Hungry for More

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  The first one she called Craig’s List Roulette. She would go to the Casual Encounters ads, the Men Seeking Women section. She would pick an ad at random. No matter what it said, she would answer it. Unless she was literally and physically unable to comply with the ad’s request, she would answer it.

  She would use a random number generator, so she couldn’t cheat.

  She knew how stupid this was, how reckless, how dangerous. But she didn’t want to be just another boring horny slut playing the personals. She wanted to set a new standard for sluts. She wanted to be the slut by which all other sluts measured themselves. Besides, reckless and dangerous was kind of the point. She wanted a real adventure—and in a real adventure, you weren’t in control.

  The ad headline read, Young, horny, need to get sucked. Perfect. Simple. Easy to take care of. She took a picture of herself, naked on her knees, and sent it with her reply.

  She was at his dorm in twenty minutes. He wasn’t as cute as she’d hoped—she thought he might have used a fake picture, actually—but that was okay. Weirdly, it was part of the charm. She closed his dorm-room door behind them, and dropped to her knees, thinking with a hard thump in her clit of how she had been manipulated, how she was being used. She dropped her head back and opened her mouth. He unzipped and pushed himself into her, and she opened wide and let him fuck her mouth.

  He kicked her out politely when he was done, and she went home and masturbated for an hour and a half. She masturbated on her knees, with a dildo in her mouth and a vibrator between her legs. She kept thinking she couldn’t possibly come any more…and then she would remember what she had just done, and her sore, tired clit would throb again, demanding just one more.

  She was back on Craig’s List the next day.

  She hadn’t expected that. When she first decided to do her three adventures, she’d assumed that she’d play each of them just once. But she loved Craig’s List Roulette. It was like slut boot camp. It was like an accelerated study program in human sexuality. It was like a multi-week intensive course in letting go. Her requirements got a little more restrictive—the guy had to ask for something specific, he couldn’t ask to do drugs together, he couldn’t ask to do it more than once—but she stuck to the spirit of the game with remarkable discipline.

  She landed on Wanna watch me play with myself? and was soon in a home-built weight room in a dingy garage, watching an oiled-up bodybuilder straddle his weight bench and stroke his cock, repeatedly murmuring, “You like what you see?”, his eyes never leaving her face. She landed on Anyone for a car date right now? and found herself fumbling in the back of a Camry with a married ad exec, his hands groping at her tits, his cock pushing against her crotch through her panties, his breath pungent with weed. She landed on Oral from behind and an hour later was on her knees in a cheesy bachelor pad in the suburbs, a noisy tongue slurping at her pussy and occasionally, hesitatingly, perhaps even guiltily, slipping into her asshole. She landed on Offering $$$ for pussy licking, and thought, Sure, why not? and then was on her back in a hotel bed with a tongue between her legs and three twenties on the bedside table. She thought she’d feel different after, and was surprised when she didn’t.

  She landed on Just give me a blow job and Can a guy get a blow job please? and Looking for a woman in need of a facial with perverse excitement. She loved how openly selfish they were. She loved how slutty it made her feel, how sordid, to get on her knees and open her mouth to a man who expressed no interest whatsoever in what she might need or want. She loved how it made her feel both purely sexual and purely invisible. And she loved feeling like the only woman in the city who would ever answer their ad. It made her feel extreme. Hard core. Special.

  She landed on Looking for a woman to spank, and thought, About fucking time. That was the first one—and the last—where she laid out her own guidelines. “I’ve never done this before,” she told the guy. “I really want to. I want this to go well.” The gentleman was older: in his early sixties, a little soft, a little frail, but patient and careful and grateful. He told her that she was beautiful, that she was bad, that he was going to teach her a lesson, that he was going to take care of her. He spanked her gently, until she wanted more than anything for him to spank her harder; and he spanked her harder, until she had no idea what she wanted anymore. He was the first one—and the only one—that she wished she could go back to. But that wasn’t how the game was played.

  She always felt a little guilty about the ones who just wanted to service her; the ones who ate her pussy or licked her feet or gave her long, drawn-out massages. It seemed like missing the point. But then she’d remember: this was what they’d asked for. When she lay back and let herself be taken care of, she was giving them the service they wanted more than anything.

  It was disappointing sometimes. Naturally. There were clumsy men, smelly men, liars. But she kept the game up, a bit longer perhaps than she would have…because she was putting off the second one. She was a little afraid of the second one.

  The second game, she called Motel Slut. It took a little more courage, more aggressiveness, since she had to place her own ad. Casual Encounters, Women Seeking Men. The ad read:

  I am in the Star Motel on Broadway. I am in Room 314. I am naked. I will fuck the first man who shows up, in any position you like. Just tell me what you want, and don’t talk about anything else. If the Do Not Disturb sign is up, you’re too late—someone else got here first.

  She placed the ad from her laptop in the motel room. The first man showed up in ten minutes. He was out of breath from running up the stairs. She hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, and immediately took off her robe. She was naked, as promised. “Tell me how you want to do it.”

  The man was goggle-eyed. “Can we do it doggie style?”

  “Don’t ask. Just tell.”

  He didn’t seem to understand. But he went along. “Okay. Let’s do it doggie style.”

  She gestured to the lube and condoms on the nightstand, and got on her hands and knees on the bed.

  She played the image in her head again and again as he unzipped his pants and crawled between her knees. Opening the motel door to the stranger. Dropping her robe to show him her naked body. Saying nothing but a few terse words about sex. Putting herself silently on her hands and knees on the motel bed, and opening her legs so he could fuck her. She played the image again and again, as he pushed himself inside her. It was like a feedback loop screaming into her cunt. He wasn’t a great lover—crude, a little clumsy—but it didn’t matter. She felt like a character in a porno movie. She dropped into the feeling like a stone dropping into the sea.

  Like Craig’s List Roulette, she hadn’t planned on doing this more than once. And like Craig’s List Roulette, she was hooked after the first time. The next day, she did it again. She opened the motel door for another stranger; she dropped her robe; she lay on her back and spread her legs when he told her to; she let herself get fucked. And when he left, she took the DO NOT DISTURB sign off the door, and waited for the next one.

  She did three guys that day. Seven the next. After that, she slowed down a bit: kept it to once a week, and usually no more than three or four in a day.

  Some of them were simple. They just wanted a girl on her back with her legs open. And that was fine. It had a certain primal, meat-puppet charm. Some were more imaginative. And that was better. She liked being told to sit on the guy’s dick and face away from him. To straddle him on a chair like a stripper and give him a lap dance that turned into a fuck. To lie back on the cheap motel desk, her butt scooted all the way to the end, her fingers spreading her cunt apart, her face turned to the wall. She liked being told to lie facedown on the bathroom floor, her tits getting scraped by the cold tile as she got fucked from behind.

  Sometimes it was hard. One of them told her, “I want to fuck you in the ass.” She’d never done that before. Somehow, by a statistical freak, it had never come up in Craig’s List Roulette. But the habit of compliance had become
strong, and it didn’t occur to her to say no. She gestured to the lube and the condoms on the nightstand, and said only, “Slowly, please. I’ve never done this before.” And she got on her hands and knees on the bed.

  It hurt a little. He wasn’t as slow as he should have been. But that was kind of okay. Again, she pictured where she was, what she had done to get here, what she was doing now. She remembered that she was being fucked in the ass for the first time, in a sleazy motel room by a man she’d never met: a man she’d undressed for and offered herself to the moment he walked in the room. She remembered that she was facedown on the bed and that her ass was being pushed open, too fast and too hard, because she’d invited any man who showed up at her door to fuck her any way he wanted. She remembered what a slut she was, that she’d asked for this, that she deserved this. She buried her face in the bed and whimpered: a genuine cry of pain and fear, blending imperceptibly with a moan of abandon.

  She’d pictured her first time getting fucked in the ass a hundred times. She’d never pictured it happening like this. It was a hundred times better than she’d ever imagined.

  She loved Motel Slut. And again, she kept the game up longer than she would have…because she was putting off the third one. She was more than a little afraid of the third one.

  The third game, she called Pick the First.

  It required a lot of courage. She was glad she’d put herself through Slut Boot Camp first. And it required strict honesty with herself. She couldn’t rely on the randomness of a number generator, or the randomness of which man happened to be reading Craig’s List at the moment she placed her ad.

  In Pick the First, she had to read the ads on Craig’s List. Casual Encounters, Men Seeking Women. She had to pick the first ad that turned her on; the first ad that made her want to masturbate. And she had to send him this email. She wrote it ahead of time, before she started looking, so she couldn’t cheat.

  I don’t want to negotiate. I just want to do what you tell me. Please tell me what you want me to do, and what you want to do to me. Please tell me everything you can think of, now, so we don’t ever have to talk about it again. If what you want is okay, I’ll be at the Java Jive Cafe on 4th Street this Saturday at noon, with a black carnation in my hair. Please meet me there, and then take over.

  It took longer than she’d thought to find the right ad. She considered Submissive women needed for thick cock, but the poorly lit photos of his torso and cock made her flinch with distaste. She thought about Arrive, bend over, submit, leave, but the scene he laid out stopped at sex and went nowhere interesting. She regretfully passed on Cruel, humiliating, abusive and sadistic: the headline made her clit jump like a kangaroo, but the ad was a letdown, with no juicy details, and an equivocating manner that put the lie to the promise of the headline. She kept an eye out for her spanking friend, but he wasn’t on Craig’s List that day. She saw Brutal M seeks submissive W, and opened it. It read:

  I am a hard and unyielding man seeking a woman to whom I can do things. The things I want to do are not nice. I will want to use you sexually, humiliate you, hurt you, make you helpless. I will want you frightened, and suffering, and willing and compliant throughout. Am not looking for either brats or doormats. You should have desires, so I can deny them. You should have spirit, so I can break it.

  It made her uneasy. To say the least. But it was the one she kept coming back to. The one she knew she’d be jerking off to. So bolstered by weeks of rigorous self-training in impulsive carelessness, she copied and pasted her pre-written reply, and hit Send.

  He replied with a torrent of obscenity.

  Implements he was going to use to beat her ass until she cried. Objects he was going to insert into her. Degrading positions he was going to force her into. Other men he was going to lend her to. He said he was going to wrestle her onto her back, pin her arms to the bed with his knees, and force his cock down her throat until she gagged. He said he was going to tie her hands so she couldn’t fight, gag her so she couldn’t scream, tie her legs apart, and whip her pussy before he fucked it. And then he was going to do the same to her asshole.

  He said he was going to punish her righteously and ruthlessly for serious offenses. That he was going to punish her cruelly and unjustly for trumped-up offenses. That he was going to punish her for no reason at all except that he felt like it. He said he was going to make her spread her asshole apart for him with her hands, make her beg him to punish her by putting things inside it, make her apologize tearfully for being a bad girl while he did it. He said he was going to slap her face and call her a filthy whore while she sucked his cock.

  He said he was going to rape her.

  He went on for three pages. He apparently took tell me everything you can think of seriously. He finished with the words:

  None of this is up for discussion. You will comply with all of it. You may show reluctance—I like reluctance—but you may not show resistance. Except when I rape you. When I rape you, I expect you to resist. I will see you on Saturday.

  He scared the crap out of her.

  She knew this was a bad idea. Even with all her other Craig’s List adventures, she hadn’t done a third of the things he was talking about. She knew she was in over her head with this one. But she’d known that Craig’s List Roulette and Motel Slut had been bad ideas, too. And they had been the best bad ideas of her life.

  She put the date in her calendar for Saturday. And cleared the rest of her calendar.

  BRINGING THE HEAT

  Tiffany Reisz

  Strike one was the game itself.

  By the fifth inning, Jada decided her first date with Ryan would be her last date with Ryan. This wasn’t even a date. It was a minor league baseball game in ninety-eight-degree weather. In other words, torture.

  “Hey, wanna go get us some drinks?” Ryan asked, handing her his credit card. He stood next to her—and had been standing next to her for the entire hour. At first she thought he did it to shield her from the blistering sun. But no, he just wanted to see the action better.

  “You’re buying. How chivalrous.” Jada forced the sarcasm from her voice and stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Her mother taught her better than that. Then again her mother never went on a date with Ryan.

  “I take care of my girl.”

  My girl? This was the first date and he called her “my girl”?

  Ryan looked down and winked at her over his sunglasses.

  Strike two.

  She would never ever have sex with this man.

  Ever.

  Jada hauled herself to her feet. Sticky with sweat, she left half her thighs on the seat.

  “Wait.” Ryan grabbed her arm. “You don’t want to miss this.”

  “What?” she asked. “I told you I don’t know anything about baseball.”

  “Flak Gordon’s up to bat. Just watch.”

  “Don’t you mean Flash Gordon?”

  “No, Baby. Flak. Real name is Jack but Flak’s his nickname. You’re about to see why.”

  She exhaled heavily as she raised her hand to shield her eyes.

  “What am I watching?”

  “Martyrdom.” Ryan grinned broadly, saying the word with relish.

  “What?”

  “Pay attention,” Ryan said in a rude and testy tone.

  Jada ignored the tone and watched. The player in question—Flak Gordon, number 29 batting for the Devils—walked to home plate with a loose easy stride. A handsome boy, he couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four. He had an all-American look to him. Their seats were close enough she could see the grin on his face. Why was he smiling?

  The pitcher wound up and threw the ball. Flak swung and missed. He didn’t swing at the second pitch. On the third pitch, the entire crowd groaned as the ball hit him in the shoulder.

  “What the hell?” Jada asked as Flak threw his bat down and jogged to first base.

  “They need to load the bases,” Ryan explained. “Leaning into the pitch and gett
ing hit with the ball is a surefire way to get on first.”

  “Damn. That must have hurt.” Jada couldn’t even see the ball it traveled so fast.

  “The pitchers bring the heat when Flak comes up to bat,” said a man in front of them, eager to join in her baseball education. “He doesn’t seem to mind. Must be a masochist.”

  Masochist? Suddenly this game started to get interesting.

  Flak hit first base and some guy wearing the same uniform patted him on the back. The back pat didn’t stay a back pat, however.

  “Is that guy rubbing Flak’s ass?” she asked Ryan.

  “He’s the first base coach.”

  “Looks more like he’s trying for third base to me.”

  “Don’t make this a gay thing.” Ryan glared at her.

  “What? You don’t think there are gay baseball players?” She sure as hell hoped there were gay baseball players. She loved the thought of two guys having sex, manly guys, guys other straight guys wanted to be like. One of her favorite nighttime masturbation fantasies was watching two men together. Two cocks were always better than one.

  “Don’t be gross.”

  “Gay men aren’t gross.”

  “Aren’t you getting us drinks?”

  “Get your own.” She threw the credit card at his feet and walked out of the stands. She wouldn’t have minded a baseball game on the third date or fourth date. She wouldn’t have minded going with him as a favor. But Ryan had been pursuing her at work for weeks and she’d finally given in, if only to shut him up. He was cute. That’s really all he had going for him. Cute didn’t trump homophobic, especially not after her favorite cousin Deion had just come out of the closet to his conservative Baptist parents last month. He’d stayed with her during the fallout. Saying gay men or gay sex was gross?

  Strike three. And she was out of there.