Women in Lust

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  From behind, he hooked his arm around my neck, forcing my chin up and thrusting his tongue into my mouth, consuming my lips with a hunger I echoed in my veins. Rain had nothing to lose; he was an interlude in our lives. I was placing my relationship with my best friend on the line. Marcy was the girl who went through school with me, who’d helped me obtain all my clichés: the right college and Mr. Right. She still told me her secrets and knew mine. Until now.

  This affair could jeopardize, destroy, implode my enviable marriage. My address in the best school district for our childless household. The ideal husband. A man who tells me he loves me at all the right places in the conversation. A man who has never fucked me until I held onto consciousness with only the thinnest thread. Satiating sex was something I gave up: For marriage. For stability, opportunity, upward mobility. Because I thought that’s how it worked in the world. Until Rain.

  Rain released his forearm from my throat and captured both of my nipples in his hands. He suckled the gossamer fabric that clung to my breasts, the hot wetness pulling me deeper into the abyss where only need resides.

  His thumb opened my mouth but then left my lips hungry as he unzipped his jeans. The velvety tip of his cock entered my mouth in one thrust, scraping against my teeth and catching me by surprise. The taste of him was an extension of the animal electricity that he exuded. I salivated, unashamed, each drop igniting a path of awareness as it slid down my face and dripped onto my body.

  For an eternity, I was untethered from this place and time; he fucked my face. My eyes were unseeing, my mind numbed to everything but the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of my mouth. The diaphanous dress was damp everywhere from my juices, my sweat. The room was pulsing with our carnal energy.

  The sound he made when he came was primal and I swallowed it, echoed it, deep in my cells.

  He removed the blindfold and kissed my unseeing eyes as the lids fluttered open in their newfound freedom. “I want you to wait to come until we meet again. I’ll tell you when,” he whispered in my ear, then gave my ass a squeeze as we went to clean up in the bathroom.

  I had to pry myself away, the need to be quenched was so enormous. Giving him one last lingering kiss, I stashed the dress in my briefcase and returned to the office for the remainder of the day. All the things that normally irritated me slipped off my skin as I floated through the next few hours on a cloud.

  My husband’s voice carries into our tastefully decorated master bathroom, “Don’t sit in that hot water too long, you know how it flares up your skin.”

  I should answer that I want him to come in here and do things to me that he would be too ashamed to even think of. Things I’ve hinted at, things I’ve asked for. Things he says he’s done to other women: When he was young. When he was “experimenting.” But his cock will never bury itself in my ass. His nails have never raised lines down my back. He says he believes in forever and the sanctity of holy matrimony, the shining band of gold. Somehow marriage to him is incongruous with the kind of sex that is fucking. Making love is what we do. Making love in a marriage that has lost love—that seems incongruous to me.

  Could he fathom that a stranger had gnawed into my soul? The man he’s met a few casual times? The one he immediately assessed as his inferior?

  Rain has forged a path through the barbed wire of my mind.

  I had upheld our marital monogamy, even though my husband had his dalliance, once—supposedly. Early on.

  But, of course, it meant nothing, and we did the obligatory therapy, counseling.

  Experts predict your marriage will be stronger if you can weather an affair. We weathered. I withered even with the weekly bouquet of flowers that adorns our table. Whether or not they are spent, he throws them out and brings home a new bunch, bearing them with a smile, a symbol of his supposed fidelity, adopted after the affair and kept up all these years. To show his fidelity to the wife he knows only as faithful, the woman he expects will bear him children once her career is in the right place, once we have advanced into the next income bracket.

  But I keep taking the Pill.

  And now, do I choose to throw my world away? Like my husband will toss out the half-spent roses when the bouquet on the table merely begins to fade, before petals wither, fall, touching the tablecloth with their dying imperfections.

  My dalliance will contort the pastel-colored rooms of his mind.

  Rain. This unknown man I’ve known mere moments, what will happen after he quenches the passion that rages silently within? Will my smoldering soul be extinguished, or will this essential part of me reignite?

  How can I even think to say good-bye to my husband when, in the past twelve years, when was I ever really here? The person he slept beside and lived with was what he expected, what he neglected. His perfect wife.

  His perfect wife is perfectly perverse.

  I waited for Rain to tell me that I could get off. But he said everything except that, teasing me when I asked him if I could do it while we were on the phone together. Days passed as I burned slowly with this pent-up ecstasy. The only thing I could think about was release. And Rain.

  Seeing him the following Friday with Marcy, hearing about him—it was almost beyond what I could bear; segments of my days were lost. I read Marcy’s emails, listened to her on the phone, watched her face. She was the same—disinterested, even. How could she be Rain’s lover and feel nothing?

  When he finally beckoned me, it was not with a call, a text, an email. The four of us grabbed a quick Saturday lunch, on a sunny day, at a trendy place. At the end of the meal, Rain picked up the check and counted out some bills while we were still at the table. As we rose to make our way to the cash register, he paused and casually asked if I would mind paying while he used the facilities. Before I could answer, he placed the money in my hand, and left.

  The three of us went to the register together, with Marcy talking on about her new client who promised big sales. The corner of a piece of paper was visible below the bills. I slipped the note into my purse before paying the cashier.

  I didn’t look then but paid and excused myself to the bathroom as well, hoping Marcy would not follow. Passing Rain, I shot him a flustered look; his eyes didn’t meet mine, but I could see a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

  In the bathroom, I went into the open handicapped stall and stood there, reading his note. It said, “Make an excuse so we can be alone five minutes from now.”

  No way. My mind reeled. No way in hell. We were headed back to our respective cars and parting ways. There was no way I could hook up with him now.

  I tore up the note and flushed it. Watching the pieces swirl down the bowl, it felt as if I was drowning the sin boiling in my skin.

  The three of them were standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. My husband, impatient, gave me a glance that told me he was ready to get out of here. We had tickets for a matinee play and lunch service had taken longer than planned.

  Marcy had her arm linked through Rain’s and they were stepping in the direction of their parked car. We all said good-bye and began walking in opposite directions. With each step my heart raced. Five minutes, his words said. I was counting the seconds, willing them to go by and be past.

  My husband was walking at a good clip and didn’t notice at first that I’d stopped. When he did, asking what was wrong, I told him lunch was not sitting well and that I needed to use the bathroom again. His face flushed with the beginning of anger, he said, “Do you want me to complain to the manager? Was it that fish?”

  “No, no. I think it’s nerves from all the pressure at work this week. I’ll be fine. Meet me at the car, don’t stand around in this heat. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I walked as fast as my strappy sandals would allow, straight back into the bathroom. I was alone and stood there, looking at myself in the mirror of this poshly decorated room and admiring the burnished bronze fixtures and floating sink bowls.

  What
now? I wondered as I paced the room. Our waitress entered; I forced a smile and went to the large, handicapped stall.

  I sat down quietly on the edge of the toilet seat, listening to her noises a thin wall away. She was all business and finished in a minute. Feeling like a fool, I stood and the electric sensor flushed the empty toilet. As I began to exit the stall, I was startled as Rain rushed in through the door.

  His beautiful eyes stood out in sharp contrast to the dark-chocolate color of his V-neck T-shirt. He laughed and pushed me back into the stall. Locking the door, he turned me so that I faced the far wall, my hands up against the tiles.

  “Don’t say a word, just feel me, and let yourself come,” he whispered in my ear with a scratch of his stubble against my cheek.

  As he knelt behind me, I could hear myself panting from the thrill of our riskiness. With his strong, tanned arms he roughly separated my legs, then gathered the thin fabric of my silk skirt in his hand and tucked it into the waistband to expose my damp panties. My ears pricked as I heard a door open, but it was someone entering the men’s room next door.

  Rain pulled my pink satin panties down, and I waited in tingling anticipation. A moment later I heard a click and a rip. I looked down between my legs and saw that he’d slit the crotch of my underwear open with his pocketknife.

  He urgently pulled my panties back up and slid his tongue through the slit his knife had made. With his face pressed into me, there was no beginning to where we ended. I could feel every inch of his tongue as I clenched around him, my face against the cool tile wall. He fucked me with his mouth and I moaned with pleasure. My every nerve ending was awakened.

  “Jess, shhhh.” His warm breath exhaled against my back. I had to quell my disappointment that his tongue was no longer inside of me, but he quickly filled me with several fingers. They slid into my wet, aching sex where they belonged.

  Holding me against him for stability, he worked his fingers inside me, jacking me off as I tried to suppress the panting, wild ecstasy that filled me. His thumb fluttered my clit and sent me over the edge. I came fast and hard, a lightning bolt of pleasure, followed by reality as he pulled down my skirt.

  I turned to face him, wanting more. My hands brushed through his unruly shoulder-length brown locks.

  “Please fuck me, Rain,” I whispered, while stroking his hard-on.

  “I will, but not now.”

  “What, are you going to go home with Marcy and fuck her?” My feelings for my best friend turned to anger as I pictured Rain mounting her with his cock, the cock that I still had not even seen.

  “No, Jess, I’m not.” Hurt flashed in his eyes. “Don’t go there. You’re not exactly sleeping alone at night. Let’s get out of here before someone notices. There will be more, I promise.”

  My question of “When?” went unanswered; pleasure and pain wrestled within me. He pushed me out the door of the stall and locked it behind me. In the mirror, a flushed, rumpled version of myself reflected the confusion I felt but there was no time now for this. I washed my hands and splashed some water on my face. The wrinkled skirt would have to stay that way.

  Walking quickly back through the restaurant and toward the car, I saw Marcy talking to my husband, who was smoking and pacing.

  “Wow, you look like you’ve got a fever,” she said. “You should skip the play and go home until whatever you have works its way out of your system.”

  I feigned a smile of thanks and dropped into the passenger seat.

  My husband got in and asked if I wanted to go home.

  “No, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Though I’d been looking forward to the performance, it passed before my unseeing eyes as I recovered from the storm that was raging within me.

  Marcy called me at work the following Friday morning to tell me that she’d be over for dinner, but had to leave early. And that she was bringing Walter, instead of Rain.

  “What?” I asked, amazed.

  “Well, Rain’s on his way out of town, and you remember Walter, he’s the CFO at that administrative firm. Anyhow, I’ve got to make it a short night and if I bring Walter—”

  I interrupted her midsentence. “What? He didn’t tell me he was leaving!”

  “Who, honey, Rain? I just found out this morning when he texted me. He’s going to Vegas to check something out. Anyhow, it wasn’t going anywhere with us.” I held my breath, waiting for her to put it together, to respond to my exclamations, to tell me she’d noticed a strand of my long blonde hair adorning his T-shirt or jeans. She paused a moment, then continued with more about Walter.

  My mind raced. No more Fridays with Rain. In a way it was a relief because Rain and I had taken too many chances. If he continued to come over, we would probably get tipsy one night and end up fucking in my bathroom while Marcy and my husband debated politics. I didn’t want to keep going in that direction.

  As Marcy was saying good-bye, I heard the muted beep of my phone, alerting me to a new email. My heart raced when I looked at the screen. It was from Rain.

  His message said, I’m in Vegas for the weekend. Sorry to leave suddenly. Got an offer that I had to see to believe, doing Botticelli’s Birth of Venus for a fountain at the premiere hotel. It’ll be an incredible piece of art. Join me. Attached was a tick-etless confirmation in my name for a 10:45 flight to Vegas. That night.

  Join me. Two simple words carried such weight. I sent him a response, congratulating him on his job and saying I didn’t see how I could get away on such short notice. The words felt inadequate, dismissive. He’d put my feet to the fire; I jumped away before I would get burned.

  The day passed by, as did the evening—with Walter, and not Rain. My husband was a bit disappointed at first, as he’d considered Rain as interesting a diversion as Marcy had. I was distracted, asking myself if I believed that, too; if I should just appreciate that he had reawakened essential parts of my being, but stop seeing him.

  Marcy and Walter begged off before we’d even cleared the dinner plates from the table. I offered to pack dessert, but they both declined. So I sat at the dining room table savoring a cup of hot tea and my homemade biscotti while my husband went upstairs to watch some TV before calling it a night. It was just nearing nine.

  After washing my dishes, I retrieved the note I’d typed at work from my briefcase and left it propped up against the fresh flowers on the table, to explain—as best I could. Then I walked out through the foyer of my perfect little house. And caught that flight to Vegas.

  THE HARD WAY

  Justine Elyot

  I’m offering you a choice,” he says, and I know exactly what comes next. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

  The script is so familiar. In my three years as duty solicitor at the Maiden Street police station, I’ve heard Detective Sergeant Blake utter this phrase countless times. Sometimes whichever random villain I’m representing will choose the easy way—he or she will spill the beans, confess all, finger the Mr. Big behind the operation, and then Blake will smile his earnest smile, reassure them that it will be okay, pat them on the shoulder while they gibber about witness protection. Far more often, they plump for the latter option, in which case Blake has to bring out the big guns. Of course, I don’t mean that literally. Blake’s arsenal is wholly psychological, but it is no less deadly for that. An implication here, a tut and a shake of the head, a casual mention of a family member or acquaintance—I have seen all of these reduce a strong man to a crumpled, tear-stained wreck. He has mastered the art of being both good and bad cop simultaneously, and I cannot help admiring him for it. More than admiring. Desiring.

  So which will it be? Easy or hard? The rules are a little different tonight. I do not preside over some sulking youth in a hoodie; there is no set of tattooed knuckles next to mine on the table. Indeed, there is no table. There is Blake and there is me, and we are on a bed. The situation has changed, as has the dynamic, but the question remains.

  I push back my shoulders, lift my ch
in, meet his eyes.

  “Make it hard,” I tell him.

  He smiles, his eyes firing, his ego challenged.

  “You’ve never been easy,” he says. “I just hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for.”

  I think I do. God knows, I’ve studied the man long and hard. Three years of watching him, long legs pacing, fingers stroking chin, eyes distant with calculation, while I count down to the spring, the trap, the coup de grâce. I have learned to expect it, but the suspects never do; they are always caught off guard. They don’t know that little quiver of cheek muscle, the slow tumble of hair over his brow, the impatient tap of forefinger that comes before the moment of doom. I know all of it intimately now.

  I’ve also savored the gently intensifying wall of attraction between us that has grown up, brick by brick, with each interview. When he is the interviewing officer, I pay that extra bit of my attention, and when I accompany the suspect into the room, his eyes crinkle and the sides of his mouth twitch up. He teases me; there is subtle flirtation and the odd accidental brush of hands. I never thought anything would come of it, though, until tonight.

  He is staring through the window, his back to us as I enter the room with Ginger, a shambolic teenager who seems almost more addicted to bungling shoplifting raids than he is to heroin. Blake’s partner, Viv, opens the interview, switching on the recorder and speaking into it. “Interview started at twenty-one fifteen,” she says, pulling out a seat for me.

  Throughout the brief and unchallenging interview, Blake says nothing, brooding over at us from the side of the room. Viv handles the questions alone, negotiating a quick falling-apart-at-the-seams from a hapless Ginger and ending up with a confession.