Women in Lust

Table of Contents

 

 

 

L
ust. It’s one of those four-letter words that trips off the tongue. When I say it out loud, it makes my lips want to curve into a smile. Lust is more than simple arousal; it is the force that makes us not just turned on, but craving a certain person (or people).

I used to write a sex column called “Lusty Lady,” named after the famed strip club, but somehow
lusty,
rhyming as it does with busty, sounds a bit like a joke, an added bit of humor, which is how our culture often treats sex.
Lust,
though, is different; it’s intense, overpowering. While in real life we may not always act every time lust calls to us, in fiction, we can abandon the safety of propriety and seek out lust and sex wherever we find them.

The characters in
Women in Lust
may vary in the objects of their lust, and how they go about acting on their urge, but what connects them is that pure impulse for a lover. Sometimes he is someone she knows well, is married to or dating; in other stories, he is a stranger, and is sexy precisely because he
represents the unknown. Women also lust after other women here, as in Kayar Silkenvoice’s Japanese happy ending massage story, “Cherry Blossom,” and while we only hear one side of the story, I’d like to think the working woman is doing more than just her job. In addition to the culture clash, there’s the joy of throwing caution to the wind while on vacation, using travel to broaden one’s sexual horizons. Whether watching a lover playing guitar, using a webcam, going out for a smoke or simply embracing a chance encounter, these women seize the opportunities presented to them, and savor the lovers who teach them about themselves and help them open up to new sensual possibilities. Sometimes that means looking at the man they live with in a new light, and other times that means something much naughtier. Either way, their lust is a valued part of their lives, not a pesky afterthought or to-do list item on “date night.”

The objects of their lust are not always the “right” person. In “Rain,” a woman falls for her best friend’s boyfriend, one of the ultimate dating taboos, but she goes for it. Sometimes the desire itself, the way it can be used to tease and taunt, as in Charlotte Stein’s “Guess,” is maddening, but we embrace our lusts even when they are maddening, even when they make us do things we might otherwise consider reckless.

For every woman here who can locate her lust on the map of her body, who zeros in on her target and goes for it, there is another who is opened up to her lust by a lover, such as Jen Cross’s narrator pondering what it was, exactly, her orally generous long-ago lover got out of being between her legs. The first words of Shanna Germain’s powerfully kinky “Beneath My Skin” are “I’m afraid,” to which her lover, Kade, responds, “You should be.” Fear can be a powerful motivator and, crossed with lust, can lead to explosive results.

Whether discovering the joy of a younger man, not to mention
some delicious pudding, in “Comfort Food,” by Donna George Storey, or taking sex and bondage into the great outdoors in “Something to Ruin” by Amelia Thornton, these women indulge in new ways of getting off and pushing the limits of their lust. Thornton writes: “Despite my longing, there was still part of me that wanted to protest, to tell him to cut me loose, to run wildly through the forest back to the safety of our picnic blanket, but to me that is the beauty of rope: to desire escape but to willingly be imprisoned, to feel the pressure of something that prevents my movement, yet to know there is no place that I feel safer than when trapped like this.” She captures the excitement of giving in to a dominant lover, even when there is a small part of the narrator that is unsure, for that is precisely the part that fuels her desire. This story captures the true power that lies in submission and the many joys it can bring. In “Her, Him, and Them,” by Aimee Pearl, the narrator submits to various lovers who question her and push her not only to be the best sub she can be, but to figure out why, exactly, she likes the thrill of submission and service.

I hope these stories inspire some lusty days and nights for you, as they have for me.

 

Rachel Kramer Bussel
New York City

A
re you having those naughty thoughts again, you bad girl?

I can always tell, because your eyes start to cross.”

Terrence accompanies his accusation with a swirl of his hips, a move that nearly blows the top of my head off. It also nearly dislodges said naughty thoughts he’s accusing me of, but not quite. They’re
so
naughty that I can’t seem to shake them, despite another virtuoso hip-swirl that makes me groan and claw his back.

“Back with us again, are we?” he gasps, laughing as he shags. He really is the most fabulous fuck.

“Yes! Yes!” It’s half gasp, half cry, all genuine. I don’t have to do a Meg Ryan when I’m with Terrence. He’s just gorgeous and he knows how to do the business. And if that wasn’t enough, he looks like a movie star, too. And not one of those mindless action hunks, mind you, all pecs and teeth and tan. No, he’s like the more thoughtful kind of star, one with lots of gray cells, and a major-league sense of humor to go with his exceptional body.

And he’s on top of me now, going like a jackhammer.

Or he was.

For a moment, he raises himself up on his elbows and looks down on me. His handsome face is sweaty and a little flushed, but that only makes him sexier than ever—and even hotter for the look in his eyes. They’re narrowed, sort of cute but sly and shiver-inducingly knowing. He gives a little shake of his head as if he’s read my mind. I hope he has, and I hope he likes what’s in there.

He gives me a soft little kiss on the corner of my mouth. “Maybe I should go down on you again for a while. That’ll stop you woolgathering while I’m giving you my fanciest moves, you naughty bitch.” He licks his lips and that makes
him
look incredibly naughty.

I open my mouth. I almost say it. But I don’t. Not yet. That’s a delicious treat I’m saving to surprise him with. Doesn’t stop me thinking about it though.

“I like your moves. I love them!”

He tilts his head, and a comma of thick brown hair dangles in his eyes. “I should bloody well think so, woman.” He smoothes my hair out of my eyes, too, and wipes the sweat from my brow. “You’d better brace yourself, because there’s more of them incoming.”

“Do your worst!” I growl, and he swirls again. “Or preferably, your best!”

I have to close my eyes now, because they’re crossing from the pleasure of him this time, and either way, I must look like an idiot. Hitching around beneath him, I find an even better angle, if that’s possible, and with another small kiss, then a bigger one, he starts to swing in and out again, with all the smooth power of a human reciprocating engine. Supporting himself on one
arm, he strokes my body at the same time, his fingers as clever as his hips and cock are potent.

I start to rise higher, straining against him, arching, reaching,
savoring
.

And the naughty thoughts return to sweeten the climb.

In my mind, in a heartbeat, we’re in a dark, dangerous room somewhere together. Is it a dungeon? Why, yes, it is… Here are the dingy, encrusted walls, the flickering torches in their sconces, the chains. And here’s Terrence—though not quite the man who’s currently fucking me. Well, he’s the same, and just as sumptuous, but a darker version, more dangerous and exotic.

In bed, I grab at him, excitement building, my fluttering sex aroused anew by my kinky, yummy notions. “Baby,” he growls, sensing every subtle and not-so-subtle response.

In my imaginary subterranean prison, he prowls around me, a slightly smiling figure all done up like the dream of a master. He’s stripped to the waist, clad only in formfitting leather jeans and knee-high boots, apart from a platinum-studded collar round his neck. His hair is slicked back with water or gel or pomade, and his bare chest gleams in the torchlight as if he’s oiled.

“Well, well, slave,” he purrs in the mirror world.

Me, I’m strung up, my wrists in cuffs that dangle on chains from the smoky ceiling.
I’m
all done up like the dream of a slave, my body trussed in a corset of tight-laced satin, my feet in high-heeled pumps, a gag in my mouth.

A shudder runs through me in each parallel world, as he tweaks my nipple and makes me squirm.

Oh, god, he’s so beautiful when he’s stern. The mouth that kisses so softly is sculpted and cruel, and his warm brown eyes are black with power and lust.

As he slaps my bottom with the flat of his hand, I start to
come. And I come in the real world, too, in bed, lying underneath him. Straining for the best, the finest, the highest orgasm, I arch against Terrence, my heels dragging against the backs of his calves, my fingers flexing like talons, gripping his bottom.

I scream as I soar to heaven, while his phantom self smacks my naked flesh, again and again.

 

Afterward, we lie against the pillows, both slumped and sweaty, breathing hard. Multiple orgasms have knocked the stuffing out of me, and even Terrence, with all his prodigious sexual stamina, looks momentarily shattered.

“What the hell were you thinking, Vickie?” He turns to me, and I see he’s sharper and more with it than I imagined. Those clever eyes of his gleam with knowledge, almost as if he really were the master of my fantasy. “There was something dirty and devious going on that turned you into a wildcat, wasn’t there?” He does that sinful lip-licking thing again. “Come on, woman, tell the truth or you’ll regret it.” His mouth curves into a deliciously evil smile, and I’m back in heaven.

Suddenly I’m not tired at all. Now’s the time to tell him, because I’ve a sneaky feeling he probably knows already. He’s got this uncanny knack of reading me, and it turns me on.

I prevaricate, gnawing my lip: an act, obviously.

“Vickie?” he prompts. There’s a hint of sternness there, and for a vertiginous second, I can’t tell whether it’s real or fabricated. My pussy flickers again despite my previous surfeit of pleasure.

“I…um…well, it was just a little fantasy I sometimes have.” Little? Who am I kidding? It’s big and it’s bad and it’s beautiful. “I…I don’t mean that fucking you isn’t satisfying…it’s just I have these thoughts sometimes.” Lots of the time, and I’m dying
to share them. “I can’t help myself, but it’s not you, it’s me. I… You’re a fabulous lover.”

His eyes are on me. Steady and strangely bright. Knowing again. The devil—he’s teasing me. He’s read my mind as easily as if my eyes were made of glass. Suddenly he
is
the man in the dungeon and twice as dangerous.