Cathedral Of Furs

We're partnering with erotica author and expert Rachel Kramer Bussel to bring you steamy stories written by women. Enjoy the selection below, and head to the collection to discover even more.

From “Arielle” in Cathedral of Furs: Ardent Erotica Inspired by Anaïs Nin by Lana Fox

When I walked in, you were still in your work suit. I think that’s how you wanted it — you’d be the manager, the ringmaster, and we’d be the ponies, turning your tricks. That’s why you had us kiss one another, yes? I was shy at first, having never kissed a woman, but Jeanne was ravenous, her mouth ardent, as if she’d been waiting years for me, and she stained my mouth with her cherry-dark lipstick, with kisses like crushed velvet — selfless, selfish, all and nothing. As our mouths sank together, our breasts touched, mine adorned only with the finest satin, hers covered with gauzy material studded with teardrops of finery. Held by her so we breathed as one, I felt her hardened nipples. I swept my hand against her thigh and the curve of her buttock, feeling her body so warm, so smooth inside her dress. Beneath my skin, my blood was beating, making every little part of me flush and gasp. I was alive, so alive, especially when I felt your arms encircling me from behind, and your sex — hard and insistent — pressing at my back. I threw back my head then, making ardent sounds, as Jeanne lay soft-damp kisses down my throat, and you explored my body through the thin satin, your hands caressing me with slippery smoothness, as if I were already bare. I felt you touch my hips, my sides, your lips insistent against my nape. I felt you gather me tighter than Jeanne, grinding against me. Desperation. Need. I palpitated with pleasure, my breath breaking like tiny fractured mirrors. Jeanne twined her fingers in my hair, her lips crushing mine, and I ran my palms over her curves — her hips, her breasts (so much softer than mine), and the nipples that rose at my keenness. You devoured me so greatly, swallowing me deep. My darling, you robbed me of time. I have no way of remembering how our moments strung together, how we moved on one another, who went first, who want last. Do you hear? You broke the temporal threads and I still feel the impact — when I think of you, time bores me! I must have everything at once! Always I am searching for the supreme spasm, when you make longing shatter into joy! As we pawed and bit and breathed at one another, you and Jeanne opened a universe of planets, with no need of measurement. You pulled me apart and the cogs spilled out, leaving only moons and stars. My memories of our lovemaking can only come in desperate shards. All that are left are moments, so vivid: Jeanne beneath the low chandelier with its crystals like a crown of stars, as she let the slip fall from her waist, undulating, a metronome. Here she was, pale as a unicorn, her breasts full and smooth, almost gleaming in the light, her eyes darkened with a smudge of charcoal, her hands touching her body — breasts, nipples, stomach, sex, all the way down to her stockinged thighs. Me lying on an unmade bed of soft sheets and pillows, while you, my love, kneeled over me, offering your sex to my waiting mouth. I will never forget how hard you felt against my pliant lips, or how my tongue longed to surround you, to take you until I could take no more. I watched you, unerring, as you vanquished my mouth, my red lipstick staining your sex, and I’ll never forget the ferocious bliss in your eyes, and your agony of moans as you quickened your rhythm. For a while, there was only you in me, until I heard a wail from the other side of the bed. Jeanne, stare trained on your sex in my mouth, was lying on her back with her knees bent, as she rubbed her sex with intensity. The honey was flowing so deeply inside her that I could hear her frantic wetness. She was deep in the climax, entering it entirely, her mouth opening wide like a lion’s, as if she was swallowing a world of pleasure. Arched in extremis, she was an undulating feast, her breasts softly bouncing, her nipples hard and dark as she pressed the last convulsions from her thirsty sex. You, sitting on the edge of the bed while I sat facing you, astride your lap, and Jeanne was behind me, breasts grazing my shoulder blades, as she grasped my hips and made me your doll. She used me to satisfy you: a vessel for your pleasure. How I loved being made to submit, being used without thought, being used for sheer wetness — as a tight glove, a palpitating fist, pornography or worship. I was both the wafer and the wine, the bread and the body transforming. As Jeanne brought my hips down onto your sex, soldering us together, I caught you glancing at my breasts, and the hard light of climax filled your eyes. “Quicker!” I cried to Jeanne. “Move me quicker!” And I thrust my own hips, wrenching from her prison, pushing myself onto you, plunging into the climax. It entered me like thunder, like sheer forked light. Our cries blared out at the very same time, and you and I were nothing but crescendo. Limbs, mouths, throats, thirst. Passion. Molten lava. Fingers clutching at what can’t be caught.