Women in Lust

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  A long, low moan escaped me as her hands lifted and separated my buttocks. Cool air touched my secret parts, making me aware of how aroused I was. I felt a blush creep up my neck, burning my cheeks. I moaned again as she worked my thighs, her fingertips occasionally brushing my outer labia with fleeting touches. I was spared further mortification as her hands worked down my legs, squeezing and pumping my calves.

  “Roll over please,” she said, and I did so.

  She placed a scented cloth over my eyes and draped another over my hips, and then she began working my feet. It felt wonderful. My poor feet had been pounding the pavement all over Kyoto as I made my way from one shrine to the next, and the feel of her fingers on the pressure points had me moaning and sighing within moments. Eventually her hands slipped up over my ankles, and with a few soothing strokes she soon passed my shins. When her fingers touched my thighs I was torn between spreading my thighs wide and fleeing the room. To my embarrassment, I was so aroused I could smell myself, even over the potent herbal oil that she dribbled on my skin from her cupped hands. It was exquisite, the hot droplets of oil hitting my skin, as erotic as wax play, and I heard myself moaning involuntarily.

  Her hands glided up my quadriceps to my hip, then curved down over my inner and outer thigh on the downstroke. As her fingers fluttered against my outer labia, I gasped and jolted and moaned shamelessly. I was hopelessly, passionately aroused. My body pulsed with lust. I brushed aside the cloth and opened my eyes to see Miyuki looking down at me, a slight smile on her face. Her dark eyes seemed particularly intent. As she met and held my gaze, she slid her fingers deliberately along my labia until she was cupping my mound.

  “Do you want a G-spot massage?” she asked me in her Queen’s English accent.

  She spoke so primly that it took a moment for what she was saying to sink in, and then I realized what she was asking. I blushed. The telltale redness started at my breasts and crept up my neck to my cheeks. I suddenly felt funny inside, all fluttery and tense. I’d heard about “happy ending” massages, but I’d never gotten one, and it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask her for one. But since she was offering… Oh no, I couldn’t… Well, maybe… My thoughts vacillated wildly, and then it occurred to me that I would always wonder what it would have been like to have this exquisite woman bring me to orgasm in this setting. I knew that I would kick myself for the rest of my life if I said no. So I nodded, not trusting myself to say even the word yes with any coherency.

  Miyuki’s smile deepened and then she turned away from me, only to return a moment later with cupped hands full of oil. Again, she dribbled oil over my skin, this time over my lower belly, mound and labia. It was a delicious sensation, and the slow slide of the oil droplets down my skin were maddening. Slowly, almost languidly, she spread the oil along my skin, and when she reached my bare mound her fingers probed gently, curling into me. I moaned, and to my embarrassment my hips bounced. She smiled at me and put a hand over my mouth, and then with a deft move, slipped her fingers into me.

  I do not know what she felt when she slid between the folds and into my aching pussy, but what I felt was so intense, I wanted to scream. And I did. I lifted my hands and pressed hers across my mouth and screamed into it as she worked her other hand into me. Those deft little fingers wiggled and massaged until she worked them into me far enough to find my G-spot. When she curled those fingers up against that place and started rocking against it, I released her hand and grabbed the sides of the massage table instead.

  Fuck! It felt so good! She knew what she was doing, jabbing her fingers up against my G-spot in a compelling rhythm that had me bucking and rocking. I felt the orgasm building, felt my pelvic muscles contracting, and she must have known I was close because her free hand tangled in my hair and my eyes opened to see her face lowering toward me. When her lips touched mine I came, came hard, ejaculating my breath into her, my body undulating and twitching as the movements of her hand slowly subsided.

  When the kiss ended she looked into my eyes and smiled, and then took her hands away. I made a disappointed noise that was followed shortly by a gasp as she pulled her tunic over her head and shucked off her white panties. I only had time to notice that her pubic hair was straight before she was climbing onto the table with me and fitting herself between my thighs. And then she began the most insidious movements of her body, rubbing her hairy mound against my bare one, pricking my clit.

  She lay fully on top of me and used the oil on my skin to slide herself back and forth, capturing my mouth for a kiss each time her incredibly pleasurable upward glide ended. Her tongue probed at my lips and they seemed to part of their own accord. Her tongue thrust into my mouth and her arm curled under my head, trapping me in a kiss that seemed to go on forever as our bodies rubbed together more and more frantically.

  Seared by her kiss, I panted to catch my breath as she reared over me and started bucking her hips against mine. Jagged bolts of pleasure pierced me with each thrust of her mound. I grabbed her hips, digging my fingernails into her as my mind flew apart like paper cranes in a breeze. Every thought, every sensation focused on the pleasure pulsing through me as Miyuki jogged her hips against mine in a frenzy. Her hair came free and fell around us to form a curtain of black silk. It tickled and teased my face and chest as she pounded herself into me, mashing her clit against mine, and it was the feel of her hair flogging my nipples that pushed me over.

  Every muscle in my body tightened. A massive orgasm roared through me. In a burst of euphoria, my fingers dug into her ass and pulled her up into me. I wrapped my legs around her thighs and bucked upward, grinding myself against her. She whimpered and cried out, her dark eyes wide and her mouth opened in a perfect O as she, too, climaxed with a staccato wail.

  Sharp spikes of pleasure continued to jolt me as we lay tangled together on the massage table. I explored her body with my fingers, gently, as if she was the most delicate of cherry blossoms. Sliding my fingers through her hair, silken and heavy and impossibly thick, felt even better than I’d imagined. I cupped one of her breasts in my hand and played with the tiny nipple, making her gasp and rock against me, which sent even more jolts through me. I wanted more. I wanted a taste of her. I wanted to oil her up and explore her body as she’d explored mine. I wanted to… My euphoric thoughts were interrupted by a chiming sound.

  Miyuki swung herself off the table. She grabbed a hand towel and started rubbing the oil off her skin. I sat up and looked at her.

  “I have a massage in ten minutes,” she said. “You will need to leave soon.”

  I felt her words like a blow to my stomach.

  I must have made some pained noise because she stopped what she was doing and took my hand.

  “This was not a normal massage hour. This was special,” Miyuki said, giving my hand a slippery squeeze.

  I smiled tremulously at her, aching for her, aching for the chance to make love with her again.

  She must have read my mind, because she looked me in the eye and said words that made my heart soar. “I’ll come to your room tonight, please.”

  Joy flooded me. I nodded through the tears that floated in my eyes like the petals of cherry blossoms drifting in the pond nearby. I wanted to get back to my room and ready it. There would be no need to venture out into Kyoto today. I was going to have my own personal cherry blossom viewing that night.

  RAIN

  Olivia Archer

  My husband is too lost in a rant about the upcoming election to notice the rigid set of my body as I watch my best friend kick off her shoes and place her legs in the lap of her latest boyfriend, Rain. She waggles her red manicured toes and asks for a foot massage. As Rain obliges, I imagine that I can hear the rasp of his rough fingers rubbing her skin. Or maybe I can feel them touching me—the way he did last Tuesday, the first time we fucked.

  The four of us are finishing liqueurs in our living room; my lover is directly in front of me. His dark, curly hair and the curve of his ass in those jeans
tempt me, but I stare through him, into the empty fireplace.

  When I get up and clear some of the leftover dessert carnage from the side tables, this gesture brings an end to the evening. Marcy gathers her exquisite belongings, casually thrown on the counter. I watch them go while standing in the foyer of our so-called perfect little house. It took twelve years of our lives to achieve this level of mind-numbing comfort.

  Normally summer is my favorite season, but the warm night air wafting in doesn’t provide its usual comfort. Instead, I’m reminded that the hillside surrounding our house, once verdant, is now parched and highly combustible, ready for a stray spark to set it ablaze.

  “Jess, close the damn door,” my husband yells from the next room. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Silence is my answer as I close the door on the night. My tongue is captured as I bite the tip, slowly and deeply, to keep the scream from surfacing.

  He continues, oblivious. “Rain’s turning out better than I’d expected. I had my doubts about him at first, you know, but it’s an interesting change that Marcy’s seeing someone with a little dirt under his fingernails. He’s a man’s man—I like that.” Without even seeing him, I can hear the smirk on his lips.

  “Yes,” I venture. This one syllable is the most I can reply as I think of Rain’s cock in my mouth, gagging me, teasing me; the smile I catch in his slate-blue eyes when I dare to look at him, when the four of us are together.

  “We should invite them to the cabin this winter. Hey, if Marcy’s still seeing him, that may be a record for her,” he rounds the corner and catches me putting things away in the kitchen. “Leave that for the housekeeper! It irritates me to no end that you’re always doing their job for them.”

  “Yes,” I manage again. An answer to nothing, or maybe everything. My mind hinges on her toes. His fingers grazing Marcy’s toe ring. The ring we bought together on one of our many shopping excursions when Rain was the latest one on her endless list, merely a name.

  Rain was a rugged, artistic man who had moved to Los Angeles recently to work as the contractor on a high-end decorative mosaic tile project at a big-name hotel. Marcy, with her coiffed raven hair and designer suits, was “slumming it” with this nonprofessional and his calloused, creative hands.

  Yes, Rain was just a name, an unusual name that Marcy always said with a bit of a laugh. I took no special interest until I met him and the air between us sizzled.

  We had Marcy and her date-du-jour over for dinner every Friday night and would occasionally meet up around town on the weekend. The first time she brought Rain to the house he found me alone in the kitchen and helped get dinner together. He appeared to be a good cook since he jumped right in, easily assisting with the dishes I was preparing.

  The men Marcy dated usually fawned over her sophisticated appearance, her powerful persona, and tended to agree with her strong opinions. Rain would calmly voice his views; he was a good conversationalist and could take on Marcy’s sparring, but just as often, he chose to remain outside of the constant banter between her and my husband.

  How Marcy and I became such close friends I still sometimes wonder—maybe the years had pulled us in different directions. When it comes to looks, she is all darkness and sharp angles, whereas I dress to display my hourglass figure and wavy blonde hair. She has always loved to debate and basks in being the center of attention; I would rather sit back and listen in, savoring my glass of wine.

  After having dinner at our house for several weeks, Rain called me at work one Monday. His normally peaceful demeanor was absent as he awkwardly told me that he was very interested in me and thought the feeling was mutual.

  He said he was taking a chance doing this, fearing I’d pull away, but he had to follow his instincts. He wanted more. He wanted me.

  When I told him I thought he was crazy—how could we go there?—he paused a mere second, then told me there were outrageous things he fantasized about us doing together. I responded with stunned silence, absorbing every word, but too dazed to reply. He left it for me to think about.

  In a few minutes, Rain had moved our physical attraction and comfortable friendship into a realm of sensuality that I didn’t think could exist for me again; the boundaries that I believed to be immovable suddenly wavered with his words.

  Every day that week he called at ten, a busy time at my office. I listened, immobile with the knowledge of where this could lead. Do I quench the thirst in my soul? I had no answer, so I kept absorbing his sexy words.

  By Tuesday and Wednesday my panties were damp as I squirmed in my office chair.

  When I missed his calls on Thursday and Friday because of meetings, he left messages, hot, explicit messages about how he was going to fuck me slowly, detailing each lick, each groan. I could imagine him jerking off as he spoke, throaty, horny. I replayed his messages a dozen times each day before deleting them from my work phone.

  By the time I saw him with Marcy that Friday night, I was too turned on to look at him, afraid I’d betray my raw lust in front of everyone. He played it cool, until we had a moment alone, then stripped me naked with a glance and leaned slightly against me while we worked together in the kitchen. The energy between us was tangible.

  His calls continued the next week. I fantasized about the scenarios he was describing, too shy to verbalize my desires just yet, and reorganized my schedule to be available for his timely phone call.

  Midweek, when he told me he would tie me up, I closed my office door and confessed to him how I liked the cuffs to be tight enough to mar my skin. That I wanted to be gagged, blindfolded; led within a heartbeat, a breath, of a mind-blowing climax—and left hanging on the edge, until my partner allowed me to freefall into that pool of pleasure.

  Our dialogues meshed seamlessly, and I spent many waking and sleeping moments hot for him in the summer heat. I dug out the old bullet vibrator and packed it in my car, getting myself off on the way to work as I thought about my next phone call with Rain.

  At our house that Friday, he caught me by myself in the dining room to say that he wanted to take it to the next level, we had to meet up somewhere, he was going crazy like this. I said we couldn’t. How could we? This wasn’t adultery, yet—not really.

  Rain didn’t call me at work on that following Monday; I watched ten o’clock come and go, as I sat alone in my office trying to distract myself from my need.

  On Tuesday, he called and told me that he would be downstairs in the lobby of my office building the next day at exactly ten a.m. I could be there, or not.

  I met Rain in the most secluded corner of the lobby to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing here. He looked at me with that smile playing in his eyes while he discreetly showed me a room key to the hotel down the street where he was working.

  My justification for going with him that day was to speak to him in a private place and let him know it was over, what we’d done wasn’t even the beginning of what I wanted, but I should set a limit. Shouldn’t I? Anyway, I had to be back in an hour to facilitate a conference call.

  That call happened without me. The room was in an empty wing of the hotel. Once we were inside, he told me to phone my secretary and say I had a personal emergency. I did. It was so easy, I instructed her to send in the new guy. My body’s every cell longed for Rain; if anything in my life had ever qualified as a personal emergency, this was it.

  We kissed and caressed for a few moments before he slowly undressed me, neatly placing my items of clothing across a chair. From a tote bag he removed a beautiful garment: sheer, lavender. I could smell the warmth of the silk in the close closed-in summer heat of the room.

  Standing naked in front of this stranger, my body felt electrified by the way he admired me. With my nose up against the collar of his dusty T-shirt, I could feel the rhythm of his blood beating in his tanned neck. My fantasies lined up in my mind as I absorbed Rain’s essence.

  His lips brushed my blushing cheek as he slipped the gown over my head and stretched it
s formfitting shape along my curves. The fabric hid nothing, accentuating the rise of my rose-colored nipples, clinging to the cleft of my mound.

  He sat me in the other chair and removed a blindfold from his jeans pocket. “May I?”

  My brain whirled through everything Marcy had told me about him, scanning for the mention of any red flags. Rain rated in the eightieth percentile on Marcy’s spreadsheet of sexual conquests. The word she used was burned in my brain: perfunctory. They’d had sex twice, to finish off the evening, then he went home. She joked that he wasn’t quite “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” but he wasn’t far from it, and she wrote off his disinterest as brooding artist’s temperament.

  “Why me?” I asked Rain. “Why this, why not her?”

  “This connection between us, call it what you want, but you feel it, too. It’s amazing, and I need more.”

  “I don’t want an affair—I’m not that kind of woman.”

  Rain looked down at me, wrapped in his gossamer gown, and sighed. “Jess, your body seems to remember what kind of woman you are, what kind of woman you want to be again.”

  With that, he kissed my mouth, once, for far too brief a moment. Then he placed the blindfold over my eyes, cloaking my sight and unleashing my mind.

  Seconds later, the sting of cool leather snapped against my thighs, making me jump. I grabbed his arms, feeling their wiry muscles and the slickness of his sweat.

  Rain whispered, “Stay in that chair or I’ll tie you to it,” as he caressed me with what felt like a riding crop, pressing the silky fabric of the dress into the wetness between my legs. “For these moments, you are mine.”

  The tip of his leathery implement continued its exploratory path, setting my nerve endings afire. My body and mind moaned a response that said, Yes, yes, yes…but who are you? The man that Marcy can’t see, or the one that I can’t forget?