My favorite story in Lucy Felthouse’s collection is the one in which nobody comes. “The Only Bitch for Me” is told from the perspective of a vet returned from Afghanistan, who meets up with his former lover in a pub.
“So you’re back then,” she said, eyeing me, as if looking for scars or wounds. I had none. Others hadn’t been so lucky.
“Um, yes.” I said, confused. Of course I was back, was I not sitting right in front of her?
“I meant for good. Back for good, smart arse.”
“Sorry. Yes. I’m back for good. I’m now officially a civilian.”
“So that means no more taking orders without question, huh? You have your own free will to do what you want, when you want.”
Before I could respond, I felt her foot slipping in between my legs. But this was no stocking-clad caress. She was still wearing her stilettos, and the pointed toe of one of them pushed against my cock, which had begun to swell within my underwear. I gulped.
“I guess not. Not in my professional life, anyway.”
She raised an eyebrow.
It soon becomes clear that what he wants—what they both want—is for him to be her worshipful slave. There’s no explicit sex in this brief tale, just a long, slow, agonizing tease, but it definitely got my motor running in a way most of the stories in this book did not. In retrospect, I believe I was reacting to the erotic tension in the piece, the steady and unrelenting build-up of unconsummated desire.
That tells you something about me and my tastes in erotica.
Most of the other tales in Multi-Orgasmic are less nuanced and more direct. They get right down to the sex, which frequently has a mildly kinky bent. For instance, in “Naughty Delivery,” a couple receives a long-awaited shipment of sex toys ordered on-line, only to discover that due to some error, their package includes a spanking paddle and bondage equipment rather than the vanilla toys they’d timidly requested. Needless to say, Ben and Sonia take this in stride, discovering that orgasms can be a lot more intense when prefaced by some bottom-walloping.
In a similar vein, “Her Majesty’s Back Garden” zeroes in on an exhibitionist couple having sex behind the bushes on a tour of Buckingham Palace. “It Takes All Sorts” shows the delightful changes that can happen to a marriage when the wife starts reading BDSM erotic romance. In “Heat Upon Heat,” a woman fantasizes about the handsome, well-hung young handyman she watches in the yard, then promptly brings those fantasies to fruition. “The Not-So-Blushing-Bride” features a limo chauffeur who meets a bride-to-be as eager to fuck as he is. Hot, shirtless employees and a vibrator help the heroine get off inside her sudsy vehicle in “At the Car Wash.”
These are all perfectly fine stories, but they didn’t push my personal buttons at all. I’m more interested in the emotional and psychological dimensions of sex than the physical ones. Ms. Felthouse’s tales, as suggested by her title, lavish their attention on the delightful activities leading up to orgasms. Her characters’ motivations are more or less taken for granted. There’s no suspense, no complexity, no guilt or confusion. It’s all about pleasure.
Don’t get me wrong—I have nothing against pleasure. I’m just one of those people who like a bit of mystery in my erotica, the intensity of wondering whether those forbidden desires will be satisfied, or remain cherished but unrealized.
The characters from “The Only Bitch for Me” return in a later story, “Without Question.” It’s a delicious femdom scene, but it didn’t affect me nearly as strongly as the prelude. I did like “Why I Love Her,” though, which has a neat twist and also features one of my favorite fantasies. (I won’t tell you what it is, because I don’t want to spoil the surprise.) I also enjoyed “The Unexpected Submissive,” in which a man comes back exhausted from a business trip to find his cleaning woman masturbating in the bathtub. I know I’m predictable, but I’m always aroused by the tacit complicity between serious dominants and submissives.
Erotica is a big tent. If your tastes run to naughty stories full of fellation, cunnilingus, spanking and fucking, you’ll definitely enjoy this book. There are more than enough orgasms to go around. If, like me, you believe eroticism begins in the mind—if you’re more aroused by the experience of desire than its physical gratification—you might be a bit disappointed.