Six stories about anal sex

1. Shaun is model-pretty, he mostly just fucks older married women, but he says I’m fun.
It’s Homecoming night, my Budweiser soaked blue gown is flipped up over my waist. Heavily scented with pot and Drakkar Noir, he leans in and whispers “I want to be the first to fuck your ass.” Shaun promises to go slow. If I like it, he says, then I’ll want to do it again.

He scoops a translucent fingerful of Vaseline from a little tub, then rubs the outside of my asshole in little circles.  Slowly, he slides one finger, then two, gliding them in and out for a long time. I almost fall asleep from the rhythm. I lie on my stomach, he nestles in close, guides his dick in. It doesn’t hurt a bit.

2. Lee is hiding something, I find out exactly what in his toolbox one day. When he comes home from work, I throw the box of condoms at him. We’re young and violent. I’m seven months pregnant and freshly twenty-one years old. He says he bought them so he could fuck me in the ass. I call him a liar, stab the little blue packets through with a kitchen knife.

Weeks later, I find another box in the crawl space. Bitterly, I ask him if he was still planning on ass fucking me. Shoving me face first onto the water bed, Lee rolls a condom on. He holds me down and forces his dick in my ass. The condom isn’t lubricated. Biting my lip, I refuse to make a noise. He frees one of my hands, and I hold the heaviness in my stomach. I cry the next time I shit.

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Marcus is a virgin

He has two different colored eyes, one brown and one blue. It’s the summer before he leaves for college. Picking me up in his dad’s car, we drive to the gravel pits. It’s an old car, the navy blue plush seats are soft and wide. We kiss until the windows fog. I lie back and unzip my jeans.

Because he’s nervous, he tries to slide his dick in me without using his hands, like a porn movie. Instead, it slides up across my belly and he instantly comes. The car is stuck in the mud, so we wait for another car of young lovers to pull us out.

When Marcus starts college in the fall,  I send him my dirty panties so his roommates believe I exist.

I’m tied to the bed, but somehow this isn’t about sex.

I’m in the middle of a bad divorce. No one has ever told me that it’s okay to be kinky. Up until now, I was lucky to have my wrists inexpertly bound together once every few years. I have a single porn magazine that I keep hidden. I have never owned a sex toy. I can’t even fathom a world where people really get to fuck like that.

I meet Jay. He looks like he just stepped out of a story book forest-long dreads, tattoos, a skirt. Spiral brands shimmer and shift on his skin. He writes, works with wood and leather.  We spend hours reading out loud to each other. I call him Mama Bear, he likes to nurture- cooks me spicy food, makes sure I eat my vegetables.

We talk about everything. I shamefully tell him my fantasies. I can’t even look at him. He opens a drawer, shows me restraints, dildos, whips, knives. Jay tells me that I’m not a freak, well, not a bad freak. Patiently, he answers my million questions. We spend long summer afternoons in bed, napping, talking, then finally fucking. I’m still shy about asking for what I want most. It still seems extreme and deviant. I’m scared, but I ask him anyway.  My heart pounds, will he laugh at me?

Taking a length of soft rope, Jay instructs me to lift up my legs. He winds the ropes over and under. It takes a very long time. I’m on my back, but in the fetal position. He tucks the last end under and steps back. I’m so peaceful, so happy, I can’t even speak. Kneeling next to the bed, he touches my face. “Your eyes, wow!” he whispers reverently, “You should see yourself, you’re so beautiful, you’re glowing.” We don’t fuck. This isn’t about sex anymore. Jay carefully curls his body around mine, stokes my hair, tells me I’m so beautiful. I fall asleep, bound and content. This is my new religion.

It’s still the early dial-up internet days.

Everyone has already figured out that everyone else lies. Except me. I lurk in chat rooms. No one believes my personal ad, they think I’m kidding: 5 ft 9,  128 lbs, red hair. I swear I’m for real. Another private message window pops up, this one lives an hour from me.  He’s articulate, literate, and witty.  He knows things about sex that I’ve never even heard of. I’m smitten.

I chain smoke in the dark night after night while the scene unfolds line after line. Since he won’t tell me his age, I assume he’s years older. He won’t talk on the phone or send me a picture. Maybe he’s married or really old, like forty. Frustrated and angry, I type: “What are you, 15 or something??!” The blinking cursor hangs an eternity…

I can’t forgive him, I’m heartsick. I blow off a real date with a schoolteacher to meet him at the mall. His mom chaperones. She sits by the fountain and watches us hug. She tells him I ooze sex.

Now it’s thirteen years later. I email him to tell him I might start writing some of this crazy shit down , should I tell this story?  “Nah,” he writes back. “We never even had sex.”

This is my first time with a girl.

Stephanie’s pussy reeks. I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep this up much longer.  I’m licking her through wads of black pubic hair with the very tip of my tongue, trying to stay back. Breathing through my mouth only makes it taste stronger. It’s hard trying to be suave and butch when I’m trying not to gag.

Stephanie tries to finger me, but she’s got long sharp hot pink nails and wears lots of rings. She keeps gouging me. Every time we try to kiss we end up giggling. I’m covered in a nervous cold sweat. I’ve seen porn, this isn’t how it goes. Thankfully her baby wakes and won’t stop crying.

This is literally a fucking disaster.

There are three of us crammed into Michael’s twin bed.

Anya is on my right. We are naked, holding each other. Michael pounds into her, hard. He looks deep into my eyes while he fucks her. Her tits are creamy pale, bigger and rounder than mine. As I feel them, I think “Tits! Holy shit!”  Working in health care, I see breasts every day, but that’s clinical and this certainly is not. She kisses me so softly it’s like being kissed by sweet air.

I want to go down on her, but Michael won’t let me. He wants to save something for next time. Michael spanks my pussy, I squirt so much I soak the bed through. He tells her to try it, but she’s afraid to hit me hard enough for it to work.

Gently, he scoops Anya into his arms, cradling her, works her fast and hard with his fingers. They’ve been friends and lovers for a long time. I’ve only known Michael a couple of months, Anya a couple hours.  I love the familiar way their bodies nestle together, everything fits so easily, like lovers in a painting.  I watch them fuck for a long time. They whisper things veiled in kisses to each other so that I cannot hear.

After Anya leaves, Michael ties me to the bed. He beats me black and blue then fucks me hard. We shower together then drive to the diner for pancakes. I drink tall glasses of cold orange juice because I am dizzy and dehydrated. I keep my sunglasses on and the bruises make me feel safe and beautiful.

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For one entire year I decide to fuck like a man.

I fuck who I want, I don’t call back, and I tell them they can’t stay over. It takes me two months to convince Eric that sex is all I really want.  He’s fifteen years older, addicted to pills and owns an entire building downtown. I come over, fuck him, and leave to prove my point.

It always starts the same. He undresses me, orders me to the side of the bed and methodically eats me out, pussy and ass, for an hour. He doesn’t take his clothes off. I lay there exposed, not sure why I’m so excited. I don’t know yet about doms and subs, but this is definitely it. He yanks me to my knees and crashes into me from behind. I ask to stop for a cigarette, he smacks my ass hard and roars “You wanted to fuck, now fuck.” The pills make Eric paranoid.

He has guns hidden in every room of the house. More than anything I want him to load one and hold it to the back of my head when he fucks me. I never ask because I know he would do it.

It’s hour six

…of my thirteen hour drive to Kansas City. It’s really a booty call, but I convince myself it’s love. I’ve known Alan since the first week of junior high. In high school he was always my second choice. I was in love with his best friend. Now I am obsessed and desperate. Alan’s learned to dangle the proverbial carrot, I fall for it every time.

I’ve driven to Fort Wayne, Terre Haute and Grand Rapids, to budget motels that advertise kitchenettes and weekly rentals. I pull in as the sun sets. We spend a weekend in a decrepit camper, stoned on pot and muscle relaxers. He’s beginning a bad alcohol habit, he sweats beer. The camper is cramped and smoky. A thunderstorm shakes the earth like a herd of running dinosaurs. He fucks me and I make love to him.

Alan will never tell me that he loves me until it’s too late. After this weekend he stops calling and moves away. I won’t see him again for ten years.

Mister slaps me a second time.

I’m drifting again and I don’t care. Morphine isn’t this good.

“How many left?” Mister asks. The Val-U Pak of one hundred wooden clothespins is nearly empty.

I can’t even guess. I breathe slow and deep. I feel like I’m underwater. The clothespins rattle with every movement, a domino effect ripples from my underarms to my inner thighs.  Mister flicks one dangling  from my nipple. The pain blossoms into a crisp white light behind my eyes.

“Three. Never lose count again. Count these down.”

He pinches a clothespin onto each labia. I call out numbers in a ragged gasp. The last one clamps my clitoris, sharp and definite.

“One,” we say in unison.