Women in Lust

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Oh, god,” Ben gasps. “I can’t stand it.”

  Alex clamps down on his cock with his thumb just under the head. “Hold it. This is no quickie you’re having here. We’ve got a whole hour.”

  Ben’s eyes are clenched shut and he’s sucking hard at his lower lip, trying to regain control.

  But I don’t have to keep control. I come like it’s Christmas, knowing full well I can do it again as often as I want, and after all, we do have a whole hour.

  Before I can get too smug Alex calls to me. “Saddle up, Kitten. I want to see if you’re as good as Ben here thinks you are.” He stands up. Without skipping a beat, his fingers replace his tongue in the anal tango.

  Ben watches, round-eyed, as I slip into a condom and lube up. Then I thrust my mock cock into Alex’s asshole like I know what I’m doing. The thought that I’m pegging my best friend in what has been up until now a no-go zone already has me riding the edge of another orgasm. And watching him lube up and press his condomed cock up against Ben’s tight asshole, the same asshole I was buried to the hilt in only three nights ago, is enough to send me over. I gasp and falter, but manage to regain my balance as Alex thrusts in and I hear Ben suck oxygen and grunt hard.

  “Oh, fuck!” he gasps. “Jesus, I’ve never felt anything like…” Then he’s holding on for dear life, one hand on his cock, the other braced against his knee to support the combined weight of both of us bumping and humping behind him. I can feel Alex clenching and thrusting back against me, then he grunts in between efforts to breath, “Kitten, I’m gonna have to ask you to disengage.”

  I do as he says and he plops down on the chair, both arms wrapped around Ben’s waist, dragging him down onto his lap still fully impaled. Then he kisses Ben on the neck and reaches around to cup his balls. “You can come on the floor if you want,” he says next to Ben’s ear. “But then you’ll have to clean it up unless you want Betty to skin you alive. Or you can finish off sweet in Kitty’s hot cunt. Bet I know which you’ll choose.” He nips his earlobe.

  Ben catches my eye and nods. And quick as a wink, I suit up his cock, pausing just long enough to take off my shirt so he can get to my tits. Then I simply turn around, ease back onto his lap and let him push in.

  There’s a wild layer-cake of thrusting, and I’m feeling it all the way to the crown of my head by the time the guys are getting close. I’m no longer even sure what planet I’m on. The chick in the porn film is caterwauling louder and louder for the guy pumping her to fuck her harder. The lights flash around us. But it’s all just white noise to our own chorus of wet grunts and moans. The room is awash in the humid scent of sweaty males rutting and the wicked hot smell of my cunt spasming almost continually.

  Ben comes first, and being sandwiched in the middle, he nearly upsets the chair. He catches me just before I’m launched across the room into the film cans, and just as Alex explodes beneath us all.

  We just manage to get tidied and tucked and make sure all the telltale evidence of a good time is cleared away before the lock turns in the door and Betty’s back. She waves us all out and turns her attention to threading the next film of the triple feature into the projector.

  We file out into the night and pile into Ben’s Jeep. We grab sustenance at a McDonald’s drive-thru. The night’s still young and we’ll need all the energy we can get. Alex has a friend who manages an all-night liquor store not far from his neighborhood. There’s a great storeroom at the back, he informs us, lots of kegs and crates and tarps and even a dolly or two. The place has real potential, he says, eyeballing both of us like he’s still hungry, and we’re next on the menu. The friend owes him a favor, he says. We all agree it’s time he pays up.

  I grab the roll bar as Ben downshifts through the changing traffic light, and we’re in—all of us. In like Flynn.

  BENEATH MY SKIN

  Shanna Germain

  I ’m afraid.”

  The words coming from my lips are barely audible. My face is pushed into the sheets. My chest is, too, so that only my ass is in the air before him, raised and blooming with red handprints. Kade’s handprints. No one else touches my ass. This is the deal we have.

  “You should be.” His voice is gravelly and deep, but not mean. Never mean. Even as he speaks the words that make my stomach feel cold, the rest of me is hot. My face prickles with a nervous, excited blush, even though it’s mostly hidden by my tangled hair. My palms sweat their heat into the sheets. Even the little folds behind my bent knees are growing slippery. And the space between my thighs—which he’s teasing with one finger, soft strokes that belie his eventual plan—that space is the hottest of all, opening around his cool fingertip, liquid and lava.

  His other hand circles the curves of my still-warm ass. The skin pulses beneath his touch, each passing stroke over the tender skin pulling my breath back into my mouth. I push my face harder into the sheets, biting at the fabric to muffle my gasps.

  “No,” he says, and he stops touching. Just like that. I know why—he likes to hear me, likes to listen to the groans and moans and the cries that erupt from my mouth when he pleases or teases me.

  I let go of the sheet, feel my teeth drag along the material. As soon as my mouth opens, he cups his hand back on one side of my ass, digs his nails into the pinkened curve. The sound that I tried to hold back before rises now, sliding through my throat, a mix of embarrassment and want that makes me wince.

  “Good slut,” he says. “Much, much better.”

  I can’t help but shiver at his words—the way he calls me his slut, the way the sound of it makes his voice lower to a near growl—it still makes me ache inside, so much that I want something, anything, buried in me.

  Instead of filling me like I want, Kade’s hands move away from my ass, leaving me feeling unprotected somehow, exposed to the view and the air and whatever might come next. Which, with Kade, might be anything.

  This time, it’s a question. Actually, it’s a question in the form of a command.

  “Now,” he says. “Tell me why you’re scared.”

  Behind me, before I can answer, I hear the click of the knife opening in his hands. Click, closed. Click, open again. The very sound makes my breath speed up, matching the beat of my pulse. Even with my eyes closed, I know what he looks like behind me: on his knees, one hand lowering to brush the roundness of my ass, the other swinging in that small, habitual gesture he has, the small black knife opening and closing with his movements.

  I’m so caught up in the image of him that I forget his question, and I don’t even notice when the sound of the knife stops. Then the edge of it—the wide part of the blade, I can tell by feel—is sliding along the side of my back, following the muscles downward. His voice is soft. His blade is not. But it doesn’t cut. It never cuts. This is just a reminder of power, of control, and I hold my body so still that I barely breathe. He doesn’t have to tie me, although he could and he has before. He knows that I am well trained, that I will remain still for him just because he says so.

  “Why”—he says, each word coming slowly, each syllable met with another downstroke of the back of the knife—“are you scared?”

  I know the answer, don’t I? I should. This, I know, is important. But all I can do is think about the knife that’s dragging along my skin. It’s so safe like this, the blunt edge, the way he threads it carefully around my muscles and skin, and yet it opens me up like the slut that I am, makes me want to beg him to fuck me. So why do I want more if it scares me so much? Is it because it scares me so much?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mm-hm,” he says. “You don’t know.”

  And he shifts back on the bed. I can hear him pull away, but I don’t open my eyes. The sound that comes out of me is instinctual, a rising whine of want and need that would embarrass me if I weren’t already embarrassed, if my ass weren’t already in the air, my head down, my need so evident in the arc of my body, the tremble of my hips and thighs.

  The knife clicks again. A
finger returns to my pussy, teases along the very point of my clit and seconds later is replaced by something else. Something harder, the edges scraping against my soft, wet skin so that I gasp. His voice drops to the whisper that always reassures me, the sound of safety as it slides against my ear and softly caresses that flight-and-fight response in my brain. “It’s just the handle. Closed. See?” I can’t see, not with my eyes closed, not with Kade and the knife behind me, not with the dark specks that are popping in my brain, but my body unclenches at his words. The handle teases the length of my pussy, slow hard strokes until I know I am wetting the knife, darkening the already dark handle. My ass and hips meet his strokes, arching back, asking for more, more, harder.

  He pretends he doesn’t hear, pulls the knife away, a constant tease, and I am left wiggling my hips in a useless gesture of want.

  “Open your eyes,” he says. I do, and he’s crouched beside the bed, his golden-brown eyes staring into mine. Slowly, slowly, he raises the knife until it’s in my view—black handle, silver blade, small enough to fit easily into his palm, the blade long and sharp enough to make my stomach clench. It’s open now. Was it before? I don’t know. I have to trust him, don’t I? Believe what he says.

  He turns it so that I can see more of the handle, where it’s shined with my juices. With a single movement, he licks me from the tool. Slow, purposeful, so that I can see him do it, can see how the taste of me pulls his eyes to a darker gold.

  When he’s done, he sets the knife, still open, on the bed. It lies against the blood-red sheets like a warning, like a tease. His nails softly etch the side of my face as he stands to leave.

  “You think about it,” he says. “And when you decide you want it, you let me know.”

  There is nothing I hate more than being by myself, holding my position, thinking about things. I like movement, I like the rush, I like the adrenaline and fear and pleasure that forces the thoughts away. Kade knows this. It is why he does both things—why he gives me the things I want, and also why he forces me not to have them.

  I breathe deep and stare down at the knife. It looks so much less menacing, so much less arousing, when it isn’t in his hands. Against the sheets, it’s shiny and sharp but it’s also soulless, inanimate. Almost safe. It’s when Kade picks it up, opens it up, curls his fingers around the dark handle: that’s when it becomes the object of my desire, the thing that sends my blood running and my clit thumping.

  There is no punishment if I get up without asking for the knife.

  There is no punishment if I ask for the knife.

  There is only punishment if I do not do as he asked: if I do not stay here, hold my position, think about what he’s given to me.

  So I stay there, on my hands and knees, ass up, head down, and I look at the knife for a long time.

  We’ve been working up to this for weeks. In so many ways, it’s been like planning for a wedding. Not that he and I would ever get married. We are in what we call a sinship. It’s like a relationship only without the bad parts. I guess that’s what happens when you’re both in your late thirties and each have one good-gone-bad marriage behind you. Live separate, sin together. It’s kind of our motto.

  Kade started it by taking me to the knife store. The way and why of how I love knives is hard to explain, but I made the mistake of telling him about it, and he latched on the way he does. It’s part of why he turns me on so much—he pays attention to my every little lust, spoken in passing, and then he puts it in action. It’s also why he scares me so much.

  “Which one do you like?” Kade had asked, gesturing to the rows and rows of knives beneath the glass. They were all gorgeous, so many colors and styles that I could only shake my head. The man behind the counter, big shouldered, dark eyed, was looking at me with a wolfish grin, an “I know why you’re here” grin that made my cheeks hard and hot. I ducked my head, letting my hair fall over my face.

  In response, he fisted his hand in my hair, pulled my head back so that I was looking at both the knives and at the knife-seller, whose grin grew wider, sharper as he watched me. “Fine prey,” he said, never taking his gaze off me, a fat tongue sliding out to coat his top lip. “Fine prey like that deserves a quality knife.”

  “Agreed,” Kade said. And suddenly there was this electricity in the room, between the two of them: two hunters in the same territory, sharpening their desires against each other. I was nothing more than a rabbit to them, going so still that I thought I could make myself invisible.

  Then Kade twisted the already-caught hair harder in his grip, let his fingers rake and pull through my strands while he pushed the front of my hips hard against the glass counter, not talking to me at all. “So, let’s find something that the pretty prey likes, shall we? Since she’s the one whose skin it’s going to be against.”

  Fuck. I nearly came like that, against the counter, in front of this strange man and anyone who might have walked in the door. Kade’s hip pushed against me, sliding so I could feel just the tip of his cock tucked into his jeans, the already-hardening length beneath the fabric. He held me like that, pinned between the cold glass counter and the heat of his hips, reaching around me to pick up the knives from the counter, flicking them open and closed in front of me. The ones he really liked, he would draw the back of the blade along the inside of my arm, laughing when goose bumps broke out. On the other side of the counter, the knife-seller stood with his arms crossed unless he was handing Kade a knife, looking at ease, only his still smile and the growing outline of his cock in his black pants showing his pleasure at the scene.

  Kade had two knives on the counter—a blood-red one with a partly serrated blade and a black one with a thin, sharp-looking blade that reflected my flushed face when he held it up. Kade has a thing for red, especially blood-red, and I thought for sure he’d choose that. I hoped so—it looked less menacing, less sharp, almost as though it was just a toy and not dangerous at all.

  “Black or red?” he asked me, watching my face.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but he was already turning away. “Good choice. Black it is. We’ll take it.”

  “And no bag necessary. I’ll be using it before we get home.”

  Surprisingly, the first thing Kade did when he got in the car was to take the knife out of its box and hand it over to me. It weighed more than I expected, fitting into my palm and hanging off it like a live thing. “Get familiar with it,” he said. “Open and close it. The blade is seriously sharp though. I wouldn’t recommend touching the edge.”

  “But…” I was confused, and disappointed. I didn’t want to learn about it. I didn’t want to hold it or use it. I wanted him to wield it, to scare me and arouse me with it.

  He turned from the wheel, his expression saying everything. Those golden eyes could turn into steel if I disobeyed, especially when it was something important. “Handle it,” he said. “Or I’ll return it right now.”

  I handled it. The whole ride home, as he took the side streets and went slow, I fondled the gift he’d given me. At first, I was afraid to open it, so I held it, letting the weight of it rest on my palm. With my other hand, I traced the lines of the handle, the almost filigree-like design in it. It could have been a flower. Or snakes entwined.

  Finally, I opened it. Not like Kade did. A slow, soft open that made my pulse stutter in my wrist. He wasn’t kidding—the blade was so sharp and thin. I could see how sharp it would be against someone’s skin, how easily it could cut right through body and bone. It made me want to throw it away, just roll down my window and chuck it into the road. I was afraid to admit that it also made me wet. I could feel the heat soaking my jeans, even before Kade reached over and put his free hand between my legs, curling his fingers into damp fabric.

  Still, he was right. Handling it made me more afraid. But it also made me less afraid. And, beneath that, the other thing that I knew was true, even if I wasn’t sure I wanted to admit it yet: afraid or not, I wanted it. I wanted that knife in Kade’s hands. I wanted
him to cut my clothes off, piece by piece, the knife so close to my skin, but not touching. I wanted him to bend me over and fuck me with it. But more than that, I wanted to know what it felt like when he put that blade against my skin, scraped it over my back, dragged the tip between my shoulder blades. I wanted to hold so still that I was sweating, to hear his voice above me, reassuring me while he fingered me with one hand and cut me open with the other.

  On the bed now, I take a deep breath and remind myself this is what I wanted, what I asked for: To be more naked than naked, to shed my skin, literally. To be bared to his hands and eyes, to be exposed by his skill and blade. I remind myself that I can trust him—he pushes me to the edge, but never farther. He knows what he’s doing.

  I dip my head down then, taste the metal of the blade as I catch it carefully between my teeth to pick it up. The feel of it in my mouth is so intimate that I groan softly around the blade.

  When he comes back, he’ll find me. He’ll know I am ready.

  The knife is heavier than I thought, and he doesn’t come back for a long time. I hold it tight between my teeth and lips, trying to breathe around it. Trying not to cut myself in the process. Now that I’m used to it, my body has dried up, sweat and juices, and I can’t remember if I’m aroused or just holding this object out of rote and ritual. I’m considering dropping it, but then he’d think I don’t want him to use it.