Please, Sir--Pasta, Anyone?

I'm thrilled to announce that Please, Sir, Rachel Kramer Bussel's latest--and hottest--erotica anthology is now available at Amazon and finer book stores everywhere. The penultimate story in the book, "Just What She Needs," is definitely one of my smuttiest tales, plus, like a repeat viewing of The Godfather, it's going to make you yearn for a big bowl of fresh pasta puttanesca accompanied by a ruby-red glass of Chianti. Here's an appetizer for your dining pleasure. (To read the introduction and interviews with the authors, check out the Please, Sir blog.)

An excerpt from "Just What She Needs":

What I needed that night was pasta.

Or rather, my boyfriend, Greg, needed pasta. I was supposed to stop at Raffetto’s on my way home and get some fresh linguine fini. But I’d had a hell of a day with back-to-back depositions, and I forgot. Okay, I didn’t actually forget, but I figured for once Mr. Gourmet could make do with some of the packaged stuff.

Suffice to say I wasn’t in a very good mood when I walked in the door. However, the sight of curly-headed Greg at the stove stirring up puttanesca sauce with his big, capable hands definitely raised my spirits. The scent of good virgin olive oil, garlic and olives filled the kitchen and my mouth began to water. Greg was a web designer and worked at home, leaving him plenty of time to clean and cook and pamper me. I pretty much had me the ideal wife with a big, juicy cock attached. Sometimes I felt so lucky to have him, I had to pinch myself.

But tonight, I just felt tired and annoyed.

“Today was an absolute nightmare,” I greeted him, throwing down my briefcase on the bench inside the door and dumping my coat in a heap on top.

“That’s too bad, sweetie. But now you can relax. Dinner’s almost ready,” Greg said, giving me a kiss and a glass of Chianti. “I just need to cook up the linguine.”

“I didn’t get it.”

He frowned as if he didn’t quite get it himself.

“Can’t you use something from a box tonight? I mean pasta is pasta.”

“Pasta is not pasta. You know that.”

I rolled my eyes and reached into the cabinet for a package of spaghetti I’d bought before Greg moved in. “See, it says right here, this is Italy’s best-selling brand. What’s good enough for the Italians is good enough for us.”

Greg gave me a patient smile. “Okay, I know you’ve had a hard day. I’ll go buy it myself. You can start on the salad while I’m out. Some good food will make you feel better.”

He was right, but like I said, I was in a bitchy mood, so his understanding only made me madder. “Why does dinner always have to be such a fucking big deal?” I grumbled. “I’m not even really hungry. I’ll just have a yogurt.” I reached for the refrigerator door.

That’s when he said it, his voice so soft I could barely hear the words.

I know just what she needs.

My arm flopped to my side like a rag doll’s. Another five seconds passed before I remembered to breathe. When I finally exhaled, it came out as a soft whimper.

And my crotch was soaking wet.

I turned and glanced up at Greg. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“You know just what you need, Karen, don’t you?”

There was a lump in my throat the size of a walnut. All I could manage was a nod.

“I want you to go take your shower. But first hang up your coat. You know you shouldn’t leave it crumpled on the bench like that.” Again his words were low and soft, a dead monotone.

Yet the voice seemed to reach up inside me and give my secret muscles a deliciously painful squeeze. In fact, my whole body already felt sore, worked over, memory and anticipation twisted together so tightly I felt drunk. I walked over to the door, unsteadily, as if making my way through ankle-deep mud. Hands shaking, I eased my coat onto the rack and glanced over at him, awaiting my next command.

Greg was watching me, eyes narrowed.

“I can sense the attitude change already,” he said. “Go get ready, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

I headed down the hall slowly, half hoping he might change his mind, call me back for a soothing hug instead.

Not that he ever did.

As I hung my skirt in the closet and tossed my blouse and underwear in the laundry basket, I heard pots rattling and water running out in the kitchen, ordinary sounds filtered through layers of thick gauze. But the ordinary world was already far behind me. With each step, each motion, thought slipped away, leaving only that sweet, throbbing ache low between my legs.

Soon I would be in the place where I always got just what I needed....