N Morley: Packing Heat: Femdom Strap-On Stories

“So you like it, then? Anal sex?”

His face reddened as he asked the question over the remnants of dessert.

She looked at him over the rim of her glass, half of his face colored red with the wine, his eyes still blue through the glass.

“What kind of a question is that?” she said playfully, to cover the fact that she didn’t know the answer.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know whether she liked anal sex—quite opposite. Truth be told, though she rarely told the truth, she preferred it to the “usual” kind, if anything could be called usual in San Francisco. She loved everything about it—that it was dirty, that it was taboo, that it made her a slut and, not least, that men wanted it so bad they would do just about anything for you once you’d let them fuck you in the ass—or, if you played your cards right, to get you to let them fuck you in the ass. She’d heard numerous female acquaintances talk about how men always loved it and women always hated it. She felt some obligation to educate those women, but it was an obligation she never, ever fulfilled. Her preference was a secret she kept between herself… and, well, every man she’d fucked since college, actually.

She rarely came from vaginal intercourse unless there was a vibrator involved. She always came from getting fucked in the ass, no vibrator needed or wanted. She occasionally mused that buried somewhere in her slutty little back door was a prostate no one knew about except her and her lovers. She didn’t seem to have a G-spot, or if she had one it wouldn’t come out to play, so she figured God had accidentally given her a man’s asshole, which was fine with her since he’d kindly remembered to give the rest of her ass a feminine shape.

But the thing she liked best about anal sex was something that meant there was no way —not nohow, not nowhere—that she was going to tell Bill the truth. Not for a little while yet, at least.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching across the destroyed tableau of white chocolate petit fours to take her hand. “Maybe I’m being too forward. I mean, we’ve only been together once.”

Simone took a sip of her wine and smiled.

“It’s not that,” she said. “I just mean, it’s not a real question. Do I like anal sex? Sure. I would love to fuck you in the ass, Bill.”

Bill stiffened, probably in more ways than one. Simone could feel the tension in his hand that came from such a response. She could see his eyes all but spinning, cartoon style, in their sockets. Little cartoon birds might have been cavorting around his head.

Surely she would have told him the truth—that she loved being fucked in the ass, that the one time they’d been together she had been wishing the whole time he would go there, but had been too blessed out on the feel of him inside her to really care where he put it. Surely she would have told him, except that wasn’t the kind of relationship they had.

Simone was a switch, sure, but she’d had a lot more experience as a submissive. It was only recently, upon a recent breakup, that she’d decided she wanted to try focusing on the other side of the mountain. She wasn’t going to blow it all now with this new conquest, who liked to call her “Mistress,” who wanted to be spanked and have his balls tied, who liked to be called nasty things in bed and kiss her high-heeled shoes, who liked to be cuffed and forced to his knees and compelled with the threat of corporal punishment to go down on her until his salivary glands were swollen and red and he had to eat oatmeal for three days. She wasn’t going to just let him flip her over and beg him to plow her back door, because said plowing always put Simone into the most deeply submissive space she ever experienced, turned her into a woman so insanely compliant and accommodating that she would do anything— anything —for the man whose cock she had in her ass.

Bill was a switch, too, that much was clear both from their conversations and from the long night together—well, actually, a night and morning, and most of an afternoon. But he’d answered her online ad headlined “30something professional woman wants to be your dominant bitch,” not the online ad headlined “30something professional woman wants to be your submissive slut.” Given that the dominant bitch had gotten thirty responses, fourteen of whom had turned out to be cross-dressers and eight of whom had been ex-boyfriends, whereas the submissive whore had gotten, at last count, one thousand, four hundred and eighty-seven responses, Simone wasn’t going to flip that easily, even if she wanted to.

“Did I stop the conversation?” smiled Simone, caressing Bill’s hand with hers. “Don’t worry,” she added, “I’m not going to force you. Well, all right, I am going to force you, but only because that turns me on. You’ll have to sign off on it first.”

“A notarized statement?” he said weakly, referencing an earlier conversation about the cops busting in while one of them was tied up.

“Consent to abuse, baby,” Simone purred, an evil look on her face. “This is California. We’ll get away with it.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Bill.

“I don’t think that’s what you meant, was it?”

“About written statements?” said Bill nervously.

Simone cocked her head.

“Nooooo,” she sighed. “About your earlier question. You’re avoiding giving me a straight answer. Bill, that makes me very angry.” She fixed his blue eyes with her brown ones, and licked her lips.

“You’d like me when I’m angry,” she said.

Bill cleared his throat nervously. “I’m game,” he said.

“But you haven’t done it.”

Bill shook his head quickly. She loved the way he got nervous when he admitted how inexperienced he was as a bottom.

“That is so sexy,” she cooed. “I have a little virgin asshole to rape.”

Bill’s muscles tightened all over, probably in his ass, too. He always got so turned on when she used that word—it wasn’t right for men to use it in that context, or at least polite men like Bill didn’t use it outside the bedroom—and certainly not in forty-dollar-a-plate restaurants when discussing what was about to be done to their assholes.

“I love popping cherries,” Simone sighed, as if rubbing it in. “Now I can’t wait to get home. You did give me permission—remember? No changing your mind now.”

It was part of their game, an amusement that had developed over the course of their last dinner together and the time they’d spent in bed. Both of them had the same kink: once permission was given, reluctance was assured. Simone liked it that way. She was already wet.

“I’m having second thoughts,” he said, and Simone could tell from the way he shifted in his seat that his cock was implacably, unyieldingly rigid, probably to the point where he couldn’t stand up if he wanted to do it without social embarrassment.

“Good,” said Simone. “You’re buying dinner.”

She finished off her wine and stood up, letting the waiter help her on with her coat. Technically it was her turn—the way such things usually went—but forcing Bill to break out her credit card gave her an extra little jolt of arousal, especially given that he was about to become her bitch.

Or was she going to be his bitch? She’d never understood the use of that term. But then, for tonight at least, she didn’t need to.

She left Bill there squirming with his hard-on while the waiter delivered the bill. Simone winked at Bill. “Don’t keep me waiting,” she said playfully, and walked toward the door.