Hungry for More

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Look at your face, Elise. Look at how excited you are,” she panted.

  I tore my eyes away from her hand and forced myself to look straight forward. I looked hot and lustful.

  “You like watching me play with your pussy? Mmm…you’re nice and wet, just like I knew you’d be. I can’t wait to fuck you with my cock.” I sucked my breath in sharply as she pushed her hips forward, her hard bulge suddenly pressing against my ass. I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me that she might be packing, but I was oh so thankful to learn that she was. I pushed back, rubbing against her crotch.

  “Oh, you like that, do you? That’s good to know, because I am going to fuck you like you deserve to be fucked. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?” she asked, more forcefully, taking a handful of my hair in her fist and pulling my head back.

  “Yes,” I whispered, feeling aroused, yet shamefully exposed at the same time.

  She let go of my hair and spun me around. “Down on your knees, pretty girl.”

  I slid down without hesitation, looking up at her, sensing what was coming next and practically salivating at the idea of it. The wicked grin on her face told me I was right.

  “You’ve guessed what comes next, haven’t you?” she asked as she slowly took her cock out and revealed it to me. “Well, open up that pretty mouth then. I know you want it, I can see it in your eyes.”

  I opened my mouth just enough to stick my tongue out and lick all around the head of her cock. She moaned, and my clit twitched from the sound of it. I continued to lick, slurp and kiss her cock up and down the length of the shaft, and then finally, I took the entire length into my mouth.

  “Holy fuck,” she hissed as she put her hands behind my head and alternated between stroking my hair and grabbing it in her hands. I moaned as I sucked her off, moving my head back and forth, using my hands to jack her off at the same time.

  I felt her hands tighten in my hair when she suddenly said, “Stop. Stop! I want to come while I’m fucking you. Turn around and lean forward with your elbows on the bar. Now watch yourself while I fuck you.” And with that, she tore my panties aside and buried herself to the hilt in my cunt.

  Something that sounded like a cat in heat escaped my lips as I took the full length of her cock. “Fuck,” I gasped as she pounded into me. I was holding on to the bar, bracing myself against it, taking everything she was giving me. “Oh, god,” I cried, “please don’t stop!”

  “I’m not gonna stop,” she reassured me. “Look at how beautiful you are, impaled on my cock. I could fuck you like this all night, Elise. Do you want me to fuck you all night?”

  Of course I did, but even though I was at the height of ecstasy, my brain suddenly clicked on, and I wondered how much time we had left. I was tempted to look at the clock, but I forced myself out of my head and simply answered, “Yessss” through gritted teeth.

  “Damn, you’re hot, girl,” Mick growled in my ear as she ground into me. “I wanted to fuck you the moment I saw you tonight. And now here I am, my cock buried deep in your luscious pussy. I don’t think life can get any better than this.”

  The sound of her voice in my ear was too much. Her words, so deliciously nasty, spurred me toward a mind-blowing orgasm. “Don’t stop,” I hissed, “I’m almost there.”

  She started thrusting harder. “Good, I want you to come for me. I can feel your tight pussy gripping me, coaxing my cock to come inside you. You want me to come inside you, don’t you? Come on, Elise, we’re both right there, now come for me!”

  I did exactly as she commanded—I came so hard I thought I was going to lose my mind. I could feel the muscles of my cunt pulsing around her cock, and I swear her cock was alive inside me. She held me against her as she thrust into me and growled in my ear, then finally with one long, drawn-out moan she brought us both collapsing to the floor.

  After a few minutes, I opened my eyes and looked up at her. “We have to leave now, don’t we? I suppose your next appointment is starting soon.” I couldn’t keep the disappointment from creeping into my voice. I didn’t want to sound needy but I really wanted nothing more than to stay with her.

  “Nope, we have at least another hour, if not longer,” she said, kissing me on the forehead and stroking my hair.

  “Are you sure? When I booked this appointment, the desk clerk said you were blocked out from eleven to midnight.”

  “I am. I blocked it out myself so I could go back to the bar and talk to you if you were still around. So basically, I’m free for at least another hour. Hang on a second.”

  She disentangled herself and made her way over to the nightstand, then dialed the phone as I stood up to gather my clothes.

  “Yeah, Sue, this is Mick,” I heard her say into the phone. “Do I have any other appointments booked for later tonight? Okay, go ahead and block me out. I’m busy the rest of the night, thanks.”

  I spun around as she hung up the phone. “Does this mean…?”

  “Yep. I’m all yours, if you want me,” she said as she led me toward the bed. “Free of charge, of course.”

  REDRAWING THE LINES

  Bren Emile

  Are you sure about this?” They’re nearing the point of no return, and the palm she has wrapped around the crop’s handle is sweaty.

  He rolls his eyes at her. “Yes. And just so you know, the next time you ask? My answer is still going to be yes. Just like it was the last three times.” He shifts on the bed, moving into as comfortable a position as he can manage. She resettles herself, sitting astride his narrow hips, staring down at him. She’s wearing her black lace panties and a red bra; both are favorites of Brandon’s. She’s got her hair down; it tumbles in tangles down her back. She knows that he likes her hair; he’s told her that he likes feeling it slide through his fingers, likes tugging on it as if they were back in kindergarten when love was as simple as a pulled pigtail.

  He can’t tug on her hair now; she let it down just to tease him.

  He can’t tug on it now, because she’s tied his hands and legs to the corners of the bed and strapped him tight. Their double bed is old, but at least it doesn’t creak. They bought the under-the-bed bondage straps two weeks before and they’ve been tucked away in her closet since then, like a Christmas present waiting to be unwrapped. Her lace panties rub against the hard line of his cock when she shifts her hips. It’s obvious he’s enjoying this—enjoying the view, enjoying the sensation, enjoying the anticipation. Her own enjoyment is tinged with apprehension. She’s probably more afraid than he is. She adjusts her grip on the riding crop. It’s brand new; she’d taken the tag off right before climbing on the bed. She runs it through the fingers of her free hand. Brandon’s wide eyes follow her movements. She watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

  “Ready?” she asks. He nods.

  She’s nervous the first time she hits him. She worried about the angle and the force and the timing, but when his body jolts underneath her—an involuntary reaction to pain—her cunt clenches. There is something automatic in her pleasure, something instinctual in her response. An ache she’s never felt before has settled itself inside of her.

  “How did it feel?” She hadn’t hit hard enough to leave a mark, but she hadn’t expected to yet. On their one-year anniversary, he’d asked her to leave a hickey on him, and she’d sucked on his collarbone until she felt like a vampire, just to give him a mark that would last longer than a day. His eyes are open wide and she thinks that if she bites him now, hard, it would leave a deeper, lasting bruise; she wonders how hard she’d have to hit him so that the marks will be there when the sun rises.

  “You already know how it feels,” he says. And he’s right, she does know, kind of. She’d tried the crop on herself in the store and again at home, learning the feel of it, adjusting the force. But theory is one thing; the two of them actually playing this out is different. She slaps him again and this time she leaves a line that almost lands over his nipple. When her aim improves, th
at’s where she’s going to concentrate the pain.

  “Did I ask you how I felt?”

  He opens his mouth, then closes it again. She holds herself very still. Because it’s not about the crop, not really; it’s not about the black leather of the handle or the graceful way it curves at the end; it’s not about the handcuffs on his wrists or the lingerie that makes her feel desirable and strong.

  “No,” he says, then adds, “Ma’am.” She bites back a gasp. She wants to call him a good boy, her good boy, but in the silence that fills the space between them, with the air echoing from her crop slapping his skin and his low voice, she doesn’t know if it would sound right.

  “How did it feel to you?” she asks again.

  He doesn’t respond until she raises the crop again. “I don’t know,” he says hastily. “It hurt? But not that badly, I guess; it was more of a surprise than anything. You can hit me harder. Swing it like you swing a flyswatter. That’s what the guy at the store said. Just—”

  She’s tired of listening to him talk. She’s tired of his answers, which he always stretches out too long. She’s tired of letting him set the pace of their conversations, tired of him talking to her like he’s the benevolent teacher and she the constant pupil. She’s tired but underneath that familiar, humble fatigue, there’s a new kind of fire. She takes a good look at him—his handsome face, the stretched-out muscles of his long, tan arms—and hits him again. And then again. That’s four strikes, she thinks, as she grinds against his hard cock. She hits his left nipple with the fifth hit, and then hits it again and again until he starts swearing.

  “If you want me to stop,” she says, “then say ‘red.’” Her voice is sweet and strange as she drags the crop in a line from his neck to his navel. She feels like some other woman—some ancient queen of old—has taken over her body and mind and heart and is using it in the way she’s always wanted to. She traces the crop up her torso, from her oversensitive clit to her hardened nipples. She feels more comfortable in her own body than she can ever remember being. She feels proud of the faint stretch marks on her breasts and her off-center nose, proud of her teeth and scars. She smiles and loves the wrinkles that are beginning to show around the corners of her eyes.

  Underneath her, her beautiful boyfriend is gasping for breath. Red patches are beginning to show on his chest. She lets him catch his breath, watching his rib cage expand. Eventually she realizes he’s not going to ask her to stop. “Good boy,” she says, suddenly breathless herself, suddenly in control of the silence. “Say ‘thank you’ if you want me to keep going.”

  It takes him a few seconds to work up the courage to say it. His jaw clenches, his lips going white with tension, before he lets the words out. “Thank you,” he says, and then a second later, as if the word’s a surprise to him as well, he adds, “Ma’am.”

  She shuffles backward on the bed and then straddles his right thigh, his muscles shaking underneath her. It’s not as sexy as before, she knows, but this way she can ride him, finally get the friction on her clit that she’s been craving for hours. And this way she gets more leverage. The red line springs up right away when she hits him this time. He swears, then bites his lip and says, “Sorry.” With the next couple of blows he stays quiet and she realizes that she doesn’t like the silence as much as she’d enjoyed the way Brandon responded to every hit, like a call-and-response Greek chorus, a hard slap followed by his breathless cursing. With his sounds contained like this she feels disconnected from him.

  “Make noise,” she says. “Okay? Brandon?” He nods, making eye contact with her, which he doesn’t break even when she starts in on his right nipple. She feels invincible, like an Amazon. When her arm begins to feel sore (she is going to cover his entire chest before she stops, his chest and his thighs will be red and sore and raw because of her) she takes a break. She reaches behind herself and undoes the clasp of her bra with one hand. He moans when she slides the straps from her shoulders, and for the first time he begins to struggle with his bonds.

  “What would you do to me if you could touch me?” she asks honestly, idly curious.

  “Oh god,” he says, throwing his head back against the cushion. “I’d—I’d touch you all over.”

  “Be more specific.”

  “Your breasts,” he says; she can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “You know that already.” She moves farther down the bed and lays a flurry of strikes across his belly, careful not to hit his cock. (Yet.) “Your nipples,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “I’d trace them with my tongue and when they were wet I’d pinch them. Get them hard before I’d start working them with my teeth.”

  “Open up.” She holds her left hand over his mouth and slips two fingers in when he obeys, caressing his tongue and brushing across his bottom lip. Then she drags the spit-slick fingers up her torso and starts drawing circles around her nipples, the circles getting smaller and smaller until she’s just rubbing the nub between her fingertips.

  Usually, she doesn’t get off on this; she likes her breasts played with, but has never gotten much out of it when going solo. Maybe it’s not what I’m doing, she thinks. Maybe it’s what it’s doing to Brandon. She squeezes her left nipple between her fingertips and pinches as hard as she can every time she swings the crop. She moves her whole torso when she swings; she’s never been into sports, but now she wants to learn how to play tennis, baseball, cricket, wants her body to learn this intimately. Her breasts shift but she keeps her left hand still, the pain in her nipple an added thrill. Brandon watches her breasts move, watches her nipple distend, watches her breast stretch in the fraction of a moment right before the crop lands.

  Eventually her arms begin to tire. She gets off the bed to remove her panties, cursing when they tangle around her ankles. She stops before she gets back on the bed and just looks at him, looks at the tension in his limbs and the sweat dampening his hair and the red blossoming under his skin. “I could leave you like this,” she whispers. She could leave him hard and ready and begging for as long as she wanted to. Minutes, maybe, or hours. Maybe until he went soft, uselessly, pitifully. She’s shocked by the revelation of her own power, shocked by the way his body writhes, a wave of sensation—fear or desire or something else, something new—working its way through him.

  “No,” Brandon says, “please, don’t—”

  “I won’t,” she says soothingly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to leave you.” He looks relieved. “But I could,” she says, because she can’t help herself. “I could if I wanted to.”

  “Next time,” Brandon says, panting and writhing on the bed. “We’ll do whatever the fuck you want, just please let me come.” Next time. She likes the sound of that. He opens his eyes and looks at her (she loves those eyes) and says, “Please, Ma’am.”

  She scrambles onto the bed, straddles his hips and reaches down to slide his cock inside of her. It’s never felt this good. He bucks helplessly under her weight, but he’s got no leverage on the bed. She sits and takes her time and rocks in gentle circles until he stops trying to move. When he finally gives up, she leans forward and scrapes her fingernails down his chest. His body convulses, arching off the bed hard enough that she’s raised off the mattress, riding him, laughing and wishing she had a lasso in the moment before she repeats her earlier action.

  It hurts him. His skin is tender, and the pain from the crop is fresh, and her fingernails—her fingernails are sharp, and she is not feeling gentle. “Tell me this is okay,” she says, because he looks like he’s in pain and it’s turning her on more than she ever dreamed it could but she loves him more than she wants to fuck him. She stops with her fingernails poised below his collarbones, ready to plan a new path down the uneven planes of his heaving chest, ready to stop.

  “It’s okay,” he says. In the breath before she starts to hurt him again, he says, “You’re okay.” She gasps and digs her fingernails in deeper than she meant to and knows she’s close to coming. The steady beat of his pelvis against her swolle
n clit, the shocks running from her nipples to her core and the ache that opened inside of her the first time she swung the crop all swell inside of her until muscles she didn’t know she had are screaming. Clenching. Coming.

  She scrapes her fingernails down his chest until he cries out, and then, when he inhales in a giant gasp, she tells him to come. Her voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to her. (She thinks she likes the Amazon whose voice she’s found. She thinks Brandon might like her, too.)

  She tells him to come for her, she calls him good boy and his brilliant eyes close and his mouth falls open and she thinks, greedy and grateful and proud: mine.

  TICKLE DAY

  Jeremy Edwards

  Her fantasy had been revealed weeks ago, in a spontaneous pillow-talk conference. Finally, this morning over breakfast, Steve had declared this to be Cynthia’s Tickle Day.

  Steve had not been a hard sell on the concept. Conveniently, he liked to bestow tickles, while Cynthia liked to receive them. To be tickled.

  Just hearing that phrase in her head now—be tickled—made Cynthia’s pussy tingle as she poured more water into the coffee machine. She could already feel hypothetical fingers rousing her pleasure points—she could close her eyes and see, stretching to the horizon, the prearranged, randomly spaced instants of teasing delight that would punctuate her day, each tickle a surprise that, under the circumstances, was really no surprise. But the magic of tickling was that it always felt like a surprise.

  By nightfall, when Tickle Day was set to conclude in bedroom festivities, she knew her neural network would be a railway system of arousal, bustling everywhere with anticipation and need.