She's on Top by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Author:Rachel Kramer Bussel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2010-08-16T00:00:00+00:00

WHY CAN’T I BE YOU?

Alison Tyler

Sounds silly, I guess, but sometimes when I see him, I don’t want to fuck him, I want to be him. Matt has the perfect male body, in my opinion. Broad shoulders, a long, lean torso, slim hips, and an amazingly awesome ass. He has a deeply fuckable body, and I do love to fuck him. But sometimes I don’t want him to climb on top of me and pound into me, don’t want him to bend me over and take me from behind, don’t want him to press me up against the wall and make me writhe with pleasure.

No, what I want is to slide inside him and see the world from within his head. And I want to devour some chicklet dolled up in one of those swishy floral dresses and tie-up espadrilles and fuck her while being him.

Too much like that John Malkovich movie?

Maybe.

But why can’t I be him? Just for an evening. Or even for an hour. Why can’t I be the one to move through the crowd and pick up a girl, any girl? (He can have any girl.) Why can’t I take one home, or out to some back alley, and push her up against the brick wall out there, tear her panties down, and fuck her?

That’s all I want. One hour. One hour inside of his body so that I can find out what it’s like—not just to be a man, but to be him. I want to manhandle my throbbing cock, to hold it, to fondle it. I want to force-feed every inch of it to some pretty, summertime doll, to make her drink me, and drain me. To make her feel my power.

He’s not always that type, I know. He is sweet and caring and gentle. He is monogamous and dedicated to me. But I’d be that type if I were him. I’d be the type to control the situation. I’d be the type to take charge. It would feel good to take charge. God, it would feel amazing.

My vision gets to a point where I am all-consumed by the thought. So I take one step forward, or really one roll forward on the mattress, and I curl my body up next to his in bed, and I say, “I have a fantasy …”

He slides one strong arm around me, holding me close. “Tell me, baby,” he whispers back, the way he always does. He likes my mind best. More than my ripe, lush breasts. More than my thick, black hair. More than the curves of my hips or the swell of my ass, he likes my thoughts. My dirty fantasies. My X-rated visions. “Tell me where your mind is going tonight,” he croons in his low, husky voice.

“I want …” I start, but I can’t say it.

“Tell me.”

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head.

“Tell,” he says, and his voice is insistent.

“I’ll show you,” I decide. Because that will work best.

“Show—” he starts, but I put my

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