Archive for the 'Microfiction' Category

Microfiction: After the Flood, by Amber MacFall

Friday, September 20th, 2013

After the Flood, by Amber MacFall

“Why is it,” Nicolai grimaced, brushing vampire dust off his sleeve, “that if God sent the Flood to rid the world of monsters, there are still so many here?”

                “Well,” replied Valeriya, recovering her stake and giving it an idle flip before sheathing it, “many did die in the Flood. Most of the magical beasts did as well, most famously the unicorn, but some creatures didn’t care about the rising waters–sea monsters, of course, preferred it that way. We’re just lucky they didn’t find the Ark,” she mused with a quirk of her full, red lips. “It would have made a tasty meal for a kraken, and then where would we be?”

                She sidled up close to him as she spoke, seductive as always after a kill. He had only known her three weeks, and every time they hunted, it ended the same way. That was just one more reason he would follow her anywhere, and it didn’t hurt that her ferocity in battle was matched in the bedroom.

                That is, when they made it to a bedroom. Right now, for example, she was sinking down onto the dusty ground, fingers already busy with his zipper. Her beautiful smooth face, framed by golden hair, shone in the light of the pale gibbous moon as she looked up at him before taking his stiffening cock into her mouth. Breath catching in his throat, he wound his hands into that hair, fingers tightening as she moved her head slowly down the length of him, but his thoughts continued unabated.

                “And vampires?” he asked, nodding at the drifting piles of dust around them that caught the moonlight. “Did Noah save the wrong bat, or something?”

                She pulled back, rolling her eyes at him. “No,” she said with exaggerated patience. “But what do the undead care for flooding? They don’t need to breathe. Besides, most of these would have been made after the Flood.”

                Nicolai frowned pensively for a moment, though he almost lost his train of thought as she ran her tongue around the head of his cock and began to suck him again. He knew he should let it go and enjoy the myriad pleasures of her attention–especially since she had a tendency to use her teeth when she felt he was getting too distracted–but something about the question continued to nag at him.

                “Ok,” he finally said, a note of challenge in his voice. “Werewolves. I’d think Noah would notice a couple of wolf-men on his boat.”

                Valeriya smiled up at him, teeth glinting white in the darkness, and he suddenly remembered the last time she had bitten him. It couldn’t have been more than a week ago, and it had certainly pulled his attention back in a hurry–that was the first time she had drawn blood. And she’s about to do it again, if I keep this up, he thought, but she only tightened her grip on him as she replied.

                “There were no wolf-men, no,” she conceded, still smiling up at him. He could see the moon reflected in her night-dark eyes. “But there were wolves.”

                He blinked at her. “You mean–”

                “Of course,” she interrupted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The male was plain old Canis lupus, but the female… She was a werewolf, one of the oldest. Once the waters receded, she set about creating a pack, and her descendants spread across the earth, mingling with humans but always answering the call of the moon.”

                “But–” Nicolai stammered, pulling slightly away from her. “How do you know all this?”

                Instead of answering, she pulled him down beside her with strength that easily outmatched his own. With practiced ease, she laid him out on the ground, wrestling off his ash-dusted jeans before sliding down her own skin-tight leathers and mounting him. Her sex pressed warm and wet against his cock as she straddled his hips, her hands hard against his shoulders as she leaned down to kiss him. It was a devouring kiss, sharp and hungry, and the movement of her body against his made him just as hungry as she. He was used to her savagery in bed, but this time he found himself matching it, rising up beneath her to seize his own kiss from those dark red lips.

                She leaned into him, hips grinding against his as she pressed him back down. Growling deep in his throat, Nicolai twisted, rolling her onto her back in one smooth motion. He held her down with his own growing strength, finally sinking his whole long length into her with a groan. Valeriya gasped, clutching at him with such urgency that her nails carved deep furrows into his back. The pain only drove him on, and he began to thrust harder, all the bloodlust of their hunt returning to boil in his veins. Beneath him, Valeriya met him with equal fervor, bucking against him with quickly rising cries of passion.

                He howled as he came, the sound primal and fierce. Valeriya threw back her head in a wild laugh as she reached her own climax, lean body arched. Nicolai collapsed beside her as they both shuddered into stillness, panting. After a moment, Valeriya rolled to lie half on top of him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. He felt soft lips press against the side of his throat, just above the point where his pulse still pounded beneath the skin. Her touch made his cock stir yet again, and he turned his head to stare into her gleaming dark eyes.

                “All these nights–” he gasped. “What are you doing to me?”

                “Don’t worry,” she murmured, still nuzzling his neck. “You’ll understand everything at the next full moon.”

Amber MacFall is a reader, writer, and lover of both erotic and speculative fiction. She lives in small-town Massachusetts and can be found online at


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Microfiction: Point Man, by Cecilia Tan

Friday, September 13th, 2013

Point Man
by Cecilia Tan

There is a fatal flaw in the plan which only I know, but I can’t tell them this. In a gang of spies I have to be even more secretive than the rest. I have to game the gamers.

They think the plan is brilliant, and it is, in its way. We have the codes to infiltrate the mech suits of the enemy soldiers. We have the technology to engage their pleasure centers, their visual cortex, their imaginations. We have it all set up.

The technohorde of Darr will come charging over the hill in a matter of minutes. They think we are ready for them. Kyra is already writhing on the makeshift bed behind me. When the times comes, she will spread her legs, and every man in the Darr army will smell the scent of her, see her hot and ready before them. The higher ups expect this will stop them right in their tracks. We already have the telemetry on their cocks. We know the Darr go into battle ragingly hard. Two thousand straining hard-ons to tear down the walls of the city.

Kyra is brave. No one knows for sure if she can survive, even with all the buffering we have in place, the network backlash of being simultaneously fucked by two thousand battle-crazed Darr.

But there is something the higher ups do not know. Something they will not face. Something about our enemy they are blind to.

It is not Kyra these men are hard for.

“I’m going to the head,” I say, as I saunter out of the ready room and into the bathroom. I lock the door behind me.

I slip the network interface out of my pocket. I must time it right, inserting my own signal just before hers, if this is going to work.

If it does, the entire horde will be wiped out by our army and the city shall be saved. But I am a dead man anyway. My kind are not tolerated.

No one will call me brave.

I spread my legs and wait for two thousand men to fuck me.

Cecilia Tan is the founder of Circlet Press and the author of many erotic books and short stories. Details at

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Microfiction: Journeyman, by Cèsar Sanchez Zapata

Friday, August 30th, 2013

Journeyman, by Cèsar Sanchez Zapata


Last August, my daughter, Liliana, turned three. That same month she made her first friend. A man as fate should have it—depicted with frosty hair and a bent nose in her school drawings. All at once, the house bristled with stories of this stranger; it seemed Liliana would speak of nothing else. One evening over dinner, she confessed to her mother that the man called himself Langdon. And Dahlia’s breath caught in her throat.

Liliana claimed he was sitting in the empty chair beside Mommy.

Leo’s are naturally innovative people, spontaneous and prone to flights of fancy—Dahlia read that in an astrology book while she was pregnant with Liliana. If she’d been any more open to the opinions of others, thus becoming uneasy by contagion, Dahlia might have enlisted the help of a shrink. This quack would have espoused notions of imaginary companions manifested physically to serve as mere tutelary in play. A normal, in fact integral part of many children’s lives, particularly an only-child, in order to alleviate stress, nervousness, loneliness.

In this particular case, child psychology proves useless. The answer is more fundamental than creative license. The solution lays in the metaphysical. A traveler cannot present himself within two streams of consciousness simultaneously in a three-dimensional world. It’s a basic principle of dimension slips, just as identical fermions cannot occupy the same quantum state at the same time. The human mind requires the faculty to discern multiverses, manifold scales of overlapping particles, in order for synchronic subsistence to be possible.

In layman’s terms: No ménage-a-trois for journeymen.

I loved to watch Dahlia paint, and not just because she preferred to paint naked. There was a calming effect to her nudity, a serenity. Erotic and effortless and innate. When she was through, she glanced about at the fruit of her labor. The walls were smeared in dabs of sponged blue and white to resemble an afternoon sky. I could see the room’s blueprints flashing across her hazel eyes. The crib would go there. The ivory wardrobe tucked in that corner. The bookshelf filled with the world of Dr. Seuss over yonder.

                “Aren’t you going to tell me what you think?”

She always felt my presence, long before I made myself seen. Matter turned inconsequential on the fringes of a portal. She said it was like a lover’s first penetration. That was the subatomic condensing effected by one spatial point on the other. Dimensions curled up in a knot at the point of entry, if only for a moment. Atoms and molecules became pliable, capable of being manipulated like a batch of children’s Play-Doh.

She stood with her back to me, her body sinewy and luscious. Before too long, the child within would be noticeable. She dropped to her knees, then, and grabbed an aluminum can off the floor, rapidly lifting and tilting it high in the air above her head. The blue paint spread along the strands of hair, over her forehead, down her shoulders, adhering to neither. It moved with the viscosity of water over her eyes and lips, except she wasn’t left wet. Finally, it wound around her midsection, taking shape like a metallic, skin-tight mini dress suspended high on her velvet thighs, sweeping sharply below her cleavage.

“You missed me, honey,” Dahlia said.

I’d missed her like hell.

She was the first girl I kissed. The one that introduced nudity to me. The first woman whose flesh I felt, warm against mine. The word fellatio wasn’t in my dictionary prior to that morning in her parents’ shower. I still can’t lather my head without working up an erection. She was the woman who took my virginity. She was the woman I’d come to love.

A woman not of my world, not of my physical plane. I’d found her as a boy not much older than Liliana, only just learning to travel between dimensions, only just learning that the speed of light could be exceeded and relativistic limitations were malleable. The universal wave function is much like tuning a radio dial—each person has his or her own frequency, and there are few with wavelengths concentrated enough to traverse quantum structures.

“Do you think the baby will like it?” she said.

I stepped out from within the wall; the molecules realigned behind me in ripples. My arms, legs, torso—were covered entirely in blue, my hair matted down in long, thick coils around my neck. My cock jutted forth, slick from the paint and oozing clear. She swung back, smile as brilliant as the day she’d told me I was to be a daddy. I stroked my knuckles on her cheek, soothed the hot flesh at her nape, then drew my fingers down, slicing through the blue gloss between her breasts. I spread the paint away; it went without resistance, revealing tiny, rose-peaked nipples, unveiling the soft furrow of her pussy. The firmness of her backside.

We made love on the floor of the nursery, pressed tightly to one another, wrapped in our bodies and united, cock to cunt, much like our planes of existence had become one. She purred into my ear after her orgasm emptied her.  

“It was you, wasn’t it? In the drawings?”

“She’s beautiful, Dahlia. And smart as a whip. Just like you said.”

“About time you finally met your daughter. I trust you won’t take so long to meet your son after he’s born?”

I stiffened, as if another orgasm were suddenly gripping the pit of my stomach. “I haven’t long…” I gasped.

With one hand she touched the side of my face, and with the other, tenderly caressed her belly. “I’ve decided on a name.”

I felt my essence crumbling, cell particles breaking up and dark energy bleeding between the cracks to hold my form steady through the wormhole.

“I’m calling him Langdon,” she said, wistfully watching me fade. “After his father.”

Cèsar Sanchez Zapata’s truest passion is conjuring prurient fantasies of erotic bliss, the dirtier the better. In recent years, he has had stories published in many different erotic anthologies, under a number of aliases.

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Microfiction: The Battle of Cypress Gulf, by Benji Bright

Friday, August 23rd, 2013

The Battle of Cypress Gulf, by Benji Bright

Koh opens his eyes in a panic and reaches for the blade at his side. The holster is empty. The blade is gone. It takes a long moment of cold dread before he remembers where he is. But he can’t recall exactly what has happened. His sword is gone and he is alone.


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Microfiction: A Better Mousetrap, by D. Mark Alderton

Friday, August 16th, 2013

A Better Mousetrap, by D. Mark Alderton

“You realize, of course, that every new invention quickly gets adapted for sex,” said the Doorway ® saleman.

                Benson was unconvinced. “There’s a Doorway ® not two blocks from here. Anyone on the Hundred Planets can easily make their way here. Why do I need one in the store?”

                “Think about it. From the invention of the printing press on, as soon as something was operable, the next thing it was used for was sex. Sure Gutenberg printed a Bible. What else do you think was in his catalog? Alexander Graham Bell summoned Watson with the first phone call. The second one was just heavy breathing. From movies to the internet to brain implants, mankind’s lust for knowledge is only exceeded by its plain lust.”

                “Yeah, yeah,” replied the proprietor of Benson’s Sex Emporium. “I repeat, why do I need my own Doorway ®? My customers aren’t ashamed to come here.”

                The salesman noted that Benson hadn’t said no. He was saying that he hadn’t heard anything to convince him to change his mind. “Look, you have back rooms here?”

                “A fine sex outlet this would be without back rooms. We have a dozen of them, comfortably outfitted with view screens and furniture, completely sanitized after every use.”

                “May I see one?”

                Benson escorted the salesman through the shelves of holographic porn vids and do-it-yourself sex toy kits towards the back rooms. As they entered the darkened hallway there was a hint of an ocean breeze, although Pleasure City was completely land-locked. “Nice,” said the salesman. “Real classy.”

                They entered one of the rooms. There was a cushioned bench with adjustable sides, a video screen, and soft carpeting. The walls on either side had holes at about crotch level. “Oh, dear,” said the salesman.

                “What?” demanded Benson, who did not appreciate his management being impugned.

                “Glory holes? In this day and age?”

                “I cater to a clientele that appreciates the value of anonymity. Our customers are guaranteed a safe and no strings attached experience. That’s what they pay for.”

                The salesman then did something surprising. He opened his case and took out what appeared to be another video screen and attached it to the wall. He turned it on and a low humming could be heard, but nothing appeared on the screen.

                “What’s that supposed to be?”
                “It’s a Mini-Doorway ®.”


                “A Mini-Doorway ®. Now I’d like you test it out. If you’d be so kind as to stick your dick through the screen.”

                Benson looked at the salesman as if he was mad. “Trust me,” the salesman continued. “It’s perfectly safe.”

                Not really knowing why, but now curious what this was going to be about, Benson dropped his pants and stuck his flaccid penis through the screen. It was immediately enveloped by the warmest, tightest and most pleasurable enclosure he had ever experienced. “What the…”

                “Take your time. Enjoy it.”

                Benson was getting the greatest blow job of his life. A tongue – if that’s what it was – was wrapping itself around his member the way no tongue ever had. The tension built slowly but increased with each moment.

                “Who is he…? She…? It…?”

                Suddenly Benson thrust himself against the wall and held himself on the brink, before finally experiencing an orgasm that would spoil him for all others for some time to come. The salesman slipped out of the room to give the owner time to collect himself.

                Ten minutes later Benson, his pants back up, was signing the purchase agreement. “Of course, I’ll be wanting two dozen.”

                The salesman raised an eyebrow. “But you only have twelve rooms.”

                “Each with two opposing walls.”

                It took a moment but then the salesman smiled. “I like the way you think, Mr. Benson.”

                “Not as much as my customers will,” he replied.



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Microfiction: The Wolverine’s Lampshade, by Alicia E. Goranson

Friday, August 9th, 2013

The Wolverine’s Lampshade, by Alicia E. Goranson

Joshua loves Maxwell, the taxidermist down on Maple in White Sulphur Springs. The shop is filled with warm, soft animals frozen in fearsome poses, each with an internal heater to pump the artificial blood underneath. Joshua has been begging Maxwell to take his craft to the next step.

Oh, how Maxwell has wanted to do just that. That kid Joshua is a sweetie: a real puppy dog, an inquisitive fox, and a darling snuggle bear. But no. Maxwell has been saving his finest specimen from the Highway Commission for this project; a prize wolverine pelt, from one of the largest mustelids ever found on record.

Joshua is amazed when Maxwell invites him over to offer him the present. Maxwell grins and switches on the pelt’s internal receptors. “Do you like it?” he says.

What else can Joshua say, but “Yes, yes sir, oh yes”? Joshua lifts the gentle fur from the dummy and slides his arms into the lovely shell. Maxwell nuzzles the tender neck and inhales the tawny fur and the musk emerging from below where Joshua has grown hard.

Joshua growls and snarls as the most vicious beast caged as Maxwell takes his cock in hand. No weird gadget is needed to pump the juices from this animal. Joshua is enough of a machine inside. He is the stuffing, filled with need and he cannot remain still for long.

“Stay there,” Maxwell says. “Good toys remain still.” He plunges his mouth over Joshua’s lovely trembling cock. The suit’s receptors sense Joshua’s arousal and the light in the wolverine’s head shines bright, and brighter still.

In and out, in and out, Maxwell inhales the lovely cock, squeezing every last drop from its feral beauty.

Snap. Fizzle. The hips tremble and thrust. The light in the wolverine’s maw breaks from Joshua’s pleasure.

“Good toy,” Maxwell says and swallows. “Good light. My finest creation. If only you could become a better lamp stand, you could remain hard forever. Perhaps I should perform more experiments on you, my lovely, lovely boy.”

Joshua is proud to oblige.

Alicia E. Goranson is a Seattle-based writer of outsider fiction. Her novel Supervillainz is a 2006 Lambda Literary Award finalist. Her audio drama The Mask of Inanna won the 2012 Parsec Award for Best Speculative Fiction Audio Drama (Long Form). Her website is No, she wasn’t on “Roseanne”.




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Microfiction: Time Heals All, by Jez Patterson

Friday, August 2nd, 2013

Time Heals All, by Jez Patterson

                “Take off your clothes,” Ajala said from the top of the steps and Mikael removed his robes. The sight of him thrilled her the same way it had done from the very first occasion she’d met him. Seeing him harden, watching him almost double over to contain his desire, she worried again that she had not just met him but seduced him, and nibbled her lip. “Please relax, Mikael.”

                But it was no good. On initiation, monks received a treatment that permanently removed every hair from their bodies. It left them smooth, impossibly sensual. And then they were told they would never enjoy another person’s touch, let alone a lover’s. The Order so deliberate in its torture. She had led him away from all that. Ajala, the Pleasure-girl, had fallen in love with a monk from the Highstar Monastery. The hypocrisy. The sheer nerve to think that she deserved happiness from such a quarter…      

                Ajala had already grown wet in anticipation of him inside her, but that sensation still remained a fantasy. Mikael possessed the same innocence of an adolescent on the verge of losing his virginity and their attempts to consummate their love had ended prematurely every time. The pink, swollen head of his penis was trembling, already close to coming. His face matched it in colour, agonised that he would fail her again. Her heart beat harder: Mikael’s discomfort didn’t excite her as it might have once done, nor did this terrible power she had to bring him to this state. Her lip began to bleed.

                There were drugs one could give, those she had slipped into the hands of nervous teenagers who had come to her to lose their own virginity in the past. But it left the recipient feeling detached, hard but numb. She had no intention of adding her first experience with Mikael to those of the clients she had left behind.

                “Here, I have a present for you.” She stepped down and strapped the watch to his wrist, his penis jumping as her fingertips barely grazed his forearm. He moaned as he felt himself lose control once more, frustrated tears actually squeezing onto his cheeks. “No. Lie down, husband,” she said.

                He did and for a moment the cool slabs beneath his buttocks eased the heat in his crotch. She removed her own robe, shucking it from her shoulders so it caressed her body on the way down and pooled at her feet. She lifted one leg over him and squatted down, holding his eyes with her own, and wrapped warm fingers round the shaft of his penis. He gasped but her other hand went to the watch and clicked the first, red button.

                Time slowed and she slid down onto him until her buttocks rested on his thighs, the delicious length of him filling her. She held him there, concentrating on letting her own muscles stay supple so he could penetrate as deep as possible.

                Though the watch slowed time for his body, his mind was left unaffected. It was the beauty of the device, the specifications she had demanded from the woman who had made it for her. His penis throbbed slowly inside her, the sensation still lividly acute for him, but now contained by time. She took his hands, placed them on her breasts, moving them so the hard peak of her nipples traced circles on his palms. Matching their rhythm, she lifted up her rump, slowly, to feel every line, vein, contour of him. Her eyelids closed, eyelashes fluttering, her eyes rolling back as she arched and let a long-held gasp breathe hoarsely past her lips.

                “Oh yes, Mikael. Oh yes.”

                His smile was slow to form, but all the more seductive for it. His pleasure was now also in seeing her pleasure. She smiled back, feeling at once wicked but joyously happy. Waves of sensation radiated up from where they were joined and she gave in to her own impatience, riding him fast, with smooth, assured movements. Each time she sat on him, she ground down harder, tensing her muscles now to squeeze him to her.

                The pleasure entered that exquisitely painful moment before release and then she came–loudly, flinging herself over as her legs tingled uncontrollably and caused her whole body to spasm on top of him.

                Her fingers frantically sort out the watch, pressing the green button to return his body to normal time. Mikael shouted, his back arching to lift them both off the ground, holding there as he emptied inside her in warm, rhythmic bursts, and then easing back down, a long sigh of pleasure escaping his lips.

                She held him a long time after that, the tick of the watch silenced by the solid, steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. They would make love without the watch soon enough; it was just an aid to learning, nothing more. Mikael thanked her, profusely, both for the gift and for their lovemaking, and her doubts were dispelled.

                They may not have had all the time in the world, but what they had was fully theirs to control.


 Jez Patterson lives and writes in Madrid and recommends checking out the paintings of Joaquín Sorolla (who he didn’t know even existed until he moved there).


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Microfiction: Spiritusexual, by Julie Cox

Friday, July 26th, 2013

Spiritusexual, by Julie Cox

 You want to call me a ghost whore? Fine. So long as I get paid, you can call me whatever you think you can get away with. But at the end of the day, I get off, and I get paid to do it. People ask me how I got into this gig, getting rid of ghosts by fucking them. The story goes thusly. 

Sometime in the 70s, this couple was in a theater by themselves and the woman went down on the guy. She had a freak brain aneurysm and died. He flipped out, ran and got the authorities. Unfortunately, the cop that answered the call was her brother, and he shot the poor guy in a fit of rage and grief and horror. Years later, the paranormal incidents started, and eventually the theater manager had to do something about the damn ghosts so people would stop flipping out and go back to eating popcorn. That’s where I came in.

Most of the time with ghosts, I have to figure out a way to make them think their story changed, give them some kind of resolution. A mother calling a child? Conjure up an illusionary kid. Marching soldiers? Tell them the war’s over and they can go home. All they really are can be summed up as a song stuck on repeat; they are the imprint of a few moments of a person’s life, emotion burned into the world. Change the story, and whatever psychic power that was keeping them there just vanishes. It’s really kinda cool. Most people can’t see them at all, though a lot of folk can hear them, feel them. Me, I get all five senses. Ghosts are almost as real as people. Thank goodness they usually don’t look dead, like they did in The Sixth Sense. That would fuck a guy right up.

As I went into the theater, the first thing I heard was a feminine giggle. I followed it to the theater where the ghosts were usually seen. Sure enough, a man sat smack in the middle of the theater, his head laid back, chest heaving, making little moaning sounds. He had a silvery aura playing around him, like light shining through water. I walked to the end of the row and saw the woman on her knees in front of him. She had his cock in one hand and was bobbing her head up and down, sucking vigorously. She had short black hair, like me, and was too cute for him. I frowned; how to change the story on this one? I had thought I would come up with an answer once I saw them, like usual, but no, I had a total blank.

Then inspiration struck. About the same time as the aneurysm, apparently, because she stopped. Not just paused–she stopped. Everything about her stopped. Then her body began to fade into nothingness, just glittery powder like dust in a ray of sunlight. I rushed down the aisle, slid in on my knees, before his head had lifted off the back of his chair to ask what was wrong, before she was totally gone. I took his cock in my mouth and began to suck. I was strangely comfortable with this, partly because he was a ghost, and in part because frankly, I was a badass at blow jobs. The ghost relaxed back into the chair, and resumed his soft moaning.

I’d never had sex with a ghost before. His cock was cold, as everything about the dead was. Touching a ghost wasn’t like touching something physical; I could go through them, if I wanted to, and I had to concentrate to really touch. So it took a hell of a lot of concentration to keep my lips closed around his cock, to imagine it as real, as flesh, and not the leavings of a life cut short. I found myself incredibly turned on, both by the action and the suddenness of the encounter. I fumbled with my own pants and took my own cock in one hand, pumping in time with him.

He began bucking harder beneath me, his cock pulsing with long-spent blood. He fucked my mouth with barely controlled thrusts, and when he came, it was like ice. I tried to pull back as he climaxed, but he put a large, powerful hand on the back of my head, and spurted forcefully into me. I don’t normally get off on dominance, but that fucking did it for me, and I came too, my jizz falling between my knees on the concrete floor. I came so hard my sight went white, and I swear it went on longer than any orgasm I’d ever had before. It felt so. Goddamn. Good.

When I came back to myself, I was alone in the theater. The ghosts were gone. Their story had changed; she didn’t have an aneurysm while giving her boyfriend head, he didn’t die violently over his girlfriend’s body, they just had oral sex in a theater. I don’t think he realized, or cared, that I’d taken over, and she certainly hadn’t minded. I cleaned up and declared the job done to the owner at the front counter. He paid me. I went out to my car, breathed a lot, stared out the windshield, and jacked off again.

After that, I thought to myself, how many ghosts are out there that are stuck reenacting a passionate encounter gone wrong? As it turns out, TONS. They are near impossible to eradicate, because all they really want is to get laid. And guess how many people are willing to take on THAT? Correct. Just me. So my specialty is very high priced, very effective, and weirds people out a whole hell of a lot. But for me, it’s the only way I can get what I really want. Because after that night, I finally figured out my sexuality. I’m a spiritusexual. Getting paid – that’s just a bonus.

Julie Cox lives in Texas with her husband, children, and ever-expanding menagerie of animals on their farm. She runs a small online yarn business and teaches yarn spinning. She has numerous stories published with Circlet Press and elsewhere. For her full list of published works, see her website at

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Microfiction: Shapely by Alicia E. Goranson

Friday, July 19th, 2013

Shapely, by Alicia E. Goranson 

Mandy brought Elspeth to the vermillion shore at dusk – a private cove out of sight of the radiant city where they worked. Elspeth glanced around the dunes and the wide ocean for voyeurs or peep-bots. She was a chubby girl, lovely in a corset but self-conscious in anything less than that. Mandy hated to see Elspeth shy away from her reflection. It pained her.

On the shoreline, the blobby waves rolled from the water’s edge in a slow rhythm. Elspeth saw no machine or visitor waiting for them. “So where’s the surprise?” she said.

“Look closer.”

The waves weren’t forming peaks, but rose under a film which gave them an odd bounce. When Elspeth reached the shore, she saw the subtle form sculpting the ocean. All along the coast, the water rose and fell in the shape of a mass of breasts, blue and clear as the purified sea, sliding around each other. Rounded nipples faced upwards on the lower edges of each of the bosoms. No other shapes appeared under the water. Only the surface formed this curious, rippling texture.

“I programmed the gelatinites for this last month,” Mandy said, and kissed Elspeth on the nape of her neck. “They’ve had time to extract the chemicals and they’re safe to ingest.”

Elspeth grinned. “What did you use as a base model?”

Mandy reached around Elspeth’s front and cupped her breasts, with a giggle.

“You what?!” Elspeth said.

“That’s you. Let me show you.”

When Elspeth was sure we was alone with her lover, she lifted her arms and let Mandy undressed her. While Mandy stripped, Elspeth hurried into the water for a closer look.

The rush of the tide lapped the waves around her. Elspeth reached chest-high water and her own wide breasts floated alongside the shimmering, turquoise bosoms. She leaped and splashed, fascinated to see how fast the ocean’s surface reformed. She bent down and slurped a watery nipple in her mouth. It gave way under the touch of her tongue, but held its shape around her mouth. It did not taste of gelatin, but the salt of a woman in heat: the sweat of anticipation.

Mandy slid in the ocean behind Elspeth. She took her by the waist and kissed her.

Elspeth took a breath and fell forward, releasing her toes’ grip on the sand and floated supine. Mandy held her gently to keep her from drifting away. The breast waves rushed around Elspeth’s skin, and their nipples caressed every inch they touched. More water-breasts gathered around Elspeth as foam, keeping their shape under her, teasing her ass and clit. Elspeth turned her head for air, to breathe and pant.

The ocean surged, its power present but kept in check. Mandy reached under Elspeth to her clit to help her along. She slid fingers into Elspeth and wriggled them as a cephalopod. Elspeth gasped and her body began to thrash. The water-breasts fell over and under her, sliding and withdrawing, refusing to behave or conform to sense or logic. Elspeth had to release herself and submit to them. Her body quaked and she screamed underwater, bubbling the breasts in a great mound over her head.

Mandy helped Elspeth stand and held her close as the ocean rocked them. The breasts Elspeth had found flat and lumpy on herself were majestic and daunting when worn by the sea. She, too, was a storm surge, a reflection of the waves, and walked with Mandy, topless, all the way home.


Alicia E. Goranson is a Seattle-based writer of outsider fiction. Her novel Supervillainz is a 2006 Lambda Literary Award finalist. Her audio drama The Mask of Inanna won the 2012 Parsec Award for Best Speculative Fiction Audio Drama (Long Form). Her website is She makes fudge.

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Microfiction: The Instaglue Issue, by Andrea Trask

Friday, July 12th, 2013

The Instaglue Issue
by Andrea Trask

There once existed a house of pleasure, pain, and all things in between, in which all was accepted and nothing was forbidden, save for the one thing unspeakable.


It was barred at the doors, satchels were checked periodically, bottles of personally-blended lubricants and unguents were CLEARLY labeled and occasionally tested, and the rumor of some sneaking in was enough to clear the place out in under a quarter of an hour, which had the benefit of emptying it out the one time somebody decided they REALLY wanted the undeniably popular Rodeo Room all to themselves for a while.

The problem with the taboo is that it sets up a line, a boundary. The problem with boundaries is that people like to push them, even if it means bouncing off. The problem with lines is that someone always wants to step over them.

The problem with Instaglue was that it bonded skin instantly…and someone had snuck some into the House lubricant vat.

There was a convenient dispensary in every room, and one that one awful night it got a lot of use. There were countless stories afterward of what was found when the outside medics were finally called in. Cocks were joined like caducei. Fingers plugged plumped pussies. Someone’s lips were simply sealed, and someone else’s lips were sealed to her left buttock, rumored to have left a permanent mark after removal.

The Rodeo Room was a mess–all the saddles had to be replaced. In the Edge Playpen, someone was discovered the next day stuck in the mass of pinprick-covered plastic balls. No one, from the feather-fuckers to the fightsex folks, from the people into public pubic piercing to everyone in the Dungeon of Dominion, from the puppy players to the bite by bite bleeders, got out of the House unscathed.

The outcries that escaped the windows and doors that night, according to the passersby and onlookers that gathered as rumors spread into the streets, seemed to vary in much the same ratio as any night before.

Sales of anal anti-inflammatories jumped in the area for the next two months, and the House was closed for cleansing, repairs, and investigations.

When it reopened, there was a new addition upstairs–the Sticky Situation Room. All was accepted. Nothing was forbidden.

Andrea Trask, who is more likely to answer to the name Bliss in a crowd, is partially fused with the internet and infused with a hefty helping of CHALLENGE ACCEPTED! She can be found at

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