Z-Rated (Chocolate Flava 3)

Instead of draping my legs over his shoulders, I spread them wide, placing one foot on each side of his rib cage. Opens me up something serious, allows him to dive face-first into my heated waters.

He licks and sucks like I’m a double scoop of ice cream melting down his cone. Surely my juices are dripping down his chin and he doesn’t want to lose one drop to the sheets.

My husband holds my hips in his hands as my freshly waxed folds grind against his face. He holds me to keep us going in the same pace. His tongue flicks my swollen clit and for a minute I lose my breath. I can’t moan, can’t yell, can’t scream my infamous, “Shit.” I fight to find air, yet I ride his face until he comes up for air.

On his way up, he stops at my breasts again and perfumes them with the scent of my love.

I feel my sweet spot revving up again, ready for round two … three … four.

He kisses me; damn near tongues me down. I try to eat my flavor off his palate. Feel myself grind against his pelvis until I find what I’m looking for. I draw him in like quicksand; feel him hit the bottom of my pit. He makes slow, deep strokes, and enters my soul in a way he never has before.

Every stroke is an apology to what went down earlier this evening. Saying, “I’m sorry for treating you as anything less than my wife. Sorry for pushing you into the arms of another man.”

He pulls all the way out to the tip and then glides back in. Every time he does that he promises to never leave me lonely, to always listen to what my heart says, and to be a better husband.

With every rock of my hips, I apologize for not trusting in his position as the head of this household. Every tilt of my pelvis begs for forgiveness for stepping outside of this marriage for comfort and validation.

I open my eyes and see my husband’s on me. I tell him, “I promise to never leave your side again.”

He kisses my tears and reminds me, “This is just the beginning.”

Party On

Rachel Kramer Bussel

I clutched Phil’s hand lightly, digging my red nails into his palm as we entered and gave our names before being ushered into the decked-out loft space, which had been transformed into a true sex den as befitting the city’s most erotically adventurous. I’d been there for sex parties before, but those felt like they’d taken place in another lifetime; since I’d started dating Phil six months before, it had just been the two of us. He’d swept me off my feet, literally—we’d met at an ice-skating rink, where I’d decided, on a whim, to try it, even though I hadn’t skated since I was a little girl. I felt a little silly in my short skirt, my mocha legs bare, my little red sweater hugging my breasts, but I couldn’t resist the idea of ice skating in downtown L.A. on a gloriously sunny day in a mostly empty rink.

Once I’d started, I’d found that thrill came back to me, tinged with an edge of something a bit more adult as my short black skirt fluttered in the breeze. As I was s

ailing along, feeling free and happy, a tall, thin white guy had skated over and offered me his hand, then proceeded to make me feel like we were in the Olympics, flying around the rink and then holding me up in a victory pose before lowering me down, our lips almost but not quite meeting.

The tension had simmered between us for the entire hour we skated. After a while, I stopped thinking about the fact that he was a stranger, that we were in public, that he was white, a rarity in my dating landscape—not because I have anything against white guys. I just don’t tend to meet any I click with that often. His name was Phil and he was a writer, taking a break from being cooped up in his studio to get a little exercise. I’d taken the day off from my job in advertising on a whim. The fact that he was clearly interested in me, but not outright hitting on me endeared him to me.

By the time we took a break for hot chocolates, I was dying to kiss him, but as confident as I usually was with guys, I’d suddenly turned shy, waiting for him to make the first move. “Do you want to go on a proper date?” he asked as I blew on my drink, the steam heating my cheeks.

“I’d love to,” I replied.

“Where should we go?” he asked, then blushed, clearly thinking he should’ve been the one to make a plan. But I didn’t mind, and only at the end of that date did he live up to the promise of his full, beautiful lips. When they pressed against mine, I forgot the fact that I’d sworn off serious relationships, not to mention that I was five years older than him, because he made me tingle all the way to my toes with just a look.

Somehow, he turned me, a thirty-three-year-old woman, into a blushing teenager. I wanted to make out with him for hours, and I did, that day, before we even got a chance to go on our first official date—followed by so much more. He took every step of sex seriously, savoring the time he spent sucking on my breasts, playing with my sex, urging me not to rush when I moved to whisk our clothes off. Most of my other lovers had been eager to get to the main event, but Phil was a revelation. He managed to worship my body in a way that made me feel like a queen, and maybe that’s why I had trouble thinking of him the way I was used to thinking of guys: as potential tops, men who’d treat me like the dirty girl I longed to be.

With Phil, though, I was too busy having multiple orgasms, my body on an extended high, to miss the more perverted aspects of sex. Even when we weren’t together, he had a way of saying something suggestive that wormed its way into my brain and then simmered down lower and lower. We were having such a good time that I hadn’t thought about adding anyone else to the mix or offering up my truly kinky side. I was beginning to think that part of me was dead until I was cleaning on a rare weekend day I wasn’t spending with Phil and found my stash of porn. It featured women getting spanked by men and women, and the sight of it immediately made my heart race. I love being spanked—the harder, the better.

It has nothing to do with my upbringing; the first time a man took me across his lap, I was in college. He was ten years older than me, a scholarly black guy who ultimately deemed me too frivolous, but once he got his glasses off, he could really deliver a wallop. I liked that he couldn’t rationalize or intellectualize his interest, either; he just knew he liked the way I squealed when he smacked me, liked how wet it made me.

I popped in the video, pulled out my favorite rabbit vibrator, and spent the next hour lost in sensation, remembering the feel of the men and women who’d spanked me right here in my bedroom and at the parties I used to attend before Phil. Only when I was done coming did I wonder what Phil would think of those events. First of all, I’d never taken a white guy. There were other interracial couples who attended, and everyone was totally chill. I didn’t think any of them would judge me, but still—was I ready for that? Was I ready to show him that side of me, to take on any baggage he might have?

I wouldn’t say he put me on a pedestal, exactly—he had no problem pulling my hair while I sucked his cock or occasionally “ordering” me into a certain position—but overall, he did treat me like a queen. He took care of me in bed and out, and to suddenly ask him to show me off like the slut I wanted to be, for the night, anyway, seemed like a bold leap. But I knew if I didn’t ask him, I’d only resent him for holding me back, and that’s not hot at all.

So the next night, I made him my specialty, linguine with clam sauce, and got a bottle of champagne. “What’s all this?” he asked, leaning down to give me a kiss that seemed to go on forever. I relaxed into his arms, then pulled back.

“Well, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Uh oh, should I be sitting down?” he asked. I couldn’t totally tell what he was thinking; he has much more of a poker face than I do. Then again, I could’ve been poised to tell him anything from wanting to break up to being knocked up.

“Sure—but it’s nothing bad, at least, I hope not.” He sat down, and I impulsively decided to sit on his lap. I seem to fit there so well. He put his arm around me and I smiled at him, then bit my lower lip.

“Well … there’s something I want to share with you. I don’t know exactly why I haven’t already. I guess, because I didn’t want you to judge me. But here goes; I’m into spanking. I mean, I like to be spanked. And I used to go to these sex parties, play parties, really, where people do that, and get tied up, and watch each other. And there’s one coming up on Saturday and I thought maybe we could go together.” I finished the last sentence all in a rush. I was tempted to shut my eyes as I awaited what felt like a verdict, but I didn’t. If I was going to be fully myself with my boyfriend, to let him see all of me, then I had to be bold and brave.