SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013
Volume 1
Edited by Susana Mayer
SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013, Volume 1
Note to the Reader:
Suggestion for reading the anthology: The placement of pi...
SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013, Volume 1
Copyright © 2013 by Susana Mayer. All rights reserved. No portion of this boo...
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1. No Name, Frances Seidman
2. One Saturday Night at Lupin Lodge...
35. The “Grown-up” Me, Frances Seidman
36. An Almost Experience, Frances Seidman
37. First Time, Frances Seidman
38. The A...
Dedication
“SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013” volumes I and II are dedicated to my
chosen mom, Dr. Frances Seidman, the ...
Acknowledgments
It takes a village…
I’m grateful to all of the attendees and followers of the Erotic Literary Salon. Their...
Introduction
“SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013,” is an exceptional collection of erotica and
sex writings. It includes f...
For those who are troubled by sexual pleasure, the sharing of words may assuage their
guilt.
The Salon has also given vict...
your sensexual material for possible inclusion in forthcoming issues of the “SenSexual”
anthology. It’s all good and it’s ...
Frances Seidman
Backstory: When I heard that Susana had started an erotic literary salon and needed
original writing, I th...
about him brought him a little closer. The first story, “First Date,” written several years
ago, included the excitement o...
Maurine Killough
Backstory: Went to hear a band at an optional-clothing compound in California and
this beautiful couple w...
to Be Seen
Essemoh Teepee
Backstory: I have been writing erotica since 2005 and practicing a form of guided
meditation called Directe...
Lacking the will and indeed the strength to move I simply let my mind wander, and I
can’t help but recall the events that ...
had a message from him, my breath would catch a little and my pussy would start to
tingle.
When the day finally came I was...
but he held me in his firm but gentle hand. He whispered to me in his seductive way,
reminding me that I want to surrender...
a most intimate and very personal experience.
Audible:
http://www.smotp.xxx/Downloads/IL4Women/Forest_Walk/forest_walk.htm...
Gwen Masters
White
The burning started down low, an ache in her lungs that spiraled up to her head. The
scent of bananas m...
Then someone flooded her throat and within seconds he was flooding her cunt. She
was swallowing both of them. Her hair was...
“Are you going to leave me?” he asked.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“Leave me for what I did to you?”
She counted her brea...
Sharazade
Next
On the way to work, Miriam let two drivers change lanes in front of her, and stopped
immediately upon seein...
within range, the point where she could have extended an introduction, when she was …
not sideswiped, but let’s say “overt...
He seemed to understand the difficulty. “Let’s do all of them. A dance first. And then
we’ll take a drink to the table.”
A...
To her surprise, upon his finish, she found herself newly wet—and not just from him.
Miriam was not—well, she had not been...
“Is there a problem?” asked Miriam, in some surprise; she didn’t think she’d
misjudged.
“Oh, no, not really, it’s just… we...
Sharazade
The Accidental Brazilian
I’m a reasonably good traveler, I like to think, but sometimes I do lose things. I’ve
l...
She started first with my calves. She’d put a little on, and then sort of rip it off again.
The sensation was not unlike b...
radiation, or you already shave), you could probably get the same effect by stripping
naked, holding a strong young cat ov...
R. K. Singh
Editor’s Note: Professor R.K. has been a follower of the Salon since its inception.
He has generously offered ...
point of various beings, the very cause and end of life, perhaps the means to rediscover
the original magic of life.
From ...
R. K. Singh
Wisdom of the Body: Some Reflections
We live in a sexually pluralistic world and whatever our conviction, sex ...
With their erotic presentation, artists and poets seek to create what is physically
balanced and confident, and elevating ...
But somehow, in recent years, largely due to lack of the spirit of enquiry and
appreciation of the Hindu culture, traditio...
In brief, depiction of sex in art and literature has been metaphysically serious in India,
just as sexual desire and fulfi...
Tamara O. Amante
Backstory: I am a student who falls in love with teachers older than me by at least 10-
20 years. It all ...
them. The grass blades rustle slightly. She looks up at him, big blue eyes full of need. She
tells him that she is being r...
wanting to learn more Portuguese—what, three days ago—she kisses his mouth. He pulls
away from the kiss.
She smacks him ac...
omniverse. He floats off, he flies; he can feel nothing but the crash of fluid from him
filling her, and her lips, her lip...
“Not yet,” she says and gives his tip a playful bite. “Hold it for me,” she demands. He
holds it from the base and she bob...
sound. Her body grows tense. Then, she becomes fluidity, her limbs limp. He pumps
harder, quicker. They meet, on the peak ...
Ms. T. Garden
Backstory: I have extremely sensitive hearing, which makes loud noises a pain, but
voices unbelievably pleas...
After three days of being denied release and having him drive me to the brink of
orgasm time and time again, I was frantic...
Seraphina Ferraro
Backstory: This poem was written in a fit of passion after thinking obsessively about
kissing my boyfrie...
all to the rhythm of his hands and mouth
a rhythm that I know so well
but somehow still surprises
afterwards, when the imp...
Barbara Foster
Winston Watches
We meet weekly
Not more
Gulp a tasty dinner
Tumble into bed
Lithe athletes bouncing
High as...
Barbara Foster
Benares
Sandalwood beads recall stinking
Benares
Intoxicated, moonless night, I flew
heavenward
On your coc...
concentrate on my research—distracted by handsome Indians who claimed to be skilled
in the Tantric arts of love. While Dav...
Riccardo Berra
Backstory: Perfect bodies in a perfect setting, entwined in perfect lovemaking—this is
a sort of erotic mai...
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Sen sexual vol 1 for authors

  1. 1. SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013 Volume 1 Edited by Susana Mayer
  2. 2. SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013, Volume 1 Note to the Reader: Suggestion for reading the anthology: The placement of pieces within the text was based on submission date. Similar to the Salon, the first one to sign up (submission and acceptance) is the first one to be shared. Therefore, it is not necessary to read in any order. Please read the backstories, they comprise an integral aspect for many of the pieces and are occasionally just as interesting as the piece itself. As you will notice some are offered before the actual piece and others afterward; they were placed at the discretion of the author. I have included editorial notes, comparable to the comments I interject occasionally at the Salon. These will provide you with additional insight to some of the authors and their works. “Enjoy Often!” John Franklin, Salon attendee
  3. 3. SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013, Volume 1 Copyright © 2013 by Susana Mayer. All rights reserved. No portion of this book, except for brief review, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise— without written permission of the publisher. Published by SenSexual Press http://www.sensexualpress.com/ Credits: Susana Mayer, Editor Inara de Luna, Managing Editor Walter, Assistant Editor Rebekah Zhuraw, Editorial Consultant Arnold Skolnick, Cover Design and Photograph
  4. 4. Table of Contents Dedication Acknowledgments Introduction 1. No Name, Frances Seidman 2. One Saturday Night at Lupin Lodge, Maurine Killough 3. Katriona Experiences the Fantasy, Essemoh Teepee 4. Forest Walk, Essemoh Teepee 5. White, Gwen Masters 6. Next, Sharazade 7. The Accidental Brazilian, Sharazade 8. From My Silence 25, R.K. Singh 9. From The River Returns: Tanka 44, R.K. Singh 10. From The River Returns: Tanka 156, R.K. Singh 11. Wisdom of the Body: Some Reflections, R.K. Singh 12. Incognito, Tamara O. Amante 13. The Sound of Lust, Ms. T. Garden 14. The Kiss, Seraphina Ferraro 15. Winston Watches, Barbara Foster 16. Benares, Barbara Foster 17. It’s So Much Easier When You’re Away, Riccardo Berra 18. The Challenge, M/Lilii-Black Dahlia Creative 19. (267) XXX-XXXX-mobile, M/Lilii-Black Dahlia Creative 20. The Inside of Sex, Evelyn Rae 21. The Artist, Liz Adams 22. The Beast Within, I.G. Frederick 23. Leather Love, I.G. Frederick 24. Eruption, I.G. Frederick 25. Reciprocation, Plum Dragoness 26. As Campers Speak with Hushed Voices, Robin Elizabeth Sampson 27. I Want to Watch Us, Robin Elizabeth Sampson 28. Ties That Bind, VL Sheridan 29. Addicted, ApathyKiss 30. Balance, Raziel Moore 31. No Fooling, Raziel Moore 32. A Sexual Recitation, Mark 33. So Close, Jesse White 34. I Really Remember This, Frances Seidman
  5. 5. 35. The “Grown-up” Me, Frances Seidman 36. An Almost Experience, Frances Seidman 37. First Time, Frances Seidman 38. The Anatomy of a Marriage, Frances Seidman 39. Rape, Frances Seidman 40. “What if…” – Invitations to several encounters by strangers, Frances Seidman 41. Self-love— plus imagination, Frances Seidman 42. Group Therapy, Frances Seidman 43. Memories, Frances Seidman Backstory to the Anthology Contributor Bios Cover Designer & Photographer Bio Editor Bio
  6. 6. Dedication “SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013” volumes I and II are dedicated to my chosen mom, Dr. Frances Seidman, the Erotic Literary Salon’s first nonagenarian attendee. When I mentioned I was creating a Salon, Frances immediately said, “I’ll write a piece. You know, I’ve never done this before!” Even at 91, she was up for the challenge. After much thought, she decided to initially write under the pen name Lily, since she did not want to compromise her winter volunteer position with the Florida public school system. During the second year of the Salon, Frances chose to use her given name, since she was no longer working directly with children, but teaching adults how to volunteer. Originally Frances did not want to be pressured to write monthly or feel obligated to produce more than one piece. However, she succumbed immediately to the Salon attendees’ applause and praise at her first reading, where Frances shared an extremely personal and graphic piece. She sat down before she was prompted to offer her title, which comprised the backstory and punch line. The audience let out a gasp and another round of applause; the comments that followed reinforced the typical assumptions regarding sex and the elderly. Lots of preconceived notions were shattered that evening. Frances was always of the opinion that she could only write in first person until she was inspired to write her first fictional work. She based this piece on a fantasy regarding a platonic friend. Her second fictional work was a rebuttal to an attendee’s chimera concerning her. The Erotic Literary Salon community of erotica connoisseurs creates a comfortable space for all readers to contribute their sex stories. They especially enjoy hearing Frances’ words and can’t wait for her return from her winter retreat down south. She no longer feels pressured to write, but gladly creates works inspired by the encouragement of the Salon supporters. Rebekah Zhuraw, Editorial Consultant for this text, suggested the dedication. I agreed immediately, considering it a most appropriate way to honor this dear woman. Frances is a model of how to age gracefully in all areas of life. The attendees have been offered a rare glimpse into the sexuality of a vibrant, wise woman.
  7. 7. Acknowledgments It takes a village… I’m grateful to all of the attendees and followers of the Erotic Literary Salon. Their submissions created this stellar inaugural edition. Rebekah Zhuraw for her assistance and guidance in selecting the pieces, and organizing the manuscript; Inara de Luna for her invaluable assistance behind the scenes and editing, and Walter for helping in the selection process and proofreading. My “dream team”: Heidi Champa, Jeremy Edwards, Robin Sampson, and Emerald, for setting me on the path to realizing my dream. Sharazade for her significant contribution to formatting, and answering late night queries. Arnold Skolnick for his generous offer to design the eBook cover, using one of his legendary photographs. Carmen and Val, who were most instrumental in taking the Salon from one of Philadelphia’s best kept secrets to Philadelphia’s hottest place to spend an evening. Their support ultimately made this anthology a reality. My guardian angels, Russell Backer, Sam M-B, Frances Seidman, and John C-D for their financial, emotional and technical support.
  8. 8. Introduction “SenSexual: A Unique Anthology 2013,” is an exceptional collection of erotica and sex writings. It includes fantasy and first person writings that have never been compiled in a conventional anthology collection: email exchanges, poetry, excerpts of novels/memoirs, and journal entries sharing daring true stories, along with several traditional short stories. There is something here likely to satisfy every taste. This anthology is an outgrowth of my work in creating and sustaining the Erotic Literary Salon. All the “sensexual” submissions follow similar guidelines as those set forth at the Erotic Literary Salon, a venue where people come to share their uncensored erotica in front of a most supportive audience. Accordingly, each piece has a backstory, authors sharing the story behind their story. Sometimes this information can be quite personal, offering a revealing glimpse into the author’s relationship with sexuality. The anthology is comprised of works by a diverse group of erotica writers, including well-known authors and gifted writers from the Salon and the international community of Salon followers. Some pieces featured in the anthology were test-driven at the Salon. Why “sensexual”? It’s a sensual, sexy new term that bypasses all the old judgments around divisive labels like “erotica” and “pornography.” Pornography usually conjures up negative judgments, while erotica, a more toned-down term, is most often equated with sexual material for women. The subjective line between erotica and pornography is personal, temporal and culturally prescribed, and “sensexual” breaks down this boundary. I must admit, when I initially considered establishing the Erotic Literary Salon, it was geared towards women, and I, too, used the term erotica so as not to offend my prospective attendees. The terms Literary and Salon were marketing tools to extend legitimacy to the event, since I realized porn or pornography would immediately offend people who equated these terms with degradation. At the Salon, these terms are often debated by new attendees. You will find a collection of definitions on the website, and you are welcome to add your own at http://www.theEroticliterarysalon.com. Open sharing and debate are all part of the supportive environment of the Erotic Literary Salon. Yet, it still surprises me when I hear attendees express their gratitude for having a venue to share their sensexual writings sans censorship. “Susana is doing a very brave thing...It’s hard to overstate what a remarkable event you produce each month... Philly needs something like this…I never knew such a life of honesty could exist. I finally found a home I can be comfortable in...this event changed my life.” It reminds me there are no other events of this kind presently in this area, and few in the entire country. People have confided in me how writing and sharing their words have helped them deal with a myriad of issues. Often this is the only occasion they have to hear how others express their sexuality. Exposure to these writings, especially journals and first person works, have given them the opportunity to reflect on their own sexuality. It can be of great comfort to know that there is such a variety of styles to creating sexual pleasure.
  9. 9. For those who are troubled by sexual pleasure, the sharing of words may assuage their guilt. The Salon has also given victims of sexual abuse an outlet to share their shame. By giving voice to their distress, in some instances the mere act of sharing has relieved them of the burden of shame. For others, the control of the pen has allowed individuals to rewrite their sexual history, enabling them to cope more positively with their traumas. Some people attend the Salon just to enjoy a night out with friends, or an unusual place to take their date. For an increasing core group of regulars, it is a community of like-minded people who enjoy sensexual writings. The Salon is many things to many people, but one thing is a constant—each Salon is unique. I never know how the evening will progress, since each month the readings and featured presenters vary. Similar to my daily posts at the Salon’s website, I lend my voice to this event by offering news items with my sex positive spin, inviting individuals to view a sexual newsworthy item from a different perspective. As a muse for this event, I feel these items not only educate but can be used as research material for participants’ writings. Between gatherings, the Salon also continues via the web. Those unable to attend because of distance are able to share their works on the site, along with some of the readings from the Salon. A professor of English in India, a contributor to this anthology, expressed his gratitude for having such a community, “At a time when mindless orthodoxy and prejudices seem to govern the general mindset, you have been trying to ‘correct’ certain notions that adversely affect generations of men and women through your Salon. I have only praise for your dedication and commitment to the cause of larger humanity.” And now the Salon has the opportunity to flourish not just during events and at the website, but through an annual anthology, of which this is the first edition. The material in this collection encompasses everything from sensual innuendo to the graphically explicit, leaving it up to you to identify your own comfort zone. I encourage you to either read the book alone or with a partner as a playful exploration, to find out what arouses your libido or theirs. Sharing it with your special book club (or creating one) could provide for interesting discussions and lively entertainment. I created the Salon to begin a process of mainstreaming erotica by taking it out of the bedroom and placing it on a podium. Now, sensexual takes erotica back to the bedroom—to provide education, stimulation, entertainment, and ideas to enhance your sexuality. I invite you to visit the Salon’s website, www.theEroticliterarysalon.com, where you can submit your writings and events to the blog, read daily posts on sex news stories, sexuality events, and information pertaining to sensexual writing and publishing. The press affiliated with the Salon, http://www.SenSexualPress.com, will be posting submission guidelines and dates for the annual “SenSexual” anthologies. Please submit
  10. 10. your sensexual material for possible inclusion in forthcoming issues of the “SenSexual” anthology. It’s all good and it’s all sensexual.
  11. 11. Frances Seidman Backstory: When I heard that Susana had started an erotic literary salon and needed original writing, I thought, “I can do that,” and I offered to write a story. I searched my mind and came up with a recent picture of myself and my almost new boyfriend. So, I wrote my first story, and offered to write only one. However, its presentation at the Salon was a success. (I think the idea of sex when someone is 90 was something new to the group, and their enthusiasm asked for more.) So here it goes—I can write erotica. When I was a sophomore in high school, I won a ten-dollar prize for the art of writing composition. So now in my nineties I’ve had enough experiences to draw from. Editor’s Note: When Frances, the Salon’s nonagenarian in residence, first came to read at the Salon, she used the pseudonym Lily. She was fearful of losing her volunteer position: working with young school children in Florida. A year later she threw caution to the wind, and now she is Frances to all who attend the Salon. The piece below was her first attempt at writing erotica. I am Lily‚ there he was, the man, standing by the pool of our senior community. My eyes stood still and my breath slowed down. I hadn’t seen a white haired man who could touch my heart for almost a lifetime. We reached for each other and agreed to meet the next week. Without shame, I lay naked on the bed, eagerly separating my legs as the man knelt before me. My body warmed in a new way. Ripples of movement ran through me‚ and music by Vivaldi. My skin smoothed out and was flooded with rosy coloring. I was a painting by Rubens and the man said I was beautiful. * * * Editor’s Note: At the very first Salon people were not expected to offer backstories. However, it soon became evident that the audience demanded to know more about the origins of the works presented. This piece referenced in the Dedication was read by Frances at the first Salon. She had forgotten to mention the title, but after being cued, blurted out “First Date.” Upon hearing the audience gasp she said, “We’re old, we don’t have that much time.” Backstory: I missed my friend. He is in Florida and I am in Philadelphia. Writing
  12. 12. about him brought him a little closer. The first story, “First Date,” written several years ago, included the excitement of our meeting. The next story, several years later, is a more realistic assessment of where we both are in life. First Date, continued It is now seven years later—I am back in Florida for the six-month period I spend in the sun, doing volunteer work with children and with older people. I look forward to seeing the man again, renewing our friendship and our love. There he is standing on my doorstep—now aged 97—very skinny and very frail. We sat on the couch like two kids on their first date until I suggested we go into the bedroom. When the man delivering my life call emergency machine interrupted us, we pulled ourselves together and looked quite innocent—actually we were—almost.
  13. 13. Maurine Killough Backstory: Went to hear a band at an optional-clothing compound in California and this beautiful couple walked in. This is a poem about that experience. one saturday night at lupin lodge they came to Be Seen walked in like show horses parading, even she, lovely-legs blonde with her evenly-cut hair sliding down her pretty back her nubile ripeness, nipples upon rounded fruits and her ass her perfect moon-ass she was wearing high heels, of course and nothing else well, except for a provocative mini-thong color-coded to match her hot pink stiletto sandals and he with his perfectly shaped dick, muscled thighs and dark, foxy features gliding her around the dance floor, all eyes on the fire flies scrotum and all i couldn’t take my eyes off them. i looked at my friend, susan and her eyes were popping out they relished in the eyes that bathed their naked bodies they came
  14. 14. to Be Seen
  15. 15. Essemoh Teepee Backstory: I have been writing erotica since 2005 and practicing a form of guided meditation called Directed Erotic Visualisation (DEV) since 2007. I have evolved DEV, initially as an enhancement to writing erotica, a unique selling point that might get the work noticed above the mass of competition. The principle was to use a combination of meditation and suggestion to create an altered state of mind in the listener. In that state, the graphic sensual language of the spoken story would generate seemingly real feelings, sensations and physical reactions that would result in an orgasm. It seems DEV struck a chord with an audience and audio work is now the greater part of my output. In developing the protocols and techniques of DEV, I had the willing assistance of many amazing women. They worked through Skype links to different continents and different time zones. We collaborated and interacted to work out how to make the best use of the technique to explore their sensuality and bring to life their every fantasy, sometimes romantic, other times dark and dangerously exciting. While this may sound almost clinical and detached, the sense of eroticism in directing and guiding someone to ecstasy, to cause them to have an incredible orgasm, is very intense. A further development is interactive or iDEV, a live link that uses all the power of the technique to explore a participant’s deepest and possibly darkest sexual fantasies. This piece is an extract from a “contact report” which participants will sometimes write after their first iDEV experience. It is genuine reportage, with only Katriona’s name concealed for her privacy. Katriona Experiences the Fantasy (From her report to me, following Katriona’s* participation in an interactive Directed Erotic Visualization (iDEV) session.) I gasp and open my eyes. I’m naked, my skin damp from perspiration and my pussy soaked from excitement. I feel disoriented for a second as I return, reluctantly, to the real world. It’s the sensation of being alone which always strikes me hardest; he was here, I felt him. I felt his hands running over my flesh, his lips and teeth on my breasts. I felt, in torturous detail, his thick, hard cock pumping in and out of my pussy. It seems inconceivable that I open my eyes and he’s no longer there. As have many before me and doubtless will many after, I lay on my now damp bed, breathing heavily, unable to move, my limbs heavy and useless. I suppose in the back of my mind a part of me secretly hopes that if I stay where I am he will come to me again.
  16. 16. Lacking the will and indeed the strength to move I simply let my mind wander, and I can’t help but recall the events that led me here, my erotic journey into submission. I have always thought I had a higher sex drive than most girls my age, and with my boyfriend living miles away and my university schedule leaving us little time to spend together, I spent a lot of my time feeling pretty frustrated. Since I’m not a cheater, my main salvation from this has always come from reading erotica online. I have a vivid imagination and I took my greatest pleasure from finding particularly good stories and putting myself in the place of the characters. I’m a naturally dominant person but my secret fantasy was to be totally taken, mentally as well as physically, so when I came across a link for a “Directed Erotic Visualization,” I was intrigued. Giving up conducting my own fantasy in exchange for being taken through one? It sounded like a good form of mental domination to me. I was already excited as the MP3 loaded, but then I heard his voice; that deep, sensual rumbling that ran over my body like warm honey, coating me and consuming my mind until all I cared about was listening to it. I was lost, drowning in it, in his words. My world dissolved and was replaced by the picture he painted. In all honesty, I was mostly just indulging a fantasy; I didn’t believe that he could have any actual power over me, over my body. So imagine my surprise when he commanded me to come, and I did. I came repeatedly, harder than I had in a very long time and I hadn’t touched myself once. I hadn’t needed to, his touch was real, and it drove me wild. When I came round I felt completely overwhelmed and, in truth, a little scared. This man didn’t know me, had no idea that I was listening to his recording, and yet he had taken over my body, he pulled the strings and I danced for him. I sent him feedback, if for no other reason than because I couldn’t accept the idea of this person having such a strong affect on me but not knowing I even existed. Despite assurances that everyone would receive one, I genuinely didn’t expect a reply, but sure enough I received an email thanking me for my feedback and recommending I explore his site a little more, specifically the iDEV pages. He suggested that I fill out the questionnaire to see if I would benefit from the iDEV experience; I figured I had come this far, no harm filling out a simple quiz right? But deep down, I knew it was more than that. This man fascinated me, I had sampled just a taste of what he could do and I wanted more, I wanted to see how far he could really take me. I filled out the quiz and sent it to him. By the next day I had my reply. It seemed I fitted the criteria for a suitable partner and we started arrangements for my first iDEV session. From that first email up to the appointed night, I grew more and more excited. We exchanged emails several times; discussing what I could expect, how to prepare for it and generally getting to know each other a little. It got to the point that every time my inbox
  17. 17. had a message from him, my breath would catch a little and my pussy would start to tingle. When the day finally came I was flustered beyond belief, I couldn’t concentrate on anything and I spent most of my time blushing as I considered the events that were soon to occur. It was a heady mixture of excitement and fear. I knew I would enjoy the experience, but was I seriously going through with it? I was essentially planning to let someone have temporary control over my mind, an idea that truly petrified me. He was so friendly in his emails though, so reassuring, and he lived however many miles away so I knew I was safe, but still… That evening I went through all my rituals for making myself feel good. I had gone to the gym earlier on; I had a bath, washed my hair with my favorite caramel scented shampoo and conditioner, dried and straightened it, and exfoliated and cleansed my face and body. The final, and my personal favorite part of the ritual, was slipping into my pink checked pajama shirt. I don’t own sexy sleepwear because I find it uncomfortable to sleep in. I love the way my fleecy PJ’s feel on my skin; soft and seductive, with buttons in case I needed access to my breasts. I logged on to Skype and there he was, waiting for me. I think I was actually shaking with anticipation. We started up the session with some general conversation, by which I was a little surprised, this seductive stranger was asking about my hobbies and interests, things many men take no time to consider. I enjoyed sharing this information with him, thinking about these things made me feel more relaxed and comfortable, so when we began the actual session I fell with little resistance into his dark, sensual voice. Hearing his voice live was ten times more intense than the recordings. I was totally swept away into the world he described. I felt everything; I felt his touch, his weight over my body, his kisses and his cock. The part I found most erotic was that from the few questions I answered previously he knew exactly what I needed; to surrender to him. After fucking me and driving me to the point of insanity, I was desperate to cum. I was moaning, writhing, nearly sobbing with ecstasy. He told me that if I wanted to cum all I had to do was acknowledge him as my Master and ask his permission. I didn’t even hesitate, “Please, please may I cum, my Master?” And then he said four words that would later come to have so much power over me, “Cum Hard For Me!” My whole being collapsed, spiraled into blind pleasure as I screamed my orgasm. He continued fucking me, his hard, thick cock pumping in and out of my soaking pussy. He seemed to sense how much I loved being taken by him. He told me to open to him, to offer him everything. I felt his hand on my jaw, gently tilting my face to one side as he kissed my neck. I felt his hot, moist breath, his soft lips, and then the sharpness of his teeth, nipping and biting me. Suddenly, I felt his teeth elongate and sharpen. I gasped and struggled a little,
  18. 18. but he held me in his firm but gentle hand. He whispered to me in his seductive way, reminding me that I want to surrender to him, to offer him everything. I relaxed; I did want this. It scared me a little, no question, but I was loving it, I couldn’t resist him, I no longer wanted to. “Yes, take me,” I begged, “please, please take me, I’m yours.” He sank his teeth into my flesh and I swear I felt everything, the sting of his canines piercing me, the flow of blood into his mouth as he drank from me. I had never felt much attraction to vampire fantasies but as I lay pinned beneath him, grinding against him as his cock penetrated me, I had never felt so aroused, so utterly possessed. “Cum for me, Cum HARD for me!” I moaned, writhed and bucked as my orgasm rushed through me. After my climax I lay on the bed, totally spent, unable to move. I couldn’t think. All I knew was that I had never before felt pleasure like this, and it was he who had given it to me. I was awash with gratitude, I wanted to please him; I needed to please him, my Master. Looking back, that was probably the exact moment I began to submit on a deeper, subconscious level. I knew, without doubt, that pleasing this man would result in orgasms, pleasing him would feel so, so good. With that in mind I eagerly obeyed his command to kneel in front of him, to complete my ritual of surrender. He placed a collar around my neck, telling me that I belonged to him, just for now. Until I returned to the real world I was his property, his pet. I shuddered with delight and moaned my agreement. I knew that this was only the beginning. Lying here alone on my sticky, damp bed linen and feeling the ache inside that tells me a cock has been there, I ask myself, “What is reality?” *Katriona’s name has been changed to protect her privacy. Backstory: Something a little different and special are the Audio Experiences that I have developed and created. D.E.V. is an Immersive Audio Experience similar to 3D Audio, a blend of meditation, visualization and suggestion techniques that can put you right into the thick of a story, you can feel it, touch it, and...well, listen for yourself. Forest Walk This 32-minute experience sets the scene for what is to come. Truly find yourself relaxing into the passion of the erotic sensations that are being described. The power of Directed Erotic Visualisation is in creating the very real feeling that you are there, having
  19. 19. a most intimate and very personal experience. Audible: http://www.smotp.xxx/Downloads/IL4Women/Forest_Walk/forest_walk.html Editor’s Note: I had the privilege of attending one of Essemoh Teepee’s workshops at the 2011 Erotic Author’s Association Conference in Las Vegas. After a brief lecture on Directed Erotic Visualization (DEV) we were all handed towels to sit on, just in case our reactions were particularly strong while in orgasm. (We were informed the hotel would charge for re-upholstery. I recall commenting that we should have been informed earlier as to this possibility, so we could have had a change of clothing with us. It brought laughter from the audience (mainly women) and was noted seriously by Essemoh. Then he proceeded to demonstrate his technique. I was most intrigued by DEV, even though it didn’t work for me within this setting. After speaking further with Essemoh, he offered to create a personalized version and I agreed to critique his method. In order for him to design a custom experience, I needed to answer a series of confidential questions regarding my sexual desires and turn-ons. While responding to these extremely personal queries I realized the questionnaire could be an invaluable tool for couples. It would allow them to share intimate information regarding their sexuality (specifically turn-ons), which is oftentimes overlooked until an issue arises within a relationship. After receiving the MP3, I created a comfortable environment to enjoy my personalized audio experience. What followed totally astonished me. While listening to the story and eventually being directed to orgasm….well let’s just say it worked. Upon reflection I realized the detailed story using my specific turn-ons gave me the necessary personal verbal cues and time to prepare. Something the pharmaceutical companies have not been able to perfect in a pill, and certainly with no unwanted side effects—only pure pleasure. If you are interested in having Essemoh Teepee create a personalized experience for you or as a gift, follow this link http://bit.ly/Y3D3rW and please use the code: PCSALON I encourage you to write about your experience with the personalized DEV, and share it at the Salon in Philadelphia or on the Website. Send your work to esalonpress.com and sign the piece with either your given name or a pseudonym.
  20. 20. Gwen Masters White The burning started down low, an ache in her lungs that spiraled up to her head. The scent of bananas made her instantly hungry. She sat back with her eyes closed while the rush gathered slow and easy, then came up fast and hard from the middle. It was the sensation of a roller coaster sliding down to the bottom of a slick rail at breakneck speed, then slowing as it churned up another hill, but the adrenaline from the fall was still pumping hard. She looked at him, at the handsome face framed in tendrils of blue smoke. The smoke matched his eyes and the rush matched the way he made her feel when he did that one little thing he liked to do between her legs, that one sweet motion that sent her to the moon and back. She leaned back against the couch and then there were two of him, the one living and breathing and the one in the little mirror on the table. Double the pleasure. “Do me,” she said. His hand demanded that she open, and she did while the low music of her own blood sounded a bass line through her head. He slid into her and then his rhythm was hers, and she was flying right along with him, saying things that were like second nature, telling him to fuck her hard and fuck her deep. When he rolled her over onto her knees it was like the world was the one spinning, not her, and the idea made her laugh out loud. Then he was in front of her and it took a moment for her to realize that it wasn’t him at all, not really. It might have been a reflection in that mirror but it felt real, that cock sliding into her mouth while he was behind her and tapping out a rhythm of his own. Some part of her mind (the part that was still sane yet crumbling fast) registered that there were not just the two of them but the three of them. She swallowed the cock and the other, a rhythm in counterpoint, a candle burning at both ends. Her reflection in the mirror said many things. “What would your mother think” was one and “Good girl goes bad” was another, but more than anything there was lust. The brand of lust she had never felt before, the heart-pounding-blood-rising-animalistic- whole-body-orgasm lust that told her nothing else would ever compare in the physical world, nothing after this would ever come close. She came. She came hard and it was a screeching dissonance when she heard him say the words his jealous possessiveness wouldn’t let him say any other time: Take him that’s it show him you like it fuck him let him have all of you make him come. She wondered briefly (and sanely, imagine that) just how high he was to cross those boundaries they had set in their hearts and minds and then she realized she didn’t care. Her body was just a vessel and the feeling inside it was too great, too brilliant.
  21. 21. Then someone flooded her throat and within seconds he was flooding her cunt. She was swallowing both of them. Her hair was in her face. The strange taste of someone other than her man was on her lips but that was alright, because his familiar hand was on the back of her head and she was watching in the mirror as the powder disappeared again. “Good girl,” he whispered, and she laughed long and hard. So when he told her to do whatever she wanted to do and there was another cock in front of her, this one new and untouched, she opened her mouth. She didn’t think to ask how many there were because deep down, she knew. She knew those friends who knew his secret, who knew where he kept the little black box and the mirror and all the rest, those he would trust to be here with them in this place and doing these things. She started to cry. There was no reason for it, she felt great, why was she crying? Then he said do this and there was a sharp painful scent and suddenly the world went even and smooth. When she came down just enough she knew what had happened and why but she didn’t care. All she wanted was what he was giving her. She inhaled again and there it was. This was what she wanted. She devoured the cock in front of her. There was another sliding into her cunt. She thrust back against it and begged for more, her words nothing but moans as the man twined his fingers in her hair and fucked her face with a slow, easy rhythm. She was going to come again. How many times had she come? It felt as though she came with every line, every blast. She took on all five of them. One at a time they stood in front of her and she worked magic on their cocks. She made them come, made them moan and she made one groan over and over in pleasure. After that she felt invincible, so she took one of them up the ass so deep she thought she could taste him in her throat. There was no pain, not even when he slammed into her with all his strength and a drop of her own blood hit the pristine white carpet below them. She looked at it and came, right then, while he plowed into her with no grace. It had been minutes or hours when she nodded and took the needle in her own hands. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what to do; she had watched it happen to him a thousand times. She pressed the plunger and the ball slammed into her center. The high was like nothing else she had ever imagined a body could feel. Her hands shook and she dropped the needle on the floor. Everyone was gone. The room was nearly silent. He lay on top of her and slid into her with a gentleness that made her cry. She felt as though she might be dying. Her heart pounded too hard and then it didn’t pound at all, just sailed from one beat to another like a boat tossed upon an unruly sea. His lips were at her ear and he was whispering the words he always did, I love you and then some words he had never said before. I’m sorry, you never should have seen this or done this and it’s all my fault. In the morning he looked at her with frightened eyes.
  22. 22. “Are you going to leave me?” he asked. “What?” she asked, startled. “Leave me for what I did to you?” She counted her breaths, even and slow and careful. “It was my choice, not yours,” she said. When he climbed into the shower, when he could no longer see her and when he thought everything was fine, she opened the little black box and pulled out the mirror. Backstory: “White” was written during a difficult time in my life. My boyfriend at the time was a successful musician who had a very loyal following. His public persona was that of the golden boy, the apple of his mother’s eye, the one who could do no wrong. But his private life was a shambles, a blur of every drug and drink imaginable. I stuck with him through two rehabs, believing with all my naive heart that he would get better and eventually become the man he had been before the pills and booze and lines. I wanted so badly to get into his head and heart and figure him out, but in order to do that, I would have to cross a line that I might not be able to cross back. I wrote story after story like this one while trying to come to terms with all that swirled around me, but “White” was the one that said everything I really wanted to say. And if you’re curious, I never did cross that line. I left him instead. Editor’s Note: Gwen has graced the Salon on several occasions, reading a variety of works including short stories, excerpts from her novels and personal fantasies. One of the most prolific erotica writers, Gwen’s demeanor is quite demure in contrast to her racy content and language.
  23. 23. Sharazade Next On the way to work, Miriam let two drivers change lanes in front of her, and stopped immediately upon seeing a stoplight turn yellow in order to let a driver on a perpendicular street squeeze a left turn in before the final change. In the parking lot of the insurance claims adjustment office where she’d worked for over a decade, she slowed to allow the oncoming car to take the parking space in the shade, near the door, and circled for another minute and a half before finding a space way at the back. In the sun. The last cup of coffee before someone (and that someone was invariably Miriam) had to brew another pot went to Ralph. As she lifted the lid to the photocopy machine, Gloria rushed in and said, “Oh… are you in a hurry?” “Not at all,” replied Miriam, and took her document off the glass so that Gloria could start feeding her sheaf of documents into the tray. And press “double side.” And press “collate and staple.” In the break room, the last donut went to Karen. There were sixteen permanent staff and two interns, and there had been two dozen donuts, so someone—well, several someones—must have had a second already. Not Miriam, though; she hadn’t even had one. “Do you mind swapping lunch breaks? I’ve got to meet someone…” And so Miriam didn’t go to lunch until 2:00. “Who’s next?” asked the man at the counter of the sandwich shop. Miriam was—if by “next” you meant “person who has been there the longest”—but the honor went instead to a newcomer who was quicker to raise her hand and place her order. The holiday party was scheduled only thirty minutes after the close of the workday, so most people—Miriam included—had brought clothes to change into. In the ladies’ restroom, Miriam waited first for an available toilet stall (even though she and Karen had technically arrived at the same time), and then till the other women had finished applying makeup and finally left a spot by the mirror. The party was particularly nice not only because of the sparkling fairy lights and tasteful decorations, or even because of the unexpected presence of a (cash) bar, but because clients had been invited, both current and prospective, as well as members of two branch offices. The room hummed with conversation, fueled as much by the excitement of new people to talk to as any food or drink. Pausing to let another person cut in front of her in the bar line, Miriam scanned the crowd. Could it be? She checked twice, but it was. A man. A handsome man. A handsome man of the appropriate age, standing alone. Such chances do not come along more than once; sometimes not even once. Miriam left the line. She was practically
  24. 24. within range, the point where she could have extended an introduction, when she was … not sideswiped, but let’s say “overtaken” … by a tall slim woman in a tight suit with a low-cut blouse. Corporate sexy. Her eyes glowed with the same desire Miriam thought her own might. The new woman extended a hand towards the man, leaning in with a smile. Good manners are what make life pleasant. Whether Miriam had been taught this or come up with it on her own, she really couldn’t say. Etiquette, politeness, thoughtfulness to others; these had earned Miriam an easy passage through life. She didn’t fight or argue. No petty squabbles disrupted her workday or career path. She’d never had a feud with a neighbor, or even a friend. Miriam had spent a lifetime of doing unto others, even though she couldn’t help noticing that not many people were likewise inclined to do unto her. She had been patient. Very patient. Perhaps too patient. “Excuse me, I believe I was next,” said Miriam; not loudly, but firmly enough to be heard. The woman drew her hand back and looked at Miriam in confusion. “Next?” “Next for the man,” explained Miriam, motioning to the specimen in question with a tilt of her head. The woman’s slight frown deepened just a shade. “I’m sorry…?” “Shelly married Ryan in accounts. Olivia eloped with Neville. Gray transferred to Cleveland, and we’re all sure it was to be with Cindy, who changed companies as soon as he got there. Karen took the intern. Actually, she’s had two interns.” Miriam didn’t even mention her sister. Why revisit that? “I have been waiting,” she continued, “waiting for a long time, and I really think it is my turn for the man. I am next. I am being served now.” The woman gave a sort of nervous laugh and tried to catch the man’s eye, but the man was looking at Miriam. The woman gave a roll of her coiffed blonde head and veered off to a group of people unfamiliar to Miriam; the woman’s friends, perhaps, whom she could now amuse with an anecdote about the oddest woman. Miriam turned to face the man. “Gareth Knight,” he said, with a faded but still evident British accent, and she nodded with approval. That was just the sort of name and accent a dark handsome stranger ought to have. “Miriam Bloom,” she responded, and they shook hands; he held hers just a fraction longer than she was accustomed to. “And how would the lady like to be served?” he asked. When you are finally at the counter, looking over the menu board of frappuccinos and double mocha cinnamon lattes and organic agave lavender chaise, it is almost disrespectful (not to mention a waste of an opportunity) to ask for the house coffee; even Miriam knew that. Except here there was no menu. “What are my choices?” she asked frankly—having really no other choice. He considered. “We might get a drink,” he suggested, “or I could ask you to dance. We could take a table and sit and talk.” How do you rank among the separate-but-equal?
  25. 25. He seemed to understand the difficulty. “Let’s do all of them. A dance first. And then we’ll take a drink to the table.” And so it was. An abrupt opening sweeps aside minutes or hours or even days of slow, careful beginnings; it was as if they’d skipped the first date and started with the second, or perhaps the fifth. Is it the fifth date on which one goes to bed? No matter the number—to bed they went, following a charmed evening and a ride home Miriam barely remembered (certainly she forgot her own car, which probably did not go unnoticed among her workmates). The buffet was still open at the handsome stranger’s house, if he could really still be called a stranger. Buffet? More like a smorgasbord. There was so much of everything! Kisses. Caresses. Hands. Considering he was only one man, he certainly seemed to have a lot of hands. Miriam was sure she counted three at one point. Unless that wasn’t a hand. Had he asked her what she wanted, she wouldn’t have known what to say, it had been that long. It is fortunate, then, that he didn’t ask. He was everywhere at once: Teeth on her inner thighs, fingers on her nipples. That third hand in her hair. Then his mouth at her neck, right where it joined her shoulder. Goodness! How had he known about that? But he seemed to know all sorts of astonishing things. The tongue on her puckered ass, for instance. No one had ever done that before. Miriam hadn’t even known that was allowed. Was it allowed in the other direction? As it turned out it was, and he responded most gratifyingly. Miriam had been waiting too many years to hold out for long. When his mouth reached between her legs, when he slipped a finger, then two, into her slippery sex, when he licked and then sucked gently on her swollen clit, Miriam bucked and came so hard she hoped he had the same generous dental plan their own office did. He stayed with her, though, till she came down, and then gently eased off her and kissed her belly. He smiled at her, and she smiled back weakly. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I think I’m finished.” His smile took on a wicked edge. “Finished? Oh, hardly.” Who knew? That there was so much more. Well, Mr. Knight did, that was quickly made apparent. He knew how sensitive her skin had become, all over her body, so that he could lightly stroke its surface and she would shiver in response. He knew that he could knead her muscles deeply to draw forth her grunts of pleasure. He knew that he could tug her hair and brace his thigh between her legs, exert just a little pressure, and she would purr like a cat and twine her arms around him. He knew that orgasms do not have to be simultaneous; that “next” is perfectly permissible in sex, that wet and open as she now was presented the perfect moment to pull her thighs apart and enter her. She savored the fullness of him, her own pressure having subsided, and she moved back against him with ease, drawing him out, eager to receive him.
  26. 26. To her surprise, upon his finish, she found herself newly wet—and not just from him. Miriam was not—well, she had not been, that is—multiorgasmic. She wasn’t quite sure what the protocol was. “I think…I think I might have another,” she said. Gareth, however, looked blissfully spent, glowing and softening beside her. “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” she’d heard, and though no Deity had been particularly supportive of her efforts in life so far, she put her own hand to the matter. More obliging than the divine (being physically closer, for one thing), Gareth at first refueled her with his lustful eye (so shameful being watched! and yet so hot!) and then joined his hand to hers. How long had she taken this time? It seemed only a moment, and yet at her finish, he was renewed. “Next!” he claimed, playfully, and pulled her astride him. “Oh, I don’t know how to do this,” she said, having never been in such a commanding position, but he wasn’t listening. His strong hands gripped her hips and encouraged her in the right rhythm, and it turned out not to be so hard after all, especially since the receding orgasm left room for her thoughts to come back in, and her thoughts were again on feeling his thickness inside her and extracting his pleasure. And so it went on all night, first one, then the other, first fucking, then sleeping, then waking, then all over again, on top, then underneath, then one side, then the other. So many choices! They didn’t get to nearly all of them, it seemed. The only thing for it, clearly, was another night—or, well, several more nights. Which stretched on into months, as these things do in the right circumstances. And what of Miriam? Did she stride forth in the world now, with newfound assertiveness, claiming her rightful place in the many lines of life? Oh, heavens, no. She hadn’t been at all unhappy with the path she’d chosen—well, as long as she could have a companion to walk with. That had taken some gumption, yes, but she saw no need to abandon civility (or even humility) for aggression. No, she was just as gracious and yielding as ever. If there was any change, it was perhaps in her understanding of the few times one might need to give Fate a nudge; no, not Fate, exactly, but perhaps an interloper. Yet she knew too how hard that can be if it is not in one’s character. It is all too easy, really, to let things slide, to let others go first, to wait too long, until the waiting becomes the end itself. Office space at Miriam’s company was tight, and when summer brought the intern, there was some doubling up necessary, sometimes, depending on the state of permanent staffing (always in flux). Miriam was just a little surprised when mousy Beth (such nice eyes, everyone said, and how pretty she’d be if she raised them more often) came to see her. “It’s about my office,” she said, softly.
  27. 27. “Is there a problem?” asked Miriam, in some surprise; she didn’t think she’d misjudged. “Oh, no, not really, it’s just… well, it’s not a big space, and now if there’s to be a second person… I mean, I’d thought… I’d thought the intern would go into Karen’s office, since she’s got that extra desk…” Karen was quite capable of picking her own fruit. “No,” said Miriam firmly. “It’s on a rotating basis now. Karen took the intern last time.” Literally. Miriam couldn’t help but blush. She’d been the one to walk into the supply closet unannounced. And this intern… well, like the others he was young and strong. Virile, you might say, and single. Miriam had peeked at the application before filing it. “Everyone has to take a turn. And you are next.” Backstory: There isn’t really a long backstory to this; more a musing on the interplay of aggression and patience. At what point is patience a virtue, and at what point does it hold you back? Does asking for what you want work? Women are, I believe, still subtly (or not so subtly) to be indirect about their desires. This story explores a more direct approach.
  28. 28. Sharazade The Accidental Brazilian I’m a reasonably good traveler, I like to think, but sometimes I do lose things. I’ve lost socks, I’ve lost receipts, I’ve lost phone numbers. I’ve lost time, sobriety, sense of direction, and (more than once) my pride. Once I did the unthinkable and lost my passport. In an airport. (Just… don’t even ask about that.) I would have thought that last one was the worst thing possible. But that was before I had the chance to say, “I accidentally lost my pubic hair in the Middle East.” Now, there’s something about traveling that puts you in the mood to try new things. After all, if you wanted to do everything the way you’d always done it, you’d just stay home, right? So that is why, when the American woman I’m staying with said that she had a local woman coming over that evening to wax her, and asked if I’d like this woman to attend to me, too, I said yes. I’ve never waxed anything before, or been remotely tempted. It’s not that hard to shave, and I’m not obsessive about hair anyway. Also, it always sounded painful to me, and who needs that? But… I was charmed by the idea of a waxer making housecalls, and as it happened, I was planning a trip the following week to a remote island with beautiful beaches (beaches = bathing suit = want smooth legs). I also would never find a better price: US$40 would do both legs, one’s “lady area,” and a follow-up massage with baby oil besides. In fact, I reasoned, it might be even cheaper for me because I actually don’t shave my pubic hair. That’s by choice—I like the way my hair looks, and I like the way it feels. I like brushing my hand (or someone else brushing his hand…) lightly over the tips and feeling it all the way down. I shaved once in college, just to see what it was like, and I didn’t like it one bit. My skin felt a little numbed, and the bald look I found frankly unnerving. I don’t speak Arabic, and the woman coming over didn’t speak English, but no matter… the other American woman spoke Arabic, and I asked her to explain that, while I was happy to have my legs done, above that I only want the edges trimmed up. Swimsuit-friendly, in other words, but leave the little triangle in the middle. There was much nodding and agreeing, and I also gave the international hand gestures for “Please leave my bush intact.” The other woman went first, and then it was my turn. I lay down on the carpeted floor, over a spare bed sheet to protect the carpet from baby oil. The woman wasn’t actually using wax, but rather a sugar/honey mix with the consistency of spackle, but the idea was the same: She applied it to my skin, the mixture stuck to the hair, and removing the sticky mixture removed the hair as well (by the roots).
  29. 29. She started first with my calves. She’d put a little on, and then sort of rip it off again. The sensation was not unlike being attacked with a lint roller—perhaps a lint roller that used duct tape. Before each application, she’d mutter “Malesh,” which is Arabic for “Sorry” or “It can’t be helped.” A way of saying “This might hurt a little.” It wasn’t too bad, though. After a while, I had little pricks of tears in the corner of my eyes, but I hadn’t gasped in pain or anything. Ah, but then she went a bit higher, and also had me bend my legs to get at the backs. Now, the backs of your thighs are hard to shave. They’re awkward to reach, and you also can’t see what you’re doing. In shorts-weather, I’d take care. But here… where the local dress custom for women means that I need to keep arms and legs covered at all times… well, how much time and effort do you need to really spend there? So the hair was longer, and thus hurt more coming out. She knew it, too. I could tell because instead of saying “Malesh,” she’d switch more and more often to “Bismillah.” Literally meaning “In the name of God,” this is a word with many interpretations and uses (and these can vary just a bit from country to country)—you can use it to begin something, like a project or even a meal, but it’s also used to sort of excuse yourself when you have to commit an unavoidable sin. For example, I once heard a man use it when he was in the U.S. and had to pray, but couldn’t determine which direction was east (for Mecca). He’d done his best to find out, and made his best guess, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain. That was a “Bismillah” moment. If a man had to grab a woman’s arm, perhaps to prevent her from tumbling to her death in a ravine, or something, he might excuse himself with a “Bismillah”—he shouldn’t touch a woman, no, but he’d have no choice, because saving her life would be more important. And… ripping out long hair in a very tender spot, that turns out to be a “Bismillah.” All I could say in response was “Tammam,” meaning “OK.” I mean that literally—it was all I could say, because it was all I knew how to say. Somewhere along the line I should have picked up the Arabic for “OH fuck that HURTS oh my oh my ouch ouch OUCH!” but it was too late now. As she got closer and closer to my pubic area, I do remember thinking that perhaps her idea of a bathing suit edge and mine were not quite the same. I lifted my head to see if she’d strayed over the border, so to speak, and … I noticed a huge gob of the sugar mixture sitting right there on top. Um… how was that going to come out? You guessed it. “Bismillah!” OH LORD! I don’t even know if there are words in Arabic (or English) for that; I beat the floor with my fists instead. You women and men who’ve been waxed before know what I’m talking about. For those who’ve never had the pleasure, let me suggest applying something to your own pubic hair—perhaps superglue—and then ripping it off. If you are for some reason already hairless (genetics, or an unfortunate accident with
  30. 30. radiation, or you already shave), you could probably get the same effect by stripping naked, holding a strong young cat over your nether region (claws against your skin), and applying the superglue to the cat and ripping it off him instead. What could I say? Of course, only “Tammam.” The woman just beamed at me. She showed me with great pride the amount of hair she’d gotten off me. And once you start down that road, you can’t turn back. Not that she tried. Nope, she gleefully bismillah’ed her way through the entire bush. Up to the belly, down around to the backside, and all points in between. ALL of them. At a certain point, I wasn’t able to say “Tammam” anymore, so she actually took over saying it for me. “Tammam! Tammam! OK, OK.” Yes, it turned out that she knew as much English as I did Arabic. I was OK, we both agreed, or she agreed for me. Finally it was over, and I lay prone while she massaged my legs with baby oil, front and back. The pain subsided, or rather evolved into a flushed tingling warmth. She indicated that I could now get dressed, and when I rejoined my friend in the living room, she explained through my translator (who seemed to be working perfectly fine now!) that I should wait half an hour before bathing, to let the baby oil soak into the skin and protect it. I thanked her (I also know “Thank you” in Arabic, but that’s not the right response to a Bismillah Moment), and I not only paid her the $40 but a $5 tip besides. She’d done a lot of work, after all, and who knows? Perhaps she could use the extra for English lessons. I’d wanted something different, and I now have it. Will I keep it? I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it as it’s growing out. For now, though, I like it. It’s a reminder— visible and tangible—of how travel brings the unexpected. Backstory: This is a completely true story. Because of my age, perhaps, as well as a combination of style, preferences, and values, I’d never been without pubic hair. Never even been remotely tempted to remove it. After this experience, I continued to shave for another few months, determined to give it a fair chance, but in the end decided that (quite apart from the time and effort involved) I simply didn’t like either the look or the feel of it. Hairs bring sensitivity, and I’m just not willing to part with that. But it will be a long time before the memory fades. Editor’s Note: Sharazade has been a featured reader at the Salon, experiencing first hand the diversity of the works presented. She was pleased to find a home for this piece, since it did not fit into traditional erotica anthologies where she normally publishes.
  31. 31. R. K. Singh Editor’s Note: Professor R.K. has been a follower of the Salon since its inception. He has generously offered his poetry to be posted on the website and read at the Salon— to a most appreciative audience. He asked me to choose several works from his collection of poems, “Sense and Silence,” for inclusion in the anthology. The following correspondence ensued: Dear RK, Could you also make some general statement in terms of why you write these haiku, out of frustration, to relive a thought, etc? Dear Susana, Thanks for making me think more deeply to provide some publishable material. The following backstory is his response to my request. Upon reading it I realized how much I enjoy my role as Muse. Backstory: In the subjective process of creation, human body is a picture of the human soul I celebrate to understand the world and the self. And, it is normal for a poet to create out of himself or herself: whatever outside they see excites the inner vision. I see sex as truth, rendering the experience with beauty and power. Making poetry sexy is focusing on the flesh to enter the spirit. My erotic haiku also seek to explore the body, or naked physicality, leading to love of the spirit, or man and woman as one in coitus. The fleshly unity is the reality, the passage to experience divinity. In fact there is so much lived and observed in one’s sexual life but hardly fully expressed. My deep interest in erotic poetry often makes me compose “erotiku” that happen, as you rightly say, “to relive a thought,” or re-enact sex acts, or re-create a felt or lived experience of a moment. Haiku offers a good medium to express love and sex subtly as well as explicitly, yet leaving lots of room for the reader’s imagination. I consider the expression of passionate sex in my poetry as the internalized substitute or antidote to the fast dehumanizing existence without, and ever in conflict with my search for life, search for meaning in a sort of routinized, boring existence. By writing brief personal lyrics, including tanka and haiku, or confining myself to the privacy of lovemaking, I make my life itself a work of art, and enlarge myself to the universal sameness of human feelings. I see woman, and her nudity, as the mainspring of our being (and art), shaping the psyche and constituting the sensory experience. She is eternal and there is no poetry without her. I sing of woman who is both my passion and interest, who is the balance
  32. 32. point of various beings, the very cause and end of life, perhaps the means to rediscover the original magic of life. From My Silence: 1974-1984 25. Every sleeping guy gets up at the last kick of a waking tart From The River Returns: Tanka 44. The thought is sin she thinks and denies me sex to protest against my mind in the gutter that breeds erotics in verse 156. It’s not ageing but eternal delight: you under me smooth belly nude necking slow stroking parting flesh
  33. 33. R. K. Singh Wisdom of the Body: Some Reflections We live in a sexually pluralistic world and whatever our conviction, sex is here to stay. No use decrying it. It is a fact of daily life and provides humankind with significant components of meaning. Through the realities of sex and sexual experience we can gauge a person’s innermost truth, his/her consciousness. But how sad, despite global interaction and expansion in awareness, most people still tend to conceal bodily experience; they do not recognize wisdom of the body, which is worth loving for its grace, truth and reality. Painters, photographers and poets view the human body with all its senses, emotions and intellect as a repository of actual pleasure, pain and ecstasy. They express it with imagination and philosophical intuition, making us conscious of our varied realities. They are not inhibited by false shame. They know human sexuality, if presented and used properly, should help us fuse the primordial male-female polarity into energy which could then make life in harmony with the original source, bring the individual and humanity closer, and promote stable sexual relations. If used unwisely it may degenerate into a diffracted and miserable world. Sex: A metaphor Artists do not question the cult of pleasure or the reverence for abstinence as they explore the naked physicality in all its dimensions. They do not create a work for the sake of casual stimulation. Rather, they know that sexual symbolism becomes devalued and inexpressive if it loses the wealth of its actual sexual experience and fails to illumine one’s inner landscape; they seek to illuminate the realities of life through body-images. Sex is a metaphor: the encounter of man and woman, woman and woman, man and man to express feelings, to feel valued or loved, to explore relationships, concerns, roles, to react against false ethical and cultural values, against stereotypes and prejudices, against hypocrisy and dubious social standards that enchain, and debase honest aspirations as lust or vulgarity. Against a gnawing sense of loss of meaning and purpose in the computerized, simulation-filled emptiness of our life today, including gimmicks, imitations, romantic overtures, and even plain silliness that are often noticed, sex serves as an antidote to the fast dehumanizing existence: Its expression is a means of defying the disgusting sociopolitical world without; it’s a form of active resistance to political manipulation day in and day out. No Narrow View
  34. 34. With their erotic presentation, artists and poets seek to create what is physically balanced and confident, and elevating to the senses. They know that the naked body is a pretext for a work of art and it can be made expressive of a far wider and more civilizing experience. As Kenneth Clark observes in The Nude (1956), “It is ourselves, and arouses memories of all the things we wish to do with ourselves.” There is, therefore, a sense of purpose in a poet or artist’s eroticism or sexuality— love of the self through exploration of the body, or naked physicality leading to love, or libidinal sublimation, or sexual union of two consenting adults. It cannot be objectionable to express the real human needs and experiences, the physical body artistically re-formed or sex acts re-enacted with a sense of shared delight. The sexual imagery indeed conveys a mixture of memories and sensations, a desire to perpetuate ourselves in the complex of living. Octavio Paz writes in The Double Flame (1995) that eroticism is a social form of sexuality, which is transfigured by our dreams. I see it as a means to rediscover the original magic of life just as sex is the mainspring of one’s psyche and constitutes the sensory experience besides being the balance point of various beings. It is in no way being “low,” “vulgar,” or “obscene.” In fact, in ancient Indian writings love and eroticism carried the same connotation or concept: the pursuit of its language and emotion in various forms is art. In the Atharva Veda there are a lot of ashleela Suktas—obscene only according to a narrow view of morality. Sexpression: Indian Heritage Many of our thousand-year-old temple sculptures are an undisguised exaltation of physical desire; the sensuous friezes of the temples at Khajuraho and the figures carved on the stone walls of the Sun Temple at Konark are great works of art because their eroticism is part of the Indian philosophy; it is our cultural heritage. We should be able to appreciate the purity of intention, the desire to distill from the smallest experience the largest, most universal insights, something which unites us all. The process of erotic creation, like Kama-adhyatma, pursuing sex to spiritual height, is something positive in Hindu ethos; it is an important psychological fact of life, a sort of libidinal sublimation if one also performs with an awareness of the rich and ennobling pluralistic dimensions of the Hindu culture. Love and celebration of womanhood, as part of erotic experience through a process of exhilaration, stimulation and relaxation—swimming through the river of heavenly happiness, uniting the eye, mind and imagination, and losing ignorance—is both physical and spiritual. This is what keeps an artist going, giving birth to new works, one after the other, reaching a height to feel silence through spirit in the body. Orthodoxy Undesirable
  35. 35. But somehow, in recent years, largely due to lack of the spirit of enquiry and appreciation of the Hindu culture, tradition and values, discussion and expression of sex in public seems to have been denigrated. Authors and artists have been frequently subjected to violence of the orthodox right wing which seeks to ban honest sexual self- expression and is intolerant of recreational and non-procreative sex acts. There was a time when even prostitutes in India were an integral and respectable part of the Hindu society. There was no social tension due to unsatisfied lust. Sex practice was not looked down upon just as men and women enjoyed healthy emotional relationships both within marital and larger societal contexts. The writers of the ancient Sanskrit manuals like Kamasutra, Panchasakya, Smara Pradit, Ratimanjari, Kokashastra, Ratirahasya, Ananga Ranga, etcetera, educated men and women in the art of courtship, foreplay, actual intercourse (including various postures of union), and post-coital activities; they treated love not only as a matter of giving and receiving pleasure, but also as a means of access to the realm where human and divine meet. Emotional lyrics of poets like Kalidasa, Bhavabhuti, Bhartrhari, Amaru, Yashovarman, Jayadeva and others reflect frank eroticism but create a transcending spiritual effect and meaning with their expression of the primordial pursuh-prakriti, or what the Chinese call Yin-Yang interplay. God Created Sex I do not know how many people would disagree with the view that the taste of the forbidden fruit in Eden was actually the awareness of physical attraction between man and woman: The tree of knowledge was actually the knowledge of the process of creation, of love, of sex. The Bible, like the ancient Hindu scriptures, does not decry sex. In fact celebration of physical union is God-ordained; man and woman are expected to stay together, love each other as their own flesh. Because God created human beings as male and female, He created sex and ordained sexual union (in a socially acceptable form) to bind man and woman together, to make them dear to each other as husband and wife, to lead a healthy emotional life through love and sex, and thus ensure personal and social stability. As I see it, it is God’s design that we enjoy life, be happy, be one flesh in coitus, and thus glorify Him in body. In the Vedas and Upanishads, too, sex is the source of happiness in equality, in oneness of man and woman, in love. The search for love, or desire for sex, even if erotic, is essentially the aspiration for entering into another to know, to understand. It is rather a search for the ‘whole’ in daily living and giving. It is the search for a bridge between the uncontrollable external events and the often impulsive, subjective, or internal responses. Body as Soul
  36. 36. In brief, depiction of sex in art and literature has been metaphysically serious in India, just as sexual desire and fulfillment is an action of the spirit in body, leading to pleasure and harmony. The body images illuminate the realities of life; sexual metaphors in art make it possible for artists to convey what it feels like to be filled with desire, transmuting and transmitting memories of experience. Artists visualize the human body as a picture of the human soul; they celebrate it to understand the world and the self. If they glorify nudity, it is to explore the consciousness, in conflict with the muddling external chaos. As a poet, I realize humans are flesh in sensuality and there is divinity in it. The fleshly unity is the reality, the passage to experience divinity, and its expression should not be repressed through governmental interference in the name of morality and all that. Sexual self-expression should be treated as one’s fundamental right just as personal freedom of choice, sexual privacy rights, and tolerance for diversity are the hallmarks of a liberated enlightened society. --Dr. R.K. SINGH Professor & Head, Dept of Humanities & Social Sciences Published in Triveni (Hyderabad), Vol. 68, No.1, January-March 1999, pp. 28-31; Also, in The Mawaheb International (Ontario), July-September 2000, pp. 14-15. This article was originally intended for an Indian audience that has forgotten their own traditional view to sex and sexuality. However, its message is applicable beyond this arena. Many of my reflections derive from the West and Christianity. If this topic intrigues you, you can read more on this subject in another article I have published on ezinearticles.com: http://ezinearticles.com/?Family-And-Female-Sexuality&id=522660
  37. 37. Tamara O. Amante Backstory: I am a student who falls in love with teachers older than me by at least 10- 20 years. It all began in grade school. My first crush was on my Social Studies teacher. I hung around after school for hours. After that was my high school crush on an English teacher who called himself, “the Italian Stallion.” And boy, did I have the hots for him! He was a passionate English teacher who made me breathe heavy when he explicated Keats. When I was in undergrad I fell in love with another English teacher. I hung out in his office for hours, walked him to class and everything. He even drove me home from campus! He was such a good teacher that he got a standing ovation at the end of my final class with him. In my graduate study, I fell in love with my program director. He was the oldest of them all; white hair, speaking several languages fluently. We even said, “I love you,” to each other. During a fiction writing class taught in Italy, we exchanged a very chaste kiss on the mouth. I swooned. I have never had a sexual affair with a teacher, but boy would I ever if it were offered to me. Now you understand the theme of my story. I wrote it from Ana’s perspective, then from Mr. Pássaro’s, back to Ana and then back to Mr. Pássaro to create a powerful balance. There’s also a little dominance—I like to dominate and be dominated during sex—that ends with them as equals. My friends tease me about my “old man” crushes, but I wonder what would happen if I had Ana’s courage to offer the forbidden fruit? Well, I do still have a PhD to look forward to…better stay incognito! Incognito “You know what I want, Mr. Pássaro,” Ana says, pouting, voice husky with want. She plops down onto his porch-swing. Mr. Pássaro’s black eyes stare down at her plump breasts which strain against her hot pink tank. A devilish smile plays across her cherry Chapstick coated lips. The metal creaks back and forth under her weight. The sun is a heavy heat. Sweat streaks the sides of his caramel colored face. A breeze blows through the trees causing the windows on the little house to rattle louder than the gossiping cicadas. It is their mating season. Mr. Pássaro walks across to Ana on the shaded side of the porch, each board creaking beneath his brown loafers. He runs both sun-baked hands through his unicorn mane and sighs. “I am your teacher,” he says. He places both hands on her freckled shoulders. “My job is to teach you.” His hands are calloused, worker hands, the kind of hands that have manipulated earth. He tells her that he was not always a Portuguese teacher at her university. He was once a farmer in his homeland. He was once a simple man. He knows what it means to give in to carnal desires, but they must not. She shrugs away from him, pulls her feet up and crosses
  38. 38. them. The grass blades rustle slightly. She looks up at him, big blue eyes full of need. She tells him that she is being realistic, she wants to fuck him. “Ana,” he pleads. “Why don’t we go back inside? I’ll make more tea.” “I don’t want tea, Mr. Pássaro. I want you inside me.” He clears his throat. “Pull down your pants and I’ll show you.” A look of fear coats his face. “Aw, come on. I see the way you look at me,” she continues. “Yes, okay, and that is wrong, but what you’re asking—” Ana grabs the rim of his brown Dockers and pushes them down around his ankles. Then, she shoves down his navy boxers until they meet his pants. His semi-erect cock plops down between his legs. She finds the look of him startling yet intriguing. She had no idea that his cock would be darker than, well, the rest of him. She takes it into her hand and gives one smooth lick from the base of his testicles to the tip. He shivers. She takes all ten inches into her moist mouth moving her tongue down the shaft. She moves up and down smoothly, to the base and back where she licks the dew drops of pre-cum into her mouth, smacks her lips and says, “Mmm.” Then she stands, pitting her 5’”‘8” frame against his 6’”‘4” body, so close to him she can feel his breath on her face. On tiptoes she kisses each cheek once, his custom for greeting her all semester long. She tells him that she loves him; loves the light brushes of his rough hands across her milky skin. She tells him that she loves those casual and accidental touches that they shared during class and in his office, those chaste hugs that lingered a little, those light kisses on her cheek. She loves his new moon eyes, the way the silver streaks in his long hair shines like lacquer in the sunlight. She loves his accent, the gravel in his voice. She loves his house, the colorful carved animals lining the fence. She loves his bed, the handmade quilt with tiny stitched Cork oaks standing ardently somewhere in the wheat fields of Alentejo. She loves his little stove. She loves his rice and beans, his smell. He is all earth, all work, all muscle even at fifty-six-years-old, even after twenty years away from the farm. “Touch me,” she says, voice breathy. He lifts trembling hands and places them on her breasts. “Do you like them?” she asks. He nods his head. “I said, do you like them, Mr. Pássaro?” “Sim,” he breathes. “Muito.” He sits down, takes one in his hand, parts his thick lips, and gently sucks her areola into his mouth. The warm wetness sends a shiver to her womb. Her nipple stiffens under his learned tongue, which glides back and forth across her plump pink nipple and then slowly around. She guides his hand to the tiny knob in the pleat of her shaven vagina. He licks his finger, rubs over and around her clit while interchangeably celebrating each breast. When she feels herself peaking, she moves his arms so she can slink down on his lap, her white skirt falling over his moss-covered thighs. She leans that beautiful face down and for the first time since she started coming to him under the false pretenses of
  39. 39. wanting to learn more Portuguese—what, three days ago—she kisses his mouth. He pulls away from the kiss. She smacks him across the cheek and says, “You will fuck me.” She kisses him again hard. At first he is stiff against her lips, but he acquiesces to her pressure, lets her dominate his mouth. She hovers above him, pulls him into her, stops halfway, gasps, and then continues sliding down until her thighs rest on his. She pauses there for a moment. She has played with dildos and vibrators, but she has never had a man inside her filling her up to the brim like this. He kisses her breasts gently, leaving wet spots. Then he kisses her neck, her chin, her cheeks, her lips. He slips his hands under her ass, pushes her up halfway, then pushes her back down to meet his thighs. She shivers, clutches him; the mixture of pleasure and pain intense. Length she had counted on, but girth, she hadn’t imagined. “Darling, am I the first?” “Yes, Senhor Pássaro,” she whispers into his hair. “You are my first.” “Oh, Ana, dear love.” She kisses his cheek. “Teach me.” A sudden cool breeze kisses the sweat beads on Mr. Pássaro’s face. He can’t stop now, so he starts the momentum again, uses his hands on her hips to pull her up, push her down. Soon enough, she takes over. He closes his eyes. A feeling washes over him, one he hasn’t felt in decades, since his wife’s death. The feeling drives up from his toes clenching in his shoes, moves up his legs, his thighs, and into his pelvis which thrusts against her involuntarily. He holds her freckled back, his massive hands resting one under the other. Is it worth losing everything for? He doesn’t know anymore. He sucks both nipples, one to the other and back again. She moans and leans her beautiful face down to his, dahlia-red hair cascading into his face, matching lashes and brows in color; cornflower colored eyes shining like wet stones in moonlight. He opens his mouth to kiss her. She runs her tongue along his, sucks it into her mouth. He stiffens his tongue, so she can suck as he runs both hands through her hair. Tal paixão, such passion, from a twenty-one-year-old? He thought the flirting and hanging out in his office was to ensure a good grade for her graduation, but all this time she had truly wanted him. He inhales her ambrosia, the smell of her sex, her womanness. He pulls away from the kiss. “Girl,” he screams, tries to pry her off. She clings to him, lies down on his shoulder, clenching her thighs down, pumping, pumping, pumping, releasing tiny whimpers and surprised breaths. The force pushes her flip flops to the floor. He tries to hold out. “Menina!” He wants her to stop so that he can pull out when he cums. She screams in complete ecstasy as if they are young lovers on the banks of the Rhine. The screams turn to cries and the nudity of her weeping strikes in him a feeling that raises him from the bench, from his house, the town, state, earth, universe,
  40. 40. omniverse. He floats off, he flies; he can feel nothing but the crash of fluid from him filling her, and her lips, her lips all over his face. She kisses his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his eyes, finally lingering on his lips. She lies on his shoulder quaking, loving the smell of him, especially the strange, new smell that came from their sex. He stares down at her; the satisfied look on her face sends a shiver into his groin. He is also afraid, afraid of what this will mean for him. “Ana,” he whispers. “Why have you done this?” “Because I love you,” she answers. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Silence. “Menina, you won’t tell anyone, yes?” She nuzzles against his neck and whispers, “Sim.” He says, “Please tell me that you are on birth control.” “Sim,” she says. Thank goodness. He never had any children and he doesn’t plan on having any now, most especially with a recently former student. “Come inside,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” “Sim.” Gloaming falls; blue, red and orange streaked like saturnine rings. Ana suddenly remembers the line to a Celine Dion song, “Here and now is all that matters.” She sings the entire verse aloud. Mr. Pássaro pulls up his clothes when he stands. Ana does not put on her shirt, or her flip flops and she was never wearing any panties. She moves dreamily, slowly. He takes her hand and tugs her inside. There is a kitchen and a living room. Branched off are the bedroom and the bathroom side by side. “Come,” he says. He pulls her into the bathroom. She watches him set up the bath, in an old lion-footed tub. The room fills with steam. He tugs at her skirt. She leans on his shoulders as he lifts each leg out. He guides her into water enhanced with jasmine and rose oil. She lays back, the bath perfect. He strips nude, takes a bar of homemade soap, translucent and slick, slips it up her delicate skin causing a new kind of arousal. She closes her eyes as he washes her arms, her legs, and her feet; lovingly kisses her knees. She hears the soap plop in the water. He runs his rough hand down her body all supple and eager. He slips a finger down her slippery slit and inside. She gasps. “Stand up,” he says. He stands first. His cock bobbles in front of her, stiff with excitement. She wants to take that beautiful shaft in her mouth again, taste their sex. She kneels in the water, grabs his waist, thrusts him into her hot mouth down to the base. She can feel his tumble of hair on her lips. She revels in the taste, swivels her tongue around until she reaches the top. He stumbles forward, moans. She holds his cock with one hand; holds his testes in the other, swirls her tongue around them until he grabs her soaked hair, pulling her off. “Ana,” he breathes. “Let me taste you.”
  41. 41. “Not yet,” she says and gives his tip a playful bite. “Hold it for me,” she demands. He holds it from the base and she bobs up and down on it, and just when she thinks he’s going to explode in her mouth she stops, stands, and climbs out of the tub. “Dry me,” she says. He takes a soft, brown towel and rubs it down her body, drying her beautiful skin. He goes down on his knees. “Put your leg up,” he says. She props her leg on the tub. Mr. Pássaro throws his whole face into her pink. A noise of surprise escapes her. He gets his whole face wet, inhales deeply taking all of her in, then sticks out his long, thick tongue and licks her from her hole to the tip of her clit. She grabs his silver/white mane. He sucks one lip, the other, both. She bucks her hips, thrusting herself into his mouth. He licks around the clit, runs his tongue down both sides, kneels so he is sitting on his feet, takes both hands, pulls her closer, and shoves his tongue inside. He sucks the juice from her, swallows it down. Next, he spreads her supple ass cheeks, puts a finger in her from behind. From the front he slides another finger into her. He thrusts his fingers in and out, while licking her clit. Then he pulls his finger out and shoves his tongue as far up her sweet vag as he can. “My God,” she shouts. Her legs shake as she cries out. This level of orgasm she had never expected, could never achieve alone with her porn and her toys. She bends down to him and feeds from his mouth, licking away her juices. Then, she runs out into the kitchen giggling, hoping that he’ll give chase. Mr. Pássaro corners her at the large wooden kitchen table, shoves everything off, pushes her down on it, cock at attention, gets back on his knees, spreads her ass cheeks and shoves his tongue right into her asshole. He licks up and down to get it moist, then slips two fingers inside. He gets a good motion going; she bucks against him, letting him add a third finger. He pulls his fingers out to give her asshole another good lick, but she turns abruptly. She smells like jasmine, rose, and cum. He pulls her against his face, sucks her bulging clit, while reaching both hands up to knead her breasts. She throws her head back. “Senhor,” she calls into the air above her like a howling wolf, “fuck me, oh God, fuck me.” He pulls her down to the floor onto a plush rug below them. She wraps her arms and legs around him. His hands flow over her face, down her neck, over her shoulders and down her breasts holding his fingertips to her erect nipples, tweaking them just so. She pulls him closer with her legs, moaning in heat. Their hands meet, fingers intertwining. He pulls her onto his lap, enters her all the way to the end of her, and she cries out, her body trembling, clenching her thighs, rolling her toes, her breasts pressing against his chest. He moves inside her, slow, slow, quicker, builds momentum, pulls her up, up. The warmth inside her splashes down, coats him, he pushes hard. She tenses, grabs his face, looks directly into his eyes. He pumps harder. Her mouth opens. She does not make a
  42. 42. sound. Her body grows tense. Then, she becomes fluidity, her limbs limp. He pumps harder, quicker. They meet, on the peak of the mountain, their power equal. They cum together, flesh of flesh, bone of bone, man, woman, they belong…to each other. “Meu amor,” he whispers in her ear, kisses her below it. She places her head in the crook of his neck. He strokes her bare back, kisses her shoulder gently. The last strip of sunlight disappears from the darkening sky.
  43. 43. Ms. T. Garden Backstory: I have extremely sensitive hearing, which makes loud noises a pain, but voices unbelievably pleasurable. Accents, intonation and inflections have a “feel” to them that can cause a sexual response within me. Hearing certain people speak is what I like to call auditorilingus since I have the same response that I do to oral sex. Yep, I can be left in a quivering heap of happiness by the right tone and pitch, especially when discussing the naughty things in life. As sensitive as I am you would think life would be difficult, but normally I can control my response by directing my attention to other things. With one exception, I once had to work closely with someone who excited me, even if we were discussing mundane everyday things. He didn’t do it deliberately, didn’t even know that he did, but it didn’t stop me from needing to carry extra panties when I had to work with him. The Sound of Lust was inspired by a meeting we had that lasted for several hours. We were discussing marketing and how some people took product loyalty to almost slavish lengths. Suffice it to say that I was both relieved and saddened when we no longer had to work together. The Sound of Lust His voice was a dark velvet covering the steel of his will. It spoke of passions and pleasures I had yet to experience. It beckoned with the promise of forbidden delights and transcendent dreams. Willingly, I followed to learn more about that which suddenly had become of the utmost importance. His voice caressed my mind and caused my body to throb with desire and yearning. The timbre to his voice reminds me of the rumble of the lion before he roars. Deep and resonant, chiming a chord within me that makes me vibrate like the finest crystal poised to shatter at any moment. He played me like a fine instrument drawing forth the sweet sounds of his making. My voice changing as I became aroused, the whimpers when the aches are at their sweetest, the panting when I am overwhelmed and swimming in a sea of sensation. To listen to him speak of the mundane is akin to having a full-body massage with all senses on alert trying to determine when the next phase will begin. When he directed that voice to me and spoke words full of sexual purpose and promises, all pretense of my strength was gone. I yielded to him as swiftly as the dew yields to the power of the sun. He was free to create of me anything that he chose. He had but to make his will known and I would fulfill it. I remember the day I became undeniably and irrevocably his slave for life without his having to put a physical collar around my neck or anything else that anyone will ever see.
  44. 44. After three days of being denied release and having him drive me to the brink of orgasm time and time again, I was frantic. I couldn’t bear heavy clothing; my skin was so sensitive. I remember my nipples aching every time I took a breath as they slid within the confines of my bra. I had long since abandoned wearing panties since they kept getting soaked as he teased me and stretched me to the breaking point. I begged him every opportunity I had, careful not to arouse his anger as my suffering and torment brought him such pleasure. When showering, I had to be very careful when going near my throbbing aching clit, walking was a torment, in and of itself. On the third day, he took me to a private place and told me that I was to cum when he spoke a word to me. This word is used to describe the deepest oceans and the clearest skies. As he made me tell him just how badly I wanted him and how ready I was to flood my lady garden on his command, I nearly wept as he kept me on the razor’s edge. He spoke to me of naughty things and future requirements. He wrung from me confessions of my desire for submission. Words like cunt and cock became endearments, and the world was narrowed to what would please The One. He held me enthralled and just when I thought I would not, could not take anymore, he spoke and commanded. With moans through silken scarves and tears in my eyes, I soared to the very skies and plummeted to the deepest depths as my body crashed upon wave after wave of unbelievably intense orgasm. As I lay shuddering, my body still caught in the aftermath of not just the physical release but the total mind fuck by him, he spoke softly to me, pleased with my performance for his pleasure. I basked in his praise and answered him demurely and sweetly. I knew then that he owned me. The thought both aroused and frightened me. What would he ask of me? How far is too far? How much is too much? He has never pushed me farther than I could go, and I trust implicitly that any pain he brings will be for my own good. For his pleasure, I would endure so much more...but that is a story for another time.
  45. 45. Seraphina Ferraro Backstory: This poem was written in a fit of passion after thinking obsessively about kissing my boyfriend while he was out of the house. In a state of absolute distraction, I wrote this in order to get some control over my kiss-ridden mind. It didn’t work, but it felt good to write it and even better to perform it at the Salon. The Kiss jikjkokjkjjklkj it’s all in the kiss, really the first touch of tongue to lips or tongue to tongue and I can tell there’s a telling little pull below of strings being plucked each stroke a strum of fingers on my strings vibrations feeding vibrations that shudder outward skinward loosing goose bumps raising hairs and pushing moans before them like parachutes opening and rising in the heat afterward, when we are lying still the expanse of the bed between us separating the radiating heat that penetrates the skin of the other it all comes back to the kiss it’s not the power of his hands, though those come next rough and barely restrained force squeezing and slapping gasps from me until my breathing only comes in shallow pulses
  46. 46. all to the rhythm of his hands and mouth a rhythm that I know so well but somehow still surprises afterwards, when the impressions of his hands on my skin start to bruise and I stretch into the soreness like a cat aching slow stretches sighs escaping it all comes back to his lips my lips and the minute space between them when he covers my mouth to cover a scream that might just wake the neighbors even more so than the whispered admissions of undying devotion and the constant stream of praise that pours from him prayer-like moans and chants of wonder at the gates of sensation that combined with the sheer weight and size and driving need of him drive me breathless and send me tumbling over precipices afterward, when all we can do is smile and know that our bodies have spoken to our hearts like trumpets in the dawn blowing reveille and our hearts, excited and incensed by all that’s come before slow to a sane rhythm in the hush following frenzy and I swear that I cannot move a muscle in its wake the kiss remains and, slave to its rhythm, at its prompting I will move again Editor’s Note: Seraphina’s reading of this piece sent the audience’s lips in motion, as if being directed by her words.
  47. 47. Barbara Foster Winston Watches We meet weekly Not more Gulp a tasty dinner Tumble into bed Lithe athletes bouncing High as the heavens On our quilted trampoline As we fuck and suck Turn our tails to the cosmic poles Our ecstatic groans Unsettle sheepish Winston Does the human animal’s Bestiality appall him? Flesh a furnace Stoked with come Until, spent, we slide Into the primordial ooze Neglected Winston barks Panting to join us. Backstory: In the seventies I had a mad affair with a Syrian Jewish fellow who lived on Sixth Avenue in a dump. We met once a week, went to a fancy restaurant and went back to his apartment to have wild sex. I think I cared more for his dog, Winston, than for him. Winston was a big, furry sheep dog who got as excited as we did as we made love. He was so friendly, loved to play games and demanded attention all the time. My friend was a great lover in the oral variety. We kept to the same moves each week, which I found thrilling, and we sometimes kept going almost till morning. Winston was our beloved witness, a companion who really became essential to our lovemaking. Our affair went on for quite a while. It ended rather sadly when I went over one night and found out that my lover had put Winston, who was ill, to sleep. I really felt he could have done more to take care of Winston, but I do not think he wanted to spend the money or time. Sad, sad. I miss Winston more than my lover.
  48. 48. Barbara Foster Benares Sandalwood beads recall stinking Benares Intoxicated, moonless night, I flew heavenward On your cock, aromatic, enlightened “Little,” not big death, came. Under crisp sheets, we worshipped Shiva, Vishnu, the monkey god, Voyeurs of our cosmic dance. Blissed out, we forgot corpses Wrapped in Karma packages, gifts to Mother Ganges celestial microbes Reborn in sacramental pee. Turn magic wheel, bring back that infinite night Your sari silk tongue licked my toes Saliva from your Nirvana lips drenched Flesh seared to the soul. Tonight, far from saddhu-sodden waters I writhe on lonely sheets Hug still scented beads, Convinced, we’ll be lovers Next time around. Backstory: In Benares in the eighties I had a mad affair, one of many during the time I spent in the holiest of holy cities. I went to India to do research on a biography of Alexandra David-Neel, the explorer of Tibet who snuck into forbidden Lhasa. I couldn’t
  49. 49. concentrate on my research—distracted by handsome Indians who claimed to be skilled in the Tantric arts of love. While David-Neel studied esoteric philosophy, the first to bring this material to the West, I studied the bedroom arts and learned quite a bit. In fact, India and my tryst in Benares, was a high point in my erotic education. In India, sex took on a mystical quality because of the long tradition that has continued to the modern day. These days, I so much miss India, the fragrant nights, the orgasms that seemed to soar to the heavens to pay homage to the Indian gods and goddesses. How lucky I was to experience this ecstasy, which I will never forget.
  50. 50. Riccardo Berra Backstory: Perfect bodies in a perfect setting, entwined in perfect lovemaking—this is a sort of erotic mainstay. Since the real world, in which most of us live, is never perfect, Ricc and I are more often drawn to stories about ordinary people in all-too familiar situations and relationships. Add the chemistry of sex, heat with a little imagination and the reaction can be even sexier than the wildest fantasy scenario. So welcome to our little experiment in “the realm of the senses” where we try to seduce you into forgetting you are “just” reading. We want you, a red-faced, heavy-breathing voyeur in a situation you could all too easily find yourself in. This is the main reason why we think erotica deserves a great deal more respect than it gets and why we support Susana Mayer’s work so much. No other genre has as much potential to move and open lines of communication between men and women on so many levels with so many variations. If Ricc’s “real-to-life” erotica or any other fancy moves you, do drop us a line at lamante@writeme.com. We both live for your response. An earlier version of this story appeared in ERWA’s Best of 2010, http://www.erotica-readers.com/GD/TC- SS/Its_So_Much_Easier.htm for those of you who find it instructive to see the choices made when a work is edited for an anthology like this. Without further ado. It’s So Much Easier When You’re Away A mental snapshot. Ten-year-old Callie, shrieking, jumps into my arms, bony fawn legs locked above my waist. “Daddeeee, I missed you so much. Did you miss me?” Her arch little smile, so sure of her feminine wiles, even at this tender age. “I missed you so much, princess; I missed the very air around you.” I make vacuum cleaner sucking sounds. She squeals then wriggles from me as towhead monster Mark Jr., swaggers in. The action toy he clutches mimics his gait. He ignores my open arms. “I got the new red Power Rangers.” He thrusts it in his sister’s face; she swats it from his grasp. The toy sails onto the couch. They run upstairs shrieking at each other. “A little help!” Next shot. Reflexive scowl stamped on her features, Ellen, my 42-year-old martyr wife, pushes a suitcase through the door as if it contains lead ingots. She insinuates with body language alone how much of a shit I am. I’m judged and found wanting oh, maybe a thousand times a day. Lately for good cause. My faults pile and cling like wet leaves to the marital headstone.

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