by Violet Blue
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
FLY
LIVE BED SHOW
WHAT IF?
THE BITCH IN HIS HEAD
SNUG DESIGNS
COURTING HIM
THE SECRET HISTORY OF LUST
PASTA WITH BLUE CHEESE AND ANAL
CARDIO
SWITCH
GOOD PONY
LUCKY
DESCRIBE IT
WAITING FOR THE RIVER
ON LOAN
EVE
HUSH
DECORATIONS
THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
RITUAL SPACE
FAST CAR, NOT FOR SALE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
For Jonathan
INTRODUCTION:
PERSEPHONE COMES OF AGE
When you’re ready, really ready for sex, desire becomes an ache, a throb that pulses with the rhythm of your blood beating in your head and between your legs. You want to peel away the layers obscuring your object of desire until you get to the juicy, sweet fruit within. And when you finally sink your teeth in—the initiation begins.
The only problem, of course, with using a ripening fruit analogy for sexual initiation and Eros’ coming of age—when he sits on your chest and plucks at the strings between pussy and heart until you sing with desperate want—is that fruit only ripens once. Yet as desire for the thing we’ve never had burns through us, consumes us, then somehow, magically, with sex as with nothing else, the cycle begins again. We do not rot, we swell and grow juicy and pick the flower that pulls us into the underworld and we beg Hades for another deflowering. We demand it.
The clocks and calendars conspired against Persephone. She had never intended to spend her afternoons with her virginity clamped furtively between her legs, her mind insanely playing blue movies of hard-core decadence on the screen behind her eyes. Persephone: a girl stuck frolicking in fields of flowers with a bunch of boring maidens who had no fucking idea how good it felt to rub yourself to wet explosion thinking of huge-cocked satyrs, nubile and voluptuous and wet nymphs, costume parties where only masks and eager mouths were required for entry; trapped among idiots staring at flowers all day.
I’m sure Persephone hated being a virgin, forced to navigate her lust with hot and prickly skin, perfecting quiet masturbation, and wandering those damn flower fields with legs rubbery and fingertips shriveled from seeking relief when everyone else was distracted. Imagine the glow she must have had from her third, her fourth clandestine orgasm, when she saw the single narcissus that, according to legend, was glowing as much as she.
The myths portray Persephone as an innocent moth to the flame, lured by Hades (or Pluto), god of the underworld, when he performed a particularly evil bait and switch and the naïve young goddess plucked the flower that would seal her fate and open the world for her to fall into hell, and into Hades’ arms.
We all know what it’s like to feel the need for fucking and being fucked, remember needing it more than air, for the very first time. Persephone floated awkwardly toward the narcissus, I’m sure, all girlish knobby knees and elbows at angles and ears sticking out and pussy burning as hot as Helios, who, as everyone knows, watched her that day, watched her every day. The flower glowed like the sharp hard-on of her clit, and made of the same stuff, it pulled her like a magnet. And when she crushed the flower to her mouth, squeezing the juice down her chin, destroying the blossom between her breasts as her eyes rolled back in ecstasy and sweet pain and all things sexual, the earth opened up, and she slid home.
When her mother Demeter panicked, she sent Hermes to find the lost little girl. But when Hermes wove his way deep down into the underworld, he did not find a fearful and frail Persephone: he encountered the radiant, striking, powerful, and sexually rapacious Queen of the Underworld. She was just fine, thanks.
Still, she had to see her mom. Brow furrowed from the absurdity, she fretted her duty to Hades, worried that a trip to her chaste past might never end. The girls of the underworld wept crimson tears that they might never taste Persephone’s sweet pussy again. Hades felt stretched by steel hooks inside. Taking his heart and his cock and his love in his hands, he cracked open a pomegranate and crushed the berries on Persephone’s pillowy lips, staining them red forever. Then, she left.
She burned inside in the hollow spaces her lovers occupied, but her mother’s name was still sweet on her tongue. Demeter, however, knew that the austere life she had fought to keep with her child was gone. The mother remembered a declaration that Zeus, King of the Gods had made from the heavens: for Persephone to return, she must be as pure as the day she left her mother’s side. The garnet stain on Persephone’s lips clearly showed that the girl had tasted the Fruit of Life. It could not be erased. And she liked it. Those tender lips curved into a soft, playfully hungry Mona Lisa smile, sweet with the surrender of innocence.
There’s a lot of that sort of thing between these pages.
In the stunning, unbelievably arousing “Fly” by Valerie Alexander, it’s night in Neverland and Tiger Lily is finally the sexually fierce young woman we always knew she’d become—much to the surprise of Peter and Wendy. “On Loan” by Lauren Wright describes a different sort of coming of age, where a woman is “lent out” by her husband to fulfill her number one fantasy of hotel room fuck-doll bliss, only to be surprised by a confrontation with a taboo that stems from her adolescent desires.
Trixie Fontaine takes us for a spin in the well-crafted “Fast Car, Not for Sale” where long roads and a girl’s souped-up hot rod lead to one of the sweetest deflowerings a young man could dream up. “Waiting for the River” by Kris Adams brings us another flower aching to be plucked; here, a video camera gives a deeply shy young woman an excuse to open herself to another girl in a surprisingly exhibitionistic turn. The talented Xan West makes us feel “Lucky” in her tale of a submissive queer boi who surrenders to her mistress in every way, losing the virginity of complete sexual submission at a BDSM play party to a group of dominant strangers.
D. L. King’s “Snug Designs” might just make you want to slip into something skin tight to read the rest of the book, in response to the protagonist’s heated sexual adventures coming out as a rubber fetishist at the hands of a handsome fetish designer. “Courting Him” by Deborah Castellano is a decadent and delirious visit to the Victorian era where a fainting flower gets the upper hand of desire with her older male guardian and sinks into her first sexual takedown. In Janne Lewis’s “The Bitch in His Head” we see a takedown of great magnitude when a vicious germaphobic executive has the tables turned on him by his young sex partner, bringing us yet another sexual first for both characters.
When a woman meets a stern, bookish yet handsome antique store owner in Donna George Storey’s “The Secret History of Lust,” her desire to gain access to his members’ only backroom collection has her opening herself up in ways she’d only imagined in order to pass his tests. In “Live Bed Show” by Elizabeth Coldwell, a young woman shocks herself by staging her own public sex deflowering in an Amsterdam store window. As is often the case with anal sex, the first time is the worst time; such is the case with the woman in Ms. Naughty’s “Pasta with Blue Cheese and Anal” who finds that if at first you don’t succeed, you can just have another “first” and enjoy ongoing success of the most blissful kind.
The myth of the first man and the first woman and the first penetration gets a biting turn in Alana Noël Voth’s intense, powerful and lyrical “Eve.” Jealousy turns quickly into curiosity—and then to overpowering sexual desire—in “What If?” by Cheyenne Blue, where a femme follows t
hrough with a scary-yet-hot voyeuristic fantasy of watching her butch lover perform a lesbian de-virginizing on a nervous but wanton straight girl. Scarlett French delivers a perfect tale of an experienced sex toy shop clerk who anxiously tries out her first mix of pain and pleasure with some very inspiring results, in “Good Pony.” And for all those who have ever wanted to cross the line between teacher and student, don’t miss the unconventional and very explicit upending of this iconic fantasy in Elisa Garcia’s “Cardio.”
Some things you try once and just hit a sweet spot so good you have to make it a tradition, as with the creative gender-bending couple in Vanessa Vaughn’s aptly titled “Switch.” Lux Zakari’s female protagonist wants to know just what’s so hot about sex with girls, and when she asks her lover to “Describe It” she gets her first real view from between her own legs. Women who like sex with strangers love the endless line of first times stretching into their future: the eloquent and unerringly dirty “Decorations” by Sommer Marsden capitalizes on that notion with a couple whose public adventures in female submission describe a realm of fantasy I hadn’t yet seen.
In Jacqueline Applebee’s superb “Hush,” silence is more than golden, it’s a relentless aphrodisiac for one woman who initiates a man into her intricate world of silent pleasures. The supremely talented Janine Ashbless brings two archaeologists together in a tight squeeze for a first encounter of the desperately lusty kind, mimicking a sacred initiation in “Ritual Space.” And upon deciding that enough is enough with her attraction to the boy next door, Kay Jaybee’s “The Girl Next Door” surprises herself (and the boy) by taking the upper hand to create an unforgettably intense first for both of them, including at least one scene with a boy bent over a bathtub and a girl who fully comes into her own—and to sexual fruition—when she takes what she wants, rather than waiting around for it.
This collection is a ruby red pomegranate, sacred to Persephone. This anthology is a fragrant narcissus that opens the earth when picked. These stories are packed with first times, sexual initiations, women and men and genderqueers who try their number one desires on for the very first time—and like it, thank you very much. Virginity of all kinds—except the typical—is lost to the strains of shaking, thundering orgasmic bliss. There are furtive blowjobs, tense cunnilingus encounters, shockingly pleasurable spankings, desperate trysts, devious bindings, romantic couplings, and many, many taboos broken wide open like the path to the underworld itself. The strong women between these pages delight themselves, knowing that there’s always another first time.
Of all the Best Women’s Erotica volumes to date, this is the most unforgettable collection yet, a collection of delicious firsts, to be visited as often as Persephone beckons. I hope you like it as much as I do.
Violet Blue
San Francisco
FLY
Valerie Alexander
It’s night on Neverland. The Lost Boys sit around the fire. Their war-painted faces glow with the fervor of boyhood delusion. They want adventure; their throats ache with unsung cries of battle and bloodlust. But the night won’t begin until Peter arrives. Restless and agitated, the boys open beers and throw sticks into the fire and wait for him to return from his latest girl, his latest flight.
Across the island Tiger Lily also dreams of Peter. Naked on her bed, she toys with her tight amber tits, one fingertip circling her nipples. The other hand surfs down the silky dip of her navel until she cradles her own pussy under the pretence of someone else’s touch. She is beautiful but she is ignored. Her clit hardens to the dream of something ambiguous, fantasies of a pointy-faced boy who at eighteen is all swagger and brashness. A boy whose thick golden-red hair is always askew, whose clever eyes are always alive with the possibility of danger. He is lithe and he is pretty, and from spying on him in the lake, she knows he is well endowed. But it’s not his cock that haunts her dreams, it is his smile. He’s a beautiful boy with a beautiful smile. All the girls want Peter.
Tiger Lily wants to fuck him more than life itself, but she wants more than that; she wants to pin him down and rub her pussy all over his face until he surrenders completely, until his endless taunts and stories are silenced. She wants to break his will and slap his face, wants to subsume his bragging in her sexual heat. Yet mostly what she wants is for Peter to teach her to fly. But he won’t. Girls don’t fly in Peter’s world, not unless it’s by holding on to him.
She rolls her clit between her fingers, slowly rubbing as she imagines that she is him. Now she’s climbing rocks and scaling pirate ships, a prettier daredevil than he as she levitates with her long black hair flowing behind her like a flag. She knifes through the dark violet sky over Neverland until she sees Peter’s last lover walking out of the lake. The girl is naked in the starlight and voluptuous as Peter likes his women to be. She’s smiling dreamily as she towels off, perhaps lost in a reverie of that narrow-hipped boy who fucked her so soundly and never returned.
“I’ll fuck you better than he ever will,” Tiger Lily mutters and swoops down, still in her Peter guise, to push the girl down against the sand. Roughly she spreads her legs and fucks her with Peter’s cock, pumping into her with savage thrusts.
“I knew you’d come back, Peter,” the girl groans, arching her spine. “Oh, harder…”
But he never will come back, Tiger Lily thinks as her interest in the scene abruptly dies. She changes the fantasy to the last actual time she saw Peter, digging ammunition out of a pirate ship. Cheekbones smeared with dirt, bare-chested in ripped jeans, he talked excitedly of a fight he had won the previous night. She had been wearing her shortest dress, flexing her long bare legs for him. But he was too wrapped up in his story to even look at her.
But if he had. If he had turned and really seen her, the most hot-blooded girl on the island, he just might have knelt between her legs. Pushing her dress up her thighs, he would have pushed his thumb deep into her pussy, making her squirm there on the ship deck….
The thought sends a white bolt of heat ricocheting through her body, her cunt shuddering over and over around her fingers. Wetness soaks her hand, her thighs, as she furiously rubs herself into another flood of contractions. “I’m going to fuck you,” Tiger Lily whispers, her legs spread wide for that phantom Peter thrusting into her. “I’m going to fuck you blind.”
Collapsing back on her pillow, she licks the tangy, pearly strands of honey from each finger. Then she gets up and throws on her dress and heads off into the night.
The Lost Boys are still waiting to be found tonight by the boy they call their leader. Past the empty beer bottles and the boastful tales of girls fucked and discarded, their thoughts are anxious. They are not warriors or lovers, just followers still.
And then suddenly there he is at the fire with a self-satisfied smile. By the hand he holds his latest conquest: a hesitant-looking girl of about eighteen, softer than his usual girls and doe-eyed, her long brown hair wet and disheveled. She has the dazed and startled look of someone who has flown for the first time.
He pushes her forward for their appraisal. “This is Wendy.”
Her wet cotton nightgown sticks to her body. It clings to her legs, is plastered to the hollow of her navel and sucked into the indentation of her belly button. But it’s the outline of her nipples, stiff, with large aureole that are unexpected on such a petite young girl, that makes every boy there go hard. From the look in her eyes, they know she’s too stunned by the flight to realize this. From Peter’s lascivious grin, they know he flew her through a rainfall on purpose.
“Say hi,” he urges, dropping his hand to gently cup her ass.
She blushes deeply. “Um…hello.”
No one says a word. The boys stare at her with a grim and begrudging lust. Then Peter flashes a cocky smile at his tribe and says, “Be back soon,” and leads Wendy away into the night.
Concealed behind her rock, Tiger Lily watches, scarcely daring to breathe as Peter saunters confidently to a banyan tree and tugs Wendy next to him. “So
rry I got you wet,” he murmurs and kisses her ear, but not before another smug and secret grin escapes him at his own wordplay. Wendy doesn’t notice it but only because she’s growing suspicious now; she’s looking uncertain of this long-limbed devil who shimmied up her drainpipe and crept through her bedroom window. That had to be how he did it, Tiger Lily thinks, his naughty grin appearing at the window like every repressed fantasy of her good girl imagination. For Wendy is definitely a good girl, procured by him in some hushed fancy place full of manicured gardens and teatime and other things Tiger Lily doesn’t understand; that’s Peter’s secret type. Well-bred and easily awed and secretly burning to break out of the nursery. Instead the devil came to the nursery. Of course she let him in.
Wendy shivers now with some theatrics, prompting Peter to go predictable: “Are you cold? I’ll warm you up.”
So boring, so clichéd, Tiger Lily thinks, she should interrupt and teach them a thing or two. Still she wants to see Wendy’s nightgown come off and that is exactly what happens, as Peter’s mouth moves across her throat so skillfully that his hands push the nightgown up her hips without notice. Up it rises to reveal oval knees and soft pale legs. Something stirs deep in Tiger Lily’s body. Moments later, Wendy’s cunt comes into view, a soft mound of hair that doesn’t quite conceal her shy cleft. Then her hips, rather wide and narrowing up into her waist, and finally her tits, full and round and creamy with those pink saucerlike nipples. Perfect breasts, the kind Tiger Lily wants to feel bouncing against her own as the two of them fuck each other into oblivion.
She drags her gaze up to check Wendy’s face. The girl is scarlet with embarrassment and trembling. She should be spanked, Tiger Lily thinks, turned over my knee and spanked until her creamy ass is as red as her face. Then she’ll cry and I’ll lick her tears away….
