Anything for You

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  At first I hadn’t been sure of the dildo part; it seemed awfully big to me to use on him. A girl, sure, but it seemed like asking a lot from a guy. I suggested a plug because I tried not to ask for anything that I wasn’t willing to do myself and I was doubtful at best that I would be willing to put a full-sized rather thick dildo in my own ass. But he laughed and said that at least mine was curved and ribbed to hit the right spots, and vibrated, which was more than he could say about his ex-boyfriends.

  I never got why boys were so full of themselves about having a dick until I started wearing one myself on occasion. There’s a certain feeling of power that came with having a cock that I enjoyed immensely. Once I was rigged up I took a moment, as I always did, to puff up my chest and admire the awesomeness of my member. I stroked my cock a few times to reacquaint myself, to enjoy the smooth feel of it jutting up underneath my hand.

  “Come here, princess.” He curled over to the side of the bed I was standing next to. “Suck Daddy off.” I gently thrust my shaft inside his mouth, getting off on watching him go down on me, faux cock or not. Shameless as he is, he made eye contact with me the whole time. My clit started to tingle again, watching his mouth diligently swirl up and down my shaft. I loved what a champ he was in the sack; he never bitched and moaned about doing double oral duty. Not bitching much in general, but especially not in the bedroom—and doing the dishes? That was the key to my heart and quim.

  I slipped my little bullet vibrator between the harness and my clit and pulled my prick out of his eager mouth. He moved over on the bed to make room for me and I nestled back into my pillows, pulling him over to ride me. Reaching over to the bedside table, I lubed up my perpetually rock-hard shaft. I entered him, allowing him to gently ease his hot little ass down onto my big, thick phallus. Once I was completely inside him, I grabbed his hips and slowly swirled mine, pulling out of him and then thrusting slowly back inside.

  I could see why guys got off on watching a chick on top of them. There is something about a partner riding you; it’s not a position that leaves room for much abandon. Being on top requires some sexy showmanship and secretly, there was nothing he loved more than putting on a show. He had his head back and was panting for me to fuck him harder. I dug my fingernails into the fleshy part I loved above his hip bones and started thrusting harder and harder. I loved the feeling of the stretching of muscles in my legs and ass that don’t usually get used. It was exhilarating, being put through my paces and feeling exercised in a way I never did when we had more traditional sex. Traditional sex is always a good time, don’t get me wrong, but that’s more for lovemaking. This was about flat-out fucking someone I loved; lust tinged with love, not the other way around. The little buzzing vibrator was busily doing its job, getting me closer and closer to getting off with every bump and vibration. I grabbed his pecs roughly, cupping them and pinching his nipples hard, concentrating as I plunged up into him.

  “Do you want to come, princess?”

  “Please, Daddy!”

  “You’ve been a very good girl. You may.” I watched him reach down to stroke his own throbbing member as I continued to penetrate him using sharp, quick little thrusts. I was unable to resist the buzzing of the vibrator and the sight of him on my cock, thrusting into him, so it wasn’t long before I came again, even before he did. His breaths came in ragged little gasps as he jerked himself off on top of me, coming all over my breasts. I gave him a moment to pull himself together before I gently pulled out. After he caught his breath, I cuddled him next to me. I wriggled out of the harness and put it on the bedside table.

  “Good date night, baby?” I asked, kissing the top of his head.

  “You are a sex god,” he said sleepily, reaching up to kiss me.

  “No, you are!” I giggled.

  Both equally satisfied, we snuggled into our nightly spooning position and fell asleep, me snoring louder than him.

  TEPPANYAKI

  Janine Ashbless

  Wendy always overdoes it when we have visitors. It takes her two days to clean the house from top to bottom—and I mean everywhere, even the places no one will see. The upper faces of door lintels and of curtain rails, the insides of cupboards, the second oven that we don’t even use most of the year. She wants everything to be spotless. Then she’ll spend hours deciding what to wear, and styling her hair and plucking her eyebrows and applying serum and foundation and things I can’t even guess at, until her face has the flawless sheen of airbrushed porcelain. She has to look perfect when the door opens to our guests.

  It drives me crazy.

  Don’t get me wrong: I like a clean house. I appreciate all the hard work she puts in. And I think Wendy is beautiful, with or without makeup. Oh, do I ever. She has the most fantastic creamy skin that shows up the big red imprint of my hand on her ass just like a brand. She has curves that can’t fail to grab my attention: ample breasts that jut under her low-cut T-shirts, a big round butt that sways bewitchingly when she walks, and a deep waist that accepts the snug grasp of my hands just so. She complains all the time that she needs to lose weight but I don’t see it. She’s fucking perfect. Her hair is straight and brown and unusually thick, and when I pull it she gasps and parts her full lips in an O that’s all cock-shaped promise. Then her eyes look up at me, wide with expectation, moist with the knowledge of tears to come. She only has to catch my gaze the right way—leaning forward to display her pillowy cleavage; lips pouting in contrition for some sin that I don’t know about yet, or perhaps no sin except the itch of her own need that shames her so, even as it exalts and inflames mine—and I’m snagged on the hook of lust.

  Tonight she’s twittering round the kitchen at the last minute, ramming dirty clothes into the washing machine like she’s trying to punish it. “I’ve still got the last lot of laundry to put away,” she worries.

  “Why?” I ask, as I slice the steak into thin strips. The meat opens under the sharp blade like juicy petals. “It’s not like Jason and Maria are going to be looking in our airing cupboard.”

  Wendy shoots me a glare like I don’t understand something of blinding, self-evident importance. She’s crazy. She drives me crazy.

  She loves for everything to be perfect, and I long to take that perfection and besmirch it.

  It’s all that effort she puts in that makes me value the act of vandalism. I long to smear her immaculate lipstick all over her face and my cock. I love to see mascara tears streaked down her cheeks, to see the white canvas of her ass painted with welts and scratches. I want to tear her sheer black nylons and splash come across her costly silks. I want to muss her hair and fuck her until her dignity’s torn to shreds and she’s flushed and squealing and unable to contain herself, incoherent with the shock of orgasm after orgasm. It’s the only way I can pay tribute to such immaculate beauty.

  I’m just the kind of guy who likes to walk across fresh-fallen snow.

  “I just want it to be right, so I can relax,” she says.

  “The place looks great. And you look amazing.” If my hands weren’t covered in meat juices I’d grab her, but at this stage she’d just rush off to get changed. I pretend to do so anyway and she shies away from me, flicking me with a tea towel.

  “First impressions count, Ade.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. First impressions are going to knock them out.”

  “Do you think they’ll like teppanyaki?” This is the first time she’s met my colleague or his wife.

  “It’s meat. Jason will like it.” I go to wash my hands.

  “Did you ask?”

  “ No. ”

  “But what if they don’t like Japanese food?”

  “They’ll love it. And if they don’t, I’ll tell the Chief Inspector about the photos Jason keeps on his laptop.”

  Wendy giggles, half irritated, half nervous.

  I put my hands on her bare shoulders. She’s wearing a sleeveless white broderie anglaise blouse, very tight all the way down to the hips where it flares out, and with bu
ttons down the front. Beneath it, her skirt is bright red. I like her wearing skirts; at work everything and everyone is functional and masculine and drab. I like to come home and get my hands on something soft and feminine, all curves and color and yielding warmth. “It’ll be great, Wendy. Now, are you ready?”

  “I am, but…”

  “Come on.”

  I steer her into the dining room where the table is laid for dinner. Pride of place goes to a round teppanyaki griddle where the food will be cooked. We’ve got little rectangular rice-porcelain plates and matching rice bowls in blue-and-white, a bottle of expensive sake warming in a water bath, three different bottles of soya sauce, fresh wasabi and pickled ginger. Tongs and chopsticks are the only cutlery. I’ve prepared all the food and it’s waiting in the kitchen, the rice keeping warm in the electric steamer. Everything in the room is polished and gleaming.

  “Okay, sit down for a minute, Wendy.”

  “I need to do the laundry—”

  My hand goes to the hair at the back of her head, holding her firmly so she has to look me in the eye. When I do that, she knows she has to listen. I see her pupils darken. “Sit down,” I say softly.

  “Okay,” she mumbles, only half submissive, sticking her lower lip out in a pout. But she sits on one of the dining chairs.

  “You’ve got to relax, love. This is supposed to be my birthday treat. It’s supposed to be fun.”

  “I know.” She pulls a face. “It’s just the way I am.”

  “Let me give you a neck rub and see if we can change that.”

  The chairs are straight backed and upholstered in dark leather. There are horizontal rungs up the backs that are meant to be decorative but which have certain practical possibilities I’ve been bearing in mind for some time. I stand behind her and start to knead her shoulders and up the nape of her neck into her scalp. She can never resist that. It takes a few moments before she yields to me, but I feel her tension ease and I reward her by expanding my repertoire, stroking her throat, tracing blunt nails over the smooth skin of her shoulders, lifting her jaw to draw her head back against my stomach.

  “Shut your eyes,” I murmur, but I hardly need to instruct her. I bet Wendy would make a fantastic subject for hypnotism: she responds so well to firm guidance. I reach down to stroke the skin of her décolletage with feathery gentleness, and she sighs. I see the first sign of her nipples starting to poke against the white cotton dress. It seems a shame not to give them the attention they yearn for and I stoop to flick and pluck those firm points, feeling them harden with naive eagerness. My cock surges too, furtively.

  “Oh,” she whispers.

  “Relax, honey.”

  “Mm.”

  “You really do look beautiful, you know. I love that skirt; just short enough to tease.”

  She giggles and I feel the vibration in her throat against my fingers as I stroke her. Her throat is an incredibly vulnerable point for her. When she gets really aroused, close to orgasm, she likes me to grip it firmly, threatening to cut off her breath. She likes the fear.

  Gently, I lift her arms, drawing them up over her head. It’s a familiar relaxation move. She lets me pull the long muscles, not resisting as I straighten her spine. Releasing the tension, I lower one wrist back to her side. My hand goes in my trouser pocket without her realizing it. There’s a clink, a touch of body-warmed metal, the sound of a tiny ratchet clicking home. A tremor runs through her and I’m guessing her eyes have opened again, puzzled.

  I’ve snapped one bracelet of my regulation-issue handcuffs around her left wrist.

  Before she has time to react, I make my move. Both hands down, behind her back. The chain through the rung of the chair. Both wrists captive.

  “Ade?” she protests. “Have we got time for this?”

  I pull the chair, and her on it, back from the table. “Open your legs,” I tell her, crossing round to stand face-to-face.

  She is bright eyed, uncertain; her lips are parted and moist. She would protest, but my caresses have undermined her resistance. Already her body’s deep instincts are taking control, and when I look her in the eyes and repeat my command, she obeys.

  “We’ve got time,” I whisper, hunkering down and reaching between her parted thighs to the hidden gusset of her panties. “Wider.”

  She shifts a little to grant me access. I’m watching her face and I see the tip of her tongue appear against her teeth. That and the catch of her breath let me know I’ve found her clit beneath the fabric. I flick it with rapid movements, my nail making a tiny purring noise on the cloth.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she says.

  “Shut up,” I tell her softly, and I see the bloom of grateful warmth in her eyes. “Shut up and take it.”

  She leans back and half shuts her eyes, thrusting out her lovely tits. The cloth strains across the mass of her orbs, making my mouth water. Her hips tilt as I carry on flicking her switch, and the motion lifts her pussy up to my hand. Greedy girl. Always. And so responsive to the right words that it’s almost dangerous. Her heat, so precariously hidden, is a constant provocation to me. Now she whimpers softly under her breath, finding the teasing of my finger both pleasurable and tormenting. She’s starting to want more.

  I decide to give her more. Tucking my finger under the elasticized edge of her panties, I slip my fingertips into the wet warmth contained within.

  “Oh, you’re wet,” I tell her. She turns her face away against her shoulder, her breasts rising in sharp little heaves. “Do you like this, then? Do you like being tied up and made to open your legs so I can touch your pussy? Are you a dirty little girl?”

  That’s enough to make her moan. So I give her what she really wants and run my slippery fingertip all over the hot, stiff nubbin of her clit.

  That’s the moment the doorbell rings.

  “Right on time,” I say, withdrawing my hand and standing. “Jason’s never late.”

  Wendy’s face is a picture. Her thighs slap together. “Shit! Ade, let me out!”

  I lift my fingers to my face, savoring the perfume of her pussy, and grin. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Her eyes go round. “Ade!”

  “What, honey? Are you worried I’m going to bring a work colleague and his wife in here? That they’re going to see you tied to a chair, helpless, with your skirt all rucked up like that? That they’re going to know your pussy is all juiced up and ready for it?”

  Her makeup is perfect, of course, but I’m delighted to see an explosive flush of pink across her throat and chest and shoulders as the shame flares within her. She makes a valiant, if completely vain, attempt to smooth down her skirt by writhing her thighs, and then pulls forward, tugging against the handcuffs. “Ade!” she cries. “Stop it! You can’t!”

  Of course, Wendy should know—in fact she does know, when thinking straight—that the sight of her struggling against bonds just puts hot lead in my balls. “Can’t?” I ask, rubbing one hand across the hard-on now making its urgent presence felt inside my pants.

  “I don’t even know these people!”

  “That’s funny. Because they’re going to know a lot about you, very soon. About what a hot and dirty wife I’ve got.”

  “Please!”

  Oh, that gets me harder than an iron bar. I step in, lift her chin in my hand and look into her wide eyes. Tears of terror are welling up there. “Want to beg me?” I whisper harshly.

  “Please Ade! Oh, god, please! I can’t—I can’t do it! I’ll die of shame! Please don’t!”

  I cock an eyebrow, waiting, my swollen cock pressing up against its own prison as vigorously as Wendy tugs against her cuffs. The first tear leaks over her lashes. She’s utterly sincere: she means what she says and I don’t doubt that she feels overwhelmed by humiliation.

  But.

  “What’s the magic word?” I ask.

  “Please! I’ll do anything, Ade, but not this!” Her begging is heartbreakingly beautiful. Her eyes are like pools of torment and I want to
fall into them.

  “Will you beg me to fuck your ass?” Anal’s a practice she retreats from, normally; it offends her overactive sense of cleanliness.

  “Yes! Even that! Please!”

  That isn’t the magic word. I step back. “No,” I say decisively. “I think I prefer this.” Then I walk out. In the doorway I turn back and look at her, giving her one more chance. We have a safeword, of course. But Wendy’s pulling wordlessly against the steel bonds, her lips parted as if in agony and her breasts heaving. Utterly fucking beautiful. And mute.

  Jason and Maria are waiting patiently at the front door when I open it; I had warned them I might be a few minutes.

  “Come in! Let me take those coats.” I usher them into the hallway and kiss Maria on either cheek. Jason had told me she’s Spanish, but this is the first time we’ve met. She has a sweet smile full of suppressed excitement and barely comes up to Jason’s breast pocket. He’s all bone and paleness, his skin tight over his sharp cheekbones. She looks exquisite in a red dress. I think Wendy’s going to like them both.

  “We’ve been looking forward to this, Ade.”

  Jason and I have worked together a couple of times on different cases. He’s sound: a rock-solid sort. You can learn a hell of a lot about a guy when you share long surveillance shifts with him.

  “Well, we’re all ready for you. Wendy’s just through in the dining room.”

  Jason and Maria swing. Wendy and I don’t, because I don’t like the idea of some other man fucking my wife. She’s mine. And Wendy knows I’m the possessive type and likes it that way; it makes her feel special. So we don’t move in Jason and Maria’s circles. But there are, I guess you’d say, areas where our interests as couples overlap.

  As I lead the way back into the dining room, my heart lifts with pride at the picture presented. Wendy has ceased fighting the cuffs and is sitting up very straight with her feet tucked beneath the chair, trying to look as demure as it’s possible to do with wrists tied. Her face is averted self-consciously, her lips parted and shiny.