I'm very excited to report that my story "A Slap in the Face" will be published in Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica, edited by Sinclair Sexsmith, to be published by Cleis Press in the spring. More info soon. I was trying to figure out what to say about it, but the title pretty much tells you what it's about. So I'll say it's a story. Isn't everything?
Here's a little teaser, the first paragraph.
Jade strolled into the bar, walked straight up to Amber, who was leaning against it wearing a slinky leopard-print slip, ripped fishnet stockings, a see-through black top along with a sheer black bra, and dangerously tall black heels, her red hair gleaming even in the low lights, and slapped her across the face. The sound was louder than Jade had expected, the sting in her palm stronger, both of which she liked. Amber didn’t smile, not with her mouth, anyway, but Jade knew exactly how much she’d liked Jade’s slap. She could read it in the way Amber shivered, the way her eyes skittered from the ground and, for a second, up to Jade’s, from the way her body radiated a heady combination of fear, awe and desire.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
For the pubic hair lovers: an excerpt from "Topiary" by KD Grace in Obsessed
An excerpt from the story "Topiary" by KD Grace in Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women.
At first Aden simply strokes my heavy curls, his face in deep concentration. His creative juices, like my own, are flowing. I begin to thrust lightly against his stroking, impatient for him to get on with it. But he won’t be rushed. There’s a stroke with the comb here, a shove of my leg there, a shivering with his fingers as he plumps and fluffs. “Yes, I see it now,” he breathes. “I know exactly how it’s supposed to be.”
He begins.
He combs and snips and says half under his breath, “Mm-hm, uh-huh, just a little more. That’s right. Perfect.” Then he switches to another pair of scissors. I can’t tell the difference, but he says he needs to create texture, depth, a sense of perspective.
“The landscape should always showcase its finest feature.” His fingers press in around my clit, and he rubs and strokes it to prominence.
I try to sit still as he clips and combs, but I’m slippery and swollen and all of the fantastical shapes in Aden’s exquisite topiary now appear orgiastic, spreading wide, thrusting upward, pouting and arching. The bench is damp beneath me and Aden’s trousers look as though they’re about to lose the battle for containment. He breathes like there’s a windstorm in his lungs, and with each snip, he squirms and shifts.
Read the whole story in Obsessed!
Order Obsessed from:
Amazon
Kindle edition (available August 15th)
Barnes & Noble
Powells
IndieBound (search for your local indie bookstore)
Cleis Press
At first Aden simply strokes my heavy curls, his face in deep concentration. His creative juices, like my own, are flowing. I begin to thrust lightly against his stroking, impatient for him to get on with it. But he won’t be rushed. There’s a stroke with the comb here, a shove of my leg there, a shivering with his fingers as he plumps and fluffs. “Yes, I see it now,” he breathes. “I know exactly how it’s supposed to be.”
He begins.
He combs and snips and says half under his breath, “Mm-hm, uh-huh, just a little more. That’s right. Perfect.” Then he switches to another pair of scissors. I can’t tell the difference, but he says he needs to create texture, depth, a sense of perspective.
“The landscape should always showcase its finest feature.” His fingers press in around my clit, and he rubs and strokes it to prominence.
I try to sit still as he clips and combs, but I’m slippery and swollen and all of the fantastical shapes in Aden’s exquisite topiary now appear orgiastic, spreading wide, thrusting upward, pouting and arching. The bench is damp beneath me and Aden’s trousers look as though they’re about to lose the battle for containment. He breathes like there’s a windstorm in his lungs, and with each snip, he squirms and shifts.
Read the whole story in Obsessed!
Order Obsessed from:
Amazon
Kindle edition (available August 15th)
Barnes & Noble
Powells
IndieBound (search for your local indie bookstore)
Cleis Press
Coming soon to your e-reader: "Fishnet Queen"
Female domination fishnet erotica story "Fishnet Queen" and 3 others of mine are coming soon to your e-readers! I'm backlogged on stories, fiction and non, but it's possible I may even write an original to sell as an ebook. For now I'm wrapping up a virgin story, a running story, an ice hotel story, a sex toy story and a few others I hope see print. Will let you know if they do.
Silent retreat sex in "Silent Treatment" by Donna George Storey in Obsessed
Another Obsessed excerpt for you. Personally, I think I'd get kicked out of a silent retreat, but maybe I'd really like it. I don't know. I do want to go on a retreat, and maybe have quiet/solitude but not total silence. I'm very impressed with this story by a favorite writer, Donna George Storey, read the whole thing in Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women!
As she writes on her blog, "My story, 'Silent Treatment,' is about a silent retreat in the moments, where a couple learns all the wonderful ways to communicate when you can't speak. Silence can be golden, baby!"
From "Silent Treatment" by Donna George Storey:
We both paused to admire the night sky, then I felt him turn to look down at me. I caught my breath. I could swear I heard words through his unmoving lips. It’s a beautiful night. You’re beautiful. There’s a reason we’re together here.
Or is that only what I wanted to hear?
Did it matter? We were in a place where the real me decided what happened, not the voice of common sense yammering, “You should make him work harder for forgiveness after what he did,” and “If he fucks you over again, you have only yourself to blame.”
I reached out and brushed his hand, nothing more than an unspoken way to reassure him that I forgave his long, hurtful silence. I wasn’t surprised when he wrapped his fingers around mine and squeezed.
But my own response shook me. My pussy contracted like a fist, as if he’d touched me there instead, and a jolt of electric pleasure made my nipples so hard I was almost afraid they’d poke holes in my shirt.
I guess I did still want to fuck him.
As she writes on her blog, "My story, 'Silent Treatment,' is about a silent retreat in the moments, where a couple learns all the wonderful ways to communicate when you can't speak. Silence can be golden, baby!"
From "Silent Treatment" by Donna George Storey:
We both paused to admire the night sky, then I felt him turn to look down at me. I caught my breath. I could swear I heard words through his unmoving lips. It’s a beautiful night. You’re beautiful. There’s a reason we’re together here.
Or is that only what I wanted to hear?
Did it matter? We were in a place where the real me decided what happened, not the voice of common sense yammering, “You should make him work harder for forgiveness after what he did,” and “If he fucks you over again, you have only yourself to blame.”
I reached out and brushed his hand, nothing more than an unspoken way to reassure him that I forgave his long, hurtful silence. I wasn’t surprised when he wrapped his fingers around mine and squeezed.
But my own response shook me. My pussy contracted like a fist, as if he’d touched me there instead, and a jolt of electric pleasure made my nipples so hard I was almost afraid they’d poke holes in my shirt.
I guess I did still want to fuck him.
Obsessed excerpt: "Spellbound" by Garnell Wallace
I'm thrilled to share the news that Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women is officially out, and is shipping from Amazon and Cleis Press. More links and ebook coming on August 1st. For now, in honor of the first Amazon.com review, which I've posted below, here is an excerpt from "Spellbound" by Garnell Wallace, an author I'm publishing for the first (but hopefully not last) time. More excerpts are coming soon.
Spellbound
Garnell Wallace
My name is Kia Monet and my family thinks that I’m under a voodoo spell. It is the only way for my Haitian-born parents to explain why I’m wasting my life in the slums of Port-au-Prince with a low-budget filmmaker instead of being a trust-fund trophy wife in California.
If I was under a spell, it was Jonah’s smile, Jonah’s voice reciting French poetry in the dark during a respite from his magnificent cock. His cock is black magic; an evil one-eyed sorcerer, powerful enough to turn me into a quivering mass of nerves with just one twitch. I like to sleep with it buried deep inside me, its comforting pliability lulling me into the blissfulness of sleep. Even his long, tapered fingers buried deep in my pussy can bring on multiple experiences of what we French call la petite mort, or the little death, when you are so inflamed with passion at the moment of surrender it feels like you are about to surrender your soul as well. I’ve died a thousand times in Jonah’s arms in the time we’ve been together. With each rebirth, I feel more alive, more like the person I am meant to be. I am bewitched and have no desire to be cured.
Here's the Table of Contents again:
Silent Treatment Donna George Storey
One Night in Paris Kayla Perrin
Concubine Portia Da Costa
Love and Demotion Logan Belle
Mephisto Waltz Justine Elyot
Then Emerald
It’s Gotta Be Fate Jennifer Peters
Hooked Ariel Graham
Aftershocks Bella Andre
Secret Places Adele Haze
Loser Charlotte Stein
Here In Between Kristina Wright
Spellbound by Garnell Wallace
Raven’s Flight Andrea Dale
Raindrops and Rooftops Elizabeth Coldwell
Topiary K. D. Grace
I Want to Hold Your Hand Rachel Kramer Bussel
Storm Surge Teresa Noelle Roberts
Undercover Kink Louisa Harte
Do join us at the book party on August 25th in NYC! Here's the Facebook invitation if you want to spread the word.
August 25, 7-9 pm, FREE
JOINT BOOK PARTY FOR OBSESSED and THE LOST
Join editor Rachel Kramer Bussel and Obsessed contributors Logan Belle and Jennifer Peters, along with The Lost author Caridad Piñeiro, and Tied Up Events for a fabulous book party celebrating paranormal romance The Lost and Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women! Free cupcakes, snacks, giveaways and more! Free goodie bags from The Pleasure Chest!
Fontana’s, 105 Eldridge Street, NYC
obsessederoticromance.com
caridad.com
tiedupevents.com
The Pleasure Chest
Want a postcard? (US only) Email obsessedantho at gmail.com with "Postcard" in the subject and your mailing address in the body.
And here's that Amazon review by Ilovebooks - thank you for those who signed up to review it who already have your copies! Stay tuned for Women in Lust in the fall.
What does it mean to be sexually obsessed? That's the question Rachel Kramer Bussel and her contributors aim to answer in this latest Cleis Press erotic anthology. The collection features 18 stories by such well-known erotic names like Donna George Storey, Kristina Wright and Teresa Noelle Roberts. Caridad Pinero, author of the Calling series, touches on some of the many meanings of obsession in her foreword.
My favorite stories include "Mephisto Waltz" by Justine Elyot, an author who works with the Black Lace erotic publishing company. It concerns a piano teacher and his student. I don't know, I just think there is something intrinsically hot about someone instructing you in the ways of love. The narrator also has an appealing voice in this story--an entirely believable virgin who is unsure of herself in music and love. And the story is erotic without being overly raunchy, which is a difficult trick to pull off. I liked this story in addition because it was about real characters, who you could envision in any scenario, not only an erotic one. I'd like to see a whole novel dedicated to these two characters.
Then there is "Here in Between" by Kristina Wright. This is another story with real-life characters. A woman gets a flat tire and finds herself flat on her back with a handsome stranger. The dialogue here is fantastic, and the ending gives one hope that these strangers will one day become more to each other than just ships passing in the night.
Spellbound by Garnell Wallace just gets points for having the best first sentence I think I've ever read in a short story: "My name is Kia Monet and my family thinks that I'm under a voodoo spell." After reading this story, you may want to book a flight to Haiti. Garnell Wallace's strength is her knack for describing even the smallest erotic detail.
Other highlights include "Raindrops and Rooftops" by Elizabeth Coldwell and Rachel Kramer Bussel's own contribution "I Want to Hold Your Hand." What happens when a partner loses weight and you liked him better thin? Or when you go to a movie for reasons other than what's playing on screen? Some pretty sexy stuff, that's what.
Overall, a nice collection of stories to keep you even hotter than usual this summer...
Spellbound
Garnell Wallace
My name is Kia Monet and my family thinks that I’m under a voodoo spell. It is the only way for my Haitian-born parents to explain why I’m wasting my life in the slums of Port-au-Prince with a low-budget filmmaker instead of being a trust-fund trophy wife in California.
If I was under a spell, it was Jonah’s smile, Jonah’s voice reciting French poetry in the dark during a respite from his magnificent cock. His cock is black magic; an evil one-eyed sorcerer, powerful enough to turn me into a quivering mass of nerves with just one twitch. I like to sleep with it buried deep inside me, its comforting pliability lulling me into the blissfulness of sleep. Even his long, tapered fingers buried deep in my pussy can bring on multiple experiences of what we French call la petite mort, or the little death, when you are so inflamed with passion at the moment of surrender it feels like you are about to surrender your soul as well. I’ve died a thousand times in Jonah’s arms in the time we’ve been together. With each rebirth, I feel more alive, more like the person I am meant to be. I am bewitched and have no desire to be cured.
Here's the Table of Contents again:
Silent Treatment Donna George Storey
One Night in Paris Kayla Perrin
Concubine Portia Da Costa
Love and Demotion Logan Belle
Mephisto Waltz Justine Elyot
Then Emerald
It’s Gotta Be Fate Jennifer Peters
Hooked Ariel Graham
Aftershocks Bella Andre
Secret Places Adele Haze
Loser Charlotte Stein
Here In Between Kristina Wright
Spellbound by Garnell Wallace
Raven’s Flight Andrea Dale
Raindrops and Rooftops Elizabeth Coldwell
Topiary K. D. Grace
I Want to Hold Your Hand Rachel Kramer Bussel
Storm Surge Teresa Noelle Roberts
Undercover Kink Louisa Harte
Do join us at the book party on August 25th in NYC! Here's the Facebook invitation if you want to spread the word.
August 25, 7-9 pm, FREE
JOINT BOOK PARTY FOR OBSESSED and THE LOST
Join editor Rachel Kramer Bussel and Obsessed contributors Logan Belle and Jennifer Peters, along with The Lost author Caridad Piñeiro, and Tied Up Events for a fabulous book party celebrating paranormal romance The Lost and Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women! Free cupcakes, snacks, giveaways and more! Free goodie bags from The Pleasure Chest!
Fontana’s, 105 Eldridge Street, NYC
obsessederoticromance.com
caridad.com
tiedupevents.com
The Pleasure Chest
Want a postcard? (US only) Email obsessedantho at gmail.com with "Postcard" in the subject and your mailing address in the body.
And here's that Amazon review by Ilovebooks - thank you for those who signed up to review it who already have your copies! Stay tuned for Women in Lust in the fall.
What does it mean to be sexually obsessed? That's the question Rachel Kramer Bussel and her contributors aim to answer in this latest Cleis Press erotic anthology. The collection features 18 stories by such well-known erotic names like Donna George Storey, Kristina Wright and Teresa Noelle Roberts. Caridad Pinero, author of the Calling series, touches on some of the many meanings of obsession in her foreword.
My favorite stories include "Mephisto Waltz" by Justine Elyot, an author who works with the Black Lace erotic publishing company. It concerns a piano teacher and his student. I don't know, I just think there is something intrinsically hot about someone instructing you in the ways of love. The narrator also has an appealing voice in this story--an entirely believable virgin who is unsure of herself in music and love. And the story is erotic without being overly raunchy, which is a difficult trick to pull off. I liked this story in addition because it was about real characters, who you could envision in any scenario, not only an erotic one. I'd like to see a whole novel dedicated to these two characters.
Then there is "Here in Between" by Kristina Wright. This is another story with real-life characters. A woman gets a flat tire and finds herself flat on her back with a handsome stranger. The dialogue here is fantastic, and the ending gives one hope that these strangers will one day become more to each other than just ships passing in the night.
Spellbound by Garnell Wallace just gets points for having the best first sentence I think I've ever read in a short story: "My name is Kia Monet and my family thinks that I'm under a voodoo spell." After reading this story, you may want to book a flight to Haiti. Garnell Wallace's strength is her knack for describing even the smallest erotic detail.
Other highlights include "Raindrops and Rooftops" by Elizabeth Coldwell and Rachel Kramer Bussel's own contribution "I Want to Hold Your Hand." What happens when a partner loses weight and you liked him better thin? Or when you go to a movie for reasons other than what's playing on screen? Some pretty sexy stuff, that's what.
Overall, a nice collection of stories to keep you even hotter than usual this summer...
"The Weight" to be published in Best Bondage Erotica 2012
Lately I am trying to be lighter, physically and mentally. I'm working on getting to my goal weight and fitting (better) into this slinky tight tan dress I bought that's basically the same dress I have in gray but is tighter for whatever reason. Mentally, well, it's tough. Yesterday was a day of such highs and lows. I waved like a fool on the Staten Island Ferry looking for my friend, watched two little kids instantly bond over drawing, laughed over nothing with friends old and new, and went to my friend Cheryl's wake. I was okay...as long as I didn't walk by the big box with my friend's body inside it. I could admire the gigantic, bigger-than-I've-ever-seen flower displays. I even took a prayer card even though my thoughts on prayer are a bit muddled.
I'm working on purging both belongings and negative, unhelpful thoughts, along with the extra pounds, and talking to my friends and seeing how they each deal with their grief was telling. I don't think there's a right way or wrong way, and I teeter between being so outraged for Cheryl, that her life was cut short, and recognizing that my outage isn't going to bring her back. I can't feel light about her death, in any sense of the word, but I am honored to have known her and heartened to keep on seeing such an outpouring of support and love for her.
I will probably be working on this lightening that my whole life. So the fact that I wrote this story is both interesting and fitting. I'd say curious but to me it represents the way I think of BDSM when it works perfectly, which is like this yin and yang, people who have different urges, but urges that contrast perfectly in their extremity. Or what I think of as extremity; obviously that word means different things to different people. There are definitely things I've done I never thought I'd do and things I have and do think about that I'm not sure I'll ever do, and a lot of that comes out in fiction. "Foot and Mouth" you'll have to wait until next year for, but "The Weight" is going to be in Best Bondage Erotica 2012 and the part that is curious but also complimentary is that desire for weight on someone else, for the force of a body as a weapon.
I, like my protagonist, am much more partial to the human body as a tool than I am anything else when it comes to kinky play, and by "body" I mean both body parts but even more so the mind. In this excerpt you'll see that it's both this character, Damian, the narrator is so attuned to, but also the phrase his knee, the look on his face, his eyes. It's all of those body parts working in concert with both her and all that has come before. For me it's the kind of story I long to write, and am proud of, but couldn't do every day, just like I couldn't do anything like that every day. It's part of, maybe, my recovery process, my getting over someone who is seemingly ubiquitous, inescapable. Or maybe it's something else I'm not even aware of. But I'm looking forward to sharing this story with the world. It will close out my book, which should be in stores by Thanksgiving. I'm working on more food stories, lighter ones, ones that dance around their kinks, rather than dropping them on the reader so, well, heavily. I'm writing a story named after a Cyndi Lauper song now. But I also think that "lighter" is relative. We all have light and darkness inside us and for me lightness is a goal not at the expense of mental or emotional weight, but as a coping mechanism. Anyway, here is an excerpt from "The Weight." More bondage erotica excerpts closer to pub date! Much of the book, and my introduction explores this, features women tying up men, because that was what the majority of the submissions included, so I hope you femdom types will buy it. I think there is a wonderful mix of types of bondage and motivations for it, and I hope I'll get to keep on editing more bondage erotica because it's always an interesting process.
This is fiction, for sure, but the kind of fiction I sometimes think is more truthful than any essay I write could ever be.
From "The Weight" by me:
I don’t gulp in greedy deep breaths of air; that would be too obvious. I take the smallest breaths I can, savoring them, making do with what I can get, while I can. He rises just enough to turn me over, settling down again with his knee planted firmly against my pussy, so firmly it hurts a little. He’s not trying to make me wet, or make me like it. I know that much by now. He’s trying to simply tell me that even his knee owns me, that even his knee can make me do anything he demands.
It’s the look on his face that makes me shudder as surely as if someone zapped me. I can breathe a little now, but I can’t move, not really. He has me pinned, strapped in as surely as the fanciest of handcuffs. The shudder rises from my red-painted toenails on up. I tremble against him where his knee is greeting me, and he shifts so the pressure lands at my wrists, where he’s raised them above my head. At any moment he might shift both wrists into one meaty palm and tickle me, threatening my bladder, threatening my control.
I’m tempted to bite my lip, but I don’t. He’d only force them apart, force my mouth, like the rest of me, open, shove something, probably his fingers, many of them, inside. I’m not sure if I miss his weight yet, because I love how strong he is, how his strength brought to bear full bore demands an equal showing of strength from me. I look up at him, not sure which Damian I will see. Sometimes his hazel eyes are dark and stormy, and he’ll lean down and bite my lip, digging his teeth in, clamping down until I mewl to get away, and then giving me a few extra seconds of pain before rising and spitting into my mouth. Sometimes he’ll raise his hand so suddenly I hardly have time to be aware of what’s about to happen, then strike my cheek so hard my ears ring. Sometimes he shackles my arms above my head, to the cuffs secured to the headboard, and pinches my nose and mouth shut, holding them tighter and tighter until I start to truly thrash, and then he’ll let go of one hand, keeping the other in place. Like I said, I’m not into all the accoutrements of bondage, but I gladly give him my arms, and savor the tightness of a cuff or the sweetly deceptive smoothness of a silk scarf, even though he is my favorite sex toy of all.
I'm working on purging both belongings and negative, unhelpful thoughts, along with the extra pounds, and talking to my friends and seeing how they each deal with their grief was telling. I don't think there's a right way or wrong way, and I teeter between being so outraged for Cheryl, that her life was cut short, and recognizing that my outage isn't going to bring her back. I can't feel light about her death, in any sense of the word, but I am honored to have known her and heartened to keep on seeing such an outpouring of support and love for her.
I will probably be working on this lightening that my whole life. So the fact that I wrote this story is both interesting and fitting. I'd say curious but to me it represents the way I think of BDSM when it works perfectly, which is like this yin and yang, people who have different urges, but urges that contrast perfectly in their extremity. Or what I think of as extremity; obviously that word means different things to different people. There are definitely things I've done I never thought I'd do and things I have and do think about that I'm not sure I'll ever do, and a lot of that comes out in fiction. "Foot and Mouth" you'll have to wait until next year for, but "The Weight" is going to be in Best Bondage Erotica 2012 and the part that is curious but also complimentary is that desire for weight on someone else, for the force of a body as a weapon.
I, like my protagonist, am much more partial to the human body as a tool than I am anything else when it comes to kinky play, and by "body" I mean both body parts but even more so the mind. In this excerpt you'll see that it's both this character, Damian, the narrator is so attuned to, but also the phrase his knee, the look on his face, his eyes. It's all of those body parts working in concert with both her and all that has come before. For me it's the kind of story I long to write, and am proud of, but couldn't do every day, just like I couldn't do anything like that every day. It's part of, maybe, my recovery process, my getting over someone who is seemingly ubiquitous, inescapable. Or maybe it's something else I'm not even aware of. But I'm looking forward to sharing this story with the world. It will close out my book, which should be in stores by Thanksgiving. I'm working on more food stories, lighter ones, ones that dance around their kinks, rather than dropping them on the reader so, well, heavily. I'm writing a story named after a Cyndi Lauper song now. But I also think that "lighter" is relative. We all have light and darkness inside us and for me lightness is a goal not at the expense of mental or emotional weight, but as a coping mechanism. Anyway, here is an excerpt from "The Weight." More bondage erotica excerpts closer to pub date! Much of the book, and my introduction explores this, features women tying up men, because that was what the majority of the submissions included, so I hope you femdom types will buy it. I think there is a wonderful mix of types of bondage and motivations for it, and I hope I'll get to keep on editing more bondage erotica because it's always an interesting process.
This is fiction, for sure, but the kind of fiction I sometimes think is more truthful than any essay I write could ever be.
From "The Weight" by me:
I don’t gulp in greedy deep breaths of air; that would be too obvious. I take the smallest breaths I can, savoring them, making do with what I can get, while I can. He rises just enough to turn me over, settling down again with his knee planted firmly against my pussy, so firmly it hurts a little. He’s not trying to make me wet, or make me like it. I know that much by now. He’s trying to simply tell me that even his knee owns me, that even his knee can make me do anything he demands.
It’s the look on his face that makes me shudder as surely as if someone zapped me. I can breathe a little now, but I can’t move, not really. He has me pinned, strapped in as surely as the fanciest of handcuffs. The shudder rises from my red-painted toenails on up. I tremble against him where his knee is greeting me, and he shifts so the pressure lands at my wrists, where he’s raised them above my head. At any moment he might shift both wrists into one meaty palm and tickle me, threatening my bladder, threatening my control.
I’m tempted to bite my lip, but I don’t. He’d only force them apart, force my mouth, like the rest of me, open, shove something, probably his fingers, many of them, inside. I’m not sure if I miss his weight yet, because I love how strong he is, how his strength brought to bear full bore demands an equal showing of strength from me. I look up at him, not sure which Damian I will see. Sometimes his hazel eyes are dark and stormy, and he’ll lean down and bite my lip, digging his teeth in, clamping down until I mewl to get away, and then giving me a few extra seconds of pain before rising and spitting into my mouth. Sometimes he’ll raise his hand so suddenly I hardly have time to be aware of what’s about to happen, then strike my cheek so hard my ears ring. Sometimes he shackles my arms above my head, to the cuffs secured to the headboard, and pinches my nose and mouth shut, holding them tighter and tighter until I start to truly thrash, and then he’ll let go of one hand, keeping the other in place. Like I said, I’m not into all the accoutrements of bondage, but I gladly give him my arms, and savor the tightness of a cuff or the sweetly deceptive smoothness of a silk scarf, even though he is my favorite sex toy of all.
My French fry food porn story "French Fried" to be published in Best Lesbian Romance 2012
My French fry food porn story "French Fried," set in the Paris of my imagination, with a little help from a friend's true tale (not the sex part, but the seeing a girl eating fries part), will be published in the Cleis Press anthology Best Lesbian Romance 2012, edited by Radclyffe! Yay! I definitely plan to write more food porn. Waffles, maybe cheese...could I pull off dumplings? Maybe for a short short. Wonder if Fuck Yeah French Fries would be interested?
Funnily enough I'm trying not to eat French fries til Labor Day, when I hope I will be much closer to my goal weight. I did nibble a few the other day at Coffee Shop, and they were delicious. What I love about writing is that I can fantasize about food and sex and whatever else and turn those mental imaginings into stories.
Here's an excerpt:
From "French Fried" by me:
The fry is the best thing I've ever tasted. It's warm and perfectly cooked through, salty, with a hint of some kind of spice. But what heats my mouth even more is the way Veronique is looking at me. Her eyes are taking in my entire face, wide, trusting, seeking, and her lips are red and beautiful. On someone else the color might look overbearing, a vamp on the prowl, but on her it manages to look both innocent and seductive. I'm not afraid of her in the least, nor of her hungry eyes just waiting to devour me like I am doing to the fries. The fork lingers between her perfectly manicured fingers, but she puts it down, then picks up another fry and runs it along my lower lip. I dart out my tongue, teasing the fry, running my tongue up its length, licking the salt off.
She laughs, the sound melodious, but suddenly I want to feed her, too. I part my lips and she traces a fry along each one, from the right edge where they meet, along my lower lip, then around and atop the curves of my upper lip, getting the salty potato sticky with my gloss while her eyes soak in every inch of my face. Her look is intense, whether from under those impossibly long lashes, or straight on. This is a look I never get from the New York girls, who like to keep their distance. I want to tell her I don't speak French, but when I open my mouth, she traces the fry along my tongue. The back of my throat catches. Even though we are flirting over skinny bits of fried potatoes, there's nothing innocent about this. I know little more than this woman's name and already I want all of her, inside and out.
She is so calm, I can only wonder if her heart is beating fast too. "More?" She inches closer to me, and all the thoughts about touching up my makeup, straightening my outfit, wondering what I'm doing, leave my head as she slips me another fry, this time letting her finger dance along my tongue as she does. I press upward against the pad of her finger as she traces it against my organ, and know right away we are doing much more than eating. We are communicating in a language we are both perfectly fluent in, and the delicate hairs along my arms rise up in greeting.
She is so clearly in charge of me, and yet she's not dominating me. As her finger bends and the smooth edge of her nail scrapes my skin, I relax even more. She is teasing me, right here in this bistro, in a city I'd never stepped foot in until yesterday. She is daring me to stay silent, to not rush forward with the torrent of questions I find so tedious about dating back home. She is daring me to simply sit, wait, savor. She pulls out her finger and wipes it on her napkin, the picks up another fry, dips it in a pool of ketchup that somehow now seems like a sex sauce whipped up just for us, and puts it in her mouth.
photo by me but alas, I forget where I took this!
Read the whole story in Best Lesbian Romance 2012! I'm not seeing a cover for it yet, but you can pre-order it from Amazon here (pre-ordering helps support books because it shows an interest from consumers, which means bookstores and online bookstores order more books). I can't speak for anyone else's series, but I can say for Best Bondage Erotica (lineup coming this week!) that the series can only continue if people buy the books.
Funnily enough I'm trying not to eat French fries til Labor Day, when I hope I will be much closer to my goal weight. I did nibble a few the other day at Coffee Shop, and they were delicious. What I love about writing is that I can fantasize about food and sex and whatever else and turn those mental imaginings into stories.
Here's an excerpt:
From "French Fried" by me:
The fry is the best thing I've ever tasted. It's warm and perfectly cooked through, salty, with a hint of some kind of spice. But what heats my mouth even more is the way Veronique is looking at me. Her eyes are taking in my entire face, wide, trusting, seeking, and her lips are red and beautiful. On someone else the color might look overbearing, a vamp on the prowl, but on her it manages to look both innocent and seductive. I'm not afraid of her in the least, nor of her hungry eyes just waiting to devour me like I am doing to the fries. The fork lingers between her perfectly manicured fingers, but she puts it down, then picks up another fry and runs it along my lower lip. I dart out my tongue, teasing the fry, running my tongue up its length, licking the salt off.
She laughs, the sound melodious, but suddenly I want to feed her, too. I part my lips and she traces a fry along each one, from the right edge where they meet, along my lower lip, then around and atop the curves of my upper lip, getting the salty potato sticky with my gloss while her eyes soak in every inch of my face. Her look is intense, whether from under those impossibly long lashes, or straight on. This is a look I never get from the New York girls, who like to keep their distance. I want to tell her I don't speak French, but when I open my mouth, she traces the fry along my tongue. The back of my throat catches. Even though we are flirting over skinny bits of fried potatoes, there's nothing innocent about this. I know little more than this woman's name and already I want all of her, inside and out.
She is so calm, I can only wonder if her heart is beating fast too. "More?" She inches closer to me, and all the thoughts about touching up my makeup, straightening my outfit, wondering what I'm doing, leave my head as she slips me another fry, this time letting her finger dance along my tongue as she does. I press upward against the pad of her finger as she traces it against my organ, and know right away we are doing much more than eating. We are communicating in a language we are both perfectly fluent in, and the delicate hairs along my arms rise up in greeting.
She is so clearly in charge of me, and yet she's not dominating me. As her finger bends and the smooth edge of her nail scrapes my skin, I relax even more. She is teasing me, right here in this bistro, in a city I'd never stepped foot in until yesterday. She is daring me to stay silent, to not rush forward with the torrent of questions I find so tedious about dating back home. She is daring me to simply sit, wait, savor. She pulls out her finger and wipes it on her napkin, the picks up another fry, dips it in a pool of ketchup that somehow now seems like a sex sauce whipped up just for us, and puts it in her mouth.
photo by me but alas, I forget where I took this!
Read the whole story in Best Lesbian Romance 2012! I'm not seeing a cover for it yet, but you can pre-order it from Amazon here (pre-ordering helps support books because it shows an interest from consumers, which means bookstores and online bookstores order more books). I can't speak for anyone else's series, but I can say for Best Bondage Erotica (lineup coming this week!) that the series can only continue if people buy the books.
Song title inspiration for erotica
My story in Obsessed (out next month! party in August! postcards just ordered! please pre-order at the low cost of $9.95 at the moment or request your free review copy) is called "I Want to Hold Your Hand." The title is obviously inspired by the Beatles song. The story is inspired by...me and my kinda sorta "type." I don't really have a type, but it's not a secret that I like "big" guys. I have another story about sexy hand holding percolating, based, actually, on a pretty skinny guy who was very good at holding hands. I think hand holding is underrated as an erotic activity.
But anyway, what I wanted to talk about was music. I wrote a story once called "Fast Girls" inspired by the Sarge song, then edited a book of the same name and used that song in the book trailer. My Irresistible story will be called "That's The Way I Always Heard It Should Be," because I am a Carly Simon fan. I love taking a phrase or a title that has one meaning from its original artist and giving it a spin. Sometimes when I'm stuck, which is often, lately, I try to see what or who might give rise to a story. There is always something. Maybe Vashti Bunyan's "I'd Like to Walk Around in Your Mind."
I love having a reference point, like this one story I wrote, "Bed-In" (I think that's how I spelled it) inspired by John and Yoko's bed in, though this one had a much more commercial twist (set in a bedding store). We'll see...I'm hoping my trips give me time to properly work on some stories; I have to write a hotel erotica one and a bunch of others and just get the creativity flowing again after my mind kindof not going in that direction, or at least, me not finishing stories I should have. I am determined to write a story inspired by the blowtorch at Sweet Iron Waffles which was just one of the sexiest things I've ever seen and I'm notreally at all a fire play kind of girl. It was more the way the guy using it looked while he was using it, so focused and intense and holding this powerful machine in his hand to feed me something delicious. Since I so rarely listen to my CD collection anymore, maybe they can prove useful for story ideas.
Here's a snippet of "I Want to Hold Your Hand:"
At least he had two body parts that hadn’t lost their heft: his hands and his cock. She knew that saying about a man’s feet predicting his size below the waist, but with Ron, his hands and his cock were both, well, manly, while his size nine feet were what she considered average. His hands, though, they were big, strong, powerful; there was nothing he could do about his man hands. Ron had always been able to speak to her with his hands, even on their first date, when he’d reached for one of hers and massaged it, his thumb tricking along her palm, his fingers tickling her skin, making her curious about him, about what he could do to her. They were soft, and seemingly tender, but when she dared to try to get to know them, he’d crushed her fingers within his own, letting her know that he would be the one to master their manual dexterity.
She was still curious, as she’d been then, eager to get to know him by running her lips along his skin, by listening to his heartbeat, though truth be told, the parts that everyone else was so eager to talk about and salivate over were not the ones that interested Shelly. His abs, his biceps, all sounded like clichés to her ears. Her Ron wasn’t the macho bodybuilder they were making him out to be, and if he were, she wasn’t sure she would want him anymore. She’d caught a couple of college girls, home on break, whispering about what he might look like underneath, and had huffed her way through their conversation, stalking right in between them and giving them the stink eye. Who were these brats and why didn’t they find someone their own age?
“Honey, I want to go to the movies,” she said, pulling him aside, not caring how petulant she might sound.
“Now?” He looked at her in confusion.
“Well, tonight, yeah.”
“What do you want to see?”
“I don’t care,” she said, then lifted his right hand and brought it to her mouth.
But anyway, what I wanted to talk about was music. I wrote a story once called "Fast Girls" inspired by the Sarge song, then edited a book of the same name and used that song in the book trailer. My Irresistible story will be called "That's The Way I Always Heard It Should Be," because I am a Carly Simon fan. I love taking a phrase or a title that has one meaning from its original artist and giving it a spin. Sometimes when I'm stuck, which is often, lately, I try to see what or who might give rise to a story. There is always something. Maybe Vashti Bunyan's "I'd Like to Walk Around in Your Mind."
I love having a reference point, like this one story I wrote, "Bed-In" (I think that's how I spelled it) inspired by John and Yoko's bed in, though this one had a much more commercial twist (set in a bedding store). We'll see...I'm hoping my trips give me time to properly work on some stories; I have to write a hotel erotica one and a bunch of others and just get the creativity flowing again after my mind kindof not going in that direction, or at least, me not finishing stories I should have. I am determined to write a story inspired by the blowtorch at Sweet Iron Waffles which was just one of the sexiest things I've ever seen and I'm not
Here's a snippet of "I Want to Hold Your Hand:"
At least he had two body parts that hadn’t lost their heft: his hands and his cock. She knew that saying about a man’s feet predicting his size below the waist, but with Ron, his hands and his cock were both, well, manly, while his size nine feet were what she considered average. His hands, though, they were big, strong, powerful; there was nothing he could do about his man hands. Ron had always been able to speak to her with his hands, even on their first date, when he’d reached for one of hers and massaged it, his thumb tricking along her palm, his fingers tickling her skin, making her curious about him, about what he could do to her. They were soft, and seemingly tender, but when she dared to try to get to know them, he’d crushed her fingers within his own, letting her know that he would be the one to master their manual dexterity.
She was still curious, as she’d been then, eager to get to know him by running her lips along his skin, by listening to his heartbeat, though truth be told, the parts that everyone else was so eager to talk about and salivate over were not the ones that interested Shelly. His abs, his biceps, all sounded like clichés to her ears. Her Ron wasn’t the macho bodybuilder they were making him out to be, and if he were, she wasn’t sure she would want him anymore. She’d caught a couple of college girls, home on break, whispering about what he might look like underneath, and had huffed her way through their conversation, stalking right in between them and giving them the stink eye. Who were these brats and why didn’t they find someone their own age?
“Honey, I want to go to the movies,” she said, pulling him aside, not caring how petulant she might sound.
“Now?” He looked at her in confusion.
“Well, tonight, yeah.”
“What do you want to see?”
“I don’t care,” she said, then lifted his right hand and brought it to her mouth.
Check out the amazing lineup for Take Me There: Trans and Queer Erotica edited by Tristan Taormino
Editor Tristan Taormino posted the author lineup for her fall anthology Take Take Me There: Trans and Queer Erotica, and wrote:
In mainstream media, the erotic identities, sex lives, and fantasies of transgender and genderqueer people are often oversimplified, sensationalized, or invisible. Take Me There is an erotica collection unlike any other that celebrates the pleasure, heat, and diversity of transgender and genderqueer sexualities. The power of seeing and being seen is a central theme in the anthology; it’s not simply about passing or not passing (an idea often explored with transgender characters), but about being acknowledged and desired in a sexual context.
The book takes you from San Francisco to Israel, from heartache to lust, from stranger sex to a 10 year anniversary, from ballet shoes to butt plug bondage tables, from fumbling teenagers to leatherclad bears, from MTF and FTM—and in between and beyond.
This year and last I've hit a lot of stumbling blocks with my writing, and for a long time erotica was absolved from those blocks, but lately, that's not the case. I've had lots of books I wanted to submit to and just didn't get to finish my stories and that makes me disappointed. However, this story I'm very excited about and think it pushed me into new territory. I have another gay male erotica story coming out this fall, "Stripped," about, yes, a crossdressing stripper, but that one has some humor (and a little edge, since it's set at a frat party, and indeed is in the book Frat Boys). My point is, though, that "Punching Bag" isn't humorous; it's intense, and, I hope, powerful, the kind of story I want to keep writing, because to me BDSM is intense and powerful, no matter the gender of the people involved. I'll post another excerpt closer to the pub date, but for now, please do consider pre-ordering it. I'm linking to Amazon but you can pre-order it from any bookstore.
Here are the first two paragraphs of my story "Punching Bag:"
Kyle still wasn’t sure, two years in, if he liked punching or being punched better, on or off the ring. All he knew was that boxing made him feel alive, lit up, excited, manly…and had even when he was a woman. He’d started lurking around the gym when he’d been Kim, binding his breasts, mostly using the inert punching bags. He was afraid of hitting another woman, but he wouldn’t be afraid of hitting the block of muscle in a man’s chest. He didn’t even need anyone else, at first, to get that special high, one he’d never gotten from running or swimming or tennis.
There’s an energy to a boxing ring that he had never experienced in any other sport, not even wrestling. This was pure, raw aggression, tempered only by the rules of the game and sometimes not even that. It made grown men and women drop all pretense and simply get down to the business at hand, and he liked the way it sliced away every false veneer society put on his shoulders until it was just his mind and his fists, working in concert.
I’m proud and honored to be part of this book, not just because it features a who’s who of queer erotica, but because I feel like I tried something new for me and pushed myself with my trans male gay erotic boxing story “Punching Bag” and am very pleased with the result. This is one I will devour the minute I get my contributor copies! More on it closer to the pub date. Tristan published my very first erotica story, “Monica and Me” (as did Shar Rednour), and I will always remember and treasure that.
Tristan also wrote on Facebook that if this does well, there’s the possibility of turning it into a series, so please remember that when you are buying holiday gifts or looking for your next erotic book purchase. If you know you’ll want to read it, pre-ordering this book (or any book) helps get its numbers up and means wherever you pre-order it from knows there’s a fan base and is more likely to stock more of it!
In mainstream media, the erotic identities, sex lives, and fantasies of transgender and genderqueer people are often oversimplified, sensationalized, or invisible. Take Me There is an erotica collection unlike any other that celebrates the pleasure, heat, and diversity of transgender and genderqueer sexualities. The power of seeing and being seen is a central theme in the anthology; it’s not simply about passing or not passing (an idea often explored with transgender characters), but about being acknowledged and desired in a sexual context.
The book takes you from San Francisco to Israel, from heartache to lust, from stranger sex to a 10 year anniversary, from ballet shoes to butt plug bondage tables, from fumbling teenagers to leatherclad bears, from MTF and FTM—and in between and beyond.
This year and last I've hit a lot of stumbling blocks with my writing, and for a long time erotica was absolved from those blocks, but lately, that's not the case. I've had lots of books I wanted to submit to and just didn't get to finish my stories and that makes me disappointed. However, this story I'm very excited about and think it pushed me into new territory. I have another gay male erotica story coming out this fall, "Stripped," about, yes, a crossdressing stripper, but that one has some humor (and a little edge, since it's set at a frat party, and indeed is in the book Frat Boys). My point is, though, that "Punching Bag" isn't humorous; it's intense, and, I hope, powerful, the kind of story I want to keep writing, because to me BDSM is intense and powerful, no matter the gender of the people involved. I'll post another excerpt closer to the pub date, but for now, please do consider pre-ordering it. I'm linking to Amazon but you can pre-order it from any bookstore.
Here are the first two paragraphs of my story "Punching Bag:"
Kyle still wasn’t sure, two years in, if he liked punching or being punched better, on or off the ring. All he knew was that boxing made him feel alive, lit up, excited, manly…and had even when he was a woman. He’d started lurking around the gym when he’d been Kim, binding his breasts, mostly using the inert punching bags. He was afraid of hitting another woman, but he wouldn’t be afraid of hitting the block of muscle in a man’s chest. He didn’t even need anyone else, at first, to get that special high, one he’d never gotten from running or swimming or tennis.
There’s an energy to a boxing ring that he had never experienced in any other sport, not even wrestling. This was pure, raw aggression, tempered only by the rules of the game and sometimes not even that. It made grown men and women drop all pretense and simply get down to the business at hand, and he liked the way it sliced away every false veneer society put on his shoulders until it was just his mind and his fists, working in concert.
I’m proud and honored to be part of this book, not just because it features a who’s who of queer erotica, but because I feel like I tried something new for me and pushed myself with my trans male gay erotic boxing story “Punching Bag” and am very pleased with the result. This is one I will devour the minute I get my contributor copies! More on it closer to the pub date. Tristan published my very first erotica story, “Monica and Me” (as did Shar Rednour), and I will always remember and treasure that.
Tristan also wrote on Facebook that if this does well, there’s the possibility of turning it into a series, so please remember that when you are buying holiday gifts or looking for your next erotic book purchase. If you know you’ll want to read it, pre-ordering this book (or any book) helps get its numbers up and means wherever you pre-order it from knows there’s a fan base and is more likely to stock more of it!
Announcing the Table of Contents for Women in Lust
I'm so thrilled with the gorgeous, gorgeous cover Cleis Press gave me for Women in Lust, which will be out just in time for my 36th birthday and features a stellar lineup of international writers. What's inside promises t be just as sexy as the cover. Once I get it back from copyediting I'll post my introduction. For now, you can pre-order it from Amazon (if you're planning to buy it, this helps sales because pre-orders let stores/online shops know that there's an audience and they buy more, and, generally, the better my books do, the bigger the print runs, the more opportunities I get to edit more) and I'll add to the official site and link to it when I can. I'm trying to wean myself off buying postcards for books because they wind up littering (literally) my apartment but for this one I may feel compelled to, in a small quantity.
Another happy editorial aspect of this book and most of my recent ones is working with authors I've never worked with before. Sorry if I miss any of you, but in this case, that means Lucy Hughes, Del Carmen, Brandy Fox, Kin Fallon and Kayar Silkenvoice. I do my best to include new (to me) authors in all my books and am thrilled to be able to keep doing so. This is an extremely hot and wide-ranging book that I think you'll enjoy. So more about it closer to the pub date.
Women in Lust
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Introduction: Ladies Who Lust
Naughty Thoughts Portia Da Costa
Guess Charlotte Stein
Her, Him and Them Aimee Pearl
Bayou Clancy Nacht
Smoke Elizabeth Coldwell
Bite Me Lucy Hughes
Ride a Cowboy Del Carmen
Queen of Sheba Jen Cross
Hot for Teacher Rachel Kramer Bussel
Unbidden Brandy Fox
Something to Ruin Amelia Thornton
Guitar Hero Kin Fallon
Ode to a Masturbator Aimee Herman
Orchid Jacqueline Applebee
Cherry Blossom by Kayar Silkenvoice
Rain Olivia Archer
The Hard Way Justine Elyot
Strapped K D Grace
Beneath My Skin Shanna Germain
Comfort Food Donna George Storey
Here's a little teaser from my back to school story "Hot for Teacher" - you'll have to buy the book to read the whole thing!
From "Hot for Teacher" by Rachel Kramer Bussel:
Then, staring at herself in the mirror, Meredith lifted her right breast and tucked her head down so she could suck on her own nipple. The flood of emotion and arousal was so intense she had to lean her left hand against the counter. She spread her legs, wondering if Professor Arthur was circumcised, picturing his cock as big and thick and aching just for her. She kept going, making sure to watch her every move, so that when she did go to her hot professor’s office hours, it wasn’t as a true schoolgirl, skittish and nervous, relying on her youthful charm and giggly giddiness, but as a mature woman who could tap into that spirit, but also had something more to offer. For all her pleated-skirt fantasies, what Meredith wanted was to be treated like a womanæa woman who knew exactly what she wanted, even if what she wanted was to be manhandled by a younger nerdy man who just so happened to hold her academic future in his hands.
She searched her closet, determined to find something there capable of seduction. She could afford to shop, at least a little, but Meredith wanted something familiar, a reminder that even in all these years when dating had taken a backseat to the mundane truths of Real Life and mothering, she’d remembered the girl who threw her bra onstage and got fingered backstage, who was wet and wild and carefree. She rummaged and rummaged and finally, in the back of the closet, found a red and purple dress she vaguely remembered buying, if not wearing. There were no tags on it, but the purple silk outlining the red shimmery fabric made her smile. She immediately shucked off her t-shirt and jeans and slipped it over her head, seeing that she’d need a new bra, one to be worn strategically peeking out from beneath this dress’s straps.
She turned sideways, admiring the way the dress clung to her breasts, proud of them, proud of herself for not having even considered having them lifted or added to, the way so many of the women she knew had done. Meredith cupped her hands over her breasts, letting her nipples peek out, hoping Professor Arthur would like her in this dress, like her as more than a student. She decided maybe she didn’t need a bra, after all--or panties. If she was going to go for it, she was going to go for it.
Another happy editorial aspect of this book and most of my recent ones is working with authors I've never worked with before. Sorry if I miss any of you, but in this case, that means Lucy Hughes, Del Carmen, Brandy Fox, Kin Fallon and Kayar Silkenvoice. I do my best to include new (to me) authors in all my books and am thrilled to be able to keep doing so. This is an extremely hot and wide-ranging book that I think you'll enjoy. So more about it closer to the pub date.
Women in Lust
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Introduction: Ladies Who Lust
Naughty Thoughts Portia Da Costa
Guess Charlotte Stein
Her, Him and Them Aimee Pearl
Bayou Clancy Nacht
Smoke Elizabeth Coldwell
Bite Me Lucy Hughes
Ride a Cowboy Del Carmen
Queen of Sheba Jen Cross
Hot for Teacher Rachel Kramer Bussel
Unbidden Brandy Fox
Something to Ruin Amelia Thornton
Guitar Hero Kin Fallon
Ode to a Masturbator Aimee Herman
Orchid Jacqueline Applebee
Cherry Blossom by Kayar Silkenvoice
Rain Olivia Archer
The Hard Way Justine Elyot
Strapped K D Grace
Beneath My Skin Shanna Germain
Comfort Food Donna George Storey
Here's a little teaser from my back to school story "Hot for Teacher" - you'll have to buy the book to read the whole thing!
From "Hot for Teacher" by Rachel Kramer Bussel:
Then, staring at herself in the mirror, Meredith lifted her right breast and tucked her head down so she could suck on her own nipple. The flood of emotion and arousal was so intense she had to lean her left hand against the counter. She spread her legs, wondering if Professor Arthur was circumcised, picturing his cock as big and thick and aching just for her. She kept going, making sure to watch her every move, so that when she did go to her hot professor’s office hours, it wasn’t as a true schoolgirl, skittish and nervous, relying on her youthful charm and giggly giddiness, but as a mature woman who could tap into that spirit, but also had something more to offer. For all her pleated-skirt fantasies, what Meredith wanted was to be treated like a womanæa woman who knew exactly what she wanted, even if what she wanted was to be manhandled by a younger nerdy man who just so happened to hold her academic future in his hands.
She searched her closet, determined to find something there capable of seduction. She could afford to shop, at least a little, but Meredith wanted something familiar, a reminder that even in all these years when dating had taken a backseat to the mundane truths of Real Life and mothering, she’d remembered the girl who threw her bra onstage and got fingered backstage, who was wet and wild and carefree. She rummaged and rummaged and finally, in the back of the closet, found a red and purple dress she vaguely remembered buying, if not wearing. There were no tags on it, but the purple silk outlining the red shimmery fabric made her smile. She immediately shucked off her t-shirt and jeans and slipped it over her head, seeing that she’d need a new bra, one to be worn strategically peeking out from beneath this dress’s straps.
She turned sideways, admiring the way the dress clung to her breasts, proud of them, proud of herself for not having even considered having them lifted or added to, the way so many of the women she knew had done. Meredith cupped her hands over her breasts, letting her nipples peek out, hoping Professor Arthur would like her in this dress, like her as more than a student. She decided maybe she didn’t need a bra, after all--or panties. If she was going to go for it, she was going to go for it.
Gay male erotica story "Sexathon" out now in Afternoon Pleasures anthology
My short story "Sexathon" is in the new anthology Afternoon Pleasures: Gay Erotica for Couples edited by Shane Allison. I don't have my copies yet, but I can share a little snippet of my story. Here's the first three paragraphs - if you like it, do check out the book!
I used to work the door at a lesbian sex party that was held in what was usually a gay male sex club, and that setting inspired this story, which is admittedly among my wackier ones, but I also think I was trying to get at the way a couple could feel kinship by fucking other people, by opening their relationship but sharing it. That’s also a theme I’m pursuing in another gay male erotica story I’m working on.
I was working on it right after I got dumped last May, right when I was going to visit my mom's house for the first time. Basically, a stressful time, but I was trying to capture something with the story. No clue if I succeeded, you can be the judge of that, but I'm always proud to have a new story published, all the more so when it's a gay male story. Now I have to get some of that writing mojo I've lost back and I'll be myself again.
Sexathon
by Rachel Kramer Bussel
When Doug told me he wanted to enter the sexathon at our local sex club, at first, I looked at him like he was crazy. We’ve been together for ten years, and in many ways it seems like a lifetime. I’m thirty-five and he’s twenty-nine and most of our friends look to us as a model couple, and maybe we are. I often joke that we’re like any old married couple--we tied the knot four years ago, finally--with each of us having our own spot on the couch, our pillow, our mug; in short, our places within our home. Yet we both welcome those niceties, those symbols that go far beyond the solid gold wedding rings we exchanged during the ceremony. And we’d been monogamous, save for a few random threesomes we’d taken part in, which had been hot--don’t get me wrong--but in general we were one-man men, focused on building our lives together, eager to share everything from sex to breakfast to road trips. The adventures we’d shared up until then, including traveling everywhere from Belize to Alaska, as well as being godparents to our friends’ son Peter, had only brought us closer together. We had our spats, sure, but I was certain that without Doug my life would be far worse off than the one we shared.
Doug explained that the club was having a fundraiser, but instead of a marathon or walkathon, it was a sexathon. You got points for everything from deep-throating a dildo to how far your ejaculation landed when you jerked off to how many partners you hooked up with, and people were suppoed to pledge a dollar or more for every point you earned. Condoms would be mandatory. When he told me about the points and prizes—a trip to Paris, a big-screen plasma TV—I knew there was no talking him out of it. The thing about my man, though you’d never know it unless you were in a specifically sporting situation with him, is that he’s incredibly competitive. Whether it’s doing crossword puzzles, guessing the answers on Jeopardy, playing bingo at our gay community center or even taking part in pickup softball, he plays to win.
“What about me?” I asked. I’m not insecure, but even the most solid long-term relationship can hit its rough spots. Was he having a midlife crisis? Did he regret not having more partners in his younger years? We’d discussed this, and not just when we first got together. Back then, we’d been youthful and idealistic, and while we were definitely falling in love with each other in those days, we were also in love with the idea of love. I thought the men who picked up a different trick every night were fools. Who’d want a new cock when you could have a man like Doug: tall, strapping, husky, hairy; who could be by turns savage (teeth and nails clawing at me), and tender (taking care of me in countless ways)? Not me. And those kisses! The kind that went on forever, that left me breathless, that seemed to come out of nowhere and for no reason--he’d stop me in the middle of a sentence just for the pleasure of sticking his tongue down my throat.
Publisher description:
Shane Allison presents bedtime reading for gay couples. Filled with romance, passion and lust, Afternoon Pleasures offers irresistible erotic fun while celebrating the coming together of souls as well as bodies. Two traveling husbears meet a willing twink in Jeff Mann's "One Afternoon in the Bible Belt." A sneaky environmentalist gets sandwiched between hedonistic mountain men in Bob Vickery's "Loggers." Two partners share a leisurely Sunday morning with scintillating surprises in Hank Edwards's "Breakfast in Bed." Rob Rosen's "Skyrockets in Flight" is particularly delicious with naughty bits in every line.
With contributed stories by Bob Vickery, Jonathan Asche, Pepper Espinoza, Jeff Mann, Gregory L. Norris, Jay Rogers, R.J. Bradshaw, Rob Rosen, Hank Edwards, Kyle Lukoff, Heidi Champa, Logan Zachary, D. Fostalove, Stephen Osborne, Nathan Burgoine, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and Shane Allison.
I used to work the door at a lesbian sex party that was held in what was usually a gay male sex club, and that setting inspired this story, which is admittedly among my wackier ones, but I also think I was trying to get at the way a couple could feel kinship by fucking other people, by opening their relationship but sharing it. That’s also a theme I’m pursuing in another gay male erotica story I’m working on.
I was working on it right after I got dumped last May, right when I was going to visit my mom's house for the first time. Basically, a stressful time, but I was trying to capture something with the story. No clue if I succeeded, you can be the judge of that, but I'm always proud to have a new story published, all the more so when it's a gay male story. Now I have to get some of that writing mojo I've lost back and I'll be myself again.
Sexathon
by Rachel Kramer Bussel
When Doug told me he wanted to enter the sexathon at our local sex club, at first, I looked at him like he was crazy. We’ve been together for ten years, and in many ways it seems like a lifetime. I’m thirty-five and he’s twenty-nine and most of our friends look to us as a model couple, and maybe we are. I often joke that we’re like any old married couple--we tied the knot four years ago, finally--with each of us having our own spot on the couch, our pillow, our mug; in short, our places within our home. Yet we both welcome those niceties, those symbols that go far beyond the solid gold wedding rings we exchanged during the ceremony. And we’d been monogamous, save for a few random threesomes we’d taken part in, which had been hot--don’t get me wrong--but in general we were one-man men, focused on building our lives together, eager to share everything from sex to breakfast to road trips. The adventures we’d shared up until then, including traveling everywhere from Belize to Alaska, as well as being godparents to our friends’ son Peter, had only brought us closer together. We had our spats, sure, but I was certain that without Doug my life would be far worse off than the one we shared.
Doug explained that the club was having a fundraiser, but instead of a marathon or walkathon, it was a sexathon. You got points for everything from deep-throating a dildo to how far your ejaculation landed when you jerked off to how many partners you hooked up with, and people were suppoed to pledge a dollar or more for every point you earned. Condoms would be mandatory. When he told me about the points and prizes—a trip to Paris, a big-screen plasma TV—I knew there was no talking him out of it. The thing about my man, though you’d never know it unless you were in a specifically sporting situation with him, is that he’s incredibly competitive. Whether it’s doing crossword puzzles, guessing the answers on Jeopardy, playing bingo at our gay community center or even taking part in pickup softball, he plays to win.
“What about me?” I asked. I’m not insecure, but even the most solid long-term relationship can hit its rough spots. Was he having a midlife crisis? Did he regret not having more partners in his younger years? We’d discussed this, and not just when we first got together. Back then, we’d been youthful and idealistic, and while we were definitely falling in love with each other in those days, we were also in love with the idea of love. I thought the men who picked up a different trick every night were fools. Who’d want a new cock when you could have a man like Doug: tall, strapping, husky, hairy; who could be by turns savage (teeth and nails clawing at me), and tender (taking care of me in countless ways)? Not me. And those kisses! The kind that went on forever, that left me breathless, that seemed to come out of nowhere and for no reason--he’d stop me in the middle of a sentence just for the pleasure of sticking his tongue down my throat.
Publisher description:
Shane Allison presents bedtime reading for gay couples. Filled with romance, passion and lust, Afternoon Pleasures offers irresistible erotic fun while celebrating the coming together of souls as well as bodies. Two traveling husbears meet a willing twink in Jeff Mann's "One Afternoon in the Bible Belt." A sneaky environmentalist gets sandwiched between hedonistic mountain men in Bob Vickery's "Loggers." Two partners share a leisurely Sunday morning with scintillating surprises in Hank Edwards's "Breakfast in Bed." Rob Rosen's "Skyrockets in Flight" is particularly delicious with naughty bits in every line.
With contributed stories by Bob Vickery, Jonathan Asche, Pepper Espinoza, Jeff Mann, Gregory L. Norris, Jay Rogers, R.J. Bradshaw, Rob Rosen, Hank Edwards, Kyle Lukoff, Heidi Champa, Logan Zachary, D. Fostalove, Stephen Osborne, Nathan Burgoine, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and Shane Allison.
Bisexual guy + voyeur girlfriend in "The Female Gaze" in Sweet Confessions
Lately I've had some kind of issue with writing. I miss it, I think about it a lot, I come up with scenarios and titles, I start stories and essays and pitches but...I don't seem to quite finish them. Maybe I start too many, or maybe I sleep too late, or maybe I just need a vacation. It sucks, though, because I know those ideas could've been worthy and would've had a good chance of being accepted. I do have a few stories pending that my fingers are (virtually) crossed on, but I don't want to keep making that mistake over and over. It does mean that the stories I have sold, I'm extra proud of. One is "The Female Gaze," which will be in Violet Blue's July 1st Cleis Press anthology Sweet Confessions: Erotic Fantasies for Couples.
Below is all the sneak peek you're gonna get...you should pre-order the book so you can read the whole thing! The title was inspired by the seemingly umpteen times I had to read people like Laura Mulvey and John Berger and Michel Foucault in my women's studies classes at UC Berkeley. My politics were very different but one thing I think I can safely say remains the same is that I'm not an academic and never will be. The male gaze is an interesting concept but I think when it comes to erotica and sexuality so many of these topics can be played with, fucked with, if you will. No offense if you dig those writers; my point was my title played on that, and also the idea that "men are more visual than women," which I think is such a broad stereotype as to be useless. I'm totally a voyeur, much, much more so than I am an exhibitionist. I also kindof wanted to turn the straight guy + bisexual women trope on its head a bit. And I did (well, you can be the judge).
The Female Gaze
by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Ever since they’d started dating three years before, Alex had been telling Rory about the boys who hit on him--the men, the bears, the daddies, the ones who looked like they were barely legal, the silver foxes, the shy boys who found in him a kinship, or just a look, a lust, an impulse. “The bartender comped my drink, then slipped me his number. Do I have to put on a wedding band before they get the picture?” he’d ask, chuckling as he kissed her lightly.
She ran her hands through his thick black hair before telling him that a wedding ring had never been a deterrent to men hooking up with other men. Maybe she should have been bothered by people checking out her man, the one who’d once been a model and graced ads for Calvin Klein underwear and Brooks Brothers before deciding that he really preferred environmental law. But she didn’t mind, not really, and certainly didn’t begrudge these men their hungry stares, their heartfelt offers. The women she could do without, the ones who blatantly clocked her man while they walked down the street, the ones who she could tell would him into the bathroom for a quickie if they thought they could get away with it. Rory wasn’t sure why, exactly, the former amused her and the latter annoyed her, but there it was. Actually, it was more than that; the thought of these men kissing her boyfriend, running their hands all over his firm, muscular body, swallowing his cock, plundering his bottom as she’d only fantasized about doing, well, it turned her on.
She couldn’t help but wonder if they saw in Alex the same things she did. Was that possible? Were they clairvoyant--or just horny? Was he just another pretty face or did they want him to speak to them in that booming, low voice? Did they want him to order them around, like she did? “Touch yourself for me. Show me how wet you are. Fuck yourself with the vibrator I got you.” Would Alex be a top or a bottom in bed with a man? The more these men propositioned him, the more Rory found these naughty images creeping into her mind when she was alone, when she let her fingers wander between her lips and her mind go free.
Below is all the sneak peek you're gonna get...you should pre-order the book so you can read the whole thing! The title was inspired by the seemingly umpteen times I had to read people like Laura Mulvey and John Berger and Michel Foucault in my women's studies classes at UC Berkeley. My politics were very different but one thing I think I can safely say remains the same is that I'm not an academic and never will be. The male gaze is an interesting concept but I think when it comes to erotica and sexuality so many of these topics can be played with, fucked with, if you will. No offense if you dig those writers; my point was my title played on that, and also the idea that "men are more visual than women," which I think is such a broad stereotype as to be useless. I'm totally a voyeur, much, much more so than I am an exhibitionist. I also kindof wanted to turn the straight guy + bisexual women trope on its head a bit. And I did (well, you can be the judge).
The Female Gaze
by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Ever since they’d started dating three years before, Alex had been telling Rory about the boys who hit on him--the men, the bears, the daddies, the ones who looked like they were barely legal, the silver foxes, the shy boys who found in him a kinship, or just a look, a lust, an impulse. “The bartender comped my drink, then slipped me his number. Do I have to put on a wedding band before they get the picture?” he’d ask, chuckling as he kissed her lightly.
She ran her hands through his thick black hair before telling him that a wedding ring had never been a deterrent to men hooking up with other men. Maybe she should have been bothered by people checking out her man, the one who’d once been a model and graced ads for Calvin Klein underwear and Brooks Brothers before deciding that he really preferred environmental law. But she didn’t mind, not really, and certainly didn’t begrudge these men their hungry stares, their heartfelt offers. The women she could do without, the ones who blatantly clocked her man while they walked down the street, the ones who she could tell would him into the bathroom for a quickie if they thought they could get away with it. Rory wasn’t sure why, exactly, the former amused her and the latter annoyed her, but there it was. Actually, it was more than that; the thought of these men kissing her boyfriend, running their hands all over his firm, muscular body, swallowing his cock, plundering his bottom as she’d only fantasized about doing, well, it turned her on.
She couldn’t help but wonder if they saw in Alex the same things she did. Was that possible? Were they clairvoyant--or just horny? Was he just another pretty face or did they want him to speak to them in that booming, low voice? Did they want him to order them around, like she did? “Touch yourself for me. Show me how wet you are. Fuck yourself with the vibrator I got you.” Would Alex be a top or a bottom in bed with a man? The more these men propositioned him, the more Rory found these naughty images creeping into her mind when she was alone, when she let her fingers wander between her lips and her mind go free.
"Fishnet Queen," "Lap Dance Lust" and "Doing the Dishes" coming soon to an e-reader near you
self-portrait in white fishnets
I’m making the leap into offering my short stories for sale on Amazon for download, probably for 99 cents each, once I figure out exactly how to do it. One of them will be “Fishnet Queen.” Also “Lap Dance Lust” and “Doing the Dishes.” If you have any story requests, let me know!
From "Fishnet Queen" by me:
First thing I see are her legs, clad in the kind of stockings that make me hard just by thinking about them: fishnets. Her legs are long, and in her mini skirt, which rides up her thigh, I can see her pale skin augmented by the tightly woven black pattern that seems made just for her. She doesn’t just wear the fishnets, she owns them. I've seen women try to rock fishnets who simply can't pull them off, who wear them as if they were any other kind of stockings, tugged on hastily during a rushed morning, ripped in spots, slammed into sneakers, used and abused in the most careless manner possible.
My stripper shoe story "Good Luck Charm"
You can read the whole story plus other sex and shoes stories in, yes, the anthology called Sex & Shoes which is for sale for only $2.49! I'm reading it live Friday night at Ravenous Nights at Happy Ending Lounge, 302 Broome Street, NYC - see you there! I'll also be posting some more of my stories from my own anthologies soon, may possibly sell some as one-offs on Amazon but I'm happy to share a few here too.
May 6, 8-10 pm
In the old days, we would’ve barked, “Girls! Girls! Girls!”
That’s because May’s Ravenous Nights celebrates the daring dazzle of burlesque and stripping, and it’s shaping up to be a great night. Joining host Lori Perkins: authors Logan Belle, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and Aimee DeLong, all of whom will share risque tales with us.
And we’re fortunate that head mistress of NY School of Burlesque, Jo “Boobs” Weldon, will join us. She authored The Burlesque Handbook and has teasingly offered to give us a lesson or two!
So help us extol the thrill of stripping, give away door prizes galore — and maybe expose a secret or two in the bump and grind!
Event details:
Free. 8 to 10 pm. Dress: street casual.
Happy Ending Lounge
302 Broome Street (between Eldridge and Forsyth)
New York, NY
www.happyendinglounge.com
Good Luck Charm
by Rachel Kramer Bussel
As soon as I saw the shoes in the sex shop, I knew I had to get them for Daisy. They were the most outrageous, over-the-top, attention-getting pair I’d ever seen (and trust me, I’ve seen a lot of stripper shoes in my day). These had the requisite five-inch heels, ones that would make her already long, slim, gorgeous legs seem even hotter, but they had the added-bonus of being casino-themed, with white-painted black dice twisting against each other to form the heel. Below her sole, in the catch-all see-through area, were embedded poker chips and more dice. They were the kind of shoes that could turn anyone into a gambler, begging the numbers to turn up just right, just like they’d beg Daisy to rub her almost-naked body all over them as they sat with their hard cocks straining toward her. Or rather, toward Dolores, her stripper alter-ego.
See, Daisy’s really a dyke, and we met when I was one of her customers. She’s been with guys, as have I, and we can both get off on a good cock-pounding, but when it comes to everything sensual and emotional, we’re strictly girls’ girls. We complement each other in many ways, though, primarily in that she’s the ultimate exhibitionist, while I’m a voyeur through and through. I work a straight nine-to-five job (it’s nothing worth sharing the details of) and she works five nights a week at one of the many strip clubs Austin has to offer. It’s perfect because I have time to go watch her do her thing, which makes me horny as all get-out. I guess you could say I’m the opposite of the jealous type. I love that my girlfriend’s a stripper, love that she can use her beautiful body to earn a living and to liven things up in the bedroom.
So back to the shoes. I was visiting my friend Kim in St. Paul, who’d insisted we head to this adult store before hitting the local bar. I would’ve brought Daisy with me, but she had to work, and I was missing her terribly. Then I saw the shoes and knew they’d be the perfect thing to bring back to her; they may as well have had her name on them. I picked one up and felt a charge race through my body, one that let me know Daisy and I, at the very least, would have fun with these shoes.
But I wanted more than just fun. Or rather, part of my fun is in helping her do her job. I love watching her tease the men who come to her to get hard, horny, and frustrated. I love knowing that I’m the one who will get to feel these shoes pressing against my back while I fuck her, but they will be mesmerized by the sight of them that they’ll slip dollars into her G-string.
I bought the shoes, and the first thing I did when was alone was christen one of them with my pussy, rubbing it against me as I moaned Daisy’s name. Then I licked my juices off and called her. “I got you something on my trip, and you’re gonna like it.”
“What’d you get me in St. Paul?” she scoffed. It’s not like Austin is New York or L.A., but that doesn’t stop Daisy from being somewhat of a city snob.
“Just something that’ll make you even sexier than you are. Something that’ll make me want to touch myself.” I almost added, “Something you can wear to work,” but since she pretty much only wears some glitter, a G-string, shoes and maybe a barrette or two, that would be giving it away.
May 6, 8-10 pm
In the old days, we would’ve barked, “Girls! Girls! Girls!”
That’s because May’s Ravenous Nights celebrates the daring dazzle of burlesque and stripping, and it’s shaping up to be a great night. Joining host Lori Perkins: authors Logan Belle, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and Aimee DeLong, all of whom will share risque tales with us.
And we’re fortunate that head mistress of NY School of Burlesque, Jo “Boobs” Weldon, will join us. She authored The Burlesque Handbook and has teasingly offered to give us a lesson or two!
So help us extol the thrill of stripping, give away door prizes galore — and maybe expose a secret or two in the bump and grind!
Event details:
Free. 8 to 10 pm. Dress: street casual.
Happy Ending Lounge
302 Broome Street (between Eldridge and Forsyth)
New York, NY
www.happyendinglounge.com
Good Luck Charm
by Rachel Kramer Bussel
As soon as I saw the shoes in the sex shop, I knew I had to get them for Daisy. They were the most outrageous, over-the-top, attention-getting pair I’d ever seen (and trust me, I’ve seen a lot of stripper shoes in my day). These had the requisite five-inch heels, ones that would make her already long, slim, gorgeous legs seem even hotter, but they had the added-bonus of being casino-themed, with white-painted black dice twisting against each other to form the heel. Below her sole, in the catch-all see-through area, were embedded poker chips and more dice. They were the kind of shoes that could turn anyone into a gambler, begging the numbers to turn up just right, just like they’d beg Daisy to rub her almost-naked body all over them as they sat with their hard cocks straining toward her. Or rather, toward Dolores, her stripper alter-ego.
See, Daisy’s really a dyke, and we met when I was one of her customers. She’s been with guys, as have I, and we can both get off on a good cock-pounding, but when it comes to everything sensual and emotional, we’re strictly girls’ girls. We complement each other in many ways, though, primarily in that she’s the ultimate exhibitionist, while I’m a voyeur through and through. I work a straight nine-to-five job (it’s nothing worth sharing the details of) and she works five nights a week at one of the many strip clubs Austin has to offer. It’s perfect because I have time to go watch her do her thing, which makes me horny as all get-out. I guess you could say I’m the opposite of the jealous type. I love that my girlfriend’s a stripper, love that she can use her beautiful body to earn a living and to liven things up in the bedroom.
So back to the shoes. I was visiting my friend Kim in St. Paul, who’d insisted we head to this adult store before hitting the local bar. I would’ve brought Daisy with me, but she had to work, and I was missing her terribly. Then I saw the shoes and knew they’d be the perfect thing to bring back to her; they may as well have had her name on them. I picked one up and felt a charge race through my body, one that let me know Daisy and I, at the very least, would have fun with these shoes.
But I wanted more than just fun. Or rather, part of my fun is in helping her do her job. I love watching her tease the men who come to her to get hard, horny, and frustrated. I love knowing that I’m the one who will get to feel these shoes pressing against my back while I fuck her, but they will be mesmerized by the sight of them that they’ll slip dollars into her G-string.
I bought the shoes, and the first thing I did when was alone was christen one of them with my pussy, rubbing it against me as I moaned Daisy’s name. Then I licked my juices off and called her. “I got you something on my trip, and you’re gonna like it.”
“What’d you get me in St. Paul?” she scoffed. It’s not like Austin is New York or L.A., but that doesn’t stop Daisy from being somewhat of a city snob.
“Just something that’ll make you even sexier than you are. Something that’ll make me want to touch myself.” I almost added, “Something you can wear to work,” but since she pretty much only wears some glitter, a G-string, shoes and maybe a barrette or two, that would be giving it away.
"Veronica's Ass" = free erotica from Gotta Have It!
If you like this story, please consider checking out the 68 other short hot stories in Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex. Click through to read the introduction and watch the book trailer.
Order Gotta Have It from:
Amazon.com
Kindle edition
Bn.com (Barnes & Noble)
Books-a-Million
Borders
Powell's
IndieBound (find your local independent bookstore)
Cleis Press
Veronica’s Ass
by Matt Conklin
My wife, Veronica, has the sweetest ass I’ve ever tasted. I mean that both literally and figuratively. It’s curved so perfectly I can only imagine some divinity somewhere intended it to be used the way I use it, the way she likes me to use it. I’ve been with women who loved nothing more than having their nipples sucked or pussies licked; one loved to have her feet massaged and swore she could come that way.
But my Veronica is an ass girl and rightly so. When she strides out of the house wearing a clingy red dress paired with matching heels and either fishnets or bare legs (and sometimes sans panties), her ass is what gets noticed. She is a curvy, sensual woman who never misses a chance to play up her assets or let me play with them.
If we’re standing in line waiting for a movie, I’ll stand behind her and “accidentally” brush against her sweet cheeks, while she’ll find any opportunity to bend over and show off her greatest asset.
A typical morning will start with her prodding me awake, rubbing her luscious, naked body against me. She’s smooth all over, with long, silky brown hair that tickles my skin. I’m pelted all along my chest and arms, but she says she likes it, nuzzling her cheeks against my nipples, seducing me before I’ve fully woken. It’s when she turns around that I fully rise, in all senses of the word.
Her butt beckons to me, the pale, round skin so inviting. I reach for those cheeks and squeeze, and she moans. I pull them apart and she gasps. I lift my head and grab her so my tongue can nuzzle her pussy and she squats over me, her ass resting against my forehead, my tongue deep inside her wetness. I greet the day by greeting her pussy, my dick getting hard. Sometimes it wants to fuck her ass, to enter into that forbidden hole--well, forbidden for other people, not pervs like us.
Other times I’m content to simply fondle her butt, to see where it leads me. This morning, in fact, I ate her to an orgasm that had her trembling so hard she almost toppled over. She laughed as she caught herself, then turned around to kiss her taste from my lips. Her pale, lightly freckled cheeks were red, her eyes dancing as she wiggled around me. Something in me stirred and I sat up and positioned her so she was bent over the bed, ass in the air. Except as gorgeous as it was, that wasn’t enough, not at that moment.
“Step back, Veronica,” I said. “Show me that beautiful ass and your pretty pink lips.” She whimpered and did as I said, bending so her hands were wrapped around her ankles. There are times when I want to take her so hard, viciously, I suppose, even though she’s the love of my life. Maybe because we’re both so secure in what we have, we can treat each other the way some people only do in fantasy. Who knows, really?
All I know is that when I pressed her body tight to mine and slammed my cock hard inside her, she felt so tight, so perfect, so wonderful. I grabbed her asscheeks and leaned forward, maximizing the effect. “Hold on, baby,” I said, and looked down, watching as my very hard cock disappeared inside her. Somehow, even after all these years, that sight never gets old and always feels a little bit like a magic trick. Not that my dick disappears, but that it feels so damn good, like I’m a virgin again.
I feel her twisting, squeezing me inside while her hips rock just enough, and I grunt. I slap her ass, then slap her back, loving the noise, the freedom to grab her and use her in any way I please, because I know her so well. I reach for that shiny hair and tug, bending her head back, while my other hand seeks and finds her clit. I pinch it just enough to feel a corresponding tug deep inside.
“That’s it, baby, I’m gonna come soon,” I say, and we shift again so she’s back to the original position, head tilted on the bed so I can see her, hair spilling onto the sheets. Her eyes are closed, but it’s like I can see inside her mind, and I watch her as I feel my come burst out from me and fill her up. Tears spring to my eyes as I struggle to catch my breath. Veronica’s ass—her whole body, her--brings out something in me that makes me feel like I’d die happy if I died fucking her.
I pull out and we kiss softly, then less softly. She slips into her purple silk robe, then sits on my lap, but I can still feel the globes of her ass pressing against me, so warm, so delicious. “Put on your thong,” I tell her. “The one I like the best.” I know she still has my come inside her, that it’ll probably drip out and wet the fabric, and that makes me smile.
She gets up and, like a burlesque dancer, drops the robe down so I can see her perfect backside and then that ass. I want to bite it and spank it and stroke it and fuck it all at once. Instead I watch her put on the thong, then check herself out in the mirror. I see how it perfectly bisects her bottom and know that all day, when she feels it, she’ll think of me.
There are people who say it’s hard to keep the sex alive in a marriage, and maybe it is; we’ve certainly had our moments when it wasn’t smooth sailing. But whenever I’ve been even vaguely tempted to stray, all I have to do is think about Veronica’s ass to know that there is nothing better in this world. I’m a lucky man, and I make sure Veronica--and her ass--knows it.
Order Gotta Have It from:
Amazon.com
Kindle edition
Bn.com (Barnes & Noble)
Books-a-Million
Borders
Powell's
IndieBound (find your local independent bookstore)
Cleis Press
Veronica’s Ass
by Matt Conklin
My wife, Veronica, has the sweetest ass I’ve ever tasted. I mean that both literally and figuratively. It’s curved so perfectly I can only imagine some divinity somewhere intended it to be used the way I use it, the way she likes me to use it. I’ve been with women who loved nothing more than having their nipples sucked or pussies licked; one loved to have her feet massaged and swore she could come that way.
But my Veronica is an ass girl and rightly so. When she strides out of the house wearing a clingy red dress paired with matching heels and either fishnets or bare legs (and sometimes sans panties), her ass is what gets noticed. She is a curvy, sensual woman who never misses a chance to play up her assets or let me play with them.
If we’re standing in line waiting for a movie, I’ll stand behind her and “accidentally” brush against her sweet cheeks, while she’ll find any opportunity to bend over and show off her greatest asset.
A typical morning will start with her prodding me awake, rubbing her luscious, naked body against me. She’s smooth all over, with long, silky brown hair that tickles my skin. I’m pelted all along my chest and arms, but she says she likes it, nuzzling her cheeks against my nipples, seducing me before I’ve fully woken. It’s when she turns around that I fully rise, in all senses of the word.
Her butt beckons to me, the pale, round skin so inviting. I reach for those cheeks and squeeze, and she moans. I pull them apart and she gasps. I lift my head and grab her so my tongue can nuzzle her pussy and she squats over me, her ass resting against my forehead, my tongue deep inside her wetness. I greet the day by greeting her pussy, my dick getting hard. Sometimes it wants to fuck her ass, to enter into that forbidden hole--well, forbidden for other people, not pervs like us.
Other times I’m content to simply fondle her butt, to see where it leads me. This morning, in fact, I ate her to an orgasm that had her trembling so hard she almost toppled over. She laughed as she caught herself, then turned around to kiss her taste from my lips. Her pale, lightly freckled cheeks were red, her eyes dancing as she wiggled around me. Something in me stirred and I sat up and positioned her so she was bent over the bed, ass in the air. Except as gorgeous as it was, that wasn’t enough, not at that moment.
“Step back, Veronica,” I said. “Show me that beautiful ass and your pretty pink lips.” She whimpered and did as I said, bending so her hands were wrapped around her ankles. There are times when I want to take her so hard, viciously, I suppose, even though she’s the love of my life. Maybe because we’re both so secure in what we have, we can treat each other the way some people only do in fantasy. Who knows, really?
All I know is that when I pressed her body tight to mine and slammed my cock hard inside her, she felt so tight, so perfect, so wonderful. I grabbed her asscheeks and leaned forward, maximizing the effect. “Hold on, baby,” I said, and looked down, watching as my very hard cock disappeared inside her. Somehow, even after all these years, that sight never gets old and always feels a little bit like a magic trick. Not that my dick disappears, but that it feels so damn good, like I’m a virgin again.
I feel her twisting, squeezing me inside while her hips rock just enough, and I grunt. I slap her ass, then slap her back, loving the noise, the freedom to grab her and use her in any way I please, because I know her so well. I reach for that shiny hair and tug, bending her head back, while my other hand seeks and finds her clit. I pinch it just enough to feel a corresponding tug deep inside.
“That’s it, baby, I’m gonna come soon,” I say, and we shift again so she’s back to the original position, head tilted on the bed so I can see her, hair spilling onto the sheets. Her eyes are closed, but it’s like I can see inside her mind, and I watch her as I feel my come burst out from me and fill her up. Tears spring to my eyes as I struggle to catch my breath. Veronica’s ass—her whole body, her--brings out something in me that makes me feel like I’d die happy if I died fucking her.
I pull out and we kiss softly, then less softly. She slips into her purple silk robe, then sits on my lap, but I can still feel the globes of her ass pressing against me, so warm, so delicious. “Put on your thong,” I tell her. “The one I like the best.” I know she still has my come inside her, that it’ll probably drip out and wet the fabric, and that makes me smile.
She gets up and, like a burlesque dancer, drops the robe down so I can see her perfect backside and then that ass. I want to bite it and spank it and stroke it and fuck it all at once. Instead I watch her put on the thong, then check herself out in the mirror. I see how it perfectly bisects her bottom and know that all day, when she feels it, she’ll think of me.
There are people who say it’s hard to keep the sex alive in a marriage, and maybe it is; we’ve certainly had our moments when it wasn’t smooth sailing. But whenever I’ve been even vaguely tempted to stray, all I have to do is think about Veronica’s ass to know that there is nothing better in this world. I’m a lucky man, and I make sure Veronica--and her ass--knows it.
"Mother Knows Best" on back cover of Best Lesbian Erotica 2011
My story "Mother Knows Best," which I eked out this year, and didn't manage to finish last year, is in Radclyffe's Best Lesbian Romance 2011 and also quoted on the back cover and in the introduction. It's about a mom who sets her dyke daughter up on a date.
There's a cat on my book cover! Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex
I just got the book cover for Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex (formerly known as The Big Book of Quickies) and yes, there's a cat on the book cover! I'm told by a cat friend that this is a realistic portrayal of coupling while a cat is in the room. We haven't finalized the table of contents but when we do I'll be posting here and am hoping to do multiple readings and will have a website for it and lots of fun stuff. And, of course, postcards! Pre-order by clicking the link above; it'll be out in March. Once I get it approved, I'll post a teaser from my kinky story "Manners."
