Lust Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  GOLDEN HAND

  RIPE FRUIT

  SIXTH SENSE

  TIED TO THE KITCHEN SINK

  THE BUTCH, THE BOY AND ME

  THE HALL OF JUSTICE

  THE IMPORTANCE OF GOOD NETWORKING

  COFFEE SHOP BOY

  AMERICAN BOTTOM IN LIMOUSIN

  PLEASANT SURPRISE

  1

  2

  3

  MOVING

  OUT OF THE SHOWER

  LOVE TRIANGLE

  HET CATS

  KIDNAPPED

  SATISFACTION GUARANTEED

  TUBING THE BRULE

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Love, admiration and a toast to the future go to Frédérique Delacoste and Felice Newman; our relationships mean more than I can express here. My deepest feelings are reserved for my family—Survival Research Laboratories and Mark Pauline. My love: Jonathan.

  INTRODUCTION: THE ART OF HUNGER

  This collection of explicit erotic fiction by women has been titled Lust. That’s a short, simple name and at first glance it could seem like a very self-aggrandizing title for a single book. It is after all a concept that has filled volumes; its urgency has destroyed hearts, minds and empires; its complexity rules us in ways we’d sometimes rather not explore—yet want to, oh so badly. That’s why Lust is a perfect title for the stories between these pages. Each one captures the uncontrollable, draws it out, and we get to savor every act of irresistible hunger, desire and the point of no return: lust.

  When lust overcomes you, you barely know who you are or what you are doing. Each of the women in the following selections knows this feeling, and the skilled authors represented here—both new and well known—faithfully capture that feeling in each woman’s passage from ordinary to extraordinary sexual hunger.

  For instance: In K. L. Gillespie’s “Golden Hand,” a slick pickpocket gets far more than she bargained for in a chance, anonymous encounter on a crowded train. When desire trumps theft, she has no choice but to submit to it. In “Ripe Fruit,” Bonnie Dee gives us a truly heated taste of both the pleasures of impulse sex and the creative use of summertime fruits. Being overcome with lust is hard work for some—especially the female private investigator in Teresa Noelle Roberts’ “Sixth Sense,” whose investigation goes from routine to highly unprofessional when she takes total control of the situation. Kay Jaybee’s “Tied to the Kitchen Sink” is a playful and randily inspiring tale of casual lust that’ll have you thinking differently about both birthday presents and housework.

  Lust makes the real surreal, and changes our boundaries when we’re in its heat. As happens in “The Butch, the Boy and Me,” by Andrea Zanin, in which a butch dyke stretches her sexual orientation a bit to try on a man and a very happy female enabler. Sloane Square’s “The Hall of Justice” takes the three-way into another, less controllable direction when a public hookup among costumed club-goers goes all the way, and then some. Saskia Walker’s sexy, stylized skills excel in “The Importance of Good Networking,” making office life into the hotbed of unbridled lust and sexy IT nerds we’ve always dreamed about.

  “Coffee Shop Boy,” by A. D. R. Forte, builds tension to the breaking point in that classic scenario—lusting after the hot guy you see every day at the coffee shop—but the female forensic scientist in the starring role has a very different method of turning him into her toy. Geneva King’s “American Bottom in Limousin” will surprise even those readers with the dirtiest jail fantasies, as a girl finds herself behind bars in a foreign country and is offered a tense deal for release. “Pleasant Surprise,” by Maria Grigoriadis, is a surprise that isn’t merely pleasant, but downright incendiary—when a sexy stranger shows up at her door, shushing her and asking for a hot fuck, what else can the girl do?

  Susan St. Aubin’s beautiful, lyrical “Moving” is a long, lusty stroll (literally) for a woman who thinks she’s past all that lust stuff until a heckler she walks by every day gets her to slow down and rediscover skin, sex, heat and the desire she thought she’d outgrown. “Out of the Shower,” by Maria Matthews, portrays the ultimate in instant, freshly washed lust: a woman steps from the tub and right into a blindfold and some delicious light pain, bondage and sexual submission to the man who loves her.

  “Love Triangle,” by B. J. Franklin, offers us a girl so overcome with lust that she gets caught watching her male lust object get off—and you won’t believe what his boyfriend does. Jean Roberta’s “Het Cats” isn’t just a playful turn across the LGBT dance floor, but a line-crossing tale of tear-each-other’s-clothes-off sex between two very unlikely people. A darker, yet wholly consuming and arousing turn is Debra Hyde’s “Kidnapped,” which delivers exactly what the title implies: rough sex, and more. After a hot nonconsensual fantasy, how about some shopping lust? Kristina Wright’s “Satisfaction Guaranteed” takes us into the fantasyland behind closed doors in a sex shop, where the manager is as ready as the toys to make the customers happy. And finally, Reen Guierre takes lust on a river adventure and a young woman drifts into a spontaneous, riveting and unexpected tryst while “Tubing the Brule.”

  I hope that you find as much good friction in these stories as the women inhabiting them. A book about swimming may not save anyone from drowning, but my hope is that Lust will make you hungry enough to perform more than a few acts of lust. For satisfaction, for desire, for love; even without an audience, the hunger artist must perform. Kafka got that part right, anyway.

  Violet Blue

  April 2007

  GOLDEN HAND

  K. L. Gillespie

  It had started out just like any other Friday. Rush hour was well under way and Molly Frith had already picked two pockets by the time she arrived at Victoria Station. She worked the main concourse for twenty minutes or so before jumping into a black cab and heading over to the City, where the richest pickings were to be had. She always took taxis, unless she was following a mark, because the public transport system was full of criminals.

  Molly had been dipping professionally in her own inimitable way since she was fifteen, and she had it down to a fine art. She had honed her skills on the Paris Metro, where she was known locally as “la main d’or,” until she had her heart broken by a French Lothario and moved back to London.

  Meanwhile, south of the river, Nicholas Sackworth was running late. He had slept in for the second time that week and he had an important meeting at ten that he hadn’t even begun preparing for. He was also suffering from a splitting headache caused by one too many tequilas the night before and he wasn’t sure, because his memory hadn’t sobered up yet, but he thought he might have argued with his wife at some point in the last twelve hours because when he woke up this morning he was on the sofa. Despite his thundering migraine he had to run for his train and only just managed to slip through the automatic doors as they were beeping shut. There were no seats left so he leaned against the glass partition and closed his eyes while the train cut through South London toward the City.

  While Molly was speeding along the Embankment in the back of a hackney cab she was already planning the rest of her day. Brunch with girlfriends at the Ivy, shopping at Harvey Nichols for a new outfit and a gallery opening at seven for yet another Young Brilliant Artist. It was a lot to fit in and unbeknown to her society friends, it was all paid for by crime. She didn’t look like a pickpocket. Her clothes, amongst other things, reeked of money; they had to, they were a tool of the trade and they allowed her to melt seamlessly into the crowds of commuters that she worked five days a week. They were also her get-out-of-jail card because on the rare occasion
that she did get caught, what overworked, stressed-out, ex-public school boy could resist her raven-black hair, five-inch Louboutins and custom-made, seamed stockings. None so far, that’s for sure.

  Nicholas spent his fifteen-minute journey, as usual, drifting in and out of a waking dream in which he was tied to a bed by a beautiful woman, naked but for silk stockings and stilettos, who explored his body at her whim. It was only when the train pulled into the station and the doors jolted open that he woke up with a start. His dream was long gone but a throbbing erection in his pants was still there to remind him.

  Against his will he was herded onto the platform by a wave of commuters, his hard-on still burning into his hip and work the last thing on his mind, until he caught sight of the time and the real world came crashing down on him. He still hadn’t prepared for his meeting and he was still running late. His erection subsided and he desperately wanted a cigarette so as soon as he was through the barriers he headed to the nearest shop and bought ten Marlboro. A tinge of guilt hit him, but his wife would never know and he could always give up again tomorrow.

  London Bridge was still heaving when Molly arrived, just the way she liked it: overcrowded and anonymous, perfect pick-pocketing territory, and popular too. Molly had already spotted three other run-of-the-mill dippers working the crowds, hiding their intent behind a folded jacket or unread newspaper. They stood out like sore thumbs and she knew the police would be watching them so for her own good she moved to the other side of the station, positioned herself under the announcement board and kept her eyes peeled.

  Nicholas lit a cigarette on his way out of the shop. It was his first of the day and he savored every drag. It was the fags that he had argued with his wife about last night. Something about sperm counts and starting a family. This last bit made him laugh because they would have to be fucking to start a family and they hadn’t done that in weeks. And it was nothing to do with smoking or sperm counts, it was her constant bickering that was putting him off and it wasn’t a nicotine patch he needed, it was a scold’s bridle to shut her up. They’d only been married two years and both of them knew they’d settled for each other out of desperation because the inevitable onslaught of the big four-oh was bearing down on them and all their friends were married.

  Then, by a process of elimination, they’d ended up sitting together at some party and the next thing he knew they were engaged, then they were married and now she wanted a baby and he had no idea how he’d gotten stuck in such a big rut. Nicholas took a rebellious drag of his cigarette and drew the comforting smoke deep down into his lungs.

  Molly scanned the station and within seconds she had found her mark. He was standing at the nape of the escalators hungrily smoking a cigarette and experience told her that he had other things on his mind and would be an easy lift. He was tall, in his midthirties and well dressed, just Molly’s type. She watched his every move with the eyes of a hunter.

  Nicholas checked his watch out of habit, time was getting on so he threw his cigarette butt away and headed into the tube.

  When Molly saw him disappear into the underground she knew she had picked well. Instinct told her to follow him but she had to move fast so she trotted across the station in her spike-heeled Louboutins, stepping over his discarded dog end, and tailgated him down the escalator.

  That morning’s argument with his wife was beginning to come back to Nicholas and it all sounded so familiar. He knew having a baby would be a big mistake and he knew his wife only wanted one to fill the gap left by the job she gave up when they got married. He knew something else, too: he didn’t love her and they had nothing in common; that thought swam round and round his head as the escalator plunged him deeper into the tube network.

  Molly followed him down into the surreal depths of the Northern Line, thanking her lucky stars that he had bypassed the Jubilee Line because there were far too many security cameras on that platform for comfort. A sea of heads stretched out in front of her but she was focused and never lost sight of his dark brown hair bobbing above the crowd. She felt at home weaving through the subterranean network of tunnels that connected London. The tube had always been her favorite hunting ground; it did half the work for you because people expected to be bustled and pushed up against, especially in rush hour, so her deft hand could easily go unnoticed as it slipped in and out of unsuspecting men’s pockets.

  Nicholas squeezed through the crowds banking up on the north-bound platform and waited. He should have used the downtime to go through his notes for the meeting but fleeting images of the girl in stockings and hard-core bondage kept infiltrating his mind’s eye and he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. His cock was stirring in his pants again and he threw willpower to the wind and let the fanciful femme have her wicked way with him for the second time that day.

  As Molly entered the platform a train pulled in and she only just managed to squeeze into the carriage behind her mark. She fanned him without anyone noticing and decided that his wallet could be in either of his two front trouser pockets, both were carrying something of comparable size and she had a fifty-fifty chance of entering the right pocket first time.

  The doors closed and as the carriage jerked off she tipped forward onto her toes and jutted her breasts into his back. She felt his feet adjust, strengthening his balance and he leaned back into her, increasing the pressure between her nipples and his shoulder blades. First contact had been made and in five seconds he would be used to the pressure of her body against his.

  Nicholas was oblivious to the young woman pressing up against him; the tube was always overcrowded and he was used to being jostled every morning. Besides, by that point his fantasy was in full swing and he was too busy wishing he was somewhere else, somewhere private where he could give his erection the attention it demanded, to notice anything happening around him.

  As they entered the tunnel and darkness swamped the train Molly’s hand entered his left trouser pocket. Her touch was light, the lightest, and she was sure that he hadn’t felt a thing. She had expected her polished, carmine fingertips to find his wallet straightaway and whip it in a split second but she was momentarily thrown when they rested on his erect penis. She knew she had to stay professional, but his cock was throbbing hypnotically beneath her fingertips and there was no way that he could have failed to notice her hand cupping the tip of his erection. Still, he hadn’t even flinched.

  Nicholas had noticed, but the shock of feeling someone else’s fingers on him—on the tube, at twenty past nine in the morning—made him freeze. He knew he should have turned round and demanded to know what was going on but something was stopping him. The touch was so charged his blood ran through his veins like electricity and he succumbed completely to her touch.

  When Molly sensed his submission it set her pulse racing; when she gently squeezed him and his breathing deepened she realized that she had complete control. With this free rein Molly started to run her nails over his cock. The lining of his trousers was as thin as silk and she could feel every ridge and vein as she probed deeper and deeper into his pocket.

  Molly had him in the palm of her hand and she basked in the sense of power it gave her. She could feel her cunt throbbing against the lace of her pants and she squeezed her thighs together, putting gentle pressure on her vulva. The rocking of the carriage masked her movement as she worked her hand up and down the length of his cock. She allowed her blood-red nails to play over the marshmallow softness of his glans as it strained against his trousers and she dragged at the inside of his pocket with her expensive manicure, desperate to feel his naked flesh.

  Nicholas badly wanted to see who was touching him so exquisitely but he was scared that if he turned round it would stop and she would disappear into thin air. Eventually, unable to resist, he strained his eyes to the side as far as he could without moving his neck and caught a glimpse of her shoes and stockings reflected in the door. It was enough to send his libido hurtling into orbit and he lifted his briefcase to waist height,
providing her with a shield to work behind as she pushed his foreskin to and fro with relish.

  Molly pulled him toward her and picked up the pace. She pushed herself into his back and parted her legs, forcing her pudendum into his gyrating arse as it buffeted backward and forward. She gritted her teeth and wave after wave of unrestrained pleasure started to swamp her body as she hungrily allowed her other hand to wander round his waist and over his taut torso.

  Nicholas could feel her thrusting against him and the more she thrust the more disengaged he became with the world around him. His heart was pounding against his chest and he continued moving with her, swaying his hips in time with her strokes while rapid, rhythmic contractions swirled round the base of his penis and his pelvis jerked. He had reached inevitability and there was no going back now.