Can't Get Enough: Erotica for Women Read online

  “Good,” she manages to murmur as she collapses to the floor in a panting puddle of perfection.

  MELANIE’S CHOICE

  Medea Mor

  Thirty lashes. That’s what she’d get if Steve caught her in the act. Thirty lashes with an implement of his choice, or fifty if she didn’t tell him and he found out anyway.

  Not that Melanie cared. She’d been horny all day. In the morning, she had woken up with her hand between her thighs, stroking herself without even being aware of it. At work, she’d found herself pressing a highlighter between her legs while drawing up her report, squeezing her thigh muscles around it as if it were a cock ready to invade. Neither action had given her any relief. Nor had it been supposed to, because she didn’t have Steve’s permission to come, not without him present.

  They had rules, he and she. Many rules, the most important one being that Melanie wasn’t allowed to orgasm unless Steve had given her permission to do so. Her orgasms belonged to him, he’d informed her when she had first moved in with him, and seeing as he tended to be generous with them, she seldom felt the need to disobey him.

  Today was an exception, though. Fourteen days without Steve had sorely tested her self-control. Sitting alone on their sofa every night, Melanie had realized just how vital his presence was to her well-being, how lost and restless she felt without him there to add structure to her life and push her buttons.

  As his two weeks’ absence had drawn to a close, she’d grown impatient for his return, and now that it was imminent, the anticipation was positively killing her. And so it was that, when she’d gotten home that night and changed into the skimpy schoolgirl uniform he’d told her to wear on the evening of his return (sans underwear, naturally), she’d found herself gravitating to the black box under the TV, which was innocently labeled DVDs but really contained the majority of their not-inconsiderable collection of naughty toys.

  She’d resisted the urge at first. She’d told herself that she could hold out a few more hours, until he stepped through the door and had his wicked way with her. She’d told herself that he wouldn’t have kept her on edge for so long unless he was planning something special upon his return, something that would make the long wait worthwhile. But it was no use. She needed the release, and she needed it now.

  As she rummaged through the toy box, which contained a sizable collection of punishment implements as well the requisite plugs, cuffs and vibrators, Melanie found herself wondering what thirty lashes of each implement would feel like on her near-naked backside in the event that Steve should walk in on her while she was pleasuring herself. She knew from experience that the oiled leather flogger would leave quite a nasty sting. So would the small black flogger with the knots on the ends of the falls. Thirty swats with that and she’d probably regret her impatience. Yet part of her hoped he’d catch her in the act, just to experience the intensity of a flogging or spanking again. She craved the pain, the ritual of submitting to him for punishment. She needed him to take control of her, to bring her to heel when her frustration led her to challenge him.

  Eventually she found the toy she’d been looking for: the blue silicone vibrator that felt so comfortable against her delicate skin. Without packing away the other toys, she lay down on the sofa, her knees pulled up and wide apart. She lifted the minuscule tartan skirt Steve had told her to wear that evening and put the vibrator between her thighs. As the toy began to buzz against her swollen clit, she pictured Steve sitting next to her, stroking the insides of her thighs while she surrendered to the vibrations that were slowly turning the waxed triangle between her legs numb. In her mind’s eye, he was running his fingernails from her knees down to the crease of her thighs, up and down, slowly and sensually, driving her mad with the insistence of his touch. She’d touched herself like that over the last few nights, hoping against hope that her attempts at his signature touch would make her feel less alone, but to no avail. The difference between his touch and hers was so vast as to be almost grotesque.

  She reached down with her free hand, spread some of the wetness from her aching pussy to her clit and pressed the vibe over her little nub. As she rubbed the buzzing toy up and down, she imagined it was Steve’s tongue flicking at her, licking her, driving her to the brink of insanity. The thought sent a pulse of pleasure coursing through her body that resonated deep in her pussy.

  Within minutes she felt like her entire body was vibrating. Shuddering in delicious anticipation of what was about to come, she clenched her thighs around the vibrator as if it were a buoy that would lead her to the rolling waves while protecting her from them at the same time.

  She was riding a small wave when the latch in the front door clicked. As the door fell shut, thudding in its frame, she realized with a start that Steve had arrived home, but that didn’t stop her from pressing the vibrator against her clit as he put down his suitcase and leisurely wandered into the living room, shaking his head at the lewd image that greeted him. Nor did it stop her from pressing it even harder against herself as he sat down next to her, his jacket still on, his gray eyes full of mirth and terrible promises. Her heavy-lidded eyes met his as the tension she’d tried all week to ignore continued to build inside her, ineluctable and inexorable.

  “Well,” he said softly, arching a wicked eyebrow at her. “Looks like you weren’t exaggerating the other day when you said you missed me, kitten.” He reached out and found the moisture pooling between her thighs, eliciting a gasp from her. “I suppose I should consider myself flattered that my absence should drive you to this, but I’m a little disappointed that you couldn’t hold out just a tiny bit longer.” His fingertips began to explore her slick folds. “Would it have killed you to wait just five more minutes?”

  Need pulsed through her body like a living vein, so hard that she could barely think straight. So intense was her need for release that she gave him the first answer that popped into her head. “Yes, Sir,” she panted, her breath ragged and fast.

  Steve seemed amused at her honesty. “I’ll give you a choice, kitten,” he said, sliding his fingers along her slippery labia. “If you stop now, and I mean right now, I’ll forget that you went against my wishes, on account of your two-week ordeal”—he grinned—“and the fact that you make such a splendid sight humping that toy in that skirt.” He traced the opening of her sex, teasing her beyond endurance. “If, on the other hand, you choose to go on, you’ll pay the price for your disobedience. I’ll grant you your orgasm. I’ll even help you make it a good one. But there will be hell to pay afterward.”

  She glanced up at him with glazed-over eyes. “H-hell, Sir?” She could hear the breathlessness in her own voice, and the pulse that was thumping in her ears like the surge of waves.

  He nodded, a smirk playing across his lips. “Thirty lashes with the rosewood paddle. On a wet bottom.”

  She gasped. The rosewood paddle was varnished, which meant that it left a mean sting. Thirty lashes with it on a dry bottom would be quite the punishment. Thirty lashes on a wet bottom would be positively criminal.

  Steve wasn’t done, though. “And no other orgasms for a week.”

  That was even worse. Worse and phenomenally cruel under the circumstances. Yet she knew without even having to think about it that she’d choose the immediate climax over the delayed ones. She needed the release. She needed it like she needed water and oxygen, and it was so tantalizingly, breathtakingly close.

  “So,” said Steve, his lips curving into a smile. “What’s it going to be, kitten?”

  She blurted out the answer without a moment’s hesitation. “Now, please, Sir. Now.” She moved the vibrator a fraction of an inch, trying to hang on to the maddening tension that was unfurling in her pelvis.

  In answer, Steve rose to his feet, then sank to his knees at the end of the sofa. As his hands tilted her pelvis and drew her toward him, he looked at her from between her splayed thighs. “As you wish, my naughty, desperate, needy kitten.”

  A gasp burst from her lips a
s he pressed his face to her sex and laid a warm kiss on her entrance. She could feel his hot breath pouring over her pussy, making her lust surge.

  Almost involuntarily, she lifted the vibe a little higher to give Steve better access. The head of the toy hummed against her throbbing clit, sending endless ripples of shock through her. She closed her eyes and let the ripples wash over her, waiting for the big wave to crash over her and take her under.

  As the tip of Steve’s tongue darted out and rolled over her folds, from her sticky entrance to the smaller hole farther down and back again, Melanie clasped his head with her free hand, glad to have something to hold on to. She bucked her hips against his face and the buzzing toy. Flaring sensations were coursing through her body, building up to an inexorable climax. She knew she wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer.

  “Permission to come, Sir?”

  Steve didn’t answer. With a slow, measured thrust, he pushed his tongue deep inside her and drilled into her most sensitive spot, teasing her until her entire body was one huge, shuddering throb of need.

  “Please, Sir?” she begged, her free hand trembling in his hair.

  Again he ignored her plea. His tongue circled her entrance, making her writhe against him.

  “Please?”

  He briefly lifted his head. “Very well. Have your damned orgasm, wench.” He bent over her again and speared his tongue into her, roughly and urgently.

  Her head pulsed with a rush of blood. A tremor ran through her, racking her whole body with spasms of pleasure, and she squealed with rapture as the release she’d craved for so long ripped through her and set her free.

  From beyond the bliss, she heard Steve murmur his appreciation. Then he withdrew from her again. As she switched off the vibe and rolled to her side, still shuddering with the intensity of her climax, she saw him walk to the toy box and begin to search through it. When he turned around again, his face still coated with her juices, he smiled his most devilish grin.

  He was holding the rosewood paddle.

  Melanie smiled back at him, a little nervous but not afraid.

  The next half hour wouldn’t be fun, she knew—or at least, it wouldn’t be fun only. She’d be hurt, and chances were she’d feel that she’d made the wrong decision, that she should have chosen the long-term fun over the immediate release. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Steve was back and ready to inflict his cruel but exciting games on her again. That had to be worth a sore bottom. A sore bottom, and much more besides.

  THE END OF SENSIBLE

  Louise Blaydon

  Tom was late.

  A month ago—hell, two weeks ago—Jack probably wouldn’t have worried about it the way he was worrying now. Now, though, the first thing that came to Jack’s mind was the thought that Tom just didn’t want to come after all, knowing what Jack was probably expecting. Maybe Tom was starting to regret this whole bloody thing. Maybe Tom had noticed that Jack was having trouble paying much attention to any lasses who weren’t Tom, and maybe he was more concerned than Jack was about the fact that Tom had swiftly become his best girl.

  It wouldn’t be surprising, really. Tom always was the sensible one.

  The doorbell buzzed. Tom was smiling, and Jack’s first shameful urge was to smack him for making him worry, but then Tom really would be angry with him, and that was the last thing Jack wanted. So he swallowed the urge, though his “Took your time, didn’t you?” didn’t escape without a touch of cattiness.

  Tom didn’t seem to mind. Jack couldn’t say he hadn’t noticed—the thing about Tom was, he always paid careful notice to most everything Jack did—but he only rolled his eyes and said, “Didn’t set a time, did we? Anyway”—he started to push past Jack into the vestibule, and Jack took a step back, letting him—“I didn’t really want to turn up when your mum was still here, with these.” He held up one hand, from which a canvas bag dangled. Jack swallowed.

  “I, uh,” he said. His heart was thumping, but after his little scare he felt the need for caution, just in case. “That for writing? Or playing? New capos?” The band was the thing, after all. It was 1963, and every poor bastard in the north was trying to catch up to the Mersey Beat.

  “Jack.” Tom tipped his head to one side and smirked, and Jack felt his pulse level out again, relief spreading through him like oxygen. “Let’s go up to your room.”

  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.

  “You’re miles away,” Tom said. Jack blinked, eyes going immediately to the door, and Tom smiled at him. “What were you thinkin’ about?”

  He was wearing the skirt he’d worn the first time they did this, with stockings underneath. His big soft eyes were kohl-lined, something shimmery smeared on the lids, and his mouth looked pinker than usual. His T-shirt, though, was just a black T-shirt, and while Jack knew that girls did go around in T-shirts, the fact of the matter was that this was the T-shirt Tom had arrived in—maybe the T-shirt he’d been wearing all day, so the fabric would smell like him. There was nothing feminine about it. It showed off Tom’s shoulders and the neat nip of his waist, his long pale arms. So really, it shouldn’t be the T-shirt that was making Jack’s fingers itch to take hold of Tom and pull him in; shouldn’t be the goddamn ordinary T-shirt that made Jack ache to press his nose to Tom’s chest and under his arms and breathe him in. It shouldn’t, but Tom was wearing a skirt for him, and stockings, and lipstick, so it was okay. That was the understanding: as long as Jack was working his way into a pair of knickers, anything was okay.

  “Jack,” Tom pushed, mouth quirking up at one corner. “You all right?” He spread his arms a little, smile going bashful. “Is this?”

  “Tommy,” Jack said eventually, in a dark-brown voice, and he stood up, slid both arms around Tom’s narrow waist. “You’re a fucking cracker, you are.”

  Tom laughed and blushed, but Jack wasn’t really paying attention. Up close like this, he could smell Tom, real Tom, cigarettes and aftershave and fresh sweat. His mouth went to Tom’s throat, to the place behind his ear where it was all warm skin, and Tom groaned, head tipping back. Jack barely thought before he lifted him. He spun them, ignoring Tom’s snort of protest, and tossed him onto the bed on his back. Years now, they’d spent sleeping in that bed after long nights of working together, singing under their breath when it was too late to make noise. And now Tom was on it on his back, legs fallen open and skirt ridden up, and Jack was going to have him.

  He crawled onto the mattress, found the bottom of Tom’s shirt and tugged it up. Tom laughed, sucking in his tummy like it tickled, and Jack couldn’t help but notice the trail of hair that descended from his navel, guiding Jack down. Breathless, Jack tugged the skirt down an inch and caught a moan at the blue silk beneath. They hadn’t done this before, Jack realized slowly—hadn’t been anywhere in the light where Jack could get Tom’s shirt up, see him. It hadn’t occurred to Tom to shave the hair off his abdomen, where a real girl would be smooth. Madly, Jack found himself hot with gratitude.

  “Jackie,” Tom said, half a warning, and then Jack’s nose pressed into his navel and Tom shouted a laugh, breathless, muscles twitching against Jack’s face. “Jack, don’t!”

  “Shut up,” Jack told him, hot against his skin, and mouthed at Tom’s navel, then lower, following the line. He caught the edge of blue silk in his teeth and tugged it down, half to show off but half just because, god. His heart was going like maracas; he got his hands up under Tom’s skirt and cupped him firmly through his knickers. “Just let me, all right? Let me.” Another kiss, low, and Tom’s belly quivered. “Tom.”

  Tom let him. By the time they were done, they were naked but for the
T-shirt and stockings Tom had retained by silent mutual agreement, though Jack’s hands had mapped him everywhere. Tom was shaking, still, and Jack couldn’t seem to stop rubbing his fingers over Tom where he’d opened so easy for Jack’s dick, where he was wet. Against him like this, Tom could never have been taken for a girl. Not even with Jack’s glasses sitting on the nightstand. But the stockings were still on, suspended from the little blue belt Tom had nicked from somewhere, so that was all right. It didn’t make much sense, Jack had to admit, but they both seemed to be agreed on it, and that was usually the way bills were passed in the band. It was Jack’s band, after all. It was all right.

  That was the first time.

  But it was like breaking a dam, setting a precedent that couldn’t be unwritten. So long as Jack could slide his hand up Tom’s thigh and find silk, nothing else mattered. Everything else was okay, because that was what they’d decided, and that was how it would be.

  The first couple of weeks of it, they were, within certain parameters, careful. Practice nights were for practice, and nothing else. When they were playing actual gigs, it was worse. There was something about standing on a rickety stage with Tom, the glare of the spotlights making them sweat and Tom’s mouth almost brushing Jack’s cheek over the mic, that led to bad places. More than once, Jack had caught himself missing his place in a song because his attention was fixed on Tom’s face, or the curve of his throat, or the line of his clavicle where it emerged, sweat damp, from the neck of his shirt. More than once, too, he’d stumbled off the stage breathless and half-hard, voice scraped raw, and Tom had flashed him the eyes that said, Make an excuse, quick. Then had come hasty bus-rides and fumbled changes of clothes in Jack’s little bedroom, Jack’s hand in Tom’s mouth to stifle the noises as they rutted against each other. But it was almost six miles back to Jack’s from the George, and the bus took its fucking time. And every set they did, the urgency seemed to get worse. Jack found himself holding his breath, waiting for something to snap.