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Then he was turning her, hands flat against the mirror, his body behind her, letting her feel the promise of his cock pressed against her ass. Letting her know with a single look at her eyes in the mirror exactly what was going to happen next—
In “Nobody’s Business,” by Dante Davidson, the character is brutally up front about his anal desires:
I gotta admit it. I have this thing for ass-fucking. Am I a pervert? Maybe. But I don’t care. If it works for me and my lover, then it’s nobody else’s business, right? Don’t ask, don’t tell—you know what I’m saying? The truth is, I like every part of the equation, from checking out a pair of well-packed jeans, to revealing the naked haunches of a new lover, to slip-sliding my tool inside that tightest of entryways. I collect experiences, returning to my favorites over and over again in my mind. These images are better than fantasies, because they’re real.
In “Fast Boil,” Vida Bailey discusses anal foreplay through the use of lube and a butt plug:
He dresses faster than me. I’m still in a towel when he sits on the bed and pats his chalk-striped knee. Over I go, damp pussy pressed to his hard thighs. He’s bare-chested. I’m a welter of nervous excitement because I know what’s coming when I’m all freshly clean like this. I know where the fingers pushing their way between my thighs and stroking my cunt are going to go next. I smell the clean scent of new wetness as it coats his fingers. It sounds slick and loud as he spreads it against my soft skin, up between my cheeks, and slides his finger round and round my asshole. He presses on it, chuckles at the give there. I’m dying, because he can see how much I want it, because I want it so much. Need churns in my abdomen, my cunt throbs, my hips thrust.
The sensation of the cold, slick lube is almost foreplay enough; his finger slips right into me. He pushes the fingers of his other hand into my mouth and I suck them as he adds another to my ass and fucks me. I’m waiting for the plug and it’s the big one, it’s intense. I squirm and bite him, and when he smacks me, my ass opens and lets it slide right home. He strokes me while I writhe on him. Then he stops and sends me to stand in the corner, to wait and want and burn.
Andrea Dale moves us onward to anal beads in this scene from “Paying It Forward”:
“Now the beads,” she said. Did she sound like she was begging? Maybe she was, just a little.
He greased them up, carefully slipped them in. She shivered, savoring the sensations, each little pop of pleasure ratcheting her arousal higher.
She rolled off the pillows onto her back, spread her legs. Simon knew what to do. Lips and tongue and fingers, tasting and teasing, flicking and sucking. He even tugged on the string, smart boy, and she clenched and released around the beads.
Thighs tensing, belly quivering, teetering on the edge, she moaned, “Pull them out.”
As they blipped out of her, one by excruciating one, she came.
In “Smokehouse,” Sommer Marsden takes us all the way into the realm of anal sex from the receiver’s point of view:
I do it, grinding my palm to my clit and pushing my fingers into my cunt as he moves into me, deep, deeper, deepest. He’s cussing like a sailor now, trying to hang on. Neither of us ever lasted long with anal. It was so hot, so intense, so bad, so everything to us that it never lasted long.
We try to make this last. Moving together, moving in tandem, silent but for the rush and roll of our breath in the small structure as the rain whooshes a backbeat and a crack of thunder somewhere far off echoes what’s going on in my chest. The turmoil, the pleasure—the need.
My fingers rub his cock through the thin and magical membrane that separates my two holes, and he makes a dark and secret noise that sets me off. I can’t catch myself before I’m coming and chanting, “Oh, Jason. Oh, baby. Oh god, I mi—”
But then I do catch myself, and he finishes coming with a panting kind of roar that almost sounds tortured. Both hands are firmly on my hips now, his fingers denting my skin with an aggressive possessiveness.
And time stills. All of it.
Whether you only play with words, or choose to work up to an actual anal event, lube your mind and the ass will follow.
TANTALIZING TIPS
•Invest in a good lube. In this case, there’s no such thing as too slippery.
•Make a game out of anal. Let your partner know that you’re in the mood if you leave a red ribbon on the door handle, or play a special song, or ring a bell. (That might turn Pavlov on his head!)
•Anal and spanking go well together. Start with a good spanking and follow with a raucous anal encounter.
FICTION: ANAL SEX
THE FINAL FRONTIER
JUSTINE ELYOT
I knew Luke was an arse man before we even got together. He had that poster of the tennis player lifting her skirt to show her bum on the wall of his room in college. It was retro even then, and we used to tease him about it, or accuse him of sexual objectification of women if we weren’t in a good mood.
“What can I say?” He’d shrug. “I’m an arse man through and through.”
We lost touch for a while, scattering to the corners of the globe after graduation, but one summer at a mutual friend’s barbecue, there he was, hogging the sausages. At university we’d both had other partners, but it hadn’t stopped a kind of sly, breathless flirtation going on whenever we were in the same room.
Now that we were both single, it seemed inevitable from that first sausage joke over the hot coals that we would end up together. And so we did, smooching at the end of the garden when everyone else had retired indoors. As he kissed me, his hand reached down to squeeze my bottom in its thin cotton covering.
