Lips Like Sugar

by Violet Blue

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Introduction

  QUICK FIX

  THE 9.30 TO EDINBURGH

  WHEN I MAKE YOU SAY NO

  CRAZY FROM THE HEAT

  TEDDY

  THE ACCIDENTAL EXHIBITIONIST

  JEN AND TIM

  DISCIPLINE

  THE POWER OF IMAGINATION

  AIRPORT SECURITY

  ENDYMION

  CALLIE’S KIDNAPPING

  THE GUY YOUR MOTHER WARNED YOU ABOUT

  COPS AND ROBBERS

  MR. RIGHT(S)

  FORCE OF NATURE

  THE FIRST STROKE

  ERIN’S RULES

  Idyll

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  FOREWORD: HOOKED ON FANTASIES

  Sharing fantasies was one of the first sexual things I ever did. My first girlfriend Bianca insisted on it.

  The daughter of a pro-pleasure ’60s feminist nurse-midwife, Bianca had a broad-minded attitude about fantasies. Hers included a lot of Tim Curry as Frank-N-Furter from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, plus sometimes Columbia and Magenta. But even more often, she fantasized about David Bowie. Bowie, in particular, was fond of tying her up: “So I can’t get away,” she told me. “So I have to let Bowie pleasure me.”

  Sometimes there was a gag involved, so she couldn’t even complain about Bowie eating her out—because, seriously, wouldn’t that be any woman’s first impulse if David Bowie started going down on her?

  It was the middle of the ’80s—when, in our world, New Wave was king and a college-prep flavor of Punk was its attitudinal cousin. Bianca told me these fantasies proudly: proud because the fantasies were her creations and she was a creative person at heart—but also because they were out on the edge. Screw the Normals was a prominent guiding principle for her, as it was for many of my friends in those years.

  One of Bianca’s non-bondage Bowie fantasies involved the B-man laboring over some “Lady Stardust”-style piano riff, and being unable to find the right note. Bianca comes up behind him wearing a split-side, thigh-baring Elvira dress and gives him the longed-for B-flat—one perfect note to complete the perfect riff...rendered with her stiletto heel just before she grabs Bowie’s mullet and rams his face into her crotch.

  Bianca didn’t want royalties or a coauthor credit for her contribution...just a perfect tongue-job from Ziggy Stardust in lieu of fame and fortune. No ropes necessary this time, because he owes her, right?

  Bianca’s piano fantasy tangles up dreams of creativity and sex. In late adolescence at the time, Bianca was fantasizing about what teenage girls are “supposed” to fantasize about—musicians and actors. But she was also fantasizing about her own actualization, her own power, her own significance, her own chance to express herself on par with the sparkle-booted guy who had rocked her world. Many of us find our erotic fixations forming early in our sexual lives. Some of those interests stick with us indefinitely, even if they only make occasional appearances. It’s only natural that many of us feel young in our fantasies—and that in sexual fantasy, we’re given permission for our obsessions to be “immature.” That’s why fantasies are so unbelievably private and sharing them so unbelievably intimate. Women don’t get shy and embarrassed and sometimes a little ashamed about sharing fantasies just because they’re “dirty.” Sometimes they’re silly; they’re cheesy; they’re goofy. They reveal things deeper than “just” what turns us on. Sexual fantasies reveal what drives us on every level.

  Women’s sexual fantasies are about more than just the sexual response cycle; they’re about creativity. Everybody, even people who make their living being creative, need somewhere to go and just dream.

  Contrary to pop-psychology proclamations, women’s sexual fantasies can be as down and dirty as men’s. They can be as simple and sex-focused, as dick-focused, as cunt-focused, as talk-dirty-to-me, as how-nasty-can-you-be, as shut-the-fuckup-and-fucking-fuck-me as any scenario from the mouth of some swaggering, cocky bastard...and, incidentally, it might be just such an imagined cocky bastard who sashays up in cowboy boots and a sneer and starts spewing dirty words.

  Some pop-psychology types are inclined to question whether women’s fantasies are more “complicated” than men’s. Are they more subtle, more “dynamic-focused,” less visual? I haven’t got the foggiest idea...but I know women’s fantasies are hot, surprising, even shocking; they’re sometimes visual, sometimes dynamic-focused, sometimes simple-as-hell...and even when they’re simple, they’re unquestionably complicated.

  Not everybody can live the life of a fantasy-fueling sex symbol, obviously; not everybody even gets to be an also-ran in a rock star’s list of sexual conquests. And not every woman gets to cowrite a song with one strategically-placed stiletto heel and then get eaten out by David Bowie.

  Except that she does, if she wants—in the vast, gorgeous, “complicated” land of sexual fantasy.

  Giving voice to sexual fantasy is liberating, yes. It’s inspiring, sure. But it’s far more than that. Sexual fantasy is downright spiritual.

  I’m not a man inclined to make bold paranormal pronouncements about the Spiritus Mundi, and I don’t believe in any one universal definition of love. But if there’s an energetic side to human cognition, it’s made up of equal parts compassion, affection and lust. Whatever connections we make with other people, we’re all alone in our brains much of the time. There, most, if not all, of us are routinely visited by dirty thoughts that throw our hearts and minds into a tailspin. For many of us, those naughty thoughts and taboo impulses sometimes seem like they came from somewhere totally alien—outside us, and outside any form of human reason. If you’re a dedicated indulger in your own sexual fantasies, and especially if you’re a devotee of self-pleasure, there’s a chance you’ve had the experience of having your fantasy take a sudden left turn that leaves you reeling—and dangerously aroused.

  Why the hell did that occur to me? you might think.

  It’s a fair question, but one that’s usually damned hard to answer.

  Where do women’s sexual fantasies come from?

  Somewhere deep, somewhere dark, somewhere magical.

  The first time I heard Bianca tell me one, I was hooked on women’s sexual fantasies. I’ve been hooked ever since.

  I hope the hot, heady, dirty, dangerous fantasies in Lips Like Sugar hook you not just on these women’s sexual fantasies—but on your own.

  Thomas S. Roche

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  INTRODUCTION: THE WORLD IN A KISS

  The way I see it, having a sexual fantasy isn’t that different from being on vacation. If you prefer, you can spend the entire time on your back (in the sun). You might get caught up in a compromising airport search for a few hours. It could be that you prefer active vacations, from water sports to pole climbing. Or decadent parties might be your idea of a getaway, uniforms and handcuffs optional. And if getting closer to nature is your fantasy escape, you can always find a few wild animals on the beach. Of course, the alleyways and bars of your own hometown might be where you get away from it all, or you could become a tour guide, leading the men and women of the world astray. All while working on your tan, of course.

  It never fails to surprise me that the most-current books on women’s sexual fantasies constantly cited in the press and so-called women’s magazines are about thirty years old. But they are that old: No one’s bothered, or had the courage, to update our fantasy destinations. To me, that’s like using a Venice guidebook from 1975 to plan your summer 2012 vacation. Not just any old map will do—not if you want to see the canals from as many vantage points as possible.

  When I go on vacat
ion, as when I have a sexual fantasy, I want to see as many unexplored, unimaginable destinations as possible. I don’t just want to be a passenger on a safe ride—I want to do, see, and feel things that I can’t find at home. Or maybe I want to try them at home; either way, I don’t want the ride to be boring.

  The authors in Lips Like Sugar agree, and they bring us a shocking, arousing, and unflinchingly explicit tour of women’s sexual fantasies, all with a twist, and told to us with lips like…well, like something sweet. In “Quick Fix” by Heather Peltier, we follow an on-the-go businesswoman as she demands a lunchtime tryst from her contractor husband, only to get more than she bargained for on a busy work site. Similarly, “The 9.30 to Edinburgh” by Carolina John takes a routine train journey with a woman who observes—and then participates in—some outrageous but not unbelievable ways to pass the time. “When I Make You Say No” by Julia Price goes to a different destination altogether, to the point of no return when a man, any man, is brought to the edge of saying “no” to the woman who is having her way with him, and then he’s pushed just a bit further. Zoe Bishop’s “Crazy from the Heat” is a day at the beach, with two women who take toying with the men who are watching them a little further than they expected, but then decide to enjoy their public Sapphic experiments for just themselves.

  Like her male cultural counterpart, the powerful businessman who visits the dominatrix for submissive release, the woman in J. Sinclaire’s “Teddy” seeks nothing more than an expert male hand to take away that power in the bedroom, though the results of this tale are deliciously more realistic than the businessman’s fantasy. In “The Accidental Exhibitionist” by Debra Hyde, unintended exhibitionism is just the beginning for the woman who lets her boyfriend call the shots at a BDSM play party. “Jen and Tim” by Kay Jaybee visit a different kind of party altogether where costumes are the dish of the day, but Tim gets a special strap-on surprise for dessert, and the author knows how to serve up a nice, explicit bombshell, albeit well hidden under a uniform.

  Tsaurah Litzky’s “Discipline” isn’t merely your typical drug-and alcohol-soaked bad-boys-in-the-band memoir, and our female protagonist has the irony and wit to see the whole bizarre experience through to a satisfying finish. “The Power of Imagination” by BJ Franklin takes the delirium of one woman’s erotic fantasies to the limits, while in Dara Prisamt Murray’s “Airport Security” a taboo fantasy many of us have held privately after passing through an airport becomes startling reality for one lucky woman, limits passed at the check-in counter, thank you very much.

  When fantasy is the beauty and the lyricism found in the cat-and-mouse game of seduction, A. D. R. Forte’s “Endymion” takes us there, and we see that taking a workmate down the forbidden path can be as wistful, enjoyable, and nasty as we want it to be. Alyssa Brooks delivers a tale of boundaries and limits surpassed with forceful, though highly desired, group abduction sex in “Callie’s Kidnapping.” And “The Guy Your Mother Warned You About” by Chris Costello provides deliciously sticky insight on having your way with a woman of a different kind, proving that genderfuck and butch-femme dynamics can be a lot of fun when the fantasy doesn’t go the way you planned it.

  We’ve all done it at some point—shown up at a party in the wrong outfit. But in KC’s “Cops and Robbers,” what seems to be one girl’s ridiculously poorly planned, high-concept costume turns out to be just the thing to get her into the trouble she craves. On the topic of cravings, Ayre Riley’s “Mr. Right(s)” begins in a place many of us have been—at the breakup end of singlehood—but takes a twist when our female hero puts a few men in their place with her rapacious sexual appetite. “Force of Nature,” delivered expertly by Miranda Austin, tries to tuck us in for a night of restful sleep, but once our female alter-ego is awakened by a burglar, all bets for a restful night of sleep are off.

  It’s easy to look at the title of Erica Dumas’s story “The First Stroke” and think it’s a BDSM tale, but after our heroine utters her first “suck my dick” to her shocked boyfriend, we see she’s definitely stroking her beat to a different drummer. Erin Sanders, with a hilarious yet all-too-good list of “Erin’s Rules” for her sexual submission and behavior to her lover, makes us wonder, “Does she?” But in the end, we’re swept away to the shores of Croatia and back in Teresa Lamai’s “Idyll,” in which a trio of young adult refugees find solace in sexual experimentation and long afternoons filled with memories.

  This book is about escaping the known and the ordinary in the world of women’s sexual fantasies, and in the world of erotica by and for women. The chances these women take, the impulses they act on, and the forbidden taboos they explore on their own terms are experiences you will not find in any other collection for women. These fantasies are fierce, fearless, unapologetic—and utterly, enjoyably sublime. The women who wrote the stories collected here didn’t need to travel to Italy; they just looked in the most strange, outrageous, and undeniably arousing places they could think of: within the contours of their own sexual imaginings. Use this book as you would any other sex toy—or travel guide. Read it alone, read it aloud to your lover, or mark your favorite story and leave it as a surprise for someone who’s ready for a getaway.

  Violet Blue

  San Francisco

  QUICK FIX

  Heather Peltier

  I don’t know why; sometimes it just happens. Some fluctuation of my hormones or something that makes me think about you all morning. I’m squirming at my desk, feeling that tingling all over my body that tells me that if I don’t satisfy the need building inside me, I’m going to go absolutely crazy.

  Normally, I hold it. I mean, I just put it out of my mind, bringing it back out between meetings, when I’m sitting at my desk answering voice mail messages. I sit there and think about you while some lower-level manager is telling me her problems, blathering on about one thing or another. I sit there and get wet thinking about you, but I don’t do anything about it. I don’t rush home and fuck you, no matter how badly I want to.

  This time, though, I can’t sit still. I can’t handle it. Sitting in meetings, all I can think about is you: your lips, pressed against mine; your tongue, pressing urgently into my mouth; your chest, thrusting hard against me, teasing my nipples with your soft hair; and, most importantly, your glorious cock sliding between my lips while I kneel in front of you or sinking deep into me as you enter me.

  I call you on your cell phone. I know you’ll answer, because you’re on a job, in the middle of construction on a half-million dollar home up in the hills.

  “Are you free for lunch?” I ask you breathlessly.

  “Sure,” you say. “Everyone else is going down to the deli, but I can meet you someplace.”

  Our home is more than twenty minutes away, but the construction site is only ten. “No,” I tell you. “Stay right where you are. Give me the address.”

  “I’m a little tight on time,” you say. “We’ll have to go somewhere close.”

  “I’ll bring something to eat,” I tell you.

  “Oh, a picnic,” you say.

  “You could say that.”

  I call my client’s cell phone and cancel our lunch meeting.

  Hit with pangs of guilt, I grab an apple off my desk and stuff it into the pocket of my business suit. I make a quick stop in the restroom, race out the door of my office, and hop into my car.

  Seven minutes later, I find you sitting on the unfinished wooden steps of the house, reading a paperback.

  “Hi,” you smile. “Did you bring food?”

  “I brought something to eat,” I tell you, taking your hand. “Is anyone else here?”

  “Everyone else is down at the deli,” you say, looking at me suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

  I walk into the construction site, seeing you start to say something. You’ve said it before: I’m not on your payroll, so you’re risking serious insurance consequences if you let me on your site. But this time, I’m not taking no for an answer.
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br />   “Nice place you’ve got here,” I say, walking through what I suppose will be the entryway. Most of the walls are nothing more than two-by-fours, unfinished plywood nail-gunned up to keep the vagrants out. I walk deeper into the house-in-progress and find the kitchen.

  You’re tagging along behind me. I shrug off my blazer and toss it on a sawdust-covered belt sander. I reach up and unclip my hair, letting it fall in a dark curtain all around my shoulders and face as I run my fingers through it.

  “Hey,” you say. “You really shouldn’t be hanging out in here….”

  I turn around and face you, smiling.

  “I don’t intend to hang out anywhere,” I say, and slowly unzip my conservative navy-blue skirt.

  It falls in a pool around my feet, and I step out of it.

  On my top half, I’m now wearing only my skintight pale-yellow camisole, no bra underneath. I’m small enough that I don’t need to wear one—as long as I don’t take off my blazer. Now that it’s off, I can feel the cool air of the dark construction site brushing my nipples, which are standing out, peaked and firm, aching. On my bottom half, I’m wearing only a pair of lace-top white stockings, hitched to my garter belt with thin white garters and businesslike navy pumps with three-inch heels. My pussy, feeling slick and messy with the juice of wanting you, is bare. My panties are tucked in the top drawer of my desk. I removed them before coming over.

  “I need a quick fix,” I tell you, reaching between my legs and gently teasing my pussy. “Very quick.”

  Glancing around, you see that we’re close to several open areas that passersby might be able to see through. You look from me to the street, then to me again.

  I lift my hand to my face, slipping my finger into my mouth. I’ve been playing with my pussy and it tastes like me. And you know it. I lick my finger sensuously, and that’s all it takes. You come for me.