A Healthy Appetite

AUT-AppetitesI figured it was about time to get around to excerpting from an anthology that includes one of my stories, Appetites: Tales of Lesbian Lust. Edited by the illustrious Ily Goyanes, Appetites is the first part of Lizzie’s Bedtime Stories series.

Despite the word “lesbian” appearing in the subtitle, I love that my editor didn’t bat an eyelash at me using the gender neutral pronouns (they/them/theirs) for one of my characters. If I’m not mistaken, I believe it’s my first published piece that explicitly uses gender neutral pronouns. A rarity in erotica, I predict you’ll be seeing the third-person singular used more frequently, especially among queer writers.

Below is an excerpt from my contribution to the collection, “Lucky in Lust.” It skips around a bit, hence the asterisks.

Never one to get all mushy over Valentine’s Day, I’m the type who prefers the hedonistic celebrations of Lupercalia, conveniently falling on the same day. An ancient holiday that invoked fertility, incited orgies, and glorified the use of bloodied knives and whips is much more my speed. So as to honor my kindred feriado, I found a little space to set up a makeshift altar and dug mis ofrendas out of my bag. I placed a small knife, red maca root, and a leather strap in front of a candle, whispering blessings of gratitude as I lit it, wondering who had left me that note. Then I read it one last time, setting its lines to memory, and lifted its edge to the flame. A final oblation.

*  *  *

In between me biting their shoulder and them sucking on my clavicle, we shed bits of clothing like an art form. We were loath to break away even momentarily, so the process was quite drawn out, teasing out our desire all the more. I straddled Quinn, delighted to discover they were packing, and thrust mi lengua back into their mouth. Their moan traveled down the back of my throat, reverberating inside my chest. I lowered myself, grinding against their cock, wetness seeping through my panties and undoubtedly leaving the front of their jeans quite damp. Eventually the jeans came off and I tugged on the leather straps of their harness while they pressed their cock up against my cunt. Quinn balled their fist around the hair at the nape of my neck, yanking my head back and I clawed at their flesh. They ran their hands down my back, then grabbed me by the hips, forcing me down harder as I pressed my palms into their biceps, a feigned resistance. The constant push and pull contrasting beautifully while intensifying the tension between us. Our electricity was undeniable, indescribable, and utterly ethereal.

And then it was gone.

“Call time,” Quinn stated matter-of-factly, pulling their jeans back on.

“But…I want…” I began to plead as they were already buckling their belt.

“It’s good for a girl to want things,” Quinn interrupted with a fiendish grin over their shoulder as they exited the room, leaving my desire that hung in the balance all the more wantonly delectable.

*  *  *

The crowd ate Quinn up and as their story wound down, I prepared to take the stage next. Drawing in a deep breath to ground myself, I invoked the essence of Lupercalia, channeling the spirits of both those who had done the whipping and the ones who had taken the lashes. The audience would be my orgy. Drunk on that bit of moxie I had hit Quinn with before they read, I was sovereignty embodied as I made my way up the few stairs and into the spotlight. My nerves were delayed, only hitting me once I looked out. Palpable and pulsing in time with the vitality of the room, quite apropos to the sanguine festival I had conjured, I was called to harness the force of my heartbeat. So I took a moment, cerrando los ojos, breathing in the energy of this wanton holiday, of all the audience had to offer, of what was to come afterward and I exhaled, standing taller in my power.

There’s something so ineffably sexy about being on stage. I don’t particularly enjoy it — I’ve been affectionately dubbed a reluctant starlet because of my lack of love for the limelight — but I can never stay away for too long. That night I realized it was the power exchange that had always drawn me in. Yes, I was gifting the audience with my most libidinous turnings of phrase, but they gave back in equal measure, allowing themselves to be consumed by my words. I told them tales of my most lascivious exploits, dishing out details I’d normally be too shy to even share with lovers, spiraling into a vortex of lechery and fire. They hung on every word, hungry for more, my ardor filling the room. They devoured my desire. Entre la multitud, two sets of eyes in particular undressed me as I owned that stage, doing all kinds of questionable acts to my body throughout my performance. And I won’t deny that I relished every last drop of their attentions.

About Kiki DeLovely

I’m a queer, kinky, poly, witchy, femme, erotica writer who has lived and performed all over the U.S., as well as internationally. I’ve toured with Body Heat: Femme Pour Tour and various gender-based performance troupes and am published in numerous books, newspapers, and magazines. My greatest passions include searching out secret spots in nature, Oxford commas, deep woo, doing research for my writing, and bringing queer, kinky, smart smut to the masses. I long for/strive toward erotica that reads as fine literature, makes us think, and helps us connect with our spiritual selves. she/her/ella
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