F Is for Fetish, page 1
F IS FOR FETISH
EROTIC STORIES
EDITED BY ALISON TYLER
Copyright © 2007 by Alison Tyler.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,
P.O. Box 14697, San Francisco, California 94114.
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman
Text design: Karen Quigg
Cleis Press logo art: Juana Alicia
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Acknowledgments
Ferocious fondness to my fierce friends:
Adam Nevill
Felice Newman
Frédérique Delacoste
Diane Levinson
Violet Blue
the Lust Bites Ladies
and SAM, always.
Nothing risqué, nothing gained.
—ALEXANDER WOOLLCOTT
INTRODUCTION: FEEL FREE…
FEEL FREE TO IMAGINE ME FULLY FLUSHED HERE…because reading the stories for F Is for Fetish turned me pink cheeked from start to finish. I should have known, I suppose, that this would be the theme that would generate the most widespread response, from writers obsessed by everything from fingers to toes and fishnets to dildos.
What do I know about fetishes?
Plenty. I have been a fan of leather since my freshman year at college. My friend Alana sat in front of me in History and she’d saved up all of her summer job money to buy a leather jacket with a fur collar. (Yeah, she was one of those wise-beyond-her-years types.) She wore the jacket all fall and winter, and she accentuated the natural scent of the leather with Obsession perfume. I sat behind her and missed every lecture, stroking the skin of her jacket and drinking in her scent. Her scent mixed with the smell of the hide.
But maybe my fetish began before that, on a trip to Manhattan just before college, when my parents’ friend Simone took me to a show her friends were in. Four of us shared the back of a cab, and three were in leather pants: Simone, her friend Michael, his lover David. I was surrounded by the butter-soft material, surrounded by that most sensual aroma ever.
I’ve never gotten over the way I feel when wearing leather, when touched with leather gloves, when zipped up tight in an ankle-length leather jacket. And that sensation is akin to the way I felt when reading these stories. The very heady scent of sex flooded over me as I turned the pages dedicated to fingers (Shanna Germain) and toes (Stan Kent), boots (Kristina Lloyd) and bad girls (Barbara Pizio). I reveled in fetishes I adore—bondage, voyeurism, spanking—and learned about some brand-new ones. And as I read the words, each fetish came alive to me, swept over me, left me breathless and blushing.
So as I said, feel free…feel free to imagine me flushed. And feel free to turn crimson-cheeked yourself as you dive into the frisky fetishes described in these fourteen flirty fables.
XXX,
Alison Tyler
SHANNA GERMAIN
KNUCKLING UNDER
FINGERS. They do me in every time. Not eyes or a smile, not shoulders or calves, but fingers. I could be such a good girl, could keep my libido where it belongs, if it weren’t for those fingers, promising to work their magic.
That time, it was my bike mechanic’s fingers that I was lusting for. His fingers were muscular somehow. Each one was squared off at the tip, with a big, flat nail. Bits of bicycle grease filled the whorls of his knuckles and lined the edges of his fingernails.
The rest of him wasn’t bad either, like those chocolate eyes that I noticed right off. And then that just-long-enough curly dark hair. He had the body of a cyclist, lean and muscular in his jeans and blue T-shirt. But there are lots of men who look like that. I’d resisted them. I thought I could resist him. He could have been just a pleasant daydream as I stood in line, my bike leaning on my hip, waiting for the woman in front of me to finish. He didn’t raise his eyes much, and it gave me a chance to watch him, to imagine what it would be like to seduce him, take him home. Just a dream, a way to pass the time.
I’d gotten pretty far in my daydream—to the point where he had hiked up my short work skirt and was running one finger up the inside of my thigh—by the time it was my turn. I stepped up to the counter with my bike in tow.
Nice smile, but shy. He didn’t say anything, which he could only pull off because he was so adorable. He didn’t even really take his eyes off my bike. You could tell he was more comfortable with bikes than people. But at least he didn’t notice that I was wheeling my bike in while dressed in heels and my office ensemble, while all the others were sporting their padded bike shorts and SuperFabric shirts. I’d had a hell of a time getting it out of the car, trying not to ruin my panty hose since I had to go back to work.
“I have a flat,” I said.
I was kind of embarrassed to admit that I’d brought my bike to the shop for a flat tire, but the truth is I’m not a bike geek. I like to ride, but I don’t really understand how bikes work. I can’t change my own tire. I’d been telling myself that I was going to take a class and learn the basics. He’d just shot my incentive all to hell.
He motioned toward one of the rails behind the counter. “Why don’t you bring it around back?” he said.
I wheeled my bike around the edge of the counter. He took it from me and put it up on the rails. And that’s when I saw his fingers, really saw them, for the first time. All that grease. A certain strength in the knuckles that comes from working with your hands. But his skin wasn’t cut or chapped, and the grease was new. Like he went home every night and washed every bit of work from his hands, took care of them. It was that combination that got me. My light crush turned into a full-out throb that beat steady inside my underwear.
He caressed the curves of my bike with the pads of his fingers. My skin ached with longing. For once, I was jealous of my bike—I wanted those fingers on me, not on her.
“Nice bike,” he said.
She was a nice bike. Specialized, all white, unisex frame. A gift from my husband, who’d named her The White Goose. He called me
Saraswathi, after the Hindu goddess of wisdom who rides a white goose, so it seemed appropriate. Only Saraswathi is supposed to represent purity itself. And here I was, doing—or dreaming of doing—just the opposite. He ran those perfect fingers along the bike’s curves and let them linger in her hidden spots. He pressed his fingers in the gear spots where she always wanted more oil, tucked them into the corner of the stem that always collected dirt. I’d always wanted a man like that, who could discover my hidden places and know intuitively how I wanted, needed, to be touched. Not sex, but something else. Discovery maybe. Or the feeling that someone knows you better than you do yourself. Watching his fingers made me dizzy. The smooth sound of his skin sliding over her frame, the way he tucked his fingertips beneath the lip of the seat—it was too much. Then he moved down to the flat tire. While he spun the wheel with one hand, he kept two fingers pressed to the side of the wheel. The sound was a steady slide, like someone pulling a skirt up over stockinged thighs.
“Aha,” he said. “Here’s your problem.”
When he found the blowout spot, he dug in, pulling the cut bit of tire open. I wanted his fingers on me like that, sliding across me, opening me up.
“Looks like you hit a nice chunk of glass,” he said. He held out a triangle-shaped piece of green glass as though he were offering it to me. Its sharp edges made his fingers look dangerous. “The tire should be okay, but you’ll need a new tube.”
He dropped the glass on the counter and picked up a long black tool. The way his fingers molded around the handle made the tool an extension of his hand. I wondered if you could learn a body like that, as though it was part of you. Every movement, every touch, more instinct than thought. He brought the tool toward my tire, and then seemed to realize I was still standing there, watching.
“It’ll only take me a couple of minutes. You can wait if you want to.”
I said something witty like, “Could you tell me where the restroom is?” and then backed away, trying to pretend I wasn’t still looking at his fingers.
In the employee restroom, I talked to the mirror. “You will not do this,” I told my reflection. My reflection listened and nodded. Always the good girl. But my reflection’s eyes were alive, shining in a way that she couldn’t hide. And that corner of her lip tilted up. I knew that neither of us was listening to my little speech.
I kept going anyway. I listed all the ways my husband was a good man: sexy, kind, willing to put up with all of my shit. I didn’t let myself think about his hands. He had long, thin fingers. Soft as kid gloves. When he touched me, it was with long, soft strokes, like I was made of marzipan. Even when he put his fingers inside me, it was never more than two, never enough to stretch my body open. His fingers soothed, aroused. But never pressed, never opened me as far as I wanted him to. Never bruised.
I could resist this man. I would. And besides, he hadn’t even noticed me. Didn’t notice anything except my bike. Wasn’t interested in me. At all.
It was this realization that allowed me to grasp the doorknob to let myself out of the restroom. If I couldn’t resist of my own accord, I would let his lack of interest do it for me. I would take my bike and go back to work. And tonight I would ride, pressing myself hard against the seat, thinking of his fingers.
I opened the door and stepped out, and there he was. Leaning against the hall wall, looking down at his shoes. His hands were tucked in his apron pockets. Without his fingers, he was avoidable. That’s what allowed me to smile. To say something sharp and witty like, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were waiting.”
He took his hands from his apron pockets and used them to push back his dark curls. One snagged on the meat of his finger, refusing to let go. It gave me a glimpse of how it would be to look down and see his finger wrapping itself in my own dark curls.
I tried to swallow or look away, but my muscles refused to obey. Every part of my body wanted to lean toward him, magnetized. I had one hand still on the doorknob. I don’t know where my other hand was.
He looked up at me for the first time, those big brown eyes deep pools in his face.
“It’s your calves,” he said.
My hand on the doorknob was doing a weird twisty thing that I couldn’t seem to control. “I’m sorry?” I said.
His fingers drifted back to his hair, pulling at a curl.
“I have a girlfriend, so I tried not to look,” he said. “Tried not to, but I couldn’t help it…”
His voice trailed away and he bit his lower lip with his two top teeth, perfect squares against the pink flesh. When he looked back down, I realized he hadn’t been looking at the floor or my bike all this time. He’d been looking at my legs.
I knew then that I wasn’t the only one with a fetish, and that realization allowed me to feel strong. I lifted my head—I would slip by him, let him into the bathroom and let myself out the front door. I would pay whoever needed to be paid and I’d find another bike mechanic; a fat, ugly one with stubby little fingers.
As I moved, he put one finger out, like he was going to press an elevator button. I don’t know if he meant to push the door open. Or maybe he meant to touch me on the shoulder. Either way, his finger ended up against my bottom lip. I tasted metal and grease and clean skin. I wanted to suck his finger into my mouth, to feel his calluses between my teeth. My tongue ran over the tip. The contrast between the smooth nail and the bits of rough skin at the edges took away the last of my resolve.
I sucked his finger into my mouth, held it there. He made a sound in the back of his throat, a low hum that made my belly contract. Keeping my lips tight around his finger, I led him backward into the restroom.
He let me lead him like that, and the door shut behind us, closing us into the small space. I let go of his finger, and he reached behind to lock the door. His hands moved quickly—fast and hard on my ass, on my thighs—and before I could even register it, he was lifting me up, setting me on the edge of the sink.
My skirt and his fingers made slippery sounds as he pushed the fabric up until my thighs were exposed. He put his hands between my legs, opened them until he could fit his body between.
I didn’t know how to tell him what I wanted. It wasn’t sex. It was those hands, those fingers.
Maybe he already knew. Maybe he’d realized my fetish when I’d sucked his finger into my mouth, because he put one hand up, smeared it roughly across my mouth like he was wiping away old lipstick. I caught one finger between my teeth on the way by, but he shook free, and closed his fingers around my chin. He tilted my head down, made me watch as he used his other hand to press into my thighs, to scratch at my panty hose until small runs appeared.
He let go of my chin, but I went on watching. His fingers made a small tear in the fabric, and then another, longer. Where he’d made the hole, his warm skin brushed mine. He burrowed his fingers beneath the fabric. I loved the way his hands looked, trapped under the see-through black, pressing hard into my skin.
His fingers grabbed the center of my thong and pushed it aside. And then his fingers wrapped themselves in my curls, twisting and tugging. The contrast of my dark hair with his skin made it hard to breathe. Without waiting, he put his fingers inside me. Hard. Just like I’d hoped. I couldn’t tell how many—two at least, maybe three. I was already wet, but the feel of his calluses lightly scratching the inside of me made me wetter.
He thrust his fingers into me, using his whole body, shoving my hips back and forth across the porcelain. I wrapped my calves around his back, and he made that low hum again in the back of his throat.
I couldn’t watch anymore. The feeling of it made me want to come, but watching his fingers fuck me was throwing me over the edge. I didn’t want to come yet, so I closed my eyes and leaned back against the mirror. My reflection had turned her back on me, but I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted him to keep touching me the way he was doing.
“Watch,” he said, his voice low. It was a whisper, but it was also a command. I opened my eyes.
He took his fingers out of me and ran them, wet and glistening, down the inside of my thigh. Then he folded his hand, four fingers forming a point, and entered me once more. I watched as he pushed, slow but not gentle, inside me. He found my clit with his thumb, rubbed it hard enough to make me cry out, and then flicked at it with a fingernail. It was one second of pain and three of pleasure. And then it was all pleasure: watching his fingers move in and out of me, feeling the sharp edge of his thumb flicking in time to his strokes.
He reached back and wrapped his free hand around my calf muscle. His fingers dug in, and I tightened my legs around his back, made my calf muscles taut.
“Put your legs up,” he said, ducking down a little, his fingers never stopping their steady movement. I put my legs over his shoulders. The lip of the sink dug into my back, but I could barely feel it.
All my nerve endings were working overtime around his fingers. There wasn’t room to feel anything else.
“Tighter,” he said. I flexed my calves against his neck muscles. I wanted to reach down and touch him, to help him get off, but he seemed as focused on my calves as I was on his fingers, and I thought maybe he didn’t want anything else.
He curled his fingers inside me—come-hither—once, twice against my G-spot, and I didn’t think anymore. I just closed my eyes and focused on his touch. Thumb flicking my clit. Fingertips hitting that sponge spot that made my body feel all shivery.
My orgasm was as fast and hard as his fingers, rushing through me and then gone. He kept his fingers in, let me spasm around him until my body was still.
When he removed his fingers I felt empty, split open. I took my legs off his shoulders, surprised at how heavy they felt, how tired I was. The whole room smelled like grease and salt. I realized he was still dressed, that I’d hardly touched him. That he hadn’t come.
I reached for his zipper, but he stopped my hands. His fingers were still wet from me.
“It’s okay,” he said. He put one finger on my ripped panty hose and ran it down to my calf. It left a glistening trail on the black. “I got just what I wanted. Plus, I have to go back and finish your bike.”
I’d forgotten about the bike. Actually, for three or five or ten minutes, I’d forgotten about everything. Now, watching him reach for a paper towel to dry his fingers, it all came back. My promise to be a good girl. To keep my libido in check. To be true to my husband.
But you can’t help what you love. Or what you lust after. And those fingers; those strong, sexy fingers; they get me every time.
NIKKI MAGENNIS
HAIR TRIGGER
FRANKIE CAME OUT OF NOWHERE. In the bar where they met for the first time, he beckoned Sal over to where he sat—a booth in the quiet section. He had a lavish smile, and blew smoke around them as he talked, so that the dark corner of the pub filled with a blue haze.
“You’re beautiful, did you know that?”
Sal smiled, and sat down. She took a sip of her gin-and-soda, held the ice cube in her mouth until there was nothing left but a cold, sharp sliver.
“But I’d be more beautiful naked, right?”
“Perhaps. Actually, I was thinking I wanted to see you with your hair down.”
Automatically, Sal’s hand flew to her hair. That night she’d straightened it, rubbed wax into the tips, and swept it up into a chignon. A few loose strands swam around her face.
