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An erotic anthology of travel and discovery

The Passenger by Annabeth Leong
Suzanne dreams of escaping her small town. But when she climbs aboard a truck full of remarkable curiosities, she soon discovers she’s not the only one trying to escape ...
Packing Steel by Lana Fox
A jaded hitwoman is called out for one last job. But will she be able to make the hit if she falls in love with the mark?
Love Gun by Fulani
A traffic jam introduces Cerise to a steampunk craftsman. Turns out, he’s recently made a Love Gun, and Cerise dares him to use it on her ...
Going Up by Lily Harlem
Faye has got herself a new man who takes great pleasure in introducing her to new experiences, and a hot air balloon ride over the English countryside is only the start!
Heat by Stella Harris
In the intense heat of the tropics, a young charity worker lets down her barriers to discover a lot more about herself and her fellow volunteers.

The Passenger
Annabeth Leong

Suzanne Houston hadn’t skulked into the parking lot of the town truck stop since the night before she’d been married. She came to it from the woods side not the highway, the way she always had when she was younger. She ducked and lurched through sprawling tangles of undergrowth, worried about spiders and chiggers and worse. Rotting leaves crunched under her feet, and slimy little touches along her bare legs made her limbs shiver and jerk. The earth beneath her smelled humid and carnal—or maybe that was her own body.
She wore no bra or panties under her dress. Thomas had thrown both her and her vibrator out of the house without giving her a chance to retrieve the undergarments she’d discarded before the night’s epic masturbation session. He’d come home early from his night shift and caught her, still bleary from her orgasms, her clit half-numb after hours of intermittent vibration, her pussy so utterly wet it was frictionless, and shudders of electricity licking through her pelvis as nerves satiated beyond endurance attempted to continue functioning.
Instead of recognizing a good opportunity when he saw one and taking out his cock to finish her off, Thomas had started screaming incoherently about slutty, whorish behavior and her supposed attempt to replace his penis with a piece of silicone. Suzanne pointed out sharply that she’d be more than happy if he wanted to introduce some real meat to the equation. After all, she’d only been begging him to for a solid week and a half.
Her retort had only made him angrier. Thomas yanked her vibrator’s plug out of the wall, taking half the socket with it. Suzanne blinked and stumbled to her feet, her thigh muscles trembling and her knees gelatinous. She hadn’t been in much shape to argue her case.
Hence the truck stop. She used to flirt with truckers as a way of flirting with leaving town. Sometimes, she’d even hitched a ride for a few dozen miles and maybe a blowjob, but Suzanne had always lost her nerve well before making it to the state line. When she married Thomas, she gave up the charade and accepted she’d never get out of Summerton.
Tonight, she’d gotten mad enough to toy with the thought again. Suzanne wanted a piece of pie and a greasy burger and a man who wouldn’t mind seeing her play with her pussy. On the other hand, maybe she just needed a place to cool off where Thomas couldn’t find her. He’d never think to look for her here.
She emerged from tree-shaded darkness into the outskirts of the parking lot, greeted by blinding neon and halogen lights. Her hands closed around the rotted wooden fence that stood between her and her destination. She tossed one leg over it, then the other, careful to avoid splinters but not cautious of whatever view she might flash.
Trucks hunkered in the lot’s darker corners, chrome-colored and muscular. Through the truck stop diner’s big plate-glass windows, she saw a couple of guys nursing cups of coffee. At this hour, most of the truckers had probably bedded down in their cabs. Suzanne sighed. To take her pick of the men, she’d have had to get here a lot earlier.

Packing Steel
Lana Fox

So here I was, seven days later, for the promised details of this final gig. Behind her desk, in the low glow of the angle-poise lamp, Odette leaned back in her swivel chair. “You look gloomy, ma chère,” she said, exhaling a plume of smoke, but I didn’t trust her niceties. Odette was a woman who could call you “dear” then slit your throat, pas de problème.
“So,” I said. “The job.”
She raised an eyebrow and slid a photo across the desk, before falling back into her seat, red lips glistening in the half-light. “Pretty little thing, she is. Husband wants her head.”
And because irony’s my fuck-buddy, I said, “What a gent.”
Then everything changed, because even when my fingers first touched that photo, hitting the tacky surface as I pulled it into view—even as I smelled Odette’s perfume beneath the tinge of tobacco—I knew something big was happening. I could feel it in my pulse, in the lightness of my head. I felt it in my groin, where I usually felt so little.
And then, I saw her. My final kill. She wore a red and white polka-dot dress that fell into a low V around her gorgeous cleavage, and a sash-like belt at her middle gathered in the material and gripped her full waist. She was turning to the camera, surprised peut-être, no smile on her face, just the beginnings of a startle. Her eyes were wide and brown, her mouth was gloriously wide, her lips plump and biteable. Brown curls fell loosely down her back, her skin as translucent as crystallized candy just begging to be licked. She had the look of a ’fifties beauty. I imagined her arranged on a pile of summer hay, her nipples hard and pink, her breasts full and luxurious, her pussy trimmed and ready, her slim fingers stroking over her belly, her hips. Her eyes—I knew already—would be innocent but tempting. I’d fuck her with a strap-on, or maybe with my fingers—Christ, I’d fuck her in every way possible. I’d moan like an animal, and she’d cry out. She wouldn’t stop coming. Not ever. Jamais.
I was so turned on just looking at her, that my body felt different. My nipples were hard beneath my tank-top, I could even feel the tattooed skin on my arm—the black snake coiling around my bicep—prickling as if the needle were still on it. Everything felt immediate and present, as if someone had lifted a veil from my body. This woman made me want to be right inside her, all the way in, fucking her with addiction. I’d come—I was sure of it—just to push my fingers into her. I’d come, just to feel her pussy clench me, to be tight inside with my hand on one of her breasts. Mon Dieu, I was wet. And it felt good. Why the fuck had I forgotten this burn, this need for flesh on flesh? This long-lost longing for perfumed skin?
Seven years and I’d felt nothing. Seven years of killing and no heat.
Until now.

Love Gun

There’s any number of progressive small graduations of sexual pleasure. They start with possibilities, then intention, then anticipation. They progress to first touch, first button or zipper, and being naked enough to fuck; they include the being-in-the-moment of visual stimulation, smell, taste. She’s looking up at Ragnar’s face, shadowed in the night. But she can see the concentration in his eyes, the pupils darker and more infinite than the sky. She can smell the richness of his brown leather trousers, more complex and sensuous than any of the black motorcycle or fetish clothing she can remember.
Then she’s rolling over, reaching for what turns out to be a button fly on his trousers. Ragnar starts to unbutton his shirt and she shakes her head.
“Not necessary.” Cerise wants to preserve the dynamic. The symbolism of being nude with a man who’s still dressed. She can already access the one piece of skin she needs. The sensitive erectile tissue. Licks her lips and wipes them across the tip of his ...
There’s metal against her teeth.
“It’s called an ampallang.”
Cerise’s brain does a sideways slide via fang to vampire.
“You can bite me later.”
Then she’s running her tongue around the head of his cock, exploring the piercing. Wondering how it’ll feel inside her. Liking the red wine taste of it and thinking that his red wine and her honey are a good match.
And it occurs to her she’s got his cock in her mouth and she hasn’t even kissed him. Oh well. The van isn’t that small, but with the folding table in place there isn’t a lot of space for her to slip off the sofa and kneel between his legs. The move requires contortion of limbs. It feels, just a little bit, like bondage. Not bondage with ropes, but mental bondage. Her partner tried it once: required her to pose on her knees, spine erect, arms folded behind her with left hand on right elbow and vice versa, head tilted slightly backwards. Mouth open. And of course he’d used her mouth, plastered his cum over her face—after he’d pulled and teased her nipples and slapped her breasts. She’d held the position, though, being the perfect slave for him.
She’d learned other positions too. On her knees, forehead to the floor, ass in the air, knees spread and arms extended to either side. Standing with ankles wide apart and hands behind her head. Her partner had been going through what they later described as his John Norman period, reading the series of Gor novels—and taking notes. There were even websites with infographics to illustrate the slave positions, with names for each. It had been fun, but there was a limit to how far it was possible to take that stuff without becoming obsessive and (hah!) fetishistic about it. She occasionally enjoyed floating around the house on a summer’s evening wearing nothing but a silk scarf around her hips and a chunky ankle bracelet, being a willing sexual servitor. But with time, they’d become less hung up on the positional thing. These days they were more eclectic and freestyle on the increasingly rare occasions when they played.

Going Up
Lily Harlem

To me the whole package of Henry was seriously seductive and I was starting to wonder what would happen if he stopped calling to arrange rampant liaisons.
“Why are you laughing?” he asked, shifting his hips and pressing his groin against the palm of my hand a little more. He was always greedy for my touch.
“I guess even my imagination can’t begin to think of what you have in store for me this sunny spring morning.”
“Let’s just say I was listening when you revealed your fantasies last week. You enjoyed the four-poster bed last night, didn’t you?”
“Well yes, of course …” My memory whirred. What had I told him? Fuck, it could have been any number of things. The previous week he’d tortured me, sensually of course—with a dildo and a vibrator hovering on insertion into both of my holes—until I’d told him my darkest desires. I’d blurted out a whole host of dirty deeds that I thought might persuade him to complete what he’d started and finish me off.
But it wasn’t until he was sure I’d revealed all that he set about hitting my hot spots and rewarding me for my wild confessions.
“Don’t look so worried,” he said soothingly. “Perhaps I’ve just chilled a bottle of Taittinger for you to sip as you look out over the vale.”
“Mmm, that was on my fantasy list.” But by far the tamest of my revelations. I’d always wanted to try the expensive champagne but never had the chance. Sipping it at breakfast time seemed even more decadent.
“Exactly,” he said.
“But lots of other things were on that list and—”
He laughed. “Oh, Faye, you’re so cute when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” I stroked his cock, exploring the length and width of him through his clothing. “I’m just curious.”
There was a soft, sweet pressure on my lips as he kissed me. Henry loved to kiss, which was just as well as he had a very sensual mouth. His lips were a little on the thin side and perhaps a bit wide for his face. But like most things about him, his nuances and imperfections made him all the more appealing (not to mention outrageously hot) to me. Faye Jones from Stratford had grabbed herself an aristocrat, who’d have thought it?

Stella Harris

With a glass of freshly poured wine in hand, Zoe grabbed her laptop from where it had been abandoned on the coffee table. When she opened it, she saw the picture they’d looked at the night before. Even sober, the people in the picture were especially pretty. Her eyes fell once more on the man Daphne had been so excited about. He wasn’t really Zoe’s type, but it was probably time she developed a new type. There was no guarantee he’d be on the trip she took, but for one night at least it didn’t hurt to dream.
Zoe took her glass of wine into her bedroom to get ready for bed. She undressed, leaving her clothes on the dresser while eyeing her shopping bag from that day. The bathing suit she’d gotten was fairly conservative by western standards but it looked good on her. The simple black suit made the most of Zoe’s pale skin and the cut of the waist gave her more of an hourglass than she usually had.
Zoe imagined herself stepping out of a pool, dripping wet, with the man from the picture watching her. Would his eyes fall to the way the suit accentuated the curve of her breast, or would he be more of a legs and ass man? Zoe’s nipples hardened under the imagined scrutiny. She could almost feel the chill from the pool water evaporating from her skin, before the sun could dry and warm her. Zoe’s body felt alive in a way it hadn’t for months, just the thought of breaking out of her routine was enough to make her feel exhilarated.
As she finished undressing, Zoe pulled a satin night-shirt over her head. The feel of the soft fabric against her already hard nipples gave her a shudder and she sighed. Even sliding under the covers made her nerves light up with sensation.
Zoe grabbed her wine glass from the nightstand and took another sip. She let the wine sit in her mouth a moment before swallowing, savoring the taste. When she set the wine back down she eyed the drawer in her nightstand. She hadn’t opened that drawer for a while ...
Zoe emptied the rest of the wine into her mouth and opened the drawer. In it sat her favorite purple vibrator; the only toy she liked enough to give bedside status. Others were relegated to a box at the bottom of her closet.
With the vibrator clutched tightly, Zoe slid her hand under the covers and between her legs. She turned the vibrator to its lowest setting and closed her eyes, letting the sensation wash over her. She let her mind drift back to her fantasy of the handsome man by the pool. Maybe he’d be waiting for her with a towel, maybe he’d hand her a drink, or maybe he’d wait for her to lie down and he’d rub her shoulders.

Amazon reviews for Wanderlust

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