Licked

By Rob Rosen, Jillian Boyd, Suanne Schafer and 5 more

Sit back and enjoy seven lip-smackingly sensual stories of all kinds of oral pleasure. Stories of nostalgia for the taste of a lover, long distance relationships, and revenge. Stories taking in both the distant future and pleasures in the past. Oracles, ranchers and café cooks, all united by their love of using their mouth. And tongue. And fingers, for assistance.

Edited by Jillian Boyd (Spy Games - Flappers, Jazz and Valentino) Licked is a tribute to the act of oral sex - to the intimacy, trust and the taste of your lover, the scent, the feelings the act invokes in both the giver and receiver. With stories from the likes of Rob Rosen, Jessica Taylor and Dale Cameron Lowry, Licked is a sizzling fictional exploration of some of the many ways oral sex can inspire so much more than just a hot flash of arousal.

Come in. Have a taste.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: Dec 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781785383588

Rob Rosen

Rob Rosen has written for well over fifty anthologies. He lives with his strikingly handsome husband, Kenny, in San Francisco. You can visit him at TheRobRosen.com or contact him at [e-mail].

Book preview

Just Thirsty

Robin Watergrove

I scoop up a forkful of noodles and shovel them into my mouth before all the broth can drip back into the bowl. I slurp and Leah giggles.

I have the phone pinned between my ear and my shoulder. I nearly destroyed my old phone by dripping soup onto it, so she bought me a nice pair of headphones with a mic... which I destroyed by dripping soup onto them. I haven’t told her about that yet.

Speakerphone doesn’t do it for me; I can’t hear all her little sighs and murmurs. And I need to listen carefully for when she starts to sound sleepy because she won’t tell me. She’s on the east coast and I’m on the west. We talk every night when she’s in bed and I’m eating dinner. She’ll try to stay up till my bedtime - 3 am in her time zone - if I let her.

Only two days until I fly out to see her, when I’ll take care of her properly. I’m looking forward to making her tea and wrapping her up in a blanket and carrying her off to bed early. I blow through her life like a girlfriend hurricane once a month or so, demanding all her time and attention for a few days.

I hear rustling and picture her burrowing into her huge comforter. She’s never warm enough, no matter how many blankets she has.

Tony asked me how the long distance thing was working out, I say.

Oh yeah? She definitely sounds sleepy. What’d you say?

"I was like ‘it’s great’ and he’s like ‘that must be hard.’ I take another bite of noodles. But I just shrugged and said ‘yeah, I dunno, I’m just in it for the sex.’"

She snorts. It’s the kind of joke she likes. Blunt. Unapologetic. Mostly untrue. The sex is amazing, but it’s amazing the way water is amazing when you’ve been dying of thirst all day. It’s just so unbelievably cold and crisp and pure. It feels like drinking the essence of water. That’s sex with Leah. Even the phone sex is good.

The longer we do this long distance thing, the more I think this wait-wait-wait-binge pattern might be what sex is for me. Is that just my parched throat insisting no water has ever tasted as good as this water? Maybe. I just know it really does seem like the best I’ve ever had.

Some people have sex by rubbing their bodies together in just the right way. They’re really good at listening to sensations and figuring out which ones they want more of, and which ones they want less of. I think these people are the ones who can plan sex - schedule it, even. I’ve been in relationships with people like that. Those relationships are not really about sex.

For me, sex is about getting what you want. It feels good because you want it, not because you reverse-engineered the exact way your body wants to be touched. Sex with Leah feels amazing because I want it so badly. All the time.

The want builds and builds to bursting right before I fly out to see her. She’s in grad school, so even though we’re the same age, I feel older. I work for my paycheques and spend them all on plane tickets to see her. Like a real adult.

Leah yawns and I tell her to go to sleep. I say, I love you. Fifty-two hours.

She makes a muffled cooing sound into her blankets and waits for me to hang up first.

***

I’m packing my only suitcase and daydreaming about her. I have a puffy coat that I only wear when I’m in her horribly windy and wet winter city. I squeeze it tight as I roll it up, forcing the air out.

I’ve gone down on her everywhere it seems feasible. Her place, her car, the break room where she works, countless bathrooms and closets and even a back office I had to pick a lock to get into. She still had a roommate when we started dating and I was ready to pay the other half of the rent to get that girl the hell out of there. I’m not the jealous type, but trying to keep things PG in the communal areas was killing me.

I haven’t made her come yet. But I’m working on it. We don’t talk about it, because that’s a great way to get a girl to freeze up. It’s also nearly impossible to convince a girl who thinks she’s had an orgasm that she probably hasn’t. The point isn’t to get her over some invisible goal line; it’s just that I know I can take her higher. I want to find that peak.

She’s done that escalating moan thing, where it’s way too linear and too fast to be a real reflection of what she’s feeling. That makes me feel like she thinks she’s taking too long, or that all I want is to make her come, or that the expectation of an orgasm is stressing her out. It’s hard to stop faking orgasms once you start, so I told her about my No I Just Came Rule. She agreed to never announce an orgasm and I agreed never to ask.

I know every orgasm is different, but the truth of it is, if you’ve felt one pulsing around your fingers, you can recognise another. So I don’t need her to tell me. We’ll both know when it happens.

I think I’m getting closer because she lets me go down on her longer and longer each time. I tell her I’m disappointed if it doesn’t last at least 90 minutes and she rolls her eyes like I’m joking. I start as slowly as I can and stick with one motion for as long as my tongue muscles will let me, before switching it up. I tell her to breathe deep, to push out the bottom of her stomach when she inhales. I tell her I like how her belly looks like that, which makes her laugh. I know she doesn’t want to be coached, but she’ll let me, as long as I’m not obvious about it.

She tries everything I ask her to try. And the last time I had her bed all afternoon, she was so loose, breathing slow and deep, that her legs started to shake.

I got her a vibrator but I haven’t given it to her yet. She knows it’s hers when she wants it, but hasn’t asked for it. I’m curious if she can come by relaxing into my stroking and licking instead of succumbing to the vibrator’s unstoppable stimulation. I wouldn’t call that failure - anything that feels good is worth doing - but we’re creeping along one set of tracks right now. Maybe I’m afraid of derailing us.

The vibrator’s box is still in my suitcase from the last time I flew out to be with her. I throw a pair of nail clippers in beside it.

Leah trusts me. I’ve never been with a girl that made me feel so strong. Infallible, even. Her trust makes me brace myself against the wind, eager to be trustworthy. I am constant, when I used to waver. I stand taller, speak slower. I am confident not because she thinks me faultless - I’ve fucked up more than once - but because she finds me steadying.

I get off on my own confidence. That sounds perverse, but it makes sense if you break it down. We feel sexy when our best qualities are on display, when we’re appreciated for the things we think are most worth appreciating. Tell a girl who loves her curves she has a nice ass, and she’ll get wet shaking it for you. So Leah tells me she needs me and I lean into it. I’m protective and gentle and just a little territorial. I take care of her. I give her what she needs. I make her feel good.

She must like it too because we barely leave her apartment when I’m in town. If I’m not taking her clothes off like she’s a wrapped present, she’s laying back on cushions like an invitation. We have to have all our serious conversations over the phone, or when we’re out in public, bound by the rules of decorum in a coffee shop or restaurant. When it’s just her and me, I can’t help myself. I take care of her the best way I know how.

***

Leah picks me up at the airport and all I can think is oh my god, I forgot. I forgot about this. It’s not like I forgot what she smells like, but I forgot this. What it does to me. How my eyes drift and my heart lifts. I nuzzle her neck while she drives, lazy and lost in the feeling. My hand drifts up her thigh and explores under her skirt. No underwear. I tickle the short hairs on her mound and she huffs. She grins and says I’ll be paying her auto body bill if we crash.

I’m still jittery from the long wait, too aware of time passing around us. It’s just a matter of hours, just a couple days, before I have to leave her again. My heart aches, too big in my chest, happy and miserable at once.

The first night we