Wicked Pleasures: Stories of Kinky Love
Page 1
Edited by Cecilia Tan
Wicked Pleasures: Stories of Kinky Love
A Ravenous Romance™ Wicked Pleasures™ Original Publication
A Ravenous Romance™ Wicked Pleasures™ Original Publication
www.ravenousromance.com
Wicked Pleasures Anthology
Copyright © 2009 by Ravenous Romance
Ravenous Romance™
100 Cummings Center
Suite 125G
Beverly, MA 01915
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-078-7
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Introduction
The Taste of Salt by Jean Roberta
Temporary Reversals By A. Silenus
Just Friends by Cynthia W. Gentry
Lesson Plan by Alex Picchetti
Break Me by Elle Rose
Peace de Resistance by Kris Cherita
Fair Game by Elizabeth Coldwell
Queen of Revels by Peter Tupper
Annabel’s Birthday Wish by Sage Vivant
The Invited by Ralph Greco, Jr.
“Daddy” and his Two Girls by Ralph Greco, Jr.
Backwards by Kris Cherita
Contributors
Introduction
There is a difference in my mind between “wicked” and “evil.” Evil, in my definition, is nothing good. It is villainy, crime, murder, intentional wrongness; whereas “wicked” is something more…playful. Wicked is a flirtation with the dark side, playing with emotions – like fear or submission – that we’ve been told are negative, or experimenting with pain or even excesses of pleasure we’ve been told we ought not to enjoy.
But we do enjoy them, and the characters in the stories presented here are definitely enjoying themselves.
Another way to look at it, in terms of sex and love, is that evil is nonconsensual, while wicked is consensual. This is a book about love, about the declarations of love made through some of the kinkier expressions, about the trust and love people must have for each other in order to play on the edge. Not every story is a “love story” in the traditional sense, but you will also find very few stories in here that would fit a kinky porn magazine, where it’s only “two people meet, they have kinky sex, they never see each other again.” How boring would that be, again and again? In “Wicked Pleasures,” you will find couples playing with their spouses, love blossoming between strangers, friends loving friends, and even a few surprises.
The contributors to this book come from diverse backgrounds. They are from England, Australia, Canada, and the United States. They run the gamut of the gender and preference spectrum as well as the lifestyle spectrum, from single to married to partnered-but-purposefully-unmarried, kinky, vanilla, and so on. The stories are as varied as they are, and I truly hope you enjoy the variety of wicked pleasures presented here. They share a common focus on women’s pleasure and some would even say women’s empowerment. And beyond that, whips, corsets, threesomes, bondage… the possibilities are endless.
Cecilia Tan
November 2008
The Taste of Salt
by Jean Roberta
Sarah strolled beside the restless gray Atlantic, trying to find comfort in it—or serenity or perspective or whatever a sensitive person is supposed to find in the eternal sea. Tendrils of her long black hair blew around her delicate, serious face. She remembered walking this beach as a teenager, feeling like a maiden under a spell whose supernatural lover comes to her in dreams.
A short, determined man with shaggy brown hair walked toward her with amazing speed for someone wearing loose sandals on wet sand. Earth magic, she thought. That’s what it is. He has the wisdom of the body, an understanding of all things physical. He’s at home here.
“Hey, Devon.” She hoped he hadn’t come to the beach to look for her. Much as she welcomed the sight of him, she didn’t want to be sought out.
His face looked more adult and less innocent than she remembered. “Sarah! Welcome back. You still love it, don’tcha, girl?” His sarcasm hadn’t changed.
She couldn’t look him in the eye. Heat rose from the vicinity of her heart, through her closed throat, and into her face. She knew she must have turned as red as a lobster being boiled alive. “I needed to think.”
“Huh. You were always good at that, babe. You don’t need company, do you?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said, smiling. “I want to know how you’ve been keeping.”
He gracefully reversed direction to walk beside her. The language of his body was easy, fluid, miles and years away from the bureaucratic or rebellious self-consciousness of city men. She remembered Devon had spent much of his life in rocking boats.
“Not enough to keep in touch,” he said.
Sarah flinched as she felt his anger lick her skin like a flame. He had probably heard about her from time to time from the old women who were the unofficial nerve-centers of the town, Sarah’s aunt and the ladies who ran the post office, the drugstore, and the café.
As far as she knew, Devon was still that rare creature, a decent man. He had been an honest, loyal childhood friend.
Sarah’s mother had been glad enough to find a man like that, one who could be trusted to keep his word, support his family and not take out his frustrations on them. She had married him and had accepted her lot the way a wildflower in the shade accepts whatever light and moisture it can get.
Sarah didn’t know how to give Devon the explanation he needed. “I didn’t know what to say. I got my degree and then I was looking for, you know…Things happened. I came back for my mom.”
“I heard she was in the hospital. I’m sorry, Sarah. I hope she’s better.”
“She had a stroke, and she can’t be alone now. I came to stay with her until I can bring her back to the city with me. She hasn’t really been well since my dad died.”
Devon’s eyebrows clenched, and he opened his mouth, but Sarah pressed on. “If I can’t persuade her to move to the city, I’ll arrange for someone to take care of her. I have a job to go back to.”
Devon’s gaze was long and steady. Sarah wondered if he thought the neckline of her T-shirt revealed too much cleavage, if he found her red capri pants too tight and too loud. It was summer; what did he expect her to wear? She resented being judged by men. But then, Devon had never come close to her father when it came to that.
“You wanna have a beer with me, Sarah?” The man’s invitation held a subtext, but there was something cynical in it.
“I would if we can just be friends. I’m sorry, Devon, but we’ve grown in different directions.”
His look made her feel shallow and evil, like a hit-and-run high-school vamp dragged back to the scene of the crime.
“Says you.” He reached out to hold her by the arms—not roughly as she half-expected, but as gently as he had handled the birds’ eggs he used to collect at age twelve. She felt herself small and light in his hands.
He leaned in and kissed her. On the lips.
For a moment, she had no idea what to say or do. “Leave me alone” would have sounded melodramatic, since he had already withdrawn his lips and his hands. She still tingled where he had touched her.
The magic was still there, but she didn’t want to give in to it. “Devon, I’m not—”
“D’you feel soiled, lady? Do I smell like
fish?”
In fact, he smelled clean and tangy, like a combination of soap, shaving cream, men’s cologne, fresh sweat, and some indefinable personal ingredient that came to her on gusts of sea air. He was as tempting and dangerous as a merman who had tracked her down to pull her under. In his moody gray eyes, she could see depths of memory that seemed to stretch back before their own lifetimes.
“Sarah.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll let you go. Just look at me and tell me.”
Tears stung Sarah’s eyes, blurring her view of the strong-featured face in front of her. “I never wanted to hurt you, but I had to get the hell out of here, Devon.”
An image burst into Sarah’s mind like a monster from the deeps. The Reverend McDermitt, her father, using his voice and his arms to persuade his Methodist congregation to give up cheap distractions and soul-killing habits. The Reverend at home, just as righteous in a sweatshirt, urging his daughter to give up a boy who wasn’t worthy of her, one who could keep her trapped in this town all her life. She would be constantly pregnant and harassed by squalling brats; didn’t she know what Catholic husbands demanded?
Like a migrating bird, she had flown away from danger and discomfort.
Hypocrites, she had thought. Men are men, no matter which Father they worship.
Sweat dampened Devon’s once-white T-shirt, and she could see the shape of his chest muscles beneath the faded logo of a local band, The Selkies. He leaned closer and kissed her slowly, tasting her. His arms wrapped around her back, and he pulled her breasts to his hot chest. Her nipples woke up and hardened to pebbles.
He pulled his mouth away. “You still want me, Sarah.” It wasn’t a question.
“Oh yes. Dev.” No one in the city had ever held her like this.
“Come to my place for a bit. Someone must be watching out for your mother…?”
“Mrs. Clark from the church.” There was no point in lying. Everyone’s business was public knowledge in this town. “This is a bad idea, man, but okay. I am thirsty for a beer.”
He grinned almost the way he had years before. He wrapped an arm possessively around her shoulders and pulled her uphill to where his truck was parked.
As soon as she saw it, Sarah was reminded that vehicles here were for use, not show. The faded blue of an old paint job was flecked with encroaching rust, and a jumble of gear could be seen in the back.
This had been Devon’s dad’s truck, and Sarah had ridden in it before. Bouncing over a gravel road, she remembered the damp heat of a summer night, and Devon’s breath on her neck. Her nipples remembered Devon’s mouth, and her ticklish belly remembered his knowing fingers, sliding behind the waistband of the panties her mother had bought, sliding down to her secret entrance. She had been wet with expectation, and he had stroked her (Oh God, she prayed silently, then and now) just where she wanted him to. The truck was full of history, but time had moved on. Devon drove with an assurance that said it was his now. Family truck, family boat. Devon’s father would now be too old to fish the way he used to. Sober and responsible Devon had clearly taken on the family business.
“Are you married?” She had to know.
He turned to look full at her, his hands steady on the wheel. “Naw. Divorced.”
The word sat in her chest like something she couldn’t swallow. What unbearable disappointment could have caused Devon to defy his family, his priest, and his conscience to break his marriage? Maybe it had been her idea, whoever she was.
“She got the house,” he added. “I can’t afford much, so I rent the upstairs of the Wilsons’ place, now that their kids are all gone. It’s big enough for me.”
He pulled the truck to a stop behind a rambling three-story house. Before she could hop out, he came to her side to offer her his hand, then he held hers persistently on their way to the side door. It seemed he wanted to be seen.
Devon guided her up a flight of creaky back stairs with a sweaty hand on her butt. She knew the old Wilsons were probably somewhere in the house, but luckily they were nowhere in sight.
A narrower staircase led to Devon’s three-room attic, more spacious than it looked from outside. He flicked a switch, and three lamps with red light bulbs bathed the room in a ruby glow. He walked to a CD player, shuffled through a stack of CDs, and bent over the machine.
Sarah expected to hear a pop tune from their high school years, but the instrumental music that floated through the room was more suited to meditation than to dancing. It was dominated by yearning violins and nostalgic flutes. It was the unearthly soundtrack of Devon’s pad as a theme park, a geeky version of hell.
“Sarah.” The red light on his face made him look both sinister and clownish. “Are you adventurous?”
She felt thunderstruck. What kinds of kink could he possibly have discovered in a saltwater town? Net bondage? Whippings with fishing line and paddlings with driftwood?
“Hey Sarah, come here.” He held her close and gently raised her T-shirt, exposing her bra. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. I went away too, you know. I learned some things about pleasuring a woman. I learned things about myself, too.”
As if in a trance, she pulled her T-shirt over her head and threw it on a wicker chair in a corner. She was nervous, but she was too proud and curious to back down.
Devon soothed her with words. “Oh baby, you’re beautiful. You’ve ripened.” He unhooked her bra, releasing her breasts into his waiting hands. She shifted from foot to foot as he stroked her nipples and rolled them between his fingers.
“Ah, you like that.” He pinched hard, and an electric current ran from her shocked nipples to her clit. She squeaked like a tea kettle.
“You like that too,” he said. “Am I wrong?”
She blinked back the tears that threatened to fill her eyes. “Um.” She forced herself to look at his face. “You’re not wrong, Devon. I can’t help it.”
“Honey.” He brought her to his mouth and kissed her. He slipped in his tongue and withdrew it before she could respond. She felt lightheaded. “Don’t fight it. You want me to take charge, don’t you?”
“Yes. I must be crazy.”
“Sarah. You don’t have to understand it.” He unbuttoned and unzipped her pants, then pulled them down her legs with her wet panties. “Just feel it.”
She stepped out of the last of her clothing as though stepping into a looming wave that would carry her out to sea. She wanted it, despite all reason, wanted to let go and be carried away.
But she wanted to speak while she still could. “Dev, I wouldn’t have been a good wife.”
“That’s all right.” He tensed, gathered her up and hoisted her over his shoulder. He carried her to the double bed and let her fall on her back. He grinned down at her, and his look held a threat and a promise. “I wasn’t a good husband.”
He pulled her arms beyond her head and attached each of her wrists to the bedposts with the velvetlined cuffs that were part of his bedroom furniture. Looking at the distance between her bare feet and the posts at the foot of the bed, he laughed. “Spread your legs,” he told her, “and keep them there. Show me how well you can hold still.”
Sarah followed instructions and smiled up at him. The light and the music helped her to relax into her role as Devon’s willing pet, at least for now. She had played other roles, but none had felt this important.
He shed his clothes with calm haste, and left them in a pile on the floor. He crawled over her and let his thick red cock point at the triangle of curly dark hair between Sarah’s legs. “Would you like to be fucked, Sarah?” he asked as politely as though offering her a cup of strong tea on a cold winter day.
She sighed and squirmed. “Dev, it’s been so long.”
“You must like to wait. You didn’t answer my question.” He teased her nipples with pinching fingers and pressed a knee against her slit. He pushed his hard kneecap against her wetness to the hypnotic beat of the music.
“Oh! Yes, I
want you inside me. Please, Devon.”
He laughed, showing very white teeth. “I will, but not yet.” He reached across her to open a drawer in a bedside table. He pulled out a large, realistic dildo in a tan color that contrasted with his own pink, freckled skin and ginger-colored hair. Sarah was moved by the sight of the real man, and then his obscene toy was being pushed into her, filling and stretching her eager cunt.
Sarah moaned with each thrust, not caring who might hear her.
In steady, rhythmical strokes, Devon kept pushing the thing deeper into her center, making her open for it.
“Girl, do you want the whole town to know what a hoor you are?” He pronounced the word the way her father had, on the rare occasions when he had used it. “I have a reputation to keep up.”
As usual, Devon’s joking was not really funny. Sarah was too distracted to think about it.
He left the object in her, filling her like a plug and tempting her to squeeze it. She felt as if the slightest movement could make her explode. “Oh, honey, I’ll come.”
“No you won’t, girl, or you’ll get a lickin’. Lie still.”
He reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a silly pink feather duster. It was clearly not meant for sweeping away dust. He used it to tickle her neck, her breasts, her belly and thighs while she laughed and wiggled and tried not to erupt into spasms from head to foot. He lay the duster on the bedspread and lifted a small bottle of oil from the tabletop.
He rubbed the oil into her skin with long, firm strokes down her arms and circular ones on her breasts, spiraling up to her nipples. His index finger explored her sensitive navel. With both hands, he reached under her to cup her ass cheeks and massage them, jostling the thing inside her.
His cock seemed to be made of stone, and she wondered if he needed relief as badly as she did. If so, he didn’t show it.
When every inch of her skin felt slick and gleamed in the red light, he pulled another clever device from the drawer which served as his magic trunk. Since she couldn’t move her head much with her wrists secured, he waved the metal clips in front of her eyes. Sarah flinched.