Table of Contents
Title Page
Introduction
WHAT WOULD QUINCY DO?
My Cups Runneth Over
The Fuck-It List
BUBBLE MUSIC
TANDEM
IN THE SHADOW OF THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN
TILT-A-THRILL
THE ACCIDENTAL ESCORT
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
THE SANGRIA SEDUCTION
A ONE-DAY LUST AFFAIR
Morning
Afternoon
Evening
PARTY OF FOUR
WET
TRANSLATION SENSATION
LEAD ME INTO TEMPTATION…
LEAD ME INTO TEMPTATION…
LEAD ME INTO TEMPTATION…
LEAD ME INTO TEMPTATION…
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
INTRODUCTION: LEAD ME INTO TEMPTATION
We usually know what we can do, but temptation shows us who we are.
—Thomas à Kempis
A woman’s desires are as multifaceted as her shoe collection. There are times when she craves romance and sensuality and wants her sex to reflect that. Then there are nights when she wishes to be the temptress—the bad girl—and take what she wants, when she wants it. Sometimes the real world just isn’t enough and getting carried away by her fantasies can be the perfect aphrodisiac, allowing her to take matters into her own capable hands. And sometimes, temptation takes the form of something totally forbidden or unimaginable….
Can’t Help the Way That I Feel is a collection of titillating stories, each written around a delicious enticement that stretches the boundaries of good-girl decorum and explores the idea that some temptations are just too tantalizing to ignore.
Ever since Eve seduced Adam into biting that apple, avoiding temptation has been drilled into our heads as the proper thing to do. But I ask you, can’t giving in to temptation be a good thing sometimes (chocolate, shoes and Denzel immediately come to mind)? Must we always avoid enticement? If so, why?
Consider this: a little temptation can be a very good thing because sometimes it acts as a catalyst for our personal growth. Sometimes in an impulsive moment, we find ourselves growing into the next version of ourselves—our more open, spontaneous, courageous, adventurous, curious, fabulous selves.
I’ve come to believe that many temptations we encounter are actually whispers of restless discontent attempting to lure us into questioning the status quo areas of our lives. Quite often sex is such an area. Sex is the thing that we are the most curious and yet the least confident about. When it comes to sex our will to be good—to avoid temptation—often stands firmly in the way of our wants, needs and desires, without us ever really questioning why denial is the right thing to do.
In the stories that follow, you will meet several compelling characters who share some of your same feelings about their love and sex lives—boredom, confusion, dissatisfaction, prudence. And like yours, each of their journeys is different. But unlike most of us, they decide to take control of their hot sexy selves. Each woman finds herself giving in to temptation, and in its aftermath, learning something about herself, and growing into the woman she wants to be.
Take Livia (“What Would Quincy Do?”), a divorced, celibate, cancer survivor, who while hiding behind her supersexy alter ego, creates her own bucket list of temptations in order to climb out of survivor mode and bring joy, passion and pleasure into her life. Or Gracie (“Bubble Music”), a God-fearing Georgia peach, who hard as she tries, can’t resist getting her hands dirty at an erotic art party, only to learn that God works in mysterious and often pleasurable ways. There’s Sheila (“Tandem”), a woman in desperate need of a man’s touch, whose birthday massage turns into a decidedly lusty temptation when a dynamic duo of masseurs rub her in all the right ways. Then there’s Lissa (“Sangria Seduction”), who drinks from the forbidden cup of lemon sangria, which becomes the elixir of lust for one playah trying to seduce the naughty out of one very nice girl. And you’ll meet Genevieve (“Translation Sensation”), an adventurous French tourist visiting New York, who learns that the language barrier can tempt a girl into some seriously sexy situations, and that lust is truly an international tongue.
These characters, and a host of others, will tickle your fancy and ignite your lust as you live vicariously through their enticing sexcapades. And after they have you and your imagination revved up and ready to purr, let us “Lead You Into Temptation” with three tasty, to-be-continued story starters designed to get your creative (and other) juices flowing and tempt you into making this erotic tome uniquely personal by finishing your own sexy tale on the blank pages provided. Don’t feel the need to finish these stories on your own. Grab your favorite lover and spend the night researching and then writing your personal erotic tale together. You’ll also have fun trying to figure out which of your favorite authors wrote these yummy bites for your creative pleasure.
And speaking of authors, I want to pay homage to the writers who contributed to this collection. My name is on the cover, but it is their creativity, imagination and courage that have made this anthology a high-quality work of erotic storytelling. I so appreciate their talent and professionalism and I encourage you to search them out and read their other work. You won’t be disappointed.
I also want to thank my amazing agent, Sara Camilli. Every author should be so lucky. And thank you Brenda Knight and the fabulous art department at Cleis Press for the beautiful cover.
Now before I turn you loose to delve into the sultry tales that await you, I must offer this disclaimer: SAFE IS SEXY! The majority of these stories do not include condoms and other safe sex measures, but you know as well as I do that no temptation is worth risking your health for. So be smart. Be prepared. And always, always be safe.
Now turn the page and give in to the temptation to be yourself, to live your life (and sex life) on your own terms, by your own truth. Trust me, some temptations can be a very, very good thing.
Lori Bryant-Woolridge
WHAT WOULD QUINCY DO?
Elle
I think great erotica should be like Braille—a must-touch reading experience.
—Elle
Have you tried giving him a professional?” the radio diva boldly asked her caller.
“They always work for me,” chimed in her streetwise male sidekick.
“A professional what?” I queried aloud. Though I had not expected a response, sucking sounds, intermingled with soft grunts supplied by the special effects button, were the reply. So this is what relationship advice had come down to in the new millennium? Was a blow job now the modern-day Band-Aid for whatever ailed him?
“The real question is: Has he tried giving her a professional? Why does it always have to be the woman doing the giving? Thank god I’m old and past the age of dealing with such mess,” I said, still addressing the radio, and flipped over to the easy listening station.
At forty-nine, I wasn’t actually ancient, but certainly old enough and experienced enough to know that when it came to the game of love, sex was at best a short-term solution to any long-term issues. Particularly when the remedy was, in most cases, one sided and service oriented. Besides, sex and I were on the outs these days. My ex got most of my libido in the divorce. Hell, truth be told, I’d actually lost that sucker somewhere around year ten. And then, whatever smidgen I had left, radiation therapy had claimed as its own.
I didn’t have time to concern myself with that now anyway. To s
tay on task, I started going through my mental “to do” list of every chore I needed to accomplish that day. I’m a list-maker. With list in hand, I stay organized. I feel a sense of accomplishment with every completed job. Without a list, I’m lost and ineffective. In my life, lists are a good thing.
After this delivery, I still had a million things to do before my party that evening. I was the guest of honor, well actually the twins were, and even though my friends were taking care of most of the arrangements, I had still insisted on making the cake because, well, as owner of the cake design company, Havin’ Your Cake, that’s what I do. All it needed was a few finishing touches. Then I still had to tidy up both the house and myself before the guests arrived. And as with most things these days, both took a lot more time than they used to. No time to dillydally.
I pulled my car into the driveway and drove what seemed like another half block around to the back. My client had left a message letting me know that nobody would be home and she’d leave the kitchen door unlocked. I opened the hatchback of my Lexis 330, slowly pulled the tray with two large, square boxes toward me, and cautiously carried it to the kitchen door.
“Hello?” I called out gingerly as I twisted the knob and pushed the door open with my foot. “Anybody here?” Greeted with the silence I was expecting, I stepped inside and over to the center island that dominated the large kitchen.
Per Mrs. Maddox’s instructions, I found the rolling table designated for my latest creation, a three-dimensional pinup of Naomi’s mother looking like she was kneeling on a pile of plump red pillows. The image was recreated from a photo taken when she was twenty-two with a young husband off fighting in the Korean War. I found it to be an interesting choice, as the woman was turning eighty years old today. But, hey, my job is to fulfill the client’s sugar-and-spice wishes, not determine them.
Remembering my pressed schedule, I quickly assembled the cake and wiped away any excess frosting. I cleaned up the remaining debris, and with my ever-ready digital, took one last photo for my portfolio.
“Livia Charles, girl, here’s to another job well the hell done,” I congratulated myself with my ritual shoulder brush. I turned to leave and that’s when I heard them—the muffled sounds of low moans and groans, distinctly female, coming from down the hall. Fear turned my blood cold, causing my muscles to freeze. I pushed my face in the direction of the noise, straining to hear and confirm my first reaction.
It sounded like someone was in trouble. God, was the birthday girl here? Had she fallen and couldn’t get up? My impulse was to rush toward the sound and help the poor old lady out. However, the thought that kept my feet in place was the idea that the person who was in trouble might also be in the presence of the troublemaker. I’d already gone through my stint of staring death in the face. Did I really want to go through that again?
There it was again, this time comingled with a deeper, more masculine timbre. The words were unintelligible, but the tone sounded demanding.
I stepped out of my sandals and, armed with my car key in one hand and the cordless phone in the other, tiptoed down the hall in the direction of the whimpers. I didn’t have to go far before the noise became louder and more intense. It was coming from a room that, after I’d peeked through the partially open door, I took to be an office or den of some kind. Slowly, I pushed the door farther into the room, grateful that Naomi kept the hinges on her doors well oiled. I leaned in slightly and what I witnessed stole my breath and caused me to jerk back into the hallway. I collapsed against the wall and slid down the partition, placing the phone and keys at my side. Weaponry was not going to be necessary.
Somebody was getting worked over all right, and it wasn’t Naomi’s mother. There was a man in the room watching porn and getting off. My torso turned back toward the kitchen, but my feet had other ideas. And without my brain’s consent, they headed back to the door.
I couldn’t fully see him. He was seated in a high-backed, yellow leather chair, facing the opposite wall. All I could see was one golden brown, muscular thigh flexed with sexual tension. His blue jeans were pooled around his ankles and his arm made peekaboo appearances as he stroked himself into bliss.
“Yeah, lick her good,” a deep, buttery voice requested. “Make that pretty pussy wet. Take those panties in your teeth and pull them. Snap ’em. Yeah, that’s it. Now play with your titties. Let her know how hot she’s making you.”
I watched, mesmerized, as the women on the flat screen followed his every instruction. It took a second or two to realize that he’d obviously seen this movie a time or two hundred. I’d have bet I could hit the back of the chair with the phone and he wouldn’t have even noticed. Those two lesbians—one chocolate, the other vanilla—had his full attention.
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but they had mine as well. In fact, in my head, I even gave them names. Coco was lying back on a cream leather couch with her long, shapely legs spread, one over the back and up the wall. All she wore was a tiny G-string and high heels with strings that laced up her legs. She had a great set of breasts, real I think, with quarter-sized, yummy brown areolas and erect nipples begging to be sucked. Her lips, pouting with pleasure with each stroke of the blonde’s tongue, allowed the frequent escape of a grateful whimper. Nilla was on her knees, her apple bottom high in the air and her head between Coco’s pretty brown legs. I watched as she licked the other girl’s pussy through the whisper-sheer panties, getting as hot as the two of them. Well, three when you counted the guy in the yellow leather chair.
I was standing there, Vicky the voyeur, a peeping Thomasina, getting turned on by watching other people have sex. I couldn’t tell which version—the real man or the Memorex women—was turning me on more. He was a stranger lost in his fantasy, pleasuring himself, and here I was intruding without his knowledge or consent. They were erotic eye candy, soft and sexy beautiful women turning each other on. All of it made me feel freakishly naughty. And I liked it.
“Yeah, touch yourself, baby. Finger your pretty pussy while you eat hers.”
The sound of his deep voice, alternately shouting out orders and getting wrapped up in his own physical pleasure, added to the heat. Despite his crude language, his forceful directives stopped short of being demanding, more like requests that teetered between a beg and a bark, the kind that, from the right man, were impossible to deny.
Following his directions, and without conscious consent, my hands joined the party. They slid down my skirt, separating my beige, one hundred percent cotton panties from my full pubic thatch. With his voice in my ears, my eyes stayed on the screen watching Nilla suck, lick and tug Coco’s clit into crazed ecstasy. I parted the hair with my middle finger, reached deep inside to find the creamy middle, lubricated my nib with my own juices, and furiously began to finger myself. As my legs began to tense with approaching orgasm, I bit my lower lip, forcing the sounds of carnal satisfaction back into my body to join the energy circling around my engorged clitoris. Judging from the sounds emanating from inside the room, the four of us participating in this secret and disjointed orgy were all about to explode. I couldn’t speak for the others, but it had been so long since I’d been this hot, even longer since I’d actually had sex, that I couldn’t have stopped myself had I wanted to. I came deliciously hard and silent and then leaned back against the wall, gratefully gasping for breath as my body attempted to recover.
A chorus of “YES!” singing out in soprano and dominated by a baritone, first made me smile and then forced me out of my afterglow and back into reality. I was standing in the hall of my best client’s home, with my hand down my skirt, masturbating. I needed to get the hell out of there and fast. I picked up the phone and keys, quietly power-walked back into the kitchen and returned everything to its proper place. Quickly I slipped on my shoes, then hurried out the open door and into the safety of my car.
I drove about three blocks before pulling over to the curb and bursting into crazy, what-the-hell-did-I-just-do? laughter. Jasi, Suzette and Caroline
were never going to believe this. Shit, I couldn’t believe it myself. Then again, they’d never know, because I had no intention of telling.
My Cups Runneth Over
“Ladies, if you would all gather around, it’s time to toast our guest of honor,” my best friend, Jasi Westfield, said, taking over the proceedings.
“This is her place, so technically, she’s the hostess of honor,” I heard my other best friend, Suzette Amburo, interject, to which my other BFF, Caroline Bluth, added, “Guest or hostess, it really doesn’t matter because it’s the girls we came to see.”
From on high, I tried to swallow my laughter. My successful reconstructive surgery was the reason my friends were gathered downstairs for this oglefest. The theme, My Cups Runneth Over, was smart-aleck Jasi’s brainchild, and as I had quickly pointed out, a bit of an exaggeration. My cups do not run over because I chose perfect, Goldilocks breasts: not too big, not too small; just right 36Cs, to be exact. It was a one-cup upgrade, but I figured since gravity was no longer an issue, why not go for the gusto?
It was actually Suzette’s idea to throw a party to properly introduce my new breasts to the rest of the group. And even though I kept insisting that they didn’t need a full-out debut, I’m glad she didn’t listen to me because the long and winding road leading up to this happy day had been paved with woe and tears.
We all deserved to celebrate because while we might have been lighthearted and joking about it now, things had been a lot scarier last year. During my annual mammogram, my doctor discovered I had stage-one breast cancer. But after two lumpectomies and accompanying rounds of radiation, the cancer still wasn’t gone, so I elected to have a double mastectomy and be done with it.
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