I know. I know. It’s been awhile since I’ve posted anything. Sometimes life wants to drop its honey-do list on you and it forgets you’re only one person. But I’m finally caught up and here again, getting ready for the 4th of July and all those fireworks displays. I love fireworks! They’re one of my most favorite things in this world and I just now realized I still have a bag of leftovers from the time me and my co-workers slipped behind the rent paying job to set them off between truck check ins? I wonder if they still work. Mmm, might have to find my lighter and test a couple…
But before I accidentally blow up my Hello Kitty 4th of July t-shirt wearing self, let me go ahead and finish this post.
Other things I love this time of year besides 4th of July fireworks? Thunder and lightning, strawberries, the ultimate summer read, and the possibilities of a summer romance hotter than the temps outside. And guess what people? I found two out of four on my list in one steamy trade paperback — Best Lesbian Romance Of The Year, Volume 1, edited by Radclyffe. Before you open to the first page, the cover emotes all the delicious parts of the season — laying back in greener than green grass with the perfect partner, lazily waiting for the sun to set and the fireworks to fill the warm night sky.
Because I’m in the final days before the publication of my first erotic romance novel, I’m feeling the romance buzz going through every pore of my skin and filling every cell of my body. Radclyffe’s introduction to Best Lesbian Romance makes note of all the steps in a romantic novel journey — the meeting, the barrier, the attraction, etc., and the stories in this anthology make you feel each one like a slow tease. I loved Axa Lee’s “Some Nudity Required” where a studious bookworm meets a woman who slowly draws her out of her shell with delightful results, Tasmin Flowers “Red Velvet Cake” where the heroine almost misses her chance with true love when she thinks the object of her affections has another, and Elizabeth Black’s “Like A Breath Of Ocean Blue” with the steamy attraction between its heroines that made me stop and read the story again before continuing. So grab a bottle of champagne and a quart of strawberries and use this book as foreplay to create the best summer ever.
LIKE A BREATH OF OCEAN BLUE
by Elizabeth Black
Each weekend when she stormed into my life, I swore I would make a move on her. I flirted and blushed at her every word. I often had her favorite coffee waiting for her when she came in — black coffee with Kahlua. Sometimes I plied her with a cherry cheese Danish. She loved cherries. Each time she smiled at me with gratitude I melted inside. She seemed to enjoy my attention, but could I be sure she wouldn’t balk if I took a step further? I feared she’d recoil from me in disgust.
But what if she didn’t?
She kept me company in the store on Fridays and Mondays, and she occasionally even helped me fold T-shirts the tourists had tossed into a heap on the floor. The longer we kept each other company, the more I wanted her.
This day, I was determined to maker her my own, if only I would stop chickening out! I wore my most flattering miniskirt and my favorite white cotton blouse. I dabbed ocean-scented oil along my throat, behind my ears, between my breasts, and I smoothed it through my hair. I had to look and smell my best for when I gave Malena her big surprise. My July Fourth gift to her burned a hole in my pocket. I would give it to her when the moment was right. It was an offering to a goddess in the hope she would approve and cast upon me the affection I so desperately wanted.
When she burst through the front door it was like a zephyr had entered, disrupting even the air around her. At the sound of her laugh, my body tingled as if her honeyed voice dripped down my skin. I wanted to lick her off, slowly.
“Katie, my Kate! Help! I’m going to drop everything!” She approached me, arms burdened with grocery store bags. I grabbed a few in one hand, carrying my coffee in the other, and followed her up the stairs. The scent of seaweed and ocean air surrounded her as if she burst from the sea itself. Her bum swayed as she climbed the stairs. It took all my willpower to keep from reaching out and squeezing one ample cheek.
The upstairs was a study in shades of cream and sea foam that offset Malena’s tan. We raced to the open kitchen and dropped bags on the marble counter. She tossed food into the refrigerator pell-mell, which was her style. Malena was not a neat woman. Her life, like her spirit, was chaos. Without wasting a moment, she rummaged through the last bag until she found a bottle of Kahlua and a quart of heavy cream. This wasn’t heavy cream from the grocery store. It was thick and mouth-watering heavy cream from a local dairy. Malena did not skimp on the second deadly sin.
“A treat for us!” Her smile brightened the already white-bright room. “Kahlua for your coffee and a Kahlua and cream on ice for me.”
“Isn’t it a little early for alcohol?”
She touched my cheek, leaving a flame of desire on my skin in her wake. “Of course it is. That’s why I pour it in your coffee. The perfect breakfast pick-me-up.” Without waiting for an invitation, she grabbed my coffee, removed the plastic lid and poured in a healthy stream of Kahlua.
I could make my move on her now if I wished. Embrace her after she handed me my coffee. No, I can’t do this. It’s better she never know how I feel about her.
“I can’t stay. I have to get back downstairs.”
“Nonsense. The shop doesn’t open up for another hour. How long does it take you to set up? Ten, fifteen minutes? No rush. You’ve locked the front door, right?”
“Then stop worrying about it. Drink.”
She handed my cup to me, and I sipped. The smoothness of Kahlua mellowed the bitterness of my coffee. Malena was right — a little alcohol in the morning was a lovely pick-me-up. It also calmed me down. Why not enjoy backing in her presence for an hour even if I didn’t so much as brush my hand against her cheek?
“How does it taste? Better?” she asked.
Without warning, she ran her finger along the corner of my mouth. I shivered at her unexpected touch. My heart soared. Was she flirting with me? I hoped so!
I’ve read previous editions of Best Lesbian Erotica and this year, with its new editor, I feel like I’m getting a whole new anthology. Each story is a fierce kind of hot and explores every taste from sugary sweet romantic to illegal in five states kinky. I follow the editor Laura Antoniou faithfully on Facebook because her unique and quirky personality is so entertaining and I feel her in the pages of this anthology, even though they’re written by a variety of authors. You can read Best Lesbian Erotica 2015 from beginning to end without stopping. The range in this lesbian orgy of erotic tales is too unique to ever bore and, just like with real life sex, the more you have, the more you want. Let you eyes, and your fingers, take a nap and then read it again!
I wonder how much longer it’s going to take for the 2016 edition to come out and if I can wait that long.
THE LAST LAST TIME
by BD Swain
I cleared our glasses and we headed out for a cigarette. I hate smoking, but I always smoked with her. It seemed sexy. Still does. I liked the way we walked down the sidewalk together. Side by side, boots hitting the pavement hard. Jeans slouched down resting on the curves of our asses. Her vintage shirts. Her perfect cuffed sleeves. I usually had my jacket on. Zipped up tight. Shoulders hunched. We walked in silence. Smoking. I crushed my cigarette out under my heel while she lit up another. I jammed my hands deep in my jeans pockets and nudged her with my hip. She laughed. I looked at her. “C’mon,” she said and jerked her head toward one of the dozens of bars open in the morning in the city. Our city. The city that felt like ours, together, because we met the first week we both lived here.
It felt so good, so right, to drink those beers together. It wasn’t ten in the morning yet, and I felt the buzz hit me halfway into the bottle. We didn’t say anything. We drank and read all the words on the coasters, the labels on the bottles, the signs behind the bar. She turned around and leaned her back against the bar and looked at the empty tables and the one old man sitting there with his drink. She stared at him when she talked to me. “Listen. I’m glad we’re going to do this. Stay friends, I mean. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said. That felt like bullshit. She started fucking some other girl and dropped me without warning weeks ago. I was pretty sure what she’d do without me was exactly what she was doing already. But I didn’t want to lose her either. “Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
“You’re my best friend, you know,” she said, and I shoved her hard enough that she fell off the bar stool and had to grab the spinning seat to keep from landing on her ass. “Fucking jerk,” she said, and we laughed. I ordered us two more beers and two whiskeys. Fuck it. We were going to get drunk enough, I guessed. We deserved it. I didn’t think we’d fall out like we did. But we did. Fall out of line, I mean. Fall out of our senses. Maybe I should have known. I just didn’t think she was still into me in that way. So I didn’t look for it. Or maybe I did. Maybe it’s what I had planned the whole time. Sitting there with my knees wide and my hand resting between my legs. Sucking on the bottle good and hard. Looking stoned. Looking dead to everything. Hard and stiff, just like she always liked me. Just like I wasn’t.
“I need to piss,” I said and slid off the bar stool, walking slowly toward the bathroom, knowing my ass looked great in those jeans. I had a drunk smile on my face when I pushed the door open. I stood there to take it in. I love dirty bathrooms in bars. I love them. The sticky floor with wadded-up toilet paper jammed into corners. The tiny porcelain sink that would pull right off of that wall any day now. The floor was tiled with square-inch black and white tiles. Filthy. The toilet bowl permanently stained with a rust-colored ring. I wanted to stand to pee but I’ve never been good at that and especially not when I’m drunk. I squatted over the toilet with my jeans held at my knees. “Maybe we’ll fuck in here before we go,” I thought. Stupid idea. I shook my head to rattle the thought out of there. The water in the tap was hot, really hot. I cupped my hands and splashed my face over and over again. I ran wet hands through my hair until it was all slicked down. I combed through it with my fingers and wiped my face on my shirttails. I looked at my teeth. “I’m stalling,” I said out loud and turned to go back.
“Rudolph Valentino,” she said, and whistled at me. I slicked my hair with a smile. “Errol Flynn,” I answered. I never liked Valentino. She never remembered anything. Why was I sitting here strutting for her. Preening. Fuck her. Nothing was right between us when we were going out. Nothing. The fucking was great. It was everything else that was a total disaster. But when the fucking is great. When you hook up the way we did. Lost little puppies in a big new world. Well, the fucking can get you pretty far. The fucking was unlike anything I’d ever known before. Jerk my pants down, bend me over, shove spit-covered fingers into my holes. That kind of fucking. Nothing about sweet kisses and polite little pets. No more fawning about how soft each other’s cheeks were. This was fucking. Like boys. Our tiny little cocks. Ramrod stiff. Stiff jeans. Shiny boots. Thick belts. Slicked hair. Fall in line, little boy, because this is how you show it here. I fell in line for her. Or she fell in line for me. Or we both fell in line because that’s what you fucking do.
The fucking. The way we fucked. Tossing back and forth. You fuck me. No, you fuck me. We both wanted to be fucked. We both wanted someone stronger than either of us. Or weaker. We both wanted something that was more opposite. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think she knew. How could we know anything? How can you figure anything out when the fucking is so good and you’re both new? I remember the time she grabbed my stiff, black comb out of my back pocket and held it against my neck. It hurt like a knife. It felt dangerous. I didn’t feel like a kid playing dress up. I felt tough. Dangerous. How I wanted to feel. She cut my back with that comb. Raking it across my shoulders, she let it bite into me. Jagged red lines.
I felt the booze swirl around in my brain. The warm rush in my belly. I stared at her with my wet lower lip hanging open. A dog. She was telling me some story. Something dumb. She was shaking her head and laughing and telling me about some asshole on the bus. Something about makeup. Or maybe it was a pregnant lady. I wasn’t listening to her. “I want you to fuck me,” I said, too loud, in the middle of her story. She looked at her knees for a second and then grabbed my arm and we headed out the door.
She walked ahead of me, still gripping my arm, and led me to her place. She stumbled off the curb once and nearly took us both down, but she never looked at me. Not until we got inside her apartment. When the door closed she turned around and shoved me up against it. She grabbed my crotch and spat her words at me. “You want me to fuck you? You don’t hate me yet?” she hissed. The words stung. Prophetic. I was going to hate her after this, I knew. It didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. Maybe that’s why I wanted it.
This book was given to me and I felt a little bit out of place holding it in my chubby little hands. A book to spice up long term relationships in reach of notorious commitment-phobe (cough, cough) me? What would I do with it? My relationships, as a rule, last six months or less. If I don’t get constant new stimulation I get bored and wander off and even the pictures in this book, although very pretty, only show one couple in one outfit through all 262 pages.
But maybe this book is exactly what a woman like me needs. It reminds its readers to never give up on the things we enjoy about budding new relationships — the kissing, the flirting, and the dating in general. Don’t have time for all this? Well, if you want it bad enough, like anything else, you’ll find the time. I love the essence of this book, to always remember what it’s like to play with your partner, and never stop doing that. After reading this, I might try a little harder next time to see if I can make my next relationship last longer.
Intercourse literally means communication. Certainly, as a couple, you can speak volumes to one another through the intimate act without ever uttering a word, though you’ll want to speak up at least once in a while, if only to tell him, “A little to the left.”
In terms of finding time for it, let’s be honest, given your hectic schedules, sometimes a quickie is all you can fit in, right? There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s certainly better than putting sex off until some magical time when you’re both in the mood and you have hours to spend fondling, kissing, and taking each other to inexplicably blissful heights.
Besides, what could be more boring and predictable than having sex for the same length of time every time? Sometimes the spontaneity of a quickie is just the kind of sexual shot in the arm you both need. That’s right, contrary to common belief, guys aren’t the only ones who like quickies. Women love them, too. A good quickie has an element of excitement and surprise. It says that you feel so overcome with passion you just can’t wait. What’s not to love about that? Unfortunately, because of all the pressure to spend time on foreplay, a lot of guys feel guilty about quickies. Maybe that’s part of the problem. If you’re sneaking something guiltily, you’ll probably seem guilty, and that will just annoy her. Occasionally she wants you to do away with the trimmings, pin her against the hall table and get right down to business. No guilt.
When you do have time for a longer session that doesn’t involve stopwatches and hall furniture, there’s plenty you can do to keep intercourse electrifying and inspired that still doesn’t require a lot of time or effort: A different thrust, a new position, an unfamiliar setting or maybe a sex toy are all uncomplicated ways to throw some new fuel onto the fire.
With a nice variety of intercourse options to choose from, you’ll have something to suit every mood and time constraint. Just as learning new recipes makes you more excited about cooking, adding new items to your sex menu will get you more excited and drive you to make time for it, be it a lunchtime quickie or a drawn-out romantic affair complete with orgasms all around.
TIME to PLAY
Five Minutes or Less
Quick and Clean
Sex in the shower is a time-strapped couple’s, um, wet dream. Showering together saves time and water (so you’re doing your bit for the planet, too!), and because you have to finish before the hot water runs out, you get right down to business. Cleanup is easy. Oh, and the sight of water splashing down your darling’s naked body as you get it on is pretty fricking hot, too. Soap her breasts for a hot visual and some sexy caressing. Use your slippery wet hands to stroke him to erection. The trickiest part of the shower is finding a workable position that won’t land both of you on your soapy butts. If she’s flexible and your heights match up, she can bend over at the waist and brace herself against the floor of the shower, the edge of the tub or the wall as you enter her from behind. Alternately, if you can lift her, she can lean back against the wall and wrap her legs around your waist as you enter her. Or, depending on the size of your shower/tub, you may be able to lie down and have her get on top and ride you as the water rushes over your bodies.
This One’s for the Ladies
More often than not, quickies result in an orgasm … for him. Which is not to say she doesn’t enjoy them too, but let’s be honest, it’s hard to come when you’re pinned against a shower stall, right girls? Make this quickie for her. Once you’re inside her, circle a bullet vibrator around her clitoris until she gets close to orgasm. Tell her to signal when she’s about to come: She can squeeze your butt, bite your shoulder, sing the national anthem, whatever works for her. As she’s climaxing, start thrusting through her orgasm until you come too (or not — remember, this one’s for her).
Sit down together and dream up a list of possible quickie locations and scenarios. Don’t limit yourselves to possibilities at home; also consider ideas out in the world (see “Playbook H: Quickie Locations” on page 167 for ideas). On a piece of blank paper or cardboard, draw a grid that looks like a bingo card. Enter your quickies from the list in each square and start working to fill up the card. When you fill out a line, celebrate with a Longie. Full card? Start a new one!
Josey Vogels is one of Canada’s leading experts on sex and relationships, with two wildly popular blogs, My Messy Bedroom and Dating Girl. She writes for The Huffington Post and Balance.My.Life.ca and is regularly featured on radio and TV. Her other books include Bedside Manners: Sex Etiquette Made Easy and The Secret Language for Girls. She lives in Toronto.
Three is magic, three is mysterious, three is a heart turned sideways, looking at life a little differently from the rest.
I’ve been waiting for this book to come out — FOREVER! Threesomes, especially of the male/male/female variety are my favorite erotic anthology subject. The market is drowning in them, true, but they’re mostly self-published e-books, and well, uh, they just don’t share the same quality as their mainstream print collections. I’ve yet to find a Kristina Wright anthology I didn’t like and her threesome anthology has made it to the very first space on my to-be-read again bookshelf, like the star on top of my literary Christmas tree.
1. What inspired you to put together an anthology of romance-laced threesomes?
After editing almost a dozen erotic romance anthologies, I was looking to do something different. I thought it would be a fun to challenge the authors to not only focus on three-way erotica but to also develop a romantic relationship between at least two of the partners. I wasn’t disappointed. The stories I chose for this collection are wild, passionate and truly romantic. Since Alison Tyler was one of my inspirations for this anthology (her Three Way: Erotic Adventures is a scorching hot read!), I asked her to write the foreword for the book. It really is a pleasurable romp from beginning to end, with all manner of triads represented.
2. In almost every interview this year, my second question has always been which celebrity or pop icon would you like to make out with and where? But since this is a book about threesomes, which two
celebrities would you like to have a threesome make out session with, and where?
Wow, interesting question! Well, I’ve long had a crush on George Clooney, but I think it might be more fun to have a drink with him… Hmm. I think I’ll go the superhero route and say Robert Downey Jr. and Mark Ruffalo. You can’t go wrong with Iron Man and The Hulk, right?
3. What can your fans expect from you next?
My next erotic romance anthology is Best Erotic Romance of the Year, due out in July. (http://www.amazon.com/Best-Erotic-Romance-Kristina-Wright/dp/1627781137/)
by Tiffany Reisz
“Oh, I could tell,” Leigh said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Trust me.”
“My cock is pretty amazing,” Bryce said with a humble sigh. “I guess you’re right.”
“I think it could work,” Ethan said, coming back to the sitting area holding a glass of wine. “You’d have to even the playing field though. No talking, no touching, just cock-in-pussy. And total darkness, of course.”
“He’s got a point, babe. You know it’s me because of my voice and how I touch you.” He took Leigh by the wrist and pulled her back down onto his lap. “If you were blindfolded or something and two different guys fucked you without a word, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”
“I could tell,” she said. “And I can prove it.”
“How?” Ethan asked, raising the wineglass to his lips.
“Just like Bryce said — blindfold me, don’t make noise, and fuck me.” She looked at her husband who only laughed a little.
Ethan lowered the wineglass before he’d even taken a drink.
“You mean now?” Ethan asked.
“Why not?” Bryce ran his hand from Leigh’s ankle to her hip. “She dissed your favorite movie. You don’t want to prove her wrong?”
“Dude, she’s your wife.”
“You didn’t tell him?” Leigh asked.
“I thought he knew,” Bryce said.
“Thought I knew what?” Ethan asked.
“Oh, we’re kinky as fuck, Ethan,” Leigh said.
“I knew he was. I didn’t know you were,” Ethan said to Leigh.
“We have threesomes at least once a month,” Leigh explained as Bryce kissed her under her ear. “Usually it’s me and one of my girlfriends with him, but sometimes it’s another guy. I’m never blindfolded though, and I always know who’s fucking me. This could be interesting.”
“Want to?” Bryce looked up at Ethan.
“Do I want to fuck your wife?” Ethan looked at Bryce and then back at her. “You don’t even have to ask.”
“I’ll get the stuff,” Leigh said, scrambling off Bryce’s lap. “Are we in here or in the bedroom? Preference, Ethan?”
He still wore a look of Did I just win the lottery? “In here, I guess. I think I’d feel even weirder doing this in your bedroom,” Ethan said.
“Suit yourself,” Leigh said and headed to the bedroom. She opened the trunk under the window and found the heaviest of their blindfolds. From the nightstand, she grabbed a box of condoms and a bottle of lubricant. In front of the mirror she paused long enough to tuck a stray tendril of red hair back into place and to adjust the straps of her pale-yellow sundress she’d been running around in all day. Ethan always said he wouldn’t get married until he found a redhead as sweet as her. Why should Bryce have all the luck? Leigh shimmied out of her panties and left them on the bedroom floor. Oh, Ethan. A wide grin spread across Leigh’s face. Would he still think she was “sweet” after tonight?”
She returned to the den where Bryce and Ethan had already moved the coffee table out of the way. Bryce laid a blanket on the floor over the Oriental rug. They’d learned the hard way not to fuck on that rug without something between her back and the rough pile.
My favorite sex toy is my cell phone. Yeah, yeah, I’m the introverted bookworm who wants to retire to a tiny island where phones haven’t been invented yet when my hair goes completely gray. For years I’ve handled constantly ringing phones at work and when I’m not paid to answer the phone and see unknown number on my caller I.D. I respond with, “Good luck. I don’t answer the phone numbers I do know.”
Maybe I need to rephrase that. It’s the ringing phone I detest, but the texting feature on my cell? That’s an entirely different story. I’m a sext-aholic. The kinky little surprise buzz I get in my pocket against my thigh in public places is yummy and the message I find on my screen works its magic trick every time.
“I’ve seen you naked and have aspirations to do so again.” I take a peek at my surroundings. Most of the people around me have phone in hand, too, but do their screens make them blush loud enough to be heard? “I’m still naked under my clothes. I left my underwear under your couch.”
Sometimes I start it, “This meeting would be much better if you were on your knees under the table removing my panties with your teeth.” The simplest things can become deliciously perverse when two minds join forces limited only by our imaginations. Not even location can deny us.
I thought I was unique in my choice of favorite sex toy, but again Rachel Kramer Bussel takes the simplest concepts and blows the imagination. Yes, these stories have a dildo, but it’s a Superman dildo. There are remote controlled vibrators, but in this book, two couples in a bar find out they’re in possession of the same model and when they get in the other’s remote control range? Well, I’ll let you read it for yourself to find out what happens. When you get through the basic training ones listed above, there are the exotic sex stories involving futuristic robot sex, Japanese love dolls, rocks, and bicycle seats. (My bike seat. Oh, how I love my bike seat!) These stories are meant for those who dare and come in every sexual orientation, so there’s no reason not to pick up this book and let it inspire you.
In The Pink
by Rob Rosen
“What the fuck?”
See, though the office was dark, all the desks evacuated, not a peep to be heard, there was a light coming from the supply closet, errant beams shining through from the bottom crack. Since I’d been the last person in the supply closet — inside the office for that matter, as far as I knew — and since I was certain I’d flicked the light off upon my departure, the “what the” added to the “fuck” seemed well merited.
Which is why I found myself tiptoeing to the closet door, thick contract gripped beneath my armpit, heart rate suddenly ramping up to a six on the Richter, seven as I silently gripped the knob, eight as I flung the door wide open.
“What the fuck?” I shouted. “What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?”
Again it bore repeating, except now for wholly and again well-merited reason.
With my heart now pounding a good solid ten, I dropped the contract and tore away from the closet, face so red that molten lava would pale in comparison.
“Josh, wait!” I heard, barely a moment later. “Wait, please!”
I didn’t wait though. Not until I felt his hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t see anything,” I blurted out, my back to his front, the sound of heavy breathing, both his and mine, filling the otherwise stone-cold silent office.
I can explain,” he replied, his voice as wobbly and shaky as my knees suddenly were.
Slowly I turned, shoulders bunched up, eyes in a squint. For there he stood, naked, save for my contract covering his privates, hairy chest rapidly expanding and contracting. “I’d, um, rather, you didn’t, Pete,” I told him. “Explain, that is.”
Now, to be fair, I’d only ever seen my co-worker in a suit and tie before. Suffice it to say, the image of him in the closet, naked and spread-eagle, fucking himself with lord only knew what, would forever be burnished in my memory. So, yeah, I really didn’t need or want an explanation as to what he’d been doing.
He handed me the contract. I stared down. For some odd reason, his cock was still mostly turgid. And, fine, it was a nice cock, as cocks went, but it was Pete’s, my co-worker’s, so I tried again mostly, to look away. “It’s my wife’s fault,” he blurted out.
I stood frozen to the spot as I fought to hold back a nervous chuckle. Two seconds later, it was a chuckle, one, Josh, zero. “It’s your wife’s fault that you’re alone in the office at night, naked and, uh…” I pointed downward. He, or, that is to say, it was pointing up.
“Fucking myself?” he said, thereby finishing my train of thought.
I nodded. “Yeah, that.”
He forced a grin onto his sweat-soaked face. Surprisingly, he then moved his hand from his front to his back. I heard the audible pop first, his eyelids momentarily fluttering as he retrieved the pink, portable prick from his port side, a grunt then added to his repertoire.
I grunted in sync with him. The dildo was on the large side. Sucker looked mighty painful in fact. Also explained why his prick was still thick, I supposed.
“You’re gay, Josh, right?”
Again, I chuckled, “Odd segue, Pete.”
He blushed, though, all things considered, it seemed a bit late on his part. “I mean, you’re well, accustomed to, um, uh…”
I lifted my hand up for him to please stop. “Are we really going to have this conversation, Pete? Couldn’t we just forget that I saw all this?” Which was about like asking Pearl Harbor to forget that it’d been bombed.
He nodded. “It’s just that, my wife, Janet, see, she let me well… fuck her last week.” He rolled his hands in the air and glanced away. “Up the, uh, well, you know.” I squirmed I had, after all, met Janet before. And the image of her getting her ass worked over wasn’t a pretty one. “Now she wants to return the favor.” With his free hand, the one not holding the quivering dildo, he was pointing to his rump.
My hand was still held up in the cease-and-desist mode. I lowered it. “So you were simply practicing?” I dreaded asking the question, but curiosity suddenly had my cat in a strangle hold.
He nodded. “Not like I could do it at home, with her there, I mean.”
I too nodded, though his logic seemed less than solid. “Got it.” I turned to leave. “And, um, good luck with, uh, everything.” I pointed at the fake dick still held firmly in his grip.
“Wait!” he shouted, yet again.
I sighed as I shook the contract his way. “Pete,” I said, “it’s been… fun, but I have a load of work to do. Really.”
He sighed as he shook the dildo my way. “I can help. Give me half of it to work on.”
I knew better than to think he was being altruistic. “In exchange for what? My silence? Done. Don’t even give it a second thought.” Unlike me, who would surely have tenths and twentieths.
“Not your silence, no.”
I paused. “Then what?”
Recently, the entire erotic genre celebrated a victory with the Fifty Shades of Grey movie opening weekend. Whether you love the trilogy or not, nothing beats knowing one of ours made the largest opening weekend ticket count of any R rated movie in a good decade. I don’t think there has been this kind of hype for a naughty movie since The Devil and Mrs. Jones came out in 1972. (I was born that year, so I can’t personally testify, but its reputation still lingers to this day.)
Trilogies are running amok and it seems like if you want your books published in today’s market, you need to be ready to write at least three of them. I have a love/hate relationship with stories that require three books. Every writer has that one set that rocked their one-handed-read literary world, but I never found mine. My first erotica teacher told me to try Anne Rice’s Beauty trilogy, the one she wrote as Anne Roquelaure. Many an erotic writer feels this one, but not me. Sigh! Another writing friend said, “Check out Molly Westerfield’s Carrie’s Story duo.” Them – Yay! Me – Nah! Last but not least, the Fifty Shades of Grey series by British author E.L. James. For me, it was equal parts Yay! and Nah! without anyone else’s say. Maybe there just wasn’t a trilogy that my erotic writer’s brain could feel.
You know what they say? — When you quit looking, that’s when you find it.
DARK SECRET LOVE.
The first book in the Alison Tyler series that blew my mind. It’s a memoir-that’s-not-a-memoir in the same tone I like to write. I love the “based on” feel where you have to guess how much of what happened really happened to the author and how much is completely imagination. Samantha is a young submissive, knowing what she wants and needs and not knowing at the same time. This first book charts her journey trying to find fulfillment.
THE DELICIOUS TORMENT.
Heroine Samantha is so vivid, you are with her every step of her erotic journey — you cry with her as you look with her eyes through the bars of her suspended cage and you crave more of it with her. This is the book that makes the story an emotion-filled BDSM reading requirement, even more so than all those books I listed above. The ending takes a reader’s breath away and makes you hunger for the final book. I hope I didn’t write the publisher and protest the slowness in that last book coming out. I don’t think I did. I hope… Oh, well.😛
WRAPPED AROUND YOUR FINGER.
Jack, a powerful, controlled, bisexual dom with wit for every occasion, an iron will, and he knows you better than you know yourself. Alex, his equally delicious dom-in-training, and our favorite heroine Samantha. They make you sigh often and deeply. You can worry about uncurling your toes when you finish the last chapter and when you’re wish there were more. Why does a trilogy only have three books? Argh! The story is told. It made me laugh, it made me cry, and it aroused me over and over again. I hate it that this book is part three, but that only means I can start reading the first one all over again.
If you’d like to read these delicious books, Cleis Press has given me permission to give a set away to one reader of this blog. Just leave a comment below or email me at email@example.com with Dark, Secret, Love in the subject line, and I’ll throw your name in my rent paying job uniform baseball cap. I have a really hot boss who’ll reach in on March 12, 2015 and make some reader very lucky.
Best Gay Romance is another series of anthologies that I go looking for every year. And for 2015, they have a new editor, Felice Picano, to change things up a bit while keeping it just as sweet and dreamy hot. I love what he did with this year’s edition and hope to see him again in 2016. The stories were funny and entertaining like playful, flirtatious repartee over drinks but they also had depth, like a couple with a long history together, willing to still find romance through sickness and in health. Yeah, reading this book is just like holding hands and falling in love.
Valentine’s Day passed forty eight hours ago, but thanks to this delicious book, I’m still feeling the vibes.
Transitions of Glass
by Simon Bleaken
“Somebody’s happy,” he grinned, and leaning over he began to lick and suck at the stain, before turning his lips and tongue to play with the bulge that was still growing inside my trousers. A shiver ran through me, and as he eased me back onto the bed I saw a similar bluge straining against the tight cloth of his jeans. I reached out for him, squeezing and massaging his erect cock through the denim, feeling its warmth and firmness, and then his lips found mine as he slid on top of me, our crotches whispering together as cloth brushed cloth and bulge brushed bulge.
“Lie still,” he whispered, nipping my earlobe lightly with his teeth, while his hands reached down and unbuckled my belt. His agile fingers then got to work on the buttons at my crotch, opening them one by one, before sliding my cargo pants down and off and doing the same with my underwear. I shivered and swallowed as my exposed dick brushed against the front of his jeans, leaving a further trail of precum on the dark denim.
“Very happy,” he smiled again, looking down at what he had uncovered.
A shiver of doubt awoke within me then, like a dying ember struggling to flare to life one final time. “Is it,” I whispered, half afraid to ask, “okay?”
“No complaints so far,” he laughed.
The doubt flickered and died, and I lay back, finally allowing myself to relax and enjoy the moment.
He quickly shed his own clothes, kicking them aside, and caught sight of his cock. It was thin and long and stood proudly up from a tuft of dark pubic hair.
“Do you like what you see?” he winked.
“Oh yeah,” I nodded.
He lay next to me and tugged my T-shirt up and over my head, throwing it onto the floor before playing the tip of his tongue around my nipples and gently running his hands along my chest. I could feel his dick rubbing against my leg, and my own strained in response.
“Isn’t that nice?” he asked softly as he lifted his head, and it was all I could do to nod. The lump in my throat appeared to have blocked off everything but my breathing — and I only did that when I realized I hadn’t been. His fingers gently explored my skin, running softly across my chest, getting lower all the time. I felt relaxed and tense at the same time — enjoying the experience and yet waiting anxiously for the moment when I knew he would…
Fynn slid his fingers gently over my balls and up the shaft of my penis, stroking the side of the head and playing with the slit at the top. Again my breath caught in my throat as a wave of pleasure surged through me. Time felt like it had become suspended in amber — seconds seeming to draw out into an eternity, and I didn’t want the moment to end.
Then Fynn moved farther down and slipped the head of my dick into his mouth, sucking and running his tongue over the tip as he closed his eyes, and a fresh shiver of delight surged through me. I could feel the pressure building up within me and knew any second I would feel that familiar tingle right before I came. I grasped the bedclothes in my hands, twisting the cloth as I bit my lower lip.
A pleasured grunt escaped my lips as I felt the awaited tingle surge along my swollen shaft — and felt myself come in a wonderful shuddering spasm. I opened my eyes to see Fynn smiling at me, my seed on his lips. And then it was my turn, as Fynn lay beside me and I took the head of his penis into my mouth, repeating what he had done to me, learning from him and feeling the heat of his passion and the throbbing of his erect cock. I took him into my mouth greedily, lips and tongue playing against flesh, delighting in every new experience.
When he too at come, filling my mouth with his shot, he wrapped his arms around me and we rolled back. The frantic passion of my initiation spent, now we just enjoyed the warmth of our bodies pressed together, skin against skin. I closed my eyes as he buried his mouth in my neck, planting deep slow kisses from my shoulder to my ear and back again.
I kissed him back, tasting the salty sweat on his body.
“Thank you, sir knight,” I whispered, resting my head on his chest.
“Anytime, my prince,” he answered.
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!
So what have your fantasies come up with on this delicious day? Mine have the tethers and spreader bar pulled out from under my bed and a beautiful man trapped on display with them while I read erotica seated in a nearby chair just to see if a dirty story in my voice can make his cock stand at attention.
Where was I? Oh yeah, book review time. Way back in the day, the early part of the 21st century, I was introduced to Cleis Press when I came across a copy of the first Best Women’s Erotica on a Barnes and Noble shelf. Before then, all my naked literature fixes were fulfilled with various girly magazines like Penthouse Variations and Letters. Cool, but nothing compared to the delicious heat I found in those first BWE pages. They spoke my language, and I’ve read every edition since. This year has a couple of well-knowns like Rachel Kramer Bussel and Alison Tyler — and some names I’ve never heard before but will definitely be on the lookout for. The 2015 edition offers a different kind of spice, not as tame as that first one in 2000, but growing with the boldness of our favorite fantasies. You will find whatever it takes to get you off in these pages.
There was one story I really liked above all others because it reminded me of my very first fantasies/sexual experiences. I was always the youngest kid in class all through high school, fated so by how my birthday fell, and I heard about and saw my friends experiencing their sexual firsts before I ever even dared. I was a voyeur, or whatever the aural version of voyeur is, and got off on listening to what was happening on the other side of that wall, imagining what it would be like if those sounds were being inspired to come from me. Even to this day, the sounds of sex arouse me like nothing else and I’ll find orgasm faster with moans and groans than the actual sights and touching.
The following excerpt reminded me of those early days as the story’s young virgin fantasizes about her teacher. (Teachers are another big arousal point for me, but that’s another tale. This blog isn’t big enough to list all the things teachers do to my sapiosexual blonde brain.)
THE ART TEACHER
by Rachel Woe
I’ve hiked the skirt up a bit so that when I bend over, one can just barely see a hint of my purple knickers. I’ve always loved that word; it’s naughtier than underwear and less trite than panties. The fact that I’m not British is of little concern to me.
The faucet squeaks and then there is silence. I assume he’s still at the counter but don’t dare turn to look. I pray to every god and goddess that has ever existed that he is noticing me: the hint of purple fabric, how the lace trim on my stockings clings to the flesh of my upper thighs. Of course, there’s always the possibility that he’s eyeing me with disdain, thinking my efforts silly or too transparent. I would die if he asked me to cover up. Then again, I would die if he asked me to take it off. Please, just fucking kill me already.
Mr. Thompson’s footsteps break the silence, growing louder as he meanders over to the table. My heart threatens to choke me, but I remain composed. He is standing beside me, surveying my work. I happen to be shading the woman’s left breast, relying on neon yellows and navy blues to give it a more three-dimensional appearance.
“This is coming along beautifully, Mireille. I really like how you’ve decided to go with unconventional colors. They stand out nicely against the black background.” He gestures to the work I’ve already completely around her face, those lean, beautiful hands moving in ways that both thrill and transfix. I can’t help but relish the way my name expertly rolls off his tongue; he obviously speaks French.
“Thanks.” I am nervous and can’t seem to raise my voice above a loud whisper but the emptiness of the room negates the need to project myself.
“Do you think you’ll have it ready by next Friday?” His gray-blue eyes follow the brush as it strokes the underside of the painted woman’s breast.
Mr. Thompson does not look at me, which I find to be both a blessing and a tragedy. I watch him longer than I should, marveling at the sharpness of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw, all painfully untouchable.
“I think so. The outline is finished. All I have left to do is the shading.”
He glances at me and my groin tightens. I bite the interior of my cheek to distract myself and avert my eyes back down toward the painting; the woman’s stare mocks me.
My thoughts race as I think of all the things I’d like him to help me with. For starters, he might help me out of my skirt and stockings. After which he could help himself to my virgin cunt — damn, I love that word. My mother absolutely cannot abide hearing it but I use it every chance I get.
Cunt. My tight, virgin cunt. My hungry cunt.
I really must stop before I lose my composure, as I’ve already begun squeezing my thighs together and rocking back and forth reflexively. The fact that I have to urinate only draws more attention to that sadly neglected area. It’s not that I do not masturbate, because I do — often — but I’ve never had another person besides my family doctor touch me there. It’s one thing to do it yourself, to have complete control over which areas get stimulated and in what way, but I can only imagine how exciting and scary it would be to have someone else’s hands, fingers, and — oh, fuck — mouth down there, manipulating me in ways I can’t even conceptualize.
The shriek of a telephone in Mr. Thompson’s office jolts me out of my reverie and I realize that I’ve just accidentally over-shaded the painted woman’s right breast.
“Shit,” I hiss, dipping my brush into a bit of yellow in the hopes of compensating for the damage.
Mr. Thompson answers the phone at a normal volume but then begins to speak in hushed whispers. I hear footsteps and then the sound of a heavy door creaking and latching. I turn and see that he has closed the door to his office. At the same time, I notice a quarter-sized hole beneath the knob. The door must have featured a lock at one point but, for whatever reason, it was removed. I debate the ethics of grasping this opportunity to spy on him and my curiosity is far more powerful than any sense of morality. Before long, I’m removing my gray flats and slinking toward the door.
I crouch, hovering just above the door with my eye to the peephole. I can barely make out his side of the conversation and am both affronted and intrigued by what I hear.
“Of course I’ve thought about you since August. How could I not? That was some of the best damn head I’ve ever gotten.”
He is talking to a woman. I know this because the tinny, unintelligible voice coming out of the other end of the phone sounds high pitched, feminine. His own voice is low and guttural, deeper than I’m used to hearing in class. I’m both insanely jealous and eager to hear more.
Mr. Thompson is reclining in his desk chair with his legs spread wide and his other hand stuffed inside the pocket of his paint-stained jeans. There is some squeaky dialogue from the other end of the line. I wish I could hear what she’s saying, as he’s obviously enjoying the conversation. The thought of myself ever being the catalyst for that broad, lascivious smile on his face makes my cunt throb.
I’m one of those writers who thinks you can’t mix erotica and horror. Both are sensual genres that play with the mind and creep into the reader’s “real world,” but they inspire two different urges. One wants you to slide out from under your comforter and read with one hand and the other wants you to crawl under that same comforter and three of its blanket cousins to hide until daylight. But Darker Edge of Desire is the exception to my rule. Reading this book is like knocking boots with all the things that go bump in the night — vampires and werewolves, witches and demons, ghosts of lover’s past and even a tormented Poe. The stories making the delicious spirits under the bed and hiding behind curtains buzzy vibrator worthy phenomenon. I’m talking seriously old school gothic, but new and refreshing and original as well.
Yes, I tracked down the dark, naughty editor and got an interview —
1. Your anthology is one of the first books in the new Tempted Romance line. How does that feel?
It’s always exciting to have a book being published as part of the launch of a new publishing imprint. It’s a major event, because readers and industry professionals will be watching closely, which also puts the spotlight on my book perhaps even more so than under normal circumstances. I’m pleased to be a part of this exciting new direction from a publisher I’ve worked steadily with over the years.
2. I ask this of every author I interview because the answer always fascinates me. If you could make out with one pop culture icon, who would it be and where?
Not sure he’s technically a pop culture icon, but I find Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode quite fanciable – that voice is enough just by itself! There’s something incredibly sexy about him; it’s still there even now despite the years and all the problems he’s battled. As for where, far away from the madding crowd, perhaps in a cottage on a cliff overlooking a stormy sea. I’d take that over the Ritz Carlton any day.
3. What can your fans expect next from you?
Always expect the unexpected! I’ve got a zombies anthology coming out in 2015 called “Love, Lust and Zombies” as well as the second installment of my quirky crime/cosy mystery series “The Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles” co-written with my sidekick celebrity bear, Teddy Tedaloo. Two very different projects, but both great fun!
Lightning in a Bottle by Kim Knox My guardian had always thought me ignorant of the goings-on in his house. A vapid girl, alone in the world, who never noticed the dark-robed men arriving in the dead of night. Or one who never wondered at the hints of sage and frankincense that drifted through the passages of his London town house in the early mornings. I knew, had known for quite some years that Henry Bellasis, Viscount Fauconberg was a warlock. And that he now planned to draw me into his world by offering my virginity to a stranger. I wrapped my fingers around the great brass key, the pitted metal warming against my skin as I stood in the shadowed passage that led to the cellar door. The place where my guardian had bound his great secret. Rumors from the footmen over the past week had run that Henry kept a dragon in the arched rooms that also housed his collection of metal automata. A great beast that steamed and groaned and licked fire into cook’s little parlor when the wind blew north. The maids shared darker stories as they made the beds or took a pan and brush to the ashes in the hearths. The dragon bound in the cellar did more than steam and groan. One maid had blushed scarlet and admitted in a rushed whisper that her dreams were full of a great, dark beast. A wicked beast…with a wicked mouth. Not that I believed their tales. My guardian set himself as a collector, an inventor, or that was the face he liked to present to the Fellows of the Royal Society. Those in his inner circle knew better. I knew better. There was no dragon in the cellar. There was something…darker. I rubbed the key’s bit, the sharp edge pressing into my thumb and digging a swift pain. I’d witnessed the rite that brought the creature into our world and now I stood with my heart almost in my throat, working to find the courage to push the key into the lock and turn it. ♥♥♥