Lana's Butt

Lana's Butt

If you want it, ask for it. That's how a girl gets what she wants... Right?

But seriously, how exactly does a vanilla virgin late-twenty-something ask her childhood best friend to... do butt stuff with her? You know, butt stuff...Anal stuff. His cock, my ass. Yup.

See, as far as Daniel knew, it would be one more loveless evening. He'd once again be the subject of my coy attentions, my tender but definitely not flirtatious teasing. I'd nonchalantly toy with him, sure, maybe lay my naked feet across his lap and beg him to massage them right now! or perhaps I'd run nimble fingers through his hair until he finally swatted my hands away, flustered and frustrated. Maybe I would do all that and more, but ultimately send him home with his tail--rather, his hard cock--stiff and unfucked between his legs. Maybe I would... but not tonight.

Daniel's dick and my asshole have a date at ten sharp, even if he doesn't know it yet.

I dropped my pants.

Fifteen before ten. Fuck me...

I stood with my back facing a large full-length mirror, each hand gripping a cheek of my ass, parting it for what was a pre-buttfuck examination before I got the business (or at least I hoped). I craned my neck so I could see what he would see when I pushed myself into his face: thick and supple ass, my asshole an off-brown, mauve but not unlovely color, clean and tight and taut. An ass that could work his theoretically fat cock like a clenched fist, drain those balls.

I decided I looked good to me, my body and ass. A-plus pass on the booty inspection--launch pad an "all clear!" for a big dick landing on this lovely, cloudless, starry-skied evening.

I peeled off my socks, my bra, my underwear, and shimmied on a red nightgown purchased just for the occasion, short and semi-sheer at the bust, slit at the leg so the thighs had room to part without resistance. I pranced tiptoe through the empty, dimly lit house with a newfangled poise and confidence I didn't have just moments before. I sat on the sofa and waited, the quiet room somehow abuzz, charged by a kind of unseen psychosexual energy. I rubbed my temples with the tips of my middle fingers, attempting to knead away my anxieties.

Get a fucking grip, Lana...

I mindlessly flicked through Netflix as I awaited Daniel's arrival, mind everywhere but anywhere present.

Exactly when the whole "butt stuff" thing had started, it was hard to say.

I had always been the kind of girl to withhold sex with an understanding that it was one of my female superpowers, that it was mine to gift to the man that earned it, that won my heart. When my sweet yaya told me as a young teenager, A woman who knows the value of what she's got between her legs is queen, I believed her. One day, I had told myself, I would give the right man my entire body, top-of-head to tip-of-toe, ass and tits and wet pussy. My hands, my feet. Teeth. Fucking ears, dude. Whatever. Literally all of me.

But my man of myth, my big-dicked hero, never arrived.

So, it was the toys instead.

God, the fucking toys.

I mean, I was just like any other horny single in tiny town Pennsylvania--I wanted to be fucked to the bone, but my options were... well, limited was to put it mildly. But I needed thoroughly fucked anyway, yes, and I couldn't get dick out of my thoughts. Cock intrigue, big dick speculation, penetrated and informed almost everything I managed to do each day under the oppressive shadow of Lana's Intense Sexual Frustration. There wasn't a phallic-shaped object that couldn't inflame my hidden passions. The produce department at the local grocery store did terrible, terrible things to me. Between bananas, cucumbers, and--fuck me--eggplant--a girl couldn't catch a single solitary break. The phallus as symbol, it seemed, sprang up in the unlikeliest of places. A simple walk in the park could end with me racing home ten miles over the speed limit, once again the hopeless victim of some stick or branch that looked a bit too dick-like for this horny girl, and where my little toys would be waiting for me in the bedroom.

The toys worked me like an orgasm-summoning magic, but I stuck to the clit-targeting variety--my favorite was shaped like a rose but sucked like a ravenous vacuum-- absconding from dildos and penetrating acts. I wanted true dick my first time, skin and blood and veins, and I wouldn't settle for cold imitation. Shit, I even wanted freakin' balls, dude.

Yeah, I said it...

Balls.

Balls-in-my-mouth-kinda-balls balls, so what? Sue me.

And then came that life-changing, ass-upturning thought on some drab winter's morning last year.

On a whim the month before I had purchased this...okay--this super stupid dildo, something cute and totally inconspicuous, six inches with a not-too-thick diameter. Where the notion to do so came from, the implacable desire, I couldn't say with any specificity. I seriously had no intention of fucking my pussy with it and didn't, but I wanted one "...just to have it," or so I had rationalized aloud before hitting that idiot Buy Now button.

I later justified the purchase by telling myself that I could essay the whole blowjob thing, see what that was all about, a service I had never rendered before and wouldn't until I--as you already know--found that right guy. I'd do the dirty deed with my little dildo in the meantime, just suck on it a bit is what, then probably toss the thing out. Besides, who needs a gorgeous "no strings attached" cock at the twenty-four-seven ready, right...? I mean it's gross. It's completely gratuitous.

Well, it turns out that I'm gross and completely gratuitous.

And so that's what I did. I did the cock.

In truth, I'd sucked that dick like it was the last one on planet Earth for more than a month straight until I'd grown completely disgusted with the ridiculous Made in China knockoff. I needed real meat. The organic stuff!

Was I destined to remain some weirdo who sat around casually shoving silicone-based objects down her throat while all her friends were out enjoying healthy, active sex lives with their partners? No, that wouldn't be me, I had told myself. I needed to...be better. Be normal.

Then it happened as I stood over the trashcan, ready to bucket that bad boy and call it a night.

Where exactly does thought arise from? Why do we think what we think, anyway? Those questions I don't have the answer to, but I remember the shock, the breathlessness, I felt when that carnal thought first entered my mind: I should fuck my ass. With this dildo, I should fuck my ass.

And I did fuck my ass. Again and again and again, I did.

It was as if my asshole had been starved its entire life, as if dick were its sweet and life-sustaining ambrosia. Soon I had upgraded my dildo by several magnitudes in the size department and had even become a dildo connoisseur of sorts. Dildos of all shapes and sizes arrived in the mail, and none of my boys--my cocks--would go unloved, each having its own warm and welcome stay in my asshole. My ass became the garage--admittedly, sometimes a two-cock garage--for parking dildos. Sometimes I'd lube my asshole, slap one of the big guys down on a chair, and just take a seat--that's it. Just take a load off and kick the feet up on the desk, flex and crack my toes, my chosen cock nested inside me. Maybe read a good erotica novel or sip some tea before rising an hour later, pussy slick, desperate for some of that good ol' clit-sucker action.

I just couldn't get enough of that fullness, that super-stretched and entirely filled sensation.

As a rule, the thicker and longer the better. Girthy cocks could press against my pussy's G-spot from inside the rectum, could send me into toe-curling superorgasm without a single finger stroking my swollen clit. I--and my eager ass-- just couldn't get enough.

I was addicted to butt stuff...

A gentle knock-knock-knock at the door snapped me from my reverie.

I jumped up, nearly falling over the coffee table at the foot of the couch. "Coming!"

I pranced to the door with all the gracefulness of a first-time unicycler before remembering that a last-minute face-nose-teeth check was non-fucking-negotiable and that I was about to maybe blow this whole damn thing over an overlooked broccoli curd stuck square between my two front teeth and Daniel would never ever--ever!-- look in my direction again and would probably just hook up with that narcissistic bitch Rachel from high school who isn't good enough for someone as sweet as he is and still she just won't stay out of his DM's and-- fuck fuck fuck!

"One minute!" I bellowed in a voice much shriller than intended, racing for the bathroom as if it were a fire exit in a crowded nightclub billowing smoke and flame.

Teeth?

Check.

Face?

Check.

Nose?

Check.

And for good measure-- the ol' sniff test.

I ran a finger along the circumference of my asshole, pushed against it with the tip until it eased inside, then shamelessly raised it to my nose.

Booty?

Check!

A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do. No apologies here.

I whipped open the door...and there he stood.

Daniel. Dan "the freaking" Man, Daniel.

He stared down at me with gentle, dark eyes shadowed by wild locks of unkept silver-black hair. Big, strange Dan.

He held up a six-pack of what appeared to be Corona Lights and said, "Sorry. Just beer."

"What?" I asked.

I had barely heard him just then.

I was, as always, at once mesmerized by Daniel's simple beauty, his unassuming and earnest countenance, the soft, congenial downturned puppy dog eyes beneath the heavy dark brow. He had always given me the impression of a black bear, what with his disheveled inky black hair, his impressive stature, the unseen but felt animal magnetism emanating from his person.

A guy like that just had to possess a big, fat animal dick. Just had to.

Simple math.

And it would be mine soon.

Damn. Am I really doing this?

"You said no beer, to get something else," he explained with a shrug. "But there was nothing else open but the beer distributer on High Street, so...beer it is."

I scoffed, rolled my eyes. "Just give me a hug and get in here, dude."

An hour deep into the film and there sat big, clueless Daniel bathed in magenta LED light, eyes sparkling, enamored by the film--some boring sci-fi flick called Blade-something or whatever with Harrison Ford, who cares-- attention entirely arrested, key thrown away. I had even tried the feet-in-his-lap trick to no avail, lying on my stomach across the sofa opposite him, bare feet crisscrossed and resting just above his groin, and nothing...Not even the vague impression of an erection.

On top of that, I wasn't even tipsy. I mean three fucking beers, Daniel? Really?

I peeked at him from beneath my frizzy, curly hair.

Mild-mannered, thoughtful, sincere eyes. Pouty lips, probably sweet to the kiss, or so I imagined.

The guy had barely even noticed my overpriced nightgown.

Not even a double take at my breast, the nipples quite clearly visible through the diaphanous fabric, hard, hypersensitive, and ready to be sucked if he would only just ask.

What the hell is with him?

Or was it me?

Time to pull out the big guns, one final cannonade against Daniel's modesty: I used the elbows of my folded arms to slightly maneuver the satin fabric of my negligee, the hem rising just a tiny bit, revealing the undercurve of my heavy ass. Oh yeah--figured I wouldn't need any underwear tonight.

And yeah, I totally did that on purpose.

How could he resist my--

The hem of my dress went taut, then gently fell to a rest against my mid-thigh.

The motherfucker had covered me back up... And he'd done a damn good job at it too, the fabric now even lower than where it had begun.

I shot him an accusatory glace, angry. Irrationally so, I know.

He threw up his hands as if waving flags of surrender. "Sorry, Lana," he said, then let loose a chuckle. "You were showing, darling... I had to."

I fixed my face--I knew I had nothing to be angry about. Fuck. Daniel was decent, always had been. I supposed he always would be.

This whole thing, I decided, was stupid. Maybe worse...

Maybe it was even wrong.

The first pangs of a terrible guilt formed in my chest.

"Oh, of course," I said in the most sympathetic voice I could muster, pulling my feet away from him, pulling myself inward, shutting it off. All of it. This whole stupid thing. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't be. You... you didn't do anything wrong."

"Thanks," I said, staring into his eyes. "Dan 'the fucking' Man," I whispered.

He grinned and like a good grin often does, it forced one of my own.

Fucking Daniel, man. Too good.

He picked up the remote and paused the television. "So, are you going to tell me?" he asked.

"Tell you what?"

"You know."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't know shit, dude. What are we talking about?"

It occurred me then how totally fucking obvious this whole manufactured arrangement was. The stupid outfit, the overeager feet, the failed ass reveal. I was a perverted dork, and he was on to me.

"You haven't been watching the movie."

"I was..."

"What's it about?" He raised an eyebrow, smiling.

Shit shit shit!

"Um...there's like robots and shit," I said. "Ford's like a replica or something and he doesn't know it, right?" Honestly, I had a vague memory of reading something like that about the film once, but I hadn't a clue if there was any truth in it. I secretly crossed my fingers.

He laughed. "Not exactly. What's the title of the film?"

"What?"

"The title? What's it called?"

I took my shot. "Blade--um--Gunner? Yeah! Blade Gunner."

He exploded into a fit of boisterous laughter.

I crossed my arms, feigned a pouty face. "Shut up. I don't care about this dumb movie, man. It's pretentious crap. We should have watched Aliens VS. Predator or something. Now there's a movie!"

More of that ridiculous laughter followed by something like "you've got to be kidding me!" and then a long and boring lecture about how this Blade-bullshit is a verified classic, that it inspired sci-fi for decades to come and that I don't know good cinema when it slaps me over the head. Typical Daniel shit...and I loved him for it. I let him talk because sometimes I just liked to hear him geek out.

He suddenly stopped mid-sentence and said, "You really don't care about this stuff, do you?"

"Not really," I admitted. "But I love your passion. No jokes."

"That's not at all how you felt when I dressed up as storm trooper for our senior year homecoming."

I laughed. "Bro, that's ancient history. Let it go."

"You wouldn't dance with me."

"I was a dumb kid," I whispered. "I wanted to be cool, and you were... uncool."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, shrugged. "I know I was."

"But the nerds ended up winning everything," I said. "You made you first million a year out of college, bro--I mean who's cool now?"

"Luck," he said. "Just the right skillset, the right timing. Most startups fail in the first year, you understand?"

"Luck is predictable," I said. "The harder you work, the luckier you get."

"Brian Tracy," he said.

I shrugged. "I guess."

He took a sip of beer, palmed his chin. He appeared to be mulling over something, brow furled like he would when considering a subject thoughtfully.

We sat for a moment in shared silence. The soft, isoalted hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was the only sound I could hear over Daniel's breathing. Then softly--

"All that and I still come see you two weekends a month."

It was true. Little ol' me hanging out with a Forbes A-lister, a Silicon Valley hotshot known for his creative ingenuity, humility, business acumen, and surprising charitability.

If you're wondering why Daniel never became that aforementioned "man of myth," why I hadn't shackled him down and fucked his brains out years ago, then you'd be overestimating my ability. Dan "the fucking" Man had been shacked up with girl after girl since high school had ended. He went to a prestigious college and, surprisingly, had the most staggering glow up I'd ever seen.

And those girls Daniel went through? Fucking perfect. Fuck a ten-out-of-ten--think ratings-shattering beauty, ethereal goddess-level type hotness. I'd gotten a double take once or twice in my life, I think. Maybe? But try a quadruple take; think Vogue or Cosmopolitan, think Playboy bunny. I'm as straight as a metric ruler, but even I would curve sideways for one of those Aphrodite's.

Daniel and I just wasn't going to happen, and I knew that.

But maybe he would fuck me...

Just my ass because even a hotshot like him wasn't getting this pussy unless he wanted to be mine. Truly mine.

Yet even that appeared to be off the table now.

Dan had displayed no interest in me. Not just tonight...but ever. I was a fool, and the games I'd been playing whenever he stopped by...It was manipulative, inconsiderate.

I finally spoke, having been at a loss for words. "Yeah, two weekends a month..."

"That means a lot," he said.

I shook my head rapidly. "I know I know. It really does, Dan. Thank you."

"And"--he took a deep breath-- "the hour-and-a-half drive to get here from Pitts is no joke."

I nodded my head in agreement more times than I needed to, just so he could see that I was grateful. He was so fucking right. "Thank you so fucking much for being a great friend," I said.

My heart rate began to rise, then the palpitations began. My breath felt shallow yet heavy, difficult to release and harder to inhale.

Daniel--he was shaming me, wasn't he? Letting me know how much he'd done for me, how he doesn't have to do it...He was better than me and he still did it and I'm a total moron who didn't deserve any of this, wasn't I? I was broke and he was rich and amazing and handsome and one of the "World's Most Interesting Men," like it had said in giant type on the august edition of this year's GQ magazine cover where he posed shirtless in a stunning black-and-white body shot.

Holy shit, I had played myself. This was a breakup conversation, only between lifelong friends.

The thoughts found me then, descended upon me like so many dark vultures, went to work on my body and soul.

Maybe you're like me...Maybe you've been there yourself. The thoughts, how they spring upon you suddenly and without warning, breaking down your hard-won self-esteem, razing months of self-work in only mere moments.

Where does thought arise from? Why do we think what we think, anyway? Sometimes it comes from a lightless place, I've learned.

And my inner voice spoke:

You're fucking disgusting. You're a weirdo who lives alone and goes to work and plays with dildos and that's it. Even your childhood best friend can see that. He's embarrassed by this whole thing.

"And basically..."

How about you get a fucking life and get on Tinder or something and settle for somebody who's into a doorstop like you? How about you do that, Lana?

"...what I'm getting at here is that..."

But you won't, will you? Let's be honest, you're single because, really, you're just kind of unlikeable and--honestly--a little chubby. Okay, you're at least twenty pounds overweight, and that stomach--starting to see a little bit of a pouch there, yikes! Guys just don't like girls like you, Lana. It's plain as can be, but you hide from that truth, don't you?

"...well..."

There's no other way to put it: everyone would be so much better off without you. So how about you just--