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  Desiring More

  Synopsis

  In this collection of steamy stories, a rich variety of lovers desire more—more from a lover, more from themselves, and more from life. Their erotic journeys in search of answers range from oh-so-hot to incendiary.

  Adventure with them on their exciting trysts in unusual locales—an empty theater, an ice fishing hut, a sex club, a remote hot spring. Powerful transformation occurs when opposites attract, whether it’s a rich housewife and her genderqueer gardener, or a shy divorcee and a latex-clad dominatrix.

  This collection has something for everyone, from sweet tales of little old ladies reminiscing about a lifetime of lovemaking to gritty explorations of jaded sex workers finding true love together. A goddess and a Valkyrie. A model and a two-spirit, lone wolf. Even the classic English teacher meets gym teacher.

  Spanning differences of race, age, and class, these queer couplings ultimately find pleasure and empowerment together.

  Desiring More

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  By the Author

  Date Night

  Desiring More

  Desiring More

  © 2021 By Raven Sky. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63679-038-1

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: September 2021

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Barbara Ann Wright

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Tammy Seidick

  eBook Design by Toni Whitaker

  Acknowledgments

  My first thank you for this book goes to Paula. I’ve never had a lover enter my imaginative world as deeply and fully as you. I suspect my characters are almost as alive for you as they are for me. You provided inspiration, encouragement, critique, and even fan fiction. Thank you for believing in my stories and in me.

  Thank you to my partner, Shelley, as well, for listening patiently to each story, and for holding space for me to get lost in creating, while keeping our household running smoothly. Practical support is an underrated gift for creative types. Thank you for all the love and the snacks!

  Another big, genuine thank you is owed to the Bold Strokes Books team, for supporting lesbian voices and for making a commitment to amplify racialized voices too. The fraught connection between Emma and Win in “First Contact,” as well as the inner turmoil that Sarah struggles with over her mixed-race heritage in “Tough as Nails,” are manifestations of my own struggles, as well as the struggles of my home country of Canada, where indigenous people and settlers have a lot of healing and reconciliation to attend to.

  In real life, as in these pages, there is always hope. I’ve written these stories over many years, and this book has given me a precious opportunity to look over the range of my erotic writing and to discover commonalities. One thread that weaves through all of them is the transformational, healing power of sex and love. In my stories, characters struggle. They struggle to find their voice, to find love, to find understanding, to belong. But through interaction with another who is different, they find something that they needed. They leave the connection transformed. Sex can be mundane. But it can also be magical. Most of my stories are about encounters with difference. Someone who is another age, another race, another personality type. Xenophobia, the fear of difference, is the root of so many of our world’s problems. But in my stories, I try to highlight how diversity is a source of strength. And sexy as all hell!

  I want to dedicate this book to the all the feisty women who refuse to settle. Who desire and seek out more from life. Who follow their hearts and their pussies wherever they should be called. Settling is a bit of a fraught concept for me, because as a writer, I sometimes wonder why I keep writing erotica when I could be writing in more respected genres. But erotica calls to me because I think the world could use more pleasure, more joy. After all, erotica need not be formulaic smut focused purely on body parts coming together. I try to infuse my erotica with literary elements, historical research, spiritual truths, feminist empowerment, and a hearty dash of good humour. I can only hope that I’ve succeeded and that the stories in this collection will bring multiple forms of pleasure to those who encounter them.

  Finally, if you are desiring more, dear reader, may you find what you are seeking.

  Part One: Faraway and Close at Hand

  Travel Erotica

  Fuck Me Like a Canadian

  There is a heat to attraction. An energy. You can feel it. Undeniable. This was the last place I expected to feel it. Not least of all because it’s illegal here. Is it punishable by death? I strained to remember my online research pre-departure. Morocco. LGBTQ rights. What did Google have to reveal about that? My mind blanked. Because her hands were on my naked flesh, lathering me in a traditional black olive oil soap. Something in her actions was more than indifferent. Something in her eyes, when they happened to catch mine, was not impersonal.

  She put a kiis on her hand, a kind of scrubbing glove, and asked me to lie down. I arranged myself on the tile floor, suddenly self-conscious, and she set to work, eradicating days of shower-less mountain trekking and sweaty desert camel riding from my body. It was an odd sensation right on the line between pain and pleasure. I wondered if I should feel embarrassed, but the hammam, the public bath, has no place for modesty.

  The bath attendant noticed my tattoo, hesitated in her otherwise practiced motions, and asked, “Is this the sign of your people?” I didn’t know what to say. The tattoo shows two interlocking women’s symbols in rainbow colors, a throwback to my heady first days of coming out. What could I risk here? But she headed me off, lifting a long and silky mane of hair to show her own surprising tattoo gracing the back of her neck. I recognized the symbol. “Berber,” she said. “My people.” Berbers are the original people of Morocco, the first inhabitants who lived here before the Arabs came and colonized.

  I complimented the design, and she smiled. I tried not to pay attention, to dismiss the electric erotic tension. But this was where it started. This improbable romance between a white tourist and a Berber beauty. Unbelievable.

  She complimented my dreads and invited me to a women’s party. I knew enough to read between the lines and accepted the invitation with a mix of dread and excitement. This was dangerous. And yet I’d never roamed the planet seeking the comfort of the known. The thrill of travel was about stepping outside of everything I knew and risking misadventure, and so I went to the party. All women. All gay, from what I could glean. A secret underworld of sisters who looked out for one another. I was enthralled.

  We fucked for the first time there, Till and I. After a few hours spent drinking wine and singing incomprehensible Berber songs, occasionally dancing with ludicrous abandon, she pulled me into a private room and shut the door meaningfully. The music was turned up outside, and though I spoke another language, I read the signs correctly. She was flushed from dancing, pink-cheeked, eyes afire, an
d I felt nervous, unsure what was expected in this new context. But I didn’t have to do anything. She was intentional. Stripped for me knowingly, a mocking smile teasing the corners of her mouth. And I just stood there, mesmerized and drunkenly stupefied by the sight of all that undulating tan flesh so enticingly within reach.

  Her breasts were full and weighty, her stomach achingly round, hips perfect curves. I was overcome. Do I make a move now? I wondered, questioning my role in this foreign interaction, but she left little room for such questions, her fingers working deftly to rid me of my clothing, the last barrier between us.

  That night was nothing less than torturous. Till loved every inch of my exterior, caressing, licking, biting, lightly scratching every morsel of my flesh but never entering me. Always careful. I remembered things I’d read in a biography about a Western trekker working his way across the Sahara, encountering intimate cultural confusion with Moroccan women along the way until he learned the unwritten rule that you could play, but you could not penetrate, for that was the prerogative of future husbands. And so he learned to “paint,” a not uncommon Middle Eastern form of foreplay, in which a man uses the tip of his penis like a paintbrush to create elaborate patterns upon the beloved’s vulva.

  I remembered this through clenched jaw and thrusting hips as Till used the tip of her breast to tantalize me. Her nipples slowly tracing the shape of my lips, spreading wetness into intricate patterns, lulling, maddening, intoxicating, un-fucking-bearable. So close. So fucking enraging. I teetered on the precipice of climax until tears sprang to my eyes with the frustration of knowing that it would never happen, not without the hot rush of her fingers inside me. Was it wrong to ask? Was it unthinkable here?

  Her fingers took over for her ample breast, continuing the maddening artwork, and my whole body trembled on the edge. I couldn’t care. I grabbed her by the back of her hair to pull her close and half whispered, half growled, “I want you inside me…please.”

  Her rhythm halted, her face registered surprise, and then a small smile upturned her cheeks, and she was inside me. Warmth flooded me, concentrated where she moved within me, and within a few short minutes, I was coming loudly as she was laughing and trying to shush me while the music outside increased rather thoughtfully in volume.

  That was how we started, Till and me.

  What a whirlwind we were. Reckless. Giddy with lust. What she saw in me I was never sure about. Was I just a story she would impress the local closet dykes with? A story about her silly fling with a weird-haired foreigner, a white girl she’d managed to seduce? Mind you, was that how I would speak of her, albeit in reverse? Would I similarly reduce this to some tale of an alien dalliance with a mysterious woman from a faraway land? Who here was fetishizing the other, and what was the pure curiosity of inexplicable natural attraction? I couldn’t say. I just knew that I was enthralled with her, and it was wrapped up in the differences she embodied.

  I traveled a lot, hostel hopping from country to country, and so I knew the sweet intensity of a vacation romance was partially about its inherently time-limited nature. This could not last, and we both knew it. One morning, waking in my tiny hostel room, she asked me about my plans. I told her I had another week in Morocco, and Essaouira was next on my hope-to-see list.

  She avoided my eyes, and fiddling with one of my dreads, she mentioned she could take time off from the hammam, that her boss, whose home we had partied at that first night, would understand. She was painfully beautiful in that moment, vulnerable, desirous. I toyed with pushing her boundaries.

  Watching her face carefully, I teased, “Only if you finally let me fuck you.” This had been a struggle from the beginning. Till was generously attentive but always refused to let me return the attention.

  Many feelings crossed her face in rapid succession, but she settled on joy. “Before you leave,” she promised and snuggled into me.

  And so we said good-bye to bustling Marrakesh with its scammy snake charmers, transvestite belly dancers, and aggressive street hustlers. We said hello to the seaside, to gulls and open-air cafés and hippie wanderers. We knew our time together was ending, but that just concentrated everything. My second to last night, we sat in a seaside bar by the beach and watched boys playing soccer in the sand. We ordered beers. The waiter brought them but frowned at Till, disapproving.

  She looked him right in the eye and chugged. I laughed. “Do you know what my name means?” Till inquired. I shook my head. “It’s Tilleli. In Berber, that means freedom.” She laughed. “My mother should have named me more carefully.”

  I asked about her family, but her eyes went hard, and she just drank her beer, so I stared out at the water and wondered about this woman I barely knew. About how in a few days, I would be back in Canada where I could be the lesbiannest lesbian who ever lesbianed, and nobody would care, and she’d still be here, hiding, risking her freedom with every encounter.

  “Do you ever think of leaving?” I asked after a pause.

  “This is my life,” she said simply.

  I pushed. “Yeah, but you could go somewhere else, somewhere where you could be freer,” I insisted.

  She turned slowly to look at me, the hardness still in her eyes, and said absolutely nothing. She turned back to the water. I’d said something stupid, but I didn’t know why or what. What did I not understand? I couldn’t know.

  The last night, we fought. There were tears and apologies, and “I just don’t want you to go.” The usual, typical, doomed-romance girl-drama. But it was potent. Emotional tension shifts so easily to sexual tension, and she fucked me furiously up against the wall of our little room, fucked me like there was no tomorrow, because there wasn’t. Not for us. And when we were done and exhausted, a crumpled sweaty heap on the floor, I saw she was crying.

  I never know what to do when women cry. I went to wipe her tears away, but she grabbed my hand and held it tightly, looked me in the eyes intently, and said, “I want you to fuck me like a Canadian.” I started to laugh because it was so incongruous, this sudden ludicrous image I had of fucking her up against a snowman. She was wearing only a toque, and I was licking maple syrup from her naked, shivering flesh as a friendly moose ambled by. It was stupid and inexplicable, and I could see I was offending her, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

  She threw on clothes and made to leave. I hurried to stop her, but she was out the door. I dressed hastily and ran after her. She’d gone to the courtyard. It was after midnight, and the air was cool. I could see the night sky just bursting with stars from here. I tried to explain. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know what you mean by ‘like a Canadian.’ It confused me, and I laughed. I’m sorry.” It was a long, drawn-out affair, but eventually, I won her back over and figured out what she meant. She wanted penetration, unusual for non-married women who play here. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s not like you’d be the first. Don’t be so full of yourself.” Great. Because insults and anger were the way to set the mood. But I knew it was just about me leaving, and so I moved in to make this work.

  I grabbed her face in both hands and forced her to look at me, to stop, to feel the way our breasts were pressed up against one another. I didn’t say anything, just waited for her eyes to soften, and when I knew she felt it, then I kissed her. Slow, sweet, holding back, a shy first sort of kiss. I felt her shiver. We both smiled. I kissed her again, savoring her taste, the warmth of her breath mingling with mine. Her arms were around my waist, and my tongue began to dance with hers, so slow, so sweet. I went to lift her shirt. She raised her arms, inviting, and I watched as the fabric rolled across her torso and full breasts, over her head and down to the floor. I brought my mouth close to hers, and it opened expectantly, but I didn’t kiss her mouth, I brought my lips to her jawline, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. I lingered here. Cupped the swell of her in my hands and teased her nipples for a time. She shifted her weight and made small noises of pleasure.
My hands slipped beneath the waist of her skirt, and I pulled it down the length of her legs. In her hasty dressing, there was no time for underthings, and she was magnificently naked.

  I looked around for an appropriate space. There was a stray towel by an intricately tiled fountain, and I laid it down with extravagant care, smoothing all the corners and acting ridiculously like it was a bed fit for a queen. We both smiled, and she approached, kneeled on the towel, and tried to unbutton me, but I demurred, just as she had done many times before. This was all her. She lay down, her eyes twinkling with a faint hint of daring, her knees up and locked together. I like to remember her right there. In that moment. In a courtyard in Essaouira. Surrounded by snoring tourists. Just waiting for me to fuck her silly. Looking so utterly tempting in the moonlight. In my memories, I linger here.

  In reality, I didn’t. I went to town. I’d been waiting so long to touch her that eager would be an understatement. I held her eyes, met their daring, and opened her legs. I feasted on her like a man dying of thirst in the desert feasts at an oasis. I wish I could say I was more suave, more controlled, but I was drunk with delight and abandon. She came before I entered her. So we dallied before take two, losing ourselves in bottomless kisses.

  I was deliriously tired. That might have contributed to the random, uninvited images that kept popping into my head as we built up to another go. “Fuck me like a Canadian.” It was still funny. This time we were on a frozen pond, hockey players skating all around us, politely averting their eyes as I used my mouth to roll up her rim…oh yeah! That’s stupid, stop thinking about that.

  I focused on the task at hand. I had primed her clit sufficiently now. She was slick with desire, and now was the time to give her what she wanted. I slipped a finger inside her gingerly. She was tight, but her whole body reacted, and I knew it was good. I worked away, patiently, focused, listening intently to her reactions and adjusting my pace and fingers accordingly. Her breath was speeding up. Her hips were encouraging a particular rhythm. I kept at it. Now she was peaking, now we were getting there, her hips became more insistent, her sounds more unthinking. But it was a long freaking climb to her summit. My arms began to ache, my fingers to cramp, but I kept on trekking. She was flooding now. I could feel her wetness splashing up my arm, almost to my elbow. I held in there. I kept the beat. I didn’t miss a step because I was Canadian, goddammit, and we were dependable little beavers. The Mountie always got his man. My country was counting on me. She wanted to be fucked like a Canadian, eh? The glory of the maple leaf depended right now on my ability to keep this pumping steady, adding just the right twist at just the right moment.