Tag Archives: Kissing

Jade & Malin Talk 50 Shades

Jade & Malin, minutes from embarking on the FSoG experience.

Jade & Malin, minutes from embarking on the FSoG experience.

Hello everyone! I’ve got a bit of a departure for you today. Over the week-end my lovely partner in crime and platonic valentine, Jade A. Waters, and I saw The Movie. We got to talking about it over lunch, (of course), and decided that, in the face of so many proper reviews and opinions, we’d skip writing anything truly critical and record an off-the-cuff conversation instead. We meandered, we drifted, we laughed a lot, (we might have even snorted). Most of all, we had a lot of fun making this recording. A few notes before you press play:

1. We went into this with a particular context in mind – that FSoG is a formula romance, and the kink / BDSM elements were going to be geared for a primarily vanilla, mainstream audience. Also, R rating.

2. We tried to consider it through the lens of the audience it’s intended for, (rather than our own erotica writer / kinky person perspective)

3. The most pornographic moment in this film was the opening credits with Christian Grey’s wardrobe. See #1 on context and rating.

4. We get kind of loud at points so apologies if we laugh you out of your earbuds.

5. There are outtakes at the end! Listen on through if you can!

And now, without further ado, Jade and I talk 50 Shades. Thanks for joining us – we hope you enjoy the conversation at least half as much as we did.

xx.M

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.

Kiss Me Like You Mean It

The Kiss by Gustav Klimt (c. 1907)

The Kiss by Gustav Klimt (c. 1907)

There are kisses, and then there are kisses. Regular, non-italicized kisses are lovely – they say anything from “hello, nice to meet you,” to “I want to fuck you against this wall.” Kisses though…kisses are different.  Kisses get italicized when they’re the culmination of a moment. When they transcend the promise of sex and become whole and complete on their own – fragile, intimate moments that end as inevitably as they begin.

I was once stuck at the airport in Boulder, Colorado. There was a blizzard, (of course), and all flights were canceled for hours. As a result, I found myself at loose ends along with all the other optimistic souls who had scheduled flights through the Rockies in January.

It was late in the evening, so after lurking around uselessly, I went to the only thing still open – an over-dressed bar that didn’t seem to know it was in an airport in Colorado instead of midtown Manhattan. I ordered a gin and tonic and nursed it while I read something or other. I don’t remember what. What I do remember is that someone sat down next to me, ordered a beer and started reading the same book, except that his copy was tattered and falling apart.

We got to talking, as people in airports do, first about the book, which he read once a year, and then more personal things, like the fact that his girlfriend had just broken up with him.

I don’t generally ask strangers personal questions. I don’t like prying, and that night, especially, I didn’t feel like seriously engaging a person I’d never see again. And yet I still asked him why. Why had his girlfriend broken up with him? Something about the hunch of his shoulders coaxed the question out of me.

“She said I never kissed her like I meant it.”

He gave me a wry sort of self-deprecating smile, but it was hollow.

“What were you supposed to mean,” I asked. “That you loved her? Or that you wanted to be kissing her?”

“Both, I think,” he said.

“Did you,” I asked, meeting his eyes, and I realized that I couldn’t see what color they were in the bar’s relentlessly blue light. “Did you kiss her like you meant it?”

“Not enough,” he said. “Not as much as I should.”

I should have ended the conversation there. I didn’t want to be talking to a nice looking guy with a tattered copy of the book I’d gotten for Christmas. I wanted, quite honestly, to stay curled up in my shell. And yet, we had turned on our stools and our knees were nearly touching. My pulse felt heavy and promising in my throat. I was getting drawn in…pulled along by his sadness, which mirrored my own at the time.

Do you want to do this? Are we doing this? Yes, we’re going to do this….

We leaned into each other. His book was sitting on the bar, not quite next to mine. He still hadn’t touched me, but his hand was on the arm of my chair. We were negotiating the inevitable. Drifting, swaying…we kissed, lightly at first, still negotiating.

Are you sure this all right?

Then he cupped my cheek, and suddenly everything was all right. He kissed me because he wanted to. I could feel how much he wanted to in the touch of his tongue, and the jump of his pulse. And then it very gently ended. He smiled and kissed my forehead. I smiled and kissed his cheek. Then he picked up his book and left.

That kiss was an italicized kiss. It unfolded naturally, though it could have been scripted, and ended without a word. A kiss like that can be as intimate as sex, but you have mean it.

What do I mean by “mean it?” Not love. Not necessarily, though love never hurts. What I mean is that you have to want the kiss – not as a preamble to sex, but for its own sake. When I write erotica, it’s easy to forget that I’m not actually writing about sex. I’m writing about intimacy and affinity and connection, (or lack thereof), in the form of sex. It’s those three things that create the life and tension in the act that contains them, whether it’s kissing, fucking, spanking, or the softest touch, (think of that moment when Daniel Day-Lewis unbuttons Michelle Pfeiffer’s glove in The Age of Innocence. That, and the kiss that follows, is heartbreaking and hot).

If I had written that kiss in Boulder as a story I could easily have used the kiss as a prelude to a quickie, but that would have been a mistake. I would have missed the real story – the slow build towards that kiss and the humanity that went into it. The reality is that it ended as it should have, quietly and without a word. No numbers exchanged. No hands on thighs. I never even knew his name. I knew everything that the moment required, and then we let it go.

It was a hell of a kiss.

On the Value of a Kiss

The Kiss by Gustav Klimt

The Kiss by Gustav Klimt

I write erotica, which means that that sooner or later, someone somewhere in 99% of my stories is going to come and, if they don’t, it’ll have to do with orgasm denial or some similar form of play. They may come alone or with a friend, or they may just really want to come, but in the end, an orgasm, (or five), is a nearly always part of the story… except when it’s not.

When I first started writing erotica, I wrote a little series stories about kisses. I’d forgotten about them until I came across them in my idea file the other day, (for the record, my idea file is a rat’s nest full of everything from wispy images to full rough drafts). The stories aren’t stories so much a fragments – snap shots of kisses and what the kisses might mean. To be honest, they aren’t even very good, but there is meat on that bone that I want to come back to.

When I wrote them, I remember feeling like they were a bit of a curiosity. The fragments were too sexual to just be literary, but there wasn’t actually any sex. Plus, these were not romantic kisses – there was nothing ideal or dreamy about them. They were complicated and emotional and filled with the need, and that need is what made them erotic. Two women in a bar, a grown pair of siblings, three friends who’d been purely platonic – until that moment they realized that, yes, they were going to kiss….

I love that moment – the one right before a truly good kiss. The lean and sway, the tilt of the head, that silent, questioning drift. The “are we really going to do this?” moment, followed by the one that says, “yes, we really are.” That is erotic gold.

I’m embarrassed to say that in all of my writing on sex and orgasms and sexuality, I had forgotten about the erotic potential of the simple, powerful kiss. It isn’t all thrusting and coming, though that certainly plays a part. The kiss is connection and context. A kiss can instantly raise the stakes. A kiss can tell you if you want to sleep with him, or if the chemistry’s there, or if maybe you’d really just rather go home.

Though a kiss is, in and of itself, a finite act, it opens the gateway for more, whether it’s the rapid downhill slide into sex, or the delicate re-definition of a relationship. Even when it doesn’t, a kiss can unlock a Pandora’s box full of wild potential. Claims have been made and promises broken just on the basis of the kiss. In a sexually open age, it’s easy to forget that a kiss has a power all its own.

Oh, and if you like watching people kiss, (and really, who doesn’t), I highly recommend this lovely video in which strangers, (or possibly actors-playing-strangers), kiss for the first time.

Confessions and an Excerpt: Barcelona

I’m of two minds regarding confessional style erotica. The first is fairly straight-forward – Oh! Confess away you naughty thing! pretty much sums it up. The second is a bit more serious and a lot less fun. It stems from the fact that, as an ex-Catholic who still has slightly bitter memories of confessing to a faceless priest while kneeling in a small, poorly-lit box, I don’t like the whole notion of “confessing” in a non-criminal context. While totally appropriate in the cases of rape, murder and assault, I just don’t see the inherent harm in masturbating on a regular basis.

That said, my ideological proclivities and righteous opinion-holding didn’t stop me from writing a little piece of confessional erotica about a woman who sleeps with her first cousin. Ha! Take that, ideology! That story, “Barcelona”, is part of what’s shaping up to be a pretty fabulous collection – The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions, edited by Barbara Cardy, now available here in the US and here in the UK. As part of the Mammoth Book series, you know it’s.. big, (I’m not just saying that – it really is). Moreover, it’s full of really lovely confessional erotica. Take that again, ideology!

So, in honor of the release, I’m posting an excerpt here. After all, who doesn’t love a confessional literature.. Ahem..  And so, without further ado, I give you “Barcelona” –  just one of many sexy, sexy confessions about sexy, sexy sex, in sexy sexy places. I hope you enjoy! xx.M

Excerpt: “Barcelona”

9780762452286“I’ve always wanted you.”

He said this quietly, as if it were simple fact. Maybe it was. More blushing as years of suppressed attraction shot straight through my body, peaking my breasts and slicking my thighs. I was vibrating with arousal and he hadn’t even touched me.

“Eric…” I said, trying to think of something to say and coming up blank.

He stopped in front of me and, carefully, warily, as if he were afraid I might bite, lightly cupped my neck. My breath caught.

Kissss, my brain whispered.

Kissss.

We were finally going to kiss. We both knew it, and the ache of wanting it was almost too good to end. Electricity shot straight through me as he lowered his head and stopped just before meeting my lips.

“Do you remember when you all came to visit me in Barcelona,” he murmured. His mouth was whisper from mine.

“Yes,” I said.

A little thread of something nervous and giddy coiled through my belly. My hand reached up around his waist, and he shifted closer, closer but not so close that our bodies touched. Not yet.

“Do you remember that night…” he began.

“… we went out with our parents,” I finished, evoking the nearly that had carved itself so deeply on my brain. “It was hot and we’d had too much to drink and I wished they’d go away and leave us alone.”

He nodded. “You were wearing a black and red dress.”

“I know that dress,” I whispered. He was leaning closer. I could smell rosemary and lemon on his hands.

“I brushed against you so many times that night, daring myself to take your hand. I wanted to fuck you in that dress.”

My hips canted, instinctively trying to find his. When they did, I all but moaned. God, he was so hard. He pressed himself into me, fitting his cock into the hollow of my thighs. It fit, we fit perfectly, even through out clothes. Still we did not kiss.

“How?” I said. “How did you want to fuck me?”

He was pushing me back now, walking me into the counter. My arm tightened around his waist. We were both breathing hard.

“I wanted to pull you down an ally, push you up against an ancient stone building and make love to you in the middle of the dark city.

My hips started to move, rubbing against him. I was so hot, I couldn’t breath.

“Tell me. Tell me more.”

He started kissing my neck.

“I imagined lifting that dress up over your hips and touching you through lace panties. I imagined you hot and slick and ready for me.”

His lips found my pulse as my hand snaked down past his waistband and pressed against his ass. My voice, when it came, was thick with invitation.

“I wasn’t wearing any panties that night. I was thinking of you slipping the straps off my shoulders and sucking my breasts, touching me, quickly, so no one would see.”

He mouth stilled on my skin. I could feel his heart hammering under my hand as he lifted me up onto the counter and stood between my legs. Slowly, his long, blunt-tipped fingers slid beneath the strap of my top. I caught my breath as he looked into my eyes and drew my camisole down, baring a soft expanse of skin. Then he bent his head and brushed a kiss over my tight, aching nipple.

“Tell me,” I whispered, “what did you want to do me up against that wall?”