About Naughty
Edited by M. Rode
248 pages
ISBN: 1-933389-07-9
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc
What is Naughty? To some folks it’s the opposite of nice. To some people it’s pure raunch. In the Naughty anthology, edited by M. Rode, it’s something extraordinary. The stories in the Naughty nudge. They wink. They hide in dark corners and do things that no one would do in polite company.
These stories are bursting at the seams with sex, intrigue, and the occasional spanking. The characters will engage you and their actions will leave you gasping. All of the favorite Torquere Press authors are here, including BA Tortuga and Kathleen Dale, as well as newcomers such as AJ Grant and Alex Exley. Check it out today and have some Naughty fun!
Sample
Methods of Preservation By Julia Talbot
''I have a complaint. I should like to see the curator, please.''
The young gentleman behind the desk blinked at him from behind spectacles so thick that his eyes appeared froggish. ''I am sorry, sir, but one does not simply demand to see the curator. If you like, you may lodge your complaint with me, and I shall pass it on.''
''I think not.'' Jeremy Davison pulled a card from his pocket and handed it over. He had long ago decided that while ''noted classicist and historian'' carried little enough weight, he might as well use the title where he could. That meant museums, naturally.
The lad's cheeks went pink, and he hopped to his feet. ''Sir Davison! What a very great pleasure. Allow me to fetch Mister Jordan immediately.''
''Thank you. What is your name, boy?''
''Rodger, sir.''
''Thank you, Rodger.''
Bless the lad, he was precisely like most students Jeremy had met. If one used their names, and a judicious application of kindness, they fell all over themselves. ‘Twas most useful. Rodger trotted off, his footfalls echoing in the grand entry hall, and Jeremy took another turn about said hall as he waited.
Missing, every last one of them.
Really, he could understand such prudery at the British Museum, with its thousands of vaporish female visitors. Titan-Fields House, however, was a private institution, and should be above such things, especially given its fine collection of erotic statuary.
He should know. Some two years previous he had donated a pair of Greek vases depicting love between two fully grown men, an almost unheard of occurrence in amphorae.
The tip of his cane thumped against the floor, the sound ringing through the vaulted room. As if summoned by his impatience, Rodger appeared out of a stairwell like Hamlet's ghost. Hark, indeed.
''The curator will see you, Sir Davison.''
''Excellent.''
The warren of halls and stairs confused him, as it was no doubt meant to, and Rodger led him finally to a door simply marked ''Curator''. The office, situated at the back of the third storey, was unassuming, and crammed with books and objects.
The man was more prepossessing. Though rather slight, Alexander Jordan cut a handsome figure, his body trim and well kept, his face just less than pretty. His hair was a wild mass of curls, all silver gilt, and his eyes were a fine China blue.
''Mr. Jordan. A pleasure.'' Jeremy held out his hand, intending to be congenial at least.
''Sir Davison. How very wonderful of you to stop by. That will be all, Rodger. Unless you would like tea, Sir?''
''That would be lovely. I am parched.''
Rodger went off again, practically glowing with pleasure at being given such a job, and Jordan held out a hand to shake.
''How glad I am to meet you at last. This is your first visit in the time I have been curator.''
''Yes, I apologize, Sir, but I have been on the Continent.''
''Oh, yes. I have followed your adventures.''
Blasted news rags. They were a nuisance, always following him about, snapping pictures and creating cursed tombs. ''Well, I am glad to hear it,'' was all he said. ''Now, about my complaint.''
''Yes.'' The young man's ears went red, but his eyes never wavered. ''What would that be, Sir?''
''The statues in the main hall are all missing appendages.''
''Oh.'' The blush deepened. ''I fear you will find that in all public areas of the museum. We were, in your absence, accused of obscenity, and were threatened with closure if we did not remove the, er, members.''
***
Coming to a Head By Andrea Miller
Aimee's soft, pink tongue wrapped around verb conjugations with a grace rare in French 101. And her first note (neatly folded and furtively pressed into my hand) said she planned to major in the language -- for her the next best thing to aesthetics. Aimee hadn't wanted to attend university, but her parents had said they wouldn't pay for her to muck with lipstick. Looking at her big eyes and slender, snap-able limbs, I would decide she'd enrolled because she was essentially a good girl. Then, looking at her chiseled cheekbones and straight back, I would decide that she'd enrolled because she was secretly sharp-shrewd. The compliant Aimee, after all, had a swanky apartment and a silver sports car. She didn't need a part time job and she had ample pocket money for the creams and powders with which to practice technique.
Of course, by the end of September Aimee and I were as thick as thieves and she was practicing on me. On Friday nights she'd paint my lips a glossy red, perfect for dancing. And on Tuesdays she would slick hot wax on my calves, leaving me stone smooth. Weeks slipped by like this until it was mid-November. Outside, cold, the trees stripped bare. Inside, a warm, yellow light from Aimee's lamp.
'' Hmm, how should we do this?'' she murmured, fingering a strand of her blond hair. ''I know -- you lie on the bed.''
Aimee had never before given anyone a bikini wax and I'd never had one done. But for the past week she'd been insisting that men like panties with a high cut leg and that the style required a little grooming. As an incentive she'd even bought us lacy lingerie treats wrapped in tissue paper.
She laid an old sheet over the duvet and tested the temperature of the wax. ''Perfect,'' she said. ''Are you ready?''
We both looked down at my black pants, still neatly buttoned up, and a film of sweat suddenly glossed my skin. All my life I'd tried to avoid naked moments at sleepovers and in locker rooms. Moments just before nighties or gym shorts when other girls might catch a glimpse. And now here was Aimee asking me to be more naked than I'd ever imagined and somehow I couldn't avoid her. The rhythm of her voice was too compelling. The slope of her neck.
Fingers trembling, I undid the buttons one by one, hesitated, then rolled the fabric down the length of my legs. But Aimee still stood waiting, looking at my thin covering of white satin. Finally I took a deep breath and pulled my panties off.
The bed had mounds of plump pillows and a wrought iron frame with shiny brass balls. I sat down and felt the sheet, cool against my bare skin. ''Keep your bum close to the edge,'' Aimee said. ''Lie down and let your legs dangle off the side.''
As I got into position a blush burned from the tips of my ears to my chest. And I felt strangely like a mermaid or seal. Nothing separate about my legs. No possibility of a gaze falling between them.
Aimee sat down on a chair she'd dragged next to the bed and began to snip at the flat top of my triangle with tiny scissors. At first her touch jolted me like a bite. But quickly I realized that being worked over with a cold silver mouth and warm fingers was not so terrible. In fact, it was giving me a strange, tingly feeling.
As Aimee made her way to the tip of my triangle, I let her part my thighs. My folds bloomed and I imagined how the glistening ruffles must look to her. I was now beginning to understand that my shame was burning into pleasure and the realization brought me, full-force, back into hot shame. I didn't want Aimee to know how delicious it all felt. I wanted her to stop; I wanted her to continue. I couldn't help but squirm.
Aimee's eyes -- and mouth -- were so close to me I could feel her soft, warm breath graze my now clipped fur. She ran her fingers through her handiwork. ''Beautiful,'' she said. ''Now we're ready for the next step.''
The wax, hot but not painfully so, was the color of honey and sticky like it, too. Aimee dipped a flat piece of wood into the vat and used it like a paintbrush to slick a small section of my hair. Then she pressed a thin, white cloth into her gooey art, and in a single quick movement, she held down my skin with one hand and ripped the cloth off with the other, taking my hair with it and leaving a pink, tender spot.
Again and again Aimee slicked on wax and pulled it off. And I winced each time she yanked, but the pain felt necessary and right. Like it was my punishment for the pleasure I'd taken in her softer touch. Finally, when I had a neat triangle edged by what felt like fire, Aimee rubbed me with a soothing cream, the tips of her long hair brushing my inner thighs.
''Let's see how you look in your new panties,'' she said, gathering up the discarded strips of cloth and putting the lid back on the cream.
I wobbled to Aimee's dresser and found the panties in a bag between bottles of perfume. I stepped gingerly into each lavender leg, careful not to scrape the lace on my raw skin. And then I modeled for Aimee. Making a catwalk out of the bedroom. No longer shy.
''Next time,'' Aimee said, fixing me with her blue eyes. ''Let's give you a sphinx.''
''What's that?'' I wanted to know.
''That's when we take it all off -- make you bare like a little girl.'' I shivered then, thinking how much it would hurt. How shamefully wide I would have to spread my legs and how good it would feel to have Aimee massage cream into every pink crevice. My breath caught in my chest and I felt a quick throb between my thighs. It would be so hard not to squirm, I thought. So hard not to squirm toward her warm breath and agile tongue.
I looked away and hurried to find my clothes. My new panties were damp with sticky traces of wax… and something else.
***
The Dress Makes The Man By Vic Winter
The first time I saw Peter he was wearing a taffeta evening gown in a light aquamarine. He was slender and pretty, almost enough to pass as a woman, but made no attempt to look like one. He wore no make-up, no wig. Just a sweet pale face with short dark hair.
Peter was not a drag queen.
I can remember hearing him talking, holding court in a group of young twinks out on their first night in a ‘real gay bar', a fifth of bourbon in a glass in front of him. ''I'm not a drag queen, darlings and it isn't that I want to be a woman. It's all about the way I feel in a dress. Or should I say the way I get felt up in a dress.''
There had been tittering and giggling and Peter had winked and sashayed off, the orange tulle he'd been wearing that night a surprisingly good complement to his skin tone, dark hair just brushing his neck.
I always noticed him when he came in, but I had never approached him. I was interested, but not terribly, far more turned on by tight asses in tighter jeans and sweet six-pack bellies exposed by lightweight t-shirts. Sure I had a type, but it was more about what was underneath the clothes than the clothes themselves and jeans and t-shirts tended not to hide surprises the way a well-cut suit could.
Then came Valentine's Day and the red silk.
I was late, I'd been working on a project, a table with inlay, trying to get it finished before the client picked it up and I was covered in wood shavings, sawdust and smelled of linseed oil. Not to mention good old-fashioned sweat. So I'd showered and shaved and put on my best jeans and a black t-shirt that hugged my form. I still kind of smelled like wood and oil, but I was a working man and there wasn't much I could do about it.
When I got to Rainbow's End that Valentine's Day, Peter was already there, holding court by the bar, that glass of bourbon, neat, in front of him, looking like a red flower in the midst of a sea of blue jean grass.
I smiled and nodded, we'd spoken once or twice in passing and I'd had more than one thumb's up from him as I left with my entertainment for the evening, so we had that kind of awkward know each other but don't really relationship.
So I was surprised to find him making his way through his crowd of admirers and gawkers and coming toward me. I was even more surprised to find myself turned on by him, my cock not even hesitating a minute before starting to press against my zipper in that painful lets take care of this and soon way.
That night Peter wore red silk. The dress had flimsy little straps, and would have been low-cut on a woman, leaving a lot of skin showing. It went down just past his knees and he was wearing dark stockings, high heeled shoes the same deep blood-red color of the dress. And I don't if it was because it was silk, but the dress kind of clung to Peter, as revealing of a sweet ass and sizeable front bulge, pretty abdomen and prominent hips as any pair of jeans and tight t-shirt would have been.
Peter, it seemed, was exactly my type. Slender, not skin and bones, mind you, a few nice light muscles and all man beneath that dress.
I had a smile for him as he stopped in front of me and I noticed how his eyes were brown and warm and just a little wicked.
''You're late for the party tonight,'' he said to me, eyes traveling slowly from my boots to my eyes, touching on all points in between. ''But I can see you've come ready.''
''I haven't come yet,'' I pointed out, flirting just as hard as I knew how. I was no young stud or twink, but I had a working man's body, muscles there with purpose, not for show.
Peter laughed softly. ''Oh, I hope you'll let me take care of that... Ben, isn't it?''
''That's right. What did you have in mind?'' I knew what I was thinking, I'd been thinking it since I first saw the little number he was wearing and I wanted to bend him over the bar and hike up the silk, turn it into reality.
''Well you only just got here, so I'd hate to take you away.'' Peter stepped closer and looked up at me, tongue coming out to wet his lips, our groins pressed together nicely. That silk didn't hide heat for a second and I wasn't wearing any underwear so there was only my jeans between us. They seemed flimsy suddenly, and too much at the same time. ''We could step out back, let me have a little taste of what you have to offer?''
Well, how could I deny the man when he asked so nicely?
***
Drive By Angel
Man, oh man, what am I doing here, sitting in the parking lot of a Kroger in a neighborhood so bad the pediatric dentist had barred windows? I could have been up the block, safely inside the Pumping Station right now, drinking and checking out the twink trade.
Instead, I was sitting, at ten on a Friday night, in the parking lot, waiting. I'd met the guy on the net about three months ago. We'd e-mailed, IMed and talked on the phone a few times. I'd never seen him, but I wasn't too worried. He was white, and in this neighborhood that was conspicuous, at least if you weren't a bar patron. Three blocks either way and no one would notice. But at this Kroger at night? Oh yeah, he'd be recognizable.
I hoped those cop cars weren't interested in me. I slouched a little lower in the seat, but it turned out I was right. They cruised the lot and left. Here I was, done up like some kind of cheap rent-boy in the middle of February. The instructions had said no heat. It was getting chilly and my nipples were hard from it.
There was no mistaking that. I had on a thin mesh shirt and this little toy he'd sent me called a titilizer: basically a pair of little nooses of silver cord connected by a white metal chain. He'd said tighten it as much as I could stand it, he wanted to see purple when he got in.
I watched a car pull in and park next to me. Nope, just a woman out doing her shopping. I relaxed and played with myself to stay hard. The cockring helped, but it was cold. I didn't want to come, but he'd said he wanted me hard when he got here. I was wearing a pair of underwear with no front and some sweat shorts that pushed aside or down easily.
A tap at the passenger window let me know he had arrived. Not bad at all. Fortyish, average looking, but there was a glint in his eye that told me he was dangerous. This whole situation was dangerous, but it just felt like a naughty escapade, like people write to Penthouse about.
Dear Penthouse. I met this hot guy on the net and we decided that a f2f (face to face) was in order. I stopped composing silliness in my head and unlocked the door.
He slid into the passenger seat of my Neon. ''Hello, little one.''
I tried not to bristle too much, and managed to keep my voice level. ''Hello, Sir.'' Good, not too excited, not a sign that my mouth was dry and my gut was clenching in the sexy way. Not even too pissed about the nickname. We had negotiated most of this in advance, including forms of address, but I still wasn't too crazy about his choice. But the fact remained; I was meeting a total stranger for sex.