Page 48 of Never Say Never

He did none of those things. He simply stayed still, with his palms on her thighs, and waited for her to continue.

Rhiannon sucked in her breath. He didn’t know her secret. Not yet. But he would soon. What would happen if Sara needed something from the back room? What would happen if the owner made a spot inspection and pounded on the stockroom door? What would happen if this stranger suddenly lifted her dress all the way up and saw her naked pussy? This is what did happen, the best of the possible scenarios coming true.

“I knew you weren’t wearing panties.”

“Rubbernecking” is my love letter to those who worship rubber. All that’s required is a pair of rubber gloves. Gloves are one of those items you can purchase at hardware stores or five-and-dimes that will raise no eyebrows, but will definitely tent a pair of slacks. I do love buying kinky things when nobody is the wiser:

Once on the bed, I could slow down once more, reach for the box hidden in my nightstand drawer. A shake of cornstarch from a bottle by my lamp would help those thin white rubber gloves slide on smoothly, but I would take my time anyway. Making sure to smooth out any wrinkles, growing wetter with the caress of the rubber around each fingertip. When the gloves were on fully, I would interlace my fingers, watching the rubber meet rubber.

Now, it would become more difficult to go slowly. With hands that were like someone else’s, some stranger’s, I would touch myself while I recreated the window displays in my mind. Fingers gliding over my breasts, I imaged the window dresser—with his long dark hair, slim body—dressing me in the pale orange rubber sheath he’d slid on a mannequin the week before. Or slipping me into sleek scarlet rubber boots that would reach past my knees. I could see him buckling that bright red ball gag into place between my own parted lips, knowing somehow what that sensation would be like, what I would look like, gagged like that.

Snag a used plaid skirt at a thrift store, and you’re halfway to the sex scene I penned in “Want”—you only need two kinky roommates to complete the vision:

Vincent had Lia over his lap, and he was punishing her sweet, sassy ass with a paddle. I’d seen that ass swish down the hallway. I had seen it when she’d bent over to unload the laundry. Seen it when she went prancing out the door in a far-too-short, schoolgirl skirt, which I now saw was in a crumpled ball on the floor. But this was my favorite time. Because he was wielding that paddle with finesse, and Lia continued to cry out and kick her heels and pound her fists uselessly in protest. Or mock protest. I wondered if she could have gotten free if she had tried hard enough. But then I saw Vincent grimace and grab both of her hands in one of his. He pinned her wrists neatly at the small of her back and then let go a volley of blows on her hindquarters.

Andrea Dale waxes rhapsodic about feet in “A Sensitive Sole”:

The first time I found out just how sensitive her feet were—and how she reacted to sole stimulation, we were on the sofa, watching TV. She was lying with her feet in my lap, wearing just a simple pair of flat, slip-on sandals, the kind with nothing more than a jeweled strap between the toes to hold them on.

She’d had a long day, and I’m a nice girl, so I took off one of the sandals, intending to give her a foot massage.

She looked up, startled. “Oh, no, Katie. I—”

Her words degenerated into a groan when I pressed my thumbs gently into the ball of her right foot. I knew many people were ticklish, and I’ve been told I do a stellar job of massaging feet without causing undue tickling.

It was only after a moment or two of kneading that I realized Maya’s groans were not just ones that came from major enjoyment of a great foot massage.

Her nipples were diamond hard and drilling their way through her thin cotton T-shirt.

Well, wasn’t that interesting? I ran one hand along her leg from shapely calf to smooth thigh, and higher, under the short, flippy skirt she wore.

Her panties were, not to put too heavy a point on it, soaked.

As tempting as it was to just dive in and savor the feast before me, I was curious to see how far this fetish of hers went, just how excited I could get her.

I could fill an entire book with fetish stories. (Oh, wait. I have: F Is for Fetish.) Truly, they are unending. Addicting. Explore your own. Dig deep down into what gives you pleasure. And share the experience with your partner. Who knows? You might find a few more fetishes up your sleeve, or down your garter, that you didn’t even know you had.

TANTALIZING TIPS

•Where there’s a need for a how-to, you’ll find Violet Blue. Her Fetish Sex: An Erotic Guide for Couples is sure to answer the questions of any curious fetishers-to-be.

•Some fetishes are easy to accessorize—such as wearing rubber gloves or donning a corset. However, others take a bit more planning. Don’t let that stop you! If sploshing is on your menu, set aside enough time to make or purchase the foods, stretch out plastic sheeting, and indulge.

•Host your own Fetish Fridays. Visit a different fetish each week. Try nylons one week, knickers the next. If you find a fetish that floats your boat, slide it into a regular rotation.

FICTION: FETISH

THE SILK ROAD

DONNA GEORGE STOREY

I’m standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing off the last of the dinner dishes, when Julian comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.

“Do you want to wear your silk stockings tonight?” he whispers.

My whole body stiffens.

“You do, don’t you?”

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