Well, it worked. You guys are awesome. I got a steady stream of erotica theme ideas from you all of last week and they were definitely inspiring! Thank you for all the great ideas. I may well use more of them for writing fodder in the future. For now, though, this week I wrote up seven short-short stories which I am calling “smutlets.” They each took between five and fifteen minutes, no more. I read three of them tonight at the Boston launch party for Issue 2 of Salacious Magazine to some very kind applause. And money. I’ve never had money tossed at me at a reading before, but I could get used to it. And I didn’t even have to take off my clothes!
As promised, I’m posting all of this week’s stories below, each prefaced with the theme idea that inspired it and with thanks to the person who submitted that idea. Warning! They are explicit, at least some of them – so if you’re not up for reading smut, stop now. For the rest of you… I hope you enjoy. If you don’t like one, scroll down a paragraph or two and try the next one!
Innocence (Thanks Kitty!)
She’d never found innocence to be particularly sexy. It was always so much more interesting when the person she was currently pursuing was in fact older and more experienced than herself. That way, she could be relatively certain that he or she would be unlikely to find her exotic tastes entirely surprising; she would not put someone off by the sheer force of her imagination. Consequently, she’d never attempted to demonstrate any sort of innocence herself. In fact she had endeavoured, since age 12 or thereabouts, to be as worldly as possible. Even when it meant engaging in sexual antics that were not particularly to her immediate taste, she made a point of trying just about everything at least twice, sometimes three times, before deciding whether or not she’d add it to her growing list of proclivities. Knowledge, after all, was power.
But this one, the gray-haired dyke she’d spotted hanging out at the hotel bar at lunchtime, appeared to be of a different sort. In fact the woman looked oddly familiar, and Elizabeth realized it was because the woman’s face had appeared in the paper not terribly long ago. She was a private college teacher and had been brought up on charges of sexually harassing a young female student. Barely eighteen. It had all blown over fairly quickly, but not before her face had been plastered on the front page—turns out the girl’s parents were very short on tuition payments and, in a display of shameful cowardice mixed with the confidence that homophobia would still be effective in 2011, had concocted the whole accusation as a way of trying to get out of their debt. But Elizabeth sensed there might be some truth to the story.
Thank goodness she’d grown her hair. Thank goodness there was a secondhand store just down the block, where she’d managed to quickly find a kilt and a burgundy blazer. Thank goodness she could pitch her voice a little higher than it naturally fell, widen her eyes a bit, pretend to be young and shy. She was only 25, so it wasn’t too terribly much of a stretch.
She waited outside the bar. Innocent young things didn’t hang about inside places like that. She pretended to read a battered copy of The Catcher In the Rye she’d snapped up at the bookstore on the corner. She made sure her lipstick was shiny and pink—no blood-red today. She made sure her kilt revealed just enough thigh. She made sure to drop her book just as the grey-haired dyke stepped out of the bar.
The old dyke was innocent. But Elizabeth? Not a chance.
Unreachable (Thanks Matthew!)
I tried to call you. I swear I did. First your land line, two or three times. Then I realized it was Wednesday night so you might be at poker night with your friends. So I tried your cell phone. I left a message, but I know you don’t usually check them. I called twice more. Then I texted. “Met someone. Want to get to know them. Please call.” No response. By that time she was pressing herself into me, and my back was up against the bar. I broke the first rule, I let her kiss me, I knew you might be mad but her lips were chiselled and smooth like warm stone and her tongue just melted inside my mouth and I couldn’t stop myself.
I made an excuse, I went to the bathroom, took my phone with me. I looked you up on Facebook, waited the agonizing seconds as I pissed hard and hot and the app took forever to load. I found your profile, sent you a message there. “Situation dire. Please call. So turned on.” For good measure I also DMed you on Twitter: “Trying to respect our rules. Please call.”
By the time I got back to the bar, that song was playing, you know the one that really gets me going. And she was there waiting, with her mouth still wet and her fingers curling impatiently, waiting to dart under my skirt. And they did. Right there at the bar, she slid them up under the fabric and fucked me, and I let her, I let her do it, and she did it fast and skilfully, and I moaned in her ear and came with her two fingers hooked inside my cunt and her thumb pressed just hard enough against my clit. She pulled out and licked my juices off before taking another sip of whiskey and kissing me with the burning liquid still in her mouth.
I swear I tried. I didn’t want to break our rules. But she was so damn hot, and I tried for seven whole minutes, and you were just unreachable.
Sexy male librarian (Thanks Tomasz!)
It was always especially nice when they came with specialized training. The carpenter had done wonders in her kitchen; the mechanic had her motorcycle purring like new after the first two visits. But she’d never expected to get the chance to enjoy the services of a hunky man with a master’s degree in library science.
Too bad he was gay. On extended loan to her from his master, who was working abroad for his straight job for a year and unable to justify bringing his boy-toy along. So, by all rights, hers to use as she pleased. But yes—gay as the day is long, and none too fond of women, either.
Still, that was hardly sufficient to deter her from fully enjoying her new toy. She told him he was expected every Sunday afternoon at four for two hours of service. His task? To design and implement a cataloguing system for her extensive and eclectic library on sexuality and gender. If he performed it to her satisfaction, she would reward him with a treat. That his “treat” was at least as much her own was none of his affair. His new mistress, of course, held the key to the cock cage imposed by his master that kept him from beating his meat the other six days of the week. So really, it was best that he concentrate.
He hated her.
The first time, after dealing with the biographies and autobiographies, he earned a half-hour of simple masturbation, under her watchful eye. The second week, working on the pre-1940 sexology section, he performed his task in nothing but a rope harness and a rather uncomfortably large butt plug, after which he was permitted an attempt at self-fellation. He failed, predictably. That’s what you get for including Kinsey, he snarled at himself later that night as he performed an online search for nearby yoga studios.
The third and fourth weeks, he did well enough with the French erotica and the Japanese bondage porn, and was permitted to masturbate to near-orgasm three times each before she allowed him, finally, a blessed explosion. The fourth time, thanks to his deft distinction between the traditional and the modern Japanese-American hybrid styles, she was even so kind as to carefully place clamps on his nipples and rip them off at precisely the moment he lost control, so the sweet pain sent him over the edge. He could almost begin to forget she was a woman, with that disgusting gash between her legs, so badly did he begin to crave the release she offered.
And then, one day, when he arrived, she had him strip, administered an enema (oh, the painful, delicious fullness, and the utter humiliation of having it provided by a feminine hand) and waited until he was clean and dry. When he reached the library, naked but for the cock cage, there were five other men in it already. Thick-bodied, muscular, dark-haired men.
His mouth began to water.
“Get it right, you’ll be fucked into next week,” she explained. “Make a mistake, and they’ll fuck each other while you watch, and you’ll be sent home untouched.”
And, with a grin, she set him to work on the female arousal and anatomy section, and settled in to watch.
Surprise! (Thanks Nick!)
Even if he knew it was coming, even when he’d done everything short of beg for it, the slap always felt like a surprise. It made his breath catch in his throat, his ears ring ever so faintly, his skin tingle and redden.
Malcolm was usually so reserved. When Jay had first met him, he’d been dressed in a grey suit, a pale blue shirt, a conservative tie. Their first few dates had been traditional almost to the point of being quaint—a Fellini film, dinner at the Carlton, the new season’s ballet. Jay never would have expected Malcolm to have a wild side. Well, he wasn’t really that wild. Not for him the whips and chains; the only leather he wore was his autumn coat, a rich chestnut brown lined in fine silk. But he was… well, something, all right.
His first surprise came a few months into their relationship. They were well on their way to moving in together. They were getting together for dinner and Jay, for the third time that week, had forgotten to bring the wine. Only this time, they’d had two conversations about it already, and Jay had promised he wouldn’t do it again. Not only that, but it was Emma’s birthday—Malcolm’s sister—and Malcolm had ferreted out her favourite grape, and asked Jay to pick up a bottle as a surprise for her. When Jay showed up empty-handed, Malcolm’s jaw set and those little lines formed between his eyes. Jay instantly felt terrible, and began to apologize profusely. Malcolm told him to stop. “I don’t want to hear any more apologies,” he said in a clipped tone.
Jay moved in closer. “I’ll make it up to you,” he said. “I’m so sorry, I—“
And he was abruptly cut off by Malcolm’s palm as it connected, quick and hard, with his jaw. Jay was so shocked he immediately fell silent. Malcolm’s face fell, and a look of horror began to dawn in his eyes. But Jay was at least partly in shock because, as the crack of skin against skin still reverberated in the air, he was realizing that his cock had sprung up so desperately hard it was almost painful.
“Oh my god,” said Malcolm. “Jay, I didn’t mean… I’m so…”
But Jay interrupted him, managing to choke out the word “Please…” before falling to his knees and fumbling at Malcolm’s fly. As he tongued the head of Malcolm’s cock and felt it begin to swell in his mouth, his thoughts raced. What the hell was this about? But all he could really focus on was his overwhelming need to swallow Malcolm’s cock, to take it deep down his throat where it belonged, to milk it of its seed, to atone. To atone.
Malcolm spurted against Jay’s palate, and the hot jet of fluid was met with a second one, as Jay’s cock convulsed in his pants without so much as a single stroke. Just then, the buzzer rang. Emma had arrived, and Jay escaped to the bedroom to change into a pair of Malcolm’s trousers before slipping out to the wine store for exactly the right bottle.
They never talked about it. Months went by. But it happened again. And over eight years, it kept happening. Sometimes twice in a month. Sometimes a year between. Every time, the sharp, lightning crack of Malcolm’s sure hand. Every time, Jay’s aching need to make up for a wrong, to please, to satisfy. The act became a ritual. But the slap always came by surprise.
Something accidental (Thanks Anika!)
It happened by accident. She ordered the coffee, the server spilled it in a moment of carelessness. There was fumbling, apologizing. The offer of a towel, a firm request for help, a trip to the bathroom. And now they were squeezed into a too-small, neon-lit box, uncomfortably close but still more awkward than the situation really warranted. A soaked shirt was removed, a black lace bra looked cheap in the bad lights. The scent of artificially floral soap was too pungent in the tiny space, the sink was too cramped. She caught the smell of the server’s sweat, nervousness. There was more fumbling. Another apology. And quickly, a kiss. The taste of a new mouth. A release of breath. A groan. A knee gently parting legs, hips coming together, denim against food-stained polyester, tongue stud clicking lip ring, tattoos brushing black and red and turquoise against one another. Smooth palm to shaved scalp, chipped nails against a hard back. A button released, a zipper peeling down like the sound of paper tearing. Brisk fingers sank into juicy flesh, past short-trimmed hair, deeper in, catching metal, plunging past. A groan climbed high near a sensitive ear. Fast thrusting. A word or two, just enough, and a flat, wiry belly clenched between a wall and a soft-curved hip. She didn’t leave a tip.
Hot wax (Thanks Aurora!)
The hot wax dripped against her back, burning like liquid fire, cooling instantly but leaving a tingling, wet sensation behind. Hot pain, trickle, breathe. Hot pain, trickle, breathe. A rhythm began to take hold. She imagined that the wax would soon cover her entire body, a gradual, painstaking envelopment, like being slowly bound in a carefully woven cocoon. She felt the waxen coat begin to form. Hot pain, trickle, breathe. Each tiny flash of heat began to melt into the next one, with the piercing feeling of each new burn overlapping with the blissful relief as the last one dissipated, until her skin felt like a single exposed organ beating to the time of the drips. The melted-together sensations turned into a blur, a floating, a running together. Her body was being encased, bit by bit. Her waist, her arms. Drip after drip. Hot pain, trickle, hot, breathe, trickle, pain, hot. Breathe, breathe. Breathe. Elbows, wrists, fingertips. The soles of her feet. Her scalp, her eyes, the base of her throat, the backs of her thighs. Soon there was no more skin. No sound. Her body was coated, bound, encased, but the rest of her was reborn. Her wings unfurled, she broke free, she stretched. Stood at the edge and leapt. The blur of sensation was an ocean, an empty sky, it became nothingness. She soared, she swam. She left her hardened shell behind. When later on he peeled it off her, using the flat of a knife blade and the tip of a whip, all dominant and demanding, he discovered, much to his dismay, that she was no longer there.
Loud high heels (Thanks Ruth!)
The sound is kind of like a click, or a snap, or maybe a quick hard slap. She remembers when she first discovered the power of that sound, the authority it conveyed. She’d been all of eight years old, with brand new shoes, the kind with the hard plastic soles that made a noise when she walked, unlike the sneakers she was used to. She had left French class with a hall pass, and on the way back from the bathroom, the rap of her heels on the flecked fake-granite floor made another kid jump and look up from his locker with a guilty face. Oh, she realized. He thought I was a teacher. And he was afraid.
From that point onward she asked her mother for only the hard plastic soles. By ten, she’d taught herself to walk with firmer, more certain steps, to take up space in the hallway. At twelve, she stole her mother’s patent leather pumps—already a size too small—and practiced on the patio, learning to trust the heel, learning to flex her ankles, tuck in her belly, hold her shoulders back and her head high. At sixteen, she bought her first pair of three-inchers. By eighteen it was four. By twenty, those twin four-inch spikes had found their way down dark staircases and into dank dungeons, supporting her stride across lumpy concrete floors and, for a few months after she left home and needed some cash, the gleaming marble tiles of some of the most expensive hotel lobbies in the city.
By twenty-four, the heels that cracked the silence of a night-time sidewalk as easily as they clicked against the hardwood floors of the design firm office had also found their way into softer places, like the depths of a rectum, the wet pink of a willing mouth or two, and even, by twenty-six, the occasional dripping cunt. She became a collector. She built extra shelves into her closet. She learned to stretch her hamstrings. She forgot that she was only five foot three. She found the word “femme.”
The sound is kind of like a click, or a snap, or maybe a quick hard slap. It reminds her that she has every right—every fucking right in the world—to walk without fear.