My hips follow the pounding rhythm of the surf. I’m the ebb and flow of the tide. Movement is slow until the pounding of the waves inside my head is louder than the ocean, and I take my rhythm from internal need.
His eyes darken as we fuck. I feel tense. My body screams for release but I can’t find it. I ache to let go. I throb. Caught in the high but unable to snap and find release, I emit a tormented, guttural, frustrated scream.
He shifts his weight, overbalances, and we’re toppling. He can’t protect me. We hit the ground. A rock stabs into my thigh, and I feel the jagged tear of ripping flesh. My body bucks as blackness threatens to consume me and pain surrounds me. I draw deep gasping breaths and fight the consuming darkness.
And then I feel it.
The rhythm, the ocean, his cock.
Movement, ancient rhythms, inside me.
The shock of pain blurs.
The pain releases me.
I scream.
Ecstasy fills me. I rear beneath him. My hips arch. My cunt squeezes and pulses. He thrusts and quivers. Hot seed shoots into me.
I writhe. My cunt milks him.
My clit bursts.
Colors explode in my mind.
The surging crescendo screams a perfect long note.
My body is a million shattered pieces.
I feel the sting of hot tears coursing down my cheeks.
I feel the heat of come and cunt juice trailing down my thighs.
I feel the biting pain of rock against flesh.
Then I feel the gentle brush of thumb pad against cheekbone. The storm-tossed seas smile.
His cock withdraws and I shudder as if a vital part of my body is withdrawn. He touches his lips against my nose and leaves to tame the angry sea.
AFTER TEN YEARS
Christen Clifford
I get in bed, naked. We’ve been married almost ten years. I still like his body, his cock, the smell of him. (In all previous relationships, I went off their smell after a while.)
It’s my body I don’t like anymore: the cellulite, the flabby arms, the belly. It’s so unfair that women’s bodies change more than men’s. I’ve had two kids, my cunt is ginormous, I weigh more than I ever have in my life.
The lights are out. I cuddle up to him; we are facing each other. I’m not expecting anything. I sigh. I’m tired. My left arm goes over my head.
Suddenly I feel good. Maybe this pose is working for me. I feel like a sculpture, like my curves would look good. He once compared my thigh to a Brancusi. I want him to touch me. I move the covers off my side and place his hand there.
It stays.
I take a breath. Two.
We’ve been together so long, so much has come between us. There’s no glamour here. There’s being present for two beautiful, but difficult, children. There are papers to grade, food to cook, egos to work. We’re going to come closer together, or apart, soon.
Another breath. “Touch me,” I want to say. A few more breaths, his hand rising and falling lightly on my waist, like a skeleton. On the next exhale, I’ll let it out.
“Touch me,” I say.
And he does, lightly, softly. I feel like he is really touching me—the me he used to know and fuck. He traces the curve from my rib cage to waist to hip, slowly, up and down. He adds in my shoulder and thigh. I feel, not exactly beautiful, but well-shaped, for the moment. I breathe there with him; I leave my arms above my head as if I’m bound; I don’t start in on his cock. I lie there and let myself be touched.
He brushes my nipple. The next time he gives it a tight squeeze. I exhale, moan and voice an intake of breath. I turn to him for a kiss. His mouth is hot and wet and open and searching.
Now his hand is between my legs. I hate that my wetness doesn’t drip anymore; he has to go in and find it and coax it out. But it’s there. I shift so my back is to him. I have a very sensitive back. He reaches around so his hand is still on my cunt, the other on my nipple. I want him to hurt me a little. He’s never liked it when I’ve asked him to hurt me in a big way, to slap me or hit me; he can’t do that kind of violence to me. That’s okay. We have our limitations.
Another breath.
“Bite me a little,” I say.
He does. Hard. Ouch: fuck, yeah, I like it.
Again, harder. I can feel adrenaline rushing to meet the sex. Yes. That one will leave a mark.
I realize I’m being so selfish I don’t even know if he’s hard. He was awhile ago. I reach back. He’s superhard, his cock bursting at the veins.
Now I roll back, on top of him, both of us facing up. I can feel his stubble on my neck, his damp exhale in my ear. I fumble for the condom I know is on the nightstand. I want to fuck like this, but the angle never works. He flips me around and fucks me doggie-style.
His cock is pounding me and pounding me—hard, fast—and I know I’m not supposed to want to fuck the pain away, but I do and he does. I want him to tell me he loves me. I want him to tell me I’m a fucked-up dirty whore. I want him to say he’ll fuck the sadness right out of me, that he loves fucking me, that he thinks I’m hot, that he doesn’t want anyone else to fuck me, that my pussy is his.
But he doesn’t like talking in bed.
I say, “Talk to me!” without taking a breath.
He groans. But I can tell he doesn’t know what to say.
This pisses me off, so I reach around and hit his thigh, his hip; my fist against his flank; then he fucks me so hard I can’t hit him, I’m off balance.
I take my hand in between my legs instead. I rub my clit between my pointer and middle fingers the same way I have since I was five, fast. He’s lifting me off the bed, he’s fucking me so raw, my face and shoulder in the mattress, my hips in the air, my cunt gripping him.
I want him to fuck me forever.
He slides his hand near my ass.
“Yes,” I plead. His fingers tease my anus. He settles on his thumb, he doesn’t even lick it, or spit—it would break our rhythm. He wriggles it in and I don’t know how he’s still fucking me so hard but he is; he’s fingerfucking my ass while his cock is fucking me apart.
He is breaking me and I am suddenly so aware of how much I hate him at the same time that I love him. There are so many disappointments after ten years.
But, god, you are fucking me now. Please, god, don’t ever stop fucking me, so big and dirty and I can feel your thumb inside me and the rest of your hand grabbing my ass, and your dick in and out and in and out, and I need it and I love you and I can’t live without you and your cock.
I’m going to come, and I want to let him know. I let out a high-pitched noise, in case he’s close, so he knows, oh, god, I almost lost it and boom boom boom and he’s still fucking me and BOOM.
And now he’s a little less hard for himself than for me; and my ass is still in the air and I bring my chest up and I’m on all fours now, moving against him, and I want to hurt him just a little. I know he knows and it’s okay and oh, god, oh, god, here he comes and the first moan is like it hurts a little and the second like he’s gone.
And then I’m sobbing, and he’s on top of me. He holds me captive as I cry; he contains me. He is tamping down my sadness with his body; he is holding me together; it’s okay to fall apart. He knows there’s no cure for this sadness; we’re getting older, we’re going to die, we’re not young anymore; we have these kids we have to take care of, a mortgage for fuck’s sake; we can’t just wander around the city and fuck in taxis or Central Park or the Pyramid Club anymore.
I want to talk, to say smething, anything, but I don’t. I listen to the sound of a heartbeat and can’t tell if it’s his or mine.
OVER HIS SHOULDER
Maximilian Lagos
We’d taken the same boring train together for over a year. I’d seen him literally hundreds of times.
He was cute but nothing overly noteworthy, with a few extra pounds and dark circles under his eyes. He really should get more sleep.
We had made eye contact a couple of
times, sharing a polite smile or two, before he’d look away, shy and embarrassed.
Since we were going against the normal rush-hour crowds, our train car was almost empty most of the time, and the usual riders took their favorite seats. He’d sit in the second row from the back on the right, I on the left two rows ahead.
I had caught him checking me out as I walked a few times but never acknowledged that I knew. If he wanted to appreciate a forty-five-year-old secretary with three kids and curves in all the right (and some of the wrong) places, let him. It wasn’t causing anyone any harm and honestly, I enjoyed it. It had been a long time since anyone, including my husband, had enjoyed these curves.
Normally, we both just sat and read the paper or listened to music, but for the past few weeks, he had started bringing a laptop computer with him. The sounds of someone typing with uncertain fingers filled the silent car as he pounded away on the keys. He really should take a typing class.
Today though, I found my curiosity too overwhelming to fight any longer. I had to know what he was writing. I had imagined all kinds of different scenarios: a boring work report, a screenplay, a cheesy romance novel. And since my normal seat was taken by some random commuter, I took the opportunity to sit behind him and sneak a peek.
Taking my throbbing cock out of her mouth, she aimed it at her bruised face as I shot streams of my scalding come into her hair and eyes, making them burn and sting.
The words jumped off the page and almost knocked the wind out of me. This was no romance novel or work file.
Rereading the line, I became flushed as my body started to respond against my will. Nipples hardening against the cotton of my bra, I wondered what type of woman really enjoyed having a man come in her hair like that. I have never had the desire myself. Hell, I don’t even like sucking my husband’s dick. I only do it on his birthday and when I want something. Childish, I know.
But I found myself waiting for this guy to write some more. He was just sitting there, staring off into space. Looking for his muse, I guess. Shifting in my seat gave me a better view of the screen, but also pressed my panties tighter into my crotch, letting me know just how turned on I actually was.
Slowly, his fingers began to caress the keys again, not pounding them this time. Slowly…deliberately…carefully.
I know you are reading over my shoulder. You are a very naughty woman.
What? Oh, my god! The embarrassment turned my cheeks red and just as quickly, I looked down at the floor.
Click click click. More typing and then silence.
I tried to fight the urge to look at the screen again but lost. I had to know what he was typing.
Did you like what you read?
I quickly looked down again. Damn it, he was still tormenting me. The scary thing was I actually loved what I’d read and desperately needed to read more.
Click click click.
Sigh if you liked it.
What the hell! He actually wanted me to acknowledge what I was doing? Well, fuck that. I would not play his perverted little game.
Sigh or I won’t write any more.
I should’ve been outraged, but there was something so intense about what was happening that I was caught up in the moment and couldn’t help myself.
I sighed.
Much better. Next time don’t make me repeat myself. Now, if you want more, cough lightly.
I felt unable to break away from this kinky game of Simon Says. I could hear the pounding of my heart in my ears, and my skin was feeling every breath of air from the air conditioner.
Cough.
Excellent. I will write a line and then tell you what you must do for me to write another. You must do as I ask without hesitation. Do you understand?
This time my reaction was immediate.
Cough.
She wiped my fluid over her face using my cock to spread it, licking the shaft every time it passed her lips.
Remove your breasts from your bra.
My hands moved slowly and jerkily to my chest. I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this. Grasping the cups of my bra, I pulled them down, letting my breasts tumble out. My dark nipples were very noticeable through the white silk of my blouse. In a show of modesty, I pulled my blazer tighter.
She licked my cock clean and I bent down to taste myself on her lips.
Pinch your left nipple hard.
My breath started to come in shallow gasps as I reached into my jacket and took my hard, sensitive nipple between my right thumb and forefinger. When I was pinching as hard as I could, a guttural moan escaped my open lips.
Running my tongue across her cheeks, I gathered my own semen in my mouth.
Reach under your skirt and pull your panties aside.
Using my free left hand, I pulled my skirt high on my thighs, and my hand dove between my legs. I didn’t care if anyone saw me anymore. If the conductor came by, he might have to fuck me. I tore aside the thin cotton of my underwear, exposing my trimmed pussy to the chill of the air-conditioning. I was so hot, I was almost surprised my cunt wasn’t steaming.
I forced my tongue into my slut’s mouth, spitting my come down her throat. She gagged but managed to swallow.
Put three fingers into your pussy as deep as they will go, all at once, and rough.
I was well lubricated but three fingers were more than I was used to taking. I brushed open my lips and, cupping my fingers together, rammed them into myself up to the last knuckle. The feeling was overwhelming and my orgasm took me quickly, making me cry out and shudder uncontrollably.
Once my thrashing subsided and I could open my eyes again, I saw the person who had taken my usual seat staring at my sweating and breathless, disheveled form. “Seizure,” I told him. “It happens sometimes. I’m okay.” He looked at me with disbelief, but I didn’t care.
I looked back at the laptop but it was gone, packed away as he stood to leave. “Maybe you should sit here again tomorrow in case you have another seizure.” His voice was soft and gentle, but his eyes were strong.
I understood and bowed my head. “Yes, I will, thank you.” As he left, I wondered what my new master would make me do tomorrow—and if I could get away with another seizure before my stop.
MANNERS
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Sheila sighed, then shuddered in complete contentment after Max’s hand connected with the apple of her cheek. Connected, meaning slapped. Struck. Smacked. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she’d have bit her lip…if she didn’t have his cock in her mouth already. She braced herself for him to do it again; that moment couldn’t come too soon. She busied herself swallowing more of him, saliva filling her mouth as she endeavored to take all of it. Nothing filled her with a greater sense of pride. But she felt the tip broach the back of her throat and another slap wasn’t forthcoming.
“Aren’t you going to say thank you?” he asked. His tone wasn’t teasing or light, and it wasn’t a rhetorical question. It was a demand with a question mark at the end of it, a tone bordering on something sinister, a register lower than his usual.
“Thank you, Max,” Sheila panted as she parted her lips from his hardness, and was rewarded with another blow across the same cheek, a harder one. His hand was big enough to cover the side of her face, a fact she knew well from the many times he simply held it there, intimating what he might do, or caressed her from just below her ear on over to her chin. His hands knew every inch of her face as intimately, if not more so, than they knew her pussy. They’d traced her lips, pinched her nose shut, pried open her mouth. On plenty of occasions one hand had held a cheek while the other whipped against the other side, and if she dared close her eyes, he’d squeeze her neck until she opened them.
She liked that she never knew quite what to expect from his sadism, liked that he could always read her desire for more but only sometimes gave in to her whims. As she said the words again—“Thank you, Max”—before pressing back down, her mouth drawn to his cock like a magnet, Sheila shivered. He sla
pped her again and she mumbled the words around his flesh.
She discovered that even more than she liked to be slapped, even more than she liked the sudden, stinging rush of pain to her skin, she liked to have to ask for it; beg for it. She was humbled by having to thank him and therefore having to admit that he wasn’t actually doing this to her; she was having him do this to her. She was the one so depraved as to want him to hurt her like this, depraved in the best possible sense of the word. His hands moved to her neck, tightening as she traced her tongue along the length of his shaft. She sank into the pressure, succumbed to it, even as she wondered whether Max could feel the tightness from the outside in. She hoped so, hoped her throat was constricting around his cock. She took a shuddery breath in through her nose, and he in turn tightened his hold for just a moment before letting go. It was their ongoing dance: two steps forward, one step back.
She looked up at him through the film of tears, hoping he wasn’t watching her just at that moment. She liked to be watched, liked to think of his eyes on her when she had him in her mouth. But she wasn’t sure she was ready to look at him head on. She looked back down but somehow he’d caught the uncertainty, caught the way it made her heart trip its way through her chest, loud, insistent. “Look at me, Sheila.” He was still hard, the heat of his erection, its very presence, commanding her to touch it. But for once, he didn’t want that. “Look at me, I said,” he growled, and she did, this time biting her lip as if she’d done something wrong.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to have done something wrong, if she wanted to be punished and have to apologize. But that would be too easy for a man like Max. He didn’t want to play games with her, he never had. He liked direct, honest answers. “You like being tied up, don’t you?” She could never get away with just a nod or a “Yeah.” It had to be, “Yes, Max,” or “Yes, sir.”
This time was no different. “I want you to watch me when I hit you. Don’t flinch, or I might think you don’t really like it. I might think you don’t want me to slap you, and I don’t want to do anything to you that you don’t really like. I want to know that my girl is as big a pain slut as I think she is.” All the while he spoke, his hand held her jaw in place. She couldn’t turn her head, could only choose to cast her eyes down or aside or shut them. She looked back at him, half recognizing the man before her, the big brown eyes, the smooth brown forehead, the razor-sharp teeth almost hidden behind his lips.
Gotta Have It Page 12
