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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.

Erotic Fiction: Slow Burn

“Come closer.”

I lie back on your bed, curled up in the nest of your rumpled, blue duvet.

I’m naked. I love being naked with you, in your bed, where my body feels soft and silky, like a celluloid princess in a silent film. But I’m not a princess. Nor am I silent…not that I can’t be quiet as a mouse. I just don’t want to be. Silent. There is too much joy in your weight between my legs; and in the way my body feels fitted into yours.

You come closer to the edge of the bed. There isn’t much room, but now you’re squarely in front of the window, which is where I want you to be.

“Strip for me.”

You flush. You’re still cold from your run to the store. I imagine dark heat spreading through your cells, and seeping into your skin. We’ve done this before—the stripping. But your sloping shoulders seem bashful. So does the curl of your hand, as if you’re surprised that I want this from you…. But you do strip, meeting my eyes the whole time once your shirt is off.

“Slower,” I say.

I’m teasing you now and you know it. You’re already going slow. But you comply and go slower as your lips pull up to one side. You’re going to tease me back. You slow down even more. But I love it. I love the frustration and the time it gives me to watch your body move. And all the while, your eyes stay on mine, focused, very precisely, on me, and on us, and on the game we’re playing now.

You’re already hard when you take your pants off. I knew you would be—we’ve been playing all day and you’ve already fucked me twice. Once, slow and sweet, like spoons in a drawer with your arms wrapped around me and my hands clutched in yours. The second was  hard and fast, up against the counter after breakfast and tea. I was still soaking wet after the first time. I’m soaking wet right now.

Being around you makes me wet—your quick solidity; how small and strong you make me feel; your scent; our skin. I love the way we fuck. I love the noises you make when you come. I love the noises you make when you don’t. Since we woke up, I’ve come, in great, hazy waves, more times than I can count. You have not. You haven’t come at all because we’re playing a game and you won’t until I say.

I open my legs, half snuggled into your bed. My cunt feels soft and warm when I slip my fingers in. You watch me. You know what we’re doing. I don’t have to say. But you wait for me anyway.

“Lick your palm and stroke your cock.”

You do, eyes still on mine. My fingers slide over my cunt without my having to try. My body wants to be filled. It’s sucking at my fingers as I drag them out and push them slowly in.

My legs drop open even more. You pause and take a step.

“No,” I say. “Don’t touch me. Slide your hand up and down your beautiful, fucking cock and think about how good it would feel to be fucking me instead.”

I think about us when I get myself off. I think about us so often that it’s natural, even now, despite the fact that you’re less than a foot away. And all the while, your eyes are on mine. Your eyes bring me closer in ways that my hand alone never does….

I lie back and arch my hips, bringing my cunt up to your cock, as close as I can without blocking our hands. I want to keep the hard, thick pull of wanting you this bad. But I come, and I cry out as I do, a guttural, not-beautiful sound. And then I come again.

You’re sweating and your face is flushed, not cold anymore; I smile up at you and you smiled down at me. We are co-conspirators. You know what we’re doing. I don’t have to say. But you wait for me all the same.

“Don’t you fucking come.”

It’s a slow, slow burn.

Thank you to Exhibit A for the use of the words-fail-me, (very) inspirational image.

And if you haven’t read Exhibit A’s work, you should. The man is much more than just a pretty…em…face. He’s brilliant and his erotic fiction and sex writing are some of the best I know. Find more of him here.

Erotic Fiction: Drive

Tilly loved hands.

Strong hands, slender hands, hands with bony knuckles and a sprinkling of hair, hands with thick fingers that could break her in two. It was a man’s hands she noticed first. Not his ring finger, (that was a secondary concern), but his hands.

Steering wheel and plack thigh high

“Drive” by Happy Come Lucky

Would those hands satisfy her if she ended up in bed with the bank teller, the grocery clerk, the guy sipping scotch at the bar? Would they stroke up her spine and hold her hips tight, fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise? Would his fingers slide between her legs, not probing but suggesting, coaxing, so that she spread her thighs without meaning to?

That’s what she wanted. Hands that mapped her skin and made her feel alive. A man could have the face of an angel with a pretty mouth to match, but if looking at his hands didn’t make her wet, there was just no fucking point.

Adam had very good hands.

They were clever and quick – strong but not coarse, with long, square-tipped fingers and knuckles that were slightly too broad, but oh god, the way they filled her….

She was thinking about his hands when she dressed that night – short little scrap of a skirt, and black thigh highs with a wide, decorative band instead of plain elastic. She could almost feel his fingertips brushing over the pretty, latticed tops as she slid them up her legs and settled them in place. She skipped the panties altogether. She loved being bare. She felt plump and slick. She felt like an invitation.

Tilly got in her tiny car, the one Adam had deemed reliable when she’d bought it the previous year. She was short on time. His flight wouldn’t arrive for  an hour, but the drive always took longer than it should. Besides, if she stayed home, she’d end up touching herself and Adam had told her, expressly, that he wanted to make her come as soon as he got back. She knew what that meant. She thought of his hands. She pulled out of the driveway as if her presence at the airport would bring him home sooner.

She knew how it would go. There would be sweet kisses at the baggage claim that made old people smile, and tons of I missed you‘s and I love you‘s, which were words she didn’t take for granted. Not ever. Not one bit. But they weren’t the words she needed to hear. They weren’t the words that made her ache.

Tilly, baby…can you drive while you come?

Yes, Adam. You know I can.

Tilly flushed and shifted in her seat. They’d been doing this for so long that her body had a conditioned response. Slowly, she parted her legs, heart hammering as she evaluated the road. Nearly empty. Safe.  She imagined him reaching over from the passenger seat with his long, wide-knuckled hand as she drew her finger shyly up her leg, toying with the tops of her stockings as she did.

Adam’s fingers would curl over the edge of her hem and draw her skirt up before they slid slid between her thighs, not probing but coaxing, just the way she liked. She would part her legs without meaning to, careful to keep her foot steady on the gas, while he dipped his fingers into her sticky heat.

Tilly’s legs parted and she tilted her hips, inviting her own fingers in. She hesitated. Then she dragged a finger over her labia, rubbing lightly as she did, before gently circling her clit. She sighed, watching the road carefully as her hand went to work in place of his.

Her skirt slid up further, pooling in her lap as she arched her hips again, trying to press against anything – the steering wheel, the safety belt – anything that might resist and press back.

Tilly’s breathing quickened as the car sped forward. Automatically, she tapped the brakes as her finger traced circles over her frustrated clit. She made a little sound, an unhappy little groan, as the orgasm began to simmer just beneath her skin. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to come. But she couldn’t. That wouldn’t be fair, and even if it were she wanted his fingers to finish the job. She wanted to suck them clean when he was done.

Tilly moaned again, testing, edging, pushing herself. She was pushing herself hard. The little car shot forward as she danced along the edge. She was on the verge of coming when she snatched her hand away, slamming on the brakes as a deer leapt into the empty road.

“Fuck me,” she murmured. “That was close.”

The orgasm receded, but only just as the animal bounded away. Gingerly, Tilly shifted gears and edged back into the lane. The seat beneath her was sticky and she ached – the climax was still there, patiently waiting, coating her thighs. Waiting for Adam to come. She rolled down the window, relieved when the cold winter air hit her too hot skin. It really had been close.

For a moment, her fingers traced over her stocking tops, soothing herself as she did.  Then she double-checked the road before easing back into the lane. She was anxious to get to the airport. The sooner she got to the airport, the sooner they could come home.

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.

In Praise of Vibrators

Sometimes, when I think about sex and society, I just get tickled by how far we’ve come. This isn’t to say that, as a culture, we still don’t have our share of sexual hangups, but, overall, western culture is far more open about sex and sexuality than it’s been in quite some time.

hysterical paroxysmWhat got me thinking about this was a lovely little film called Hysteria about female hysteria – the medical diagnosis that encompassed everything from anxiety and depression to the outspoken possession of unpopular opinions by women in the late 19th century.

Though the film itself is apocryphal, (click here for the history of the vibrator or, check out the gorgeous antique vibrator museum at the Good Vibes on Polk St. in San Francisco), it does a lovely job of showing the 19th century attitude towards sex that led to the development of such a catch-all diagnosis. It also illustrated a valuable truth  – to ignore sex is not to eradicate the drive to have it. All it does is change the label under which the desire is classified.

Image courtesy of stuwho.wordpress.com

Image courtesy of stuwho.wordpress.com

For example, rather than needing a good fuck – because getting fucked was not something ladies, (even happily married ladies) – did at the time, women diagnosed with hysteria underwent a “treatment” wherein a physician with “special training” would manually bring about a “paroxysm”. This paroxysm would then “re-situate the uterus” and alleviate the patient’s “unpleasant” symptoms, (which could be anything from “disturbing dreams” to moodiness). In other words, the doctors would make the patient come and she would feel better.

Repeat weekly for the rest of your lives ladies, because hysteria was a medical condition that required a medical solution. It was certainly NOT the simple need for a good fucking. Heavens no.

It was out of the exhausting and comically debilitating rigors of the manual treatment for hysteria that the vibrator was born. But what began as a clinical means to an end underwent many cultural permutations over the course of the late 19th and early 20th century. The vibrator was a “personal massager” in the teens and twenties – not openly talked about, but not reviled either. Then, in the thirties and forties, it became a pornographic tool used by perverts and whores, (and housewives and mothers, but we don’t talk about that). The “personal massager” was back with a vengeance in the 50’s and 60’s – there were many sore muscles back then – but it wasn’t until the 1980’s that vibrators, and sex toys in general, came into their own.

Sweetie, that's not quite where you put it.

Sweetie, that’s not quite where you put it.

Now, well into the 21st century, we’ve got bullet vibes and vibrating dildos, that famous little rabbit and that vibrating gold standard, the Hitachi Magic Wand. We’ve got vibrating butt plugs and smart vibes that you can literally activate from half a world away, (you’re welcome long-distance lovers, tops and subs). Their use is now so far from being taboo that vibrators appear casually in everything from romantic comedies to erotica and porn. Vibrators mean anyone can have an orgasm – alone or with a friend, (or four). They mean that women, (and men), no longer have to mask their pleasure behind a medical diagnosis.

So yes, we’ve still got hangups. We’re still snarky and righteous and judgmental. But we’re also owning our sexuality – and our pleasure – more than we have in decades. And that, I think, is something to celebrate.