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When you look back on the best sex you ever had, oral sex will no doubt be a part of the picture. Rachel Kramer Bussel is back with more lip-smackingly superb oral sex erotica for everyone with Going Down. Taking in the essence, taste, smell, and sexy up-closeness of a lover is a powerful aphrodisiac that affects one physically, mentally, and emotionally. Once you have your lover in your mouth, the heat of desire, passion, and lust focus, tying your arousal directly to them. These fictive fellatio stories, sizzling 69ings, and talented tonguing give readers lots of new ideas to try at home. In Going Down, lovers give, receive, and explore the many ways oral sex can be an act of love, tenderness, devotion, or pure sexual joy. Just sit back and enjoy this sexy read of explicit stories to get you hot and bothered with more than a mouthful.
Published: Cleis Press on
ISBN: 9781573447973
List price: $9.99
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Going Down

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I thought I knew, if not everything, quite a bit about the fine art of oral sex until I started to read the stories that came in for Going Down. In them, giving and receiving head became its own, if you’ll pardon the pun, head trip, and showed me that there is plenty for even the most seasoned connoisseur to learn and enjoy about an act that brings pleasure to so many.

If you’re reading this and thinking, But I’m not really sure I like it… or some variation thereof, I encourage you to keep reading. You just may surprise yourself when you thrill to the risky, risque and exciting ways these men and women find to get off while giving and getting head. There is the thrill of the chase, along with the thrill of being the taster and tastee, but there is also a lot more going on here. Perhaps because oral sex can bring up our uncertainties, there is a depth to these stories as the characters boldly go where many of us would like to go, if only we had the courage—or the kind of partner who can push us over that particular hurdle into the bliss that awaits.

While these tales aren’t necessarily ones I’d encourage you to dp n=5 folio=viii ? emulate, they are ones that will capture your erotic imagination and, perhaps, make you think about things you’d like to try, or just give you a few minutes of delight.

So just what will you find in Going Down? There’s a woman who knows The Thousand and One Ways to show her lover her devotion. There’s the couple who wind up watching an erotic scene on the big screen so scandalous, plenty of people walk out—but not them. You’ll find oysters given the lusty honor they deserve in Dusty Horn’s Shuck It as two lovers dine on a sumptuous meal before discovering all the power play they can share by giving themselves over to each other.

The intimacy of climbing between someone else’s legs, of discovering what happens when you peel them open and utterly expose them, leaving them aching, trembling, willing to do anything to have you keep going, is a theme that is repeated here. Lovers get off on the thrill of being in command, in control, giving and taking joy in ways that leave the other person breathless. There’s no rush of power quite like it in the world, that knowledge that you can make another person come, can release her desire and expose her most secret and vulnerable parts. That’s my favorite part of sex, writes Mary Borsellino in Blush.

For some of these characters, oral sex leads them into new territory that brings revelations about much more than sex: Paige in Getting Something Out of It, by Annabeth Leong, lets go of the memory of a selfish lover and finds that when she takes control and owns what she’s doing when she goes down with a new lover, the act is special for both of them. Characters facing gender transitions, and their lovers, discover what remains and what is gloriously new about this most personal of changes.

Going Down covers a range of ways you can serve up oral dp n=6 folio=ix ? pleasure, as well as reasons you just might enjoy it. I hope it will inspire you to think about the tongue as a tool of enchantment, a center of excitement at least as powerful as the one between your legs.

Rachel Kramer Bussel

New York City

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Charlotte Stein

Mitchell and Cathy Webber had the most perfect marriage of anyone who had ever lived. Marilyn knew they did, because she’d seen them with her own eyes and they looked pretty perfect to her. Cathy was pert and blonde and glossy, and wore little white shorts that normal people couldn’t wear, and she said things like Well, we’re summering in the Hamptons, this year. While Mitchell had those stupid little deck shoes perpetually on his feet and looked as though he’d just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad, while wearing them.

He had sun-kissed hair, and excruciatingly symmetrical features, and sometimes when she looked at him too closely, it kind of hurt her eyes. He looked nothing like her husband, with his mean mouth and his bored stares. And she looked nothing like Cathy, because her hair never combed right on one side and she was getting much too fat for floaty summer clothes.

Which made it doubly weird when Mitchell stuffed his face dp n=8 folio=2 ? under her dress, as she climbed the stepladder in the pantry to get at the canned peaches.

If he’d just been married, but kind of ugly and pathetic, she could have understood it. Or if he’d been reasonably handsome but not married—yeah, that would have been comprehensible. But married and shockingly handsome? With his face up her dress? That couldn’t be right. Maybe he’d fallen and accidentally face-planted into her ass.

Because that was where he’d ended up. With his face pressed tight to her underwear, while she tried to decide what had happened or what she should do. It seemed rude to inform him that he was kissing her bottom, by mistake.

So instead she clutched at the shelf above her and tried to keep very, very still, as though he was a bear that might shoo, if she didn’t enrage it any further.

But he didn’t shoo. Instead he moaned really, really loudly into the material of her panties, and that strange, plucking sensation she was feeling? Yeah, she felt pretty sure that was his tongue. He was tonguing her through her underwear, while she stood halfway up a ladder and tried to think about what she should do.

On the one hand, it felt really great. He wasn’t exactly doing it with the finesse she’d always imagined he would employ, and there was still a big chance that he’d fallen, or mistaken her for Cathy—perhaps by temporarily going blind—but she couldn’t deny that it had a greedy charm.

A greedy charm that persuaded her to remain where she was, and experience whatever he was doing to the fullest. He sounded practically ravenous down there, and that alone made her want to remain for the duration. She’d never had someone be ravenous, in quite that way. Was this how he behaved with Cathy? She couldn’t imagine he did, because once she’d seen dp n=9 folio=3 ? him attempt to give her a congratulatory kiss on the cheek—as chaste as anything, and not at all inappropriate—but Cathy had winced. Actually winced and pushed him away, and said Not in public, darling.

Even though Marilyn couldn’t remember anyone being around, at all. It had just been them, out on the deck, sharing a toast over Cathy’s promotion. Being here in the pantry with him stuffed up her dress—that seemed more public than anything Cathy had complained about.

Mike was just outside the house, fiddling with the boat. If she strained, she could hear him cursing. Cathy was farther off, but not by much. Had she said she was going for a swim? Marilyn couldn’t remember for the life of her, and Mitchell being up her dress wasn’t helping matters.

He was really licking now, and it wasn’t just his mouth that had started to make the material wet. Though her mind tried to remain aloof and questioning, her lower body felt suddenly dipped in hot oil, all warm and fuzzy in places it shouldn’t be.

She wasn’t attracted to Mitchell, after all. He was too attractive to be attracted to, even when he had his mouth on her and was saying things like: Oh, Christ, I just want to eat your pussy. I just want to eat you until you come all over my face.

Her mind whited out, briefly. She tried to imagine he’d said something else, instead, like: I just want to eat peaches until they yum all over the place. Which didn’t make any sense, she knew, but hell. It made more sense than his sudden desire to lick her panties and the stuff through her panties and oh no, oh no, he was licking her bottom. He was definitely licking her bottom. How could he not lick her bottom? Apparently he’d decided to leave no stone unturned, until she wanted to faint standing up while on a ladder.

She hung on for dear life and tried to force herself into dp n=10 folio=4 ? asking him. Just ask—Why are you giving me oral sex? I don’t remember filling out the oral sex request form. My husband doesn’t even give me oral sex. Why are you so desperate, suddenly, to fulfill one of my most desperate sex needs?

But somehow, she didn’t think there would be an answer. It wasn’t as though he’d given her long lingering looks, or even short pointed ones. He’d expressed no sexual desire for her, and she’d made no moves on him. She couldn’t even remember anything like making a pass at him, but here he was, acting like she had.

Because that was what it felt like. It felt as though she’d accidentally told him she wanted him—maybe by passing him a drink, or something similar—and he’d gotten completely the wrong idea and thought they were halfway through some torrid affair she hadn’t started.

He had his hand up her dress, now. His fingers were hooking their way beneath the elastic of her panties. He was going to pull them down, and then where would she be? Bare below the waist, exposed to his greedy mouth, blindly acquiescent to the advances she hadn’t known he was going to make.

It seemed very strange that she didn’t tell him to stop. Not even when he tugged her panties down her legs, and began licking at her in earnest. From where she was, she could see her underwear, now dangling from the tip of one trainer. She could see her bunched dress when she twisted slightly, too, though she didn’t dare move much.

She didn’t dare move enough to make out his sandy head, between her thighs. Instead she just reveled in it—the slick feel of his tongue, searching out her clit. He was doing it back to front, but it didn’t seem to hinder him. He just pushed himself right underneath her, and spread her apart with two firm hands on the cheeks of her ass, and got into places she didn’t know existed.

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In between mindless waves of pleasure—now so strong they were making her sway—she thought of how hot and suffocating it must be, to do what he was doing. He was practically burying himself in her, which seemed like a very strange notion when she was the one on top and he was down below like this.

But she thought it, just the same. And then when he started panting into her slippery flesh, she thought of other things, too. Like birds flying away and balloons ascending to the sky and other orgasmic clichés. She was going to come, that much was certain, but she couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not.

If it was good—birds. If it was bad—the balloon.

If it was something unquantifiable and maddening and insane, and he was a million miles weirder than she’d ever imagined, then nothing. Nothing but the sound of her own voice, trying to keep itself low and stifled so no one would hear, and the threatening urge to put her hand behind him and on the back of his sandy head.

He didn’t talk, or look, or act in any way as though he’d licked her pussy. He’d done just as he’d said he’d wanted—made her come all over his face—but he might as well have come in for a packet of mixed nuts for all the effect that showed on his handsome features.

He’d barely paid attention to her before, and he barely paid attention to her now. She meant nothing beyond being the wife of a colleague—and a plain, pitiable wife, at that. What did he care, if she handed him a drink? Look at that tight expression on his stupid face. He was tolerating her, as the drinks-bringer.

That’s what wives probably were, to him. Bringers of drinks.

So it was something of a surprise when he cornered her in the laundry room, and tried to give her oral sex again. She knew for a fact that eating her out was definitely what he was trying dp n=12 folio=6 ? to do. He’d fallen to his knees, for one. And he was currently kissing her belly with a definite threat of moving farther down. She couldn’t ignore his strange compulsion any longer. There had to be firm denials, protests, something.

And yet all she came out with was, Don’t.

Just that. One word. It sounded like the kind of breathless word a sinner says, too, when they know they are about to sin again. As in stupid movies about wild affairs, where the wife says don’t like a desperate plea to fuck.

She didn’t want to fuck him, but the trouble was…women in those movies were used to this kind of thing. They knew what wild affairs were all about, because they’d had them through college and at work and god knew where else, and they understood the secret code words and the trigger statements that made things like this stop, and go.

But she didn’t know any trigger statements. Had he thought her handing him a drink meant Meet me in the laundry room? She didn’t know. She’d just found herself here and now he was saying something like Oh man, I can’t get enough, I can’t get enough, as though she’d missed whole sections of the plot.

When had they had the sexy conversations? What was it, exactly, that he couldn’t get enough of?

Of course, she was aware of one of the things he couldn’t get enough of. But her pussy seemed like such a silly, crude sort of answer. Why was her pussy any different from Cathy’s? If anything, Cathy’s pussy had to be far nicer. Smaller, probably, and less hairy. Cathy was most likely smaller and less hairy all over.

So why? Why was he moaning again and oh, this time he had his hands on her breasts as he buried his face between her legs. She could hardly bear it. He’d taken her panties down again though she couldn’t remember when, and he was licking dp n=13 folio=7 ? at her clit in a squirmy, frantic sort of way, and she couldn’t think of anything, suddenly. Not one damned thing, aside from: Mmmm, it’s so much better, this way around.

She thanked her mind for that insightful comment, though really her mind was just getting started. It also told her that Mitchell was very good at this, for a handsome man. Very enthusiastic, and he didn’t complain or get tired or bored.

Though in truth, she didn’t really give him time to complain or get tired or bored. He moaned loud and long against her, and the moan vibrated all the way through her bones and into every nerve ending, and then she came, just like that. She orgasmed, in little shudders and shakes, and longed to fill up yet another tiny room with all the sounds she’d never made.

Instead she stored them up inside her, for a later date.

When he tried to do it again—that was her limit. Not her limit of doing these things, because now she thought about them all the time and couldn’t stop. No. It was her limit of his face between her legs and the strange sudden nature of their liaisons.

She grabbed a fistful of his crisp white T-shirt and pulled him, until they were face-to-face. However, it startled her when he simply met her gaze, as easy as you please. She realized she’d expected flinching, but he didn’t flinch at all. Those blue settled on hazel, and she thought for the first time how strange the color of his eyes was.

It wasn’t quite blue, when you got up close. They had a fuzzy, soft-focus sheen to them that gave his eyes a depth, a strange and fathomless depth. Like he was waiting to say all the things his own fearful symmetry wouldn’t allow.

Not that he really needed to say anything at all. When he put his mouth on hers, she let him. She felt that hunger in him for the first time, burning strong now that it was so near, and not dp n=14 folio=8 ? hiding between her legs. He groaned into her mouth like something was letting go inside him, like the way her husband did at the end of the day, when he kicked off his shoes.

It sounded blissful, echoing through her. She groaned back without thinking, and then whatever barriers had been up went down, and his tongue slid over hers, slippery and lewd.

And he watched her while he did it, too. She didn’t know if he usually kissed with his eyes open, but somehow she doubted it. There was something raw and real about it, him watching her, and if she found it raw and real she knew his wife would find it unbearable.

Maybe she found tongues unbearable, too, because those soft-focus eyes went wide, when she licked right back at him. Not so wide that someone could have easily caught it, if they weren’t looking. But she was looking and she did catch it, because it seemed so good and new on his handsome face.

And when she pulled away from and began sliding down his taut body, he let out another little expression, too. A flicker of a smile, she thought, that translated into an avalanche of joy.

Are you going to…? he said, and it jolted her. To hear his voice in the narrow and largely empty spare bedroom that they’d found themselves in. To hear him say those words at all, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

He definitely couldn’t believe it. His breathing had grown heavy and high, and it got higher yet when her fingers fumbled with the buttons on his khakis. It made her wonder if Cathy ever did this, but somehow she knew the answer to that, well enough. He didn’t react like someone who had a mouth on his cock often—he reacted as though it felt unbearable