Welcome to your wildest dreams!
1001 Nights Press publishes quality erotic fiction from both new and established authors, in areas ranging from erotic romance to hardcore bdsm. Our authors write about their own passions with intelligence, wit, sensitivity, and experience to bring you the best in erotic fantasy.
Titles from 1001 Nights Press are available at
We specialize in ebooks, and feature select titles in paperback.
Submission GuidelinesWHAT WE WANT:
• Plot-driven erotica or erotic romance. We take short stories alone or in collections (aim for a minimum word count of around 10,000), novellas, and novels. Non-fiction on topics related to sex and sexuality is also welcome.
• Complete stories. There's no need to send a query letter if your novel isn't finished; contact us when it is.
• Good writing. With a compelling and original story line, interesting vocabulary, believable characters, lively descriptions, a certain mood, a dash of fantasy. Passion. It's rather like what former U.S. Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart said about pornography--difficult to define, but we know it when we see it.
• Work that has been given the proper attention. While we do provide editing, a manuscript that's at least been through a spellchecker and demonstrates a respect for grammatical conventions is just easier to read.
• Both new and experienced authors are welcome.WHAT WE PROVIDE:
• Editing, formatting, and a designed cover for ebooks. (Print-on-demand options are negotiable for some titles.)
• Submission to major erotica ebook retailers.
• Limited marketing through social media and book review sites. Author promotion is of course welcome; however, we believe that the best marketing is a healthy list of well-written books. For this reason, we are especially happy to work with authors who feel they have more than one book inside them.
• Author-friendly contracts, including a generous 50% royalty rate on net to publisher, with transparent quarterly reporting. Contract terms are negotiable.HOW TO SUBMIT
• Please send a query email first--due to time constraints, we may not currently be accepting longer works. Briefly summarize your work and let us know how long it is (word count). We do not need a legal name before proceeding to contract. We respect pen names and keep confidentiality.
• Multiple submissions are allowed, but please let us know if you have submitted elsewhere.
• If we want to see a manuscript, we'll ask for a complete short work or 2-3 chapters of a longer work. Please submit in Times New Roman as a .doc or .email@example.com
Bottoms In Love
Part One: Heads
The dime sat tails-side-up, centered on top of her left hand, the shimmer of the fresh coin dulled by the diamond close by. “Now, don’t look glum,” Lindsey said. “Fair is fair.”
Carter nodded and smiled. He picked up the dime and dropped it into his shirt pocket, took his wife’s hands in his, and leaned in and kissed her. “Are you ready to go?”
She frowned. “Are you?”
As he rose and stood next to her, her expression changed. Her lips parted, her chin dropped down, her eyes brightened. He motioned for her to rise, and she, quickly and gracefully, slid her chair back, swung her touched-together knees toward him, and pushed up. She slipped against him, feeding her arm between his hip and the nook of his elbow.
He led her.
She remained just a fraction behind, drawing brief stares from men sitting with their dates at the dimly lit tables along the way. Her purple skirt wrapped around her legs, falling just past her knees. The white of her shirt, pressed forward by her breasts, emerged in his periphery even as his gaze stayed forward. She loved to play the part of his eye candy to tease him, but he knew better.
The dime had come up tails four times in a row. The odds quickly popped into Carter’s mind: one chance in eight. He shuddered. Of course, the streak wasn’t that unusual, and had it been the fourth time in a row that the coin landed heads up, he would have been perfectly pleased with the result. Lindsey seemed to know what he was thinking, and she squeezed his arm, bolstering his resolve.
A hostess opened the door and smiled good night to them. Carter said goodnight in return, letting his wife out ahead. She waited, just beyond the threshold, giving the hostess only a nod, and slipped beside her husband again. He walked the length of carpet under the canopy outside the restaurant’s doors and handed a ticket to the valet. The city lights were brightening under the arriving dusk.
The rarity of an evening out allowed them to splurge on an overpriced dinner and expensive wine, though a night at home alone, with the kids at her parents’, was the real treat. Tempered only by the unfortunate flip of a coin. The car pulled around and Carter walked his wife to the passenger side. She slipped off his arm as he opened the door and sat in the leather passenger seat, smoothing her skirt, which had ridden up, and letting her hand trail down her knee.
Carter tipped the valet and got in on the other side. He gripped the steering wheel and exhaled a desperate breath. “Can we do two out of three, please?”
“Could we if I had won?”
Carter put the car into drive. “No.”
Lindsey crossed her right leg over her left and squeezed against her husband as he pulled out of the lot into the street. “I always take my turn without complaint.”
“All right. Fine.”
The firm tone of her husband caused Lindsey to straighten and sit up. “Ooh, are we starting?”
“You can’t guess, if we’re starting.”
Carter glanced down at Lindsey’s knees lightly rubbing together. “Lift up your skirt.”
She slid her hands down the sides of her thighs, keeping her knees touching, acting coquettish. Bunching the skirt, she drew the material halfway up and stopped.
“Farther. Show me your panties. If you’re even wearing any panties.”
“I am.” She obeyed, raising the skirt higher. She slunk a bit in her seat, and the white strip of her underwear emerged, her pussy tightly encased within. “See? I told you I was wearing panties.”
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The Devil's Playground
• Cat Burglar
I slipped through the patio door, pausing for a moment to let my eyes adjust. The cool, dark interior of the house contrasted sharply with the scorching brightness outside. The seconds played out as I cocked my head, listening for any telltale signs of occupancy or pesky pets that might object to my presence. Satisfied that I was alone, I got down to the quick, efficient business of cat burglary.
Humming to myself, I popped into the kitchen first. The cookie jar is the easiest hit in a typical upscale suburban household. I could probably make a decent living just from that, but I’m lazy. The volume that would be required would turn the whole thing into something uncomfortably close to a real job. I wrinkled my nose at the thought as I searched through the pantry. Bingo. The old fake can of baking powder. Too easy.
And it looked like little Miss Susie Homemaker here was stashing more than mad money. I pocketed the considerable amount of cash and dumped the rest of the contents on the shelf. Half a dozen small plastic baggies filled with white powder tumbled out. Nice. The street value calculations were second nature; and so were the criminal penalties. I slid three of the baggies back into the can and put it back as I’d found it. Rule number one of being a thief: Don’t get caught. Rule number two: If you do get caught, don’t be a dumbass and have felony quantities of illegal substances on your person. Luckily for me, even misdemeanor amounts would buy groceries for a month.
I slipped the drugs into my boot and moved through the house, scanning each room. Finding nothing promising, I moved up to the second floor and the master suite. I deal strictly in cash and drugs, prescription or otherwise. They’re quick and easy, no need for a fence. Being a thief was more of a second job, though. My specialty was hacking, but those jobs were few and far between, and a girl had to eat.
The master bathroom, predictably, was a gold mine of prescriptions. God bless Big Pharma! I chuckled as I realized I had hit the trifecta – Valium, Oxy, and Viagra. Steak dinner for me tonight. Viagra alone had a higher street value than the street drugs in my boot. Apparently, there’s a surplus of men willing and able to pay black market prices simply to avoid having a discussion with their doctor. And then there’s me, laughing all the way to the bank. I cleaned out the medicine cabinet and made my way into the master bedroom. A door slammed downstairs and voices drifted up. I froze, gloved hands buried in a strange woman’s panty drawer. (They were really cute panties, too.) Adrenaline coursed through me, and my heartbeat thudded in synch with the sounds of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Glancing around, I sized up my exit strategy... or lack thereof. Shit. Closet or under the bed? Flipping a mental coin, I ducked into the closet and held my breath, hoping for the best.
The bedroom door pushed open, banging loudly against the wall. Muffled screams erupted, drawing my eye to the crack between the door and the jamb. There had been no time to get the closet door shut all the way. What I saw sent my mind racing. This goon had a woman slung over his shoulder, like a sack of panicked potatoes. He crossed the room in a handful of determined strides and threw the struggling woman to the bed, her mouth duct taped, wrists bound. I closed my eyes and ran through the possibilities. The sounds of ripping cloth and sharp blows landing on tender skin pressed in on me, insisting that I do something. A plan started to form, and I felt around for something to use as a weapon. I was no hero, but I was confident that I could at least create enough chaos to interrupt and buy the poor woman some time. My hand found a big-ass flashlight. I tested the weight. Perfect. I inched my way to the door, flashlight gripped in my right hand, left hand poised on the doorknob. Mustering all the courage that I had at my disposal, I peeked through the crack again. On the count of three: One, two... the war cry died in my throat as the man removed the duct tape. The woman gasped, as one might expect, one part pain, the other part relief. The moan that followed, heavy and ripe... that, I didn’t see coming.
He had flipped her over onto her belly to straddle her back. With a fistful of her hair, he’d bent her head back to take the duct tape off. In that at least, he was gentle – I’d almost say tender, if it weren’t so at odds with what I was seeing. He brushed his lips over her ear and whispered something. The handprint on her ass cheek glowed, and her lips curled into a sly smile.
Holy hell. I realized I was straining so hard to hear what he said that I was on the verge of toppling out of the closet. Understanding finally dawned, chasing away the flawed reality of a moment ago. With it went the adrenaline that was keeping me upright. My knees went wobbly, forcing me to sit. I slowly let out the breath I had been holding, and released the death grip I had on the flashlight. Relief washed over me. I’m a thief, not a thug! Confrontation was something I tried to avoid in my line of work. I made a mental note to avoid burgling during the lunch hour in the future. They didn’t call them “nooners” for nothing!
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P.M. White is a lover of all things literary. His favorite authors run the gamut from Norman Mailer to Lemony Snicket. White wrote his first erotic short story after a friend, who worked in a New York dungeon, encouraged him to explore his kinky side.
His previous erotic books include the three part Horror Manor trilogy: “Eyeball Man,” “Desire Under the Eaves,” and “You are a Woman.”
His short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies including Sex in San Francisco, My Love of All That is Bizarre: The Erotic Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Pirate Booty: Erotic Tales of Buccaneers and Captives, Bound For Love, For The Love That Never Dies: Undead Erotica, and more.
White can be found on Facebook and on Twitter at @authorpmwhite.
• Old Muddy Bug
People said her mouth reminded them of the iconic Rolling Stones image of giant red lips: plump, brash, and lusty all rolled into one. Whoever modeled for that image probably got shit-loads of sex because of those lips. Samantha certainly did.
She felt the two cocks press against her mouth. Both tried to get in there at the same time. One was just a tad smaller than the other. Both were hard as a rock. She could see the smears of her cherry red lipstick on both fleshy shafts. Numerous veins bulged on the larger one; it looked like a throbbing alien worm from outer space. She saw only one bulging vein on the tad-smaller cock. The latter she slurped into her mouth. Gary, her boyfriend, filmed the whole thing. He hovered around the threesome like an orbiting satellite.
The four had just returned from the small café on the corner where she’d picked the two men up. One worked at the place. She’d talked to him a couple of times in the past and always thought he was kind of cute. She’d often wondered how he’d be in bed. The other she’d just met that afternoon. Gary challenged him to a game of chess while Samantha hung out with Ernest, the baristo, which she learned was the term for men. She remembered explaining her love of sex, but making sure he understood there was more to her than just that. She was fiercely protective of her family, she told him, but wasn’t what many would consider “noble.” Her love of sex in all its lusty forms made it difficult for most people to call her that.
As she looked up at Ernest, while stuffing Carl’s penis deep in her throat, she could see only passion in the young college student’s eyes. His tousled brown hair and dark eyes made him look quite the road scholar – a young traveling writer, perhaps a poet.
He’d often wear a black knit scarf around his neck at the café. But now, seeing his swollen manhood and naked body, she wondered if he’d only nodded and said he understood so he could sleep with her. It didn’t really matter anyway. She’d fallen hard for Gary in a very short period of time, and loved his perverted side, just as he loved hers. Ernest’s true intentions didn’t matter. She’d fuck him this afternoon and go back to a server-customer-style relationship with him after.
“I love your lips,” he said to her. His cock angled closer to her mouth, almost begging to be sucked with the other man’s. Carl seemed to be in heaven. She didn’t think he’d mind if she grabbed both dicks and tried to stuff them in together.
Ernest certainly didn’t seem to care. She knew from past experience that some guys, the sort who shied from anything homosexual, went soft the minute their privates touched another guy’s privates. Not the case with these two.
Gary arranged for Carl to join them. Also a student at the nearby University of California campus, Carl had gone to the coffee shop to do homework. But that was before his invitation to screw the blonde girl with the jiggly tits and round ass with another guy while her boyfriend filmed the whole thing. Who could say no to that?
Her lips felt stretched to the point they’d split. But she forced both men in as far as her lipstick-smeared mouth would allow. Gary leaned in close behind her to capture the action on his small camcorder. His free hand unclasped her black lace bra. It fell loosely around her white mounds. She shrugged it off the rest of the way, freeing her large tits. Though she focused on the two rods pressed against her teeth, Samantha could feel the men’s eyes admire her heavy breasts and quarter-sized brown nipples. She felt like they hung too low on her tits, didn’t like how they pointed downward, but she also knew guys didn’t care. No one, not even women, complained about her boobs. At least not to her face.
Gary leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “Nice. Suck both of those cocks, honey.”
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Kay Jaybee should really be sitting in a dusty university library, translating Medieval Latin criminal records and writing research documents that hardly anyone will ever want to read! However, one day back in 2005, an idea came to her for a story that was so saucy she had no option but to write it down!
Over the years, Kay has lived and worked in Scotland, Wales, and all over England. Currently tucked up in the southwest of England, she is bringing up her family with one hand and writing with the other.
So far, Kay has written over 70 short stories and had 14 solo publications, including the novels Making Him Wait (Sweetmeats Press, 2012), The Voyeur (Xcite, 2012), and The Perfect Submissive (Xcite, 2011); the novellas Digging Deep (Xcite, 2013), A Sticky Situation (Xcite, 2012), and The Circus (Sweetmeats Press, 2011); the anthologies The Best of Kay Jaybee (Xcite, 2012), Tied to the Kitchen Sink, Equipment (All Romance, 2012), Yes, Ma’am (Xcite e-books, 2011), Quick Kink One, Quick Kink Two (Xcite, 2010), The Collector (Austin & Macauley, 1st ed. 2008, 2nd ed. 2012, and the short story Punished (Sweetmeats Press, 2013).
You can find details of Kay’s work at
Not Her Type
Tuesday It Begins
What the hell am I doing? I’m a good girl; I just don’t do things like this.
A tiny fraction of Jenny’s conscience screamed at her. The remainder of her brain sent her hands on a thorough exploration of the densely haired chest that had unexpectedly appeared from beneath her companion’s polo shirt. The fact that Jenny had never liked men with hairy chests seemed irrelevant.
Standing in front of her, diving a hand under Jenny’s top, John squeezed her left nipple hard, wonderfully hard, making her squeal with pain-tingling gratification. Removing her shirt at top speed, John freed her breasts from their confinement.
Moving as if on auto-pilot, Jenny’s fingers visited the waistband of his trousers, but in her haste she couldn’t get his belt undone. Rescuing her from her embarrassment with a smile, John mumbled something about it always being difficult to open and undid it himself. Jenny barely heard him as a neat pair of charcoal grey boxers appeared, swiftly followed by—Oh My God—the most beautiful dick she had seen in years – perhaps ever.
As she knelt before him, the voice in Jenny’s head continued its rant, reminding her that she hated giving blowjobs. Since her first experience as a college student, she had liked neither the taste of cock nor the sensation of being gagged. Now, however, working on instincts she’d never known she had, Jenny took John deep into her throat. She felt his fingers drag urgently through her knotty brown hair, raking her scalp as she greedily worked him around her mouth.
‘Hell, girl, have you any idea how often I’ve dreamt of you doing this?’ John confessed. ‘Night after night I wank about you, about you holding me in your throat like this.’
Jenny was consumed with a perverse pride as she listened to John’s words, wondering if she should admit to the stolen moments she’d spent alone with a silver vibrator and her own filthy fantasies – fantasies contrary to her normal imaginings, fantasies that often featured him.
His penis felt fantastic in her mouth, but the restless ache in Jenny’s pussy was becoming unbearable, and she pulled away, panting. The instant she let go of his shaft, John tugged her back to her feet and grasped her butt, kneading it in a way that would give her bruises for days to come, while kissing her as if his life depended on it.
Conveniently forgetting that she didn’t like the feel of stubble against her skin, Jenny relished the burn of his unshaven face grazing her, scraping her cheeks as their lips and teeth clashed together.
Her head buzzed, her nipples were tickled by his chest hairs, and Jenny began to feel as if she were overdosing on desire. She badly wanted to slow everything down, but at the same time, she needed to go faster. She wasn’t far from climax, and the mere idea of their illicit situation was enough to send Jenny to the very edge of orgasm.
Recognizing how close she was, John shoved his customer’s knickers unceremoniously to her ankles. ‘I want to see you on your hands and knees,’ he ordered.
Sinking against the carpet as instructed, Jenny’s breathing snagged as she heard the sharp rip of a condom packet being opened. Seconds later, Jenny found her courier’s thick cock sliding into her from behind. She was about to tell him how fantastically full she felt when John wiped all coherent thought from Jenny’s head by jamming his thumb up her arse.
Nuzzling his mouth against Jenny’s neck, John thrust against her, holding her hips as they frantically moved together. Trembling, Jenny’s knees began to buckle and her elbows quaked. Seeing she was about to collapse to the floor, John eased out of her body and flipped her onto her back before plunging his dick inside her again. She clung onto his tattooed arms (ignoring her lifelong aversion to body art), relishing the glorious warmth of her orgasm as he shot his spunk into her naked body.
As their breathing levels returned to normal, John knelt close to Jenny, teasing out the springy curls of her hair as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry Jen. I don’t like just walking out on you, but I have to go. I’m behind with my rounds.’
Jenny watched her courier dress with lightning speed, leaving in a flurry of promises and assurances that he’d return the following week.
The living room seemed so large, so empty, once John’s bulky frame had gone. Stunned and disheveled, Jenny stared at the space around her as delayed shock kicked in. How the hell had that happened?
It had been years since Jenny had had sex: twelve years, in fact, if you discounted one brief and unsatisfactory encounter three years ago. That was four thousand, three hundred and eighty days of a self-imposed embargo after one-too-many broken hearts. She had survived by surrounding herself with friends, reading hundreds of erotica books, and giving in to countless masturbation sessions. But now, out of nowhere, right in the middle of her lounge, when she should have been sitting at her little desk checking other peoples’ accounts, she’d been thoroughly and expertly fucked.
Standing perfectly motionless, very aware of her pulse pounding against her chest in the eerie quiet, Jenny tried to figure out what on earth had just happened. How their usual coffee break, with each of them sitting on either side of her dining table, had developed into a semi-naked romp on the sofa.
John had been in her home for only thirty minutes, and twenty of those had been spent discussing the DVDs that he’d come to deliver, just as he did every Tuesday. Then, he’d said something about how much he enjoyed their weekly chats, how hers was the only home where he was received as a friend, and how he always felt strange leaving her without so much as a hug.
Thinking back, trying to make sense of it all, Jenny thought that perhaps she’d laughed nervously when he said that, and told him she liked their ‘putting the world to rights’ time as well.
That was when he’d actually hugged her for real, and she’d looked up into his wide, dark brown eyes; and in all of her thirty-three years, she had never felt a twist of lust like the one she felt then. It had burnt into her like some sort of erotic radiation.
How did I not see that coming? How bloody naive have I become? Jenny wondered. Shit, I don’t even know if he’s single… It’s been so long since I had a quick fuck. Too long… Hell, now I want another one, and soon. Damn.
Running upstairs to her bedroom, Jenny stripped off her hastily donned clothes and stared critically into the full-length mirror. Do I look different? No, my arms are still a touch too flabby, my backside a little too big, and my skin too pale.
She felt different, though. A bit like the girl she used to be, when she’d been a student. When she’d been braver.
As Jenny stared at her reflection, she allowed her hands to trace the outline of her body, a body already infused with the heady aftershocks of being totally seen to. Flashbacks of her past assailed her. Things she’d consigned to the back of her mind and nailed up into a little box, never to be opened again – parts of her life that she’d long since given up on.
Losing all concept of time as she stood there, naked, still able to feel the mark of his fingers on her flesh, Jenny shook her head, trying to dismiss the memories that her body’s unscheduled reawakening had brought to the surface. She wondered just how many customers John had seduced with those dangerous eyes. How many other sets of fingertips had tripped lightly over the Japanese-styled characters tattooed on his muscular arms?
‘Let’s face it,’ she spoke sternly to her reflection, ‘that was just a one-off. Next week he’ll just want a quick coffee as usual.’ Doing her best to pull herself together, Jenny unhooked her wrap from the back of her bedroom door. Heading to the shower, her wits were a tattered mass of contradictions: the elation she felt from the astounding sex was at odds with the very clear proclamation that was niggling at the back of her head. Jenny, honey, he just isn’t your type. He isn’t even close!
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When she’s not working as a graphic designer and award-winning photographer, Mia Savage dons heavy black horn-rimmed glasses and sexy lingerie in which to write contemporary lesbian erotica.
Her lusty tales and micro poetry have been featured in the online Erotica Gallery of the Erotic Readers and Writers Association.
Her short story “Kat’s House” is featured in Wild Girls, Wild Nights (Cleis Press, 2013).
Lessons for Laura
The antiquated bookstore I’d inherited from my grandfather was quiet—too quiet. The echoes of my childhood adventures and discoveries faded into the dusty shelves behind the empty register. Sitting at his desk petting the old gray cat had become my routine between 10:00 and 6:00, six days a week, with much of that time spent wondering why I was holding on to the place at all.
For me or him?
She walked in from nowhere that early fall afternoon. The sound of her boots echoed on the wood floor. Up and down each aisle they tapped a steady pace, and my subconscious fell in with their cadence.
Suddenly it was quiet and I looked up. There she stood with a stack of heavy hardbound books that made a thud as she dropped them down on the counter between us.
“I’ve been looking for these everywhere. You have a wonderful and rare collection.”
My mind tried to comprehend the words as my body swarmed with feelings long abandoned.
“Thank you,” was all I was be able to say.
I knew the moment I looked into her dark penetrating eyes and tantalizing smile, she would consume me. And I was ready to be consumed.
The sound of the old brass bell over the door and those boots across the floor caused my heart to flutter. The jeans and light leather jacket suited her strong, well-built saunter.
“Good evening, Laura.” Her tone and presence were, as ever, confident and assertive. She kissed me on the cheek.
There had to be much more to her than what I’d discovered over the past few weeks. We shared a passion for good books, good food, and mind-blowing sex. Somehow I still felt there was more. Some place deeper than she had allowed me to go yet. Deeper than she was ready to reveal.
“Are you ready?” Her hand nudged me forward to the stairway leading up to my apartment over the bookstore.
“Are we in a hurry?” I circled around her playfully. “I have to lock up.”
“I already have.” She took my elbow in her firm hand and placed me back on the path in front of her, and then placed it in the small of my back to guide me.
The door closed soundly behind us. She turned me toward her and then pulled me in close for an almost hungry kiss. Scanning her strong face, I noticed her eyes were darker than usual, and there was a mischievous feel to her touch.
“Are we going out tonight?”
“No; I have something else in mind.”
Staying in was good. I hadn’t seen her for several days, and I was so hot for her.
“I’ll order takeout. Would you like a drink?” I backed slowly away from the intense stare that devoured me. Her eyes had a way of pulling me in and allowing her an access I was normally very protective of.
As I turned, she pulled me back, almost roughly. I stumbled for balance while she held me to another deep passionate kiss. My eyes closed while my body surrendered to her much more quickly than I had intended.
She slowly released each button of my tailored cotton blouse and pushed it off my shoulders while she engulfed any resistance in the kiss. The blouse and my bra dropped to the floor together. Her hot hands floated just above my skin, and the fine hairs raised to greet them. My skirt was on the floor at my feet. Her fingers dipped into the front of my panties to confirm the desire my body refused to conceal.
A dizzying quick turn, and I was pushed against the cool rough stucco wall. Her strong hand pressed firmly to my back, holding me there until my resistance stopped. Cold metal cuffs were placed on my wrists and she held them firm to the small of my back.
“What the hell…?” I struggled against her hold, wondering when exactly I let this happen.
Trying to turn and knowing I couldn’t was almost a pleasurable moment. My thoughts ran wild between the emotions.
She leaned against me, close to my ear. “Relax, Laura. I won’t hurt you.”
Pressed between her heat and the cold wall caused me to shudder. Her tongue slid over my neck as she traced a hot damp path across my shoulders while her breath chilled the trails. Short perfectly groomed nails lightly scraped across the exposed flesh of my ass, and a deep sigh of pleasure washed across me.
Another quick turn forced me back to the wall, pinning my cuffed hands behind me. She took a deep audible whiff of my fragrance. I wanted her so badly I forgot my confinement and pushed toward her. She backed away, pushing me harder against the prickly wall.
“Just stand there.” She held me with her arm fully extended and looked me over as if sizing me up for something. I suddenly felt shame and tried to force myself from the wall.
She moved back in close. “I said, ‘stand there.’”
The cuffs cut into my wrists to remind me of my situation. I was at the complete mercy of someone I had only known a short time; yet somehow I felt safe.
She reached into her front pocket. The sound of the blade switching open stopped my breath, and my feeling of safety melted back into uncertainty.
Placing her fingers inside the thin hip string of my panties, she cut them loose: first one side, then the other. The back edge of the blade slid cold and threatening against my skin. She pulled the fabric roughly from between my clenched legs and kicked my feet apart with the tip of her boot. As I slid down into the open stance, the stucco scratched my bare back.
She reached in between my legs and discovered the result her aggression had conjured. Her fingers swirled in my silky wet submission. I pressed my head back to the wall and pushed my hips forward, craving her touch.
I want to hold her, but I can’t. I want to touch her, but I can’t.
She held my yearning just this side of satisfaction. As my belly shuddered to the onset of my climax, she pulled her fingers out and slid them, warm and wet, up to my lips.
“Taste it, Laura; taste your consent.”
I turned my head, embarrassed both by her request and by my own arousal at the scent. She pressed her wet fingers to my lips and pushed them in just as she had done with my pussy. I took in a breath and tasted myself for the first time in my life. Even when I masturbated, I never tasted my fingers. As the flavor and the aroma took me, I sucked and licked her hand. It felt a bit like a blow job—something I hadn’t done since before coming out in college.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
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More Lessons For Laura
~~~ Prologue ~~~
Just as Laura Harington was about to give up on the failing bookstore she’d inherited and return to the unfulfilling professional and personal life she had placed on terminal hold, a tall mysterious woman walked in and consumed her body and soul.
Laura soon learned there was much more to the relationship and the woman than she’d imagined. As she became captivated by the knowledge of what it was she wanted, she also found everything she needed. She struggled to accept that this woman was very different and expected a level of commitment far beyond Laura’s previous encounters. Her physical desire still fights a fierce battle with her emotional acceptance of what she is becoming, but following her heart would certainly be what’s best for her in the end.
Fighting to maintain control over both her passion and her independence teaches Laura to look deeper at who she really is. As she discovers her true self, she grows more comfortable with her submission and her strength in all areas of her life. Her confidence and ability to accept what makes her truly happy has built with each former lesson; and what she learns next will require the inner strength and commitment she and her Master both know burns just below the surface.
From the very first look into those dark captivating eyes, I’d been intrigued by her quiet strength. Not as much the physical – obvious in her fit frame and assertive manner – but by an unspoken command of her surroundings and anyone that dared linger within.
I wasn’t sure anymore if I pursued her or if she slowly drew me in by the very nature of her aloofness and my desire to discover what was behind her intensity. As each layer unfolded, my craving to be with her only grew stronger. She wasn’t my typical choice of lover. Dinner and going to movies and sleeping in on Sunday mornings were unusual encounters with her. I would often wake to find her gone. But there was more to this; more than I want to admit aloud. Her ways were different and strange to me. I had never been with anyone that required – or, should I say, demanded – that I behave in a particular way. I was strongly independent on my own, but when she was present I bent to her will. It felt bizarre and exciting at the same time. My mind and body often disagreed on the extent of my willingness to conform, but she quickly gained the ground needed to bring me back to her desired compliance … and I let her.
Her lessons, as she called them, had been difficult at times, and I resisted some of her physical and emotional demands – but only to the point she allowed. I challenged her with my own stubborn will by resisting her command, trying to regain the control I felt slipping through my fingers; patience still was not one of my better qualities. Her hand was always swift when I failed to show the proper restraint. Realizing her limits should have curbed my insolence, but somehow I managed to dismiss the knowledge of her inevitable response.
Was it rational for a grown woman to be spanked for her behavior or for me to allow her to dictate my behavior at all? Could I ever go back to a relationship with someone that just didn’t care how I dressed or where I spent my time or even when I was allowed to satisfy my own sexual cravings? Did I need – or even want – ‘to go back’ at all anymore? I wanted to understand my need. Too much of my time was spent trying to convince myself this wasn’t what I wanted, trying to work up a logical excuse for breaking it off with her. Just as I built the strength and momentum to push forward, her voice or the sight of her walking through the door instantly extinguished my will to refuse her anything. My body surrendered to her even as my mind struggled to keep up with the reasons.
She had me captured again, offering yet another lesson I could never have imagined, each one teaching me to face my deepest fears and boundaries – boundaries I crossed kicking and screaming most of the time. I’d thought that being placed on display and allowing someone else to punish me as she watched was the worst thing I could have imagined; yet somehow I made it through and came out stronger and more willing to explore how deep I would allow her to take me.
Waiting for her was the hardest thing; and I waited a lot. I knelt there on the old wooden floor between the tall shelves full of ancient witnesses, old friends and memories held in each edition of the classics I’d grown up reading. Pure lust swirled through my body while I looked into my past. The large clock above my desk ticking the seconds only enhanced my anxious, regrettable impatience. I intentionally positioned myself with my back to it. Her call came more than three hours earlier informing me exactly how to prepare myself for her. She expected her very particular set of standards to be followed exactly — as exactly as I understood them, at least. My interpretation, though, was not always correct.
My body was in the perfect position for waiting, comfortable with my hands in my lap. My ass rested on my heels and I was wearing only her favorite scent and the black leather collar she’d introduced when she informed me I would be her pet whenever she felt the need for silent companionship. The collar request was my indicator that I would not be allowed to speak to her until she removed it herself. She kept the leash in her possession and attached it to the collar only when she required me to move with her from one place to another.
I would never have imagined myself in this position. My normal personality was bold and assertive, and her demands were a constant challenge – but I craved her touch and her attention. I wanted her to tell me what to do and how to behave, so the outcome for everything didn’t rest solely on my shoulders. She’d made it clear early on that if I was going to commit, it would have to be fully. “Fully” meant undivided attention to her requirements; and she would enjoy me in any manner she chose. She also informed me that I always had the final choice. Any resistance was overruled by my uncontrollable attraction and desire to please her.
The old brass bell on the door of the bookstore instantly silenced the ramble in my head. Her footsteps approached slowly, and I closed my eyes to enhance the anticipation as my heart synchronized with the cadence of her boots on the floor. My back straightened and I lifted myself into the erect, respectful position I knew she expected to see when she rounded the corner.
“Hello, my pet.” She placed her hand gently on top of my head and patted it.
My eyes opened and she was standing in front of me. Her voice sent the first sparks, and then being eye level with the bulge in her pants ignited the smoldering flame. My pussy pulsed as she hooked the leash to the collar and knelt down to run her long icy fingers between my perfectly parted legs. She scooped in with two fingers and the chill contrasted with the hot fluid awaiting her. She slipped inside me, then up to the tight pulsing throb that upon contact caused a convulsive flash to shake my perfect pose. My moan escaped and she brought her warm wet fingers up to my lips and pressed my scent to them.
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The Right to Remain Silent
Mia’s latest submission is here!
Alison Martin joins the ranks of sassy, disobedient women we take pleasure in seeing deliciously punished.
Alison finds herself alone on a dark stretch of road and in a hurry to reach her destination. The long arm of the law intends to slow her down with a firm hand.
A quick exhilarating ride that will make you think twice the next time you are in a hurry.
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Babes In Toyland
The perfect gift comes in the perfect package.
This Christmas, Lynn receives more than she asked for when her lover Carlie decides to step out of her comfort zone and gives Lynn a new set of “tools” for her toolbelt.
Carlie and her straight friend Beth set out to enhance the gift with a few sexy additions and meet Jay, the experienced, knowing – and butch – owner of TOYLAND, who takes Carlie’s idea to a whole new level.
When Christmas is over, each woman has gotten exactly what she wanted – even if she didn’t know she needed it.
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British-born author James Wood spins sensuous taboo tales. Themes of domination and submission predominate – of hands on legs and garter straps and ladies bound in silk.
Honourable Mention in the Best Bondage Writer category from the 2012 Bondage Awards.
“With a precise eye for tiny details, James Wood gives the reader a piquant story of release through surrender.” Willsin Rowe, author of Hunger
The cab pulled away from the curb and drove off through the rain. Amy saw the speckled light from the street lamp bounce off the wet road behind. There was a pattern there, made by the receding tires, which melted back into the sheen. Amy watched the cab go up the street until it turned and disappeared. She clung to Sir tightly and took shelter under his umbrella while they waited for the traffic to clear. He had his arm around her; he kept her warm and dry and near.
Across the road a row of brownstones huddled shoulder to shoulder against the cold. Steps led up from the sidewalk below to solid doorways under awnings. These old Grand Falls houses looked almost identical, but one door in the block was different. One door in the row was red. The stuffy cab had dropped them off directly across from it.
“Is it there?” Amy asked.
“Yes, kitten. That’s where we’re going. Are you satisfied now?” Amy heard the smile in his voice. She had finally gotten the answer she’d wanted, but had no idea what it meant.
It was one week ago exactly that Sir had told her about his plan. Amy had been collecting her clothes, getting ready to leave. He stood at the window fully dressed – he’d only removed his coat.
“You will make yourself available next week. I’ll pick you up at seven. Don’t be late.” He faced away from her. In the dimly lit room he was a shadow of broad shoulders and trim waist. She saw his muscular back from her memory, and laid her hand and cheek flat against it. He stared out across the city as Amy knew he liked to do. She moved slowly so as not to disturb him, but also because her body was still tender. Her naked backside and the tops ofher thighs still smarted from his recent attentions. The bamboo switch sat quietly now beside the chair of her correction. Amy lifted the shoulder strap of her wrinkled silk shift and covered her bosom from sight. She shook out the hem that was gathered at her hips and let it fall to cover her modesty.
“Is there an occasion? I mean, Sir, is there something you need me to wear?” Whatever she had already planned for the weekend coming up, Amy knew she’d make other arrangements.
“It’s a surprise, my beautiful girl.” He reached behind him and put a hand on her tender flank. “Wear something elegant. Something to please. Buy something new if you like.”
When had she started calling him Sir? It was sometime near the beginning. He hadn’t asked for it – their names for each other were private things. The word had simply slipped out of her mouth unbidden. “Yes, Sir,” she had said, and he’d looked down on her and smiled warmly at her surprise. She often thought back on that evening fondly; she’d been small and safe and cared for. Cradled in his lap, wrapped and secure, he had stroked her hair and body. Sir understood her need to give. Sir understood her pleasures.
It had been a long week for Amy. Work and the house and a forgotten birthday party for a ten-year-old nephew that had necessitated a mad scramble for a gift. Every day her “surprise” evening teased at the back of her mind. What would it be? Why didn’t he tell her?
Sir was picking her up on the Friday. That Wednesday she allowed herself a bath, and in the warm water she slipped her hand between her legs and masturbated to fantasy. Sir had a rule that she was forbidden release forty-eight hours before meeting him. Amy could touch herself during those hours, but wasn’t permitted complete satisfaction. She enjoyed the hand of his control over her body and urges, and she was inevitably wet when she met him.
She was dressed and ready twenty minutes early and stood by the window waiting. Amy saw the taxi pull up, and she closed her front door behind her.
“Wait there; it’s pouring.” He brought his umbrella to fetch her. “Hello, my gorgeous pet.” He kissed her.
In the cab they sat pressed together.
“Where are we going then?” she persisted.
“Ah. You didn’t wait all week to spoil the surprise at the end.”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“No, darling, I’m quite aware.”
“And it’s not your birthday, I’m pretty sure?” She gave him her cocked eyebrow stare.
“Would you like to be spanked? How long do you plan on keeping this up?” He couldn’t help but smile; in fact, Amy noticed that he’d been smiling since he had picked her up. Her eyebrow waited for his answer. “Unless my mother lied to me – no, it’s not my birthday either.” He put his hand under her coat, resting it on the thigh of her dress. Amy instinctively opened her mouth a little to allow for the quickened pace of her breath. She felt Sir trace a circle on her leg with the soft tips of his fingers. It dragged the fabric and with it her skirt pulled higher.
“Is this a Valentine’s treat?” she found words. Amy darted a look at the driver, but his attention was squarely ahead. She nestled into Sir’s shoulder and consciously parted her legs. The last few days had been unbearable, and she desperately wanted his touch. His hand had gathered up more of her dress until her stocking thigh was showing. Nearly all of this was covered by her coat, but she didn’t care much anymore. “Valentine’s Day is a week tomorrow,” she mumbled.
“If it makes you happier to put a name to it, then yes, you may call this a Valentine’s gift.”
He touched her with confidence and without hesitation, assuming her flesh as his property. His hand grazed the mound of her pubis. Coils of urgent longing were released within her and unwound themselves in her belly. A soft moan escaped her lips, and Amy, unable to control herself, pushed her hips forward to meet him. He seized her then – his fingers gripped her crotch and wouldn’t let her go. He fitted his hand around her intimate place, leaned in close and whispered: “Down in your seat, you dirty girl. I know exactly what you want.” He forced her to sit back, her labia pinched between his fingers. Amy was held; she didn’t dare move, for the pressure was exquisite. Sir at first didn’t change his hold on her, and then his fingers relaxed and he began to stroke her gently. His fingers on her needful sex touched her through sheer panties. Amy, helpless and awash with desire, closed her eyes and held her breath once more, submitting to her fate.
“Anywhere on the right, driver. We’re here.” Sir removed his hand.
Amy carefully straightened her coat as Sir leaned forward to pay. She looked out into the darkness. Where are we? She didn’t immediately recognise the place, but she’d paid little attention to the route. There were houses, but it didn’t look residential; conversions maybe? They had been driving towards downtown but seemed closer to the river. This older part of Grand Falls had become very expensive over the last ten years – she imagined what folks two hundred years back would think of their old town today. Every window on the street was dark or faintly lit behind heavy drapes. She couldn’t see any street names, and the rain made it hard to see.
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The Doctrine of Venus
“I’m sorry. That book has a restricted circulation.” The librarian looked down over horn-rimmed glasses, her lips twisted in a hint of a smile.
“It’s for reference only,” she clarified, returning it to the woman’s hands.
A look passed between them for a protracted second as her customer’s embarrassment grew. It seemed for a moment as if she might put the book down and flee without uttering a word, yet she clutched at the thin, worn book possessively and seemed loathe to let it go.
The librarian checked over her shoulder. There was no one else close by. “Behind you, ma’am, you’ll see our local history room. It’s where our archivist works. There’s a photocopier there that takes coins. He goes to lunch in ten minutes time.” She nodded reassuringly.
The woman hastily covered the book with her coat. “Thank you,” she said. And then in a halting voice: “I don’t usually read this sort of thing.”
“Nobody does, ma’am. That was the idea when they banned it.” And then, after a pause in which she weighed the eager look of the woman before her: “We keep all the back copies of our newspapers in the archive. October 5th, 1912, is worth a read, if this subject is of interest to you.”
“October 5th?” the woman repeated.
“That’s right. 1912.”
“Thank you again, I’ll remember that.”
“But ma’am...” The librarian’s tone was now caution-ary, and the woman turned back to hear her out. “This sort of thing can take a hold of your life. The more you think of it, the deeper in you go. It’s a bit of a rabbit hole, that’s all I’m saying. If you venture inside, you may never want out.”
“Thanks again,” the woman said. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”
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The Doctrine of Venus
Reviewed A Roberts, Amazon.com
5.0 out of 5 stars Erotic and fascinating
Though crafted as a vintage instruction manual, this is an interesting and actually surprisingly sexy read. Wood melds a modern day story with the instruction manual but in fact it was the manual that was of the most interest to me and I would imagine would also be to anyone interested in the world of BDSM. The photographs are also a wonderful peek at the world of bondage when it was strictly taboo. I thoroughly enjoyed reading each and every 'instruction', and talk of the lady's duties were fascinating and erotic. The modern day tweak at the end was a nice way to close a hot and interesting read.
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Behind glass towers, the wheels of commerce spin amid Grand Falls’ downtown buzz. Lucy Deveraux looked up at the gleaming spires above her.She worked hard and was good at her job; she knew that. They were lucky to have her. Lucy had landed some contract work, mostly routine project management reports, and was able to do it from home. It was only part-time, which suited her well. Every two weeks she’d e-mail her boss and would rarely hear anything further. The cheques arrived, no complaints, and everything was perfect. Until this.
The final presentation (there always was one) wasn’t scheduled for another month. It was a great surprise when the e-mail arrived requesting her attendance today at 10 am. It came from the Executive Assistant– not even her boss directly – requesting her attendance mid-week. That wasn’t the deal! The deal was that Lucy got to set her own hours because she had other projects and deadlines.
They know that! That wasn’t the deal! Especially given the arrangement she had with Mr. Cooper,their Director of Operations. Not that she was in the habit of asking for special treatment – she preferred to let her work speak for itself – but still! Given the … some what unorthodox circumstances … she expected better treatment.
Lucy tried to calm herself, but the e-mail was phrased inone of those assuming tones that drove her up the wall. It was as if she were solely at their beck and call, and the world stopped everything for them. She was rankled.
She calmed herself and tried to look at things more objectively. “Now Lucy girl,” she told herself, “There is no denying that the pay is good for what you’ve put in so far. How does the saying go? Don’t mess with the goose that lays the golden egg?”
Lucy decided to seek some advice before re-arranging her life. “Dear Mr. Cooper,” she began the e-mail as she always did – polite, well mannered, and respectful.
Dear Mr. Cooper,
I received your meeting request, but I must let you know I have made earlier appointments for that day. As you know, I endeavour to oblige your requests, but on this occasion might I ask to postpone? The day after works for me, or we could arrange another suitable time.
Thank you for your understanding.
Then nothing. No reply at all. Doesn’t he even check his own damn e-mail?! Next morning, another message from the Executive Assistant, and this time the tone was sharper.
Dear Ms. Deveraux,
We had hoped for a more sophisticated degree of cooperation from our contractors. If you are unable to fulfil our requirements, please let us know at the earliest opportunity that we may bring in outside help.
What a bitch! Just who does she think she is? But Lucy knew the ways of business and had been a pragmatist since birth. She swallowed her pride and picked out a suit to rush down to her dry cleaners.No problem. I have postponed my other engagements. I will see you Thursday as requested. 10 a.m sharp.
On the day, Lucy signed in at reception desk in the lobby on the ground floor. The company owned the building. She was issued the familiar security pass that permitted her to swipe the polished brass elevator andselect the 27th floor. At these heights, the furnishings underwent a transformation. The wall panelling and furniture and the scale of the place were all meticulously designed. They suggested taste and wisdom and authority, they projected money and influence and power – power perhaps above all. Up here, cubicles did not exist. In this most expensive of real estate, she was met with an open hall, a space leading to closed private doors.
Lucy presented her credentials to the austere woman behind a huge desk. She was the only soul in sight.
“I’m Ms. Deveraux; I have a ten o’clock with Mr. Cooper’s group.” Lucy felt herself being given a disagreeable stare by the crisply dressed guardian who eyed her suspiciously over designer tortoise shell glasses. The woman’s hair was tightly coiled in a bun that rose like a crest when she tilted her eyes downwards to assess poor Lucy beneath her. The woman’s mood seemed to sour further as it appeared everything was in order – Lucy did indeed have a right to walk these floors at this appointed hour.
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Art is never chaste. It ought to be forbidden to ignorant innocents, never allowed into contact with those not sufficiently prepared. Yes, art is dangerous. Where it is chaste, it is not art.
Traffic moved sluggishly in the early dusk of a winter’s afternoon. Four lanes of cars attempted to inch through the intersection before the light again turned red. Jennifer stood on the sidewalk, watching, the collar of her coat turned up against the wind. She waited alone, attentively. Nothing was moving. He would be late.
There was a boutique on the corner that sold curios of ages gone. Jennifer amused herself by gazing in the window until the traffic again stirred. She had always liked that store. A few weeks ago they had been out together, and she’d found something that they both liked. It might have been a hundred years old: a black silk choker band with a pale cameo at its centre, styled to fit snug round the neck. She looked for it now again, but the perch where it had sat stood empty; the choker with its cameo were gone, cast back again into history. The light changed again, and the cars dashed through that could, clearing the intersection briefly. Then she saw his familiar sedan approach, and her disappointment melted away.
The fine town of Grand Falls allows its citizens to turn right on red. Jennifer quickly stepped in as he swung by the pavement, and then the car pulled away from the curb.
“Hello, darling.” He kissed her. His skin felt warm against her own. “Were you waiting long?”
“Oh, no. Just a few minutes,” she lied. Jennifer had gotten the afternoon off work. She’d told them it was a dental appointment – a date at the art gallery wouldn’t have been acceptable, even though the work load was light these days. Sir had told her weeks ago he would take her to the exhibition, a Picasso exhibit that was travelling through the country; something he wanted her to see. He turned the corner and merged into the traffic, and she settled back in the seat.
“You look beautiful, darling.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Jennifer swelled at the praise.
In private, Jennifer always called him Sir. It was one of their little rituals – one of the many that had unfolded over the months since she had met him that fateful night.
Jennifer watched him now as he drove. She knew he had a taste for the feminine, the femme fatale, and she had dressed to please. Heels and a skirt – stylish, not trampy, with her wool coat a match for her bag. Her outfit might have seemed a bit much for the dentist, but her friends at the office had said nothing.
“I like your hair that way too. And it smells good.”
Jennifer glowed. She’d just had it done, and her nails polished too. He leaned over and kissed her neck when they got stuck at the next light. He lightly pressed his teeth into her, on her shoulder, a little to one side. She breathed heavily and rubbed her knees together – the touch of his lips against her skin always made her body quiver.
The light changed far too soon.
“Jennifer.” It was the tone in his voice that told her.
She knew what was expected of her, and she complied without hesitation. Jennifer drew her skirt slowly up her thighs until she sat open and exposed. Being ordered by him always stirred her desire, and she ground her hips a little.
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Paula's Place 1-Seduction
Chapter 1 – Grand Falls
I write this as a testament to a time I will never forget. Little did I think, when I returned to Grand Falls, that my life would utterly change. Where once I was hollow, now I am full. Where I doubted of the existence of love, now it holds me tight in its grip. I am no longer the innocent girl; I am blissful, complete, and knowing. He has opened my eyes to the world. I am his and I have flowered.
Yet before you can hope to understand of what I speak, we must return to the beginning. Back to when I stepped from the train into the town where I grew up.
“Is that everything, Paula?”
Aunt Emily, who had looked after me always, meant no meanness by her question. She tried vainly to hide the concern she must have felt over my request to come and stay with her – in the circumstances there had been very little notice. We traded kisses on the cheek as we’d done since I was a child.
“Yes, Em. Just the suitcase. I might go back and get a few things, but this is all I need for the moment.” Just seeing her made me feel better.
Em tried not to pry on the ride home. I spared her by volunteering the story.
I had left him; that’s what happened. My life was not how it was meant to work out. We’d met at college and lived together in the city where I’d fought to start a career. The years ticked by; how does that happen? Looking back, I suppose I had been waiting for him to drop the question. I just assumed it would be that way.
“Definitely over then?” Em probed gently.
“I don’t know what I saw in him. Wasted all those years.” Em had something of a smile about her now and seemed much cheerier than she’d been since she collected me. “What? Now you’re going to tell me you never liked him from the start?”
“Sometimes things work out for the best, dear. You can stay as long as you like.”
I got my old room back. It had changed a bit since high school; Em had taken the posters down and had someone paint the walls.
“There are fresh towels in the closet. I’ll go down and start on lunch.”
Our house is on Vale Street, which isn’t so remarkable except that in Grand Falls that makes it old – our street being one of the very few to escape the town’s big fire. Our house is a fine one, too. They call it a Gothic design. I’m never sure if “gothic” needs to be capitalized, but the house is so twisty and spired it deserves one regardless. Em takes a pride in its gardens. When I was growing up all my friends loved to play in it – so many good places to hide.
There is a park outside our house, one block wide and three long. It has been there forever. The trees are old and the shade is inviting on hot sticky summer days. I guess looking at that park I knew I was right to come back here and start again. That’s what home is for. Em called me down and I went.
I don’t know what brought it on. I hadn’t had thoughts like that in years. I suppose it was seeing the park again, and it being my first night away from the city.
I had gone to bed. I had turned out the light after reading a bit, and the house was completely quiet. I had left the window open and through it could see the moon; its light fell over my sheets.
I lay back, keenly aware of the stirring in my body. I pulled my knees up so my feet lay flat and I let my knees fall open. I stretched my arms above my head and gripped the bed rail tightly. There was an awareness in my body, a growing murmur that needed satisfaction and would not go away. I didn’t want it to. For the first time in a long time, I ached to be touched and held.
Sex had been one of the problems we’d had, I see that now. It was an unspoken thing at the end. It wasn’t that we didn’t do it, but I felt bad for wanting more. He’d always go on top. He wouldn’t kiss me; I’d have liked that. One time I talked to him about things I’d like to try, but once proved one time too many. I didn’t dare tell him of the dreams I had. He’d never have understood those. And so the years had passed.
There wasn’t much of a breeze, but the window was open and the curtain gave a stir. I pushed the blanket off me and closed my eyes. I moved one hand onto my belly. He was coming again: The Colonel. I could feel him outside the window. I arched my back a little ways and pushed my hand between my thighs. I touched myself on top of my shorts and let out a silent moan.
The dream came in many disguises, but it always started within the park. It was back in the time of the Civil War, and I was out gathering wood for the house. We knew there was a battle looming nearby. I know I’d been told to be careful. Nevertheless, I walked on alone, hidden by trees, fearful for any noise.
In the bed, my right arm stretched high above my head. My fingers wrapped themselves around the bed rail and gripped it like in a storm. My left hand found my waistband and slipped underneath my shorts. With the material against the back of my hand I parted my woman’s curls. There was someone there. I could hear the horse whinny and the underbrush snapping. “Whoa, girl.” It was a man’s voice, deep and soothing, calming the nervous beast. “What’s got you all stirred up?” I was frozen, not knowing whether to run or hide, fearful of discovery at any time. I’d heard stories of rough men and what they did with honest women, and it paralyzed my mind. I could just make him out through the branches: an officer on a fine chestnut mare. His coat was dusty and I couldn’t make out whether it was blue or gray. He saw me. He always saw me. And that’s when I turned and ran.
I gasped as my fingers spread my lips and stroked the inside of my petals. I released the bed frame to grasp my breast and give myself a squeeze. Oh, Paula, you dirty girl, spoke my conscience. Only one night back and then this. But my mind was away with the pursuing Colonel, whose horse would soon overtake me.
I dropped my bundle and sprinted, dashing under branch and behind tree. But my skirts were long and the brush was difficult and I had little hope of escape. I could hear him now, right behind me, the beating of hooves closing in. I fell. I always fell. I started to crawl away. “What do we have here?” He dismounted. Spurs jangling from his heels. His sword remained in the scabbard on his saddle but a pistol was at his waist. I crawled, frantic, on hand and knee. He took a sore grip of my dark curled hair just as I’d reached a fallen tree.
“Oh, sir. Please, sir, no!” I pleaded, but he put his hand on my mouth to stop me. I bit hard on his fingers only to find he’d gagged me with a leather gauntlet. He took me then, he always took me, he pushed me down on that broken tree. He threw my petticoats over my waist and held my wrists behind my back to tame me.
“You’re going to get it, girl. You’re going to enjoy this. I’m going to fill your belly with my seed and drive you rough, like you’re needing.” Then he put his bare hand between my legs and felt me wet and swollen. He was momentarily surprised, always just for a moment.
“You’re no lady! Dirty girl. You’re a filthy trollop. You want it, yes, I can feel it here, I’ve got the proof on my own fingers.” And then he unbuttoned his cavalry breeches and unburdened himself into me.
Until now I had avoided my clitoris: tense and ripe and swollen. But at this point, as the Colonel mounted me, I gave it my full attention.
“Whore, that’s what you are. Wanting a real man’s attentions. I’ll give it to you, hard as you like, that you’ll be dreaming of me with your husband.” He grabbed my hair, tight as cord, and pulled it till I was screaming. But only a muffled mew did I manage through the salty leather I bit on.
He drove me, his flared root invading my belly, over and over and over. He tore at my dress and spilled my breasts and twisted them sore, quite fiercely.
I was there now, my fingers juddering, my womb in spasm, my clitoris ripened to bursting. I lifted my back, my hips clear from the bed, with my breasts pinched by my own stealthy hand. He always came too at this point. He never failed to deliver.
“God. You. Bitch.” He thrust desperately into me then, his breath in suspension; he pressed tightly inside me and trembled. It was that way for moments. Finally, he withdrew. I could feel his semen dripping out of me, running down my thighs. It was undoubtedly collecting on my wool stocking tops, where it would stain them as evidence. He took out a knife and cut my underwear from me, leaving me naked to God. He removed his glove from between my teeth and released his hand from my wrists.
“There you go. You can tell anyone you like; they’ll know what you are. And if you have a child, you bring him up well or I’ll find you and give you a whipping.”He wiped himself on the hem of my dress and then buttoned himself up and mounted. “What’s your name, whore?” he called down.
“Paula,” I whispered. I had gathered myself up by now.
“You’ll want it again, Paula, another time. I know you will. You know where you can find me.” Then he left me standing alone; he pushed his horse into a canter.
I lay back, flat on the bed, the sheet beneath me damp with sweat. When the trembling stopped I stayed still for a while and listened to the street noise in the darkness. I felt a secret shame, but it was better for that. My secret. It felt wrong and yet right also. I changed into a clean, dry t-shirt and locked this puzzle in my mind away, and the next thing I knew it was morning.
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Paula's Place 2-Surrender
Chapter 1 – The Lovers
I was ill with indecision. My date with Mr. Broekner had left me in a state. I was sick with worry that he didn’t like me and
I’d never see him again. He hadn’t called. It had been two days.
“What’s the matter with you, girl? You haven’t touched a thing on your plate.” My Aunt Emily was clearing the table. She didn’t approve of good food going to waste. But she wasn’t cross; she cared more about the funk I was in. Having looked after me for years as I grew up, she had more than my appetite on her mind. “Paula, my dear, don’t be down. If he’s right for you, you’ll know it.”
It embarrassed me that she’d noticed; but why hadn’t he been in touch? Didn’t he like me anymore? I remembered the touch of his hand on my skin and his lingering goodnight kiss. I’d thought that he wanted me. I knew that he did. Then why had I gone two nights now without even hearing a word?
“I just thought he’d call, Em. I thought he liked me, that’s all.”
“He likes you just fine, or else he’s a fool not worth knowing. Life’s too short to go chewing yourself up, imagining made-up slights. Search your heart, girl. You follow it. Now you best eat that good fish or else you’ll end up blind.”
I gave her another two forkfuls, and then I excused myself from the table and returned to my reading in the front room. My chair was by the window. It looked out over the park. I could just see the outline of 88 Vale Street peeking through the trees on the far side. 88 Vale Street, where Max Broekner lived. I hadn’t turned a page in hours.
Was he playing games with me? Was he waiting for me to call? An honest decision. That’s what he’d told me to make when he’d left me at my front door. What kind of girl are you choosing to be? He’d told me to think about that. What kind of a question was that, anyway? What kind of man said that? Then he’d made me touch myself. Well, that wasn’t strictly true – he’d asked me to. And I had.
I had slipped into bed as quick as I could and put my hands upon myself. And I’d loved it. Thinking of him. Thinking of him touching me. I liked doing what he told me – his little orders masked as requests – and with each one I wanted more.
If you come into my house again, you won’t be permitted those choices. I remembered his words very clearly. I wondered. Was that an invitation he’d extended?
I had been cast adrift from his mysterious life; there would be no phone call to invite me back. If I wanted Max Broekner and all of his secrets, I had to find my own way in. Going over was my answer. It came to me sitting there. That was what he meant. Walk away now, if you choose, but if you stay there is no leaving. I made my decision, perhaps the last he’d allow me: I chose to pay my author a visit.
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Paula's Place 3-Submission
I am no longer the innocent girl… I belong to him.
This is Paula’s story. After her Seduction and Surrender comes Paula’s Submission: the final installment in an erotic trilogy of domination and dark sexual fantasy.
Paula’s romance with her handsome neighbor has led to her submissive awakening, but she struggles to reconcile her inescapable feelings with her concern that things are going too fast. Then too there are unanswered questions both about Max’s past and Paula’s future. As her slide towards bliss only gathers pace, how will their love affair end? Does she even have a choice, or is her submission complete?
Submission is the final book in the Paula’s Place trilogy - a steamy, explicit work of erotic D/s fiction. It is intended for adults only.
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Seduction, Surrender, Submission
I am no longer the innocent girl; I am blissful, complete, and knowing.
This is Paula's story, the entire three books of Paula's Place complete in one edition. It includes Seduction: A steamy, explicit erotic romance of sexual fantasies come real. Fate brings Paula back to her hometown, where she meets her dark handsome neighbour. Surrender: Paula is drawn into her lover's world of domination and submission, where sensation and lust commingle with intimacy and trust. As Paula surrenders her body to pleasure, she knows she is losing her heart. Submission: Paula struggles to reconcile her feelings with her concern that things are going too fast. As her slide towards bliss only gathers pace, how will their love affair end? Does she even have a choice, or is her submission complete?
This is the entire work of the Paula's Place trilogy and includes the unabridged texts of Seduction, Surrender, and Submission, all previously released individually by 1001 Nights Press. It is a graphic and explicit work of erotic D/s fiction intended for adults only.
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An ordinary man in an ordinary suburb in an ordinary town called Grand Falls. I have a car and a job, and a mortgage to pay, and a wife that I love and who loves me.
I got up early, as I always do, to make the coffee fresh. The paper had made it to the doorstep this morning and I added that to the tray. With only three weeks to go till the summer vacation, it was going to be another warm day.
I heard the shower running upstairs, which meant Rebecca was up. I washed and sliced the fruit and then arranged it on the plate. My wife is very particular and I enjoy doing these things right. I took her tray upstairs.
“There you are darling.” She was towel-drying her hair, and was naked and tanned and wet. “Be a good boy and finish me off. I have a meeting downtown at ten.”
I took the towel she extended to me and briskly rubbed her down. She raised her hands so I could get under her arms, and I admired her lifting breasts.
“You can give them a kiss if you like.”I liked. I nuzzled her stiffening nipple and put my hand around her hips.
“Greedy boy.” She pushed my face away, but she said it with a smile.
“What are you planning on wearing?” I asked her. I was swollen but tried to ignore it.
“You can fetch the pinstripe skirt suit, the one you took to the dry cleaners, and one of the newer white blouses.”
I went through the rack of her clothes. The blouse would need ironing. “I’d have done this last night if you’d told me.”
Rebecca had come up behind me and now clamped a hand tight over my mouth. She pressed her body against my back, and whispered seductively into my ear: “I had other uses for you last night.”
I stood still.
“Don’t move. That’s a good boy.” She continued to talk in a murmur.
She slipped my belt off and unbuttoned my pants and freed my eager member.
“I like these shorts.” She tugged them down. “You should get yourself a couple more pairs when you’re out.”
She gripped my cock with an experienced hand and gave me a firm hard squeeze.
“Oh, you hard boy. You’re up early this morning, aren’t you?”
“Uh huh,” I managed to say. She was pulling on me now and my mind felt clouded; I couldn’t find words enough to speak.
“Keep your hands at your side,” she ordered.
I could feel her breasts move against my back and the trim of her bush touch my ass cheeks.
“You like this, don’t you? You like being pulled.”
She talked to me as she did so.
“You know what I think? I think you’re a slut. You’re a pussy-worshiping slut, that’s what I think.”
She squeezed me very hard now and pumped me roughly two or three times. I felt the rhythm building inside me, and I didn’t want her to stop.
“You’re the sort that will do anything at all, as long as it means having his cock milked.”
I couldn’t answer her. I couldn’t disagree. I felt a little ashamed at the things that she said to me, but it excited me that she did. I felt Rebecca’s finger next to my lips, and then she was forcing it into my mouth.
“Suck on it. Suck on it, you slut.”
I suckled like a hungry child.
“Good boy. That’s it. You like doing what you’re told.”
Then she took her hand away from my mouth.
“Lean over,” she demanded.
I’d been standing at the closet when she’d come for me, and by leaning I was pushed into her dresses. I found my head buried in a jungle of skirts, each holding the tiniest scent of Rebecca.
I felt her touch her wet finger to my exposed tight ass, and I flinched a little at this intrusion. She smacked me on the cheeks to keep me still, and pressed gently on my passage till I opened. Having breached the defenses of my intimate place, she was quick to work her wet finger much deeper.
I couldn’t help a moan of pleasure at having been taken so wantonly.
“You like it. You like feeling it in your ass. You like me being there.”
Her statements came as a stream to my ears. Her hand on my cock tugged me still.
“You’re a man slut. You’re a boy toy. You like being pulled and made to serve. I bet you’d take a big cock in the ass and gasp like a little whore.”
I could hear the excitement build in her voice as she worked me like a piston. My sphincter would close as she slid her finger full out before she’d push and slide it back in.
Trapped in a forest of colored cloth, I couldn’t see what was happening. I felt myself begin to build and lifted my ass up higher.
Then she stopped.
God, I’d been so close!
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Reviewed by Kiki Dufoulon (5 stars)
Oh My!! I think this may be my favourite book in the series. Mr. Wood definitely has an amazing imagination when it comes to his scenarios. I mean, who else could have thought up a restaurant such as this one, periscope and all?
No-one!! That’s who!
And if I am completely honest I SO want to visit one of those. Play voyeur for the night. How hot would that be!! Damn! *fans self*
So, our Amy made a good choice. Young hunky male, spanking, restraints, an experienced Maitresse!! And then to top it all off her Sir gives her some shinny bling to remember him by. Oh, I like her Sir. He’s my favourite...
I noticed that Mr. Wood’s Doms are all very classy, elegant men with a wicked side to them. Which I love!! And Amy’s Sir seems to be even more so than the previous two. His mannerisms were very old fashioned, except in the bedroom where he took control and dominated his feisty little sub. And he showed her a lot of affection... even called her ‘my love’ which strangely drew me to him more.
Yeah so, I don’t want to say too much and give away the fun. And as you can guess this was another amazing read which you so have to grab a copy of for yourself! You will love it. I promise!! *walks off wondering if she can talk James into making audio books*
Favourite Quote... “This is for your own good. When you are given instructions, you’ll follow them carefully, or you will suffer the consequences.”
4.0 out of 5 stars
Well Hot Dayum!!! That was something else. Something totally unexpected, and not my usual choice of reading material. But Dayum! Damn! Damn! DAMN!!! Talk about hot. I swear I have no words.
Reviewed by Erotica for the Big Brain
Brilliant, Introspective, Character-Driven Erotica
“Art is never chaste. It ought to be forbidden to ignorant innocents, never allowed into contact with those not sufficiently prepared. Yes, art is dangerous. Where it is chaste, it is not art.”
This quote from Pablo Picasso, which appears at the beginning of James Wood’s “Taking Jennifer”, should be the creed by which all writers of literary erotica live and work. Of course, that greatest of modernist iconoclasts was speaking in sharp reaction to the centuries of cruel censorship and Church-State-sponsored repression in the artistic life of his home country. The nude had been effectively banned in Spanish painting for more than five centuries--only Goya daring to buck the tradition; and even he felt compelled to offer a clothed version of his beautiful “Maja desnuda” in a chaste cloud of diaphanous drapery. (Both versions were subsequently confiscated by the Inquisition and labeled “obscene.”) Picasso spoke of artistic courage, pride and daring; of artists who do not apologize for their vision, or water down their work in order to please some vaguely imagined audience of prudes. That bold spirit is very much evident today in the erotic writing of James Wood.
“Taking Jennifer” is the second entry in Wood’s “Erotic Stories of Domination and Submission” series. Set in the author’s familiar North-American fantasy-metropolis of Grand Falls--a scintillatingly cosmopolitan place to be sure--this taut, well-crafted story offers a new scenario from the surprisingly introspective point of view of a passionate female submissive.
The language of this story is never effusive or pretentious; but reminiscent of the finest chamber music, intimate, logical, transparent, without a single note out of place, nor a syllable wasted. Wood has a keen eye for the most exquisite, often unexpected details; who knew, for instance, that the fluting on an upholstered couch could be an aphrodisiac in and of itself? Who but the most acutely observant story-teller would write something like, “she felt his touch as if he were reading Braille upon her body . . .” This is inspired writing.
But the true epiphany to be experienced here is in the author’s probing, poignant exploration of his heroine’s deepest thoughts and feelings as she suffers the agony of anticipation--more painful than her master’s physical disciplines--the long minutes of waiting which seem to her an eternity of unrequited need. Or this;
“It was a strange feeling, offering her wrists up. She always felt the emotion in black and white; it was how it appeared in her dreams . . . The black. The darkness of surrender, the abyss of lost control. When she stepped off that cliff and fell into its depths she felt light and free and hollow. The weightless white. And into the shell that surrender created was poured the hot blood of desire.”
This is extraordinary prose by the standards of any genre. With “Taking Jennifer,” James Wood has written the kind of story with the power to inspire a generation of talented, courageous erotic authors. Why should this genre, so steeped in the intricacies of deep human emotions, be left to the hacks? “Taking Jennifer” is recommended without reservation.
Sharazade is a professional writer, editor, and consultant with more than 20 books published under another name. She divides her time among Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the U.S. She enjoys stories that are realistic enough that they might have happened and fanciful enough that they might not have. She values communication, adventure, exploration, passion, and love. Her first collection of stories, Transported: Erotic Travel Tales, is published by Fanny Press. Her stories also appear in anthologies with Cleis Press, Sizzler, and the Erotic Literary Salon.
“Can you be a good girl, Shar?”
Of course, lover. I promised.
It’s Sunday—it should be a day to sleep in and then fool around in bed all morning, but the agreement was, we could go wild on Saturday if I promised you uninterrupted time to work on Sunday. We slept in just a bit, now we’ll have a leisurely breakfast and read the paper, and then you’ll do your work. I’ll be good. I have work to do myself, you know.
You look so handsome, darling! Fresh from the shower, wrapped in a flannel robe that you haven’t bothered to tie (in fact, I can almost see… but no, the table is in the way). I’m already dressed, in a sundress I think is just your type of thing: royal blue with white polka dots, a low cut scoop neckline, a short swishy skirt. Not that you’ve said anything about it yet, since you’re eating and half-glancing at the headlines in the paper, not really looking at me.
I’d never fish for a compliment, would never be that crass, but I might just brush by you (more tea, lover?)… ah, yes, an affectionate pat on my behind. If you slipped your hand up under my skirt, you’d notice I’m wearing one of your favorite pairs of panties, the oh-so-thin cream-colored ones. You might, in fact, want to lift my skirt, have a peek at the almost translucent fabric stretched over my ass? Instead: a light smack! “You bad girl!” And then your hand is picking up a tea cup, so no more pats, I guess. I can’t resist a bit of a flounce, though, as I return to my seat.
Bad girl. Naughty girl. I hear that a lot from you. Last night you pulled me onto your lap, facing you, my legs to either side, and you kissed me deeply; then pressed up against my breasts from the bottom of their demi-cups so that my nipples rose above, rubbing on the thin fabric of my shirt. You bit one, then the other, through the cloth, hard enough to make me gasp and squirm and rub myself against you. “Naughty girl, Shar,” I heard as I ground myself down on the bulge in your pants, and felt your hands tighten on my hips.
It’s funny, isn’t it, how words with opposite meanings can express such similar thoughts. A hot outfit can be cool. And a bad girl… well, if you like it, then that’s good, right? Yet it seems to me that I hear what a “bad creature” or “naughty thing” I am far more often than I hear “Good girl.” Not that I mind. Of course not. Whatever gets you hot, lover, that’s what I want too.
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A Skiff of Snow
Top 10 Things I Like About
1. The men
2. The way the men talk (accents!!)
4. The sights
Oh, what the hell. 5-10 would just be “the men” again. This whole country is like some Playground of Lust for me. Part of that might be my mood, granted. I just got out of a three-year, nine-month relationship (academic calendar). Nothing dramatic; it died of boredom. Just before we did. He actually broke up with me by text message, and when I first got the message I had to stop and think who he was. Well, I know three people named “Jim.” But still. We’d long since stopped sending sexy texts to each other. We’d go to classes, hang out with separate groups of friends, and on weekends we’d watch TV together, have perfunctory sex, and then go to sleep. There was nothing wrong with him, but let’s face it, there was no spark. It was a case of “any sex is better than none.” I wasn’t exactly heartbroken when we split – except then I was left with no sex!
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Fulani has been writing erotica for around ten years now, much of it dealing with BDSM and fetish, which are worlds he’s known for longer than he cares to remember. He is a chronic insomniac and writes mainly in the small hours. He has published numerous short stories, several novellas, and a novel with, among others, Xcite Books, Pink Flamingo, Renaissance Sizzler, and Sweetmeats Press. He blogs at deliciouslydeviant.wordpress.com and fulanismut.blogspot.com.
The Museum of Deviant Desires
• What are the stories about?
Well, they’re smut. They’re about sex. But at the same time, they explore different and perhaps changing ideas about how sex relates to other aspects of our psyche, our lifestyles, and our society. And to an extent they use sex as the vehicle to explore some of those things.
Poppy Seeks Pain springs from a fascination I have with men’s pulp magazines. These were cheaply produced sexploitation and violence mags that started around the late 1940s and were pretty much dead and gone by the 1970s. They weren’t, by today’s standards, remotely politically correct, but they still have a certain visceral charm and there are collectors out there. For those who know anything about the history of these mags, I’d point out that at no point during the writing of these stories were weasels used to rip any flesh. Nor is there any bestiality involving baboons.
Burnout and The Plastics Factory both have their origins in a kind of industrial bondage fetish. Alot of bondage photography seems to be shot in locations that look like, orperhaps are, abandoned factories, warehouses, hospitals, and the like. Such locations provide plenty of space along with useful props such as expose drafters for suspension: pipes and machinery, pallets, and storage racks that victims can be tied to; and even, sometimes, hospital beds or cages once used for storing industrial components, which can be used for fetish and sexual purposes. However, some of the practices described in these stories are inadvisable due to the possible toxic nature of the materials and locations involved!
Sex and the Giant Squid evolved from a bunch of influences: a place I used to live, the fact that pretty much everyone there had, at sometime, had relationships with everyone else, and my observation that a small number of people I knew there did in fact make an occasional income from the internet to supplement their minimum-wage existence. Mostly they used Ebay, and a couple of them put stuff on Etsy. For all I know, some of them had webcams and such like, but I branched out and chose another option.
The Museum of Deviant Desires is a take on music festivals. Many festivals have a late-night area with a libidinous, deviant, carnivale squeambience. Who knows what really goes on there?
I wouldn’t mind trying to film the scenes described in Voiceover, which I think could work well as a piece of Nu Fetish. If you don’t know what Nu Fetish is, have a look at www.nufetish.com, or try itas a search term on the video download site vimeo.com, which is a kind of YouTube for more experimental, arty, and occasionally surreal content. Essentially it’s an exploration of how ordinary, everyday strangeness can trigger a sexual response. It can be weird, it can be erotic, it can be weird and erotic; different people react to it differently, and anyone can have a go.
Finally, you’ll find a clutch of flash fiction pieces, with a range of themes. Some focus on the internal monologues of those involved in BDSM play; others push in directions ranging from the playfully surreal to the possible fate of those who download stories from pirate websites.
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The Museum of Deviant Desires
Five out of five paddles from BDSM Book Reviews!
"Edgy, modern, industrial-flavored stories full of unlikely situations, grit, grease, and urban decay. Some are very strange, some are very sexy, and all are quite memorable... absolutely recommended if you are looking for something gritty, modern, playful, and strange."
Read the full review here:
BDSM Book Reviews
Reviewed by Erotica for the Big Brain
“What I need” the narrator of Fulani’s “Burnout” tells us, “is some startling image that comes from nowhere and burns itself into my brain, my desires, causes instant addiction. What I need is a new mythos of erotica. . .”
I love the way this guy thinks!
Fulani is one of that rare, as yet officially unclassified species of erotic writer, the “meta-sexual;” a delightfully self-referential species noted for its uncanny ability to pleasure open-minded readers with intense multiple “brain-gasms.” And there are many to be enjoyed in this collection of short BDSM-centered fiction, informed by everything from Roland Barthes and Stanislaw Lem to Nu Fetish, industrial bondage; flash fiction and on-line piracy; underground music festivals, and those pulpy sexploitation magazines of the 50s and 60s with their lurid cover paintings and thick black “censor bars” redacting all the naughty bits in the grainy photos accompanying the articles.
Jeremy Edwards is a widely published author of erotic short stories, and the author of the erotocomedic novels Rock My Socks Off and The Pleasure Dial.
Though he is aware that most of the planet’s sentient species manage to enjoy copulation without ever putting on their reading glasses, he personally feels that a judicious turn of explicit phrase can be worth its weight in primal bliss. His lascivious prose embodies an enthusiasm for sex in its sunniest form, as he strives to blend the sensuous and the playful, lighthearted laughter and erotic urgency. Jeremy writes heterosexual and lesbian erotica; his stories revolve around sensitive, cerebral, sexually self-aware women (some of whom take greater than average pleasure in peeing), and the men and women who adore them. One reviewer has referred to his writing as an “irresistible blend of raunch and romantic sweetness.”
Jeremy’s libidinous literary efforts are well represented at many of the erotica scene’s high-quality online venues (Clean Sheets, Erotic Woman, Every Night Erotica, FeatherLit, Fishnet, Good Vibrations, Oysters & Chocolate), and his stories have appeared in over fifty anthologies offered by Cleis Press, Xcite Books, and other publishers. His work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, 9, and 11, and he has been featured in the literary showcase of the Seattle Erotic Art Festival. Out on the newsstand, he was a frequent contributor to Scarlet and Forum/Foreplay magazines in their day.
A popular guest on the Web circuit, Jeremy has been seen or heard such places as Erotica Readers & Writers Association, Lust Bites, LoveHoney, Dr. Dick’s Sex Advice, 4-Letter-Words, LiberatorOoh, and Cult of Gracie Radio. In the nonvirtual world, he has read his work at the In the Flesh, Essensuality, and Ravenous Nights series in New York; the Erotic Literary Salon in Philadelphia; and (via telephone) In the Flesh: L.A.
Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile.
Private Fountains Vol. One
“About how many times a day do you pee?” Horace asked Evelyn.
“On average. How many times?” He smiled charismatically.
“I don’t know … four or five, maybe. A bunch.”
The wine bar was hopping. Other couples huddled at every point of the compass—engaging in less peculiar conversations, Evelyn wagered.
“Why do you ask? Do you keep tallies?”
“Oh, no,” he chuckled. “I’m an enthusiast, not an accountant.”
He leaned in closer. “Do you like it?”
“Do you like peeing?”
She smirked. “What do you mean? I—”
“I mean, do you enjoy yourself with it?” His hand touched her knee.
“What a question, Horace.”
“And here’s another: If you could wave a magic wand and never have to pee again, would you take advantage of that? Or would you miss how luxurious it feels to pull your panties down and piss? Would you opt out of the magic-wand thing, Evelyn?” He broke eye contact long enough to help himself to a piece of focaccia, giving her a moment of space.
This had definitely turned into an interesting date.
“You like how it feels, don’t you?” said Horace, promptly back on her ass.
“But you like it a lot, yes?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Does it make your pussy wet to think about how good it feels? To sit here and talk about it?”
“It seems to me you’re the one doing most of the talking.”
He conceded the point with a gesture. “Please. I’m all ears.”
He conceded this as well.
She looked around the room again. “I’ve never seen this place so crowded.”
“I thought we were talking about your wet pussy.”
“Did I say it was wet?”
“No, in fact you didn’t—not yet. Why the delay in imparting this information?”
“You appear to be fairly sure about it without my input.”
He reached across the table to take her hand. “Evelyn, there is nothing more important to me than your input on this subject.”
She inclined her head graciously. “Thank you.”
“So, then, it’s wet?”
“Maybe.” But she knew she was nodding yes.
“And this has something to do with telling me how much you enjoy peeing, correct? You did say you liked it, didn’t you? A lot?”
“Oh, for crying out loud. Yes, yes, I like to pee, OK?” She laughed.
“A lot. Right?”
She sighed, then burst into another round of laughter. “Well, since it makes you so happy: Yes. A lot.”
“I want to hear more about how happy it makes you.”
“What’s to tell? It—um—it’s a really good feeling. And, yeah, sort of sexy.” She shifted in her seat, and this did not go unnoticed; Horace’s face lit up.
“Maybe you have to pee right now, eh? You’re imagining what the sensations will be like when you do it: almost like an orgasm. Am I right? In fact, Evelyn, I propose that you’re squeezing your thighs together holding it at this very moment, and that this is turning you on, as well.”
He put the napkin he’d been gesturing with back on the table. “But I’m talking too much again—speculating here, without giving you a chance to answer me. I apologize. So, tell me: do you have to pee?” He was speaking softly now, his voice an insinuating velvet.
“I can wait.” She felt herself blush.
“Oh, yes, I bet you can,” he said, looking more gratified than ever. “Waiting is part of the fun sometimes, isn’t it?”
“Damn, Horace, what are you doing to me?”
“Making love to you,” he replied instantly.
“It’s akin to a not-yet-answered sexual urge sometimes, that tickle of water, isn’t it? Waiting a bit can be like foreplay … delicious anticipation.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“But neither do you deny its aptness, I note. Splendid. And how nice that you’re holding your pee right before my eyes. Isn’t it exciting that I know what’s going on between your legs, Evelyn, dead center in the seam of those flirty slacks you’re wearing?”
“You’re making me squirm in public.”
“Is that a problem?”
She opened her mouth to respond, then hesitated. Then she shook her head no.
“I don’t blame you for getting aroused, sitting there with a tickle in your panties, squeezing your pussy while I watch your every move. I don’t blame you at all.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Is it like a man’s flat fingers strumming slowly, just outside the periphery of your cunt lips? A faint, pulsing tension that lurks vaguely in the vicinity of your taut pussy?
“You’re very skilled at describing things.”
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Private Fountains Vol. Two
The art-department manager had a typical set of goals for this retreat—a glorified camping trip for the art staff. And Alec, always a good sport about corporate nonsense, had resolved to show the proper team spirit.
But much more important to Alec was the personal goal that he’d set.
Alec’s goal was to take things as far as he could with Iris, without crossing the line. No, he couldn’t cross the line—that was of paramount importance—but he was also intent on not leaving any thrills untasted on this side of the line. In the coming days, it was desperately important to him to make the most of the magic of flirtation and the sparkle of play.
Paulette, waiting back home, would expect no less of him.
Iris would have been his favorite workmate even if he hadn’t found her sexy as hell. She was someone he could gripe to, kid around with, and get good advice from. Meanwhile, the fact of the matter was that her teasing eyes, her quirky nose, and her cute, compact arse gave him a hearty response in the turn-on department, which complemented the feelings of camaraderie quite nicely.
“So, they’re sleeping in their underwear out here,” Alec related into the phone the first night. “At bedtime they wander around, tent to tent, socializing—mostly just in briefs, panties, and bras. Do you want me to opt out of all that?”
“Don’t you dare,” said Paulette.
This is what he’d known she would say. Alec and Paulette had always been enthusiastic supporters of each other’s innocuous little adventures outside their own bedroom.
He kissed the phone goodnight; then he stripped to his own underwear and left his tent, in search of a midnight beer. Iris, scrumptious in a tee and tight blue panties, was near the cooler.
“I like your pajamas,” he said.
She slowly rotated a full 360 degrees, showing off her “pajamas.” “These are my summer pajamas,” she said with a witty lilt. “In the winter, I add a pair of socks.”
Alec grinned, and his erection bobbed in his briefs.
“I like what you’re wearing with your pajama bottoms,” Iris quipped, nodding toward his crotch.
He shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “Thanks. In winter, I put a sock over it.”
She chortled into her beer and slapped him affectionately on the shoulder.
Paulette had a dinner to attend the next night, so Alec phoned her at lunchtime.
“Everyone pees in front of everyone else out on the trails—the guys, the women … There’s no standing on ceremony, no ducking behind trees, no hands over eyes.”
“So it’s bare asses when the ladies squat out there to piss.”
“I understand, Alec. I’ve done it.” There was an undercurrent of laughter in his wife’s voice.
“Sometimes I see a little bush.” He cleared his throat. “You know, for example, Iris’s bush.”
“Bound to happen,” Paulette’s voice shrugged.
“I could skip the hikes, if you want.”
“Hiking is good exercise.” Did he detect a note of excitement behind this mundane statement? “Enjoy yourself, and keep your eyes open.”
“Even when Iris is peeing?”
“Especially when Iris is peeing.”
Iris didn’t have to pee during the afternoon hike; but she and Alec did hang back from the rest of the group, and Alec got to enjoy the music of her conversation, the jauntiness of her jersey-cuddled breasts, and the muscular sassiness of her long, trail-trudging thighs, all without distraction. Finally, when they saw how far behind they’d fallen, she remarked that they’d better hustle. She smacked his butt, for emphasis. Alec only hesitated an instant before returning the compliment, adding a slight squeeze to his smack.
“Sorry,” he feinted. “Reflex reaction.” Another hard-on was developing. Her bottom had felt so warm and erogenous, even through her shorts.
“Ho ho ho,” Iris returned. And she grabbed his hairy thigh, right where it protruded from his hiking shorts, tickling him momentarily before letting go. “Reflex reaction,” she explained.
Then she dashed ahead, giggling, looking over her shoulder to make sure he was jogging after her.
Following a late-afternoon swim session with the group, Iris and Alec gravitated to a Ping-Pong table by the lake. Soon they were enmeshed in an endless game, with no one keeping score beyond the most recent point. Iris beamed after each volley, regardless of who had won it. And despite her focus on placing her shots, it was obvious that the eye contact she made with Alec when she served had nothing to do with table tennis.
On the rare occasions that her shots went wild, Iris laughed out a “Fuck!” The uninhibited language made her even more appealing—just as the crotch-clinging bikini made her even more appealing. The suit dripped precious drops of lake water from the apex of her legs now and again, and Alec pretended to himself that it was sweet sips of her juice filtering through.
“What are you thinking about?” She said it as she served, with the result that both the ball and the question caught him unawares.
“Well, since you asked … I was noticing that you look sexy in your bikini.” He wondered if he’d sounded gallant or lascivious—and which she would prefer.
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Private Fountains Vol. Three
When I first saw Anna, she was luxuriating alongside a public fountain in the center of the city, late on a summer Friday night. Her long blonde hair exuded a wild vitality in the light of the moon, and her personal energy seemed to resonate with the flowing water.
I had planned to stop by the fountain even before I knew there was a beautiful, sensual woman sprawled there. It would have been as false of me to bypass the fountain in an effort not to crowd her as it would have been false of me to pretend that I was oblivious to her captivating presence.
“Good evening,” I said, in a voice smoothed by a recent glass of whiskey.
“Good evening,” she replied, as if from somewhere far away.
We enjoyed the fountain, separately, for a few minutes.
“Peaceful, isn’t it?” I finally said. “Peaceful … and yet full of life.”
“I love the water,” she returned with vigor, to herself more than to me. “Our planet is mostly water. We are mostly water.”
I thought about this. “True,” I said. “We even spend the first nine months of life immersed in water, don’t we?”
Her eyes met mine for the first time. “Yes. That’s a good insight.”
“Speaking of fluids,” I segued, “may I buy you a drink? My name is Tim. And though I don’t know much, I do know a rather agreeable bar in this neighborhood.”
“I’m Anna,” she told me as we headed in that direction.
I ordered my second whiskey of the evening, and she chose a pint of beer. As we made ourselves comfortable, Anna noticed that a lovely seascape print hung above our table.
“Ah yes,” I said, the art critic in me rising to the surface. “Here again, the fascination of water.”
“Water is not only beautiful, but it can bring such pleasure, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Oh, definitely. A nice warm shower … a Jacuzzi. Very sensuous.”
“And sexual,” she insisted.
I laughed. “OK, I’ll go along with that.”
“I hoped you might,” she said alluringly.
Sometimes, when I’m in the presence of an intensely attractive woman, I start to ramble about my childhood, just from sheer nervous energy. I did so now. “Some of my favorite times, when I was a kid, were spent in neighborhood swimming pools. Every summer, my buddies and I would stay in the water for hours at a time, just splashing around and playing games.”
Anna smiled enigmatically. “I’ll tell you a secret, Tim.” She leaned in and touched my hand for a moment. “I like to play special games with my own water.”
I didn’t know what she meant. I imagined her tossing a bottle of Evian into the air and catching it.
While we enjoyed our drinks, the conversation drifted into small talk, peppered with more reminiscences from me about youthful, idyllic summers.
Eventually, Anna stood up. “I need to pee,” she informed me, with a frankness I found sexy. But instead of heading toward the toilets, she took my hand and said, “Let’s go.”
“I thought you had to pee,” I said as we exited the bar.
“Mmm-hmm,” Anna said. “Follow me.” And she darted into a nearby alley. So I followed her.
There she stood, dancing in the moonlight, clutching herself like a woman who did indeed need to pee … and who was thoroughly enjoying the sensation. Now I understood what she had meant by playing games with her own water. As the erotic beauty of what I was observing sank in, I felt myself going hard in my trousers.
“Ooh, it tickles,” she confided with a magic ripple of laughter. While she stroked her groin with one hand through the front of her miniskirt, she used her free hand to blow me a kiss. My heart fluttered and my cock continued to throb.
Suddenly, with a delectable moan, Anna yanked her tights and knickers down, spun around, and squatted, her smooth ass pointed toward me as it peeked out from the skirt. She turned her head briefly to give me a conspiratorial grin over her shoulder. Then, after a breathless moment, I saw her water begin to dribble out of her, shy little trickles at first that kissed her pussy and dotted her legs and meandered downward. Then the floodgates opened in earnest, and her stream poured thickly as if from a faucet, a powerful, womanly piss that hissed swiftly out and formed an impressive pool, while Anna’s thighs quivered with vitality. Her personal fountain, glimmering in the moonlight and artistically juxtaposed with her delicious ass cheeks, made the large, public fountain we’d admired earlier look humdrum by comparison.
“I love being a woman,” said Anna, turning her head toward me again as her flow began to subside. “I love the feeling of being so full of liquid that it just has to pour out of a little hole between my legs. It makes me feel so feminine to sense it rushing out of me down there.”
I had to admit that the sight of Anna with pee flowing out of her was an exquisitely feminine, achingly sexual tableau.
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Private Fountains Vol. Four
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, Lynne’s pussy is on fire, and all she can think about is whether Julie is going to pee her shorts.
Her redheaded lover looks impossibly, irresistibly cute with that extra wiggle in her ass, serving the beers and mentioning to Lynne, in between customers, how emphatically she needs to pee. Mentioning it with a sexy smile, and not with any hint of discomfort. Mentioning it and mentioning it … but not doing anything about it. She undoubtedly knows Lynne could cover if she took a break; but clearly she’s having fun making herself wait—and making sure Lynne knows about it.
She’s done this to Lynne before. Julie absolutely loves to turn herself on by holding it until she’s a pussy hair’s breadth away from wetting herself, and it drives Lynne wild to watch her indulge in that kink—which, of course, turns Julie on even more. What makes it so perfect is that Julie knows her limits and is completely in control: if she ever lost control, like it seems she’s on the verge of doing now, that outcome would be intentional as well. Intentional … and, in Lynne’s opinion, fucking fabulous to watch.
Lynne is no stranger herself to autoerotic pee games. Like her girlfriend, she can hold it quite a long time without distress; and, in her last job, she discovered that a busy shift behind the bar could provide a good excuse to wait until one was practically dribbling in one’s panties. She found it especially delicious when she went out to deliver drinks to the tables. When she arrived at the elbow of some cute customer, stepping gingerly with tray in hand, she would wonder whether it would excite the cutie to know that she seriously needed a piss: that standing inches away in her shorts and fishnets, Lynne was keeping it in—and loving it—while she dispensed the drinks and collected the cash, and getting more and more horny the longer she squeezed her thighs together.
They are a well-matched pair of girlfriends indeed, thinks Lynne, while she watches Julie’s ass wiggle.* * *
She recalls proudly that the two of them even met with their knickers down, peeing in side-by-side stalls in the employee restrooms. Lynne was lost in one of those moments where watering away into the toilet just felt so damn good, she couldn’t help saying so. “Ooh, that’s nice,” were her exact words.
She knew someone had come into the stall next door right after she’d closed the door to her own—but she was so carried away by the sensuous bliss of her well-earned piddle, she didn’t care. She’d already been aroused when she dashed in to hurry her panties down and lower herself to the seat, and the intensity of the experience had only grown from there.The laughter-tinted voice that responded to her vocalization brought her back to reality. “Whoever you are, it sounds like you enjoy peeing almost as much as I do.”
Lynne was about to reply, through her blushes and her surging libido … but suddenly the woman next door was moaning—moaning—as she gave way to her own release.
This was clearly no hasty tinkle occurring next door, but a drawn-out pleasure pee. The woman seemed to piss forever; and as Lynne sat there dripping her last drops, she found herself hypnotized by the sound. She was almost afraid to break the spell by crinkling the toilet paper she required to wipe herself.
“I’m Julie,” her neighbor finally said.
It thrilled Lynne that she’d introduced herself while they were still sitting there bare-assed. And it made her bare ass tingle to hear herself reciprocate. “I’m Lynne, the new bartender.”
“It’s a pleasure, Lynne,” said Julie—and, on that evocative word pleasure, Lynne heard another gush of pee rush out next door. Her hand froze on the toilet-paper dispenser, while her other hand went to her wet pussy, where her clit was pounding frenetically.* * *
Damn! exclaims Lynne to herself, after the lovely rerun in her head has faded out. Now Julie’s doing the dance.
The customers will just think she’s bustling around, being energetic and efficient … but Lynne knows Julie’s pee dance when she sees it—that side to side, hip-shaking shuffle.
It almost makes Lynne feel that she’s going to wet herself, though she hit the bathroom just fifteen minutes ago. Flushed with arousal and buzzing with excitement, she can so vividly imagine feeling what Julie is feeling. If Julie doesn’t head for the restroom soon, Lynne might just return there herself, to spread her hot, bloated lips and take care of things.
“I have to pee so bad!” Julie mouths to her, laughing silently even as she says it. She obviously doesn’t mean anything bad by “bad.”* * *
The first night Lynne was scheduled to come home with Julie for a post-work party for two, Julie caught her heading for the pub’s ladies’ at closing time.
“I’m dying to go, too,” Julie explained, “but I live incredibly close, and you’re coming over anyway. Shall we just dash home?”
Her place was incredibly close. As they scrambled the few blocks, Julie clutched the front of her skirt and giggled.
She led Lynne into her kitchen and immediately sat on a bar stool, crossing her legs in such a way as to expose her flirty plaid panties.
“The bathroom is through there,” she informed her guest, gesturing. “Personally, I’m going to sit here and hold it a while longer. I’m enjoying it too much to give in just yet.”
She winked, then patted a second stool suggestively.
Nothing if not receptive to this overture, Lynne took a seat on the companion stool. She spent a moment letting her eyes run over Julie’s compact, svelte form, contemplating how Julie was relishing the tickle between her legs, and meanwhile getting in the groove with her own full-bladder sensations. She caught herself toying absentmindedly with the strap of her bra—pulling it nearly off her shoulder as a teasy substitute for pulling her gusset aside, down below, to let loose.
Impulsively, she reached over and touched the front of Julie’s knickers.
“Mmm … ,” the other woman purred. “Careful, now—you know I have to pee.” There was a playful lilt to her voice.
Lynne grinned naughtily and began softly stroking there. She kept stroking while she leaned in to kiss Julie.
“Oh, Lynne … oh yes … but I’m warning you, baby—I swear I’m going to—ohhh!”
The first spurt of heat and wetness kissed Lynne’s fingers through the cotton. As the panties soaked it up, she caressed Julie’s pussy with more vigor.Another spurt.
A few more strokes and Julie’s eyes widened, as her hips twitched in a complete loss of control. Then she shrieked a laugh and shuddered, gushing hotly and relentlessly into her knickers.
She danced in her seat as the pee squirted down her thighs. She kissed Lynne’s face and neck feverishly as she peed all over the barstool.
“How did you know what I wanted?” she whispered in Lynne’s ear, still pissing for all she was worth, bouncing up and down like a slow-motion horse rider.
Well, she had given some pretty clear hints, thought Lynne.
When Julie broke from the embrace to quiver through the final moments of her panty wetting, Lynne was torn by several conflicting impulses: Rip Julie’s drenched plaid knickers off, and finger her the rest of the way to orgasm? Grab a towel, and start mopping up Julie’s pretty puddle? Dash to the toilet, before she made a pretty puddle of her own? Or stay right there and make one?
She chose to go after her friend’s drenched knickers.
But when she reached for Julie’s crotch, Julie grabbed her wrist, winked at her again, and stood, pulling Lynne up with her.
Lynne ogled the inviting roundness of Julie’s soggy ass cheeks, clinging like fruit to piss-stained panties within a now-transparent skirt. She had the urge to fondle them, or give them a few sweet slaps. But Julie was pulling her along too swiftly.
And now that her body was upright, Lynne was conscious of how long she’d been holding off herself. She felt an exquisite twinge between her legs, as if she might collapse any instant into a sensual squat and flood her valley.
Julie pressed her up against the kitchen wall and kissed her lusciously, squeezing her breasts and wedging a knee between her legs.
“Do you have to pee, baby?” Julie purred in her ear.
“Mm-hm,” Lynne replied.
Neither of them moved. Julie continued to press her knee into Lynne’s crotch, while teasing her fingers over Lynne’s bottom.
“I bet no one’s ever given you a bona fide panty-pissing orgasm,” Julie speculated.
Lynne shivered as she felt the electrifying sizzle of her friend’s words running through her body. Her nipples were aching, her clit was scraping the taut cotton of her panties … and, oh, did she have to pee.
Julie slowly undid her guest’s skirt, then threw it aside. She toyed with the waistband of Lynne’s knickers.
“Look at your tight little panties,” she said approvingly, “stretched across your squirmy pussy while you hold your pee.”
Lynne wriggled against Julie. She was frantic with anticipation.“Oh, honey,” Julie continued, “you’re going to look so sexy when you do it. A pint and a half at the end of our shift, and you haven’t tinkled a drop yet? You must be holding back a fountain.”
Lynne moaned in the affirmative.
“Is this a nice place?” Julie’s finger had crept just inside Lynne’s gusset, where it was titillating the most sensitive part of her inner thigh, terrifically close to her pussy. “When I tickle you there, do you feel the water welling up? Pee for me, baby.”
“Pee for me,” she repeated, tickling. “Let it all out.”
Suddenly her other hand was down Lynne’s panties—fingers in her lubricated slit, thumb against her clitoris. Still tickling with her left hand, she masturbated Lynne with efficient precision with the right. Lynne knew she’d be having that “panty-pissing orgasm” within seconds.
“Make me pee!” Lynne requested—unnecessarily. She knew she couldn’t stand all the tension and sensation one second longer, despite how good it all was. She had to let go.
She felt the pleasure of Julie’s touch assailing her last shred of control from all directions, and she savored one last instant of squirmy anticipation before the climax rocked her core and a tidal wave of release surged through her.
Coming on Julie’s hand and splashing over her tiles, Lynne was now experiencing perhaps the most intense jouissance she’d ever felt. She seemed to be wetting in slow motion, as the warm liquid collected in the snug panties and then poured out the leg holes, caressing her upper thighs. The bath of ecstasy her pussy was receiving felt unbelievably good in conjunction with the luxurious tingling that continued to sprawl through her pee muscles as they further relaxed.
She was going to come again—this time slowly, so slowly. She was practically crying from sensory delight as she orgasmed.
Afterward, Lynne relaxed into what she now recognized as the incomparable peace of a woman who has been pleasured until she wet her panties. Julie kissed her forehead.
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The Pleasure Dial
“You mean I’m supposed to report to Mr. Heffy’s house?”
“Welcome to Hollywood, kid,” answered Sid’s head writer, and the telephone earpiece seemed to bristle in Artie’s hand with the force of Mickey’s nasal vibrato.
“Oh, and stop by the five-and-dime and get yourself some swim trunks. Sometimes we work by the pool.”
“Sid likes that, huh?”
“His daughter does.”
Artie knew he could work anywhere, having written gags on streetcars, at the Y, even during slow-moving portions of his cousins’ bar mitzvahs. Still, he’d assumed that the writing team of Dressinger Clothing Presents the Sid Heffy Show would be working in an office somewhere downtown, like the radio writers did back in New York.
He liked children, but he hoped Heffy’s daughter wouldn’t be too disruptive. He didn’t relish the prospect of getting splashed by some eight-year-old’s aquatic gymnastics just when the next punch line was firing through his brain.
Showing up for his first day on the job with a notebook and a pair of trunks made Artie feel like the taxi ride had landed him back in summer camp – and the summery spring weather of Los Angeles added to the illusion. Coming from a world where one went into an office, rain, sleet, or shine, and worked, he told himself he’d have to adjust to this world where you showed up in the sunshine at your boss’s mansion, as if for a lawn party … and worked.
“How do you do, Mr. Heffy. I’m Artie Plask, your new writer.”
The man opened the front door wide enough to let Artie through, all the while rolling his eyes for the benefit of an imaginary audience. “So this schmuck from back east thinks I’m Sid Heffy.”Nobody had warned Artie that the star employed a majordomo who looked – and acted – very much like the star himself, whom Artie had seen many a time in the movies. He reflected that the hiring choice showed a peculiar flavor of vanity on Heffy’s part.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. – ”
“Lubb.” He sighed it out, as though the syllable itself ought to convey every detail of the crap he had to put up with in this job – such as opening the door to schmucks from back east.
Sid Heffy (like his double, Lubb) was a slightly rotund gentleman whose egg-shaped head and downy blond hair could not help but suggest, in one way or another, something newly hatched.
Large, gaping eyes and a small, tight mouth conspired to evoke suspicious befuddlement – the basis of Heffy’s act, even in the invisible medium of radio, and, from the comedy writer’s point of view, the foundation for every line handed to him. And though no one was writing for Lubb, Artie had already noted that the man’s mimicry of his boss extended beyond what Nature had arranged, into the realm of demeanor. Having met this mimeograph first, he couldn’t help feeling that his first-day introduction to Sid himself would be anticlimactic.
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Adrian Black has lived and worked in the UK, Europe, the Middle East, the Far East, and currently resides in the US. He is a traveler, writer, outdoorsman, athlete, musician, and cook. He has had a complex, adventurous, and very sexual life that has been the inspiration for many of his stories. He is fascinated by serendipity and the subtext of sexuality in human relationships and, by extension, what can happen if you just let it.
A Dozen Dirty Stories
“Would you ever read someone’s journal?” Leah asks, looking over at me.
“No,” I say. “No. Really, I don’t think I would. I wouldn’t want to know. You know, it would make me uncomfortable.”
Leah looks over at me, and I see her thinking if I mean what I’m saying. I do.
“It’s not a moral thing, I don’t think. It just wouldn’t feel right.” I look at Leah and see she’s still thinking.
“Even if you thought someone was cheating on you or there was something you felt was going on but you didn’t know what it was? You know. Like, for example, you live together, you come home, she’s not there but her journal’s on the bed, and you could look.”
“No,” I say. “It would be like being able to suddenly know what someone was actually thinking. I wouldn’t want that.” Leah smiles. “So what would you do?”
“You mean what would I do that might be seen as … inappropriate?” I say.
“I guess,” Leah says.I walk across the room.
“Let’s see,” I begin, “I’m not really sure; but, for example, if you weren’t here, I might…” I pause and look at Leah.
“Go on,” she says. “Let’s say you’ve gone for a run and I’m here, at your place, you know, waiting for you and I have a look round. Come on. Tell me, Nic.”I smile. We like these types of conversations, playing with each other, building the tension. Leah is in her running gear, light blue shorts, a white top. She’s flushed and sweaty.
“You mean like about thirty minutes ago.”Leah looks at me and leans her head slightly to one side.
“And,” I go on, “I see a pair of your panties on the floor, like these,” I say, bending over and picking up a pair of black panties that Leah had taken off and dropped on the floor. I untwist the panties until the crotch is visible. “I’d pick them up, like this, and look at them, and imagine you wearing them. You know I like panties, that they turn me on.”
“I know,” Leah says. “You used to ask me to put them back on so you could take them off. Remember?”
“Of course I remember. There’s something about the concealing. Also the way they are on your ass.”
“My ass?” Leah says coyly, cocking her hips slightly and pouting her lips at me.
“Yes, your ass. Anyway, I’d look to see how clean they were and rub them against my cheek, like this, to feel the softness. Mmmm.” I can smell the fresh laundered scent, but also, there’s a hint of something else. “Then I’d bring them up to my nose and sniff them.”
“Sniff my panties?” Leah says, not horrified, but clearly entertained.
“Definitely,” I say. “I would. I have. Now these ones,” I continue, “at the crotch there’s a hint of pee smell. Just a little. Now that stirs something in me. It starts to get me going,” and it does, because there’s a direct link from my olfactory system to my genitals and I feel a surge in my cock.
“But what’s even better than that,” I say, sitting on the bed, “is when I smell the thong part and if it’s been in your ass, and there’s a butt smell, particularly if there’s just a hint, it really gets me. Each time I breathe in I want more of it.”
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A Quarter Dozen Dirty Stories
The Art Walk
“We’re bridesmaids,” the girl says, smiling at Evan who is standing in front of a free standing doorframe adorned with a veil, behind which is a dress back covering the whole frame. Down the middle of the dress are a series of small closely spaced buttons.
“Move the veil and unbutton the dress,” the other bridesmaid says.
Evan begins to unbutton the dress. “Is this performance art?”
“It’s more of an installation, with a little performance.”
“It feels quite erotic; I mean, undoing the dress.”
The girls smile. As he unbuttons the dress, Evan sees a corset – at least the suggestion of a corset – stretched across the door frame.
“Unlace it,” the girl says. “Then you step through the door frame.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
“If you want it to be.”
“I’d rather there was a woman wearing this corset.”
“Use your imagination,” the girl says.
There are other people in the room looking at other installations and photographs.
“I’m getting quite turned on,” Evan says, dropping his voice, unlacing the corset.
“Did you make this?”
“We both did.”
The girls are both wearing identical turquoise dresses. They are tall, one with long blonde hair, the other with short dark hair.
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Another Dozen Dirty Stories
“That was very funny! I loved it. Are you an actor?”
“The speech. I mean it was really funny and your timing …” The girl looks at Tim, her face brimming with enthusiasm.
“Thanks. Umm. No. Not an actor.”
“It must have taken ages to write.”
“I didn’t write it. It just came out. Really. There were a couple of other things I wanted to say, but, no. Out it came.”
The girl looks impressed. She sips her champagne. Tim sips his. They’re in the kitchen. Most of the other guests are in the garden, where some are dancing to the music while others just chat on the lawn. It’s a scorching day in August, on top of a small hill in Mystic. A good day to marry.
“I’m Brenda. Alex’s roommate from grad school. I’m so happy for her.”
“Tim. Robert’s best friend. From way back. England. I’m so happy for him.”
Brenda smiles. “Nice to meet you. Alex mentioned you.” Brenda steps a little closer, into Tim’s space. He can just smell her subtle perfume. “It’s a lovely house, have you looked around?”
“No, actually. Just the kitchen and the dining room. Very nice.”
“Follow me, I’ll give you a tour.”
Tim follows Brenda up the stairs, each of them still holding their champagne flutes. She’s wearing a tight skirt and her buttocks move elegantly from side to side as she climbs the stairs. Her back is straight and her hair is up, revealing the nape of a long neck.
“Early 19th century,” Brenda says, sipping again. “Ummm, champagne, don’t you just love it?”
Brenda turns and looks at Tim. He’s feeling slightly tipsy, excited about the success of his speech, and suddenly rather lusty. He sips his champagne.
“Love it. I’m having fun.” He steps towards Brenda.
“Alex says you’re quite the lady’s man,” she says. She takes a clip from her hair, shakes her head and Tim watches the hair tumble to her shoulders. “She thinks you’d be a catch.”
“Your hair is beautiful,” Tim says, reaching out and stroking it. He feels his cock move in his pants.
“Come in here,” Brenda says, walking in to one of the bedrooms, and closing the door. She reaches for Tim’s crotch and gently squeezes.
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Scott French lives in New England, but travels all over the world with his work. Long hours in airports and airplanes, his observations of people, and his admiration of powerful women compelled him to fill his waiting time with writing.
His fascination in the erotic power struggles between men and women first began when visiting London as a student. Feeling adventurous and unleashed, he visited an Asian massage parlour there, hoping that rumours of Asian massage parlours were true. Being the novice he was, he was racked with nerves as he undressed and lay on the table. What followed did not involve any direct sexual contact with the beautiful young lady who entered, and yet was, and still is, one of the most erotic and beautiful encounters of his life. Her touch, her manner, her words, and her control of the situation made for a far more stimulating encounter than any simple rub and tug could have done. From there, his interest in and admiration of strong women grew.
When not working and travelling, Scott enjoys sailing his boat off the coast of New England, entertaining in his Manhattan apartment, and doing his best to replicate dishes that he has found on his travels.
Under Her Foot
‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow then, Mr Castle...’
‘Yes, Annabelle. Yes, you will indeed.’
Jim Castle watched that tight little ass walk out of his office. He could actually see the panty line through the skirt of that little cock tease. He smiled at her as she shut the door. She fucking knew. She didn’t wear that little piece of whatever around her waist that had ambitions of being a skirt because she didn’t want him to want to fuck her.
He could picture her bare ass clearly, mostly because he’d thought about it while pumping his cock in the bathroom. He wanted to lie down on his back, have her face away from him, and watch that little peach bob up and down as she sucked his whole length into her little mouth. She must have been, what? Five-three, maybe five-four? Small enough so her could suck on her toes while she was sucking him, that’s for sure. Ass: check. Toes: check. Cock sucked: check. Perfect.
With her gone, he finally looked at his phone. He’d idly had it under the desk and snapped away during their meeting. It was like fishing. He wanted to see what he’d caught. Oh, nice! He thought he’d heard her shoe drop. There were a few blurry pics of nothing and some of his knee. But he’d got a few of her dangling those slut heels she wore, and some of her bare foot. Goddamn, it looked soft. And someone who wore that dark red colour nail varnish knew her way around a dick, that’s for sure. He wondered if at her age she’d ever given a foot job. Was she 26? 27? He smiled. He could teach her. He could teach her a lot of shit. He was growing in his tighty whiteys just thinking about that class.
Then his phone rang. ‘Fuck!’ said Jim, and rolled his eyes. It was his wife.
‘Hey’, he said, in the I’m busy, but not ignoring you tone he’d cultivated for her over the years.
‘Oh, hi, honey! You still at work?’
‘Yep. Just out of a meeting with Ed. More trouble with the sales team. Bunch of dicks.’
‘I’m sorry you had a bad day, sweetie.’
Like she gives a fuck, thought Jim. Wait for it...
‘The girls are over and we’ve run out of wine. Could you be a babe and pick some up on the way home?’
There it was... The question. Always fucking asking him to do something, and nine times out of fucking ten it was money or booze she was after.
‘Oh, they’re over again! I need shares in a flipping vineyard, the way you lot drink.’
‘I told you, honey. It’s Laura’s party for her home business.’
She probably had told him. He’d stopped listening about two years ago. Fucking Laura. It was like Giant Haystacks and a bulldog fucked and had a child. Jim’s wife was still pretty hot for her years, so it beat him why she’d hang out with some fucking bull dyke.
‘Yeah, I’ll pick you up something. Chardonnay?’
‘Yes, honey. Say, three, four bottles?’
Jesus, how many frigging bottles did they need?
‘Yeah, I’ll be there in about 30 minutes. Anything for Laura.’ He rang off before the sarcasm registered. Even if his wife was eating pussy on the quiet, she could get better than fucking Laura. Laura was like a Caucasian version of Oddjob in that Bond film. Blowjob. He laughed at his own joke.
He didn’t hate his wife. She spent plenty of his money keeping herself looking good. After all, she had a job. Some little copy-editing thing or whatever. She ‘worked’ from home. Drank from bars and restaurants. Had an indoor pool, clothes, and all that shit. She was OK. He was bringing in the mother load of cash, though. Been promoted twice in the last four years and he had cash to spare, even after Diane had drunk her share of it. He’d been faithful through their eight, nearly nine, years of marriage. Well, apart from that time with that dominatrix in Finsbury Park, but that scarcely counted. He’d barely been sober enough to remember it, and the handjob had been a last-minute thing. Not part of the plan at all. His wife got her chardonnay, and he could have his little thing on the side. That was how it worked, right? He flicked back to the candid pictures he’d taken of Annabelle and felt his horn return. He’d keep those for later. They were reasonable wank fodder.
He could hear them shrieking and laughing as he opened the front door. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He back-heeled the door shut and hauled the box of wine through to the main room. There were seven of them sitting around on his couches and boxes, all over the floor, and wine glasses in hand. They were all grinning in that smug way women fucking grin when they’ve just shared a joke. Not in the fucking mood!
‘Hey, honey!’ His wife ran over. She was toasted, he could tell.
‘Hey, babe. Got your wine.’
‘Thank you! You’re the best ever. Come and meet the girls.’
‘I just want to get in the shower.’
‘Come meet the girls, then go shower.’
Jim groaned inwardly and smiled. ‘Sure.’
He couldn’t remember their names five seconds after she said them. One was called Dixie or Trixie or some weird name, but she was pretty hot. She’d be past it in another couple of years, but right now he’d definitely have some of that. The ever-present Laura was there with her fucking Birkenstocks and the shorts that she thought hid her nut cracker thighs. Jim wanted to hit her in the face with a frying pan, but it looked like someone had beaten him to it.
‘Hey, Laura. Good to see you. Having fun with my beautiful wife?’
‘Oh hell, yeah!’ Laura replied, and they all burst out laughing conspiratorially.
Fuck them, Jim thought. Fuck them and their Laura Ashley decor and their trying to cram their fat arses into Victoria’s Secret. They could have their little in-jokes. He had a twenty-eight-year-old’s feet to wank over.
‘Well, I’m going to have a shower and watch some TV upstairs. You ladies have a good night’, he said, forcing a smile.
‘We’ll be seeing you’, he heard Laura say as he left.
‘Not if I see you first, bitch’, he muttered.
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