Sensuality

“Therapy” copyright © 2007 by Patt Freeman-Mihailoff

“The Ache (‘O Ache’)” copyright © 2007 by Kaia Alderson

“The Sweetest Revenge” copyright © 2007 by Kimberly D. King

“Alibi” copyright © 2007 by C. B. Potts

“Leap of Faith” copyright © 2007 by Gracie C. McKeever

“Butterfly” copyright © 2007 by Jordan Grace

“Picture Perfect” copyright © 2007 by Yvonne Melchoir

“The Rain” copyright © 2007 by E. Charles Smith

“Sayulita Siesta” copyright © 2007 by R. S. Mesta

“Papi’s Baby Girl” copyright © 2007 by Gwendolyn D. Pough

“Peaches ’n’ Cream” copyright © 2007 by Amie Stuart

“The Salsa Connection” copyright © 2007 by Anna Black

“The Birthday Present (
El Regalo
)” copyright © 2007 by Penelope Flynn

“Tomorrow’s Saints” copyright © 2007 by Kathleen Bradean

“South South Bronx” copyright © 2007 by Hugh Smith

“Are You Available” copyright © 2007 by Lisle L. Mitchell

“Borderline” copyright © 2007 by Kim Rose

“An Even Swap Ain’t No Swindle” copyright © 2007 by Zane

Introduction

Therapy
by Patt Mihailoff

The Ache (“O Ache”)
by Kaia Danielle

The Sweetest Revenge
by KD King

Alibi
by CB Potts

Leap of Faith
by Gracie C. McKeever

Butterfly
by Jordan Grace

Picture Perfect
by Leni Davidson

The Rain
by E. Charles Smith

Sayulita Siesta
by BlissDulce

Papi’s Baby Girl
by Gwyneth Bolton

Peaches ’n’ Cream
by Amie Stuart

The Salsa Connection
by Anna Black

The Birthday Present (
El Regalo
)
by Penelope Flynn

Tomorrow’s Saints
by Kathleen Bradean

South South Bronx
by Hugh Smith

Are You Available
by Mitch

Borderline
by Kim Rose

An Even Swap Ain’t No Swindle
by Zane

About the Contributors

Sensuality, in my opinion, is more important and totally different than sexuality. When a person is sensual, the experience of sex is taken to another level. More than mere private parts are involved; every part of the mind and body becomes a part of the act. These stories in this collection definitely examine that fact with vivid details of what the various characters are thinking and how they feel.

I cannot stress enough that there is nothing wrong with a person expressing themselves to their lovers. We live in a world where lack of communication causes so many issues in relationships that people often look elsewhere for their needs, or never truly experience all that lovemaking can be.

I hope that you enjoy the stories of
sensualidad,
which means
sensuality
in Spanish. Once again I have found some of the most talented erotica writers on the planet to participate in this collection. A lot of people still have trouble distinguishing between erotica and porn. Allow me to clear
that up for you. Porn is all about sex. Erotica is about feelings. All of the stories contained in this collection would still be complete stories, even if there was not any intense sex in them. Therein lies the difference.

Make sure that you check out
Zane’s Sex Chronicles
on Cinemax and look out for
Addicted
in theaters. Please visit me on MySpace at www.myspace.com/zaneland and join my email list by sending a blank email to [email protected].

Blessings,

Zane

PART ONE

It was the same as always, or so it seemed. She sat in her overly large, tufted-leather chair that made her look small when, in fact, she wasn’t. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, tucked loosely under itself and secured by a Celtic-style barrette.

He knew her lashes were long and feathery, even through her unattractive, serviceable eyeglasses. He wanted to believe she only wore them to enhance her professionalism. He liked to think she wore contacts when she wasn’t working.

Her deep honey skin was clear except for the small mole on her left cheek. She had the barest hint of a dimple when she smiled. She wore no makeup except for a pale mauve lipstick that she didn’t, in fact, need. Her large gold hoop earrings were typically Hispanic, but weren’t the only things that gave away her Latin heritage. Her lips looked succulent and had a puckering movement that had intrigued him from the beginning. She always did it when he said something that
had a sexual connotation. No one really would notice it, unless really looking for it, and he’d been looking at her a long time now.

Her dress was a deep purple matte jersey, with a pointed collar that came to a V and exposed the depth of her round breasts.

It had been a hot summer, but when her office cooled sufficiently, he’d seen her nipples pop and jut through anything she’d been wearing at the time. She’d never caught him looking—at least he thought she hadn’t.

“How are you today?” she asked in that husky voice a little higher than Kathleen Turner’s in
Body Heat
.

It was the same question each time, and he answered the same way all the time.

“I’m good.”

Had she caught his double meaning?

“Then let’s begin.”

She crossed her right leg over her left and perched the writing pad securely on her knee. The dress was long but the jersey hugged her legs in such a way that it was impossible to miss the length of them or the change in shape where her leg met her thigh.

Her shoes were plain, black with a thick heel, and would not have been sexy on anyone else, but the high, sensual curve of her arch would make any man want to caress it against his hardening cock.

He talked, she listened. Every now and again she jotted down a note or two.

“And what do you think the dream means?” she asked, after he’d spent twenty minutes explaining his slumber reveries.

“Isn’t that what I pay you to tell me?”

Her brow arched. She always did that when he answered
her
question with one of his own.

“You pay me to help you sort through your confusion, to help you to understand the why’s, and to try and fix what might be broken,” she answered evenly.

He grinned. He liked her answers. They were never really here nor there. His mind wandered for a moment as he daydreamed of her hair being loose and spiraling around her head, with one of her errant curls coiled lazily around his finger.

“So this woman that you run after, the woman with no face, is there anything recognizable about her?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why are you chasing her?”

“I don’t think I want to know.” His eyes didn’t leave her when he’d said it.

She wrote on her little pad.

“Perhaps,” she began, “your dream is about something you need to face, and are just afraid to, which is why you can’t catch her. Maybe the
her
is you.” Her demeanor was triumphant, as though she’d been the only one to answer the final
Jeopardy
question.

He threw his head back and laughed, his small locks hugging his head gently.

“I assure you, I am not chasing myself. It’s a woman, and even though I’ve never caught her, I wake up with an erection so hard it’s painful.”

“Perhaps she’s a woman out of your reach.”

“I’m almost sure of that.”

“If this is true, then you must do one of two things.”

“Yes?” His gaze was deeper than his low-pitched voice.

“You should try and forget her. Or, maybe surmise what you
think
would happen if she stopped running and confronted you.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“How do you know? After all, it’s only a dream.” She had not meant for her slight laugh to be condescending.

“Maybe it’s not
my
dream?” he offered.

Her brow knitted. “People do not dream for others,” she said patiently.

“If the need is great, even a dream can transcend space and time.”

She put down her pen. “You’ve been reading too many science fiction novels.”

“No, I’ve been living with a yearning desire for too long.”

“How so?”

He got up, the material of his pants falling into perfect lines against his legs. He walked to the window, his voice reverberating off the pane like silent thunder.

“I’m not sure how to approach this woman, even though I think I know how she wants to be approached.”

“Meaning?”

“She wants…”

“She wants what?”

“To have control, and then to give it over.”

“What makes you think that?

“Because on the outside she is professional and stiff, but inside she is screaming for release.” He looked over and thought he saw the slight motion of her legs squeeze together.

“So, then, you think this woman has a sexual desire for you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Not in so many words.”

“You, of all people, should know by now that I always say just what I mean.”

“All right, then. Do you feel you must help this woman in some way?”

He moved almost silently on the thick carpet and ended up behind her chair. She remained motionless.

“She can help herself.”

“Why doesn’t she?”

Now who was the therapist and who was the patient?

She heard the rustle of his jacket and surmised that he’d shrugged.

“Fear, betrayal—it could be a myriad of reasons.”

“Then how is it that you think you know what she wants and needs?”

“Because I can see inside her when she’s not looking. Like when she’s writing something down.”

She shifted uneasily, but remained impassive.

He came back around and sat back down in front of her, his legs wide apart, his fingers interlocked in front of him. “Some people expect a person to be a certain way,” he said, with even control. “And, sometimes, that same person can only dream about what they want. They want it badly but rather than act on it, they remain in a safe zone and send their desires off in a miasmic cloud that seeks a place to settle where it can offer itself.”

“To what end?” The question was as soft as a whisper.

“To know.”

“To know what?” she asked with a tinge of impatience.

“To know what it would be like to be naked underneath, or over, the man she thinks she is helping.”

“So,
then,
it is sexual.”

He grinned and shook his head.

“For anyone else it would be sexual; for her it would be animalistic fucking.”

She cleared her throat and pushed her glasses up on her nose, even though they hadn’t slipped an inch.

“Well, it looks like our time is up.” She rose and walked to her desk.

He watched her ass, which was round and tight even though her dress tried to hide it from him.

She looked at her date planner. “I see you won’t be available next week, so I’ve scheduled a session a week from next Friday. Is that suitable?”

He nodded.

“I’ll see you then,” she said. Her face hardened into its professional mode, her lips, which had been so soft before, were now strict and straight as a slide rule.

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and left her office.

When he was gone, she allowed her body to relax. She went to the narrow floor-length mirror on the side wall and snapped open the barrette. Her hair fell in loose curls to her neck and she ran her hands through them to allow for maximum airy freedom.

In the mirror she lowered her eyes to her neck, her chest,
and finally on her breasts. Her nipples were hard and pouting through the material of her dress. They were large and round—and perfect. She reached up and ran a long-nailed finger over one. She flinched—it was sensitive and a shudder shot through her.

It was always like that after he left her office. Now in the confines of her own privacy, she was able to recall their earlier sessions. He had been freer then, with his offerings about what he considered to be “a problem,” and it had been sexual.

Her professionalism had remained intact as she queried him, then listened as he told her with the relish of a bawdy sixteenth-century monarch how much he needed it, craved it, and desired it. Outwardly, she’d remained unfazed when he used words like
pussy,
or phrases like, “I sucked her dry. I tongued her so deep I felt her baby room.”

Inside she was jelly.

But it had been that one particular time he’d told her how he’d placed his woman on all fours and talked the cum out of her, then made her wait patiently while he teased her with his tongue. It was with little tingly, flickering movements at first, something akin to a butterfly kiss. He explained how the woman had moaned and moved backward, trying to get more of his teasing tongue.

Her office had grown warm when he told her how hard his cock had gotten, and how he let the woman see it, touch it, but not lick it—something
she
wanted so desperately to do. He explained how he’d spread the woman wide and blew against her proud puffy lips and talked to her. Deep, dirty, nasty things about what he intended to do. How he was
going to drink her, taste her, own her pussy. Then he explained how the woman had loved
every
second of
everything
he did.

She closed her eyes as she thought of that session, and her hand that had been teasing her nipple wandered down over her waist, then her thigh. She pulled her long matte jersey dress slowly up into a knotted bunch. She smiled as she thought of the garter belt she wore with no panties, her own naughty little secret that no one would ever suspect.

Her fingers moved over her trimmed vee, then down to her fleshy lips that had begun to dampen the second he’d walked into her office. Her body milk had seeped twice when he told her of his recent dream, and now she was squishy wet as she searched for her clit. It was so sensitive that she was about to burst. She found the hood and exposed the hardened satiny nub and rubbed her index finger over it. Slowly at first, feeling the tough little bun soften and become pliable under her caress. Rubbing it faster, her breath became rapid as she closed her eyes and threw her head back. She saw
his
eyes,
his
face, and her finger became his tongue lapping her like a maniacal demon of the flesh.

She felt it race through her. Her secret orgasm that no one knew she could have. It fluttered through her, from her chest, over her belly, down into the bucket of her release. Her eyes were shut tight as she allowed her free hand to balance against the wall, her finger now accompanied by another working furiously against herself. Gritting her teeth, she stiffened as the satiny milk of her body creamed out of her in waves. It slithered and slathered over her working fingers, and she smiled as she finished, her nose imagining the subtle odor of his expensive cologne.

Breathing heavily, she removed her hand and let her dress fall. Taking a deep breath, she composed herself and turned to go back to her desk.

He stood there looking at her. His nostrils flared as though inhaling the high scent of her sex.

“I forgot my attaché case,” his deep voice said.

A blush crept up her face as her eyes followed his to the deep brown leather case that leaned unassumingly against the side of her therapist’s couch.

THERAPY—PART TWO

It was a good thing that he was going to be away for a week. It would give things a chance to cool down—to be forgotten. She was going to a medical seminar herself in a few weeks, and it would do her good. It would keep her mind occupied and she wouldn’t have to think about him. It was medically unethical, and although tired of the rules, she didn’t dare break them.

The best thing was to go on as though nothing had happened. But could she do that? Could it be professional, and business as usual, after he’d seen her pleasuring herself? Thank goodness he couldn’t read her mind or he would have known that he was the object of her masturbatory fantasy.

She decided she wouldn’t say a word about it; after all, she was the psychologist. He was paying
her
to help
him
work through
his
problems, not analyze hers. But just what were her problems? The men who chased her but she didn’t want? Or was it men she’d made love to but who could never reach the part of her where passion was aching to be freed? She wanted someone to break the rules for her.
Somehow he might have guessed that about her, and it made her nervous knowing that.

He leaned against the window, sipping a snifter of fifty-year-old cognac. It slid over his tongue with a warmth much like what he thought she would taste like. His psychologist, his doctor, his medical advisor, with her professional icy demeanor.

He knew the effect he had on women. Hell! His voice alone made more panties wet than he’d wanted to count. How he remembered that day when he went back to her office for his briefcase. He watched as she had fingered herself, then leaned against the wall for support when she released her juices.

How he wanted to taste it, but not the way she would have thought.

It was the dream. He chased her in his mind, knowing that she really wanted to be caught. Somehow he knew, without really knowing, what she needed and how she needed it.

But he also knew it could never be, not now, when they were so wrapped in the neat little package of professionalism. Not as long as there was a line of doctor-patient ethic that she would never cross. The strain of his yearning was becoming too much. There was only one thing to do….