Can't Get Enough: Erotica for Women

  Copyright © 2014 by Tenille Brown.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,

  2246 Sixth Street, Berkeley, California 94710.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: John Davis/Getty Images

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-051-3

  Contents

  Foreword • COLE RILEY

  Introduction: Too Much Is Never Enough • TENILLE BROWN

  Big Appetites • MIEL ROSE

  Craving the Best Man • JOANNE KENRICK

  Under His Watch • RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL

  Strip to My Lou • ALLISON WONDERLAND

  Rocket Fuel • JACQUELINE APPLEBEE

  His Subject • MADISON EINHART

  Mud and Pain • TILLY HUNTER

  Those Damned Cobbles • TAMSIN FLOWERS

  Embraceable You • BLAIR EROTICA

  Free Ride • HEIDI CHAMPA

  When He Gets Home • LUCY FELTHOUSE

  Before They Burn • BEATRIX ELLROY

  Won’t Last the Week • PRESTON AVERY

  Melanie’s Choice • MEDEA MOR

  The End of Sensible • LOUISE BLAYDON

  Sleepless Need • MONICA CORWIN

  The Girl on Your Skin • GISELLE RENARDE

  Spinning • KYOKO CHURCH

  Sweet Revenge • ANIKA RAY

  The Fight • HILARY KEYES

  The Beautiful Truth • SOPHIA VALENTI

  Waiting • ERZABET BISHOP

  Lovely Rita • HARPER BLISS

  Blue Balls • KISSA STARLING

  Blake Eats Out • SHOSHANNA EVERS

  Famous Last Words • TENILLE BROWN

  Objects of Desire • ANNABETH LEONG

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  FOREWORD

  Erotica is a tricky business. It usually concerns such subjects as love, lust or various shades of carnal desire. Tenille Brown, a veteran practitioner of the flesh print wars, has edited a sublime example of erotica, Can’t Get Enough, dedicated to the worthy theme of “hot, steamy, mouth-watering sex,” which will bewitch readers like a magical spell.

  Desire, as interpreted by Tenille Brown, is a good thing. She issues a stern warning to her detractors that these stories are not enticements to “endless orgies and empty encounters,” but a positive tribute to moments of pleasurable, smoldering sex that anyone can embrace in all its glory. Those reading these tales should not be afraid of catching the virus of sexual promiscuity.

  Nothing in these stories smacks of psychosis with its pathological, compulsive behavior, manic episodes, substance abuse or dependence. The characters contained within them are having a great time without guilt or shame. Good sex in these pages doesn’t take into account whether the man can be seduced or the woman is lovable. It’s anything goes. Throw all the rules out. When willing partners are involved, anything can happen and fireworks can occur whether in public or between the sheets.

  Although the editor states these stories were selected for the woman reader, there is something in them for men as well. A sense of free-spirited disregard for the traditional and the customary is dumped out of the window as the writers go for the max in trashing old stereotypes and clichés. Male readers should make room for this dose of powerful female hunger in their sexual vocabulary. It would do them well to absorb some of these prescriptions for satisfying their partners. Open themselves beyond limits and restrictions. Going beyond the notion of good pussy and a big dick can only expand their reach for great, sizzling, addictive sex.

  An older woman I once dated said, “Good sex is like a drug. Once you have had it, it can make you do anything to capture that first high. If you’re lucky, you can push past that point to something even better, even hotter, even crazier. When you get to that level, watch out! I’ve seen men and women jeopardize their jobs, careers and community standing just to get that good sex. Believe me, that feeling…oh man!”

  In each of the stories of Can’t Get Enough, the key ingredients are openness, boldness, self-respect and an erotic connection not often seen in the real world. These lovers are not afraid to become vulnerable or to accommodate each other to reach the highest pleasure available. None of these folks need prompting or permission to get off and to keep coming back for more.

  For example, take the threesome that roars into a torrid sexual flame in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Under His Watch,” where ecstasy is all that matters: “Everyone had a role—Colin’s to push his cock deeper down my throat, Josh’s to tighten his grip on my hair and bring his legs to either side of me, and Leonard’s to touch himself while he looked on. Me? My role was to simply be the center of attention, to take what each man was offering me.”

  Or the uninhibited woman, not a tramp, slut or any restrictive tag, in Jacqueline Applebee’s “Rocket Fuel” who declares she loves dick and facials. “It’s simple really: I can’t get enough of cock. I love blow jobs, hand jobs, taking it up my arse or my cunt. I love the feel, the look and the smell of cock.”

  And finally, Lucy Felthouse’s “When He Gets Home” gives the perfect blueprint for a complete, drenching fulfillment: “Touching his wife’s nub caused her eyes to roll back in her head and her pussy to contract around his cock, which in turn caused his cock to throb and twitch inside her. He’d have to up his game if he wanted to make sure she came before—or at the same time as—him. Grasping the slippery and sensitive bundle of nerve endings between his finger and thumb, he rolled and pinched at it. Amazingly, it swelled further at his ministrations, and he looked up to see Nina stifling her own moans by biting down on her fist.”

  We are a country who loves to be in love, loves to be desired. However, we are puritans who want to be free of emotional and sexual restraints. The stories in this book hold some of the cures for what ails us, and contain some of the answers for our popular moral cages.

  Tenille Brown and Cleis Press are taking a firm stand for an end to sexual repression at a time when opposition has been shrill and resistant to progressive trends going full tilt. Both parties are to be commended for such bravery in an atmosphere of madcap cookie-cutter conformity and Tea Party conservative dogma.

  Enjoy Can’t Get Enough for all its treasured worth. We all want the best in sex. Think about what poet Sylvia Plath wrote in her journals: “If they substituted the word ‘Lust’ for ‘Love’ in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.”

  Cole Riley

  New York City

  INTRODUCTION: TOO MUCH IS NEVER ENOUGH

  I’m not greedy. I’ve always been satisfied with my fair share, never asking for more than is necessary…except when it comes to good sex.

  You see, I believe that the best sex is the sex that makes me want it again and again, and when I began seeking out stories for this book, I wanted them to evoke that same reaction from readers. I wanted erotica that would leave me not only satisfied, but wanting more. I wanted hot, steamy, mouth-watering sex. I wanted stories that took the theme and turned it on its head, and boy, did I ever get what I was looking for.

  As my word count began bursting at the seams, I found myself anxious and wishing for the space to include more, but I soon realized that what had landed in my lap was precisely what it was supposed
to be—a book jam-packed with stories that left me winded, wanting and hungry for more once I turned the last page, and that was what I wanted to present to my readers.

  I was aware that the title of this collection could be misinterpreted, could hint at a theme of endless orgies and empty encounters, but that was what I wanted to avoid. I made sure the stories presented were not only hot and racy, but also sex positive.

  I didn’t even want to think about the phrase “slut shaming.” On the contrary, this book is filled with characters who want it, love it and aren’t ashamed to show it.

  Take for instance Jack in Louise Blaydon’s “The End of Sensible,” who is turned on by the sight of his lover, Tom, in women’s lingerie:

  At the top of the stairs, Tom disappeared into the bathroom without a word, and Jack went quiescently into his bedroom to wait. Probably it was stupid, this—waiting for Tom to come out of the bathroom in his (god) girl’s clothes, just so that Jack could (oh god) take them off him again, but that was the point, wasn’t it? Maybe Tom shouldn’t be the prettiest girl Jack had ever seen, but there it was.

  Or Miel Rose’s female lead in “Big Appetites,” who experiences a moment of passion like no other when the fleeting thought of making a baby with her lover enters the picture:

  She’s looking straight ahead, drumming on the steering wheel, nonchalant. “It really gets me when you’re all laid out for me, naked, your legs spread wide, and you pull me down on top of you and I slip my cock right up into your pussy. I can look right into your eyes as I rock my dick in and out of you, just the way you like it. That look in your eyes is so sweet, so fuckin’ precious. It’s like we’re making love, like we’re making babies, or some shit.”

  There is no shortage of lustful women here, but the men have a hot presence, too, as in Tilly Hunter’s rough and dirty tale of “Mud and Pain” and Kissa Starling’s devilishly ironic story about “Blue Balls.”

  There are insatiable couples in long-term relationships, as in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Under His Watch,” Blair Erotica’s “Embraceable You,” and the playful couple in Allison Wonderland’s “Strip to My Lou,” and there are fly-by-night moments of passion such as Beatrix Ellroy’s “Before They Burn” and Monica Corwin’s “Sleepless Need.”

  I could go on, but I’d run the risk of saying too much, when simply turning the pages of this lust-filled collection will be enough, at least for now.

  Tenille Brown

  Atlanta, Georgia

  BIG APPETITES

  Miel Rose

  Row is big, the biggest guy I’ve ever fucked. She towers above the majority of people, surpassing them in height as well as width. She takes up a lot of space; she can’t help it. This has been true for most of her life, and you can tell by the way she holds her body, the confidence she exudes, that somewhere along the way she became used to it.

  Her biceps are solid and beefy. I can barely wrap my two hands around them. When we are lying in bed I like to bury my face in her armpit and kiss out along the sensitive underside of her arm, trace her tattoos with my tongue. Her back is a paradox, a broad sheet of rock-hard muscles covered with soft padding. I’ve tried to give her back rubs with my tiny hands but find the territory too daunting, my elbows and knees way more suited for the work.

  There is something specific and physiological that happens to me when we are in close proximity. She walks by and my heart beats hard at my blood, driving it to the surface. I swear I can feel every particle of air displaced by her motion sliding over my skin, it’s so sensitive. She wraps her massive arms around me and I go limp, swooning like some wacked-out lady on the cover of a paperback romance novel. And when she rolls on top of me with my legs spread wide to accommodate her, it grounds me like nothing else. Being a big girl myself, she makes me feel small in a way no one has.

  See, when I met Row I wasn’t used to fucking people bigger than I was. For me, this took our power dynamic out of the theoretical. It took it from a place I went to in my head, giving myself up to someone’s psychological domination, and turned it to a real live thing rolling around in the bed with us. In the heat of the fuck, with her holding me down, I can struggle all I want; the only way up is to ask. That’s okay, though. Mostly I don’t want up.

  Row has big appetites. She eats more meat than anyone I’ve ever been with, devouring whole animals in one meal, it seems. I can tell it’s good for her; it’s what her body needs. Even with me being a vegetarian, it somehow makes me wet watching her rip apart a steak. She eats her meat rare, still bloody. She likes to ignore me while she’s eating and I just sit there watching her, crossing and uncrossing my legs, squeezing my thighs together. She’ll look over at me every now and then, licking the juice from her fingers, and say, “You hungry or what, baby?” Like it’s the meat I want, when she knows damn well it’s her I want to sink my teeth into.

  It’s not like she ever keeps me waiting long. Like I said, the guy has big appetites. She likes to fuck, all the time, day or night, public or private. That’s okay, though. I like to fuck too.

  Really, you can’t take us anywhere. Try as our friends might, it just doesn’t work out. Take us out for dinner or drinks, ten minutes into it she has her hand up my skirt and I’ll wind up in the bathroom bent over the sink getting my ass fucked. Or, if I’m lucky, she’ll be up against the wall with her pants shoved down, her fist in my hair, maneuvering my tongue all over her hard clit. We can’t help it. We’re both sluts, and together we’re always horny.

  Trying to drive anywhere is the worst. One time we even drove her truck into a ditch. We were going to her mom’s house for dinner, a thirty-minute drive, but fifteen minutes into it she had me frantic. I had my panties off and everything.

  It went something like this:

  We’re going to her mom’s house, okay? So, I’m getting ready, trying to look presentable. I like her mom a lot, she’s a great lady, not uptight or anything, I just want to look nice. I put on a high-waisted skirt, a little below the knee, black, paired with a silk button-up blouse, a deep wine color. I top it off with a black cashmere cardigan, soft as a kitten’s belly, that I scored at Goodwill. I button the top three buttons, but it’s pointless. No matter what I’m wearing, Row always makes me feel like a total slut.

  She picks me up in her piece-of-shit truck, you know the kind, held together with duct tape and prayers, with mileage pushing three hundred thousand. I grew up with cars like that, the ones my dad or brothers were always working on, trying to get them to pass inspection, trying to get just a little more out of them before they got retired to the back lot for parts. Even though I don’t work on them much myself, I’ve soaked up a lot of knowledge just being around them, and I have a few tricks of my own. Like, you’d be surprised how many miles you can go with a pair of panty hose replacing a shredded fan belt.

  Anyway, she picks me up. First off, she pushes her glasses up her nose and gives me a long, slow look up and down. There’s lechery in her eyes, in the crook of her mouth as she shifts into reverse and says, “Nice outfit.” Like I said, she makes me feel like a slut.

  Next she starts talking; she knows she can always get me this way. It doesn’t even matter what she’s saying, it’s how she says it. She could be saying anything in that smooth, deep voice of hers and my pussy starts weeping.

  This time though, it’s not just any old thing coming out of her lecherous mouth. She’s telling me how every time she sees me in lipstick she can’t help but think about having to scrub it off her cock after our dates, how she’d love to see those lips wrapped around her cock right now. We’re going to her mom’s, she’s not packing, but does it matter? She just wants to see me worked up. I could hold out on her, but I don’t. She’s getting to me and she knows it. I start crossing and uncrossing my legs, squeezing my thighs together.

  She tells me how good it feels to come down my throat. “You give really good head, you know that?” she says. “And, fuck, you’re such a slut for it. You LOVE sucking my cock. You’d
go for that shit anytime, wouldn’t you? You can’t get enough.” It’s true; I’m a slut for her cock.

  I’m sitting as far away from her as possible, looking out the window. I can’t look at her or it will be all over. This doesn’t faze her. She can see me shifting in my seat; she can tell she’s got me wet.

  “You know, if there’s one thing I love more than my cock down your throat, it would have to be my cock buried in that tight, wet pussy of yours.” She’s looking straight ahead, drumming on the steering wheel, nonchalant. “It really gets me when you’re all laid out for me, naked, your legs spread wide, and you pull me down on top of you and I slip my cock right up into your pussy. I can look right into your eyes as I rock my dick in and out of you, just the way you like it. That look in your eyes is so sweet, so fuckin’ precious. It’s like we’re making love, like we’re making babies, or some shit.”

  This is a new tactic, and it throws me. I break my rule and look at her. She looks at me, kind of awkwardly, and that’s how I know she is serious. Not like she doesn’t genuinely love to fuck my pussy, but this is something different.

  We look at each other for a second and then she’s back on track. “That’s when you wrap your legs around me, when you beg me to start fucking you harder, really fuck your pussy. You’re so wet I can hear my cock slamming in and out of you. That’s my favorite sound, that and your voice telling me to fuck you harder.”

  I decide it’s all over. Like I said, I’m a slut, and Row really brings it out in me. I lift my hips and pull my skirt up around my waist. I slip my lace panties down and off my left leg, letting them dangle from my right as I prop it on the dash. I know I’m going to leave a nice puddle on her seat to add to the years of grime already accumulated there. I slip my finger between my swollen lips. Jesus, how wet I get surprises even me sometimes. I’m not looking at Row. Despite that sweet moment, I’m still pissed that she decided to pull this on the way to her mom’s.

  But she’s looking at me. I can see her out of the corner of my eye. She pushes up her glasses, takes quick peeks at what I’m doing to myself. She licks her lips, unconsciously, runs her hand across the short hairs covering the back of her skull.