Taboo, p.1
Taboo, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
You Can’t Always Get What You Want
Richard’s Secret
In the Back of Raquel
After Hours
Performance Art
Alice
Old Friends
House Rules
The Fifth Day
Rest Stop
Forbidden Fruit
Sometimes It’s Better to Give
Daddy’s Boy
Watch and Learn
Evening Class
Picture Perfect
Dinner Out
Medical Attention
Dress Me Up
Full Body
Cocked and Loaded
James Dean, One Thousand Bucks, and a Long Summer Night
About the Authors
About the Editor
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Taboos are wonderful for so many reasons. I had no idea when I began this project that all the really important people in my life are dedicated to exploring (and sometimes exploding) sexual and cultural taboos. I am very lucky, and grateful to be surrounded by so many inquisitive, fearless, and loving people. Thank you, friends and colleagues.
Cleis Press knows a good taboo worth breaking when they see it. Huge thanks to Felice Newman and Frédérique Delacoste. The fun has only begun.
Survival Research Laboratories is my family. Love and thanks to my closest family member, Mark Pauline.
My dearest friends: Thomas Roche and Alison Tyler. Thank you for everything.
There is a man who loves me. Courtney, thank you for everything you do, Uz jzme doma.
Introduction:
Delirium, Danger, and Connoisseurs of Desire
The human mind is an incredible thing. We still barely understand how sight really works, let alone how an image or idea can instantly blossom into arousal, desire, need—especially when that idea courts the forbidden. When what we desire is taboo.
Whole libraries have been filled with books attempting to explain the psychological basis of our attraction to sexual taboos. But not this one. Taboo will feed you erotic stories of forbidden desire like fingerfuls of warm chocolate, dripping onto your tongue, and coaxing from your lips words of sexual delirium, erotic danger, and sweetly explicit detail.
Here are twenty-two superbly written, brand-new short stories featuring couples who want it so bad they can taste it—and they do, over and over again. Old pros, such as M. Christian, Thomas S. Roche, and Alison Tyler, rub elbows with highly talented newcomers, such as Donna George Storey, P. S. Haven, Saskia Walker, and many others, to present stories of couples who make their most taboo erotic fantasies come true. I’ve worked closely with each of these authors to ensure that every detail is realistic, each taboo is stunningly wicked (yet entirely possible to re-create in real life), and to guarantee the sex you’ll read about here offers some of the hottest encounters you’ll find in print.
These stories are intended not only for the sublime satisfaction of solitary reading. They follow in the tradition of Sweet Life 1 and Sweet Life 2, anthologies of erotic fantasies for couples that encourage readers to “try this at home.” Taboo takes the fantasies even further, into the realm of the forbidden, an oft-voiced request from readers who regularly deluge my inbox with email. Everyone wants more fantasies, yes, but with more daring, more edginess, a bit more danger mixed with desire, though still safe enough to try at home—and in an assortment of other creative settings. (In fact, The Ultimate Guide to Sexual Fantasies, my next effort in Cleis’ Ultimate Guides series, was written just to help readers make those fantasies come true with wet, sweet, and sticky success .)
Take for example Alison Tyler’s “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” in which a couple’s long-distance separation brings their kinky fantasies to the boiling point, culminating in a public encounter sure to shock and arouse.
N. T. Morley takes a common fantasy and turns it on its head in “Old Friends.” When an old schoolmate comes to visit his girlfriend, the male protagonist hopes to see his sexy wife in a threesome with the beautiful stranger—but what the two women have in mind goes far beyond his expectations. In Ayre Riley’s “The Fifth Day,” a sexy housewife has her husband’s blessing to seduce a handsome housepainter, but then is dealt a surprise that gives her—and our—fantasies a very postmodern twist.
Some fantasies of sexual taboo are not for the faint of heart; they are carefully laid traps that slam our forbidden fantasies up against pure, unfettered lust. In Erica Dumas’ “Dress Me Up,” a woman in an elegant restaurant is compelled to enter a situation rife with rough sex and public humiliation. Skye Black’s “Medical Attention” goes far beyond feet-in-the-stirrups doctor’s office fantasies (and even the doctor-nurse story “After Hours,“ by Dante Davidson, twists the rules of medical ethics in a fresh new way). In Thomas S. Roche’s “Cocked and Loaded,” what begins with a day at the shooting range climaxes at home when dominance and submission become the target for a couple who get off on intense edge play.
Welcome to Taboo. The couples whose deepest, darkest, sweetest, and naughtiest fantasies are played out within these pages are committed to each other without question. They push the limits of sex, lust, and fantasy as far as they can to please each other and get off together. I find each of these stories to be remarkable. They offer hot and very explicit sex, loving couples, realistic details, distinctive and unforgettable writing, and a full menu of taboos where no one is hurt, exploited, or in danger, and everyone gets off. These stories have become a personal source of prime fantasy material for me. I hope Taboo inspires you, too.
Violet Blue
San Francisco
February 2004
You Can’t Always Get What You Want
ALISON TYLER
Trust me. You can’t. At least, not when what you want is a firm and powerful over-the-knee spanking from your deliciously strict boyfriend, and he’s half a world away from you in a place you’d never heard of before he announced he was about to leave.
“Georgia,” you said when he broke the news. “That’s not so bad. I can visit.”
“No, not Georgia—Georgia,” he told you, smiling without being condescending in the least, without saying, “What the fuck, baby? Did you sleep through geography class?” Instead, he petted your dark hair and kissed your soft lips and said, “Not Georgia-Georgia, but Tbilisi. Kazakhstan. Azerbaijan. Turkmenistan. Former Soviet Union. That Georgia.”
And you blushed a rosy pink and tossed your glossy dark hair and said, “Oh, right. That Georgia.” As if you knew all along—but you didn’t. (Though suddenly that line about Georgia from “Back in the USSR” made sense.)
So no, you can’t always get what you want. Because when your man is somewhere you’ve never heard of, and you’re all by yourself in an apartment that seems much too large, what you want seems as far away as he is. Add in the fact that all you can get is phone sex disturbed by constant static and an air of confusion between the two of you because what’s “night” to you is “day” to him, and vice versa.
“Come on,” you said, yearning for release, “please Sam, please tell me what you’d do if I were there.”
“Baby, I’m at work. You have to call me later. Call me tonight and I promise I’ll take care of you.”
“It is tonight,” you insisted. “It is very tonight, Sam.” The sky was dark outside your window. You tried to imagine him beneath a sunlit blue sky.
“Then call me tomorrow—”
Sometimes, you can’t even get what you need, when what you need and what you want vie for attention in your head until you are nearly crazy with desire, constantly shifting, moving your body to find a comfortable position that has eluded you for the four months, three weeks, and six days since he left. Nothing is comfortable, because your ass isn’t freshly spanked and your pussy hasn’t been sweetly fucked, and you haven’t given a blow job that lasted until your jaw ached. Comfortable is no longer comfortable.
With your eyes shut, you fiercely tried to get yourself off. Christ, kid, you knew how to masturbate before you met him. Why couldn’t you do it now? There should be no difference. Your fingers still made those lulling circles. Your vibrator still used two C batteries. Your stash of porn rested in its special place, in a floral hatbox under your bed. What was the problem?
You needed him.
You wanted him.
You craved him.
But phone calls to Tbilisi cost more than twelve dollars a minute, and you agreed that you would only talk occasionally, using email the rest of the time. When you made that plan, you didn’t know that email hadn’t come to his job site. So you broke down and made a few phone calls, and those became marathon sessions in which you confessed that you might actually be losing it here.
Because here’s the thing—when it costs twelve dollars a minute to talk, it’s difficult to relax enough to get off. And when you can forget the cost, crashed out on your bed after several stiff drinks, touching yourself as you beg him to tell you what he so desperately wants to do to you when he gets back in town, well, it’s lunchtime for him—so you can see how that might pose a problem.
“Please,” you begged. “Christ, Sam, tell me—”
“You know, baby. I’d give you the spanking of your life.”
“Tell me more.”
“Your red ass growing redder by the second.”
“Oh, yes—”
“And…. Oh, shit, baby. The other
“Ignore it.”
“Could be work.”
But it never is. The other line is always for his roommate, whose name is something like Zeno or Zero or Zorro, and whenever he gets on the phone, he refuses to get off. So you can’t get what you want—which is uninterrupted phone sex. And your man can’t get what he needs, which is uninterrupted sleep, because bands of starving dogs roam the streets, and thugs with machine guns find it amusing to demolish Pepsi cans with their ammo, and happy drunks—after running out of friends and family to toast—noisily exit the bars to toast the local trees.
By the time Sam arrived back in the states, he’d lost fifteen pounds, a bit of his sanity, and every last ounce of willpower. He’d promised you from a pay phone during a stopover at the airport in New York City that he was going to do two things before you even left the airport: fuck your ass, and spank your bottom until it was raw and red and cherry-perfect. You couldn’t have been more excited to have both of those things happen.
Finally, you were going to get what you wanted! He was going to quick-step you back to the truck and take care of you in the way you’d been dreaming of for months now. But when Sam walked up the ramp, everything changed. He didn’t smile. He didn’t kiss you. He grabbed your hand and dragged you outside, into the muggy Los Angeles air. He chose a spot behind a pillar, where a concrete planter was half-filled with dying flowers. He set down his huge camping-style backpack filled with all of his possessions from his trip, filled with everything he hadn’t given away to people who needed things more than he did, if you want to talk just a little bit about “need”—and he sat down on the edge of the planter, hauled you over his lap and lifted your silly little Catholic schoolgirl skirt that you’d thought he’d find so sexy. While taxis vied for curb space, he pulled your white panties down your thighs and began to punish your ass for you right there, on the cigarette butt-littered sidewalk of LAX. And you thought for about half a second that you were in public with your bare-naked ass showing, and you thought for another half a second that someone was going to call the police or that people were going to complain.
And then Sam wrapped his hand in your hair and pushed your head down and continued to spank your ass in rapid, smarting strokes until you forgot to think about anything except the pain flaring through you and the fact that you’d been longing for a real spanking, not a pat-a-cake spanking, but a real, serious spanking for what felt like ever.
Still, you had some sense of decorum left in you, and you said, “Sam, the truck’s just over—”
“Bad girls get punished in public all the time,” Sam hissed, interrupting you. “Nobody says anything about it. Why should anyone say anything about you? Besides, people see worse every day in Los Angeles.”
And you supposed he was right, because nobody did anything. Yes, you were behind a pillar, but only barely. Anyone could see if they thought to look. People walked right on by as his hand continued to spank you, over and over again, marking you, bruising your pale skin, and somehow you just forgot about yourself, about your need to be refined and present a certain appearance to the world. You’d wanted this feeling of surrender for months, and you gave in to the sensation, so that you actually came when his fingers spanked between your cheeks to touch your pussy. And then, after letting you vibrate for several seconds with the climax, Sam thrust you off his lap, grabbed his overstuffed backpack and said, “Where’s the truck?”
You tried to pull up your panties, but Sam shook his head.
“Leave them.”
“What?”
“Step out of them and leave them.”
And despite thoughts of littering and being disrespectful to the earth, you still couldn’t be disrespectful to Sam, so you stepped out of your panties and looked down at the shiny blue silk you were about to discard as Sam repeated, “Where’s the truck?”
You were turned around, your head all happily hazy, and you had to think for a moment before nodding toward the structure across the street. Sam led, even though he didn’t know where you’d parked, but in moments you’d found the red truck, all shiny from a recent detail job, and the two of you got in the back, where you’d put a blanket out, thinking that this might actually happen.
Now that he’d spanked you while pedestrians and commuters could see, you felt much less worried as he pushed your skirt up to your hips, reached for the lube you’d also put out in the truck bed, and began oiling up your asshole for you. His pants were open and his cock was out, and you watched over your shoulder as he jacked himself with another handful of the lube.
“Take your skirt all the way off.”
With fumbling fingers you searched for the zip, then heard a rip as Sam “took” the skirt off for you. Then his weight was on top of you, pushing you down, and you felt his firm hands parting your asscheeks, felt his cock press forward and then thrust in. You screamed, but the sound was muffled by the blanket. You thought of the fact that you’d circled for half an hour before finding this out-of-the-way corner of the parking structure, but, still, anyone walking back here would see you rutting together—and that maybe that was something that you both wanted and needed to know.
He fucked your ass the way he always did, with his fingers gripping your waist and his mouth finding the ridge of your shoulder through your sheer white top, biting you hard as he fucked you harder. You sensed when he was going to come, and you slid your own hand down under your body and thought about all the times you’d tried to get off while he was gone, unable to talk him to orgasm, unable to reach one yourself. You thought about wants and needs and desires. Your finger tricked over your pulsing, swollen clit, and you thought about the thugs with machine guns still roaming the streets and you wondered if anyone was ever able to come in Tbilisi. But that didn’t matter, right? All that mattered was that you and Sam were about to come, right now, in the back of your 4X4, and that he was going to fill your asshole with his seed so that it would slowly seep out of you over the next few hours, and that when you got back to the privacy of your apartment, much kinkier things were going to happen to you. That was for sure.
And then he came, and you came, and you rolled over and looked at him, love in your eyes, before you each wiped off on the blanket and you did your best to put your skirt back together, but failed.
In order to leave the parking lot, you had to hand over your ticket and pay for the time spent. The man in the tiny booth looked at the two of you. Sam had been up for more than twenty-six hours. You no longer had on a skirt or panties.
“Pleasant trip?” he asked.
Pleasant trip. The words echoed in your head. He’d been gone too long. That’s what had happened. That’s what had gotten you to this point. A crazy, uncaring point. He’d gone to a place where drunken men toasted trees, where his roommate—Zero? Zorro? Zeno?—barked at you when you called too late, where email didn’t exist, where neither of you could come.
Pleasant trip.
You couldn’t hold up the line in traffic explaining to this man that pleasant wasn’t quite the right word, but Sam just laughed. “Not this time,” he said.
And the ticket taker laughed back and said, “Well, you can’t always get what you want.”
You couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe he was so accurately putting into words what you’d thought about for months, but Sam just nodded as you pulled the truck out onto the busy L.A. thoroughfare, as if he couldn’t agree more.
“But if you try sometimes—” you started to say.
Sam finished it up for you with his standard, trademark sinful smile: “You just might get what you need.”
Richard’s Secret
SASKIA WALKER
“A gimp?” Richard was a sex slave? Could it be possible? I swallowed, breathed deep and tried to make sense of what Tom had just told me. “But what does it mean…?” I looked up at him, spluttering the words out. “I mean, I know what it means…I just don’t know what he means by it, by approaching us.”
Tom rested his hand reassuringly on my shoulder. There was a look of deep concern in his eyes and he was watching me carefully for my reactions. Oh, how I loved this man; when he had said he had something “a bit heavy” to talk to me about, I thought the worst was about to happen, that he was going to say there was another woman, that he was leaving me. The last thing I expected was for him to reveal this, Richard’s secret. Richard’s darkest secret.
