The Big Book of Orgasms

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  We stayed that way for a few blissful seconds, then Todd pulled his cock loose with a wet plop and dropped back down into the bed. Looking up at me, he kissed me again, then turned and kissed his wife. Her eyes were closed, but she responded. I slid out of her well-fucked crotch and stood.

  “Messy,” I said, reaching for my sarong.

  “Hold on,” Todd instructed, sliding down to take my cock in his mouth. I shuddered. My cock is always very sensitive after orgasm. He licked gently at it until all sticky matter was gone. Then, when he was satisfied, he handed me the sarong and swung his legs over the side of the bed, into a sitting position.

  “Now, about that coffee…” he said.

  “You just let me take care of that,” I replied.

  I knotted the sarong and set about serving my newlywed guests coffee and tea in bed.

  LOOK AT YOURSELF

  Maxine Marsh

  Look at yourself.”

  He stands behind me, just out of sight. It is not unusual that he’s tied me up to a chair, that he’s put a live vibrator in my hand. What is unusual is that the tone of his voice makes me cringe. Nerves crumple through my entire body.

  He repeats his order. I look at myself. There in the reflection of the body-height mirror, which he’s positioned against the wall just before me is, well, me. And not just me, but the real me. Me, freshly out of bed this morning, having been summoned by a shake to the shoulder and the cringeworthy timbre of his voice.

  What I see makes me wince: hair messy as a mop, my face covered in the sheen of oil, my eyes a little droopy and red, my lips dry. And the wrinkles. I turn my eyes away, to the wall beside the mirror. I have to.

  “Look at yourself.”

  With some hesitation, I glance up again.

  He keeps talking, a disembodied voice over my shoulder. “I know it’s been a while, but you seem to have forgotten your lessons. So, look at yourself.”

  He’s right. We’ve grown older, busy. We still satisfy each other, but it’s been a while since we focused on just us in this way. It’s been a while since he tied me up.

  So I look at me in the mirror. I have just enough presence of mind left to put the vibrator to my clit; it seizes against the stimulation. I’m going to come quickly. Soon, I’m shaking. It crests, the explosion of pleasure radiating through my pelvis.

  “Keep your eyes open,” he says in my ear.

  I don’t like what I see, but I obey. As I watch, the distaste for my flaws gets swept into the climax. Something inside me breaks. I shake like the earth shakes when she’s releasing pressure from her core. Those “wrongnesses” embedded deep down in my gut, or in the part of the mind where ugly things are kept, shake along with me, their roots tearing loose. I groan, long and hard, my teeth grinding down.

  He hasn’t told me to remove the vibrator. My eyes water, a couple tears falling loose in the postorgasmic aftershocks. My thighs squeeze together, trying to shield my clit from the continued, furious buzzing of the vibrator. Still, he doesn’t tell me to move it, so I don’t.

  “You said it twice last night, so…again.”

  I realize why he’s doing this. The conversation over dinner last night had featured mostly mundane topics. I could have sworn it was a normal conversation, but deep down I know what I said somehow bothered him.

  “I noticed these wrinkles this morning—I hate them. We’re getting to that age now…” Sip of wine. “Lisa said it only took a couple minutes at the doctor, and the shots barely hurt. And now her forehead’s as smooth as silk.” Pointing to the lines in my cheeks, and the three crossing my forehead. “You see them there? I hate them. I could get them fixed.” He had stared at me for a moment, and then swallowed his bite of food. “Do you really think you need to do that?” he asked. I noted his question with a shrug.

  It’s been a while since he tied me up, made me come to his command. My thoughts are chaotic, but I know better than to protest. My body protests instead, the thrilling, rolling vibrations becoming painful to my over-swollen clit. I gasp, but make myself take it. There I am in the mirror, a blurry haze.

  Suddenly my mind joins him in wanting me punished. Well, maybe not punished, but disciplined. I’ve seen the ugly pieces, they’re flowing freely through my liquefied body now, and they make me angry. So much so that I want to come again and blow them away, shatter them until they disintegrate into nothing. But then the rebellion fades. The pieces maintain their hold.

  He’s close behind me again. “This is how I see you,” he whispers into my ear.

  I’m not sure what he means. The vibrations of the toy are forcing me toward another orgasm, although this one feels like it will crush me. It looms, excruciating, and part of me is afraid I won’t be able to stand it. I tell myself that he knows I can stand it, and through my doubt that is at least a little comforting.

  I refocus my eyes on myself to find a furious aspect on my face. I see my subtle but ever-deepening wrinkles are exaggerated in my straining. Should I hate them? Should I fill them with falseness? More importantly, is this what he sees—my flaws?

  My clit is screaming, and I release a long, drawn-out whimper. It’s so strong, it feels so good, but it isn’t progressing.

  “I can’t,” I whine.

  “You will, or we’ll start from the beginning.”

  I know he’s serious.

  “Look at yourself until you come.”

  I try again. I watch my struggle in the mirror. Waves of pleasure wrack me, I tremble in expectation, but my climax lingers just out of reach. I blink. Frustration boils over and I take the vibrator off my clit with a grunt. This is ridiculous. I’ve come over and over again with this toy, climaxing only minutes apart in trysts past.

  He sighs. I know he’s disappointed in me. “I’m giving you a gift,” he says.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want you to see what I love so dearly.”

  It hits me. I am a selfish person, selfish and self-centered, so much so that I have only been thinking about my own role in this most torturous of little lessons. It is a truth I have not considered. Spending nights obeying him, adoring him, caught up in trying to prove how much I love him. But I’ve taken his love for me for granted, I realize.

  “I want you to see what I see when you come. How beautiful you are.” A hunger rolls off his voice that makes my pussy convulse.

  I put the vibrator back between my legs and I force my eyes to look straight ahead. This is awful, but so wonderful all at once, like staring directly at the sun. I remember he’s there, remember I don’t want the control. When I’m in control, big iron doors slam shut and parts of me disappear. I want him in control so that my body and my mind can open up to everything they are capable of feeling.

  My pupils find themselves in the reflection. The longer I stare, the more the keening arousal grows, the nearer I draw to orgasm. The imperfections I saw just moments ago disappear. They’re still there, but they’re not imperfections anymore. They’re just…me.

  The bubble bursts. I seize, nerves utterly alive. The climax rolls through me, powerful and smooth, sweeping away the strangling insecurities with it. It’s impossible to see myself as anything but beautiful just then. I know it won’t last forever, seeing myself like this. But for now, I direct the adoration inward. Look at yourself, I think.

  DO IT AGAIN

  Sinclair Sexsmith

  Kristen gets off easily. When we were discussing it last night, she said there’s a point after we’ve been fucking for a bit where she can simply tighten and it happens, so after a while she can basically come on demand. I start murmuring, “Do it again, come for me, do it now,” and she does, almost every time.

  I love that she comes like that. It is one of the things I crave most about sex: being able to give someone else that feeling of orgasm, of momentary loss of control, of la petite mort. I love the power of that exchange, the way she wants it from me, the way I keep her poised on my fingers or tongue or cock. I have tried to kee
p track, but I always get distracted, or lose count, or can’t tell when one ends and the next begins; sometimes she just goes and goes. I have asked her to count, telling her I’ll let her out of the ropes after she gets to ten.

  Some days just the memory of her is enough to drive me wild.

  I’ve been holding on to the image of her in my bed last Sunday all week, rolling it over in my mind like I roll my ring on my finger.

  We’d already been fucking, all day really. From the time we woke I couldn’t keep my hands off her, stayed in bed until hunger forced us up after one. Back home, I wanted more. I cradled her, fucked awhile, until I wanted to watch.

  I’m perhaps more of a voyeur than even I know. And she is such an expert at her own body. I love watching her as her skin flushes, fingers move, hands hover above her own pussy as she shakes, then opens her eyes to look at me: “Want me to do it again?”

  This time, she was on her back, on my bed. I wished aloud for a spreader bar and then made one, makeshift, from a white-tipped straight black cane and black rope, her ankles as far apart as they could go, so she couldn’t close her knees.

  Then, clamps on her nipples. Tighter than I expected, but I know she likes the pressure, likes it when I bite hard.

  Then I got a cock out, a big one, the widest I have—I can’t even get my thumb and forefinger all the way around the narrowest part. It is short, so it’s hard to strap on. I keep it in my hand as I watch her writhe for one, two orgasms on her own, as she can’t take something that big until she’s warmed up. I tug at the chain of the nipple clamps, twist them around for more of a pinch. She moans. She likes it. I watch her come, and lube up the cock, slide it in without much resistance, watch her face change, her hips open, as she starts working her clit again right away.

  And these are the images that flash in my mind: that thick red cock shoved all the way in; both her hands between her legs, upper arms pushing her breasts together as the clamps and chain accent her nipples and swollen areolae; knees up and rocking back and forth, straining against the bar holding her ankles apart.

  I’m kneeling at the foot of the bed, knees apart, stroking my cock, still strapped on, watching from slightly above as she writhes and moans.

  Then I’m next to her, my hand working the cock in and out, my mouth at her neck, shoulder.

  “Kiss me,” she whispers, as I refuse to close the distance and keep her straining to reach my mouth.

  I grin, and slap her instead, six times in rapid succession. She moans. I hit her again. “Or slap me, that’s good, too,” she breathes, nearly under her breath, as I continue to make her cheek pinker, and I do, again, and she starts coming, harder, so I slap her a few more times before leaning in to kiss her, until she starts jerking as she comes and nearly knocks me in the nose with her forehead.

  “Fuck me, please.” She is unhinged like this and asking for just what she wants, and I love that.

  I shift between her legs, the bar holding her ankles apart now behind my knees, and I keep some pressure on it so she can strain against it. I slide inside easily, wrap my arms around her, kiss her hard, and we lose ourselves in it, rocking against each other, going deep, as she comes again, and again, and again.

  UNDER THE TABLE

  Elizabeth Coldwell

  I’m going to make you come.”

  The words are mouthed, rather than spoken—after all, it’s not the kind of thing you say out loud in the middle of an expensive restaurant, while your boss consults the dessert menu and struggles to decide between the profiteroles and the tiramisu—but the look on your face suggests you’ve understood them all too well.

  I know exactly what you’re thinking. Here? Now? How can he? How dare he? But you’ve been with me long enough to know I can and I dare, no matter where or when, or how risky the circumstances. It’s all part of the game we play, seeing just how much we can get away with in public. You’ve gone out without your knickers enough times, only the two of us, knowing there’s nothing but fresh air caressing your pussy as you walk. And you’ve “accidentally” flashed that pussy on more than one occasion, sliding casually out of a taxi and offering a lucky passerby an eyeful of wet, pink girl-flesh if only he’s quick enough to spot it. Not to mention the way you love to press up against me on a crowded Tube train, rubbing your bum against my groin until I’m hard and aching to come.

  But now I’m raising the stakes, and I’m waiting to see how you respond. You arch an eyebrow, mouth back confidently, “I’d like to see you try.”

  There’s no seeing; this will all be feeling, believe me. Easing off my right shoe under the table, I make a show of consulting the menu a final time. I reach out my leg, using my stockinged foot to nudge at your thigh, indicating I’d like it a little wider, to give me the access I crave. Briefly, you attempt to resist, then you give in and do as I ask, almost as if you can’t believe I could really be so foolhardy to as to attempt a spot of X-rated footsie at the dinner table.

  Maybe you think a big toe doesn’t have the same power as a fingertip to tease and stimulate, but the moment mine settles on your cunt—and how nice that you chose to make my job easier by leaving your underwear at home tonight, my naughty, knickerless minx—you realize you may have misjudged me. I stroke up and down with my foot, tracing the contours of your oh-so-familiar sex as your juices dampen the woolen fabric of my sock. Maybe the touch doesn’t have the finesse of my fingers, but what it lacks in accuracy it makes up for in intent. Despite your attempts to remain cool, to thwart me in my game, your eyes widen and your breath comes just a little faster than before.

  No one’s noticed what we’re doing, despite the slouching posture I’ve adopted to make best contact with your most intimate places. Your boss has finally decided on his choice of dessert and beckons over the waiter. “The profiteroles for me,” he declares. “What about you, Mike?”

  I don’t pause in my slow, circling movement, now concentrating solely on your clit. “The cheese plate, please.”

  “Elaine?”

  For a moment, I think you’ll wave the prospect of dessert away, but you love your sweet treats too much to resist. “Tiramisu.” The final syllable comes out as an extended, breathy “oo,” as pleasure ripples through you. Your carefully cultivated façade of control is crumbling, brought down by the steady, relentless pressure of my big toe. I’m sure part of you thinks I’ll stop here, having proved my point, but I’m determined to take you all the way to the finish line.

  And it’s not as though I’m getting nothing out of this. Just watching you fight the urge to surrender, feeling the heat and wetness of you through my sock and knowing that I’m doing it, I’m actually bringing you to the verge of orgasm in such an unorthodox fashion, is making me hard. My cock is a rigid bar, trapped in the tight prison of my suit trousers. If I could, I’d take you off to the toilets, so swanky they have their own attendant to hand out soap and towels and spray you with cologne, and fuck your brains out in one of the stalls. But that’s not realistic, not now that your boss has made his order and wants to engage in small talk. If he’s aware that I’m the one responding to his questions while your part of the conversation is limited to nods and noncommittal grunts—all you can manage as you do your best not to reveal the pleasure you’re feeling—he says nothing.

  I know your body so well that every little change in your breathing, every deepening of the flush that crosses your cheeks and the creamy upper slopes of your breasts, revealed in that daringly low-cut dress, lets me know just how close you are.

  I never embarked on this game intending to bring you to your peak just as the waiter arrives with our desserts, but fate decrees that’s what happens. He sets the plate down before you at the exact moment your body gives a strained shudder and you grab at the edge of the tablecloth so hard your knuckles go white. If I pushed my toe up into your hole right now, I know I’d feel it being clutched tight as your cunt convulses. The little squeak you let out as you come goes unremarked; maybe it passes as nothing
more than an exclamation of delight at the sight of the rich, creamy confection you’ve ordered.

  I can’t help wondering if your orgasm is all the sweeter for being so constrained, without the volley of joyous shrieks and cries that usually accompany your climax. And as you mouth, “Thank you, you bastard,” before smiling sweetly and reaching under the table to squeeze my cock through my trousers, I get the feeling it won’t be too long before I find out the answer for myself.

  LIGHT SLEEPER

  Mina Murray

  I’m not what anyone would call a light sleeper. Thunder won’t wake me, nor hail, nor snoring bedmates. Once I even slept through a fire alarm meant to rouse the residents of my entire floor. But every rule has an exception.

  The list of things that will wake me up is short, but very specific. Namely, almost anything to do with sex. Last week I was woken up at five in the morning by the couple next door going at it, her faint moans rising in pitch until she sounded like a trilling soprano. The week before that it was the woman downstairs, who wailed like a cat in heat as she came, every half hour for the two hours before dawn.

  Tonight it is Dylan who wakes me, or rather the furtive motions he makes under the covers beside me, no doubt thinking I’m asleep. We haven’t been living together that long, so he doesn’t know about my little quirk yet.

  To give him credit, he is being quiet. Not completely silent—I can hear the hitch in his breath and the swishing sound of skin on skin as he rubs himself—but quieter than I thought was possible. So it’s not the noise that wakes me, but rather the vibrations rolling through the mattress and under my skin.