Women in Lust (3 page)

My pussy wants to know, desperately, why he’s making me cling to nothing and come apart for so little.

But I know why. I always know why. It’s because he wants me to guess.

I try
moist towelette,
but he just laughs. He laughs as high and tight as I feel, and tells me, “Wrong, Vy, so wrong. Try again.”

And then something as soft as breath stirs over my right nipple, so almost-not-there, it’s excruciating. My entire body gravitates toward it, but as I’m canting one way he somehow gets over me and tickles the other nipple.

Feather
, I think, and say so.

“Come on, come on,” I say. “It’s a feather, a feather, I win!”

But either the guess isn’t right or he’s a liar. I think he’s a liar. He’s doing this on purpose, so I’ll never win. I’ll have to
stay blindfolded forever, wet and wanting, clit standing stiff and proud and just waiting for him to have some mercy.

However, I know he won’t. It’ll be something coy, against that tender place. Something slim and barely there, and made out of ice so that I tear and pull at the bedsheets, when he finally presses it to my bud.

But he’s a changeable, tricky sort, because instead, he trails something stuttering and sticky over my right cheek. Really he shouldn’t have, because it’s far too easy to guess. I can feel him shifting, very close to my head. I can smell the musky scent of him, made strong with precome and the sweat that will definitely be glossing his belly now.

It’ll be pooling at the hollow of his back; behind his knees, too, I know, because I saw it all when I did this exact same thing to him. He had trembled, though, and I don’t think I’m trembling, yet. He had called out hoarsely, and begged me before I even got to crueler things, but I stay silent, apart from the guessing.

In fact, I think he’s trembling more than I am, and making more noise, even with the roles reversed. His cock slithers over my cheek, too jerkily. The pillow feels like it’s juddering under my head, and I wonder if that’s due to the knee he’s got pressed into it.

I think about him strung as taut as I currently am, and a flood of wetness makes itself known between my legs. My clit jumps, my belly fills up with tingles, and when he skirts a little bit too close, I stick out my tongue and catch the tip of his cock, just as I knew I would.

I can never resist, or play the game properly. Not when he tastes so salty and slick. Not when he groans so prettily for me, low and throaty.

Guess
, I think.
Guess what I’m going to do next.

I think he goes with
She’s going to try to suck my cock
, because he moves away after a moment of reluctance, calling me a bad girl as he does. He makes an effort to force his words into a true reproach, too, but they waver too much for that. There’s an up and down note in them that sounds a little like laughter, and a lot like arousal.

I love him for those twin things. They go together so well, though I never thought they would. He has a bright, sharp grin like a curving knife, and when he flashes it at me I’d do anything. I’d spread my pussy for him, my ass, just anything, anything he wanted.

I can tell what he wants, right now. He says, hoarsely, “Guess what this is.”

And I resist the urge to complain. I can hear his hand all slick on his cock, back and forth, back and forth, and I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to come all over me, before we’re even halfway through playing.

No self-restraint. I’d call him a disappointment, but then again he knows how much I love hearing him go at himself. He’s moaning before he’s gotten to the third stroke, and then he pants out dirty words for me to delight in.

“Oh, god, you look so hot all tied up like that. Really hot. Spread your legs so I can look at your pussy.”

It’s not really part of the game, and my legs are kind of spread anyway, but I do it just the same. I spread them as wide as they’ll go, and then picture him staring hungrily at my glistening folds—because, by god, are they ever glistening. I can feel my wetness sliding into the crack of my ass, and everything down there feels sticky and swollen.

Even if I couldn’t tell that myself, I’d know it from his reaction. He grunts, gutturally, and that slick shuttling sound speeds up—oh, does he really think I can’t guess what he’s doing? I
hope he understands that I can always guess, when it comes to this particular thing. He doesn’t even need to touch me.

I always know when he’s masturbating. It’s kind of how we came together in the first place, because we were friends and then one day we went camping, and by chance we had to share a tent. He thought he was being sly, in the darkness, in the middle of the night.

But I guessed right off what he was doing. I knew even while dreaming, as my unconscious mind led me down naughty paths filled with hot guys moaning, breathlessly; hot guys licking their palms then circling their big, hard cocks…oh. He knows what I like, all right.

Could be that this half of the game isn’t even about guessing, really. It’s about knowing. Knowing what will drive me wild and make me strain against the silly scarves he’s got around my wrists. I tell him to do it louder, louder, but of course he doesn’t obey. He gets his voice low and tight, and I have to fight to hear him.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, look how wet and swollen you are. Oh, yeah, I just want to fuck that tight little cunt.”

He’s a bastard—though no more of a bastard than I am. I made him guess with my pussy all over his face. I made him guess until he cried—though only because I know that’s what he likes.

We’re too wrapped up in each other to ever play this game properly, now. Why guess, when you know?

And he does know. He tells me he’s going to come all over my clit, which is definitely not part of the rules. He’s not supposed to
tell
me what he’s going to do, but he does so anyway, because he gets how much it turns me on. My hips buck without my permission, and I make a strangled sound when usually I can stay silent no matter what.

His come all over my pussy? All over my clit? Just thinking about it makes me want to snap these stupid scarves and attack him. If I bend my thumb a certain way and close my fist, I think I can get out of at least one of them. I can, I know I can.

But of course, I don’t. At the last second, I hold myself back. I wait for him to push himself over that final hurdle, to get so excited and so worked up that he just has to spurt between my spread legs.

And he does. He even apologizes while he’s doing it. He tells me that he’s sorry, he can’t stop himself, he just has to come. Then he announces his coming, in desperate, grating tones—oh, those words. Those two words.
I’m coming. I’m coming.

I don’t know which is better: hearing him give in and use my body like that, or feeling the hot splash of it right over my clit, just as he promised. He’s good like that. At keeping his promises, I mean.

And then when he’s done, and the room is full of the sounds of his pleasure dissipating—rough and ragged breath, guilty sighs—I feel that slickness sliding down between my legs. The edges of my orgasm flutter close, from nothing more than that slippery sensation.

Though him talking brings it closer, I have to say.

“Oh, you look all messy now,” he says. There’s a hint of tease behind the regret in his voice. I think I like that, best of all. Or maybe I like it more when he tells me, “Guess. Guess what I’ve done to you, dirty girl.”

I love him, I love him, I love him.

“I don’t have to guess,” I say, but he makes me. He makes me by keeping me on that fluttering edge of my orgasm.

“All right,” I choke out, finally. I sound bitter, but I don’t feel it. “You’ve just done it on me.”

“What have I done?”

He usually sounds so bright and open. Most of the time he’s like a big kid, boyish and enthusiastic about every little thing. But now he sounds darkly pleased, like he’s got me right where he wants me. I should really tell him—you can have me there, anytime.

“You’ve…” I struggle to think of the right term. All of them sound childish. “You’ve spunked on me.”

That sounds the most childish, of all of them. I should have gone with
come,
but it’s too late now. He laughs, and I fight against the scarves.
You fucker,
I want to tell him, but I don’t mean it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I guess I have. I guess you win, Pol.”

Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I was too busy thinking
you fucker,
to process that he was actually going to hand over the reins. I win, and so now I get to do what I want and say what I want and make him, make him, make him.

Which is what I like best of all, I know I do. So how come I don’t demand that he untie me? How come I don’t tell him to remove the blindfold? I can’t say. I’m not sure. Instead I just whine and wait for him to understand exactly what I want.

And of course, he does. He’s my Stu. He always understands.

He leans down before I’ve uttered a word and kisses the place he’s made a mess of. His mouth feels searing hot where the thick, unbearable liquid is cooling, and I don’t know what turns me on more, the fact that he’s licking my clit, or the idea that he doesn’t give a crap about tasting his own come.

I’ve had boyfriends who refused to do this or that or the other—but that’s just not him. He never refuses to do anything; in truth, I don’t even have to ask. He just licks and licks and giggles at the taste, until I sink my teeth into my lower lip and grip the scarves as tightly as I can.

My clit feels huge under his tongue, and it’s not a surprise that it hardly takes anything to make me come. I feel like I’ve been standing at that edge for an age, and all he has to do is circle my clit once or twice, maybe slip a finger into me, maybe make a sound that vibrates right through me and oh. Oh. Bliss spreads through my lower body, so sweet and fine.

It gets a good grip on me and I struggle against it, briefly, but the feel of his big hands around my thighs, suddenly, and his tongue pressed firm and flat to my clit—yeah, that keeps me in it. I give everything I have over to it.

To him.

God, what it is to have a man who always knows, and never guesses.

H
er

On our first date, she says, “I already told you, I’m not into that S-and-M stuff.” She says it hard, with an edge of determined anger rather than annoyance or exasperation. My panties get wet from the tone in her voice, and that’s how I know she is lying.

We leave the restaurant and go back to her place. Soon, we are all over each other, fingers and hands dancing with buttons and hems. When her fingers are inside me, she instructs, “Don’t come yet.” Later she says, “Okay, now,” and I come for her on command, without hesitation.

Later still, with her inside me, she says, “If you’re gonna come, ask me first.”

I still don’t get it, the underlying meaning of her words. Softly, lustily, I murmur, “Yes, okay.”

A short time after that, I come, hard, while she is fucking me from behind. She leans in close and soft, her front pressing
against my back, her hand caressing my hair.

“Baby,” she whispers, gentle and sweet, “did you come?”

“Yes,” I sigh.

Slam!

She grabs my hair hard by the fistful and shoves my face viciously into the pillow. “Didn’t I tell you to ask first?” comes her fervent growl. I suddenly get it and snap into submissive mode.

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask you if you were sorry. Do you remember that I told you to ask first?”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you do as you were told?”

Her angry energy is enough to make me come again, as I beg and plead. “I forgot, it just felt so good, I couldn’t help it, please, I’m sorry…”

Much later that night, she says, “I like telling girls what to do. And girls seem to like to be told. Why is that? Why do girls like that?”

“Because it’s so relaxing…”

On our second date, we go to a local lesbian club. I had emailed her earlier that day, telling her I had a fantasy that I wanted to fulfill. It involved the club’s bathroom and her packing a dildo. When I get to the club, I can’t tell at first if she is packing for me, but after a few minutes, she takes my hand and discreetly leads it to her crotch. Electricity shoots through both of us as I caress the stiff cock that lies against her thigh.

We watch the club’s go-go dancer, feeding dollar bills into her G-string and sipping our drinks just long enough to tease each other. About an hour into the evening, I take her hand and say, “Come with me.” Silently, we walk back to the bathroom,
music thumping all around us, bodies pressed close as we squeeze through the crowd.

As we wait in line, she hands me a condom; we kiss, touch and tease. Someone comes out of the bathroom, and in we go. We enter it boldly, in front of the whole dance floor, like it is nothing at all.

She locks the door behind us and gives one command.

“Turn around.”

I obey and put one hand on the sink ledge and one on the toilet tank. The bathroom is filthy in a sexy way, with debris on the ground.

She pulls down my pants in a swift motion. I stay motionless for her. Neither of us utters a word. I sigh and wet myself as I hear her unbuckle and unzip.

There is a pause, then she roughly pulls my G-string to one side of my lips and shoves inside me.

I groan.

Someone rattles the door, trying to get in. We ignore it. She fucks me quick and dirty.

“Lift up. I want to see your face.”

I raise up enough for her to see my expression in the mirror on the wall nearest the toilet.

“Play with yourself.”

She is going hard and deep. I thrash around, still a touch sore from last night, on every downstroke. I make noise, and she doesn’t tell me to be quiet. Heaven.