Saturday, December 28, 2013

Kneel at Your Feet - A New Year's Short Story - Part Two

Support Service: 
A New Year's 
Short Story 
- Part Two
Read Part One Here

To read the rest of this story, please check out this anthology from Cleis Press, which was an NLA-International Writing Award Finalist for an Anthology and a Lambda Literary Award Finalist for LGBTQ Erotica, as well as took Gold for the Independent Publisher Book Award for Erotica. 

Everyone has secrets, especially secret, kinky desires. Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink is guaranteed to trigger that hot flush that comes with the discovery of a new, sexy, sometimes unmentionable desire and that insatiable hunger that is left wanting more.

D.L. King, prolific writer and editor of fourteen anthologies, including the Lambda Literary Award-winning The Harder She Comes, presents twenty new unspeakable stories designed to make you cringe a bit before you come. This eclectic mix of kinky tales features established authors like Sacchi Green, Annabeth Leong, and Kiki DeLovely and new-“comers” like Pascal Scott and Sonni de Soto, among others. With stories exploring edge play, CBT (yes, even CBT), genital bondage, whips, foot fetishes, carnies, pony play and much more, these masterful storytellers will fuel your sexual dark side with new fantasies or your passion for well-loved kinks!

Like I said, this great anthology took Gold in the Independent Publisher Book awards

And has been nominated for the Lambda literary and NLA's Samois anthology awards as well

Available Now On

See how Kat & Peter will face our uncertain future in Coming Together's defiant, charity anthology that celebrates diversity and equality!
And Listen to an Excerpt

Please check out my story and get ready for some fit-on-the-streets-but-fun-in-the-sheets, pervertable play this PRIDE!

Please check out my story in this hand-held library of erotica & explore to your libido's content!

Please check out my LGBTQ+ burlesque erotica story, “Rise or Shine” in this anthology that captures womanhood & women on stage & screen in all their beautiful, wonderful glory from Supposed Crimes!
Available Now On

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Kneel At Your Feet - A New Year's Short Story - Part One

Support Service: 
A New Year's 
Short Story – 
Part One

“Sorry,” the big, broad, bald man laid out, leather-clad and face-down in a sprawling pose on the low bed beside her, yawned as Reena Lathan stripped his feet of their heavy, black, lace-up, work boots and thick, sweat-soaked socks, “they’re a little gross.” 

Reena just smiled as she took one foot in her hand and began to tenderly wipe every inch of his feet with rubbing alcohol. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “I’m used to it,” she said. Truth be told, she liked it. 

“You’ve been doing this all night?” he asked, his face half-crushed into the pillow at the other end of the bed. “What a way to ring in the New Year.”

“It’s my volunteer hours,” she said as she switched feet. Donovan’s annual “Spank in the New Year” celebration was coming to a close. Well past midnight, the numbers were in and people were saying it’d been one of the club’s busiest nights. And Reena believed it. “I’ve been here since ten, offering post-scene foot massages.” To Dommes with tired, over-arched feet in impossibly tall stiletto boots. To bottoms with sore heels and blistered balls from standing and struggling and teetering on bare, abused feet. To Doms whose feet sweltered beneath leather and steel toes. And it had been a long night.

Don’t get her wrong, Reena was a fan of feet—finding the ridges and planes, the bones and veins, the arch and heel and toes a fascinating study of where a person was, had been, and was going. But, after three hours of after care service—three hours of bathing and rubbing and massaging feet of every kind—even her appreciation was being tested.

Even so, she thought as she watched the last few dungeon scenes dwindle down from crescendo-ing strikes to soothing strokes. She had a job to do and she took her duties seriously. Donovan’s was a highly exclusive, highly elite club; one that, by all rights, someone like her—who was still paying off student loans and barely brushing off the bottom of the mail-sorting, coffee-fetching office ranks—should never have been able to belong to. Lord knew, she couldn’t afford her loans, her rent, food, and the club dues. But thankfully Donovan’s offered discounted rates to those who volunteered at the club.

All in all, it was a great deal. Three hours, three nights a month got had her monthly dues reduced by more than half and allowed her to attend events she’d never have been able to afford a ticket to. It was a great way to pay back a club and a community that gave her so much.

“Three hours of feet, huh?” the Dom whistled as he shook his head as much as his prone position would allow. “I couldn’t do it. Hat’s off to you, girl.”

Reena shrugged. “I don’t mind,” she said before she flexed her hands against a raging cramp that had settled in half an hour ago that now burned along the base of her left thumb. “I’m happy to do it,” she said as she started to rub his large feet with her homemade foot oil.

“You got a thing for feet?” the man asked, bending a bit at the waist so he could curl and curve around to look at her. 

A fetish. He meant did she have a fetish.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head, “I don’t have a thing.” She liked feet, sure, but it wasn’t, like, a fetish or anything. She just liked them. That’s all.

Reena closed her eyes and breathed deep, the scent of skin, sweat, and wear mixing with the oil’s sweet citrus and cool mint both calming and invigorating at the same time. She inhaled as she let the scent waft up to her as she worked it into the toughened flesh. She knew that most people hated the smell of feet, found the idea and the odor of overworked soles offensive. Knew that she ought to too. But there was something indescribably earthy about that scent that intrigued her. 

“Oh God,” the Dom groaned in relaxed relief as her fingers dug deep into the flesh of his foot. His feet flexed in her hand, the flesh arching deep, as the rest of his body followed suit, his back bowing and his head thrown back as he moaned almost ecstatically. “Thing or not, that is good.”

Reena smiled as she pressed her thumbs hard into the heart of his foot, eliciting more low growls of pleasure. She may not have a fetish, but she did have to admit that there was just something about feet that drew her. In the strong, sharp knuckles of his toes, the way those bones snaked like gnarled roots up the rise of his foot. In the coarse, dark hair spattering in patches—thin and sparse as ankle became arch or along each toe—that tickled her palms. In the variety of textures—smooth sole, callus-capped heels, fragile flesh that thinly covered yet securely held the bony bridge together.

Read Part Two Here

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

On My Knees - A Short Story - Part Two

A Short Story 
- Part Two
Read Part One Here
* Warning: This story depicts a Catholic fetish scene and I mean absolutely no disrespect by it, but rather seek to celebrate it.

Read the rest of "Genuflect" in this new anthology that explores eroticism and religion.

Ten stories of temptation, romance, and blasphemy featuring Sonni de Soto, Piper Denna, Torrance Sené, Charlotte French, Bronwyn Green, Leandra Vane, Mira Stanley, Jordan Monroe, H K Carlton, and Jillian Boyd.

Not even men of the cloth are exempt from God’s greatest gift: Love. In Sacred and Profane: Priest Erotic Romance, you’ll find stories of clergymen stepping outside their vows, pastors weaving divinity into their seductions, nuns and parishioners confessing to their body’s every earthly desire, and more.

Are you aroused by the blasphemous dance of sex and religion? The dangerous edge of eroticism contained within submission to something beyond oneself? The taboo juxtaposition of holy and sensual? Then Sacred and Profane welcomes you.

Available Now On:

Please check out my story in The Sexy Librarian's anthology that gives us a bold peek into lust and love from the male perspective!

Please check out my story in Coming Together's charity anthology that lets your feel-good do some real good!

See what happens after Kat & Peter's happy ending in my story from Deep Desire Press!
And Listen to an Excerpt

See how Kat & Peter will face our uncertain future in Coming Together's defiant, charity anthology that celebrates diversity and equality!
And Listen to an Excerpt

If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in SinCyr Publishing's anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

On My Knees - A Short Story - Part One

A Short Story – 
Part One
* Warning: This story depicts a Catholic fetish scene and I mean absolutely no disrespect by it, but rather seek to celebrate it.

Nicholas Bailey shoved his hands in his leather jacket and walked down the beachside sidewalk, passing workers on their way home. Harried families fought foot traffic with lovestruck couples presently too enthralled with each other to hear the tired cries and frustrated sighs of their futures. The din of one-sided cell phone conversations clashed against the call of street vendors, each raising its volume as they struggled to be heard over the other.

Shutting his eyes, wishing it were that easy to shut it all out, Nicholas turned the corner and stared at his destination.

For a person who knew where to look, Donovan’s was built like a veritable magic box, with trap doors and hidden hatches everywhere. There were an obscene amount of ways to secret into and out of this den of decadence disguised as just another trendy downtown club. 

There was always the front; the shined steel and tinted glass face at the foot of the deceptively large brick building, that hinted at the writhing, undulating bodies barely veiled behind it as pulsating rhythms poured seductive out into the night like a siren’s song. 

Then there was the exclusive back way, reserved for the highly exclusive and highly elite—those who held those keys were the ones with the most to hide and the most to lose. They were the ones whose business-suited exteriors hid more exciting centers, slowly revealed as they mazed their way through the labyrinthine offices that shared their homes and hallways with the increasingly infamous club. Clandestine comfort through corporate covers.

But still too were all the side entrances, doors that were often hidden, marked only by a lone smoker standing sentry or a lounging barfly leaning against black brick, allowing only the authorized and approved attendance.

Those were the doors that, for three years now, Nicholas had preferred. The shadowed passageways in darkened alleys where few deigned to notice and fewer dared to frequent. It offered cover and comfort of a different sort. In his usual costume of dark jeans and dark jacket, it lent Nicholas an invisible anonymity he appreciated. Especially in the past few months, since word about the club and the eccentric clientèle it catered to had spread across the local media waves just in time for splashy seasonal sweeps.

Last night, Nicholas had seen yet another report about protest groups of the devoutly faithful who had posted themselves at Donovan’s front and rear entrances to vehemently preach against not only the club’s members, but the businesses that allowed this hedonistic haven to flourish. An abomination, a blond woman in a snow white sweater with pretty, serious eyes, had said into the reporter’s microphone, to allow such an affront to goodness and decency to stand.

Nicholas knew he had to be careful. Had to avoid the cameras and reporters and protesters flanking the main ways. Hand hovering over the stiff, crisp white of his collar, hidden beneath the flipped up, ludicrously popped lapels of his leather jacket, Father Nicholas Bailey knew no one would—no one could—ever understand.

Nicholas wasn’t at all that sure he understood.

Nodding to Gabe, the tall, beefy doorman on duty, Nicholas flashed his membership pass—a simple strip of laminated cardboard with nothing but a bar code that Gabe scanned before letting him inside the unassuming north side door the doorman had been leaning up against while he smoked. “Ho ho ho,” the terse man greeted with an acknowledging nod and a puff of his ever-present cigarette. Nicholas nodded back and entered. 

Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke? Nicholas thought, the passage hanging in the air before him, swirling as it wafted, woven within the cloud Gabe’s cigarette and breath had left. Draw me, Donovan’s—its soft swaying music and shadows—beckoned, we will run after thee: the king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee.

In the dimly lit hallways, Nicholas could hear the music throbbing from the dance floor in the club proper through the strangely plain walls. He touched the stone-gray walls and imagined that he could feel the pounding beat against his fingers, could feel the heated twist of gyrating bodies against his hand.

Moving down the cave-like hallways, he headed further back, driven and drawn as if called by name. Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest. He let the curves and turns in the walls lead him as he made the familiar pilgrimage back. As he walked, the sounds of the music muted, replaced by a strangely soothing cacophony of muffled murmurs, soft sighs, and sharp gasps. 

He closed his eyes, sightlessly sure of his way. Instead, he concentrated on the sounds surrounding him. In one hallway, people recited poetry, their voices low and breathy as their words stroked over the senses. He couldn’t hear well enough to distinguish the words, but the cadence and tone were enough to carry him on his way. Another was nothing but guttural grunts and groans, the sound of flesh pounding against flesh in a struggle that sounded at least as lusty and primal as it was fierce. Yet another was completely silent except for the slightest shuffle and a stifled sigh. 

With a sigh of his own, Nicholas turned his final corner and stopped in front of a door. A rather ordinary looking one. Not really different from the others around it, if it weren’t for the air of formal serenity and faint organ music that seemed to drift around it. 

Opening the door, the scent of incense—the pungent, piney scent of frankincense—assaulted him. The dim, candlelit room was small, about the size of a classroom, with old, creaking pews lined in a vee around a tall table draped like an altar set atop a small, elevated stage at the head of the room. Poinsettias and pine wreaths hung everywhere as classical hymns and carols played reverently over the speakers at the front of the room.

For a moment, Father Nicholas stood still at the mouth of the mock chapel. He shouldn’t like this room. Should hate it and the offense its gaudy, fetishized face made of his faith.

He was a priest, for goodness sake!

But, as he made his way down the aisle of pews, his fingers brushing the mistletoe’s pointed prickle, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

Read Part Two Here

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Pervertable - Part Two

Pervertable - 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

Check out my story “Pervertable” in this gleefully, greedily gluttonous anthology from Sexy Little Pages.

Nothing succeeds like excess, and too much is never enough…

In a world where indulging our appetites is too often seen as a bad, selfish way to live, this anthology offers 12 delightfully wicked stories of people feasting unashamedly on pleasure.

Discover carnal pleasures that combine catering and cunnilingus, devour these delicious tales of abandon and allow yourself to be inspired by characters who long to taste all that life and lust can offer, whether their focus is food, sex or a combination of the two.

By turns sweet, sticky, sensuous and startling, you’ll find these offerings finger-lickin’ good.

Available Now On:
Your Choice of These Digital Stores

If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in SinCyr Publishing's anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

Please check out my story in this hand-held library of erotica & explore to your libido's content!
Available Now On

Please check out my story and get ready for some fit-on-the-streets-but-fun-in-the-sheets, pervertable play this PRIDE!

Please check out my novel Show Me, Sir from Sinful Press that celebrates feminist kink!
Please check out my story in The New Smut Project's anthology and see how consent makes everything sexier!
Please check out my story in Coming Together's charity anthology that lets your feel-good do some real good!

See what happens after Kat & Peter's happy ending in my story from Deep Desire Press!
And Listen to an Excerpt

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Pervertable - Part One

Pervertable - 
Part One
So NaNoWriMo is done and I am 52,229 words richer than I was October 31st. In celebration, I thought I'd share the story I wrote in 2010 that inspired my 2013 NaNo novel Brought to You By. As always, please enjoy!

* Warning: While there are shades of kink in this story, it is at its heart a lyrically erotic, rather mainstream story told from a vanilla perspective.

God, the last half of her shift was going by at a painfully slow pace!

Thirty minutes more, Dana Wainsfield told herself as she glared at the clock on the cash register screen. Just half an hour more. In half an hour, she could take off her name tag—“Welcome to Catered Cook; My Name is Dana”—and her smock—“Catering to Your Home Cooking Needs!”—and go home.

Dana, like the vast amount of low-wage workers, didn’t much like her job. She had bigger dreams than retail.

Unlike the vast amount of fake bakers and culinary hobbyists that trolled her store, Dana was a chef. 

Well, aspiring, really.

She’d done the classes. Had aced school. But, the problem was, no one was hiring right now. Not out-of-work, inexperienced gastronomical snobs anyway.

Which was fine, she supposed. What she really wanted to do was write. Cookbooks, that is. She was the next Julia Powell, she knew it. 

Her boyfriend—an odd acquisition she’d found working at the bookstore on the first level while scoffing at the “15-minute dinner” books—thought so too. With a metabolism that kept him lanky no matter what he ate, he gobbled up her dishes with a gusto that she found incredibly attractive. He had an abundance of good taste and a good appetite, two qualities she sought the way other girls did muscles or money.

The problem wasn’t her cooking. She had books full of recipes, all tested and perfected by her refined taste.

Publishing, that was her problem.

It seemed publishers weren’t looking for no-name, out-of-work culinary snobs either. Dana sighed as she slumped over to lean against the counter’s glass case. Which was why she was here waiting for thirty more miserable minutes to pass.

Twiddling her fingers against the glass to whatever muzak was playing over the store’s speakers, Dana looked up when she heard giggling in the front corner of the store.

Used to high school shoplifters who pathologically thought it was cool to stuff peelers and paring knives and potholders shaped like kittens into their pockets, Dana was surprised to see a couple—somewhere in their early thirties—fighting a fit of laughter over bakeware.

She peered as the man, a slicked-back studious sort in a sweater vest and jeans, picked up a classic scraper with a long, cherry red handle and a gleaming white rubber head. He waved it oddly—as if testing the weight, the minuscule heft, of it. He shrugged before handing it over to her.

Dana’s brow shot up as the woman—an ethnic mod model type wrapped in quirky vintage classics—gripped the handle hard before thwacking it hard in her hand, the rubber making a solid thud against her palm. She giggled. He giggled.

Dana shook her head, confused.

And then the woman did something odd and unusual, something Dana had never seen anyone ever do in the year and a half she’d been working at Catered Cook.

The woman twirled her long, perfectly manicured finger as an impish grin spread across her face.

The man rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Dana felt an unease as the woman pressed her hands together—still clutching the scraper—to beg. “Please,” she heard the woman’s deep, timbric voice plead. “Pretty please with a ripe, unpopped cherry on top.”

The man sighed and quickly checked around. Dana quickly squeezed herself against the wall, hoping she was well hidden by the shelved aisles between them, her heart in her throat, pounding a staccato cadence that she couldn’t quite keep up with.

“Fine,” she heard the man acquiesce, pointing a warning finger at the grinning, dark-skinned woman. “Once.”

“Thank you!” she piped as she jumped and gave an excited, little yip. “Now...” She made the twirling motion again.

The man heaved another heavy sigh and turned, leaning against one of the shelves heavily laden with mixing bowls and rolling pins. Bent slightly forward with his back to her, he crossed his arms in front of him, looking very put out.

Still gleeful, despite her companion’s dour acceptance, the woman did the same weird waving he had. Then with a graceful dance step, she swung her hand back like a tennis player and smacked him with it.

On the butt.

The blow made just a tiny, muted thunk—really just a sound too small for all that effort—but it resonated impossibly loud in Dana’s head.

Dana just blinked—balked—not believing that she was seeing this. People were going to touch food with those, for God’s sake!

She ought to have stopped them. Asked them to leave or called security to escort them out. Instead, she watched as the man and the woman both shrugged, chuckled, and set the shiny, red scraper back in the bucket with all the others.

The woman, with wide, wondrous eyes, studied the store’s wares like a child would a candy store. Squealing, she lifted a jumbo slotted spatula—meant for turning delicate dishes like pancakes or fish. Fingering the three open lines running down the thin, wide head reverently, her smile turned thoughtful with just a pinch of malice. Hiding the tool behind her back, she snuck up on the man, her calf-skin boots silent on the store’s floor. As her companion sorted through the assorted serving spoons, forks, and ladles, the woman stealthily bent back the turner’s head—the thin metal neck tense as it stretched—before she let it snap like a shot against his shoulder.

The man yelped as he rubbed his shoulder, turning to glare accusingly at her. With a vicious smirk of his own, he snatched up two large bamboo serving spoons—lightweight but durable, resistant against staining, warping, and cracking. With one in each hand, he wielded them like weapons, twirling in graceful arcs like some kind of Williams-Sonoma ninja.

They sparred for a bit, laughingly smacking whatever bit of each other they could reach, but then the man stopped, his hands and weapons dropping, suddenly slack.

Read Part Two Here

Friday, November 29, 2013

Bend Over - Part Two

Brought to You By
Week Four Excerpt - Part Two
Read Part One Here
Welcome back to the wonderful world of NaNoWriMo, where I try to write a novel in a month. As promised, here's the continuation from what I posted for Week Three of this literary adventure. As always, please enjoy.

Phil heard Pip laugh and felt the rough wool of her dress flutter against his back as it went over her head. He felt her press herself—the firm silk of her body and the delicate lace of her bra and panties—against him before she wrapped her hand around his cock.

He let his head fall back onto her shoulder. Fuck. “Yeah,” he moaned as her touch tightened and loosened, her fingers dancing, over his hard flesh. His hips thrust, the oil on his ass making him slide over the cushion and into her fist. “More,” he begged as she tightened her grasp. Oh God. He pumped his hips more, his bound hands pulling against the chair’s back, loosening the knot.

“Oh, God, I’m close,” he grunted. “I’m going to come.” Pip grabbed the towel from his wrists as he gripped the back of the chair.

His hips bucked forward, his balls pulling tight, readying to shoot his load, as he felt her towel-wrapped hand close around his cock. He grabbed her wrist tight in his hands as he came into the terrycloth, shuddering with his body’s release. “Fuck.” Pip. “Fuck.”


Pip kissed the back of Phil’s neck, licking a salty drop of sweat from his nape. 

“Thank you,” she heard him mutter against her cheek, his head bent back and toward her, resting in the crook of her neck. “Thank you.”

She smiled, finding his gratitude novel and oddly endearing. She turned to lay a kiss on his forehead. “You’re very welcome,” she told him sweetly, “but, you know, it was fun for me too.”

“Not quite the same,” he pointed out as he shrugged out of his shirt and turned around in the chair to face her, surrounding her in the warm, strength of his legs. 

God, he looked good. For a desk-jockey geek, Phil looked good without a shirt. Not exactly a gym-buff body-builder, but still slim and flat-bellied. She wanted to run her hands up and down the smooth expanse of him. Her eyes slid lower, inhaling deeply as she saw his soft, exhausted length lay languid and sated between his legs. She smiled. A sign of a job well done.

“But I can change that,” he promised her as he lay his hand against her cheek and pulled her close for a kiss.

Mmm, yes, she was right; Phil Schaffer tasted good. Warm. Wet. And male. His tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting her too. His hand moved to cup her neck, holding her close as his other hand gripped her hip and pulled her onto his lap. He held her against him as she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

Phil kissed her thoroughly and eagerly, loving—adoring—her mouth. He gave her several small, quick, biting kisses before leaning back. “Not that I’m not having fun in the kitchen,” he said, his voice a low rasp, “but where’s your bedroom?”

Pip grinned and pulled him close again as she lay her forehead against his. “You have the best ideas,” she said as she gripped the towel in her hand. Swiftly, she hooked the towel around his neck and stood, dragging him up with her as if on the world’s shortest leash.

“Ugh,” he groaned, wrinkling his nose in disgust, “I can feel the wet spot on the towel.”

“It’s your come,” she pointed out, leading him out of the kitchen and into the living room. “Don’t tell me you’ve never touched it before.”

“Not with the back of my neck,” he pointed out as he followed her.

“Bet that’d be one pretty impressive wank though,” she said with a laugh.

“I’m almost certain the trajectory,” he said sardonically, “is physically impossible for a human.”

Pip laughed. “Mmm, yeah, nerdy dirty talk;” she said, only half-joking, “the best kind.”

“You are the oddest woman,” he murmured as he let himself be dragged down a short hallway and into her bedroom’s open doorway. 

Once in her room, Pip whisked the towel away, tossing it reflexively into the hamper by the door, and gave him a shove onto the bed.

But, before he could fall, he grabbed her hand, pulling her down onto the violent comforter with him. She squealed as he rolled them over, so he was above her, staring down with a look of triumph.

She laughed and pulled him down for a kiss as she wrapped her long legs around his waist, holding him almost where she wanted him. She felt his hands reach for the clasp of her garnet-colored lace bandeau bra. She smiled, feeling his frown against her mouth as his fingers found nothing but clasp-less band. She reached under her breasts and yanked the bra top over her head.

“Why do women do that?” he asked as he watched the cloth’s rise. “Wear all this complicated stuff that just gets in the way of us getting you naked faster?”

Pip laughed and sighed as she kicked him away with her foot, so she could take off her matching lace panties. “Men and lingerie,” she tsked sadly. “Despite what the industry would like us all to believe, it’s a sad, sad truth that women love lingerie way more than most men do. Lingerie exists more for women to get in the mood—to feel sexy and sexual and beautiful and desirable—and less for men, who as a general really probably couldn’t care less and would rather you naked and out of the fragile material that cost too much and they’re afraid they’ll ruin. But,” she said with a shake of her head as she reached for him, the frothy lace still dangling from her fingers and down his shoulder in a tickling tease, “could you guys please—please—do us the favor of just faking it. We fake lots of stuff for you; do us a solid and give us this.”

He grinned and kissed her. “I hope you’re not planning to fake anything tonight,” he said.

“I won’t plan on me faking,” she said with an impish tone, “if you don’t.”

“Is that a challenge?” he asked, raising up on his arms.

“I like to think of it as goal-setting,” she answered.

“Well, then,” he said as he tucked his arms under her knees, spreading her legs, “by all means, let’s see what we can do about meeting it.” Pip sat up on her elbows as she watched him move between her thighs.

God, the way he looked at her. His gaze focused on her cunt as he licked the corners of his lips, making her core clench in anticipation. He looked up into her eyes as he bent low, parting her labia, and closed his lips around her clit.

She moaned as her head fell back and she closed her eyes, the feel of his wet mouth on her so sweet. She felt his tongue lave her in tiny flicks and long licks that made her whole body quiver. “Mmm,” she moaned, “more. You can go rough.” She could take it; wanted to. She swiveled her hips against his lips. 

Pip balled her fists in her comforter as he made a small assenting noise and moved to nibble and suck on her long, dark, sensitive labia. Oh, God, yes.

Her back arched up long as he slid two fingers deep inside her pussy, already wet and ready for him. She bit her lip as he curled his long, capable fingers inside her, only to groan loudly as he began to move within her. She tilted her hips, pushing him deeper into her. 

He lay a restraining hand over her stomach as she bucked while his knuckles thrust inside her. Pip involuntarily grabbed his shoulder, her nails scratching skin. She flexed her hand against his back, so she didn’t dig her long, painted nails into his flesh. She’d marked him enough tonight without adding her claw marks to his back too. So she ground the heel of her hand into his shoulder instead. “Oh, that’s good,” she said, thrashing her head as she pulled herself up only to fall back onto the bed as sensation roiled inside her.

He grabbed her left leg and trailed kisses along her inner thigh, each lick and nip against her tender flesh pushing her closer and closer to her climax. 

Closer, but not close enough. 

“Dresser drawer,” she said as she tapped his shoulder.

He looked up at her curiously. “Dresser drawer?”

She nodded toward her lamp-side dresser. “Open it.”

She scooted up onto her pillows more as she watched him move toward the dresser. He opened it. “Whoa,” she heard him said as his eyebrows shot up.

Yeah, she had an impressive toy collection. In her profession, she had to. She had toys stashed everywhere. In her closet. Under her bed. Even in unopened boxes and packages in her living room. But her bedside drawer was special. A toy had to be her favorite to make it there. 

Her vibrating wand, that tore orgasms from her almost violently. A discreet but powerful bullet vibrator. Dildos of all shapes and sizes, colors and textures. “Pick one,” she urged, nodding toward the drawer. Didn’t matter which one, really. She knew each one intimately, knew how they worked upon her body, knew exactly how to use each one to get her over the edge.

He reached in and pulled out a rubber ducky. He held it up for her questioningly. “Really?”

She grinned. “Flip the switch,” she told him. “On the bottom.”

She laughed as he jumped while the obnoxiously yellow duck began to vibrate in his hand. “Jesus,” he said as he dropped it on her bed, leaving it to rumble mutedly in the rumpled covers. “Who makes stuff like this?” he asked as he picked the toy back up to look it over.

“Puss ‘n Boots,” Pip said. “They send me stuff all the time. I think that’s one of Lyle Martin’s toys. He’s local toy maker—tinkerer, really—who likes altering ordinary objects. Thinks it’s funny to have erotic toys hidden in plain sight.”

“You actually use this?” he asked skeptically. “To get off?”

Pip froze her face in a very serious expression as she blinked, trying not to giggle at his utterly baffled look. “Yes,” she said simply. “But, if you’d like proof, Science Guy, you could always see for yourself.”

Phil chuckled as he studied the duck in his hand and nodded. “I suppose I could.”

“For science,” Pip agreed.

Phil’s gray eyes twinkled. “For science.”


Phil squeezed the plastic toy in his hand. It squeaked. The duck actually squeaked, even as it continued to vibrate against his palm. Now that was one perverted pervertable.

“It’s waterproof too,” Pip said as she stretched out her long legs, displaying her tempting sex. 

Phil’s eyes narrowed on her pussy, looking warm and welcoming. He’d never been with a woman with long labia like hers. He wouldn’t have thought he’d like it—not that he’d thought he wouldn’t; he’d never really thought about it one way or another—but, damn, if he hadn’t loved the sounds she made as he nibbled on her and she squeezed her thighs around his head like a vice, trapping him against her sweet, wet sex.

“Waterproof, huh?” he said as he made the duck squeak again. He grinned. That sounded like a challenge to him. He crawled closer again. She’d gotten so wet for him, soaked really. He’d heard about women who ejaculated—squirted, though he’d never much cared for the crass term—and he’d always thought it was just a myth or some physiological misinterpretation. The women he’d been with had a hard enough time lubricating enough for sex at all; he had a hard time imagining a woman with the opposite reaction.

But he wondered if Pip were such a woman. He bit the inside of his cheek and stared at her, determined to find out. 

Phil settled himself between her legs and stared at the duck, a little baffled. Which part did he use where? It wasn’t as if he’d been giving an instructional manual and Lord knew he didn’t have a clue as to how the rubber duck was supposed to bring her to orgasm.

“You doing all right down there?” she asked, sitting up a bit.

“Sure,” he assured her. Well, she’d said he should do it for science and what was more scientific than some experimentation? He held the duck in his palm, feeling the vibrations pulse into his skin, and thought it was actually a pretty powerful vibrator inside the toy. He wondered what that would feel like on a thigh or a hip.

So he tried it. He slid it up her thigh, making her moan as he stroked it up her leg and down the other. He let it circle her mound and slip slickly over her sensitive labia lips lightly.

She thrust her hips up, pressing herself against his touch as she bit her bottom lip, small sounds of frustrated pleasure escaping her mouth. He smiled as he held his hand back, content to tease her for a while. Just to be cruel, he moved the toy from her vulva to the crease of her thighs as she squirmed and her breath hitched. “Phil,” she begged, “you are a mean, mean man.”

He laughed. Fine, fine. He touched the tip of the toy’s bill with is finger, the puckered mouth of the duck seeming to be built to fit her delicate clit. He tucked the tip between the lips of her sex, just at the mouth of her vagina, making small circles to collect her juices. God, she smelled amazing. Hot and sweet and excited. He thumbed her lips open a bit, so he could watch her sex clench and release in anticipation. God, he wanted to know what that felt like on his tongue, his hand, his cock.

But, first, he drew the bill up and touched it against her clit. She cried out and jerked her hips into the toy, grabbing his wrist so he couldn’t pull away. She didn’t need to. He savored the sight of her as she reveled in the toy’s sensation, her face scrunched as she fought for her orgasm.

“Almost, almost, almost,” she repeated it like a mantra as she tugged harder on his wrist, shoving him against her as she thrust up against him.

On a breaking breath, she came, her eyes slamming open as her whole body bowed, bucking most of her off the bed. With her legs over his shoulders and her grip crushing his grip, Phil felt her muscles tense as her climax claimed her. She sat there, for a long moment, seemingly frozen except for brief, rhythmic shudders that rocked her body just a bit as her system shocked.

And then, with a groan, she collapsed, curling forward as she wrapped herself around him. He turned so her head rested on his belly as her knees bent around his back. He wrapped his arms around her as her hot breath heaved against his middle. “God, that was amazing,” she breathed.

He chuckled. “You sound surprised,” he mused, unsure if the swell of pride he felt was justified. “You can’t tell me that was a first for you.” Pip didn’t seem like the kind of woman who had many firsts left.

“No,” she admitted with a shrug. “Doesn’t make it any less amazing.” 

She moved to sit up, making him instantly miss the loss of her warmth against him. She looked at him, worried resignation replacing pleasure on her face. 

He hated that. Pip had the kind of face that should never frown. If he could manage it, he’d never let anything but a never-ending cycle of desire and satisfaction touch her dark, classic features.

She bit the inside of her cheek, looking anything but satisfied. “Does it bother you that I’ve had past partners? That I’m not some fresh-faced virgin?” she asked. 


Because she couldn’t change it, if it did. 

And wouldn’t. 

Not for anybody. 

She was a product of her past. She wouldn’t be who she was today without, at least in part, every partner she’d ever had. So she refused to be ashamed of her past and she would never allow someone to even try to make her so.

“I know you’re not a virgin, Pip,” Phil assured her with a scoff. “Believe me, I knew it before we started. You’ve probably had more partners than I have.”


“Do you want the number?” She shrugged. Again, she wasn’t ashamed and, if he wanted to know, she supposed he had the right.

“What?” he asked, shocked. “No,” he sputtered, his gray eyes almost panicked. “Why?”

She took a deep breath as she grabbed her pillow and hugged it in front of herself. “You just seem preoccupied by it.” By them. The parade of faceless men and women he probably imagined she had by the group-full. 

And, it wasn’t like she hadn’t had her group-filled experiences, but she didn’t like the idea of being defined by them either. Her frown deepened even as his fingers sought to ease her furrowed brow.

He sighed and grabbed her hand, tugging aside the pillow and hauling her close to him again. She didn’t struggle as he held her, but still held herself back until she heard him said, “I’m sorry.” He heaved another sigh. “I don’t mean to give you a hard time about it,” he said. “I guess it makes me more uncomfortable than I want to admit.”

“Why?” she asked, settling onto his lap as his arms wrapped around her more fully. She wondered if he felt inadequate. She’d met men before who had. Who’d seen her history as a challenge or a threat. Something they had to prove themselves against or was a constant reminder of their limited experience that could never catch up to hers. She bit her lip, knowing that kind of thinking was hard to overcome and rarely left either of them feeling very good about themselves.

He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess, right now, this all feels new to me. Like seeing a new country for the first time or something.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, his usually meticulously maintained sandy blond hair now bed-mussed and rumpled. “And, while it’s fantastic getting to explore that place with a local—who knows the area and speaks the language—I guess, it’s a hard pill to swallow knowing that, while this is all new to me, it’s nothing special to you.”

Pip sat up and stared him in the face. “This is special,” she told him. “It may not be new or novel, but it’s special.” Because it was with him. She had done all this stuff before—with herself, with others—who-knew-how-many times before. 

But she’d never done it with him before now. 

She cupped his face and pressed her lips against his. “It’s special.”


Phil shut his eyes as he let her kiss him, her tongue a sweet stroke in his mouth. He didn’t know why he needed to hear that. Why it made any difference at all. But he had and it did.

He felt her hands in his hair as she pulled him down onto the mattress with her again. She gripped his cock in her hands as they cuddled on the comforter, squeezing his hardening shaft. He groaned into her open mouth. He tried to roll himself over her, but she was quick and stronger than she looked.

She had him underneath her, with her long legs straddling his hips and her hand still firmly around him, before he could so much as think about struggling. She bent low to dig about in her toy drawer. His body jerked, bucking against her, as she pulled out a condom, the shiny wrapper looking as welcome as Christmas morning.

She made short work of the condom, slipping it on him with a practiced ease that made him a little uneasy even as it turned him on. He watched eagerly as she lifted her hips so she could slide him inside her.

He bit back a moan as he fought to keep his eyes open against the intense pleasure of her taking him inside her. She was so tight. Warm. And wet. Her hips swiveled as her body adjusted to the fill before she began to ride him in slow, steady strokes. Up and down. Up and down. The rhythm of it soothing the need inside him. He wanted her to continue doing that forever.

But he needed her to take him faster. 

His hands gripped her waist as he tilted his hips, pushing his dick deeper inside her. He felt her sex quiver, the sensation perfect. He needed that. He began to pump beneath her. Limited by his position, he thrust anyway, that extra quarter of an inch worth every effort as they bucked.

Especially, when she moaned and picked up speed, riding him in earnest, as eager to chase that feeling as he was. He felt her sex clench against him, her pussy squeezing him, pulling as she pumped.

He could feel his orgasm build in his balls, tightening them as he tried to stave it off. He looked up at her as she still climbed her peak. She needed to catch up to him. He reached out his hand and reached for the duck again. He slid the duck between them backward so the upturned tail flicked and pressed against her clit with her every thrust. He bit his lip against the buzz of the duck’s backside bumping against the base of his dick.

She cried out, her head falling back as she ground a little harder down with every push. Yeah, he thought as he watched her, yeah. C’mon, just a little more. He placed a hand on her waist, directing her ride, forcing her hard against him.

When she came, he felt it, her muscles clenching all around him in spasms. He groaned as he let himself go, emptying himself inside her as her pleasure fueled his.


Pip collapsed on top of Phil, resting her head against his shoulder as she felt his cock continue to twitch inside her. Each shudder of his body triggering one in hers. If she were honest, this was her favorite part of sex, where every nerve felt alive and every touch felt like heaven.

She never wanted to move from this spot. Even though her thighs burned from her efforts and her knees were tired and stiff, she’d have happily stayed astride him forever, tucked into the curve of his shoulder. She licked a bead of sweat from behind his ear, the salty taste delicious on her tongue.

“I get the appeal now,” he murmured, his voice a rumble she felt through his chest.

“Of what?” she asked, nuzzling her nose in the soft hair just behind his ear.

“Of all this,” he said, picking up the duck and squeezing it so it squeaked in the room’s silence. “The toys. The games. The kink.”

“Do you?” she said with an obvious tone. She could feel him slowly soften inside her, could hear satisfaction in his voice.

“I always figured that kink was just unnecessarily complicating an already perfect process,” he said. “And, I must say,” he said, a touch of smugness tempering his tone, “the act is still pretty perfect. But the process of getting there…” He trailed off. He shrugged, lifting her a bit with his shoulder as she smiled. “Like I said, I get the appeal.”

“So think you’ll be able to understand Sam a little better now?” she asked.

She felt him squirm beneath her a bit. “Can we not discuss my niece—especially not her sex life—while I’m still inside you?” he asked.

Fair enough. She chuckled as she lifted her hips so he could slide out of her, the feel of it almost orgasmic in and of itself. Yeah, she got that. “Okay,” she said, settling back over him as she threw her leg over his in a tangled sprawl, “what about your sex life? Now that you get the appeal, would you be interested in exploring it a bit more?”

“More experiments?” he asked as he curled his arm around her back.

“Absolutely,” she agreed as she toyed with his nipple, beading the small, pink flesh against her fingertip. “Donovan’s is having a party next weekend; I don’t suppose you’d want to go with me?”

She paused, letting the idea fill the space of her bedroom. They sat in quiet contemplation for a moment before he said, “For science?”

She laughed as she hugged him hard. “For science.”

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