I don’t know if he liked it that much. Some men do, some don’t.”
I’d only had anal sex with a woman once, and I think I was nineteen or twenty.
“I want you to fuck me,” Hannah said, “but I’m looking for more than just fucking. I’m not looking for a husband. I’ll do that in my thirties, maybe my forties. I’m looking for companionship, closeness, a little love. Devotion, all that.”
“Sounds nice,” I said.
“Yes. It sounds—it sounds nice.” She took her panties off. “I’d like you to fuck me,” she said. “I want you to.”
“Lubricant?” I asked, thinking the last time I’d done this, I had to use a lot of petroleum jelly.
“Spit is fine,” Hannah said. She spit into her hand, put her hand between her ass cheeks. She spit into her hand again, and rubbed the saliva over my cock. “I’m getting impatient,” she said.
I moved on top of her, feeling inexpert. Hannah reached back, took my cock, and guided me into her ass—where it slid in just fine, without hesitation or resistance. The warmth of her interior sent a tingle up my body and soul. Hannah whispered, “Oh boy,” and pushed her rear up, hard, slamming into my pelvis. I looked down at the streak in her hair, which was scattered about the back of her neck and on the bed with the rest of her hair. I swear she had an orgasm, I wasn’t sure, but mine came quickly, and it was a lot; I emptied myself inside her.
We lay next to each other after, and Hannah commented on the amount of semen I’d gushed out, that she liked how it felt up her ass, and coming out her ass.
She touched and played with my cock and balls, and soon I was hard again. She got on top of me. “This position is always tricky,” she said, sitting down on my cock and sliding it in. She leaned forward to kiss me, and it popped out, covered in semen from that first ejaculation. Hannah giggled, and put my cock back in her. I reached for the light. “What are you doing?” she said.
“I want to see you.”
“I like the light off.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, turn it on if you want.”
I did. She still wore her bra; her hair was a mess. I reached to unclasp her bra and she pushed my hand away; my cock slipped out of her.
“Let’s try it like this,” I said, gently pushing her off me and onto her back. I put her legs on my shoulders; I didn’t need her help to find my way in. I was deep in her now.
“I like this,” she said.
“I can kiss you,” I said, and did.
“Kiss me more.”
I did.
“Fuck me harder.”
I did, and I came inside her again.
“I have to piss,” I said to her, “do you want it?”
She made a noise, reached up and bit my right nipple, hard.
“Ouch,” I said.
We went back to bed, in each other’s arms, and fell asleep.
I woke up, the next morning, with Hannah messing around with my ass. She had her face down there—I was lying sideway—slicking from my balls to my crack. I’m not sure how long she’d been doing this, but it was a nice thing to wake up to. She pushed me onto to my stomach, spreading my buttocks, a light finger on my sphincter, then a tongue. She licked it a bit, asked me if I liked that. I did, of course—“Yes,” I said. She said, “I like it too,” and licked more, harder this time, pushing the tip of her tongue into me like a thirsty animal at a waterhole. I felt saliva roll down onto my balls—a funny, ticklish feeling. She started to suck, making sounds that I can only describe as pleasantly perverse. She did this for the good part of an hour, as I lay there in ecstasy, having discovered a new world. She was still making wicked sucking sounds, and there was a soft hum from the back of her throat. She turned me over, and sucked on my cock for a bit. “My mouth is getting tired,” she said, “can you fuck me?” She was on her hands and knees, and I took her from behind. I grabbed her hips, and slammed myself inside and out of her. I wanted to come in her mouth, this image was in my head. I told her this. She turned around and took me in her mouth, and I came.
And that’s how I ended my period of celibacy.
THE INSTALLATION
I.
Kathleen Barter, an American student working on her Ph.D. in cultural anthropology and postcolonial theory, woke up inside her London flat one day and realized she was broke, she was in trouble; the only thing she had that could possibly save her was the pink little wet thing with lips that resided between her legs; she was twenty-eight-years old, pale and petite with very small breasts and skinny legs and raven-black, greasy hair and she still wore braces because of her crooked teeth so people thought she was fifteen or so, and her passport was always scrutinized as being a fake when she went to a pub for a pint of Guinness, the only liquor she drank. Some of the men she met at the bars would give her money, but it was always £10-20 and that was nothing, really; quid to last for a day…she needed more…much more…she was not a prostitute…but her rent was two months past due, her credit cards were over the limit, the electricity company was going to shut off the lights, the U.S. government wasn’t going to give her anymore financial aid because she had not made progress on her thesis…she had no job and little in her checking account…so she had an idea. She placed an ad in the paper; the ad read:
FEMALE WILL DO ANYTHING FOR £5,000
II.
“What I want you to do, dear, is masturbate in public,” Edward Kaff told Kathleen during their first meeting at his lavish house in the Whitechapel area, “in front of all my friends, colleagues, ex-lovers, business partners, enemies, critics and curious on-lookers. It will be part of an art exhibit, of course—a very snooty, very snitty, very uptight sort of exhibit that I want to put a bit of arse-kicking into. You, in fact, will be part of the exhibit, you will be a work of art, an installation lying there naked on the floor in front of everyone and diddling your clit for, oh, an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”
“Okay,” said Kathleen.
“Have I lost you let?”
“Not yet.”
“I need a pretty girl, like you. Not a model, not someone so…perfect.” Just a regular young lady like yourself. You are the sort of young lady I am, in fact, looking for. You’re very pretty, as they say in the vernacular.”
“Thank you.”
“But…now I have to tell you the finale; this is a big art show and my sixtieth birthday party—the finale is I will get naked with you and, by the bye, fook the fuque out of you.”
“Okay.”
“In front of everyone.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t mean some wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of deal. It will be a long, sweaty, healthy fuck. I may be
