Girl Fever

Table of Contents

 

 

 

S
udden sex is what you crave when your need is too great to wait. For this collection, I asked writers for short, hot, intense writing to satisfy this kind of hunger, and they gave me all that and more. These stories are concise yet fully rounded, just right for a mouthful or a handful, and always delivering the Full Monty. Quick to read, best savored in single doses, they pack intriguing characters, stimulating action and even food for thought into small packages bursting with sensuality.

The authors sweep you along for sex not only in planes, trains and automobiles, but on roller coasters, carnival rides, elevators and ferries as well. If a grassy knoll or traditional bed is handy, that's fine too. You can find sex in zero-G, underwater, in a canyon, in a closet, even in the kitchen. Shanna Germain's “Answering the
Call” shows us games EMTs play in an ambulance, while Victoria Janssen's “The Airplane Story” crams us into the metal-walled bondage of an airliner restroom. Sommer Marsden makes the very best use of “An Hour,” Allison Wonderland gets it “Off and On” in under ten minutes, and Tigress Healy offers “Six Minutes or It's Free.” But there's more to it than speed, and the sixty-nine pieces in
Girl Fever
by skilled writers such as Cheyenne Blue, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Delilah Devlin, D. L. King, Anna Watson, Jean Roberta and scores of others offer characters you'd love to fuck, evocative settings and sizzling stories that can captivate and surprise you, as they did me, all the way to seduction.

 

Sacchi Green

Amherst, Massachusetts

 

 

 

 

 

I
f only the pope could see me now.

My face is mashed so far into Christie's pussy that my world consists of curls of hair and bitter salt. I am falling so far into her, entering her body face-first, a parody of rebirth. Juice on my face, glistening lips. I lean into her, bite gently.

She gasps, returns the favor. My thighs clasp around her head and she pushes a stiffened tongue up into my cunt. The outward spiral sweeps me in and I explode in an indigo wave.

My lover, my partner, my life,
I chant in my head.

Deviant, sinner, the morally fallen,
the pope chants in return.

Christie and I lie together, sticky thighs entwined in love.

She reaches for the bedside table, pulls out the purple dildo. “Has the pope issued a statement on sex toys?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I'm sure he'll get around to it eventually.”

“Want to fall farther from grace with me?”

In answer, I take the toy and rise up, straddling her legs.

Look at me now, Your Holiness.

 

 

 

 

 

T
he back of the ambulance is no place for fucking.

It's small, for one thing. It smells like cleaning fluid, latex gloves and sticky tape. It's clean, sure, but it's clean for someone else. Namely the patient-to-be. And illegal? We won't even go there.

But Barrie and I can't help ourselves. Every single time.

For me, it's that goddamn uniform she wears, navy blue to match her eyes, the way she's always buttoned all the way to the very top and you can still see the hollow of her chin, the beat of the pulse at her neck. Her belt too—black leather, wrapping her hips, the way it carries so much. Med scissors, knife, beeper, a single rubber tourniquet. I dream about her taking that belt off, the scissors, the rubber. I dream of her beating me
black and blue, angling the scissors along the inside of my thigh, wrapping my wrists with the pale rubber tube. But that's not the way Barrie does things.

I let Barrie fuck me because I want her so much. I let her fuck me in the ambulance because every damn time she gets in the back wearing that uniform, it's like I have no choice.

I don't know what her excuse is. I'm just a driver, in my blue slacks and my white button-up. My mouse-brown ponytail. Maybe she just gets bored. You can only sit in a parking lot so long, waiting for a call, before you're itching for something to do––all that pent-up energy with no place to go.

Like this morning. We'd spent four hours waiting, half our shift with not a single beep, not a single call across the radio, not even a false alarm over at the old folks' home. Barrie had her legs on the dashboard, some thick-ass book on her lap. But she wasn't reading it. She was singing to the radio, some song I didn't know. Barrie's older than me, almost a decade, and she likes those old hippie folk songs, the kinds of things my parents used to listen to, way back when.

I thought were going to go through one whole shift without getting in the back. I thought I could roll back to the station without smelling like sex for once.

Then the song ended, and Barrie started smiling like she does when she's got a dangerous idea.

“You know the best way to get a call?” she asked.

I was afraid to even guess, especially since I figured I
knew the answer. Didn't matter—she was already taking my hand, slipping through the little doorway between the front of the ambulance and the back, dragging me with her. And who was I to resist, with that round ass leading the way?

“Down,” she said, giving me a shove onto the stretcher. So wrong on so many levels. And maybe that, and not boredom, was the appeal for her.

I was already down the stretcher on my back though, and hardly about to argue. All Barrie had to do was start ordering me around and I was wet. Which wasn't a problem now, but it was starting to be a problem on calls. Barrie would say, “Help me get him on the stretcher,” and I'd instantly be soaking through my uniform. Even a simple, “Turn right” from her gets me going these days.

I wanted to touch her, but I knew better. That isn't the way Barrie does things either. She's
touch
, but not
be touched
. There's probably something important in that, but when she starts touching me, I can't think about it too much.

I wrapped my fists around the straps used for patients, tried to keep myself still. Barrie had one leg on either side of the stretcher.

“They really…” she said, pulling open my slacks and then tugging them down over my hips, “…need to let drivers wear skirts.”

“That would be…” I started to say
dangerous
, and then her fingers slipped under my underwear, touched
the already wet space between my thighs, and I forgot the word.

She has good fingers, sure fingers, the kind of fingers that should only belong to piano players, emergency paramedics and mythical lovers. Into me, out of me, the same rhythm, the same surety I'd seen her sew people up with.

Sometimes I just look up at her when she's finger-fucking me, at those blue eyes staring down, at the sly half grin on her face, at the concentration with which she sinks her fingers inside me. But mostly it's too much, watching her watch me, and so I just close my eyes and feel everything.

This time, her two fingers searched out my G-spot, thumped up against it, rhythm like music. Her thumb on my clit, twitch-twitch-twitch. Her breath was quick and sweet on my face, her growl in my ear. Her breasts almost touching me, their curves behind the fabric, the nipples that I've never seen. She knew just how long to tease me, how long it took until my clit did that aching, throbbing, on-the-very-edge thing it does.

That's when she leaned down even farther, driving her fingers into me harder, faster, her thumb hard-circling my clit.

“Come for me,” Barrie commanded.

And how could I not obey?

I went off at the same time the radio did, both of us blaring nonsense into the air. Mine were swearwords and god words and Barrie's name and a hundred other
things that didn't have any meaning beyond pleasure. The radio's were
Rig 118
and
MVA
and
priority 1
and
What's your ETA?

Grinning, Barrie pulled her fingers from me, sucked them clean just like she did when we got cream-filled donuts, the same look of quick pleasure on her face.

“Told you,” she said, laughing, excited, already making her way to the front seat. “Best way to get a call.”

It took me longer to get back up front. It's hard to pull your pants up in the back of an ambulance, especially when your legs are wobbly and your insides are still churning. The whole ambulance smelled like sex, like me.

“Sirens, lights! Let's roll, baby!” Barrie slapped her hand against the dashboard.

And me, I respond to her need. Because it's what I'm built for, because it makes me wet and wanting, because it's Barrie and hers is the one call I cannot resist.

 

 

 

 

 

G
o over there and tell her you want a wet pussy,” Meri whispered in Eva's ear.

“What?” Eva screeched, taken aback. She was still getting used to being out in public with a woman, let alone being surrounded by hundreds of women intent on fucking each other by night's end. It wasn't so much the lesbian thing that threw her, as the public displays of affection. Before meeting Meri, Eva'd been on the shy side, the kind of girl who hid behind her brown waist-length hair and freckles. Meri had laughed the first time she dangled all that hair around her naked body.