Unspeakably Erotic Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by D. L. King.

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

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson St, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: iStock

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-250-0

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-251-7

  Contents

  Introduction

  Pygmalion • J. BELLE LAMB

  CBT • PASCAL SCOTT

  The Auction • TAMSIN FLOWERS

  Support Service • SONNI DE SOTO

  Blue Plate Special: Your Boot on My Cunt • AVERY CASSELL

  Simultaneous • ANNABETH LEONG

  Private Party • ROSE P. LETHE

  Training Zoe • MEGHAN O’BRIEN

  Use Me • KIKI DELOVELY

  Cuckold • B. D. SWAIN

  The Last Kink • CECILIA DUVALLE

  In a Pinch • JANELLE RESTON

  Baubles and Beads • SACCHI GREEN

  Appetite • EMILY BINGHAM

  Bitch Slap • SIR MANTHER

  Aloha à Trois • KATHLEEN TUDOR

  Date Night • BREY WILLOWS

  The Last of Marengo • MARY TINTAGEL

  Close Edge • ELINOR ZIMMERMAN

  Bedtime Story • ROBYN NYX

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  INTRODUCTION

  Taboo. The very word can cause you to take a step back, and then, depending on how your lizard brain works, can cause you to take two furtive steps forward with your head cocked to the side and your mouth forming a silent, questioning Oh.

  The original idea was for an anthology all about taboo erotica but I quickly realized that 1) What’s taboo for one person might be the next thing to vanilla for another, and 2) Some things really are taboo and don’t belong in books of erotica—at least not in my books of erotica. So, the theme got changed from “taboo” to “edgy.” But again, what’s kinky or edgy to some might not make your top ten list of crazy things to do. And then again, what you find to be adrenaline-fueling edge play might be too over-the-top for other people. All things being unequal, what’s an editor to do?

  How should I go about gathering a collection of unspeakable stories designed to make you cringe just a bit before you come? If the book contained all stories that I, personally, found edgy, it could alienate a segment of my readership. On the other hand, if I made it too tame, it would alienate a different segment of my readership.

  Now, compromising would mean that the anthology would be middle-of-the-road kink, so I decided not to compromise. Instead, I decided to give you an eclectic mix. Some stories might be out of your comfort range, but give them a chance; you might find yourself aroused by fantasies you never expected to find sexy. And, what about the less wild—less dangerous? Just because a story is a bit tamer than your favorite go-to edge play doesn’t mean that, in the hands of a skilled storyteller, you might not find it just as big a turn-on.

  So, let’s talk just a little about the unspeakable: if we’re going to do edge play, the first story has to be edgy—according to everyone’s sensibilities. How about a Mercedes-driving, Rothko-owning, sexy older dyke— with a knife—who knows just which buttons to push? You may find yourself falling in love with J. Belle Lamb, and her story, “Pygmalion,” just like I have.

  And then there’s “CBT.” “CBT?” you ask. “But isn’t that cock and ball torture? What’s cock and ball torture have to do with a book about kinky lesbian sex?”

  Well, that’s exactly what I thought when I first downloaded the story and printed it. And then I started to read it. I find Pascal Scott’s story of a butch top meeting her ultimate sadistic femdom utterly charming. But then, I’m charmed by genital bondage, whips and clips and a woman who knows how to use them to her best advantage.

  What about a foot fetish? Sonni de Soto’s character, Reena, in her story, “Support Service,” insists that she doesn’t have one—a fetish, that is—after providing volunteer services, all night, in the form of foot massage, for her local club. She tells herself she doesn’t have a fetish even as she lusts after an enigmatic dungeon monitor and her tiny, overworked feet, at the end of a very busy night.

  Sacchi Green gives us a story about a tough-talking carney top, a horse woman and her giant Percherons, some very special Mardi Gras beads, and turnabout being fair, not to mention good, play in “Baubles and Beads.”

  Speaking of animals, a girl who desperately wants to be a kitten, finally gets to play out her fantasy at her first play party in Rose P. Lethe’s “Private Party.” Sometimes, besides courage, you need to find the yin to your yang.

  And along the same animal vein, Mary Tintagel never ceases to completely freak me out. You may remember her skydiving story in She Who Must Be Obeyed. This time around she offers up a pony-play story. Well, it’s a kind of pony-play story. “The Last of Marengo,” set in The Netherlands, is completely beyond the pale. Does your local museum of sex have a hippodrome? Just asking.

  While you’ll find some old favorites, like Sacchi Green, Annabeth Leong, Kiki DeLovely, and B. D. Swain, you’ll also find a lot of newcomers. I’m thrilled to get to know people like Pascal Scott, Sonni de Soto, Sir Manther, Elinor Zimmerman, and Robyn Nyx.

  This book is designed to make you a little uncomfortable and make you squirm just a bit, but I hope it will be a good squirm. Not every story will do that for you, but I can guarantee that at least a few will. Some may be totally outside your comfort zone. After all, it’s rare that you pick up an anthology and find you love every story in it. That’s okay. I can bet, however, that if this book piqued your interest at all, you’ll probably like most of them. I, on the other hand, like them all. Each one is unspeakable in its own right. So, sit down, relax, and enjoy.

  D. L. King

  New York City

  PYGMALION

  J. Belle Lamb

  May I?” she says, taking the bottle from your hand. You’ve met most of the guests at Wallace’s party, but she seems to have appeared from nowhere.

  You let her take the wine. She’s older, late fifties maybe, gray hair cut short and spiked. Standard dress leathers: dark-blue jeans that look starched, crisp black dress shirt under a tight-buttoned leather vest. A well-worn leather jacket hangs off the chair where she dropped it.

  “Where I come from, a lady shouldn’t have to fetch her own drinks,” she says, deftly pulling a wineglass from the chaos on Wallace’s kitchen counter. She starts to fill the glass and turns to look at you, almost asking a question, but you watch her close her mouth around it. A few moments later, she hands you the wine, golden in the glass.

  “What were you going to ask?” You sip the wine. It’s crisp and cold.

  “That’s a good wine. I wondered if you’d brought it.” Her tone is a little sharp, but you decide you hear playfulness under it. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she says, holding out a hand. “I’m Irene.”

  “Yes, I brought the wine. I’m Beatrice,” you say, shaking her hand. Her grip is strong, almost painful. You have to look up to meet her eyes, even though you’re wearing heels. “But my friends call me Trixie.”

  “Of course they do,” Irene says, letting go of your fingers to fill her own wineglass. She reclai
ms her leather jacket before she takes your elbow, steering you over to the sliding glass doors at one end of the house’s large living room. A fan of both opera and camp, Wallace decorated for the party with sprays of fake ivy and plastic grapes. The heap of golden breastplates that grace the coffee table look like they’re made of spray-painted Styrofoam. A poster for the Seattle Opera’s current production of Pygmalion has been tacked up above the fireplace.

  Irene leaves her hand on your arm as she turns to face you. “Now, Trixie, the real question is what a lady like you is doing unattended in a crowd like this.” She nods at the humming crowd dressed in interpretations of “opera best” that include at least two latex minidresses and a number of leather chest harnesses with matching bow ties.

  “Trying to mingle, I suppose. I’m not great at being a social butterfly.” You smile at Irene, whose light-brown eyes are doing a good job of helping you tune out the rest of the party.

  “I’m going to have to have a chat with Wallace about his taste in friends if no one at this party has had the sense to keep you occupied.” She sips her wine. “Or maybe I should just be glad I got lost on the way here. It looks like he’s too busy to notice that I made it.” Irene glances over at your host, whose cheeks are burnished pink as he flirts with a shirtless man twenty years his junior.

  “You know him well?” Irene moves her hand from your elbow to rest lightly on your lower back. You shift your weight to lean slightly into it, enjoying Irene’s satisfied smile around the rim of her wineglass.

  “We’ve been friends for a long time. Came up together in New York.” She looks around the room. “Lots of pretty people here. But a little noisy for my taste. How do you feel about getting a breath of air?” Irene nods toward the sliding glass doors.

  You sip your wine slowly, pretending to consider her proposition. She holds your eyes over the glass, her smile letting you know that she knows that you’ll say yes, but she’s letting you play your little game.

  “I’d like that.” You enjoy the way she’s watching your lips.

  She opens the door silently, ushering you onto the porch. It’s cold enough that you begin to regret not bringing your coat. Irene puts a hand on your goose-pimpled shoulder. Still silent, she holds up the jacket.

  “How very old-fashioned,” you say as you slip your arms into her jacket. Its silver snaps are scratched and the leather is soft with age.

  Irene grins. “Sometimes the classics are classic for a reason.” She settles next to you on the bench, her jeans rubbing against your black stockings.

  You lean back into the bench and against Irene. The jacket is heavy, its leather scent mixed with hints of cigar smoke and a cologne that smells a little like oranges. You like it, and you decide that you like Irene. “And what’s that reason tonight?”

  “No need to make a beautiful girl shiver unnecessarily in the cold.” Irene turns to look at you, your faces close enough that all she’d need to do is lean forward to kiss you. “I’d much rather have you shiver for me.”

  “Well, you’re certainly cocky,” you tell her, tipping your chin slightly toward her, hoping that she’ll read the hint and kiss you.

  Irene drops a hand to her crotch. “Not right now, I’m afraid,” she says with a rueful expression. You laugh hard, the sound wrapping close around the two of you in the damp cold. She watches you, brown eyes sparkling in a fine webwork of laugh lines. As your giggles die away, she reaches across your lap, hand cupping the leather jacket’s elbow briefly and then sliding down its arm to find your fingers. Irene traces the back of your hand. “Come home with me, Trixie,” she says, smiling when you shiver as she strokes your hand.

  “Now? But you’ve only just gotten to the party.” You wonder how long she’ll let you keep playing your game. She knows you’re going home with her tonight; you know you’re going home with her tonight. Still, it’s satisfying to wonder what she’ll say next.

  Irene pauses, her fingers still on your hand. Her smile thins. You don’t see the hand that’s been draped on the back of the bench move, but you shiver again as she pulls your head back, fingers tight enough in your hair to prickle fire across your scalp.

  “Oh yes, Trixie. I’ve just gotten to the party. And I know it’s the kind of party where no one would care if I fucked you on this bench. Or even if I stripped you down and slammed you up against that window to put on a little show.” Her cheek rests against yours as she speaks so that you feel the shape of her words as you hear them. “And I think you’re the kind of woman who would enjoy that.” She waits for a moment until you make a tiny noise of assent. “But I like to take my time. So, when I let go of you, we’re going to stand up, and you’re going to follow me through that party so that all of those fools see you leave with me. And then you’re going to come to my place.” She brushes the corner of your jaw with a light kiss. You shiver again. “And I will take my time with you.”

  It happens exactly as Irene has said: she lets go of your hair and you leave the porch, fingers twined in hers as you follow her back through the party, still wearing her leather jacket. She doesn’t move quickly through Wallace’s house, but heads turn to watch the two of you cross the living room, skirt the kitchen, and move toward the foyer. You think about documentary footage of deer tracking a predator’s movement around the edge of the herd, all those eyes suddenly alert to the presence of danger. The thought makes your cunt tighten.

  Irene pulls you through Wallace’s door and down the front steps. She drops your fingers to hold your elbow again, steadying you as you pick your way through the muddy driveway in your heels. You let her half-guide, half-follow you to your car. You start to shrug out of her jacket.

  “Leave it,” she says, tugging the leather back around you. She reaches into the jacket’s inner pocket to pull out a phone and her keys, hand brushing against your breast just enough to let you know that she meant to touch you. She frowns slightly as she digs into her vest to extract a pair of reading glasses. When she puts them on, you think you might as well just kneel down in the mud to lick her boots. Irene’s frown eases, though you’re sure she didn’t hear your thought. She looks at you over the glasses. “May I have your phone number, please?”

  You give it to her.

  “There,” she says, putting her phone in her back pocket and handing over your coat. “I’ve texted you my address. I’ll wait for you at the bottom of the driveway, but this way, you know how to find me just in case we get separated.”

  Your car is cold, but inside Irene’s jacket, you’re quite warm. You turn off the stereo, wanting to hear if your heart is beating as loudly as you think it is. The soft creak of Irene’s jacket is the only thing you hear. You tell yourself to stop being ridiculous and just enjoy the prospect of getting thoroughly laid.

  Irene’s car, a sleek little Mercedes, is waiting at the end of Wallace’s long driveway. You flash your lights to let her know it’s you, and then spend the next half hour trying to keep up with her as she leads you across the I-90 bridge into the heart of the city. When she pulls into the garage of a house tucked into the trees near Washington Park, you park in the driveway, your rust-and-red Land Cruiser looking out of place in the upscale neighborhood. You begin to wonder just what you’ve gotten yourself into.

  But it’s the canvas leaning against the living room wall that makes you gasp when she leads you into her house.

  “Irene, is that a Rothko?” You can barely get the words out. The big painting, a central black bar sepa-rating stacked rectangles of marine blue and frayed white, makes you feel loose-limbed and dizzy.

  Irene follows your gaze. “I take it you’re an art fan.”

  “How do you have a Rothko sitting in your living room?” The room also contains a stack of moving boxes and elegant modern furniture that clearly hasn’t yet found its proper places. You keep staring at the painting, wishing you could dive into the canvas and swim in the colors.

  You’re dimly aware that Irene has moved to stand next to you, her
arm on the back of the leather jacket. “My father bought it in New York years ago. I inherited it. I brought a few of my favorite pieces out to Seattle with me,” she says, and you can feel her eyes on your face.

  “A few of . . . there’s more?” Something almost tangible has shifted between you and Irene. You were ready to fuck her five minutes after meeting her at Wallace’s party; now, you don’t care at all if you have sex tonight, but you desperately want to know what else is in her art collection.

  “Oh yes. Quite a bit. My father was a collector. I inherited his passion along with his collection.” She’s still watching your face. “Would you like to sit down with the Rothko for a while?” Her hand is still on the jacket, a reassuring weight in contrast to the hurricane of emotion that the painting has evoked in you.

  “I . . . don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe not tonight. Can I come see it again?” You feel a little like you’ve run into an estranged ex in the supermarket: too shocked by the sudden interaction with the painting to be able to sort out your feelings.

  Irene chuckles. “If it means I get to see that look on you again, Trixie, you can come see it whenever you like. And once I get the rest of them hung, I hope you’ll let me show them to you, too. I have a Basquiat I imagine you’ll love.”

  You manage to tear your eyes away from the Rothko, still tasting its blue on the back of your tongue. “And a Basquiat,” you say, looking at Irene, whose smile has relaxed from its sharpness at the party into something you find you like even more.

  “Indeed. I only brought one with me. The others are still in New York.” She’s teasing you a little now. It’s working—you feel woozy, electric, somewhere in between frantically turned on and wildly curious about her. “I wonder if we can get you out of this jacket,” she asks, turning your body toward hers as she reaches inside the leather to ease it off your shoulders. You stand doll-like as she takes it off you, still stunned by the painting.

  Irene tosses the jacket over a stack of boxes. She runs her hands down your bare arms, moving close enough to make you need to tip your head back to hold her gaze. “Do you want to talk about art some more tonight, Trixie?”