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I Need Your Package, by Sara Dobie Bauer
Happy Mother’s Day, by Jordan Monroe
In the Early Morning Light, by Kristina Wright
Bills and Girls, by Samantha Luce
The Treadmill, by Brandy Fox
Tocks in My Ticker, by Pooja Pande
Mom’s Night Out, by J.A. Reed
Pregnant Pause, by Jennifer D. Munro
Renewal, by Delilah Night
A Desperate State, by Cecilia Duvalle
Waiting For Ilya, by Teresa Noelle Roberts
Toy Story, by Andrea Lani
Need, by Hollis Queens
Zap, by Luda Jones
Hook and Tink, by Brandy Fox
About the Authors
Copyright © 2017 by Brandy Fox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cwtch Press, Redmond, WA 98052
Cwtch Logo design by Elizabeth Person
Cover design by: Indie Designz
Previously Published Stories
“Pregnant Pause” by Jennifer D. Munro was originally published in Shameless: Women's Intimate Erotica, and also appeared in The Erotica Writer’s Husband & Other Stories.
“Renewal” by Delilah Night was originally published in Irresistible: Erotic Romance for Couples.
“Waiting for Ilya” by Teresa Noelle Roberts was originally published in Best Erotic Romance 2013, and also appeared in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12.
“In the Early Morning Light” by Kristina Wright was originally published in Curvy Girls.
“Hook and Tink” by Brandy Fox was originally published in The Mammoth Book of Quick & Dirty Erotica.
The path through mothering affects nearly every aspect of sexuality: intimacy, identity, reproduction, body image, gender roles and expression, vulnerability, reciprocity, skin hunger, and so much more. Like great erotica, mothering explores the complexity of sexuality--the ache, the ecstasy, and everything in between.
It wasn’t until I was knee-deep in mothering that I began reading and writing erotica. My reasons were as much about getting off as they were about hearing stories that evoke the human experience of sexuality. What I found to be lacking was the experience of mothers. This baffled me, given that at age forty, in the midst of a 15-year marriage with two kids, I was blindsided by a libido so intense, I had to start writing erotica just to channel those heart-pounding sexual fantasies hitting me full force any time of day: in the grocery store, at preschool parent meetings, even in Kindermusik class while singing A Ram Sam Sam across from an energetic teacher in a low-cut top. My sex drive insisted I pay attention to it, care for it, make time for it like I did my family. With a long-time partner, there were other benefits to a libido in overdrive: more time devoted to us as a couple, playing, connecting, letting go. It required frequent date nights, plotting and planning, sneaking and giggling, hushed orgasms that made the explosion all the more powerful, and loss of sleep that was well worth it. All this made the sex more fun, more delicious, and more satisfying.
Of course, it’s not this way for all mothers. Some are healing from both natural and cesarean childbirth for months, even years. Some feel over-touched, as in Kristina Wright’s “In the Early Morning Light”:
Even the gentlest of touches, a hug or back rub, feels like sharp nails on a fresh sunburn. I don’t want to be touched, but some part of me still longs for the connection of touch. To know I am more than a mother, a sometimes milk maker, a Frankenstein’s monster of stretch marks and skin discolorations and numb flesh and that ugly scar.
The challenges continue long after our bodies heal and the kids toddle away. Juggling childcare with a job, house care, schoolwork, chauffeuring, and so much more can drain mothers of the playful, creative, giving energy required of sex.
In an ironic twist, studies show that women in their thirties and early forties are significantly more sexual than younger women. The result of this--or perhaps the cause--is that mothers are less inhibited, more in touch with their bodies, and more skilled at asking for what they want. They get right down to business and they know how to play--all traits of a great lover. That’s why I’ve come to associate motherhood with totally hot sex. I have no doubt that you will, too, after reading these stories.
In these pages you will find women in all stages of motherhood navigating the complicated but essential path through--in some cases, back into--a healthy sex life. They’re single, partnered, straight, queer, young, middle-aged, in the United States and abroad. But for all of them, sexuality is woven into the very fabric of mothering. Consider Pooja Pande’s “Ticks in my Tocker,” in which a mother is anticipating what she’ll be doing later that night while putting her child to bed:
Some nights when I read Rasik his bedtime book, Dr. Seuss gets shaded dirty hues in my dirty mind. Like Mr. and Mrs. J. Carmichael Krox, I know that I’ve got ticks in my tocker and Sameer, tocks in his ticker. And I know that the reading of this book is the last PG-13 thing I’ll be doing that night.
On the flipside, these women insist on weaving their job as mother into the fabric of their sexual identity. In Jordan Monroe’s “Happy Mother’s Day,” for example, a new mother is dismayed that since having their first child, her husband treats her like a delicate flower. She concocts a kinky plan to remind him of what turns her on, and the results are intensely hot.
Whether it’s long-overdue self-care or just a good hard fuck they’re after; the delivery man, their former student, or their spouse of twenty-years; in their own home, a hotel room, the tattoo parlor, or the gym; every mother in these pages knows how to arouse and be aroused. No matter where, when, or how, these stories capture the complex and profound--and ultimately satisfying--task of attending to your own desires while tending to children.
I Need Your Package
Sara Dobie Bauer
Hannah once saw her delivery man carry a big screen television under one arm. Another time, it was a dining room table from IKEA. You’d never guess, looking at the guy. He was tall and slim but not bulging. His long appendages probably helped, as did his sense of balance. He could stand on one foot like a yogi in tree pose—big box leaned on top of his thigh, scanner in the other. Like a ballet dancer, he jumped off porches and back into his big, brown truck. Hannah could hear that truck coming from three blocks away.
Dayton usually stopped at Hannah’s house around 11 AM. At 10:30, she successfully coaxed the baby into a nap. She made sure her blonde hair was in a respectable ponytail. Changing out of her robe, she put on a sweater that flared at the waist and jeans that didn’t look too “Mommy.”
If only she were so in tune with her own child.
Baby Neely had been mostly her husband’s idea. They’d discussed having children early in their marriage, but their careers got in the way. Hannah reviewed books for a mainstream women’s website; her husband worked early hours, often on the road. Then, at the age of thirty-six, it just sort of happened. Neely happened.
Hannah heard the rumble of Dayton’s truck and felt the way the sound vibrated in her chest. She scampered to the door and pulled it open, its old hinges squeaking just enough to wake Neely, who started wailing upstairs.
“Shit,” she whispered but pasted on a smile when Dayton jumped gracefully onto her porch with three separate yellow envelopes under his arm.
“Good morning, Hannah.” He winked one of his hazel eyes.
“Morning.” She gawked up at him and hoped her irises weren’t in the shape of hearts.
The scanner beeped as he ran it over the label of each individually wrapped book from publishers who desperately wanted her opinion. “Did you want me to fuck you on the porch next time?”
Her hand flew to her chest. “I’m sorry?”
“Did you want me to leave these on the porch next time? I don’t want to wake the baby.” The late autumn sun reflected off his short, auburn hair. His presence mimicked the fallen leaves in her front yard: those green-gold eyes, hair almost red, and slim fitting brown uniform.
“No, it’s fine. She just needs to be fed.”
Did he glance down at her chest? Hannah had the urge to grab the back of his head and shove his face against her aching breasts. Then again, how sexy was a padded nursing bra?
“Well.” He handed her the packages. “See you later.” His smile was crooked and went up much higher on the right than left.
Hannah watched him go. Well, she watched his ass go until he hopped into the front seat of his truck, turned the ignition, and sent another vibration of sound … right to her clit.
Six weeks after the baby, and her body still wasn’t her own. Hannah hadn’t put on a horrific amount of weight during the pregnancy, but it was obvious she’d had a baby. Her stretched-out abdomen pressed full and tight against maternity jeans. Her once B-cup breasts were double D balloons that ached half the time. The worst was what Neely’s over-sized head had done on its way out, which was why she and her husband had yet to have sex since the baby.
Which was why Hannah’s deliveryman had become such a fascination.
She sat and considered: what kind of name was Dayton anyway?
On the couch, she bounced Neely up and down. The baby cooed and stared at her mother. She had her father’s eyes but white-gold hair like Hannah’s. She bounced Neely some more until the little girl reached up and tugged Hannah’s hair. Hannah screeched, which made the baby cry.
“I’m sorry.” She sighed and pulled Neely into a hug. Drool soaked the shoulder of her t-shirt. She held Neely back enough to wipe her mouth with Hannah’s nearby sweater. Ever since having the baby, her body temperature had been volatile. One second, she was cold; the next, it was like someone tossed her ass into Hell—which was a pretty good metaphor for her opinion of motherhood so far, hot and cold. She loved her little girl and the way her skin smelled sweet. She loved her tiny, pudgy fingers. But Hannah missed freedom. She missed sex, and it wasn’t her husband’s fault. Hannah was the one who felt pudgy, soft, and exhausted.
She’d masturbated that morning for the first time since giving birth. She’d almost passed out from the pleasure, thinking about Dayton’s bright hazel eyes and the way his hidden superhero strength would make the bedroom into an amusement park ride. In the fantasy, he even kept on his big, brown boots, but it was just a fantasy. Who would want her like this?
Neely pulled Hannah’s hair again, then sucked a couple pieces into her tiny mouth.
Hannah tugged her hair away. “What’s that, Dayton? Oh, it’s called Eau de Drool. A new fragrance, sprung from my stretched out cooch.”
She carried Neely to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of milk. The bottles had so far saved Hannah’s nipples from constant torture, although Neely did prefer the fresh stuff. Just as she prepared to return to her couch—and try to skim a couple of the review copies Dayton had delivered the day before—someone knocked on her front door. Strange, it was only 9:30.
She put the bottle down and waddled with baby. Looking out the peephole, she ducked as though Dayton the deliveryman might be able to see through walls. What the hell was he doing there so early? She was in a robe! She hadn’t even brushed her teeth!
“Hannah?” His voice reminded her of his big, vibrating truck.
Neely squeaked at the sound of his voice, surely loud enough for him to hear.
“Oh, thanks a lot, kid,” Hannah muttered. “Just a minute!” she said aloud. She did a quick glance in the antique vanity by the front door and tried to ignore the dark circles under her eyes.
He gifted her with a crooked grin when she opened the door, the sun barely above the trees across the street. Neely reached one limp arm out toward the man on the porch.
Yeah, I know what you mean.
“May I?” he asked, setting down a bouquet of red roses.
He held the baby like he knew what he was doing. “Forgive me, but I don’t actually have a package for you.”
“I just thought you looked like you needed flowers.” He nudged the bouquet with the tip of his brown boot, and Hannah blushed when she flashed back to her earlier imaginings of what he’d look like in nothing but.
“You brought me flowers?”
“Better than all those books, right?” He made a funny face at Neely, which brought out deep laugh wrinkles around his eyes. Hannah suspected he wasn’t as young as his bearing implied. He was probably her age, in fact. The sparse brown hairs on his forearms shined as the sun surmounted trees.
“Well, thank you, Dayton.”
“You’re very welcome, Hannah.”
“Do you give all the sad, pathetic moms in the neighborhood flowers or just me?”
He rocked Neely. “I don’t think you’re pathetic, and I didn’t know you were sad. Are you sad?”
“I guess not.”
“But something’s wrong.”
She shrugged. “I miss sex.”
“Oh.” His mouth made the most adorable round shape, and just as quickly, his bright eyes darted to her left hand. Hannah didn’t have on her wedding band. Her fingers felt too swollen.
“I didn’t mean …”
“I didn’t assume.” He winked.
“Are you married?”
“I am,” he said.
“Very.” With one hand holding Neely, he brought his other up and bopped the baby on the nose. She flashed little baby gums.
“So what would your wife think about you bringing a bouquet of red roses to some stranger?”
“We’re not strangers. I’m your deliveryman.” He leaned forward to hand Neely back, and Hannah felt her nursing bra dampen when their arms touched.
She turned a moan into a cough.
Dayton leaned over and picked up the flowers before holding them out to her. Hannah smiled politely and started backing into her house, but before she could, he took a step forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her mouth.
“Get some rest,” he whispered. His breath smelled like cinnamon gum. Whistling, he turned and walked back to his truck.
Was she supposed to throw away the roses? She put them in a vase in Neely’s room next to the baby’s crib. Then, she stood above her sweet little girl and ran her fingertips over the silken hair on top of her vulnerable head.
Hannah felt sort of like a baby’s skull—fragile, not quite formed, in need of cushioning. She’d like to be cushioned right between Dayton’s pecs, in fact. She rubbed at the wrinkles on her forehead, furrowed since he’d left. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to get lost in a great book. She wanted to be fucked into the mattress. Hell, fucked against a wall. She just wanted to feel wanted.
Against her better judgment, she stepped in front of the cutesy full-length mirror in Neely’s room, painted in pastel zoo animals, and groaned. Whoever said new mothers glowed was full of shit. She didn’t glow; she sucked light from the room, devoured the sun with her own exhaustion. Her once brilliant hair fell in flat planes around her puffy face. Red streaks rimmed her brown eyes, accented by purple circles beneath. Her breasts were like huge boulders, and her stomach was a half-deflated beach ball.
No wonder she was dreaming of the deliveryman. She’d been reading too many Bridget Jones wannabe books—the ones where the awkward, unattractive girl gets the hot guy based on charm alone. Well, Hannah was too tired to be charming, and she certainly didn’t deserve a guy who looked like Dayton.
In silence, she cried, scared of waking Neely. She carried the baby monitor downstairs and sank into the couch, wiping tears from her face. A woodpecker gave some quick taps to one of the big trees in her backyard. The bird stopped and tapped some more, which was when Hannah realized the tapping wasn’t coming from a tree but from her front door.
In fluffy socks, she tiptoed to the entrance and opened the door a crack.
One of Dayton’s cheekbones stared back at her, his eyes looking off down the street. At the sound of the door opening, he turned toward her.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Giving you what you need.” He pushed the door open gently and stepped into her foyer. He still smelled of cinnamon but there were other scents, too: that of paper and packing tape and a touch of sweat.
Before she could argue, he backed her against the wall and kissed her neck. She shoved at his shoulders … then pulled on his shoulders.
“The baby is sleeping.”
He smiled. “Then we’ll have to be very quiet.” He went back to kissing her neck, followed by her collarbone. His large hands pushed her robe open, revealing a less than sexy cotton nightgown.
“I’m not …” She blushed and pulled the robe closed. “Dayton, I’m not … You don’t want me like this. Look at you.” She ran her thumb over his bottom lip, her hand up into his hair.
“Look at you.” He pushed the robe open again and kissed her right on the mouth. “Your soft curves and the smell of baby powder.” He pressed his knee between her legs. “I want to bury myself in you. Please.”
Hannah tried to catch her breath but lost herself grinding against his knee.
“I take that as a yes?”
He picked her up with ease like one of his heavy packages and carried her to the couch. When he reached to unbutton his shirt, she shook her head and beckoned him closer.
“I’ve been thinking about tearing this uniform off you for weeks.”
He licked his lips and watched as she tugged buttons loose, revealing a muscular chest and smattering of light hair. When she sucked his nipple, he groaned, but Hannah covered his mouth.
“Sorry.” He removed the unbuttoned brown shirt from his shoulders and threw it on the floor before lying on top of her. Again, he went for her mouth, paying more attention to her lips and even sucking her tongue.
She tugged his hair. “God, Dayton, more …”
“What do you want?”
“I need you to fuck me right now.”
One of his eyebrows went up. “You’re sure?”
“Now.” She unlatched his belt buckle and unzipped his pants before shoving the fabric off his ass, along with his underwear. His cock sprung up between them. Talk about a package ready for delivery… She took it in her palm and rubbed up and down, reveling in the way his eyes closed and his mouth opened in a silent plea.
He allowed himself to be toyed with but not for long. Soon, he lifted the bottom of her nightgown and pressed her thighs apart.
For a second—merely a second—Hannah felt hesitant. She knew she had a bit of scarring down there. She hadn’t been penetrated since her daughter’s birth. Would it hurt when he pushed inside?
Dayton must have noticed, because he stopped moving. She looked up to find him staring, cheeks flushed. “We don’t have to do this right now.”
“Yes. We do.” She grabbed his face and pulled him against her. “But first we need coconut oil.”
“On the counter by the stove.”
“Right.” He tugged up his pants enough to walk to her kitchen before hurrying back with a small glass jar.
She snatched it away from him and spun the top. The smell of pina coladas mixed with sex as she spread a liberal amount on his junk and between her legs. He almost fell right on top of her when she wrapped her ankle around the back of his knee, but he caught himself with his hands and lingered above her.
“Now, fuck me, deliveryman. Fuck me hard.”
“You keep talking like that, and this is gonna be over way too fast.”
He guided himself to her entrance, an area Hannah now considered unfamiliar. She closed her eyes as he pushed inside but felt no pain. After so many weeks without sex, she felt a sense of awe at the newness of him. His excessive girth made her back arch, as did his adherence to fucking her practically through the furniture.
She had to press a throw pillow against her face as he continued pounding, and she stuck her own fingers in his mouth to stop him from shouting as he came. Her own orgasm smashed into her seconds later, and she screamed loud and hard into that cheap rayon square from Pier I.
He collapsed on top of her, and she giggled when she realized he really had kept on his boots. Dayton didn’t get up, just nuzzled his nose against her neck. She couldn’t even lift her arms.
“Oh, I needed that,” she murmured.
“Me, too,” he said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, sweetie.”
“Can we stop pretending I’m not your husband now?”
She chuckled into his hair. “Yes. But wasn’t it fun playing a little game?”
He haltingly lifted himself onto one elbow. “I don’t need to play games with you, Hannah.”
She tugged his chest hair. “I thought it would be exciting to make me something forbidden. Make me more desirable.”
His eyebrows lowered. “There is no one more desirable to me than you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not like this.” She put her hand on her puffy stomach.
He put his hand over hers. “Exactly like this. Not only are you the career woman I’ve always loved, but now, you’re also the mother of my child. Plus, your tits are huge.”
She laughed, which managed to wake Neely. The baby’s bellows echoed down their creaky century-old home stairs.
“Now we’re in trouble.” Dayton rolled off her and stood. He pulled his pants up but not before Hannah gave him a good smack on the ass. “I’ll get her.” He grabbed his shirt before hurrying up the steps, his boots clunking with every leap.
She pulled her nightgown back down as dampness dripped between her legs. Not the sexiest sensation, and yet, in that moment, she wouldn’t trade that magical mix of her husband and makeshift lube. Soon, he came back downstairs with their little girl in his arms—their little girl with her father’s hazel eyes and her mother’s bright blonde hair. Neely’s face leaned against Dayton’s chest as her tiny hands curled against his uniform.
“Tell me you’re not sad, Hannah. With me.” He kissed Neely’s head. “With us.” He looked up at her from beneath light eyelashes—handsome as the day they met.
“Just keep delivering my packages, big boy.” She winked.
Happy Mother’s Day
Theresa’s cell phone dimly illuminated the master bedroom. Gloria is with Grandma and Grandpa. Should be home in twenty minutes.
Can’t wait to be with you. XOXO, she responded with a kissing emoji.
They’d discussed this night time and time again. They’d agreed on boundaries, safewords, and acceptable stopping points. They both knew there could be consequences, knowing the risk of jealousy would be present. A potent blend of trepidation and excitement coursed through her.
She tightened her scarlet silk robe and walked into their master bathroom. In preparation for the evening, Kyle had arranged her a spa day, while he had cleaned the house top to bottom. Both the kitchen and master bathroom were spotless, the living room devoid of baby toys, and Gloria’s crib tucked away in the spare bedroom. The only time the house had been this clean was before they’d hosted their housewarming.
Theresa turned on the bathroom light and stood in front of the mirror, opening her robe to survey her changed, naked body. The hairdresser had styled her chocolate brown hair in loose waves that fell past her shoulders; she’d taken to tying it back and out of the way, one less distraction from her busy days as a new mother. She’d swept on a coat of deep red lipstick and coated her lashes with mascara, making her face more sultry and reminiscent of that time before her life revolved around nothing but folic acid and child proof locks. Theresa smiled back at herself, a gentle smile so as to not break out into a series of laugh lines and crow’s feet. The effect was pleasant enough.
Her eyes traveled down her body, past her neck which she moisturized religiously, and stopped at her breasts. She’d always had a full chest, but the pregnancy hormones had caused them to swell to an almost cartoonish size. Her nipples, once the locus of foreplay, had been sore from Gloria’s incessant nursing.
On the shared sink, there was a jar of organic cocoa butter one of her colleagues had discreetly given her at her baby shower. Theresa opened the bottle and rubbed some between her fingers, warming it up. With both hands, she massaged her areolas and nipples, coating them with moisturizer. She watched herself in the mirror and felt a river of warmth trickle down within her body. Theresa gently pulled at both her nipples, recognizing the familiar electric tug radiating from them. They weren’t sore anymore.