Forbidden Fruit

Erotic paperbacks from Sweetmeats Press Buy
978-1-909181-61-8

Illustrated by - Not illustrated

A sweet and juicy collection of erotic stories.

Summer Pudding by Tamsin Flowers
Sparks fly when nutritional expert Lisa Summer and revered celebrity chef Laurent Gillou meet on a TV debate show. Live on air, Laurent throws down the challenge for Lisa to resist one of his decadent dishes. If she accepts, will she be able to maintain her stoic and sensible approach to food, or will the passion of Laurent’s cooking crack her unshakable resolve?

The Love Apple by Zak Jane Keir
Lee has never been what you would call confident, but his timidity and embarrassment has only ever held him back. So, when he takes a chance on the fetish scene, an encounter with an old classmate shows Lee that nasty nicknames only hurt if you let them.

A Dance of Ocean Magic by Elizabeth Black
Sierra Palmer may have magic at her fingertips, but when she invites Rockport’s handsome new resident for dinner and dessert, will her celestial spells inflame more earthly pleasures?

The Cherry Orchard by Vanessa de Sade
In the searing heat of a post-apocalyptic Europe, humanity has had to readapt to survive. In this parallel world of sterile men and repressive political regimes, the tough but fragile Magda must discern whether or not true happiness can only be found in the past. www.

Summer Pudding
Tamsin Flowers
She found herself at the start of a long avenue of towering chestnuts. The sounds of the restaurant had faded away, and now the soft rustling in the branches above her was all she could hear. She walked silently on a manicured grass path into which the silver moonlight carved the dark shadows of the trees. She allowed herself time to simply breathe, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal as cool air washed over her like a balm.
In her mind’s eye, she was still watching Laurent—in the restaurant, in the kitchen, in the cherry orchard, holding out fruit to her on juice-stained fingers. Standing in front of her, torso bared, in the temple of Pan. Pulling the hair band from her ponytail and spreading her hair around her shoulders. She tugged out the ponytail she’d been wearing since her afternoon session in the kitchen, liberating heavy waves of copper, letting drifts of it fall across her face as she shook it out. She could almost taste the cherries he’d fed her, the scent of the wet fruit rising to her nostrils even now.
She walked as if dreaming until she ran out of avenue. In front of her stood another small folly, but this time with columns and a pointed roof rather than a dome. Cold air embraced her as she stepped inside and dried leaves crackled under her feet. There was no statue in this temple—just a bare, flat altar stone that took up most of the space inside. She leaned against it, breathing deeply.
She lay on her back on the cold, flat stone, imagining she was waiting for someone to come to her. Waiting for Laurent to come to her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It tasted like the air in an old church or crypt. A familiar smell, but other-worldly at the same time. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest to stay warm.

The Love Apple
Zak Jane Keir
From time to time, he noticed that she was looking in his direction, even studying him, and he actually began to consider approaching her directly. Then a big bearded man with two subbie girls on leads came over to the table, calling out greetings to the people sitting on the far side of it, which meant that everyone reshuffled to accommodate the newcomers, and by the time it was all sorted out, not only had the direction of the conversation irrevocably changed, but the woman in the corset had gone.
He spent most of the rest of the night in the manner to which he was more accustomed: wandering from the bar to the dungeon to the edges of the dance floor and back again. He tried to tell himself he was not really looking for her; that he didn’t know her and there was no reason to suppose she would have any interest in interacting with him, but he kept on scanning the club, hoping for a glimpse of her pure white blouse. Surely that alone would make her easy enough to spot among the black rubber, leather and PVC that most other people were encased in. Little by little, his enjoyment of the event began to fade, and after a while he decided to head for home before he could spoil his own night any further. While he was waiting for the cloakroom, he saw her again, now with a black sheepskin coat over the white blouse. She had a silver-topped black walking cane, he noticed, and couldn’t help asking himself if it did double duty across a deserving bottom from time to time. He tried not to stare in a manner that might offend her, but she noticed him anyway, and paused beside him.
“You’re very well-read,” she said, and then she touched his arm lightly and moved away. Even when he’d been waiting twenty minutes for the night bus, he imagined he could still feel the imprint of her long, slender fingers on his skin.

A Dance of Ocean Magic
Elizabeth Black
The tang of citrus invigorated Sierra Palmer as she sliced into a blood orange. Her blood rushed through her veins, and her skin tingled with excitement. She stood in her kitchen, cutting up fruit for a salad she had dreamt of making for nearly two months. Her exhilaration colored everything in her view, giving her beach house a magical aura. She looked at her expansive living room and patio and smiled at her good fortune. Her home nestled on the northeastern Massachusetts coast amid salt marshes and ocean breezes. She had inherited it from her mother and her grandmother before her. All three women practiced ocean magic, and the location so close to the roiling Atlantic only strengthened their powers. Sierra closed her eyes and prayed to the ocean goddesses Yemaya, Lady Asherah of the Sea, Amphitrite, and Cymopoleia, wishing for the warm touch of the man of her dreams who would appear at her doorstep very soon.
The reflection of the setting sun on the window glass gleamed pink and gold; a beautiful tableau that warmed her heart. The glow reflected off her ocean blue walls. Her cat walked across the floor, stretched, and headed to his bed for a nap. That creature didn’t have a care in the world, and Sierra envied it. The crisp smell of salt water wafted about her, and she inhaled to take in the briny scent. Waves crashed on the beach. Seagulls called in the distance amid the roaring surf, setting a mood of romance and enchantment. She felt gloriously alive, and her evening was only beginning. The French doors to her patio stood open to the unseasonably warm weather. The day felt more like a lazy spring than the end of winter. A storm brewed far out at sea—a Nor’easter but she refused to allow the threat of a squall to ruin her evening. She shivered with excitement over the thought of Tibor Dali knocking at her front door any moment now.

The Cherry Orchard
Vanessa de Sade
“Your usual room, Chérie?” the older woman asks in an accent that bears no resemblance to French, but Magda nods and plays her part. And thus we find her, on this stiflingly hot Saturday afternoon, in that little airless chamber on the third floor, impatient and already naked, waiting for her paramour.
And, though some say that Madame’s Automations lack the rough masculinity of those of other houses, with their Marcel-waved hair, fine features and soft latex skin, Magda finds them long-running and insistent, their jerky clockwork cocks molded exquisitely into a permanent state of arousal and fitted with small vibrational units that rub oh so softly on your clit; plus, beneath the surface, there are intricate Swiss watch-maker’s mechanisms that skilfully delay ejaculation until they feel the tight clench of pussy muscles well absorbed in the throes of climaxing.
But now a Maid brings the machine that has been ordered and she looks approvingly at Magda’s denuded body, while straightening imaginary creases in the bedding. “This is Victor,” she says by way of introduction. “He has been fully wound and will be everything you have ordered, Miss, possibly even more. Enjoy!” And she trails a soft hand imperceptibly over the curve of Magda’s alabaster behind as she leaves, a wistful look in her eyes.
“Good day, Magda,” Victor sing-songs in his slightly too-high voice, like an antique clockwork nightingale trilling in its golden cage, and there is only a tiny—almost indiscernible4—pause between his stock greeting and her name, a tiny click as the delicate jeweled gears in his voice box seamlessly select the correct identifier disc. “Which position do you require for satisfaction today?” And Magda smiles at his directness. She has heard tales of a machine in the brothels of Buenos Aries which can actually hold a conversation and seduce its users, but none of Madame’s robots are capable of such subtlety.


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