Tag Archives: longing

Flash Fiction: Dark & Deep

Black and white image of a woman biting her shoulder for Flash Fiction: His Voice by Malin James

From the Sacra series by Mona Kuhn

She thinks of his voice, his soul-grinding voice as she drifts off to sleep in a bed that’s far too big. His voice, that voice, drips through her. It echoes and coats her skin, like frost on the windows of the cold, dark room at the top of the narrow house.

Humming, lilting letters tumble down her spine. They slide into her hips. In his mouth, her name is the drip of melting ice, fragile and quiet, a secret dark and deep. It’s the forest in a poem, his mouth and her name, in a snowy, winter wood.

What is it about the way some people, one person, says her name – her name, the name she gave herself – that makes it the language of home? Not her physical home in the too-wide bed, but the home where her pulse rests deep in her belly, buried between her thighs.

She thinks of the language he made of her name as her hand slips down, past cotton and flannel, down to her lonely skin. Her body strains to meet her. Her name on his tongue is the country they made, the map of her slippery soul. She arches, placing the whole of herself in the cup of her capable hand.

Sounds, not words, filled the room long ago. In her mind, they do again. His breathing, her breathing, catching breath, bitten moans. They melt ice and salt the bed. She strains and falls open, longing for home, his voice, her name, her name…. The hollow ache of absence. The weight that isn’t there. Her mind is somewhere dark and deep, slick with dripping frost.

Her mouth parts like a shell, round and full of a name, his name, the name he has given himself. It tumbles down her spine, carried by her voice. Tight, pulsing echoes. Sound cracks, like ice, in her chest. Bones shudder and she is home.

Frost limns the window, but she is warm, warm, warm. Her breathing deepens and slows. Memories, murmurs, whispers on skin, so many years ago…she rests in the language they made for themselves, long ago in cold, dark room at the top of a narrow house.

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?”

 

On the Value of Longing

Edward_Hopper_Summer_Interior

Summer Interior by Edward Hopper

I’ve been thinking, recently, a great deal about the value of fantasy and, by extension, of longing. To long is to reach and yearn and want, to search for the thing, whatever it is, that will soothe the ache of not-having. As humans, we long for so much. It seems instinctive for us to want.

To be in a state of longing is to be painfully and poignantly alive. It is, in essence, the concentration of desire on its object; the willful, (or un-willful), surrender to want. Longing, though painful, can be a pleasure, as well – one that is quite acute. It quickens the blood and sharpens the senses. It makes the body hum. Poor reward for those caught in the depths of it, but a compelling surface to skate on, nonetheless.