Voracious: Erotica for Women Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Introduction

  TO SERGE WITH LOVE

  INKED

  CHILL

  THIS FLESH HAS CHANGED MEANING

  HANDS

  COWBOY

  RHYTHM LIKE A HEARTBEAT

  PIVOT

  FLUID HUMILIATION

  BECKY

  ELECTRIC RAZOR

  JUST WORDS

  GALATEA BREACHED

  CALL ME

  PLAY SPACES

  VOICE OF AN ANGEL

  PUFFY LIPS

  WORTH IT

  ANIMALS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  FOREWORD

  Molly Weatherfield

  As I gobble down these stories, my inner ear resonates with the tones and overtones of the single title word on its cover. Voracious: it whispers, it hisses, seductive and insistent against the urgent beat of want, want, want. The word want appears 206 times between these covers. That’s an enormous amount of desire packed into two hundred pages.

  Too bad Freud didn’t have this book in his hands when he posed his famous question: “What does a woman want?” Contemplating each of these 206 instances in turn, he might have made some progress, beginning by conceding that there is no single answer. If you ask a woman what she wants—if you ask the nineteen authors here and their editor, Violet Blue—you’ll get a spectrum of tastes and preferences, an energy field under the sway of one strong, rude gravitational pull.

  Because whatever a woman wants, she clearly wants it wholly. Voraciously. As per the Latin: vor ci-, vorax, vor re—to devour, and not in a ladylike way. The Oxford English Dictionary places the word voracious in accounts of some of our planet’s most tenacious battlers for survival: crows, cockroaches, sharks. That’s right in line with this anthology, whose opening and closing stories—“To Serge With Love” and “Animals”—each treat female desire as being red in tooth and claw.

  Makes sense to me. Ever since I set my own BDSM erotic heroine Carrie on the long arc of exploring her own “mute, brute” pony nature, my own central nervous system has been fine-tuned for that kind of thing. But other constellations of meaning in this collection make sense to me, too. As a romance writer, I tend to go just as passionately for the more human, homely pleasures: the joys of simple (and not-so-simple) domestic intimacy, of art and wit, words and banter, that you’ll find here as well. While as a sometimes–book reviewer and theory groupie, I relish Violet Blue’s deft editorial choices and orderings, the rougher stories like lions standing guard over some of the softer, funnier, more affectionate pieces at the book’s center.

  No wonder Freud couldn’t find a simple answer. Rushing headlong through this collection, I asked myself what I wanted. I got three replies—and who knows whether the pleasures I’ve taken thus far will even be my final ones. Will more come unbidden in the moments before sleep? Already I’m thinking of other sneaky, savory satisfactions: the thrill of absolute control—of deliberation, elaboration, preparation— in “Chill;” the loopy accident and hot, friendly serendipity of “Call Me.”

  Already, unladylike, I’m hungry again. Voracious, in fact—for female sensibilities not my own, but all the more delicious. Have a bite. Turn the page. Come join me.

  Molly Weatherfield,

  author of Carrie’s Story and Safe Word

  INTRODUCTION: LUST, CONQUER, SEE

  I often think of editing an erotic anthology like curating a gallery exhibition. To put together a powerful show, you have to examine dozens (or in this case, hundreds) of selections and cull the strongest pieces. And each piece needs to be considered in the context of the whole; a good curator will pick a handful of talented big names and hang them with a roster of startling new discoveries.

  With erotica, the art of selection is even more personal. In choosing the pieces for Voracious, I tried to imagine how each story might reach into the core of a reader’s sexuality, find the trigger, and pull it.

  I approached each piece as I might approach a fantastic painting or a jaw-dropping drawing or a visceral photograph, allowing it to overtake my senses, my imagination—and yes, my pussy. This collection did something to me while I was putting it together. The stories here provoked me. They took me over. Bits of them found me in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep; they visited me during the day on my way to the local café; they left me feeling that I wanted more. Was I hungry? Was I thirsty? Was I obsessed with the little details about slick fingers inside panties, a rough fuck by a tattooed boy who loves to spank while he probes, or women paying for outrageous sexual fetishes that most don’t even dare to speak of? I wasn’t sure. But I wanted more.

  In “To Serge with Love,” by Reen Guierre, a young woman’s relationship with a British author goes from cybersex to phone sex to an outrageous first-time meeting in person, complete with an unusual (and inspiring) sex toy trick that leaves him literally breathless. In “Inked,” Jordana Winters follows a fascination many of us have for tattooed boys to an incendiary conclusion. “Chill,” by Kathleen Bradean, is one of the edgiest, most outrageous fetish sex stories I’ve had the pleasure of reading over and over. It arouses you as much as it holds your attention rapt in disbelief that such a taboo could be so—hot.

  “This Flesh Has Changed Meaning,” by Jennifer Cross, takes the rushed yet tender fuck between two new mothers to dizzy heights; Jean Casse’s “Hands” gives us a most delectable butch who seduces a straight girl only to find that her lust for hands leads her farther than she’d ever thought she’d go—onto her new lover’s boyfriend’s fist. In “Cowboy,” Rita Rollins shows what happens when a lap dancer indulges her fantasies with a client in a most unconventional way, making boundaries into sex toys for the rest of us. “Rhythm Like a Heartbeat,” by Sophie Mouette, makes dancing into a new and delicious sex act when a woman decides her curvy hips should move in time with her heart—and her pussy—with thigh-clenching results.

  Jane Black’s “Pivot” is one of this show’s tricks of the light: As you begin it you might think it’s just another hot power exchange fantasy, but when the angle shifts for our female protagonist, so does the sexual control. “Fluid Humiliation,” by Kayla Kuffs, may just be the Mapplethorpe in our collection, as a woman agrees to an ever-surprising level of enema humiliation play—and yes, it’s just as surprising (even to her) as it is a turn-on. “Becky,” by Kay Jaybee, is our most playful selection and one of the joys of the collection, even if that joy arrives with the tongue-in-cheek stripes of a cane properly applied in the most unusual office in the history of cubicle farms. Don’t let Irma Wimple’s “Electric Razor” make you think that women are all about appliances and power tools—except when we are, in the most devious ways.

  In “Just Words,” Donna George Storey appeals to the snar-kiest in all of us when a woman decides to play along half-heartedly with her lover’s phone sex games, until the words (as they are wont to do) take over her hands, her control, and her orgasms. Thea Hutchinson’s “Galatea Broached” combines lush imagery, male observation, and female sexual awakening in a stunning vista of pure voyeuristic adventure. In “Call Me,” by Kristina Wright, a wrong number turns into the right amount of filthiness for a repeat encounter. Scarlett French’s “Play Spaces” is a snapshot of a newcomer’s night in a sex club, with each new room as thrilling and arousing for her as the last.

  “Voice of an Angel,” by Teresa Noelle Roberts, is the baroque centerpiece of this erotic exhibition, in which a costume designer discovers that an opera singer’s voice penetrates more than her ears—culminatin
g in a riveting oral scenario. One woman’s overwhelming urge to conquer male skin with her voracious vulva makes “Puffy Lips,” by Susie Hara, a story you’ll want to revisit. Alison Tyler’s “Worth It” is a powerful portrait of a woman on the verge of marriage who is derailed by her desire for taboo anal sex. And if you’ve ever been consumed with the desire to fuck so hard that it burns through your skin and makes you into something not quite human, then you’ll be unable to walk away from Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Animals” unchanged.

  There is quite a show for you here, and I promise it will leave you wanting more.

  Violet Blue

  TO SERGE WITH LOVE

  Reen Guierre

  “I can’t wait to be with you, to smell behind your ears and lick your ass. I want to see you more excited than you have ever been in your life.” She breathed heavily into the phone, and she could just make out the muffled slapping noise as he masturbated furiously to her filthy discourse from the other side of the ocean. He was a man of the world, and yet in so many ways, he was naive. He hadn’t ever had anything more than a finger in his ass, though she could tell by the way he whimpered when she spoke of fucking him that he wanted it badly.

  “Serge, I want you to think about how good you’re going to feel when we’re all alone. You’re going to make me come, over and over, and when I finally allow you to come, it will be the best imaginable. I’ll see you next week, Sphinx.” She pressed the Off button and left him to come on his own.

  She called him Sphinx because that was his screen name. He was a photographer who specialized in the ruins and artifacts of ancient cultures. He worked for magazines and popular scientific journals most of his career, but now had written a book of his own. Well, actually, it was more of a large-format picture book of his photographs. He sent her pdfs of a sampling of pages and they were fascinating. There was a complete world full of sexual artifacts found in nearly every culture that had ever lived and walked on the earth. But, because of our society’s tendency to suppress such things, the average person never got to see them. The vulvae carved in stone, the mosaics of men taking other men, and the frescoes intended to inform patrons of the various services offered by prostitutes, and their cost, were all unknown to the general public. Not to exclude all the wonderful phallic objects, in all sizes from miniature to obelisk, crafted in a myriad of different colors from a multitude of different materials. These were the things that never made it into the pages of National Geographic. These were the things that most Americans didn’t know existed.

  Elle had been having phone sex with him for about six months. Before that it was cybersex. All told, their relationship had been active for over a year. Elle found him interesting, to be sure, and he was so responsive when she pushed him around a bit, so to speak. Serge was scheduled to do a book signing at a bookstore in London and invited her over for it. She felt fairly confident that he wouldn’t stand her, and the bookstore, up, so she accepted. Besides, she wasn’t exactly the needy type who couldn’t have a good time on her own if things didn’t work out with him.

  That night, and every night after, she thought about pleasuring Serge until he went mad, until he just couldn’t take her stimulations anymore. She dreamed of meeting him in a room filled with sheer curtains and scented with sandalwood. There she turned him over onto a special table designed for whipping. In the dream, there didn’t seem to be anything to whip him with, so she knelt down and spread his legs open wider and pushed her face forward so she could lick his balls from behind. His balls began those slow, involuntary contractions she was always fascinated to observe.

  Four days later, she was enduring the eight-hour flight from Minneapolis to London with the help of two tiny bottles of Skyy, dispensed by the flight attendant every time she woke up. The redeye, provided one could sleep, landed at Gatwick at eight in the morning, so chances of suffering from jet lag were minimized. She deliberately chose Gatwick over Heathrow because she’d never had her luggage searched there. She knew that if one of the unfailingly handsome young men from security came across the little purple vibrating butt plug she had purchased for Serge, she would have to stand there and wait while the man turned it on, looked inside it, and rifled through her clothes looking for the rest of her cache. She made a mental picture of a tall young lad holding the crop in one hand and the butt plug in the other. It wasn’t so much that she was embarrassed, but there were enough queues to wait in without looking for more.

  Serge had offered her his flat to stay in, but she’d refused and made reservations at a boutique hotel in Kensington. It was an ideal location. She could walk through the park almost endlessly in several directions, go to a concert at the Albert Hall, spend an afternoon perusing special exhibits at the V&A, or catch the South Kensington tube to anywhere else—perhaps Soho, with its plenitude of women-friendly adult shops. She purchased a travel card to use the four days she would be in London, beginning with the train ride from Gatwick to Victoria, then a short tube ride to South Kensington.

  Elle was relieved to make it past the random luggage check and was wheeling her case down the ramp, home free, when she caught sight of her name on a card. It was Serge. He had come to pick her up at the airport even though she specifically told him she preferred to get to her hotel on her own.

  She knew they would recognize each other because they’d sent many pictures, via e-mail, over the past year. What she hadn’t expected was to feel a surge of excitement when his eyes found hers. He lowered the card to reveal his attractive face. He had bratty lips and coloring and a nose that betrayed a Roman ancestor. She walked directly to him, and when she stood before him, he reached up to kiss her on the cheek. Instead of letting him, she made a quarter turn to avoid him. She offered the handle of her case for him to take and said, in a commanding voice, “Walk behind me.”

  She didn’t look back, but she knew he was right behind her. Walking down corridor after corridor, she could hear the squeak of the little wheels of her suitcase. Suddenly, she spun around, placed her hands on his chest, and pushed him into an alcove between the windows of the wide hallway. She used her weight to press him into the shadowed space while a continuous stream of people flowed behind them. She said, “Many women love surprises. I don’t. Do you understand?”

  He nodded and looked into her face. His eyes revealed a little fear and a lot of love. She began pulling his shirt out from under his belt so her hands could feel his bare chest. She moved her hands over his tiny nipples and pinched them between her knuckles, pulling until she lost her grip and they snapped back. He was obviously excited, but frightened at the same time. He feared being caught in an awkward situation, but he was desperate for her touch. She was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. From the first time she typed an instant message to him, he was hooked. Since then, an hour hadn’t gone by without his fantasizing about sex with her. He harbored ideas of a permanent relationship and wanted to please her so she would stay.

  His eyes left hers so he could see if they were attracting any attention from passersby. She shoved him harder into the corner, and he knew that he must not do that again. His eyes gazed into hers without wavering this time. She kissed his generous lips before releasing him, and he felt so grateful for the contact.

  He hoisted the case into the trunk of the car and drove her to her hotel. He waited while she checked in, not at all sure that she would be inviting him up. When she’d finished with the paperwork he heard her tell the woman behind the counter that she would not be needing help with her suitcase. He brightened at that. She did, apparently, want him to carry her case to her room. They both entered the small, brightly lit room with the steeple of the church next door visible through the lace curtains.

  Serge put down her case and they stood looking at each other for a second. Elle said, “Take your pants down.”

  He followed her direction. Once again he was excited and nervous at the same time. He opened the button and unzipped, then pulled his trousers and sho
rts down around his knees.

  She couldn’t see his cock behind his shirttails. She walked around to survey his rear and, when she saw it, had to suppress a lustful gasp. He had the sexiest ass she had ever seen. His cheeks were the size and shape of powder puffs she’d gotten as gifts when she was young. Those powder puffs were so precious and fancy, kept under their tinted plastic domes meant to look like cut glass. His skin was as white and smooth as the powder. She knelt down behind him and he groaned in anticipation. She told him to spread his cheeks open with his fingers so she could inspect his little asshole in the light of the morning sun. The smell of tangerines met her nostrils. He had prepared himself for her.

  His entire crack was a smoky charcoal color, completely hidden when his snow-white cheeks were closed. His asymmetrical, little puckered opening was just what she had envisioned, and hoped for. She hungrily lunged for his crevice and tongued, licked, and ate to her delight. He squirmed and made little “uh” noises throughout the mastication of his most private of parts. He could barely stay standing by the time she was finished with him, for his legs had turned to rubber.

  She told him to take his clothes off completely and get down on his hands and knees. She opened her suitcase on the bed and pulled out the purple butt plug and some lubricant. He saw what she was doing and his mouth dropped open slightly, but he didn’t move. She began by circling the plug over his anus. She turned on the vibrator to loosen up the virgin muscles of his asshole. His eyes were closed as he savored every sensation and tried to relax himself for her. She pushed the plug, stretching his sphincter, as the first bulb entered his waiting body. He responded with a long “ahh” sound, but didn’t move forward at all. She licked the taut skin, expanded tightly around the toy, and told him he was almost there. She added more lube and pushed the second bulb into his gorgeous ass. His eyes stayed shut but his head craned back in a prayer to the god of pleasure. Without warning, she quickly pushed the last bulb into his ass and, to her delight, he backed into it. The device would rest in place with the flange on the outside, provided he didn’t relax too much, so she told him he must work to keep it in place.