursor of tingling to come. The water in the pool would be very, very warm.

  Yukata wrapped back around me, I stepped into a pair of wooden sandals used exclusively by bathhouse patrons and passed through the doorway to the open-air onsen, or hot-spring pool. It was bordered by a high bamboo fence, tightly woven together, and surrounded with plants and stones that formed a garden I had meticulously cataloged in my mind for possible reproduction back home. The petals from the overhanging cherry tree floated on the surface, looking like hot-pink confetti.

  I stepped out of my wooden sandals, then removed my yukata and folded it neatly, placing it atop them. I stood for a long moment with my face upturned to the sky, enjoying the feel of the sun and the cool April air on my bare skin. And then I stepped into the petal-strewn pool.

  I was prepared for the heat and still I gasped. It seemed to sear my skin. A wave of gooseflesh washed over me, making my nipples impossibly hard. Slowly, ever so slowly, I worked my way down into the pool, until water lapped at my collarbones and the bubbles of air trapped around my hair follicles danced toward the surface like hundreds of tiny, teasing fingers. I fantasized about sharing the bath with Miyuki, my mind filled with images of small breasts bobbing in the water and tendrils of damp hair and cherry blossom petals clinging to her slender neck. I wanted to touch myself, wanted to slide my fingers into the slippery wetness of my pussy, and would have, if I hadn’t known how it would have defiled the water in the eyes of its patrons.

  I had the pool to myself and I enjoyed it fully, letting the images and sensations play over me and through me, allowing my imagination free rein with my impossible girl crush. I thought about my boyfriend, too, called back to Tokyo for a couple of days, leaving me without an outlet for my passion at a time when I desperately wanted a hard, fast fuck.

  Eventually the hot water sapped my desire from me, and I floated on my back for a long while, watching the petals from the cherry fall willy-nilly and land sometimes on the water, sometimes on my skin. A poor attempt at ku drifted into my mind: The tree’s passion, spent / comes to rest / on my flesh. The sounds of Kyoto wafted in, but they were pleasant, noninvasive, almost surreal. I knew I should go dress and resume exploring the city, but it wasn’t until I felt light-headed that I moved to leave, and I had to do it by inches. I was so thoroughly relaxed, so limp and languid, that I felt like kelp struggling to crawl up out of the primordial sea.

  A brisk shower under cold water soon cleared my head and firmed up my muscles. I put my pajamas back on and the yukata over them and was in the anteroom slipping into my sandals when a door opened. The sign on it had kanji symbols and the English word MASSAGE. A Japanese woman stepped out, bowed to someone inside, and then left. The door swung completely open and there was Miyuki. Seeing her standing there, my heart tripped over itself and landed at my feet. I had to walk past her in order to leave the bathhouse, and I wasn’t sure my legs were steady enough.

  “Would you like a massage, Miss MacRae?” she asked me in that girlish voice that plucked some invisible strings inside me, making me quiver.

  A massage? Dear god. I nearly swooned at the thought of her hands on my bare flesh. My knees forgot to support me for a split second, and I grabbed for the wall.

  “Here, let me help you,” she said, and wrapped an arm around my waist. My sk
in tingled where she touched. “Did you stay too long in the pool?”

  I nodded, grateful for the proffered excuse for my weak knees. Her scent wove around me again, that potent herbal and floral blend, and I found it more intoxicating than sake. She guided me through the door and into the room, stopping before a shoji screen.

  “Would you like an invigorating massage to give you energy?” she asked.

  I struggled to find an excuse that would release me from the exquisite torture I knew I would experience under her hands, but the words did not rise to my lips.

  “Um…sure, I guess. Yes.”

  Uncertain as to what I should do, I began undressing while she slid the shoji screen aside. Beyond lay a massage table and a window overlooking a lovely little pocket garden. She slipped off her yukata, revealing a plain cotton tunic and long expanse of bare legs. I nearly choked on the sudden flood of saliva. I wanted to push her back onto the padded table and feast on her, taste her, put to use those oral skills I’d developed at college. I took a deep breath to steady myself and tried to clear my mind of its inappropriate imagery. Miyuki waited patiently by the table until I approached, naked as the day I was born, and then she guided me to lie on my front.

  Warm hands spread even warmer oil over my skin. Wave after wave of gooseflesh followed in the wake of her fingertips.

  As her hands slid over my shoulder, I smelled that tantalizing scent and realized it was the oil. Mmmm. I definitely wanted some of that to take back home. Large quantities of oil were poured onto my skin and she spread it around with long, broad strokes of her tiny hands. It felt like she was an artist and the oil was paint and I was her canvas, longing for the brushes of her imagination.

  “You have beautiful skin,” she said. “So white, like milk.”

  As she leaned into me, pressing her palms along my spine, her upper thigh brushed rhythmically against my fingers, making them tingle. I found that I was holding my breath, wondering if it was intentional or not. Soon her hands glided down my back to my hips, to the largest erogenous zone on my body. She kneaded me there, making me delirious with the pleasure of her fingers sliding along my pelvis, her thumbs pressing deep into the muscles of my ass.