Category: Fiction (page 2 of 3)

Posts that include erotic and nonerotic fiction or excerpts from published stories.

Erotic Fiction: Mourning Sun

Morning Sun by Edward Hopper (1952)

Morning Sun by Edward Hopper (1952)

His heart beats so hard she’s afraid it will shatter. It’s such a fragile thing. A hunk of meat and tenacity. It will stop one day, she knows. It will stop and he will leave her.

She is young and strong. He is not so young. The men in his family thrive until they don’t. They stop, without warning, when the machinery gives out. She wants to reach in and cradle his heart. She wants hold it in her hands and hide it from the day that he will leave.

They have talked about children. They’ve talked for years. Some day, they’ve said. When the time is right. She is still young, after all. But he is getting older. There is silver in his hair. Not much, but enough—enough for her to imagine his father dying at his age.

She hadn’t known him then. She’d been in college, drinking too much and playing too hard, while he’d been deep in his career. She hadn’t known he existed to be lost. She hadn’t known that, when they’d buried his father, this man, her man, would be next in line.

He shifts in his sleep, restless in the thick, yellow sun where they nap. Beyond the open window, the city hums like locusts, feeding off the heat. There is nothing to do. No child to tend. No errands to run. He gets tired sometimes, so they sleep. They are sleeping away his life. She feels a muted, desperate panic as she strokes his chest.

She sits up and unbuckles his belt. Her hands are nimble and quiet, as if she’s trying to wake him up without disturbing his sleep. He opens his eyes and smiles, sweet like a boy. It makes her ache in places she can’t name. The ache spreads through her. It passes through nerve and tissue and bone until she becomes that ache; the aching, inevitable loss of him, anticipatory and sharp.

He touches her face. His bright eyes are framed by a fan of lines that make him look “distinguished”. A man of a certain age. She wishes she were of a certain age too. She wishes she would die first. It’s a selfish wish and it shames her, but she would happily give him the ache of her loss to avoid the loss of him. She feels small and tight for wishing it, but fear is leaking out of her, red and raw, too swollen for her chest.

“Hey love,” he murmurs, but she shakes her head.

She doesn’t want to talk. His smile is sad now as he lifts up his hips so she can slide the denim down. His Levi’s are ancient, from before they met, broken in just right. She will remember him wearing them when he is gone…when she rocks a baby and kisses a scraped knee. The memories are stacked like tiles in her brain. She feels them, waiting to be used.

She unbuttons her dress and tosses it aside with unnecessary force. She’s fractious and keen. She feels the absence of his touch. She wants every barrier gone.

He watches her, stroking her thighs, her flat belly, her soft, heavy breasts. She lets him work a finger between her too-hot skin and the thin cotton band that holds her panties up. He tugs a little, playful, but she doesn’t smile back. She is too full of purpose as she rests her hand on his, and pushes her panties down.

She straddles him, hovering over his cock with no pretense at play. Normally, she would want to taste him, salty with Sunday laziness and sunshine sweat, but she is driven now. She wants a part of him, whole and holdable. Somewhere to put her love in the days when he is gone.

It’s a dangerous want. She knows it, even as she sinks down.

Her cunt is wet with the tears she knows she will cry. She closes her eyes and focuses on him beneath her, their rightness, his pulse, the feathery beat of his heart. He rolls her over and presses her into the bed. She is crying and he lets her. He will ask her why after, when they are sated, when his come is safe between her legs, when there’s hope that something will grow in the sunlight of their bed, in the city that sounds like locusts.

Erotic Fiction: Should You Stay Or Should You Go

Oil painting by Serge Marshennikov.

Oil painting by Serge Marshennikov.

She can’t sleep. She isn’t used to having someone else in her bed, but there he is beside her, hand draped over her hip.

The gray area they occupy is not at all safe. She wants to fit her body around him so badly she nearly rolls away, turns her back, curls up into a ball at the edge of her own bed. She stares at the ceiling, paralyzed, afraid his hand will move. She wants him to stay. She wants him to leave. She wishes she knew if he’d meant to fall asleep. He never has before. He always goes. They had agreed he would.

But she loves that he is there, sleeping in her bed…it would all be so much simpler if he hadn’t drifted off in her pretty, white room.

She stares at the ceiling, feeling anxious and sick. She wants one or the other – mean to stay or mean to go. She does not like the question mark hanging over her bed. He could wake up embarrassed. Brittle, bright and false. Oh, fuck. I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant…. Or he could smile and hold her. They could see where this will go.

She doesn’t know how to play this and she can’t sleep, not with his hand burning heavy on her hip. She wants him. She wants to sleep. She wants to be safe. She doesn’t want to play the fool. She doesn’t know which way to go.

The clock on her nightstand sheds a soft red light over her tortoise shell glasses, her journal, and her books, her usual companions in her pretty, wrought iron bed. She listens to his breathing, times hers to his, calms herself, lulls herself, pulls herself back. There is time for her journal and time for her books. This is now. He is here. For now, he is here. Her hand drifts over her stomach, past his hand on her hip, a soft feather-light touch.

Her body is tender and restless, despite having spent the better part of the evening with his head between her legs.  She wants him. She knows that. It’s why she isn’t safe. But her body wants him too, and that’s simple enough. She makes a decision and shifts, gently moving his heavy hand before pulling back the sheets.

He mumbles, annoyed by the chill, but not enough to wake up as she moves down the bed. She doesn’t touch him. She just looks, soaking him in, so out of place among the shams and pillows, the empty mug, the small box of tissues besides her bed. This is her room and her life. He is surrounded by her minutia. That means he is her guest.

She hovers over him, still watching as he dreams, struggling through some imaginary place. Then she moves lower, fingers skimming, barely touching the hair on his chest, his stomach, the tops of his thighs, as she settles between his legs. He shifts, as if he can sense her, and she smiles. His cock begins to stir, though it remains soft for the moment, limp against his leg. She inhales, catching the scent of him combined with a hint of her own. Then, very delicately, she takes it between her lips.

He shifts again, still dreaming, but not so deeply now. Gathering her long hair off to one side, she cradles his cock with her tongue and starts to suck. She feels his fingers in her hair as he hardens, nudging the back of her throat. She moans. He moans. It thrills her. The raw, unguarded sound of him makes her wet.

She stops thinking about the alarm she’d forgotten to set, or how she’ll get her hair washed, or catch the train to work. His hips rise up to meet her. The question mark is gone. He’s balanced right on the edge where she holds him, saying her name in his pleasure-thick voice.

She cups his balls with one hand and slides the other between her legs. She wants to come from sucking him off, but her clit is so hard and slippery that she can’t get the friction she needs as her mouth continues to move, guided by instinct more than art. She becomes her tongue, her skin, her cunt and her mouth, straddling his leg and rubbing herself while she works his cock.

He pushes up to meet her coiled frame, and she moves with him, barely aware. She is bent on the way he fills her mouth, his taste, the hitch of his breath. His balls tighten as she drags her lips over his length, suckling his head, teasing his slit, before sliding her tongue back down. It’s enough. She wants him to come. He groans and jerks as she swallows, sucking hard as she rubs her orgasm out.

Her crisp, fresh covers are everywhere; her soft, scarlet blanket has fallen to the floor, but she’s feels peaceful and good, resting her head on his thigh as he softens in her mouth.

“It’s late,” she murmurs, looking up at his face, which is lit by the numbers on her bedside clock. “Do you want to stay?”

A pause and she feels something in him relax.

“Yeah,” he says. “I would…if you don’t mind.”

She sets the alarm and pulls up the covers.

“No. I’d like you to stay.”

 

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Erotic (??) Fiction: The Lady and the Euphemism

"Dreaming of You" cover art by Max Ginsburg

“Dreaming of You” cover art by Max Ginsburg

A few weeks ago, the brilliant Jane Gilbert at Behind the Chintz Curtain wrote an article about how erotic euphemisms…how shall I put this…work against the sexiness of a story. That post, which I highly recommend, prompted #EuphOff, an impromptu meme and one of the best writerly challenges I’ve ever heard of. The idea is to write a 500 word story using as many horrible euphemisms for sex and anatomy as possible.

Ms. Gilbert, Lunabelle of Ninja Sexology and Curvaceous Dee all posted amazing contributions last week. They are hilarious – you just need to read them for yourself – so, when Ms. Gilbert asked if I’d like to contribute something to #EuphOff I trembled with an acquiescence born from quivering enthusiasm.. in other words, I said, hell yes.

So, in honor of Erotic World Book Day, here’s my contribution – an example of what good erotica isn’t. This little dip into Bulwer-Lytton territory inspired by the historical romances I read as a girl. And to sweeten the deal, Exhibit A was kind enough to read this for you in his lovely British accent. Play the audio file at the end of the story to hear the euphemisms come to vivid, turgid life! 

Finally, if you’d like to read more terribly, terrible erotica, and thus appreciate the good stuff all the more, please click the coffee bean at the bottom to see other contributions.

Happy Erotic World Book Day! 

“The Lady and the Euphemism”

Chrysanthemum trembled beneath Declan’s cobalt gaze, which pierced her like the teeth of a panther in the dark.

“Come here,” he commanded, in a voice ripe with command.

She had no choice but to obey.

Slowly, Chrysanthemum rose, horrified by the sticky, sweet lady-nectar that coated the soft down of her virgin inner thighs. Her nether-lips felt swollen and tender to the point of distraction. She was reminded of the time she had dropped a brick on her toe, and marveled at how much better this aching in the cradle of her maidenhood felt.

“Remove your garments, you loose-moraled strumpet,” Declan growled in tones that would not be ignored.

Chrysanthemum jumped to obey, at once humiliated and intrigued at the thought of her new husband, the mysteriously wealthy duke who had saved her from financial ruin not a fortnight before, seeing her as no man had seen her – without clothing, just as she’d been when her mother had pushed her free from the warm confines of her body and into the cruel, cold world eighteen years before.

Color stained her alabaster cheeks and her lips trembled as she slowly unbuttoned her chemise, exposing the round globes of her generous femininity. The raspberry tips hardened beneath Declan’s avid gaze, perking like two puppies begging for a treat. It was nearly too much, and Chrysanthemum tried to close her shirt, but Declan’s hand shot out with the quickness of a viper.

“No. Leave yourself exposed.”

The rough timbre of his voice caressed her skin like a feather. Without thinking, Chrysanthemum panted as she slipped her skirts off, so that she stood before him in nothing but her undergarments, shamed and without pride.

He touched her then through her silk trousseau, and her body responded of its own accord, arching into the invasion like a port welcoming a ship home.

Licking his lips like a fox, Declan removed the final barrier to her modesty with cold efficiency and resumed touching her honeyed love-passage, a place never before caressed by a man. Chrysanthemum moaned, seeking to kiss him, yet he rebuffed her mouth, choosing instead to suckle at her mounds like a starving baby. All the while, his fingers slid through the petals of her most private rose.

Her pearl of pleasure quivered, straining from her body, and Declan, cognizant of her blossoming pleasure, obliged and pressed her love button with expert assurance.

Chrysanthemum bit her bee-stung lip as a pleasure unlike any she had known wracked her frame, and her inner-passage clutched at his fingers like the suction cups of an octopus.

“Oh, yes! Yes,” she cried as he wrung yet more pleasure from her thrumming, slick orchid of love, stopping only when she swooned in his arms.

“Ah, my sweet,” he murmured into her auburn locks. “This is only the beginning. My turgid, throbbing manhood awaits.”

The End

Narration by Exhibit A:

 

 

EuphOff

Strong Foundations (Guest Post by Exhibit A)

I got a lovely birthday surprise today – a guest post from Exhibit A. He wrote an excellent introduction to this story, which is up right now on his blog. I really encourage you to check it out, as he talks about what went into creating a story out of this particular scenario.  

As for me, my capacity for critical thought is a little challenged right now – “Strong Foundations” is, quite literally, exactly the kind of story that turns me on most. It’s fantastically fucking hot, and  full of the sort of tension and boundary pushing that can only happen when two people trust each other implicitly.  It’s a brilliant story from by a brilliant writer. I hope you enjoy! xx.M

NB: Exhibit A just put up a supplement to the story on his blog. It’s got some additional (hot) background on the writing of it, as well as a very illustrative visual aid. Have a look…

Strong Foundations

by

Exhibit A

“Here – you look stressed.”

I turned away from my laptop just in time to see Ally put a fresh cup of tea down on the kitchen table next to me.

“I can’t fucking concentrate with all that banging going on downstairs. Do they have to be so loud?”

“Honey, they’re ripping out the whole shower unit. I’m not sure what made you think that would be a silent process.”

I glared back at Ally, but only because I knew she was right. Arranging to work from home on the day the builders came had not been one of my smarter moves. My desk sat flush against the bathroom wall, and vibrated each time hammer struck chisel next door; moving upstairs to the kitchen had helped a bit, but in our cosy maisonette apartment there was really no escape from the repetitive thud, and the sound of tiles clattering down onto the floor.

“I know, I should have gone to the office. I’m an idiot.”

Ally pressed her fingers into my shoulders, easing out the tension. I leaned back into her as she bent down and brushed her lips against my ear.

“Mm, you really should have done. I’d have had far more fun with those two if you weren’t here.”

I pulled her round onto my lap and she squealed with laughter.

“Oh really? And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Well…they’re not exactly painful to look at, are they? And such strong young men. I bet they have plenty of energy. Yum.”

I rolled my eyes. Ally’s nipples were hard against her tank top, inviting attention, but when I moved my hand toward her breasts, she slapped it away.

“Do you think they’d enjoy seeing me like this if I took them tea right now? That one in the khaki overalls, I know he definitely liked what he saw when I went down there earlier. I bet he’d love to know what the thought of his bulge was doing to my nipples.”

Ally squirmed in my lap, and I felt her grind down onto my cock. I willed it to stop twitching, to stay soft and unresponsive, but she knew my body too well; her grin was triumphant and smug as it started to swell beneath her.

“Oh, don’t worry, I know that you would like that. In fact, maybe I should leave you up here with your work and go see how hard their dicks get when I sit on their laps. What do you reckon? It’s not as if these shorts leave much to the imagination.”

I paused, weighing up my response. Ally smirked down at me.

“Maybe you’d prefer to hear them hammering away at my cunt instead of the bathroom wall. Making me scream. Is that it? Would you find it easier to concentrate on your laptop then?”

I could feel the skin at the base of her spine getting warmer with every word. It was one of her favourite games, and she played it with merciless proficiency. If I hadn’t already hated the builders for their intrusion into my working day, the lust that practically dripped from her tongue would have left me wound tight with rage at how wet she was for them; and for how she held that arousal just out of my reach, teasing me with it.

What we both knew all too well was that the anger only turned her on more, so it was no surprise when she swung one leg over me and hopped up onto the table, her feet kicking together as she contemplated her next move. I saw it spread across her face well before it reached her pursed lips, but that did nothing to deaden the impact.

“Ok, get up. We’re going to have a bit of fun here.”

I levered myself out of the chair and shuffled across the wooden floor. She slid into the space I’d vacated and leaned back, arms crossed behind her head. My shoulders tensed at the sight of her body stretched out like that, lithe and feline. In contrast, mine felt clumsy and awkward, weighed down by the dense, thrumming desire that only her piercing gaze could awaken in me.

“Strip for me. Slowly. Jeans first.”

I tugged at my belt, my fingers cold and shaky without the reassuring warmth of her body curled in my lap. Downstairs, the hammering stopped and I tensed, a nervous response I inwardly cursed as she raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Sorry, I just…well, what if one of them comes up?”

“Huh. What indeed?”

“Are you kidding, Ally? They can’t see me like this, ok?”

“Then why are you getting hard? And don’t deny it! I can see you straining against the fly. Are you worried they’ll see you? No, that’s not it: ah, you’re worried they’ll think you’re small!”

“I…”

“Because I saw the way they filled out their overalls. Fuck, there’s no comparison. Those boys are packing, and you…ha! I mean…well, we can’t all be superstars, can we?”

I flushed, a deep, angry red that I felt warm my chest and set my stomach on spin cycle. The heat spread lower though, and I gritted my teeth against it, trying to stop my body betraying me, even as I shimmied out of my jeans and presented myself to her.

She looked me up and down with a careful, studied gaze. I felt shy, coltish and awkward; undone by her forensic attention. I trusted Ally to push my buttons in a way that worked within the context of our relationship, but the sudden charge to the atmosphere between us indicated that we were both moving into new territory.

The hair on my legs shivered in the cold of the open, airy kitchen. I lifted my striped, long-sleeved t-shirt up over my stomach, and extended my arms towards the ceiling, stopping only when her voice cut through the silence.

“Did I tell you to take that off? Boxers first. I want to see how much you want this.”

I untangled my arms and let them hang limp by my side. Casting a final anxious glance at the stairs, I slowly peeled the tight boxer-briefs down over my cock, and let them join my jeans in a puddle on the floor.

Ally leaned forward and watched intently, fingers tapping against her thigh as I stood exposed in front of her.

“I really should take them tea, you know. They’re working ever so hard. Put the kettle on.”

My mouth hung open, but no sound came out. We stared at each other like poker players; it only took me a few seconds to realise that Ally wasn’t going to blink first. She held my gaze, then pulled my eyes over to the worktop where the kettle rested. The nod was subtle enough that I almost missed it; firm enough that my feet had already started to move across the floor by the time my brain processed her message.

I flicked the switch and stepped back again, shocked by how eager my body was to submit. Ally laughed, rich and warm, the way she did whenever I was stiff with her friends or slow to warm up on a night out.

“God, I’ve never seen your cheeks that colour. They’re almost as dark as the head of your cock. Speaking of which…”

Ally closed the gap between us with the sort of balletic grace that only further exposed the way she’d reduced me to slow motion, my body stuck in quicksand as hers took flight. She tapped her hand against my chest and held me in place, just far enough away that my cock could only graze the soft cotton of her white top.

“Mm, not quite dear.”

I felt my arse clench in frustration. Biting back every swear word that threatened to pour out of my mouth, I presented myself to her, wondering for the first time just what the two builders might have that I didn’t.

I watched Ally press the pad of her thumb against the tip of my cock, and slide her index finger down the shaft till it nestled snug against my pelvis. She jerked back as I twitched against her, and lifted her measurement in front of my face; I frowned, and wrinkled my nose in disbelief, but she refused to widen the space between her digits.

“Heh. You wish.”

The kettle boiled, but neither of us moved. Slowly, Ally lowered her hand and curled it around my cock, her fingers silken and warm. I longed to feel her mouth as well; she gave head with great enthusiasm, her tongue as skilful at working me into a frenzy as it was at taunting and teasing me. Instead, she caressed the shaft with quick, light touches, just enough to keep me achingly hard, but well short of what she knew I really wanted.

I dreaded the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but Ally showed no sign of putting me out of my misery. She scraped one nail over the head of my cock and pushed the pad of her finger against the slit, almost as if she was telling it to stay quiet.

“You…you clearly want me to make you come. But what you want isn’t really important right now. What I want is for you to be a good boy and make the tea. Think you can manage that?”

She stepped to one side and ushered me to the worktop. I dropped a teabag into each of the mugs laid out on the side, and poured hot water over them. When I wheeled around to fetch the milk out of the fridge, my cock bounced in front of me, and Ally gave it a playful tap as I moved past her.

“You’re not going to make me take these downstairs, are you?”

“And deny myself the chance to have another perv? Not fucking likely. Besides, while I’m sure you’d enjoy walking down there like that, I don’t think they’d be quite as impressed.”

Nodding meekly, I picked up the mugs and tried to hand them to Ally. She put a hand on my arm and steered it back to the worktop.

“Uh uh, don’t be so eager. There’s something else you need to help me with first. Unzip my shorts, please.”

“What? Why?”

“I stood at the end of our bed this morning and put this underwear on especially for you – you didn’t even notice it. Perhaps the two chaps downstairs will be more appreciative.”

I felt the disconnect between my brain and my body growing. The shame I felt at the thought of her parading in front of them only seemed to make my fingers work faster, helping her to push the waistband over her hips, and exposing the sea green lace beneath. They were her favourites, and I stopped to admire the way they clung to her arse, accentuating her curves and leaving just enough to the imagination.

I knelt to untangle the shorts from her feet, and she put her hand on the top of my head, using me to balance at the same time as she held me in place. She ruffled my hair and slid her fingers through it, letting them come to rest on the back of my neck.

“Kiss me. You know where.”

My lips were dry, but I let Ally ease them towards her crotch. I could smell her arousal well before the soft material made contact with my skin, but it still took me by surprise to feel how wet she was. I kissed her cunt through the knickers, and she moaned, a sound that never failed to make my cock tingle in response.

“Can I lick you? God, you smell amazing.”

“No. Not yet. You have to wait. For that. For me. For everything.”

“But I…”

“No, let me finish. You’re going to wait here for me, on your knees. Don’t get up. Don’t cover yourself. Just stay right here, with your dick hard between your legs and think about them looking at me. Think about those fucking delicious bulges in their overalls getting bigger and bigger as they stare at my arse in these tiny knickers. As they imagine groping my tits and filling my wet cunt with their fat cocks. Then maybe – just maybe – you’ll actually notice the next time I make an effort to look nice for you. If there is a next time.”

I sank back as she turned to pick up the two mugs, my arse resting on my heels. The blood rushed to my head and I barely heard her cross the kitchen floor toward the stairs. Her footsteps were light; where the wood creaked under my weight, she seemed to dance over it, and I knew the builders wouldn’t hear her coming. They wouldn’t know she was there till…God, even just thinking about it!

The hammering stopped and I closed my eyes, listening intently. A million thoughts raced through my head. I hated every single one, but each got me harder than the last. Her laughter floated up the stairs, followed by the low murmur of voices. It was maddening to hear them talking, without being able to make out the words.

A second laugh joined hers. Rough and dirty, a bark next to Ally’s musical lilt. Fuck, what did she say? I imagined her telling them what she’d done to me. Holding her thumb and forefinger up for them, even closer together this time to emphasise her point. My cheeks burned, but my cock refused to stop responding to the torment my brain was determined to inflict.

I didn’t think anything could be worse than the laughter – right up until the moment it stopped. The voices fell silent and I strained to hear what was going on. I thought about her fingers skimming the front of their overalls. Reaching inside. Their big hands pulling down her tank top, under her breasts. Cupping them. Pinching and teasing her nipples.

The click of a latch almost brought me to my feet. It could only be our bedroom door! She wouldn’t, would she? I fought to remain calm, my fists balling again and again by my side. One minute passed. Two minutes. Three. I tried to empty my mind, but the images wouldn’t stop scrolling across it. Ally on her knees in front of them. Ally bent over our bed, twisting the sheet between her fingers. Ally’s eyes scrunched shut, her mouth open wide in a soundless scream of ecstasy.

My knees ached. My thighs and back were rigid with tension, but still I didn’t move. Then, like a car radio bursting back into life as it exits a tunnel, the voices picked up again. Hers quickly left the other two behind, getting louder and more distinct as theirs tailed off.

“…oh yes…definitely…ha, the pleasure was all mine…”

Ally’s head came into view first, the rest following swiftly as she hopped up the stairs. I waited, unable to meet her eyes with mine. She walked over to the table and leaned against it, her feet crossed. Without speaking, she peeled off her knickers and spread her legs a shoulder-width apart. Tossing the discarded underwear in front of me, she cleared her throat and spoke, her voice softer than it had been earlier.

“Taste them. Taste how wet I am.”

I reached for the knickers and pressed them against my face, afraid all of a sudden. Afraid that I’d taste not just her arousal but theirs too. Her lips quirked up.

“Don’t worry sailor. There’s only one cock I want inside me right now. I’m so fucking horny, and I need you to take care of that. Think you’re up to the job?”

I scrambled to my feet. I no longer cared who might hear us, or who might see my dick as it pulsed with desire. Ally turned and bent over the table. She was soaking, her thighs sticky and hot, and her cunt wetter than I’d ever felt it before. I thrust inside her, as deep as I could; she shuddered around me, her whole body vibrating against the wooden surface.

“Jesus. I’m not going to last long. Harder – fuck me harder.”

I did as I was told, pouring myself into her with a fury and hunger that shocked me even as I let it flow out of my body. I came in seconds and Ally followed me over the edge, her cunt squeezing me in desperation.

She slumped down underneath me. I rested my forehead between her shoulders, feeling our sweat mix together. Her hand found mine, and she gave it a tired shake. I looked up in time to see her lift the index finger on her other hand. The one holding onto mine disengaged and move back up to the table. With a theatrical flourish, she extended a second index finger, lined the two of them up alongside each other, and slowly moved them apart.

Four inches. Five. Six. Still going. Still…

The smile on her face as she turned to look at my reaction was more wicked than happy.

“What the…”

“I do like men who travel with their own tape measures. Don’t you?”

Erotic Fiction: Resurrection

I wrote this story nearly two years ago and submitted it to Best Men’s Erotica 2014. I was very new to the genre then, and it was only the third piece of erotica that I’d ever had accepted. Though Burning Books Press very sadly closed its doors before the anthology could be published, I’ve got a real soft spot for this piece. I hope you enjoy. xx.M

Resurrection

Laurence Olivier, Vivian Leigh & Leslie Banks in 21 Days Together, dir. by Basil Dean. Image courtesy of The Red List.

Laurence Olivier, Vivian Leigh & Leslie Banks in 21 Days Together, dir. by Basil Dean. Image courtesy of The Red List.

There is a man in a room. He is sitting on a hard-backed wooden chair, one arm held diagonally across his chest. His palm is pressed flat against the opposite shoulder, as if he is trying to keep it in place.

A woman stands behind him. It is her room, her flat, hers and his friend’s…no, not his friend’s. It’s her flat alone. A distant image of shrapnel and a cockpit full of flames tries, briefly, to surface, but it finds no purchase and drifts away. In any event, this room, this flat, is the only place he knew to go.

The woman, his friend’s sweetheart, now his widow, is tall and lean, a bit underfed. She holds a pair of scissors in her hand and is shearing off the man’s dark, lank hair, which has grown to unaccustomed lengths since his capture and release. Just past the collar. This is an estimate, of course. He hadn’t worn a collar in months.

Lift, snip, lift, snip. Her nimble fingers are gentle, as if she is removing layers of harm with every cut, revealing the man’s once untarnished future as she reveals the column of his neck. He is surprised by her gentleness. He’s known her only as his dead friend’s wife; competent, distant, impossible to know. He himself is impossible to know. He understands how one becomes this way, and doesn’t begrudge it in her.

Snip, snip, snip.

She lays the shears on the table in front of him. Its only other contents are a paper-thin towel and the cracked, oval mirror that he’d made himself confront the moment he sat down. A ragged ghost had stared back at him. Dead eyes. Not a man to know. At least now, with his hair cut short again, he looks more like himself. Himself as a corpse. He smiles, a cold stretch of lips over teeth. He’s seen plenty of corpses look worse.

She runs her narrow hands through his new-cut hair, sending stray, brown tufts floating to the ground. He is shocked by how good her fingers feel on his scalp, how unexpectedly erotic. He presses his hand harder into his damaged shoulder, reminding himself of his nearly useless arm and the treatment that had rendered it so. She is his dead friend’s wife. He doesn’t want to intrude. But his skin begins to hum as she moves across the room.

She returns with a mismatched set of shaving things, retrieved from a tiny cupboard above an even smaller sink. The straight razor is old. The soap cracked and dry. She dips the brush into a bowl full of water, before massaging the soap in disciplined circles, coaxing a respectable foam from the long-forgotten cup.

“These were Ben’s,” she murmurs.

He nods. He cannot picture his friend. He’s lost the knack. It’s always shrapnel and fire. He can’t picture what isn’t directly in front of him. He can’t picture much at all. He tries and the failure disturbs him, so he watches her instead. He can only see half of her reflection in the glass. It stops at her collarbones, a few inches above her breasts. She is lean and spare. Almost boyish. The mirror has been leveled to center his image, so that she can see him while she works. Something in his stirs. He wants to see her face.

The thought surprises him. He finds himself imagining her eyes, divining their expression through the angle of her shoulders, the hollow of her throat. She always had serious eyes. Grave. Even on her wedding day, in the courtroom, when he’d stood next to Ben. So serious. Too serious. Not his type. Not then. But now her gravity draws him. He craves those dark, sad eyes. He nearly turns to look – nearly, but does not. She places two fingers on his jaw and steadies his head, as she touches the brush to his cheek.

The shaving soap smells clean and good, so good after weeks in the filthy, dark hole. He inhales once, and then again, thanking a deity he no longer believes in for razors and soap and women who wield them well. She leans past him as she sets the cup aside, giving him the barest hint of her scent. Flowers… lilies? Her breast brushes against his good shoulder as she draws back. It is small and firm, the nipple taut beneath her blouse. His body responds, automatic and intense, a reaction he hasn’t had since his capture.

During his imprisonment, sex had ceased to exist, replaced by more immediate concerns. In the beginning, he had maintained a heroic defiance. Gradually, defiance had given way to the animal will to survive. Finally, all that had been left was the hope to die well. Sex served no purpose in a truncated life, so his body had shut the whole operation down. And so it had remained – until the moment her blouse brushed his naked shoulder, shocking his system to life.

He wants to see her face.

She pauses, holding the blade lightly in her hand. His face is done, and done well, but his neck remains and for the first time since undertaking the task, he can feel her hesitate. He sees her breath hitch in the mirror, a tiny catch. Then she comes around the chair and kneels between his legs. She is tucked in close, so close that her scent surrounds him, dizzying and female, clean. He cannot look at her, for all that he’d wished to moments before.

Disgusted by this weakness, this shyness, he makes himself meet her gaze. She smiles, and it transforms her. He remembers that smile now. It is lovely. She is lovely – as lovely as war is not. He thinks of college and baseball. He thinks of Ben. He shifts, slightly, in his chair.

“Sorry,” she says. “Necks make me nervous. One doesn’t want to slip.”

She guides his head back and to the side, exposing the angle of his throat. Adjusting her hold on the razor, she proceeds with great care, scraping the bristles and lather away, as his pulse begins to pound. He is sure that she can see it. Anyone could. Her breath flutters over his raw, exposed skin, but he remains as still as he can. His eyes grow distant, to compensate. She murmurs softly as she turns his head, but he cannot hear her through the pounding in his ears.

The razor is cold against his feverish skin. One pass. Two. Three. Done. She retrieves the towel without getting up, twisting her hips and leaning in so her trim, narrow waist is pressed, briefly, against his thigh. She takes the towel and pats his skin, clearing off the lather with a quiet, fractured air.

She lingers on his neck, his jaw, his throat. She flushes a delicate pink, and her breath catches, he could swear. He presses his palm hard into his shoulder, to keep from reaching out. Then she looks away, and he is glad he didn’t move. Perhaps he’d been wrong. He’s been wrong before. She stands and retrieves the mirror.

“Done. What do you think?”

She holds up the mirror so he can look at himself more closely. She’s done a good job. No longer a prisoner of war, but a groomed and respectable man. Familiar. Normal, if one avoids looking at his eyes, or his shoulder, or his near-to-useless arm. He clears his throat and nods, unused to talking and unable to find the words.

Outside the window, behind the curtains, sirens begin to scream. He flinches. Appallingly, he flinches. She puts the mirror back and kneels in front of him again. In his mind, he sees a pilot, outlined in smoke. He sees the letter his friend had written to her, the letter he’d had to send. Her hands, the hands that had opened the letter, drift up his torso now, as if to check his shoulder. It is scarred, deeply scarred, by a wound and its careless repair. The flat of his palm is still pressed against the ugly mess, though a part of him wants her to see it. She has, he knows, suffered damage of her own.

Her fingers drift over his wrist as she places his hand on his leg. He allows the manipulation, torn between the instinct to disconnect and the mounting need to feel her living warmth. She drifts closer, watching his eyes, gauging him, giving him time to withdraw. He knows he should, but he can’t. She smells like spring, like life, green and sweet, but her face is a woman’s face. They are not so young anymore. She is no longer his best friend’s girl. She is a woman of her own. And her waist is pressed against the rim of his chair – an inch from his hips and the erection that announces his return to the land of the living.

Her hands skim down to his scarred, naked ribs. She leans in and inhales his scent, her lips a whisper from his. His mouth goes dry and he angles his head, bringing his face close to hers. He can sees the world in her eyes. He sees the shadow of himself, and he knows he is going to kiss her. But she tilts her head and moves lower, past his mouth, until she finds his pulse.

She pauses there, at the hollow of his throat, and he savors the humid tension that thickens the air between them. Then she licks his thudding pulse, running her hot, nimble tongue over his receptive, newly shaved skin. Decency, pain, and memory are crushed. This room is all there is, this room and this woman and the simple need to fuck her.

He gathers her up with his good arm and roughly pulls her close, dragging her up off the floor. Her mouth crashes into his as they rock, precarious, in the chair. Then they are on the ground, their hands frantic, clutching and pulling, until her blouse rips and her buttons scatter. Tiny pearls on the floor.

They are too desperate to enjoy. He falls onto his back, pulling her with him so he can feel her without thinking about his arm. She understands and straddles him, pressing close before moving her hips against his hard, insistent cock. He arches his hips, changing their angle, while his good hand slides up her skirt and pulls her underthings aside in rough, inelegant jerks. When her sex is bare against his palm, she reaches down between them to unbuckle his belt. Her fingers shake. She is coming undone. She is pulling him apart with her need.

He feels the pulse of her, the wet, gorgeous heat of her as he moves his hand so she can rub herself against his naked cock. And then he is in her, thrusting and stroking as she clamps her legs around his waist, pulling him deep, deeper than he would have thought possible, if he’d been able to think at all. He rolls her onto his back, his arm and its limits forgotten. She is strong and full beneath him, and he is blind, lost in her scent, her throaty cries, her slick female heat.

She arches against him, scratching his back and clutching at his shoulders with her strong, desperate hands. Pain lances through him, but he doesn’t care. He loves it, embraces it, bares his teeth and tears into it as it shears through a wall of numbness and despair. He braces himself with his good arm as she buries her face in his neck, murmuring his name. Not his rank. Not his alias. Not God or the devil or angels or saints. Just his name. Then she comes, violently, shuddering in his arms.

He savors it and savors her, feels himself reborn in her clutching, perfect warmth. A second orgasm catches her, close on the heels of the first. It is more than he can bear. After months of stress and pain, he follows her, carried along by the joy of this woman, the only person left who knew him before.

When it is over, they lie on their backs on the floor, panting, unable to move. He feels shattered and restored. A cage inside him has broken – if not the last, then the first. She watches him, hair tumbled, lips swollen, eyes dark and serious. Grave. With an effort, he moves his ruined arm and touches her pale face, and through the numbness in his fingers, he can feel her dampened skin. She smiles her lovely smile and gets up off the floor.

She takes off her slip as she looks at him, rosy and full, not too skinny after all. Kneeling, he rests his head on the edge of her hip and inhales their mingled scents. Then he stands, and she strips him, revealing him in his entirety, scarred but whole. He kisses her, slowly this time, pressing his hips to her hips, his chest to her breast. Then they cross the room to her tiny bed, while sirens wail in the dark of the world.

Read to Me…

Woman ReadingI love being read to. I always have. When the weather turns cold, I love it even more. There’s something wonderful about being tucked in bed listening to the rain patter against the windows while your partner reads to you. Doesn’t matter what from, (though, of course, erotica is an excellent choice for such occasions). But really, it could be anything…except maybe a biology textbook.

My love of being read to segues naturally into a love of reading to other people. I’m just as happy being the one with the book in my hand as I am listening to the words drop into the chilly room.

I wrote both of these stories for contests run by Exhibit A, and both were inspired by photographs taken by the absolutely lovely Happy Come Lucky. They’re also both quite short. I’m not going to lie – that’s the main reason I chose to record those two in particular. My vocal cords aren’t up to professional scratch, so short and sweet seemed the way to go the first time out.

If you want to read along with either “The Second Letter” or “Drive”, you can find them in the drop down menu under Erotica. I’ll also embed the recording for each story on its respective page. In the meantime, get a cup of tea, or whatever suits your mood, curl up and relax. I want to read to you.. xx.M

THE SECOND LETTER

DRIVE

 

Fiction: Jack Rose & the Old Fashioned Girl

Jack Rose loved nothing more than the little seam that ran up the back of a woman’s leg. That thin, straight line led to beautiful things—garters and silk and soft, soft skin—all the things a man never saw until a woman was nice and mussed up.

backseamTrouble was, there weren’t too many of those seams to be had anymore. It was an old fashioned fetish for an old fashioned time. Sure, there were girls all dolled up with bright red lips and dark, inky eyes, but they weren’t the real deal—too much make up, to much dye, too much of everything, including trying too hard. The stockings they wore didn’t lead to silk and skin. More often than not, they ended in elastic so tight it could have kept foreign invaders out.

Platform hipster heels with a too short dress…. That was all fine and dandy for some guys, but not for Jack Rose. Jack wanted the real thing—a girl whose silk stockings glossed against the sway of a skirt that ended just below the knee. He wanted to trace the ridge of a real seam that ran straight and true all the way up her leg before he buried his face between her thighs. He’d been wanting that for a real long time. He’d gotten lots of near misses in hipster heels, but he’d never quite struck gold.

Then she walked into his bar—a lanky brunette with a wicked jaw, straight out of Dashiell Hammett. She wore a little tailored jacket with a tailored skirt that flared just below her knee. The minute he saw her, the whole place faded to smoky black and white, and he hadn’t even seen her legs.

The place was nearly empty. She had her pick of seats, but she slid right onto the stool directly in front of him.

“What’ll you have,” he asked, wiping at the spotless bar with a rag.

“An old-fashioned. Thanks.”

She looked expensive to the touch. Her angel face was smooth and unpowdered. Only her lips were made up, a ripe, gorgeous red that made him want to take a bite.

“You know how to make that, right?”

Jack started. He hadn’t meant to stare.

“Yeah,” he replied, clearing his throat. “Yeah, darlin, I’ve got it covered. You’re just the first person to ask for one in more than five years.”

She grinned then, showing dimples and pretty, white teeth.

“I guess I’m an old fashioned girl.”

Jack didn’t know what to say to that. All he knew was that he was dying to see her legs.

“Night, Jack!”

Jack looked up and waved as Sam and Kyle, a couple of die hard regulars, headed into the quiet night. “See ya, guys,” he called.

The place was empty now.

He took his time muddling the sugar with the booze. Then he set the tumbler in front of the girl.

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Do me two things and it’s one the house,” he said, wishing he still smoked.

“I don’t know how badly I want a free drink,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “How about you tell what you want me to do, and I’ll tell you how I pay.”

Jack smiled. He liked her. He liked her way too much.

“Sure,” he said, pouring himself a bourbon on the rocks. “First thing. Tell me your name, gorgeous.”

She nodded, shifting slightly in her seat. Jack watched as he took a sip, imaging that she’d just crossed her legs.

“Sure. My name is Myrna.”

“Myrna,” he murmured, nodding. It felt just right in his mouth.

“That’s a pretty name you’ve got.”

She smiled and leaned her elbows up on the bar. “Thanks. What’s the second thing?”

“Stand and up and turn around.”

Jack met her eyes just as her soft, open gaze shuttered. He rushed on, trying to explain.

“It’s nothing weird, I promise. It’s just… Forget it. Never mind. Drink’s on the house.”

Jack knocked back the rest of the bourbon with a clatter of ice against glass. He’d blown that one all right. Might as well start closing up.

“Wait,” Myrna said, smooth as fifty year old scotch. “I think that’s a fair trade. Providing….”

“Providing?”

“It’s a hell of a good drink.”

“Honey, that I can guarantee.”

Jack closed the till and watched as she slid of her stool and took three steps back. Then she slowly turned around. Long, black seams ran up her legs, from the heels of her spiky shoes to the scalloped edge of her hem.

“How’s that,” she said, meeting his eyes.

Jack cleared his throat.

“Not bad. I’d say we’re square.

“Like I said, that depends on how good your old-fashioned is.”

Still watching him, she sat back down and took a sip. She closed her eyes as her head tipped gently to one side, exposing the pale skin of her throat above the collar of her blouse. There was pleasure all over her face. He wondered if that’s how she looked when she came .

“How’s that,” he said.

“Oh… I’d say we’re square. In fact,” she said, opening her eyes, “I may owe you more than my name and a look at my legs.”

“Yeah?” Jack said, setting the rag aside. She was too damn good to be true.

“Yeah,” she said. “Why don’t you make yourself another drink?”

“Sure,” he said, “why not?”

With steady hands, Jack made himself an old-fashioned. Then he went around the empty bar, stopping just long enough to flip the closed sign over before taking the seat next to hers.

“What’s your name,” she said.

“Jack. Jack Rose.”

“Really? Jack Rose?”

“Yeah. My mom loved Hemingway.”

“That’s funny. I do too….”

A delicate flush colored her skin from collarbones to cheeks, as she slowly crossed her legs. Taking the invitation, Jack placed a hand lightly on her knee. When she leaned into him, he ran his hand down the back of her leg, over the perfect ridge of the seam. She sighed and bit her cherry red lip, as the scent of bourbon and sugar and Chanel filled his head. Goddamn. He wanted to muss her up.

Jack moved his hand back up her leg, pausing at her hem. She nodded, pulse skittering in her neck, so he allowed it to drift up her skirt, past the garters that kept those stockings in place, to a pair of silky knickers that were already damp and clinging to her sex.

Jack leaned in and kissed her. He loved an old-fashioned girl.

THE END

Note: I just wanted to quickly thank F. Leonora Solomon for our wonderful, wide-ranging conversations. This story was inspired by our mutual appreciation for the 1940’s and vintage underwear. She is a woman made of loveliness and class. Click here to read her drink – the Amaretto Sour.

The KMQ: Bound / Unbound

KMQ Bound-Unbound I’ve been listening to The Kiss Me Quick’s erotica podcast for roughly five months, and in that time, I’ve heard Rose Caraway read everything from the dark and unsettling to the most joyfully pornographic smut you could ever hope to come across. It’s a wonderful podcast, both in content and execution, which is why I was honored when Ms. Caraway asked me if I wanted to write a piece for an episode. The answer was an immediate hell yes.

The piece I ended up writing, a dark bondage fantasy called Bound / Unbound surprised me. I’d been toying with the idea for about 9 years but it never went anywhere. I even had an extremely shitty, ancient first draft, but I gave it up shortly after writing it because I felt unequal to the task, (I was a newbie then and in desperate need of skill and confidence). Even as a concept, it was unruly and stubborn, but when the KMQ came up, something made me dig it out.

Writing a piece to be read is different than writing a piece to be performed – it has to be a little tighter, a little leaner. It has to have a certain efficiency and punch because the ear can only process so much at one time. These limitations ended up imposing an additional structure on the work – one based on practical concerns like pacing, (there’s kick-ass interstitial music), and tension. Those limitations, plus having a specific audience, (KMQ’s Lurid Listeners), were the key.

You can listen to Rose Caraway’s reading of Bound / Unbound here. There’s even a fabulous short, “The Massage” by Lady Cheeky” from The Big Book of Orgasms to sweeten the deal, so check it out.

And finally, on a personal note, I just want to say thank you to Rose Caraway and the KMQ. I would never have guessed that 9 years later, my first rough, unformed little bit of erotica would be performed as an episode of one of the classiest productions there is. And if you aren’t already heard the KMQ, get on over there and have a listen. You’ll be happy you did.

The Second Letter

I have sent you the letter that I want to you to see. It is practical and wise, full of smooth, measured lines and things that are best for us both.

I am now writing you the letter that I wanted to write. It is not smooth. It is not measured. I am writing on my skin, down the length of my leg and up again, higher and higher, to my warm, wet cunt and the hollow places that you kissed. I will start at my hip and scrawl, “To my Love,” on that curved, hard bone. I will write of the silence my tongue couldn’t fill; of the ugliness and  envy I swallowed just to keep your taste in my mouth. I understood your responsibilities, your conditions, your life. I embraced my confinement in a small, lush room.

I was your escape you said as you kissed my thigh. It was creamy and white when you did—not smeared with ink, but clean and sweet, a tactile expanse of improbable trust. Your words poured into my skin and diffused, filling my cells with your precise, exacting love. Alchemy. Magic. I became an extension of you.

You cast a spell with every lick and bite. Every time your fingers drifted between my thighs, in bars and restaurants and cafes and streets; every time you found me wet; every time you sucked my breast through my thin, cotton blouse, I lost an inch of myself. More ink on my skin.

You love me, you love me.

Your words seeped, slow and profound, until I lived for your teeth and the thrust of your cock. I became an arching back, a curving neck, a gaping, needy cunt. I was a response to the words you scrawled on my skin with your rich, invisible ink—a room, a haven, the bottle and the djinn, a pretty little box….

I have sent you the letter I want you to see, one written by a woman who no longer exists. Now, in the quiet of my lush, little room, I cover my skin in my very own ink, thick and black, from my pen. Once every kiss is covered and every lick and bite obscured, I will wash the ink away in a claw foot tub—the one we shared last Spring in a hotel I won’t name, because the distance between then and now hurts.

You are in me and on me. Your name is in my bones. I will soak and scrub until it dissolves, and the water and ink go cold. I will write until I am calm. Because I am not calm. I am not calm. I am not calm, my Love. I am the product of your words.

Want to hear me read it? Click on HERE for the audio version.

And lastly, thank you to Happy Come Lucky, whose image inspired this story, and to Exhibit A for hosting the Sinful Stories Competition and for selecting this story as the winner.

Audible Orgasms

TBBOOSo, the title of this post isn’t really fair.. or, at the very least, it’s possibly, slightly, potentially misleading. This post is not, in fact, about loud, orgasmic sex, though what I have to say may serve as inspiration.

The Audible I’m talking about is the Amazon audio book company, and the orgasms I mentioned are the subject of The Big Book of Orgasms: 69 Sexy Stories. Yesterday, the little collection that could was released in audio book format, available now through Audible.com (see what I was doing there with the title? Clever, I know…).

The entire anthology is narrated by the incomparable Rose Caraway, hostess of The Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast, which, for me, only adds to the thrill, because hearing my story, “Hard Knocks”, read by one of my favorite authors is a bit of a surreal thrill. Eventually, I’ll end up writing a review for the audio version of the collection, (and while I can’t promise to be impartial, I can say that I’ll be honest). In the meantime, here’s short excerpt of “Hard Knocks” to whet the appetite.  Rachel Kramer Bussel brought together a group of talent for this thing that can’t be topped. My story notwithstanding, it’s a honey of a collection. I hope you check it out 😉

Update 4/10/14 – You can read my Audible.com review here!

Excerpt: “Hard Knocks”

“You absolutely cannot make someone come just by spanking them.”

I say this with an authority that I, admittedly, don’t possess. Still, the idea that you could orgasm just from having your ass sufficiently smacked seemed ludicrous  – the stuff of erotic stories and porn. Max is completely undisturbed by my lack of faith.

“Yes. You can.”

Max leans back in his chair, long-legged and lean, the shadow of a smile pulling his mouth. It’s easy to miss, but I’m a very observant girl and I like observing Max.

“Really,” I say, skepticism quirking my mouth.

“Really,” he replies. His eyes flicker over my plump bottom lip, but he doesn’t take the bait. He lights a cigarette instead.

“Well, I suppose if you do a little extra work in addition to the spanking – the clit is a magical thing….”

“No,” Max says, stubbing out the cigarette after only three drags. (Yes, I noticed how many drags. Like I said, I’m observant. Max and I had only been dating for a month and there was still quite a lot to observe).

“Just spanking,” he continues, calmly holding my gaze. “If it’s done right.”

Something flashes through his gray eyes, and I suddenly have the feeling that he knows what he’s talking about. I’m intrigued and nervous and a little bit scared. And surprisingly turned on. I lean back in my chair.

“Show me,” I say.

My chin lifts a notch in challenge. Max smiles, this time a full, real smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes, warming the wintery gray.

“Stand up,” he says warmly, lovingly, as if he’s asked me to an especially fabulous dinner.

“Wait, now?”

I’m ashamed to say that “now” comes out a bit of a squeak. Very undignified. Not my best moment, but I’m wishing I hadn’t gone there – up to this point, I’ve had lots of deviant vanilla sex, but never crossed the boundary to anything like S/M.

“Now,” he says, smiling like the big bad wolf. “Don’t worry, Jen. I’m not going to eat you. Not yet.”

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