by Asa Akira
“So that was probably the best sex of my life!” James exclaimed, turning to face her with a giant grin that made Carla light up with delight. She skipped over to him and gave him a hug.
“That was like no other sex I’ve ever had,” she told him, looking up into his eyes.
“My friends are not even gonna believe me,” he said. “None of them have ever been with a black girl before.”
“Well, none of my friends are gonna believe I hooked up with some business dude from New York. James from New York—the city,” Carla added, smiling.
They both looked at each other almost as if trying to figure out how they’d gotten there.
“Well, I don’t mind writing you a note,” Carla proclaimed, grabbing the hotel issue pen and pad.
“Okay,” he said, chuckling. “But what do I give you?” He pulled Carla by the waist and sat in the chair next to the window, looking up at her for an answer.
“You can tell me something I don’t know!” she said cheerily.
James looked at her curiously, then smiled. “Okay,” he said. “A lot of guys think they should be able to have sex with one of every type of girl.” He said it with a touch of guilt. “My best friend who came down here with me, for example, has an ongoing list of the different chicks he’s fucked, even girlfriends. And I don’t think he’s ever fucked a black girl before. It’s too hard in New York.”
Carla was definitely surprised by this forward disclosure from the other side. She had never even thought of it like that before. A list. But Cancun Carla couldn’t say it was a bad idea. As a matter of fact, she suddenly wanted to fuck a guy of every race too.
The pair got dressed and James called a cab for her in what to her seemed like typical New York fashion. He then walked her down to the cab and they shared a long-lasting kiss before departing. She looked back at him through the taxi window, thinking how thankful she was for the best sex ever on her final day in Cancun. And for the list idea.
As Carla did her final walk of shame in Zona Hotelero, she entered her shared hotel room to find those bitches Becca and Erica had tossed her luggage out the window and into the pool. Tired and thoroughly fucked, both literally and figuratively, Carla shrugged her shoulders and sighed, calmly rationalizing the act in her head as the result of a drunken escapade. She did an about-face and plopped herself down on one of the squishy hotel couches in the main lobby and went to sleep.
Carla woke to find her hungover peers dragging their luggage to the large buses parked outside. One less thing, she thought to herself, smiling as she humorously pictured her comfy clothes floating in the pool. Her brain turned its attention to the previous night’s encounter, and a little jolt coaxed her through the crowd of teens to board one of the buses headed to el Aeropuerto de Cancun. She dragged her hands over the tops of the seats as she found the perfect one into which she could sink. She took one last look at the hotel out the window, then leaned back in her seat, smiling at the thought of the newfound slutty self she had discovered among the sparkly sand on the Mexican beaches.
FLIPPING THE SCRIPT
BY MERCEDES CARRERA
He looks blankly at his computer screen. Was he really going through with this? Seven years. Seven years of unwavering support and love. Or at least, what he thought was love. Was it love? Certainly not the love that his father showed his mother, but hell, that was a different place and a different time. Nobody loves with as much duty as an old Southern couple.
That’s a digression. After seven fucking years, that bitch had the audacity to ask him for a break? Miss Too-Good-For-Herself, Miss Bit-Role as a backup dancer in some nothing music video, thinks she can just walk away for a better deal? Steve might not be Mr. Hollywood, but he’s clearing well over an upper class income, with a Los Angeles lifestyle to boot. Successful publishing house, great home in the hills, vacations, and the lifestyle at will.
That fucking cunt.
So it’s come to this: staring blankly at AdultFunFriends.com, existential crisis and all. Jesus, this seems like something only desperate men do. It’s better than getting too involved though—that eighteen-year-old hot piece of ass who works in purchasing seems to be waving her cunt around a bit too much lately. What a headache this could be.
Here goes. Looking down the list at the Ms. Thirty- to Forty-Five-Somethings, he realizes he’s always had a thing for the MILF types. For all his good-boy image in Danville, Tennessee, Steve had certainly fucked his share of the unfulfilled housewives. Not to mention his friend’s moms. There was Sheri, mom of David, whose sales executive husband was never home … and that bitch loved to screw all over that nicely appointed home, mostly as a “Fuck you” to aforementioned rich husband. There was Donna, mom of Jack (the asshole football jock who beat him out for quarterback), and she loved to get choked and called “Daddy’s little whore.” That one had issues. There were so many more; hell, part of why Steve left that little town was to get away from horny older housewives who couldn’t stand a chance when he got bored.
Secrecy is nothing new to Steve, but this time, it’s different. Back then, that was horny teenager stuff; he’s a bona fide adult now. Two Masters’ degrees, one of them Ivy League, a house in the Hills, a successful business—and this was what it’s come to? Los Angeles is a notoriously hard place to date, everyone knows that, but by this age, his father had two kids, a mortgage, and three business locations. Yet here Steve is, logging into an infamous website like some fucking john, hoping to get laid by someone in this godforsaken town.
Now, that’s a pipe dream if there ever was one.
All right, fuck it. Here goes nothing. Steve sends his photo, credentials, and a sappy-as-shit cover letter (carefully crafted to appeal to every variety of female narcissism) to every decent MILF on the site. It’ll probably never come to anything anyway; everyone knows this site is a sausage fest punctuated with whores. But, what the fuck … If it doesn’t come through, Little Miss Eighteen might get herself the fuck of her life after all.
Not an hour goes by before he gets the first response. Her name is Staci, she’s forty-five, divorced, yoga teacher (aren’t they all), hot as fuck in the body, seems a little needy. Something, something, new age bullshit, something, something. Somehow, she doesn’t seem like someone versed in the particularities of commercial contract code and historical maritime law. Tedious to talk to, but those new age chicks are always sluts, right? But they get attached too …
Pass.
Next response is from a face-blurred Asian woman, clearly a hooker. Steve might be a lot of things, but a paying client he is not.
Delete.
Steve starts to think this is a dead end after all, when—
Amy. Twenty-eight, marketing/PR rep, new to California. Looking for a real man, none of this pansy-ass, liberal California bullshit. She likes whiskey, strong men, and a good time. This looks too good to be true. It’s gotta be, but let’s pretend it’s not. Just send her the throwaway number and see what happens.
Not long after, the call comes in. 818 area code—the Valley. Who the hell lives in the Valley? Last anyone checked, wasn’t the Valley a wasteland of porn stars and decaying aerospace companies?
A timid voice speaks. “Hello?”
“Amy?”
“Um, hi. Um, I think we talked online?”
Suddenly, this is real. What’s the catch? Gotta make sure she knows—I’m no client, just looking for a hot woman to have some fun. Shake off the Los Angeles end-of-relationship blahs.
Work? Yeah, successful. Nice car. BMW even. Her? Doesn’t matter anyway, as long as she’s cute enough.
Saturday, seven p.m. Sushi, then maybe back to her place, if all goes well. It’s a date.
Versace or Gucci? The shop gal had said the Versace was more elegant, and Gucci more avant-garde. Although, she probably just saw Steve’s Tag Heuer and was taking him for a ride. He never could get used to all the bullshit Los Angeles was full of, even ten years later.
Shirt pressed, teeth
bleached, car detailed. Amy is cuter in person. Charming, even. Comes from a small town, just another gal trying to make it in this hellhole of lost dreams. Decent family, middle class, state school degree. The kind of gal you’d have married straight out of college if you didn’t have bigger dreams and plans.
There’s something else though, something vaguely familiar, disarming yet almost docile. She needs a hug but her eyes are begging for something more. Something nasty, kinky. Steve isn’t really sure what to make of it—these days if you even look at a woman askance you’re setting yourself up for a world of legal hurt, so he puts it out of his mind.
A few Sapporos later and she’s asking, almost begging, to take Steve home. She’s got an antique record collection, a real fan of Johnny Cash. Kind of cool, in a hipster trying-too-hard kind of way. Steve’s been more into EDM himself, but that’s only because ex-girlfriend Miss Hollywood Wannabe had a real fetish for the bottle service culture. Never made sense why Los Angeles was so wrapped up in that when all the clubs closed at two a.m. anyway.
OK, here we go. Back to the Valley, which turns out to be NoHo. Okay, decent little loft. She had a roommate, but things got weird and he moved out. She lives alone now.
Good.
She’s gonna get some aged whiskey and oh, does he want a chaser?
Whatever she’s having is fine.
She’s got some interesting furniture for sure. Lots of red, kind of moody. It’s nothing like you’d expect. For some reason, she seems like the kind of gal that would have a house full of crap from that pretentious overpriced shabby-chic store in the mall, the one that mass-produces rickety rocking chairs modeled after disintegrating antiques. Instead, there’s a lot of leather and velvet, and the concrete walls are painted in some sort of silver glaze. Must have been like this before she moved in.
Strange.
She’s got whisky, ginger ale, and water. This is getting too easy, it’s almost weird. Most women in this town used their cunt as a bargaining tool unless you were paying upfront, and this gal was acting like they’d done this before. I should’ve downloaded that controversial consent app just in case.
Phil from work knew Steve was on an internet date. Maybe I should send him my location, just in case. Maybe this chick is a psycho. Steve was twice her size, but sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, he watched those late night shows about women snapping and killing men. It was always the ones you’d least expect.
She’d like to get into something more comfortable. Fine. Kind of 1950s sitcom, but seems like that’s kind of her thing, given the old records. It’s always something, some sort of pretentious procedure in this town. Nobody just fucks anymore, it’s always a show or a play or something. Why the hell did it have to work out that the best commercial law clients are in this desert of vapidity.
Something cracks like a bullwhip. What the fuck was that? He turns around to see her, head to toe, in some bullshit dominatrix getup. Whip, riding crop, ball gag, and a strap-on.
A fucking strap-on with a big black cock.
This fucking cunt. Who the hell does she think she is? Fuck, the men in this town might be a bunch of pussy-ass bitches, but Steve wasn’t some weak asshole who wanted to take it up the ass. This was offensive. In fact, downright fucking degrading.
Is it not enough, the degrees, the business, the income, the charming good looks, the Southern charm? Is that what she wants? She wants to see some pussy bend over and take it up the ass? She was in the right town, but not him, and not now. Jesus, this was why Los Angeles women were known for being head cases.
She winds her way over to him, mimicking her best version of drag queen-cum-SS soldier, and he’s had quite enough. She flicks her wrist with her riding crop and he almost loses it—grabs her wrist and looks deep into her eyes.
“If you think you’re going to play out your twisted b.s. with me, you got another thing coming, sweetheart. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Aha. She finally realizes she’s in over her head.
He isn’t some Los Angeles faggot who wants to take it up the ass from a chick in cheap vinyl or anyone else. She says she wants a man, a whisky-drinking, Johnny Cash-listening, real man and this is the shit she pulls?
He’s angry.
He’s still holding her wrist and he starts backing into her.
She’s been doing this, working on the side, giving it up the ass to men and making them call her Mistress for $200 an hour. Somewhere along the way, she forgot they don’t all like this. She forgot that not every man she meets has a mommy issue and not every asshole she meets online gets his kicks from relinquishing control to a marketing rep from a small town dressed up in pleather.
She’s practically panting. “Please don’t go. Please.”
The disgust he feels is intense enough to be felt as passion by the uninitiated. Something changes. If this bitch wants to be in control, let’s show her what it feels like to be controlled.
Why is every fucking woman always testing him? Why? It’s always something. And when the rubber meets the road, for all the respect he gives and the support of the feminist movement he’s outwardly shown (albeit all the while secretly resenting), they all want to be treated like whores.
All of them.
She loves it. He tells her to suck it. Fucking suck it, you filthy slut. With relief, she drops to her knees and rips at his pants. He’s not even turned on by her, but this woman is going to make up for this little stunt she tried to pull. For the first time, he realizes she, like so many others, really wants to abdicate control. His appeasement of their little whims isn’t actually giving them what they want.
He pulls off his belt, obstinately taking his sweet time. This belt is one of the complicated ones, with a counter-intuitive buckle, and he finds her frustration to be mildly amusing. Bit by bit, opening it up, until she’s clawing at his zipper and devouring his erect cock.
His cock has always been something of a secret pride of his, and he’s certainly never had any complaints. But today, he is even more proud of the girth and strength of his erection. His newfound power is felt in the increasing vigor he is experiencing by realizing he no longer has to be overpowered by women with daddy issues.
She’s taking him deep and slowly, and she starts to work faster and harder with her mouth. Messy. Sloppy. She’s realizing that her desire all along hasn’t been to be anyone’s Domme—in reality, she’s always wanted to be subordinated, to call a man “Daddy,” and be fucked in the face.
Steve grabs her by the back of the head, by the hair, and raises her up to her feet. In a moment of acquiescence, she goes partially limp and, at this moment, they both really know who is in control. And for once, they both know exactly where they’re most comfortable—him in charge, and her on her knees.
Not enough. He walks her over, holding the back of her hair, to the hipster couch with the red velvet trim. He’s looking deep into her eyes, and their depraved little tango ends when the back of her legs hit the rounded edge of the highly overpriced sofa.
Suddenly, he whips her around, and grabs her by the throat. With a whimper, she whispers “yes” in a last ditch move to pretend that her consent still actually means a damn thing. His face is against the back of her head, and she’s locked into place by his strong grip. Steve reaches down and unzips the dominatrix getup she put herself in. Fortunately, it zips right open and slips off, to where her previously bound legs are now naked in the middle, exposing her dripping wet pussy.
What a gorgeous vagina, he thinks, as he realizes she’s as wet as he is hard. Her body is aching to feel that hard cock in her, and Steve is now realizing that part of the power is to not give them everything they want of him. He teases her slowly, running the head of his cock over her moist cunt, up and down, and up between the split in her tight young ass. He slaps his penis over her—slap slap slap—and each time he does, Amy writhes in anticipation, just hoping, begging, pleading silently in her head that he’ll stick it right in.
Fina
lly, he concedes and pushes his cock through the tight pink opening of her pussy. She tightens her grip around his cock but also, in a contradictory fashion, accepts every inch of him. His hands are still on her throat and now his other arm is around her waist, both holding her up and bracing her against the rolled arm of the couch. Her legs are open wide, braced by the stiletto points of the vinyl boots she got on sale at the local stripper shop.
He’s fucking her faster and faster now, and her legs are shaking and quivering. He smiles. It’s so much, it’s too much, the feeling of being completely taken is what she’s always needed and craved. Her legs give way and she lets out a screaming orgasm—relief and ecstasy in what he recognizes as the feeling of being taken, being dominated, and for once not having to be the one in control.
Steve feels her cum all over his cock and it brings him right to the edge. Not yet, he thinks. No fucking way am I done with this experience, and it’s almost too much. He pulls out, and turns her around, still holding her firmly against his body.
He looks deep into her eyes, and sees his own passion reflected in her. Finally, he can be the strong one, no more of this hidden resentment, and finally she can submit without testing every man who crosses her path.
She goes to kiss him, and he puts his hand across her mouth. The whimper with which she responds indicates acquiescence. He walks her backwards to the body of the ornamented velvet sofa and lays her down. Coming close to her, still with his hand over her mouth, Steve’s gaze comes inches away from Amy’s. They’d be sharing the same breath if his hand weren’t in the way.
He thrusts his still throbbing cock deep into her willing pussy and fucks her with even more passion now, looking deeply into her eyes with each movement. He is going deeper, longer, faster, until she can’t take it, her body writhing beneath him, quivering, shaking, until it seems as though she’s lost all control.
He can’t take it any longer either. It’s time now. He knows he shouldn’t but fuck it, it’s time to do something he’d usually not do, which is in keeping with everything else this evening. He shakes, and the power of his orgasm surges through him as he releases his hot, full load deep into her still-quivering cunt. She yelps, knowing she’s being filled with his hot creamy cum, and just at that moment, he releases his hand and finally kisses her, looking deeply into her eyes.
