Anything for You

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  LIKE RIDING A BICYCLE

  BORROWER BEWARE

  ANYTHING SHE WANTED

  TAILS

  TEPPANYAKI

  GREASING THE WHEELS

  INTERVIEW

  I TEND TO HER

  APPLE BLOSSOMS

  BIG NIGHT

  THE GUEST STAR

  EXPOSURE

  NEW GAMES ON A SATURDAY NIGHT

  NOTES FROM HER MASTER

  LAP IT UP

  WHAT IF

  PETTING ZOO

  NORMAL

  EVERYTHING SHE’D ALWAYS WANTED

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION:

  AS KINKY AS THEY WANT TO BE

  My wife is on her knees.” That is how the first story in this book, “Like Riding a Bicycle,” by Lisabet Sarai, starts off, and in some ways, it’s why I don’t think I even need to introduce these stories, although I am about to. What I like most about this book is that its authors, in each of these nineteen titillating stories, assume that the reader is already aware of the world of BDSM. That’s not to say that if you’re a curious newcomer to the world of bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism you shouldn’t keep turning the pages, but just to point out that there is an ease with which these couples embrace their love of kink, in its varied forms, even when they are uneasy about the particular acts they are about to engage in. That push/pull, love/ hate relationship with what turns us on is part of the beauty of BDSM and is a recurring theme here. In the course of these erotic vignettes, you will indeed learn about why, say, someone would want to be “forced” onto her knees, or bent over a bed or used as a plaything.

  In these stories, you will find pain, and pleasure. You will find service and devotion. You will find Masters and Mistresses and curious onlookers—and so much more. You will find a dinner party where food is used for foreplay, and learn what CFNM stands for (hint: Clothed Female, Naked Male). But more than any particular scene or setup you’ll read about—and they are quite dazzling in their ingenuity—what stays with me the most from these stories is the longevity of the couples, the way they can read each others’ moans and sighs and screams so well, discerning a lover’s desires based on years of practice.

  One of my biggest pet peeves about BDSM erotica is when a story leaps too quickly into the “action” and doesn’t give enough insight into who the characters are, what makes them tick, what makes them want to be bound, gagged, stripped naked, exposed, ordered around—or be the one doing those things. In every one of these imaginative, racy stories, you will find out why each part of the couple is there, what they get out of their relationship, what pushes their buttons, what animates their kink. You’ll find anal penetration, asparagus sex, an interview with a Mistress and her most eager slave, role-playing, spanking, bondage, exhibitionism and much more. Fantasies are fulfilled, sometimes on command, sometimes in ways their creators never could have foreseen. Most of all, though, what comes through is the passion, caring, and commitment these couples have for one another, the love behind (and alongside) the lust, which is what enables them to do all the wild, wanton things they do.

  In the closing story, “Everything She’d Always Wanted,” by Ariel Graham, you will see the word fear over and over; the protagonist, Gwen, also experiences her share of panic. Her journey deep into the world of a Dominant/submissive relationship is captured in expert prose. Graham writes, “She’d adapted quickly, something in her recognizing what she’d been searching for.” When I wrote earlier that there’s a comfort with the topic of BDSM, what I meant is precisely what is shown so dramatically and beautifully in that story. What happens in it is Gwen’s idea, as the title suggests, but she is still nervous, wary, uncertain if her biggest fantasy is actually one she is capable of going through with. It’s this very fear that drives her, that arouses her, that pushes her to keep going. The only thing you have to listen to is David, Gwen thinks to herself at one point. She has to take a leap of faith to get from here to there, and when she does, a whole new sexual world opens up for her.

  The same could be said of the other characters, men and women, tops and bottoms, you’ll read about in these pages. In a sense they all have to take a leap of faith and trust their partners to guide them, whether it’s Dan in D. L. King’s “Big Night,” who gets a very special fortieth birthday party, or the narrator of Sinclair Sexsmith’s, “The Guest Star,” who watches as her girlfriend takes a new lover, or Jack in “New Games on a Saturday Night” by Teresa Noelle Roberts, who is used to girls who know their way around the business end of a paddle, but has what he thinks he knows turned on its head by a novice, Serena. For him, “the turn-on wasn’t so much giving the pain as being trusted to give just the right amount of pain.”

  I hope these stories will move you as deeply as they’ve moved me. They are rich, varied and incredibly naughty. Many of them have made me wish I could slip inside the body and mind of a given character and act out his or her devilishly dirty delights. All of them have shown me just how powerful a force kink can be, how it can bring couples closer together and show them the true depths of trust and desire they can plumb.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  New York City

  LIKE RIDING A BICYCLE

  Lisabet Sarai

  To GCS, of course

  My wife is on her knees.

  I peer over the top of the Sunday Times, admiring the elegant curve of her spine and the fullness of her ass. Late afternoon sun strikes glints of gold from her tawny curls, which are swept into a haphazard tumble on top of her head, leaving her neck naked and vulnerable. She sits back on her heels. Her palms rest on her bare thighs as she scans the titles on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. It’s been a warm day, the windows are open and she’s wearing nothing but an Amnesty International T-shirt and gym shorts. Her ample tits sway visibly under the loose shirt. My cock twitches at the sight.

  “Jon? Have you seen our copy of The White Hotel? I promised I’d lend it to Clara.”

  Her face is earnest, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses and her lips set in a determined line that accentuates the creases at their corners. I don’t mind; I have my own wrinkles and furrows, more extensive than hers. I figure that they are marks of success. We’ve made it this far.

  She thinks I’m reading, that I haven’t heard her. With a petulant little sigh, she turns back to the neat ranks of hardcover volumes. Her back arches a bit, thrusting her breasts forward, and blood races into my cock. In seconds, I’m fully hard. But that’s not all. Power rises, too, the old sense of supreme control, surprising and delighting me. I haven’t felt this in a long time.

  Setting the paper down, I flex my fingers. I’m still strong, or as strong as I need to be. In the end, it’s not physical strength that’s important.

  My wife kneels by the bookcase, unaware that she has adopted the position I taught her, so many years ago. She has, perhaps, forgotten. I will make her remember.

  “Mariah!” She starts at my voice—not at the volume but at the tone. Plus I have called her by her secret name. Our friends and family, her colleagues, know her as plain Mary. Only in the shadowed world of our fantasies does she become Mariah.

  I watch the emotions play across her familiar features: confusion, disbelief, a hint of fear. “Jon?” she begins. “What…?”

  “Silence, Mariah. Do not speak unless I ask you a direct question.”

  “But…” She’s beginning to understand, but she’s still fighting the notion. I can see her mentally reviewing all the tasks she has remaining on today’s to-do list.

  “Did I ask you a questio
n?”

  “No…Sir.” In that fraction of a second delay between “No” and “Sir,” my heart sinks. What am I doing? Those days are gone. Then the honorific rolls off her tongue and my spirit soars. She remembers. My cock throbs inside my jeans. Her muscles relax. She bows her head, letting go of her rebellion, and I think for a moment I’ll shoot right then and there, like the horny grad student I was when we met.

  “Get over here, girl.” My fifty-three-year-old, full-professor wife seems to not find the epithet as ridiculous as it sounds to me. She crawls across the carpet, grasping my intent almost before I do. Her lovely fat ass (about which she constantly complains) is in the air. Her breasts swing beneath her. She makes her slow way to my feet, then rises to her knees once again.

  Her cheeks are flushed. A barely perceptible sheen of sweat dampens her forehead. A lock of hair has worked itself loose to curl seductively under her pointed chin. Her hazel eyes meet mine for an instant. I can read her excitement and uncertainty. I nod and give in to the smile twitching at my lips. She exhales the breath she’s been holding and lowers her gaze, awaiting my next command.

  Power burns through me, raw and smooth as a swallow of fine scotch. What shall I require next? I want to see her naked; should I tear her clothes off, cut them away, or make her strip for me? And then what? Alternatives fill my imagination, a delirious whirl of possibilities. I didn’t plan this. I have no script.

  I try to focus, to slow my own breathing and quiet my racing heart. Outwardly calm, inwardly quivering with arousal, I rise from my chair. “Stand up, Mariah.”

  She hastens to obey, stepping her feet apart and clasping her hands at the small of her back. I doubt it’s even conscious. It seems that she’s quicker to reclaim the old knowledge than I am.

  Towering over her, I remove her glasses and set them aside, out of harm’s way. Then I pull her shirt over her head and toss it into a corner. Her opulent breasts sag a bit more than they used to, but the plump nipples are as juicy and brazen as ever. Who’d believe they’d nursed a child? I can’t resist the urge to give them a vicious twist. Mariah gasps but otherwise remains silent.

  “No bra, slut?” I tip her face up to mine, reveling in her embarrassment.

  “No, Sir. You told me to always be ready for you.” Indeed, I had given her those instructions, a thousand years ago, when we were first discovering each other.

  “Quite so. And are you wearing panties?” Without waiting for a reply, I stretch the elastic and push the shorts down over her ample hips. The rich scent of her pussy wells up from between her parted thighs. I slide one finger into her slick folds and wriggle it deep into her body. She shudders with the pleasure of it. Her knees go slack as she struggles to open her thighs and give me better access.

  I snatch my hand from her cunt and slap her left breast. “Slut! A couple of simple commands and you’re soaked.” I suck on my finger, savoring Mariah’s salty ocean flavor. “What a kinky girl you are!” I want to sink down and bury my face in the damp thicket of her pubic hair, to eat her until she writhes and screams. Not yet, though. My Dom’s sense of timing is coming back, and I know this is too soon.

  Instead, I turn her around and land symmetrical slaps on each of her asscheeks. “Into the bedroom. Now!” She scampers away like a kid.

  I take my time undressing. With my rigid cock pressed against the zipper, it’s not easy getting my pants off. I swell even more when I imagine her, bare-assed and waiting for me to use her.

  Naked and barefoot, I pad into my office and retrieve the key to the toy cabinet from the locked drawer in my desk. I feel wild, crazy with lust. Young, too. How long has it been? Ten years? More? We started to slack off when Anne was born. Outrageous demands. Little sleep. No privacy with the au pair always around. And we were so busy with our careers. I made vice president. Mary got tenure. We never stopped having sex, but kinky scenes required more energy than we seemed to be able to muster.

  As Anne grew up, went to college and then on to grad school, the notion of playing our old power games felt more and more absurd. Somehow we forgot the magic of complementary fantasy that first brought us together.

  But you never really forget. It’s like riding a bicycle. Get back on and the rhythms return. Your legs pump, transmitting power to the wheels. You achieve the impossible, balancing on the edge, letting the wind rush by as you speed toward your destination.

  I enter the bedroom as quietly as I can, curious about what I’ll find. I didn’t give Mariah any instructions. What will she decide to do? I find her on the bed, with her face to the mattress, knees pulled to her belly and ass in the air, presented to me. One of my favorite positions.

  The sight fills me with evil glee, but I make her wait. I approach the trunk where we hide our implements of torture and delight, tossing aside the pillows that disguise it as a window seat. The lock is stiff but eventually gives way. The lid squeaks a bit as I raise it. A choked exclamation comes from the figure on the bed. “Be still, Mariah,” I command, putting as much steel in my voice as I can.

  Inside—oh, what bounty! The warm, complex smell of well-cured leather that rises from the interior has a Pavlovian effect on me. My cock surges and my balls tighten. I fight against the urge to let go, to let the excitement carry me away. I’ve got to hold on, for Mariah’s sake as much as my own.

  I trail my fingers over the cuffs, the clips, the chains and the neat coils of rope. Hoods, gags, dildos, paddles, crops and floggers fill the chest like long-buried treasure. What shall I choose to torment and please my sweet, submissive wife?

  I glance back at the motionless figure on the bed. The rose-colored lips of her pussy peek out between her spread thighs. Even from here, I can see them glistening with her juices.

  “Any requests, slut?” I ask, mischief welling up to replace sentiment.

  “No, Sir. Whatever pleases you, Sir.”

  I’d love to suspend her. I glance up to the ceiling, verifying that the hook I installed two decades ago when we bought the house is still in place. But the spreader might put too much strain on her arthritic hip, and without it, she’d move around too much. I take out the violet wand, remembering the trails of sparks I used to coax from her moist skin, the way they lit the darkened bedroom as she jumped and writhed. Better, perhaps, to start with something more basic, to ease ourselves back into the game.

  Finally, I select two pair of plush-lined leather cuffs, a black velvet blindfold, a purple butt plug that looks like some obscene eggplant, and my favorite whip—the signal whip with the braided green-and-black handle, genuine kangaroo hide, Mariah’s gift on our tenth anniversary. I toss the mask, cuffs and plug onto the bed and sweep the whip through the air. It emits a whistle and a gratifying “crack” before it lands on the bed. Mariah tries unsuccessfully to stifle her moan.

  “You just can’t be silent, can you?” The harshness in my voice surprises me and elicits a whimper from my cringing wife. “Do I need to gag you?”

  “No—no, Sir, please don’t do that. I’ll be quiet, I promise.” In fact, gags are one of Mariah’s limits. They terrify her, as does anything related to suffocation. Still, it makes an effective threat.

  “Never mind. I’m going to make you scream.” I’m brusque as I slip the blindfold over her tangled curls. I fasten a pair of cuffs around her ankles. “Hands down by your sides.” When she obeys, I cuff her wrists and clip her corresponding hands and feet together. “Too tight?”

  “No, it’s fine, Sir.”

  I pinch her butt, leaving a pair of livid marks on her pale skin. “Fine? I think maybe you’re enjoying this too much.” I dabble my fingers in her soaked cunt. Her muscles clench around me. I smack her butt with my other hand and she actually giggles.

  “Oh, you’re in trouble now, missy,” I tell her, trying hard not to laugh myself. She winces when she hears the drawer open and the burp of the lube spurting into my hand. “Yes, that’s right. I’m going to skewer your ass with a plug the size of Texas and then I’m going
to whip you till you bleed. You won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

  I proceed to make good on the first part of my threat, slathering the bulging purple device with slippery gel. It’s about two inches in diameter at its widest point. I know that Mariah can take more—I buggered her with a bedpost once—but that was a long time ago. I rub the tapered end back and forth across her anus, working to relax her muscles. Then I push and twist at the same time.

  “Aye!” she screams, as the fat bulb breaches her sphincter and settles into her rectum. “Ow!”

  I don’t wait for her to get used to the sensation. Grabbing the single-tail whip, I swing it once or twice, trying to get used to the heft. All at once I’m consumed with doubt. What if I really hurt her? An incompetent whipping could do serious damage.

  I slash the thong through the air once more and slam it down on the bed next to her bare feet. Her toes curl as the force is transmitted through the mattress. I’m not sure I can really control where the stroke lands. The whip whistles and cracks above her head—threatening but ultimately harmless.

  The pause becomes uncomfortable. I’ve lost the rhythm of the scene.

  “Sir?” Mariah sounds tentative, questing. “Is something wrong?”

  Anger and disappointment rise together. “What? Why do you ask, girl?” I growl. Tears actually prick my eyes, me, the big bad Dom. I should have known you can’t bring back the past. But it seemed, for a while, like it actually might be possible to recapture the magic. It felt so very right…

  “Well, you said you were going to flog me, Sir.” Mariah’s alto voice is strong and confident. She’s not afraid to tell me, in her sub code, what she wants. She, at least, has no doubts.

  “Are you trying to tell me what to do?” I roar. “Are you topping from below?”

  “Of course not, Sir. It’s up to you. You should do whatever pleases you.” She sighs. The plug in her ass twitches. “I’m yours, Sir—yours completely.”