Never Say Never

by Alison Tyler

  The loud music shrouded Helene’s joyfully singing along as she swung and pirouetted around the room toward a gaping Jackson. The skirt was pleated, not tight, so she had quite a bit of mobility. But there really wasn’t very much to it. There were inches of creamy pale perfect flesh between her stocking tops and the skirt. If Jackson had happened across a grainy JPG of this woman on the Internet, he would have popped a boner instantly. He sure as hell popped one now.

  Jackson stared at his dancing wife. He grabbed his wallet. He took out a stack of ones, fives, tens; he resisted the urge to count them, and just held them up where Helene could see them. She blew him a kiss, bent over, lifted the skirt. She worked her ass obscenely back and forth in time with the music. A sickening swarm of disco dots sparkled over her perfect ass. Her hand dipped down into her panties, tugged the G-string to the side and gave him a filthy little look as she tapped her sex with her long-nailed fingers. He saw she was shaved. Thank heaven for Helene’s long showers, he thought.

  Jackson leaned out, waving a five. Helene let him slide it into her G-string, slowly, sensuously caressing his fingers with hers as he tried not to touch her pussy—because you weren’t supposed to, right?

  He didn’t. He got the five in her G-string without going too far, while his dancing wife waved her pussy in his face and smiled. He had a twenty ready in his other hand. He showed it to her, saw her eyes light up. She backed her ass up, closer—close enough that Jackson could smell her, smell it, smell her pussy and her ass and the perfume she’d dotted on her thighs. He felt dizzy and drunk and wished he had a highball like in a real strip club; he needed one. With the twenty in play, Helene brought her ass very close to Jackson’s face. He slid it in easy, closer to her pussy this time, and once it was seated, Helene reached back with her naughty little fingers and pulled her husband’s hand in deeper. He felt the smooth perfect texture of her sex against his hand; his hard dick throbbed ever harder.

  He barely got a touch; she was moist, but she was working. She gave him just as much as he deserved for twenty dollars—then she pirouetted off across the room and started stripping.

  If there was not very much to the skirt, there was even less to the top. It had been a white blouse, once upon a time, but she’d tied it up tight under her upthrust tits. There were four buttons secured between the knot of the black tie and the knot of the blouse. Between the buttons, the tight blouse gapped. The whisper of a cranberry-lace push-up bra spilled out, and Helene’s breasts spilled out of that. As she loosened the tie and unbuttoned the top, Jackson’s eyes widened. He waved a twenty. Helene gave him a friendly sneer, singing along with the music. She left her blouse half-undone—her cleavage now maddeningly visible—and pulled the barrette from the back of her head, releasing her cascade of blonde hair—no pigtails for this schoolgirl. She whipped her hair everywhere and leaned in tight and hard against Jackson to rub her tits in his face.

  She smelled so perfect—trashy perfume, pussy, sweat, shower, laundry detergent. She rubbed her tits in his face and mouthed, “You wanna see more?” with her eyes on the twenty. Jackson did. He held up the twenty and she finished undoing her blouse. She leaned down, cleavage in his face, and Jackson eased up the twenty. He pushed it into her bra, and Helene lost the blouse in one slutty shimmy motion, while she rubbed her cleavage all over his face.

  It was a new song—2 Live Crew or some shit, Digital Underground, maybe, some kind of hot, hard hip-hop thing about fucking and sucking. On the top, Helene just wore the cranberry push-up bra and the straight black tie. She spun away from Jackson, leaving her husband staring open mouthed. The twenty disappeared. Helene bent over again and showed him her thighs, her ass, her pussy. Her hips worked wildly, mimicking intercourse; if she’d done this routine in a strip club somewhere, Jackson figured she’d either find herself buried by a shower of money or locked up in a county jail cell.

  Helene worked through a furious routine as Jackson watched and waved bills. After the hip-hop there was the blaring explosive throb of White Zombie’s “More Human Than Human,” to which Helene went bat-shit crazy. She loved this damned song. She didn’t earn a single bill while she flipped out on the floor, facedown, ass up, hips pumping in a fascinating mimicry of some nasty, hard fuck. She didn’t earn a single bill, but Jackson never stopped waving them, or watching his wife go to town. By the end of it, she was soaked in sweat and all but dripping.

  She was so hot, in fact, that she very badly needed to lose her skirt when some crappy ’80s rock shit started. Jackson couldn’t stand this kind of cracker shit, but he didn’t really care. Helene wiggled over to Jackson and sang along; something about cherries, pie, sweet—whatever. She looked so goddamn good dancing to it that it almost made Jackson like the song—but not quite. He was thoroughly distracted, though, by very badly wanting his wife to get naked.

  Helene did—but slowly, torturously, teasing him.

  She gave up the skirt in installments, slowly working it down her slightly spread legs while she rubbed her ass in Jackson’s face and he reached around and rubbed bills over her belly, her thighs, her tits. Every now and then, she’d check the denomination and put her hand on his, guiding it down or up into her G-string or her bra. Every five he slid into the front of his wife’s G-string got him another inch; every five he slid into her bra got one bra strap down or one tit out of its bra cup.

  When her bra finally came off, she shoved it in Jackson’s face. He took a deep breath and smelled her essence on the cranberry lace.

  Helene was practically naked, now—and yet not naked at all. She wore nothing and everything—stockings, G-sting, and those shoes with the crisscross leather straps on up to her stockinged knees. She looked filthier than Jackson had ever felt she looked when she was stark-raving naked, beautiful and tender, pale and perfect sprawled across their bed. There, she looked pure, innocent, shameless and very, very married. Here, she looked like a whore, like a slut, like a bitch if she had to be, like a money-hungry working girl who would go as far as she needed to get every soft, moist bill out of Jackson’s hand. She looked like the kind of girl out to take what she could get and give what she had to and clearly planning on getting everything while giving as little as possible.

  She had her husband in the palm of her hand.

  The music still blared; she still danced. But Helene had apparently reached her tease-and-denial limit; she was all over Jackson. Her G-string still stuffed with bills, she crawled on him and gave him the unsolicited lap dance of his life, grinding her body all over him, her ass on his cock, her hair in his face, her tits and her hands all over him—never quite in the places a stripper couldn’t go…but always damn close. Just like a real stripper…only better.

  Because Jackson was getting to the point where he was going to grab his wife and take her to bed whether she liked it or not.

  And he was pretty damn sure she’d like it.

  But for one and a half songs, he obediently sat on his hands while she danced herself into a frenzy atop him, sweating everywhere. She went farther and farther with every hard grind against his body, until her bare tits were slippery with sweat and he couldn’t stop himself from taking her nipple in his mouth.

  And here was where the two of them lost it; they couldn’t play the game anymore. Her hands seized his and guided them up to her tits. He played with her nipples while she kissed him, kissed his ear, his neck, groped hungrily after his shorts.

  Then she was down, out of Jackson’s grasp—down on her knees, and his cock was in her mouth before he knew it. He could have spilled himself into her mouth with barely any effort, but Helene was too much of an expert to let that happen. She teased him, letting him run his hands through her hair while she sucked his balls, pinched his cockhead, held him right there on the edge. She knew exactly when her husband had cooled; that’s when she slid her way up his body and guided his cock to her smooth-shaved pussy.

  A real stripper would have used a condom—even if she was the kind of stripper who
did clients in the VIP room for an extra two hundred dollars. She would have rolled a condom over a stranger’s cock—even in the shadows, even when the bouncer had been tipped to look the other way. Helene didn’t do that—but then, she also hadn’t upped the price before putting out. She just pulled her G-string out of the way and slid her smooth, perfect puss down over her husband’s cock, teasing him with soft firm strokes of his cockhead up and down in her slit. Her eyes crossed and sometimes rolled back as she tried to stay grinding to the music, but pretty soon she couldn’t stand it. She slid his cockhead to her entrance and sat down on him hard.

  She rode him slowly, kissing him, making eye contact, biting her upper lip hard and whimpering so loud he heard her over the music. It was an excellent position—the head of his cock hit that spot she so very much loved. She rubbed herself furiously, her finger making eager circles on her clit as Jackson’s hands dug into the flesh of her soft round ass.

  She came an instant before her husband did. She shivered and spasmed atop him. Then she looked in his eyes and begged him for it: “Please, baby. Give it to me.” Jackson couldn’t hold back. It only took a few more thrusts; he lifted his hips to plunge deep into her.

  Then he came in his wife, as the music peaked.

  Later, the two of them cuddled on the couch, exhausted and still dripping sweat. The living room smelled like her.

  “You really got a workout,” Jackson said.

  Helene kissed him hungrily and said, “Not as good as the workout I’m gonna give you.”

  They ended up ordering pizza after all, and Helene had to pay. She’d earned every dollar her husband had on him. But then he earned it right back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  BACK-DOOR MAN—

  ANAL

  Games lubricate the body and the mind.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  We’ve had the bondage, the blindfolds, the oral and the spankings. Now we’re ready for anal. Right? And honestly, who’s not into anal? Sure, people will blush or turn away. They protest too much and turn bright pink. But if you do a quick search on the Internet for “anal,” you’ll come up with 1,020,000,000 results in about two seconds flat, starting with the Wiki page for Anal Sex, and moving right on to what women love and hate about anal, definitions of anal, and how to have anal for the first time.

  If this is a new-to-you concept, my advice is to take things slowly. Foreplay is key with anal sex. Explore your fantasies before you even reach for the Astroglide. How? Simple. Moisten the tip of your index finger, part the covers of a few popular books, and dive into the tight, velvety tunnel of anal erotica.

  Not to come off as a wiseass, but I consider myself a bit of an expert on the subject of anal erotica, having edited Luscious (which may be the first anthology ever to be dedicated solely to anal sex) and piloting the Annual Anal Erotica series (Kiss My Ass, Bad Ass and Smart Ass). Forget Googling, I have 775 files on my hard drive dedicated to anal sex.

  My stories focus on partners discussing the concept, like in this clip from “Connecting,” where one lover confesses a sex dream:

  “You told me that you wanted me to fuck your tight little virgin asshole.”

  “I said that?” she was panting, shutting out the picture by closing her eyes. Seeing a completely different image behind closed lids.

  “Yes,” he said, “you filthy little slut. You said, ‘Please, Chas. I’ll hold it open for you. Put the head in and fuck my ass.’”

  They’d never done that before. She’d never spoken like she had in his dream. He’d never indicated that he wanted to try anal.

  “Did I like it?”

  “I didn’t fuck your ass right away. I made you wait for the big event.”

  “Why?”

  “So you’d be really desperate.”

  “What did you do first?”

  “I took you in the bathroom and bent you over the edge of the tub. I spread shaving cream between your asscheeks and shaved you so you were completely clean and neat back there. Then I showered you off and licked your back door until you were moaning the way you do when I eat your pussy.”

  “God,” Jennifer sighed. “Oh fuck.”

  In my story “Antonia’s Beast,” a woman describes her first anal-sex experience to her best friend and an eavesdropping stranger:

  She tells it like she’s telling a bedtime story, in a low lilting voice that has a rhythmic pulse to it: They’ve never fucked like that.

  She hesitates, makes herself continue. They’ve never had anal sex. He’s never tried, and she certainly wouldn’t have suggested it. But his fingers slowly start to probe her back door. His pointer and his middle finger push their way inside this tightest of openings. She sighs. She clings to his leg. She lets him continue. He makes circles with his fingertips as he delves farther. Antonia’s breathing speeds up. She feels as if she’s going to pass out. She begs him to stop, but she doesn’t mean it.

  Marcus is gentle, but persistent. He lubes her up and massages her until she is relaxed and ready. More than ready, dying for it. She is inexperienced and she wants suddenly to be experienced.

  Sometimes simply talking about what’s going to happen is enough to get a person going. In Clarice Alexander’s “Blue Denim Pussy,” the anal doesn’t happen on the page. It’s coming:

  When she opened her eyes, Colin was still helping—helping her take off her jeans and folding them into a neat square. “We’ll get these,” he said. “Because if you didn’t guess from my response, I like them.”

  Then he was turning her, hands flat against the mirror, his body behind her, letting her feel the promise of his cock pressed against her ass. Letting her know with a single look at her eyes in the mirror exactly what was going to happen next—

  In “Nobody’s Business,” by Dante Davidson, the character is brutally up front about his anal desires:

  I gotta admit it. I have this thing for ass-fucking. Am I a pervert? Maybe. But I don’t care. If it works for me and my lover, then it’s nobody else’s business, right? Don’t ask, don’t tell—you know what I’m saying? The truth is, I like every part of the equation, from checking out a pair of well-packed jeans, to revealing the naked haunches of a new lover, to slip-sliding my tool inside that tightest of entryways. I collect experiences, returning to my favorites over and over again in my mind. These images are better than fantasies, because they’re real.

  In “Fast Boil,” Vida Bailey discusses anal foreplay through the use of lube and a butt plug:

  He dresses faster than me. I’m still in a towel when he sits on the bed and pats his chalk-striped knee. Over I go, damp pussy pressed to his hard thighs. He’s bare-chested. I’m a welter of nervous excitement because I know what’s coming when I’m all freshly clean like this. I know where the fingers pushing their way between my thighs and stroking my cunt are going to go next. I smell the clean scent of new wetness as it coats his fingers. It sounds slick and loud as he spreads it against my soft skin, up between my cheeks, and slides his finger round and round my asshole. He presses on it, chuckles at the give there. I’m dying, because he can see how much I want it, because I want it so much. Need churns in my abdomen, my cunt throbs, my hips thrust.

  The sensation of the cold, slick lube is almost foreplay enough; his finger slips right into me. He pushes the fingers of his other hand into my mouth and I suck them as he adds another to my ass and fucks me. I’m waiting for the plug and it’s the big one, it’s intense. I squirm and bite him, and when he smacks me, my ass opens and lets it slide right home. He strokes me while I writhe on him. Then he stops and sends me to stand in the corner, to wait and want and burn.

  Andrea Dale moves us onward to anal beads in this scene from “Paying It Forward”:

  “Now the beads,” she said. Did she sound like she was begging? Maybe she was, just a little.

  He greased them up, carefully slipped them in. She shivered, savoring the sensations, each little pop of pleasure ratcheting her arousal higher.

  She
rolled off the pillows onto her back, spread her legs. Simon knew what to do. Lips and tongue and fingers, tasting and teasing, flicking and sucking. He even tugged on the string, smart boy, and she clenched and released around the beads.

  Thighs tensing, belly quivering, teetering on the edge, she moaned, “Pull them out.”

  As they blipped out of her, one by excruciating one, she came.

  In “Smokehouse,” Sommer Marsden takes us all the way into the realm of anal sex from the receiver’s point of view:

  I do it, grinding my palm to my clit and pushing my fingers into my cunt as he moves into me, deep, deeper, deepest. He’s cussing like a sailor now, trying to hang on. Neither of us ever lasted long with anal. It was so hot, so intense, so bad, so everything to us that it never lasted long.

  We try to make this last. Moving together, moving in tandem, silent but for the rush and roll of our breath in the small structure as the rain whooshes a backbeat and a crack of thunder somewhere far off echoes what’s going on in my chest. The turmoil, the pleasure—the need.

  My fingers rub his cock through the thin and magical membrane that separates my two holes, and he makes a dark and secret noise that sets me off. I can’t catch myself before I’m coming and chanting, “Oh, Jason. Oh, baby. Oh god, I mi—”

  But then I do catch myself, and he finishes coming with a panting kind of roar that almost sounds tortured. Both hands are firmly on my hips now, his fingers denting my skin with an aggressive possessiveness.

  And time stills. All of it.

  Whether you only play with words, or choose to work up to an actual anal event, lube your mind and the ass will follow.

  TANTALIZING TIPS

  •Invest in a good lube. In this case, there’s no such thing as too slippery.

  •Make a game out of anal. Let your partner know that you’re in the mood if you leave a red ribbon on the door handle, or play a special song, or ring a bell. (That might turn Pavlov on his head!)