The Big Book of Orgasms

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  At least he only halfheartedly tries to get her to fuck him on it before he goes. His body feels warm against hers. Her filmy white tank top is soaked with sweat. So are her shorts. So’s his T-shirt. She can smell him. She’s kicked off her shoes and the threadbare carpet of the bedroom feels rough against her soles.

  He puts his arms around her and kisses her neck.

  “Remember how we christened the old bed?” he asks, gently trying to push her back onto the new one.

  She stands her ground at first. Then she lets him push her back. She tumbles gently onto the bed, faceup, with her legs apart.

  She knows she looks hot; she actually feels hot. She doesn’t want to do something she’ll regret, but it would just be so easy. She wouldn’t even have to make the bed. They hadn’t with the last one; they’d done it right there on the bare mattress. And it wasn’t even a pillow-top.

  She doesn’t mean to plant the sole of one bare foot on his cock; she’s aiming it at his stomach, but as he goes to get on the bed atop her, she misses. She feels his half-hard dick stretching through his shorts, stiffening against her sole.

  “Thanks for the help, but I don’t want to go there.”

  She feels cruel saying it with Kurt rubbing half a hard-on against her foot.

  “You’re serious?” he says bitterly. “You’re kicking me out?”

  “Thanks for the help,” she says.

  She hears his angry boot-steps down the hall. He slams the door.

  She lies faceup on the pillow-top for a while, her bare feet dangling over the edge. She can still feel the impression his half-hard dick seems to have left on the nerves of her foot.

  It’s eleven a.m. and eighty degrees outside.

  She gets up. She opens all the bedroom windows. She finds the file box marked BEDDING/TOWELS and the box marked PRIVATE. She opens the former, makes the bed. She opens the latter, takes out a long, slender vibrator. She lays out a single towel atop the covers, on the side where Kurt would probably be enjoying postcoital relaxation by now if she’d let him stay. She sets the vibe on top of it.

  She strips off her tank top, unzips and drops her shorts. She’s not wearing much underneath. It all hits the floor in a tangle. She walks nude past curtainless windows, not caring if neighbors can see her.

  She stretches out on top of the covers.

  Sunlight pours down, hot on her skin. The breeze blows the scent of flowers from the garden below. A honeybee whizzes in. She’s never been afraid of them; she watches it circling above her. Is it sympathetic magic that it arrived just as she was about to turn the vibrator on?

  The buzz of the vibe makes her naked body twist and writhe. She watches the honeybee. It isn’t quite porn—Kurt kept all of that—but it’s something to keep her mind occupied. Hypnotized by the circling of the bee, she lets herself feel the breeze, the sun, her hand on her breasts, the vibe on her clit.

  She likes how wet and sensitive her cunt is getting. She likes that she’s sweaty from the move and can smell herself. If she thinks about it and concentrates really hard, she can still smell the lingering scent of Kurt, who right now is either driving home pissed or beating off in the truck.

  She likes that, too, kind of.

  What’s more, Kurt would probably kill to see her doing what she is doing. She’s suddenly fiercely turned on, thinking about that.

  She works the smooth, long vibrator up inside her to moisten it so it’ll slide on her clit better. She turns the dial up to the fastest speed and presses it hard to her clit.

  Molly starts to laugh. The honeybee circles, only maybe three feet above her. She watches it as she jerks off. The breeze is soft against her skin. She’s suddenly fiercely horny and mounting toward an orgasm. She takes the vibrator away and switches to using her right hand. Her left goes up to her nipples and gently caresses them. She starts pinching.

  When she comes, she makes more noise than she’s made with Kurt, the whole year combined. She practically screams. The bed even creaks a little. She sounds like a porn star.

  Molly turns off the vibe and stretches out, sweaty.

  She closes her eyes. Pulses ripple through her sex.

  “Now that,” Molly sighs pleasantly, “is how you christen a bed.”

  The honeybee settles on her forehead; she lies still. She’s still not afraid of it. A minute later the breeze coaxes it into the air, and it flies out the window.

  ALL YOU DO IS PLAY

  Annabeth Leong

  Sharon got home late from the club, Kristie’s words still ringing in her ears. “How are you going to get me to come home with you tonight? Promise to impress me with that bass of yours? All you’ll do is play it.” Kristie had rolled her gorgeous black eyes, her white-lined lids making the effect more stunning than normal.

  The object of Sharon’s lust liked to make her lovers work for her.

  Sharon unzipped her thigh-high boots and kicked them off. Kristie probably knew she’d spent twenty minutes just lacing them up. It all must have made Sharon look desperate.

  Sharon sighed, sinking onto the corner of her bass amp, stroking its black body and rubber-insulated cords, one leading to the wall and the other to the red, pearlescent body of her bass guitar. Long hours of playing had made the habit strong. The bass was in her arms before she made a conscious decision to pick it up, her left hand sliding up its familiar neck and her right hand’s stiffened first and middle fingers hovering over the strings.

  This felt easier than anything, certainly easier than thinking about loneliness anymore. She switched on the amp. It buzzed to life beneath her, humming and gently vibrating.

  Sharon tuned the instrument and experimented with a few notes. They filled up the room, lingering in the air like smoke. She normally played standing, but her feet hurt after the hours in the club. Sitting on the amp, the notes came up into her feet through the vibration of the floor, and into her body from the movement of the amp beneath her ass. She grinned and played faster, lower notes.

  The music settled between her legs and trembled there. Sharon’s fingers sped over the instrument’s thick strings, plucking them to keep the sensation going. She tilted her hips and squirmed, trying to guide the amp’s stimulation more directly to her sex. She slipped, the corner of the amp pressing through her panties, rubbing the opening of her cunt.

  The moan that burst through her lips pulled Sharon up short. Was she really about to fuck her bass amp? What if Kristie saw her now? She put the instrument away and went to bed.

  When Sharon woke, the shame of the night before had been replaced by an idea. “How about you come over and play for me?” she texted Kristie. “I’ll show you what to do.”

  “I don’t know how to play bass,” Kristie said.

  Sharon smiled. For all Kristie’s verbal resistance, she’d dressed sexy tonight, wearing a red maxidress that showed off her height. A gold band shone against the dark skin of her upper arm. Sharon hoped the effort meant she had a chance.

  “Don’t worry,” Sharon whispered. “This is how you hold it.” She stood behind Kristie and went up on her tiptoes to sling the bass guitar’s strap around the back of the other woman’s neck, then helped her cradle it, closing her eyes at the moments when she got her arm sandwiched between Kristie’s soft skin and the smooth guitar body.

  “Now stay there a second.”

  Sharon switched the bass amp on and pulled off her top.

  “Wait,” Kristie said, her hands flying off the guitar. It dangled in front of her chest, suspended by the strap. “What are you doing?”

  Sharon just put a finger to her lips and unzipped her skirt, unhooked her bra strap, and stepped out of her panties. Her bare stomach muscles twitched in the cool air of her living room, her inner thighs trembling at the excitement of living out her fantasy and making Kristie part of it.

  Kristie remained speechless, her jaw working and her fingers prodding the guitar as if it might transform into a snake and bite her.

  Sharon straddled the
bass amp and slowly lowered herself into a seated position. Without having to hold the connected instrument herself, she could angle her body forward so her clit lay flush against the amp. Sharon went ahead and lay all the way down on her belly, supporting herself with an arm on either side of the amp, keeping herself stable by spreading her legs wide and bracing her toes against the floor. She lifted her head up and back and locked her eyes on Kristie.

  “Play a note,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Any note. Hold a string down against a fret with one of the fingers on your left hand. Pluck it with your right. You’ve seen people do this.”

  “You make it sound so dirty,” Kristie said.

  “Oh, it is,” Sharon said. “Try it.”

  The first note bellowed up from the amp, tingling against Sharon’s clit. She let the pleasure show on her face. “Again,” she commanded.

  A deeper note. This vibration penetrated farther into Sharon’s body. She rocked herself against the amp, glad she could use all four limbs to direct and prolong the pleasure.

  “More. Play the same note over and over again. Or change it. Whatever works.”

  “It seems like anything works.” Sharon had dropped her head in concentration, but she heard the smile in Kristie’s voice. The other woman must have started to have fun, because she let loose with a barrage of notes that made the amp quiver and shake under Sharon’s body.

  Sharon closed her eyes and rode the amp for all she was worth, letting the music fuck her, letting the notes gather between her legs and push into her pussy. She squeezed the muscles of her ass and strained against the vibrating box, less self-conscious than she’d expected to be in front of Kristie.

  The low frequencies buzzed through her brain. Bass lines always put her into a trance, relaxed her, taught her how to let go. Kristie might not know how to play, but the sounds she coaxed from the instrument rang with need.

  “You like the notes from this string the most,” Kristie said. Sharon couldn’t argue with the effects of Kristie’s next assault.

  Deep, authoritative notes punched and battered her lower belly, their pace increasing. Sharon mashed her clit against the amp, ground hard and sang her appreciation for Kristie’s pounding improvised bass line in a series of sharp moans. Her cunt contracted. Her arms shook under her weight. She flung her head back, and it felt like the notes held her up.

  Kristie didn’t stop playing at first. Sharon lay limply on the amp and let the music continue to flow. When the sounds died down, she eased out of position and rolled onto the floor.

  “Thank you,” she said. She checked Kristie’s expression.

  The other woman grinned, her eyes too wicked for the expression to be considered childlike delight. “I want to see what someone can learn to do with practice.” Kristie set the bass guitar on the floor and walked to the amp. “What are you going to play?”

  Sharon took the hint, got up, and lifted the guitar, biting back the joy leaping in her heart. She’d won Kristie for the night. Or more.

  HARD KNOCKS

  Malin James

  You absolutely cannot make someone come just by spanking them.”

  I say this with an authority that I, admittedly, don’t possess. Still, the idea that you could orgasm just from having your ass sufficiently smacked seemed ludicrous—the stuff of erotic stories and porn. Max is completely undisturbed by my lack of faith.

  “Yes. You can.”

  He leans back in his chair, long-legged and lean, the shadow of a smile pulling his mouth. It’s easy to miss, but I’m a very observant girl, and I like observing Max.

  “Really,” I say, skepticism quirking my cherry-red mouth.

  “Really,” he replies. His eyes flicker over my plump bottom lip, but he doesn’t take the bait. He lights a cigarette instead.

  “Well, I suppose if you do a little extra work in addition to the spanking—the clit is a magical thing….”

  “No,” Max says, stubbing out the cigarette after only three drags. (Yes, I notice how many drags. Like I said, I’m observant. Max and I have only been dating for a month and there is still quite a lot to observe.)

  “Just spanking,” he continues, calmly holding my gaze. “If it’s done right.”

  Something flashes through his gray eyes, and I suddenly have the feeling that he knows what he’s talking about. I’m intrigued and nervous and a little bit scared. And surprisingly turned on. I lean back in my chair.

  “Show me,” I say.

  My chin lifts a notch in challenge. Max smiles, this time a full, real smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, warming the wintery gray.

  “Stand up,” he says, warmly, lovingly, as if he’s asked me to an especially fabulous dinner.

  “Wait, now?”

  I’m ashamed to say that the “now” comes out a bit of a squeak. Very undignified. Not my best moment, but I’m wishing I hadn’t gone there—up to this point I’ve had lots of deviant vanilla sex, but never crossed the boundary to S/M.

  “Now,” he says, smiling like the big bad wolf. “Don’t worry, Jen. I’m not going to eat you. Not yet.” He leans forward and catches my hand in his, rubbing the palm with his thumb. “The minute you’ve had enough, tell me to stop and I will. All right?”

  I nod like an idiot.

  “Good. Now stand up.”

  I stand up. How bad could it be? It’s only a little spanking to prove a point. It’s not like I’m going to come….

  “Lean over the table. Brace yourself with your hands.”

  I lean over the table. My belly roils from nerves and arousal, a combination I haven’t felt since my first time.

  Max gets up and runs the flat of his palm over my upturned ass.

  “If you need me to stop, knock twice on the table. Do you understand?”

  I nod, suddenly unable to speak. His voice is still warm, conversational. But there’s an edge to it that thrills me, all the way down to my core.

  “Good,” he says. Then his palm lands on my ass and I shriek. He chuckles. The sound of that chuckle grounds me and I force myself still, gripping the sides of the table.

  “Good, Jen. That’s good.”

  His hand comes down again. This time I’m still. It isn’t so bad—after all I’m still wearing my jeans. I start to feel smug. Though I’m undoubtedly turned on, I’m nowhere near coming. I turn my head and grin. Max smiles back. Then he reaches around me and unbuttons my jeans and pushes them all the way down.

  “Step out of them.”

  The grin fades from my lips, but I step out of them. He leaves my G-string on, little good that it does me. This time, when his hand comes down, I hear a crack as pins and needles explode over my bare flesh. I bite back a yelp, settling for a dignified little whimper.

  Max’s hand comes down harder and faster now, never in the same place twice, covering every individual inch of my ass in stinging, honeyed warmth. The warmth creeps in deep between my legs, and I moan before I can stop myself.

  “Very good, Jen. Now spread your legs.”

  I do as I’m told, well aware that I’m really, really wet, a fact that no G-string is going to hide.

  “Good girl.”

  I hear him undo his belt. As turned on as I am, I still haven’t come and I smile in questionable triumph. He hasn’t broken me. He’s going to fuck me now, right on the table. I squirm, really, really wanting it. But that’s not Max’s plan. Suddenly, gently, I feel the cold leather of his belt on my prickly red skin.

  Part of me wants to knock on the table before he can hit me with the strap. The rest of me is reveling in what’s happening between my legs. I press my palm to the tabletop and brace myself.

  “Breathe.”

  His voice is soft and sweet, right next to my ear. I relax. Then the leather comes down on my backside, and I gasp. He pauses, gauging my reaction before continuing. He peppers my ass and the backs of my thighs with the belt, sometimes softly, sometimes with a brutal snap. My hips begin to move, grindin
g as my legs spread wider, trying to give the belt better access, inviting what I suddenly realize I desperately want—the leather on my cunt. Max makes a sound deep in his throat.

  The blows hit deeper now, vibrating through my ass to the swollen bud of my clit. I moan now, openly, blindly. Max starts to breathe a little harder and I arch my back, inviting the belt, begging for it like a cat in heat. He changes the angle, keeping the strokes short and hard as he moves down the backs of my thighs. Then in one blazing flash of sweet, syrupy pain, the belt hits my cunt—not too hard, just hard enough, and I feel the orgasm whipping up inside me.

  “Please,” I beg.

  More blows, slapping my sensitive, soaking cunt. Suddenly, Max steps back and tosses the belt aside before landing one massive blow with the huge flat of his hand. And I come. I come like I have never come before, a full-bodied orgasm that has nothing to do with my clit or my cunt and everything to do with my skin and how it feels alive for the first time in my life.

  Slowly, slowly, I come down. Max is stroking my backside, murmuring gently and tucking my hair behind my ear. I turn and meet his mouth with mine.

  “I concede the point,” I say, with remarkable grace, given the fact that I’m flopped over a table with handprints on my ass.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Max says. Then he lifts my melted body and carries me into the bedroom for a few more hard knocks.

  THE GALLERY EXHIBIT

  Chris Komodo

  Sadie excelled at the art of self-pleasure. On this particular Friday, she sat herself down on a stool, unclasped the top button of her worn blue jeans, slid her right hand inside, and let her skilled fingers begin caressing her sex. It was nearly a full minute before someone took notice.

  Sadie Myros was no exhibitionist. She had never even touched herself in front of lovers, let alone a roomful of art lovers. And unlike other twentysomethings, she shied away from being photographed. If a camera were in the room, Sadie was probably the one behind the lens.