E Is for Exotic

by Alison Tyler

  E IS FOR EXOTIC

  Also by Alison Tyler

  * * *

  Best Bondage Erotica

  Best Bondage Erotica 2

  Exposed

  The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica

  Heat Wave: Sizzling Sex Stories

  Luscious: Stories of Anal Eroticism

  The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica

  Red Hot Erotica

  Slave to Love

  Three-Way

  Caught Looking (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)

  A Is for Amour

  B Is for Bondage

  C Is for Coeds

  D Is for Dress-Up

  F Is for Fetish

  G Is for Games

  H Is for Hardcore

  E IS FOR EXOTIC

  EROTIC STORIES

  EDITED BY ALISON TYLER

  Copyright © 2007 by Alison Tyler.

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

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,

  P.O. Box 14697, San Francisco, California 94114.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman

  Text design: Karen Quigg

  Cleis Press logo art: Juana Alicia

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Extraordinary Exaltations go to:

  Krista Barragar

  Violet Blue

  Frédérique Delacoste

  Diane Levinson

  Felice Newman

  Barbara Pizio

  The Lust Bites Ladies

  and SAM, always.

  If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.

  —LEWIS CARROLL

  It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters in the end.

  —URSULA K. LE GUIN

  CONTENTS

  Introduction: Everybody Knows

  Spider • DONNA GEORGE STOREY

  Native Tongue • SHANNA GERMAIN

  The Moments • MICHAEL HEMMINGSON

  Line Shack • RAKELLE VALENCIA

  Bus Ride • KIS LEE

  Wet • MATHILDE MADDEN

  Heat • T. C. CALLIGARI

  Arizona, Ireland, New England • CHEYENNE BLUE

  The Things That Go On at Siesta Time • SASKIA WALKER

  Mad Dogs • LISABET SARAI

  Learning His Ropes • TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS

  Essence • NIKKI MAGENNIS

  Un, Deux, Trois • ALISON TYLER

  About the Editor

  INTRODUTION:

  EVERYBODY KNOWS

  EVERYBODY KNOWS...

  Everybody knows that exotic locations lend themselves to erotic explorations. How could it be any other way? The crisp hotel sheets, or white-hot sand, or chilled tropical drinks—these are the perfect ingredients for a combustible foreign romance. But what makes a location exotic? Must a pair of lovers be strolling along the silvery Seine in order for their kiss to be extreme? Or does bondage sex on a tour bus to Vegas count?

  According to the talented thirteen authors in this collection, exotic connections can occur anywhere. On a crowded train in Mexico City, as in “Heat” by T. C. Calligari:

  Slowly, as the train trundled along, the hand wedged firmer between her folds, one finger moving forward and back, flicking over her clit. Erica’s knees would have buckled had she not been wedged between so many people.

  The lights flickered off on the train and her mystery man took that moment to push two fingers up into her cunt. Erica moaned, her eyes closed. But the stranger’s hand never stopped its slow movement within her.

  Or after a scare from a “Spider” in Tokyo, as in Donna George Storey’s erotic tale:

  “Do you know shibari?” he asked with the familiar gleam in his eye.

  “Is that like those porn pictures where they tie women up so they look like they’re caught in a spider’s web?” I replied, hoping my saucy tone would hide the fact my pulse was racing.

  “I forgot that you’re scared of spiders. You shouldn’t be. They bring good luck.”

  I laughed uncomfortably. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Let me teach you.”

  Or on a deserted ranch, as seen in Rakelle Valencia’s “Line Shack”:

  Wave after wave of her orgasm gripped and sucked at him. Her legs wrapped around him to hold him more tightly into her That was his undoing. That last slam, powered by the force of muscular, feminine thighs brought him to his limits. It felt like a glorious eternity, but it had only been mere minutes that they stayed locked with each other Flint adjusted himself, then zipped up, reaching next to help his wife with her clothes and boots.

  “Best get the mule loaded if we’re to make the line shack before nightfall.”

  Or even in a muddy field on the way home after a miserable raindrenched camping trip, as in Mathilde Madden’s super-sexy story, “Wet”:

  The tree branches are still dripping, even though the rain has stopped. Water splashes down on my face. It’s probably wetter here, under the tree, than outside in the lane now. Wetter still now Michael is on top of me, kissing his way down my muddy half-dressed body. I look at him. He’s filthy, too. Muddier than he ever got on our wet weekend of camping. He looks like he’ll never be clean again. I kind of like that.

  So prepare yourself for an exotic journey, if not always to faraway lands, then to faraway fantasies.

  No passport required.

  XXX,

  Alison Tyler

  DONNA GEORGE STOREY

  SPIDER

  ESCAPE. THAT’S WHY I LEFT TOKYO, to get away from trouble—thrilling, addictive, going-nowhere sex with a married guy. I lined up a few English teaching jobs in Kyoto, rented a studio in a “mansion” apartment building in the western district, and planned to spend my free time contemplating life’s transience at picturesque temples. No more desperate quickies in public restrooms, no more butt fucking in hot spring baths after midnight, no more blow jobs in a private compartment in the Shinkansen. Unfortunately, I forgot to add “no letting gorgeous neighbors tie me up and screw my brains out” to the list, but I didn’t think of that until I was already in a bind again.

  Oddly enough, my fall from virtue started when I went outside to do my laundry. The cold-water hookup for the washing machine was located next to my front door, and I always began by hosing off the week’s accumulation of dust from the lid. That’s what I was doing when I first met Ito.

  Actually, what I was really doing when I met Ito was screaming my head off in terror. Because when I sprayed away some cottony cobwebs behind the washer, I suddenly made the acquaintance of a new neighbor I was none too happy to see—a very large spider. A fucking huge spider, as large as my outstretched hand, its hairy legs as fat as fingers.

  I screamed and jumped about three feet in the air, screamed again and aimed the hose, my only weapon handy, directly at the spider’s swollen brown body This turned out to be a mistake, because the creature rocketed about six feet across the pathway and vanished in the weeds. No doubt it was already plotting a counterattack. And it knew just where to find me.

  I was still whimpering when I heard a deep voice drifting down from the balcony above.

  “Dô shitan desu ka?” What’s the matter?

  I looked up and saw a slim male figure leaning against the railing, cigarette in his hand. His name was Ito, although I wouldn’t learn that for a f
ew days, and I wouldn’t call him by his first name, Toshima, until we’d already had several rounds of very hot sex. But at that moment, my heart pounding, my breath coming fast, I silently called him the most gorgeous hunk of eye candy I’d seen in some time.

  “It was a spider,” I replied in quivering Japanese. “Really big. This big.” I held out my hand, the fingers clawed in a spidery pose.

  Ito arched an eyebrow. “A spider?”

  “A very scary spider.” A tarantula was more like it, but I didn’t have my dictionary handy to check for the Japanese word.

  I admit part of me hoped he’d come down and help me out. It wouldn’t have been the first time my beseeching blue eyes had lured an attractive Japanese man to my side. But Ito just gave me a cool smile. Far from offering to help a maiden in distress, he seemed to take genuine pleasure in watching me squirm.

  For the next few days, I made a habit of peeking behind the washing machine before I went inside my apartment. I searched my room, too, my body tensed as I scanned every corner and crevice for a sign of that hideous, eight-legged monster. More than once I woke up to a tickling sensation moving over my chest, but since I never found any real spiders in my bed, I convinced myself that bit of trouble was gone for good.

  I did see Ito again, though, by the mailboxes after my Wednesday night English class at Hitachi. I assumed from the salaryman’s suit and tie that he was coming home from work. He looked tired and older than he had in his Sunday morning jeans—on our first meeting he’d struck me more like an insolent college student than an office worker drone—but when he saw me, a mischievous light switched on his dark eyes.

  “See anything scary lately?” he asked.

  “Not until now.” My Japanese was good enough for flirting when I wasn’t frightened out of my wits.

  He grinned. And invited me out for fried noodles at the grill near the subway station.

  I was tempted to say no. After all, he’d laughed at me in my moment of need. But somehow I couldn’t refuse him then, or the time after that when he asked me to join him at a karaoké box with some friends, or when he invited me to dinner at a Chinese place near Kawaramachi Sanjo. Yes, the attraction was physical. It was hard to resist those swooping, velvet eyes and the lush black hair. His shapely ass and muscular arms called out for some tactile exploration as well, and after a beer or two, I even came to see the charm of that mocking smile.

  But Ito did one thing that turned me on more than any of the other guys I’d dated here. He would only speak to me in Japanese. I was used to being the honorable English sensei, even in bed, but now I was the one to flounder for the right word while he watched calmly, always the expert, always in control. He even corrected my mistakes—none too gently at times—but I found I enjoyed this linguistic domination, or at least my body did. After an evening struggling through a conversation with Ito, my panties were so wet, I was sure he could smell me.

  I was definitely ready to skip the Zen meditation for a little Sumo wrestling on my futon, but even after our third date, Ito merely gave me a curt bow of good night and headed up the stairs to his place. That left me to go home alone, change my damp underwear, and lounge in front of Sony Music TV while I tried to decide whether to masturbate or just fall asleep hungry.

  Then came the knock at the door. Deliverymen and proselytizing Mormons usually kept to the daylight hours, and I wasn’t expecting any visitors. Still, I dutifully went to the intercom and asked in my most polite Japanese who it was.

  “Boku da yo. Ito.”

  So much for the new pair of dry panties. Just the sound of that low, gruff voice had me gushing. I quickly pulled my cotton bathrobe over my nightshirt and opened the door.

  “I forgot something,” he said. “May I come in?”

  He’d never set foot in my apartment—what could he have forgotten?

  I didn’t have to wonder for long. In two steps, Ito pushed me up against the wall of the entryway. I was surprised at the power of his lean body. I was trapped, enveloped, his arms and legs wrapped all around me as if he had more than one pair of each. Our gazes locked. His eyes glittered in the shadows, and I would have been trembling if I hadn’t been too stunned to move.

  But Ito was moving now, his fingers soft and teasing. First he touched my cheek, an oddly tender gesture that sent electric jolts straight to my pussy. His hand slid over my neck and shoulder, snaking under the collar of the robe, pinching my nipple through my shirt. Wherever he touched me, the skin grew warm and slick, as if he were wrapping my flesh in bands of hot, wet silk. His other hand slipped through the robe from below, cupping my ass, probing the crack gently.

  I let out a soft moan.

  He smiled and wiggled a finger under the elastic of my panties to stroke my swollen pussy lips. I caught my breath as he found my clit. Ito had left the door half open—just the sort of edgy sex game I’d vowed to give up—yet the more he strummed, the more I liked the idea of doing it right there against the wall of my genkan for all of Kyoto to see.

  “Do you always get this wet so fast?” he asked, holding up a glistening finger.

  Before I could argue it was all his fault, he started painting my lips with my own juices, squinting in concentration as if he were applying real makeup, a bright red geisha’s pout. Only then did he lean forward and kiss me, our first kiss, tasting of Chinese spices, beer and my own desire.

  He pulled away first. “I could tell you needed this all evening. Please accept my apologies for not helping sooner. Until next time, ne?” he said and left without even bothering to close the door behind him.

  I wasn’t sure whether to curse him or laugh, but at least he had settled my plans for the rest of the evening. Masturbate it would be. I stumbled back into the room, rolled onto my futon and hiked my nightshirt up under my arms. Ito was right. I was very wet. My whole body was covered with a thin film of sweat, and my hands skidded over my breasts, palming the nipples, flicking them with my thumbs, sliding farther down to rub my swollen clit. The faint click-clicking sound of aroused pussy filled my ears, and I couldn’t resist licking the sticky juice, slowly and submissively, as if I were sucking his fingers instead of my own. Suddenly, my hands did seem thicker and stronger, gliding over my body with a will of their own, not so much to pleasure me, but to remind me that I’d been wrapped up like a package in invisible bonds that pressed gently into my skin, softening me for the feast to come.

  Mataserareta. “You kept me waiting in frustration.” Just saying the word is torture enough, but when you live in Japan, you come to learn how waiting weaves its way into the fabric of life to the point that they really do need a special word for it. I was used to waiting for Yoshida, that’s par for the course when you’re boning a married guy, but Ito was a free man, or so he told me. Yet for almost a week after our very promising encounter in my entryway, he simply disappeared.

  The wait was definitely frustrating, but I had a feeling he’d be back for more.

  I was right.

  I’d just returned from my evening class in Otsu, and even before I put my key in the lock, I sensed a presence inside. Heart pounding, I cracked the door and peeked into the dark room. Dark that is except for the glowing tip of a cigarette and a male silhouette outlined against the city lights that glittered through the window beyond.

  I snapped on the light. Ito regarded me calmly from my futon, which I left lying open “thousand year style” like the careless housekeeper I was.

  “You scared me.” My pulse was still racing, but for a different reason now.

  “You look pretty when you’re scared.” He made the Japanese “come here” gesture that looks oddly like an American good-bye.

  The proper response, of course, would have been a few choice observations like “You have some fucking nerve ignoring me for a week, then breaking into my apartment like a pervert.” But I wasn’t quite sure how to say “fucking nerve” in Japanese and my dictionary was buried at the bottom of my book bag. Besides, I was curious to see wha
t his next move would be.

  Docile as any well-bred Japanese miss, I sat down beside him. The mattress was warm and I wondered how long he’d been lurking here.

  Ito ran his hand down my back, a businesslike gesture. “Is this shirt important to you? Expensive?”

  “Not particularly, it’s just something I wear for work.” I frowned, not quite following the turn of conversation.

  He nodded and reached toward the low table next to the bed. I noticed a bottle of saké sitting next to one of my Japanese teacups. Ito dipped his fingers in the cup and anointed each breast with a few drops of the chilled liquid. My nipples immediately tightened into points. Farther down, the secret muscles in my belly clenched in sympathy, as if Ito’s cold fingers had crept up under my skirt, too.

  “Hey, stop, you’re going to ruin it,” I protested.

  A smile playing over his lips, Ito took part of the collar in each hand and pulled. Hard.

  I cried out at the sound of tearing cloth, buttons flying.

  “I think I already have ruined it. Sorry.”

  “Fuck you,” I shot back in English.

  In spite of his claim that his English was poor, Ito seemed to understand perfectly “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

  Of course, I did.

  Lying beneath him, my legs trapped between his, his hard cock pressing against me through his jeans, the fate of one boring white blouse didn’t seem so important after all.

  But there was still more waiting to endure. Ito stroked and sucked my breasts for what seemed like hours until I was whimpering and arching up against him, the heat of my longing forced inward until my whole body melted, soaking the sheet beneath me with sweat and pussy juice. At last, he moved lower, wrapping his arm under my thighs to hold my legs together while he flicked my clit with the tip of his tongue. I instinctively tried to open my legs, but Ito tightened his hold.

  “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound,” he whispered.