She laughed, her mouth wide open, and I felt her hand on my thigh. “Oh, I think you’ve proven you can handle me out there.” I smiled but did nothing. I sat there, ignoring how turned on I was. Suddenly she got up from the floor and grabbed her bag. “I’m going to get cleaned up. Are you coming out with us tonight?” I climbed out of the chair and grabbed a towel. “Not sure. I’m pretty wasted.” She took a towel from the stack and gave me the look that had made me powerless.
She was drinking her usual vodka and lime on the rocks. I watched the tight green skirt hugging her as she leaned into the bar for another round. She caught my attention and all I could think about was kissing her. She leaned in and put her arm around my neck and I was nearly paralyzed.
She had done it to me over and over again. Last winter after a show she pulled me close, her lips right against my ear to tell me something, but her tongue lingered in my ear and I was instantly dripping in my boxers. This time she had me pressed up against the bar, her arm around my neck and her face nearly touching mine before she asked me, using her sexiest voice, to buy the next round. It was after two. I told her I was leaving. She pleaded for me to stay and drink but my dignity finally said no. I smiled and she kissed me on the cheek. I walked for a block toward a small park where kids were playing bicycle polo. I found a bench and searched for my cigarettes. I never even heard her approach. She handed me my cigarettes and said, “You left these on the bar.”
She sat down next to me, placing herself under my arm. I felt her hand on my thigh and couldn’t stop my cock from getting hard. She continued to stroke my thigh and then slid her palm up against my balls. I didn’t dare look at her. I didn’t want to ruin anything. She struggled slightly with my zipper. I cursed my pants a thousand times until I heard the familiar sound and I felt her warm hand massaging my balls, then moving up my shaft. Her lips slid up my neck and she whispered in my ear, “I think you’re wetter than me.” I stared out at the guys playing bicycle polo, not wanting to explode in her hand as she massaged my hard-on.
She took her hand out of my pants and kissed me hard on the mouth, then stood up. I followed her around to the stone wall on the other side of the park. She pulled me into her, and we started kissing. I could still taste vodka on her lips. Her hands were pressing against me, nails digging into my skin through my shirt. I held her breast, hard nipple against my palm, and she moaned into my mouth through our kiss. She pulled on my hair hard enough to stop me from kissing her. “I want you to eat my pussy.” I didn’t know what to say. My cock was throbbing. I couldn’t speak. She slapped me hard and my mouth fell open. She slid her hand down the front of her skirt and fingered herself before tracing her wet finger around my lips and repeating, “Eat my pussy.” She pulled up her skirt to reveal her shaved sex. I stood with my aching hard-on, staring at her. She slapped me again, leaving my face stinging, then again.
I grabbed her hard around the waist and lifted her up onto the wall. I slid my shoulders under her knees. Her heels were digging into my sides and back. I had my hands under her ass, lifting her to my lips. She spread herself open for my tongue. I could hear the bicycle kids in the background as my tongue darted in and out of her pussy. I took her clit into my mouth and sucked hard. She tasted fantastic. When she came, her entire body shook, and I nearly lost my grip on her body.
She slid forward until her heels found the pavement. Her mouth pressed against mine, her tongue searching my mouth for her own come. Her hand was pressing hard against my cock now, pulling and rubbing on my aching shaft. She asked me if I was ready, and I said nothing. She slapped me across the face and repeated herself. I still couldn’t speak, so she clamped her hand around my neck below my jaw as her other hand was squeezing my balls. I grunted and nodded my agreement. Her legs slightly straddled my thigh as she pumped my cock several times. I could barely see; I felt dizzy; I felt amazing and then I felt my legs almost collapse as I heard the sound of my come landing on the pavement. She continued to stroke my cock and the rest of my come filled her hand. When she was done, I licked her fingers as she moaned eagerly in my ear.
She lit me a cigarette and we shared it, leaning on each other and the wall. I took a long pull on the cigarette and joked, “The rest of the band is going to be jealous.”
I’M ON FIRE
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Who doesn’t like a little hot wax drizzled on them? Okay, I know plenty of people don’t, but I say, more candles for me. I’m lucky to have a girlfriend with a perfectly complementary kinky mind. Ciara’s an artist, so it makes sense she’d love to decorate my body. We’ve even been photographed for a local art gallery, me coated in swirls of color, painted by her with the special candles we buy just for wax play.
Last Friday night, she surprised me. Monday is usually our date night, a way of reclaiming a normally mundane weeknight. But it had been a long week for both of us, and she knew I needed something special. In our house, that meant she texted me on her way home telling me to shower, get naked, spread the tarp out on the bed and wait for her. I did all that, although I couldn’t resist making myself come in the shower in anticipation.
I dried off and lay on the bed, goose bumps forming. That’s what Ciara does to me, even when she’s not around. I’ve never had such an explosive connection with anyone, which is what’s allowed me to go so far with her. She’s tied me up and “made” me come using a Hitachi Magic Wand, and used a butt plug and vibrator on me at once. She’s fisted me and felt me up in public. She’s done what feels like just about everything—and trust me, I reciprocate and love every minute!—but whenever I start to think there are no more sexual frontiers for us to forge, she finds a way to let me know there are.
That’s what she did last Friday. She entered the room and told me to spread myself out in an X. “I’m not going to tie you up, because you don’t need to be tied up or down, you just need to learn to take it. You can take it, can’t you, Amanda? Because if you can’t I might have to go find a girl who can and make you watch me play with her.” She wasn’t serious—or at least, she’d never do that without my permission. Once in a while, we invite another woman home with us, but it’s always on a case by case basis. Talking about it, though? Teasing each other with the naughty possibilities ? That’s a surefire way to get both of us off. I’ll send her photos of naked women I find online and she’ll tell me all the things she wants to try with them. It’s our favorite form of foreplay.
I followed her instructions to the letter, smiling as she approached me, running her hands up and down my body. That alone was enough to send chills through me. “I got your favorite color,” she said, revealing a long candle, followed by a few others in various shades from light violet to deep purple. “I’d put one in your pussy, but then I wouldn’t get to coat you.” I moaned, but when I reached for her, she clucked her tongue. “Did I tell you to move? Only good girls get what I’m going to give you, and this time I have a surprise.”
I have a love/hate relationship with surprises, but I sometimes have a love/hate relationship with submission. Obeying is an innate part of my makeup, and yet I also like to be a brat, to defy, talk back, push the limits just to see what will happen. I’m usually the girl who asks what the surprise is, even though I know no true surprise gift giver would ever give away their secret that easily.
“You’re going to have to stay still, or you might get hurt,” she said with a serious tone. “Do you understand, Amanda?” She likes to repeat my name when we’re playing, like repetition in poetry where the same word pops up over and over, in her case a linguistic trick designed to make it stand out in sharp relief.
I knew a nod wouldn’t suffice, so I said, “Yes, I understand.”
Ciara leaned down and looked intently into my eyes. “Are you ready?” Another trick question, because how could I possibly consent to being ready for something if I didn’t know what it was? But her simple-sounding question went deeper than its surface meaning. She was asking if I was ready to submit ful
ly to her, to trust her to keep me safe, to place my body literally in her hands.
“Yes, Ciara, I’m ready,” I said. She stood and walked toward our dresser and in those few moments I put all my mindfulness practices to good use, focusing on the sensation of being bound not with tape or cuffs but with words, with trust, with love. I was going to stay still and she was going to do…something that involved purple candles.
Ciara returned with a glint in her eye. “Kiss it,” she said, offering my lips a fat purple candle. I puckered up and gave it a kiss, and was rewarded with one from her lips. Then she was pouring a liquid over my skin. It wasn’t thick like lube or massage oil. I shut my eyes and focused on the sensation and heard her say, “Now remember to stay still, okay? Close your eyes and you can open them when I tell you to.”
I shut them and waited. I heard the click of her Bettie Page lighter opening and the sound of her starting to ignite it. I thought I detected the sound of the candlewick catching fire. I definitely felt the pinpricks of heat as the wax began to paint my inner thighs. Even after dozens of scenes like this, my first instinct is still always to close my legs, but I waited, knowing the best was yet to come. I waited as the wax crept its way up my thigh, dripping onto my hip, falling along my pubic bone, dancing so close to my most tender point. The heat came close and soon the drops were landing right near my clit. I bit my lip and clutched the sheets, willing myself to relax. I breathed as deeply as I could even as tears formed. Ciara moved on to my breasts, first streaking them then coating them with layers of wax.
I was still processing that when I felt a whoosh of something new. “Open your eyes,” Ciara commanded, and when I did, I saw the flames dancing across my torso. It seemed like an optical illusion; they were there, and then they weren’t, seeming to race across my body.
“I’m on fire,” I said, dumbfounded, incredulous that what I was seeing didn’t feel like I’d thought it would. My skin’s fire dance ended moments later, and soon a vibrator was buzzing against my clit while Ciara’s fingers slammed into me.
“Move as much as you want.” I did, turning all the way over on the tarp to shamelessly fuck her fingers, to greedily grab them and sink them deep inside me. I screamed as I came, set ablaze in a completely new way, my heart engulfed by the kind of flames nothing can put out.
SHOULD YOU EVER BE ALLOWED TO FEEL THIS GOOD?
Lillian Ann Slugocki
I’ve always loved the virgin. She’s so easy to perform. The text is so secure. It is unchanging. Predictable. But it’s rare when I play the whore. You ask yourself: should you ever be allowed to feel this good? You’d think the choice would be easy, but it’s not. It’s not an easy choice.
It’s not easy dressing up in high heels and waiting for your lover. It’s not easy pacing around your small New York apartment, candles guttering in every room. It’s not easy knowing that tonight is the night—the mask of Lilith, like a shadow on the bed.
I picked it up. I put it down. I tried it on. I took it off. I fixed my makeup. I put on music. I avoided the bedroom, the mask, the other, but not for long. When the buzzer rang at ten p.m., I swept the mask off my bed and put it on. Done. My heart was pounding.
When he walked in the door he said, “Turn around.” And so I did. He said, “Turn around again.” And so I did, but more slowly, with more grace, more panache, more sex. It was starting. It was beginning and I couldn’t stop it—the roller coaster before it begins its fatal drop. He smelled like cotton candy, like sweat, like aftershave. Lilith appeared, and I fell in love all over again.
Should you ever be allowed to feel this good?
I didn’t notice or care that I was stripped down to just high heels, that he had placed a mirror next to the bed. I wondered. I wondered who we were looking at. I wondered if we were voyeurs, a sideshow for ourselves. I saw calves and thighs, tangled up with black boots and blonde hair. I saw us dangling at the top of a carnival ride, complete with screaming woman, gaudy lighting, and a man desperate for orgasm. Dante finally meets Beatrice, but alas she is a witch.
We came at the same time.
He jumped out of bed, threw open the bedroom window, his chest heaving—“Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ!”—his naked body covered in sweat. And me? I was a dream of a girl. I was a girl inside of a girl. I was no one. I was nothing but black sky and blue stars. The shoes had flown off, but was that still my smile in the mirror? He blew out the candles, jumped back into bed and we both passed out. The next morning, I only knew one thing: Do not look at your body.
He got up to shower. Even when I was alone, I still did not look. I lay hidden beneath the sheets. I knew I was wounded. He knew this, too—don’t look. He knew this because after his shower, he threw on his clothes, kissed my cheek and left. I heard my door close. I heard his footsteps in the hall, going down the stairs, out the door, then onto the street.
When he was gone, I finally looked at myself—and saw that my legs were tattooed up and down with bite marks. As if a rabid dog or a wolf had gotten control of me, sunk his incisors deep into my flesh, and wouldn’t let go. I needed a rabies shot, antibiotics and cold compresses. I needed to see a doctor, a shrink, a priest, a shaman. I needed to call my mother but she was dead.
I couldn’t walk for a week. He never called. I washed the sheets, put away the mask and threw out the candles. Life went back to normal except for this: I know she’ll be back.
Should you ever be allowed to feel this good?
Yes.
THE FINAL CHALLENGE
Heather Day
The list Jason had left for me was on the fridge, curling slightly at the edges after a week of handling. Triumphant lines were crossed through nine of its ten items.
As I read through it once again, I thought it was just as well that no unexpected visitors had dropped round since Jason left on his business trip the previous week, or they would have gotten quite a shock. No innocent list of groceries or chores here, this was a ten-point list of sexy challenges for me to complete in my lover’s absence. Every time I completed one, I was to text him. I loved to think of him furtively checking his phone during important meetings; Task 5 completed, he’d read, and know that I’d just had a wank to one of his porn DVDs. The thought made me smirk; naughtiness is such a turn-on.
It had been a great game and, not for the first time, I was very impressed by Jason’s imagination and sense of adventure. We were ridiculously sexually compatible and, three months into our relationship, the honeymoon period had shown no signs of slowing down. We were both upset that he had to go away for work, but the list I’d found hidden in my underwear drawer after he’d left made me feel closer to him than ever. I’d achieved the first task, watching myself masturbate in the mirror, the very night he’d left and it had been unbelievably hot.
Most of the tasks had been relatively simple; I’d enjoyed a slippery orgasm in the shower, worn crotchless panties all day at work (leading to a highly inappropriate, almost permanent state of arousal around the office) and there were some very compromising shots of me on my digital camera, waiting for Jason’s return. I desperately wanted to cross that final item off the list and make it a full set before his return the next day, but I wasn’t convinced I could do this one. No matter how much I stared at them, the words remained the same, daring me to try to carry them out: Make yourself come without using your hands.
I’d already considered using my favorite vibrator—not technically my hands—to make myself come, but had decided that cheating would be against the spirit of the game. I would give it my very best shot and, even though I wasn’t convinced the task was actually possible, if I failed it would be with my honor intact. I took a deep breath and marched into the bedroom.
I drew the curtains, shed my clothes and set some rock music playing quietly. As I sank into our comfy bed, the sheets cool against my bare skin, I started to touch myself, everywhere but between my legs. I caressed my sides, my stomach and my breasts, all the while sighing dramatically and arc
hing my back as if I had an audience. I’d never done it this way before; I like to get straight down to business and usually give in to the urge to stroke my clit straightaway.
I started to get more turned on as I gave my sensitive nipples some attention, rubbing them in tiny circles with my thumbs. The trouble was, as my nipples came to life, so too did my clit. It pulsated with a desire that was incredibly difficult to ignore and the longer it went on, the harder it was to stop my hands from sliding down my thighs….
No. I wasn’t going to give in; I was going to do this properly. I lay with my hands behind my back so that I couldn’t touch myself and wondered what I could do to build the nagging tickle in my pussy to an orgasmic crescendo.
On impulse, I tried some deep breathing that I’d once learned at a relaxation class. Instead of visualizing a lotus flower opening, however, I imagined warm, soft hands stroking me all over—two, three, then even four pairs of hands. The tactic seemed to work. I felt less frantic and started to enjoy the experience of feeling massively turned on without being in a rush to come. I decided to slip on my eye mask so that I could imagine the hands were really there, one pair massaging my feet and tickling my soles while another pair stroked the skin of my inner thighs. Pretty soon, my imagination took over and I swore I could actually feel delicate fingers toying with my clit the way Jason does when he’s in the mood to tease. I heard myself make breathy noises of pleasure.
In my mind, I added a phantom tongue to the phantom hands and as it lapped energetically at my nipples, the very real arousal in my body became more overwhelming than I ever thought possible without an actual touch. The pleasure coursing through my veins grew and grew as the imaginary assailants worshipped my body….
The Big Book of Orgasms Page 23
