Fur: A Little Book of Erotic Stories for Women

By Vanessa de Sade

Fur is a book of erotica about women for women; an adoring love song to female sexual desire, a passionate sonnet to the feminine form and a heart-felt celebration of woman in all her glorious shapes and sizes.
Share the delights of first time sex, solo & voyeuristic sex, lesbian sex and, of course, sex with men. Celebrate real women of every age, race and size from teenagers to seniors and join them as they experience the real erotic delights of unashamedly female-centric sex in a myriad of forms and situations.
If your heart beats with aggressive female sexuality you'll devour Fur and be left begging for more - it really is your kind of book…

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: Mar 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781785384325

Vanessa de Sade

Vanessa de Sade is a thirty-something full-figure gal who likes to write hot stories about real women exploring the darker regions of their own sexuality. She is the author of several popular novellas plus the collection, Rubyfruit Jungle.

Book preview

happening.

Fur - A Love Song

She likes to lie

Alone

And stroke her own brown fur,

Like she did

When, allowed to stay up late

In her pretty pink pyjamas,

She would press her face to

Her mother’s musquash stole

And breathe its musky aroma

Of night air and

City bars,

Tobacco smoke and strange perfumes,

Just as she now finds the fur

That grows like stealthy moss

In the crease of her underarms

Tantalising to the tongue,

It’s texture

Telling tales of tender touching,

Amidst lingering bouquets of shampoo

And musky sandalwood soap,

Dusty incense aromas

Like beloved kittens

Which she shares with only those

She trusts to explore

Those warm jungles of her

Secret, sacred, fur

Which, normally, she conceals like attic Jews,

Against the creeping depilatory forces

Of lady razors and inexperienced callow boys.

Part One

Walk, Like a Panther, Tonight

The Spite House

We found her naked save for her blood-red bathing suit, washed up on the sand spit where the river estuary joins the restless sea in a loveless kiss, her long pipe-cleaner limbs blue-white and splayed out like a broken doll, her body cold as ice. My companion immediately presumed her dead and wanted to send to the village for the carpenter and his hearse, but I was sure that I detected a faint pulse and so we two staggering old women, our crinolined dresses flapping about us like hump-backed carrion crows, manhandled her lifeless body indoors and chaffed her wrists and ankles, listening for some flicker of a heartbeat in her cold and porcelain chest.

And my ancestral home has stood for centuries like a crooked sentinel on the jagged rocks of this estuary - a Gothic house of steps, an architectural magazine once dubbed it - with its myriad of narrow turreted windows and unceasing flights of winding stairs leading to floor after abandoned floor of constricted, dusty rooms. They say that a village woman fell with child to my ancestor and demanded a palace, so out of spite he built her this shard of stone upon the outermost promontory, a windswept Bluebeard’s tower that defies the icy northern gales which rattle its shutters and drain it of every crumb of warmth, even back in the days when fires still burned in all the grates and a fleet of rustling maids slid from hidden panels behind the now damp-spoiled Chinese silk hangings and tiptoed from room to room.

Today, though, only the glass orchid house still exudes a steamy heat, and while my companion and I shiver at our toilet each morning a bent old man in a green baize apron meticulously keeps the boiler stoked for the preservation of the waxy specimens which luxuriate like voluptuous wantons in the damp embrace of its faux humidity; and so it is to that place that we take the girl now and lay her upon the duck-boards of the mossy floor, her dead skin gleaming like moonstone upon the raw ochre of those worn wooden slats.

And, gradually, gradually, like a night sky reluctantly giving way to a grudging grey dawn, some colour finally returns to her pallid features and her eyelids flicker like static on a television screen. She is freezing, my companion exclaims, and the fabric of her costume is waterlogged and like ice, we should undress her before pneumonia sets in. And so, as she scurries off to some attic bedroom in search of blankets, I cradle this broken marionette in my arms and slowly denude her, inching the wet fabric down her long spindly legs and feeling it stick and resist, until I finally have it at her feet in a brooding pool of blood.

And, though I know that I should hold her for warmth, I am uncomfortable with even this justified intimacy, and so I leave her lying as she is on the damp wood, like some undraped flapper-fringed heroine, a toppled white-marble Venus amongst the heady orchid jungle, though even now I cannot tear my eyes away from her nakedness, her pale body like a snowdrift, straight as a fledgling boy’s save for her two tiny beesting breasts with nipples the colour of raw garnet. But it is not to these icy plovers’ eggs that my sinful eyes rivet, but instead I stare like a schoolboy at the hinge of her thighs, and the thick pelt of fur that grows there, wolverine, like a wild beast watching me, its mouth hungry beyond those soft pink lips...

But now my companion bustles back into the room, her arms overflowing with musty blankets, her own widow’s weeds rustling in a chorus of petticoats as she lowers her bulk and covers the girl. Though I fancy I catch a glint of the same forbidden feelings that are currently coursing like a virus through my own veins in her normally impassive sea opal eyes...

***

The girl gives her name as Mary, and, though I am sure that this is a lie, the nomen suits her and we do not question it, my companion and I, clucking around our new charge like two worn-out old mother hens. Nothing is thrown away in this house and even the bones of my ancestors moulder in their sealed crypts hewn into the rock below; and generation upon generation’s clothing lies preserved in the distant attics, layer upon layer of forgotten sartorial gems in old seafarers’ trunks sandwiched between gossamer-thin sheets of glassine paper, reeking of camphor and fragile to the touch. And so we climb the shaky ladders with precarious candles and find her clothing that matches the era of her hair. Monochrome Fair-Isle-knit sweaters and short Prince of Wales tweed skirts; silken flapper dresses in scarab-beetle hues; soft cashmere-wool jodhpurs and waistcoats in muted heathers and moss greens.

And she insists on trying each ensemble and modelling it for us like a department store mannequin parading the emporium’s most expensive furs before an adulterous husband, and we watch transfixed as she wriggles out of one set of clothing and into another, her body long and white as she slithers out of the constricting garments and stretches, felinely nude, before taking up another one, and, like some pollen-gathering insect, it is as though she takes food from our barely-suppressed longings and blooms before our very eyes.

For it is many years since I have known a lover’s touch, becalmed as I am in this turret fortress jutting out into a restless sea, a niche already carved for me in the crypt of my ancestors; my companion, likewise, a woman of mature countenance come to me in widow’s weeds which she has never shed. And yet I desire this girl like the wolf hungers for the untouched virginal flesh of Red Riding Hood, and my dreams are tormented by lurid images of such perversity that I cannot bring myself to recount them here, suffice to say that they are of no chaste nature regarding our unexpected ward.

And, as I watch my companion grow thin and wan while the Mary child fattens, sleep deserts me completely and I nightly pace the empty floors in the small hours like a caged beast in the zoological garden, listening to the moan of the wind on the creaking widow walk, the distant keening of the sea below as it laps seductively at the craggy rock of our foundations, a siren song of debauchery and desire calling to me incessantly and making my very body hunger for her heady poison. And it is many decades since I gazed at my own undraped form in the fly-spattered silvering of the pier glass in my chamber and I fear that the years will not have been kind to me as I undress tonight by the guttering candlelight, but I persist and stare at the old woman who now stands before me, her breasts low slung but still cherry-topped with the ruby-red nipples of my youth, belly sagging but thighs white and supple, and I walk slowly but determinedly past the seaweed strands of decaying Nottingham lace billowing in the draft from the cracked window panes and wind my way down to the lower floor where my companion has her rooms.

And it is no surprise to me to hear sounds of pleasure emanating from within her closet, the guttural whore’s moans of a woman giving free reign to her inner appetites, and I throw open the door to behold her unfettered nakedness as she lies on the bed in rapture while the creature who has given her name as Mary feeds from the hot and honeysuckle nectar which flows freely from her slit, the very orifice wanton and voluptuous like a ripe peach. And, though she growls at me like a rabid animal, she does not hamper me as I bodily lift up the changeling sprite who has inveigled its way into our hearts and drag it to the turret room, whereupon I cast it firmly into the hungry sea from whence it came.

Art Class

This will not be the kind of art class story that you are expecting. I will not be chronicling the erotic insecurities of a fat-bottomed girl baring her all to a group of students and finding self-confidence and true love; nor will it be the lustful ramblings of a middle-aged matron ogling the tackle of young bucks. No, this story is one of quiet infatuation, not with some naked Adonis podium-paraded before my hungry eyes, but of my unhealthy absorption with an enigmatic forty-something artist in a moss-green corduroy jacket.

But, let us begin at the beginning. I live for my art. Which, I know, is a very noble sentiment and all very fine and dandy to boot, but in the real world my art does precious little in return by way of paying bills or putting food on the table. Thus, unable to afford my own models, I have become a perpetual haunter of local authority life drawing classes in drafty community halls, where, for a few pounds, I can compile endless reference sketches of artists’ mannequins who would otherwise be beyond my limited budget.

There is nothing sexual in this preoccupation, and I sketch handsome young athletes and saggy-bellied grandmothers with equal care and attention, meticulously filing their frozen-in-time bodies for future reference in the mortuary-like storage drawers of my studio, a whole cabinet of cryogenic depictions just waiting their turn to burst upon the page in some yet-to-be conceived blaze of glory.

And on this particular Tuesday the class is no different from the many I have attended so many times before. The model is a diminutive mother-of-two with a dimpled behind and shy smile, while the cluster of erstwhile sketchers propping their easels around her undraped form are the usual assortment of divorced ladies taking up an ‘interest’ in the hopes of meeting Mr Right, Mark Two; and furtive, slightly malodorous, old men who come clutching discount-store sketch pads and slyly ogling when they think that no-one is looking.

And amongst this crowd of miscreants the inscrutable Zander sticks out like a sore thumb. A quietly stylish man in his own well-worn way; he looks more like a slightly down-at-heel architect than a painter or sculptor, but he draws with a fine untutored style, using a crowquill pen to capture each pose in clear and economical lines. And, while he is outwardly affable I note that he keeps himself mainly to himself, avoiding the clumsy overtures of the divorced matrons at the innumerable tea breaks with polite efficiency, and I watch amusedly from my corner as they eat up his departing back with their pleading puppy-dog eyes.

And though I usually remain coldly Switzerland-like in the midst of all this frustrated flirting, there is something about this one that fascinates me, and, against my better judgement, even I eventually capitulate and make my own overture to him at the end week three’s session, just as the golden September nights have given way to a chill