When my boyfriend told me that he wanted to try anal sex, I immediately got to work researching the topic. I read every book I could find, scoured advice columns from my favorite magazines, and bought a few instructional videos. I even convinced my boyfriend to watch the videos with me.
Jeff wasn’t surprised by my obsessive research. I’ve never done anything without learning all I can about it first, and sex is no different. Luckily, Jeff understands my fetish for research.
I started training myself for anal penetration a couple weeks before letting Jeff enter my backdoor. I spent days with butt plugs pushed deep inside my ass, and I gradually increased the size until I felt ready to take an actual cock. I wore the largest butt plug for nearly two full days, even keeping it in at work and while out to dinner with friends. I was determined to be as prepared as possible so that the first anal experience Jeff and I shared would be perfect.
“Damn!” I swore loudly in anger.
“What’s wrong, honey?” David asked.
“I broke my necklace.” I was standing in front of my dressing table, cupping my hands in front of my body as pearls spilled down my front. The tiny lustrous beads made click-clacking sounds as they pebbled the shiny surface of the dresser. I caught as many as I could, then picked up the few that had tumbled to the floor.
Once I’d corralled the escapee baubles, I stared at the pretty pearls and felt my eyes tear up. “We’ll have it fixed,” David promised me. He’d given me the choker for my twenty-ninth birthday. I nodded, knowing he was right. The necklace could be fixed, but I felt sad anyway. I sat on the edge of the bed in my little black dress, trying to regain my party spirit.
I’m a strong-willed woman in charge of a crew of salespeople. I bring home a six-figure paycheck and the headaches that go with it. I want to get this information straight before I explain my latest fantasy. All day long, I boss people around. Not out of meanness or any sadistic pleasure. My team reports to me, and I take the praise for jobs well done or suffer the brunt of the displeasure of my own bosses. I’m a tough chick—what you might call a hard-edged bitch—when I have to be, which is what being in charge takes sometimes.
That said, when I’m home, all I want is to release the reins. I want my man, Aaron, to take charge of me. To tell me what to do. To put me in my place. Thankfully, Aaron is more than up to that challenge.
On weekends, I like nothing more than to be Aaron’s love slave. I serve his every whim, his every sexual need, and I even try to predict what he is going to want before he can formulate the idea himself. Usually, while Aaron lounges in bed, I make his favorite breakfast, which I deliver on a tray. This is our regular Saturday routine, and it gives me as much pleasure as it gives him.
I do the window-dressing at the store where I work. I have to design large faux rooms, complete with wallpaper and trim. The point is to accent the wallpaper since that’s what we sell. In the winter, the windows are cold. In the summer, they’re blazing. But it’s always been fun to stop what I’m doing to see people watching me. Sometimes they wave or clap; sometimes they just watch. Sometimes it’s late enough that I have no audience, but I like to dream about being on display for someone special.
Last year, summer had just bled into fall, and I was redoing our window for the coming holidays. I looked up from dragging an oversized easy chair from the stockroom into the tiny space. Across the empty street, a man leaned in the narrow opening of an alleyway, smoking and watching me. By the way he held himself, it appeared that he thought I couldn’t see him—as if he assumed he was hidden from view in his carefully chosen shadows.
Something about the way he looked at me—his stance and the tilt of his head—made my skin tingle. There was a curious interest in his demeanor, and when Joshua popped his head in to see if I was ready to leave for the day, I jumped in surprise.
“Everyone’s gone but us, baby. You ready?”
Last summer, Dean and Diane worked out almost every day at the gym. And almost every day afterward they’d stop by my health food store to buy juice. It was nice of them to throw business my way, but it was also nice that they always seemed to be flirting with me.
Both of them. I didn’t mind. In fact, they often entered my dreams—dirty threeway fantasies that left me wet and breathless. But I never knew how to let them know how I truly felt about them. Fortunately, I never had to. They took care of things for me.
That July had brought us a whole line of violent storms, and most people had no power more often than they actually had it. One stifling day, after a bad storm, my store had air-conditioning but my house didn’t, so I went in early. I wasn’t even officially open yet when the bell over the door tinkled.
New Yorkers love a parade. Give us a reason to celebrate, and we’ll be out there with our flags and our confetti, making a ruckus. When people think “ticker-tape parade,” they usually envision pictures from the sixties—the one for John Glenn, the one for the Apollo 11. At least, I know I do. Those are the images I refer to in my mind: glorious black-and-white photos, snapshots culled from a different time. But ticker-tape parades continue to this day.
That said—I was never a die-hard sports fan. Don’t get me wrong. I am a New Yorker, so I love our teams. But I’m not the type of girl who celebrates a big win. Well, I wasn’t until the Giants won the Super Bowl.
I have a tiny view of Broadway from my office, and I could see a sliver of the Giants’ celebratory parade—and all of the ticker-tape snow. Most of my coworkers had gone to watch in person, but I decided to stay inside to get a little extra work done. I knew that the throngs of fans outside would make going out for lunch a hassle. The streets were full of rowdy people. But at least they were happy rowdy people.
I’m sorry you had to see that,” Tommy said soberly to our guests. “But I always find it’s best to punish Joanie at the moment of her transgression. The message really sinks in that way.”
I was bent over my husband’s lap with my ass exposed. My fancy turquoise sequined dress, which I’d spent hours agonizing over before the party, was pushed to my waist. My silky champagne-colored drawers dangled around my ankles. And my naked bottom was bright red. This last part I could only imagine, as I could not see what my behind looked like from my current position. But this wasn’t the first time Tommy had given me a bare-ass spanking, so I had a pretty good idea.
After one final, stinging swat, Tommy pulled me up so that I was standing at his side. I did not look at our four guests. When Tommy had originally told me he was planning this dinner party, I’d never thought that the outcome would be me willingly receiving a spanking in front of his four friends. How naïve I’d been. Like a girl getting ready for a fancy prom, I’d spent all day at the salon having my hair and nails done. I’d wanted to make a good impression for Tommy. Instead, I ended up with a bottom so hot you could sizzle bacon on it.
I told her to find someone, right after Brenda got me to admit my fantasies and she confirmed that hers matched. We hadn’t been married long and were playing the ever popular what’s-your-biggest-fantasy game. Mine was to see her with someone—fucking a stranger. Hers was to be seen.
Turned out we were a match made in heaven.
The most logical place to find a safe person was our pool club. We’d established long-standing friendships with many of the couples there. Some of them had even attended our wedding. And since summer was upon us at the time of our confessions, it seemed the perfect place to not only have some fun but scout out a lover for Brenda, as well.
After fifteen years of marriage, my wife and I thought we’d done it all. We’d done swinging and swapping, tried bondage and domination, and acted on our fetishes and fantasies. It seemed like we’d reached the end of our sexual adventures. But of course I should have known better than to underestimate Elyse.
We were talking about people who’d contacted us through our profile on a popular swingers’ website when she mentioned getting some messages about our wife-watching request. Elyse and I are always looking for men, women or couples who will fuck her and let me watch. It’s not hard to find people willing to play with us, so I wasn’t all that surprised when she told me we had several interested parties to choose from, but when she said she didn’t want me to know who she’d selected until the night of our get-together, I knew something was up.
I didn’t question my wife’s decision. I knew if she was taking control of the situation that whatever she was planning would be good. To be safe, Elyse changed our password for the website so I wouldn’t log in ahead of time to find out what her plans were. “It’s going to be good,” she promised. “I know you’ll enjoy the evening—and so will I.”
“That’s what matters most,” I assured her.
We ran into Missy’s old flame at the Renaissance Festival. It would have taken an idiot not to see that there was still a flirtatious spark between them. The way Ryan looked at her—reaching out to touch her before remembering his manners in front of her husband—had my heart thumping. He wanted her, and I could see my blushing bride doing exactly that, blushing at the sight of him.
He went off to get us beers so we could all have drinks and chat, and I leaned in close and whispered, “He wants to fuck you.”
She tapped my arm with her fingertips. “Stop,” she said. But her cheeks blazed redder, and her eyes were shining.
“You want him, too.” I pressed my lips to her ear so she could feel my mouth and my breath. It always made her shiver and made her nipples hard.
“I . . . ”