Archive for the 'Fiction' Category

Call for Halloween Microfictions

Friday, August 29th, 2014

Circlet Microfictions are looking for some spooky tricks and sexy treats for Halloween. Send in your best short-shorts featuring ghosts and goblins, witches and wizards, pumpkin kings and weird costumes. Who gets more then they bargained for when the knock at the door comes? What does the jack-o’-lantern see? Where does the will-o’-wisp lead us? Dig deep into the lore and traditions of our weirdest holiday, and send in those microfictions. We’ll take a selection of the very best to run in the days leading up to Halloween, and one very special treat to grace the night of trick and treating itself. For the author who best honors All Hallow’s Eve, we’ll offer up an ebook of Like a Chill Down Your Spine in addition to our usual payment of $5 or a free ebook.

So send in those stories to circlet.microfiction@gmail.com. Remember, they have to be sexy, and between 250-1000 words. (As always, guidelines can also be found here.)

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Microfiction: Libby and Jess, by Nobilis Reed

Friday, August 29th, 2014

Libby finished the last knot. “Everything feel okay?”

Jess tested the bindings on her wrists and ankles. “Marvelous.” The brass scales behind her head rattled, muffled by the pillow in between. Libby had set aside Jess’s sword, and her own tablet and torch, but it was just too delicious to resist tying her new wife to the device.

Libby took a moment to survey her handiwork, admiring how her new wife’s golden skin gleamed in the candlelight. “If our fathers knew…they’d probably be disturbed by the symbolism.”

Jess smiled, her wry expression visible in spite of the blindfold. “If our fathers were still alive, we wouldn’t have gotten married at all. Well…except Uncle Benjamin. I have a feeling he’d have been okay with it, the old lech.”

Stripping out of her heavy gown, Libby decided to keep her veil in place, just as she had left Jess’s. Her wife, being blind, wouldn’t know it was there, but it felt good to wear it. Besides, it went well with her crown, lending some softness to its dramatic points. She climbed onto the bed, straddling Jess’s thighs. Her hands meandered down her lover’s body, starting at her shoulders, running down over breasts and belly, and down to shaved mons. “You’re tense.”

“We have so much work to do,” said Jess.

Libby continued her massage, touching more deeply, squeezing her lover’s luscious flesh. “Yes. But now is not the time to worry about that. For now, let’s just celebrate.” She leaned down and kissed Jess, tenderly at first, then more deeply as the tension eased. “As Uncle Benjamin said: We’re only guaranteed the right to pursue happiness …”

Jess interrupted with a throaty laugh. “We have to catch it ourselves.”

She moved down, leaving a line of kisses on Jess’s chin, throat, and collarbone. “I hope you’re ready for a long chase.” Libby continued, sliding down her lover’s body, pausing to lavish attention on breasts and navel. She touched Jess’s sex with a light touch, teasing her mercilessly.

“Oh, I am,” Jess purred, squirming deliciously. “I am.”

A few years ago Nobilis Reed decided to start sharing the naughty little stories he scribbled out in hidden notebooks.  To his surprise, people actually liked them!  Now, he can’t stop.  The poor man is addicted.  His wife, teenage children, and even the cats just look on this wretch of a man, hunched over his computer and shake their heads. Clearly, there is no hope for him.  The best that can be hoped for is to just make him as comfortable as his condition will allow. Symptoms of his condition include two novels, several novellas, numerous short stories, and the longest-running erotica podcast in the history of the world. You can find his site at nobiliserotica.com

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Circlet Presents: Julie Cox

Friday, June 27th, 2014

The only-slightly-late second edition of Circlet Presents features, by happy coincidence, a hot and funny scene from a novel published just yesterday: Julie Cox‘s Capricious.

Julie talks with host Vinnie Tesla about her fix-up novel Chasing Tail, her forthcoming book of dwarven erotica–Hard as Stone, and her clean short story collection Hearth and Harvest.  Along the way, they discuss the value of community, the art of making fantasy believable, and  the disadvantages of shapeshifting into a sheep or fruitbat. Have a listen, and let us know what you think!

CIRCLET PRESENTS: JULIE COX

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[Advent Calendar 2013] “Home For The Holidays” by H B Kurtzwilde

Tuesday, December 24th, 2013

Hello, loyal readers! The countdown to Christmas is over — Christmas Eve is here! Most of you will be opening presents tomorrow morning, but we thought we’d give you a little something to enjoy the night before. Behold, your gift story for this year: 

Home for the Holidays

by H.B. Kurtzwilde

 

Vanni held tight to Kourt’s arm while they climbed through the twisted passageways of Port Calm Monsoon Dry Wind. He had gotten them a slot in the repairs arm, and a room near the middle of the spindle. It was the best hospitality they could be offered.

Port Calm Monsoon Dry Wind was one of the few stationary places owned by the people of the Home Ships. Vanni had never been allowed inside before. On his visits to his folks, he had been far too young to see this pit of lawlessness and debauchery. If he’d had a choice, he would never have brought Servitor Master Kourt Crowe to such a place.

Not that Kourt would be shocked, but that he would probably like it too well, and start to wonder about Vanni’s childhood. The trouble was, Vanni had allowed Vanni to modify their vessel any way he wanted. Now that the coolant system had developed inefficiencies, the original manual was useless. Vanni needed the expertise of those who had taught him to tinker, and that meant going home.

Only after arrival did he stop to check the local calendar. There was always a one in seven chance of there being some kind of festival, remembrance or holiday going on among the Home Ships. Without intending to, Vanni had led Kourt straight into the biggest event in the ship year.

“Are people always this festive here?” Kourt shouted above the assortment of loud music.

“Probably,” Vanni sad. “The only reason to come here is to make cred and spend it, as rapidly as possible. This is my first time in port. This all might be because everyone’s having a birthday at the same time.”

“How’s that?” Kourt asked. “You humans don’t have a birthing season.”

“Age is accounted by year of arrival, not day,” Vanni said. “You reckon I’m about twenty-six or so. Everybody here thinks I’m about to turn thirty.”

“So it’s your birthday too?” Kourt asked.

“More like, happy new year,” Vanni tried to explain.

“But you don’t care what day you were born on,” Kourt said. “This is what you would get instead, right?”

“Instead of what?” Vanni asked.

“Cake and ice cream, paper hats,” Kourt said. “Silly games with your friends and family. The Garus were very big on happy returns of the day.”

“That must be an Eab Nanoorn thing,” Vanni said. “I never heard of it.”

“Oh,” Kourt said. “I thought it was a human thing. What about presents?”

“They burn paper stuff for the ancestors,” Vanni said. “At least, that’s what I heard. I didn’t spend much time out here, all told. I’ve always been in a university when this day rolled around. Duck your head here. Anyway, I’d settle for a place to sit down.”

They came to their room and Vanni got his wish. The accommodation was familiar to him, but Kourt was curious about everything. He soon discovered for himself how the furnishings hung suspended from the ceiling, and stowed high up high to make the most of limited space.

“Maybe we should try to visit your family,” Kourt hazarded. “You might have cousins here.”

“I do,” Vanni said. “Every single person you just waded through is at least my cousin but probably closer. I’d rather not attempt to socialize.”

“How about shopping?” Vanni asked. “It’s human here. We could get clothes and food.”

“If you like,” Vanni said. “I need a nap. I can’t think of the last real sleep I got, with babying that coolant pump along.”

Kourt took down the swing bed and loaded it up with their pillows and blankets. Vanni shucked out of his boots and uniform, then went gratefully to that warm, soft nest. Kourt drew him close and rubbed his back, humming and soothing tunes until Vanni drifted off to sleep.

He woke alone, rocking in the swing bed. He could feel Kourt reaching through the Telsma to keep that steady rhythm going while he busied himself with other things. The room smelled of citrus and roasted meat. Here and there, Kourt had affixed paper flowers to the walls. The man himself stood studying a sizzler wand like he knew it did tricks but couldn’t figure out how.

“Break off the tip,” Vanni said through a yawn. “Skies above. Do I smell coffee?”

“No, it’s only kav,” Kourt said, apologetic. “I looked for coffee. Honest, I did.”

“Kav is plenty close enough,” Vanni said, crawling out of the nest. On his way to the hot pot, he took the sizzler and snapped the tip off, setting the false sparks going for Kourt. “Wave it. You can draw pictures if you’re fast.”

Kourt laughed in childish delight, marking patterns in trails of sparkling colored light. “I love birthdays. Never had one myself, of course. But I’ve always liked the idea of them.”

“No hatching day parties for you?” Vanni asked, amused. “You ought to be too old to like sizzlers by now. Are you drunk?”

“Not yet,” Kourt said. “But I got started without you. Would you like a bath?”

Vanni didn’t bother to reply. He threw the door open on a tiny washroom and found that Kourt had already set the sealed tub to heat. Vanni tossed his grubby clothes aside and started to shut the door.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to scrub your back?” Kourt quietly asked.

Vanni hesitated. “Are you offering to help me wash? Just how young do you think I am?”

“Either twenty-seven or thirty, so plenty old enough,” Kourt said. “You should let me. I think you would enjoy it.”

“No,” Vanni said. “But you can watch. I’m about as hungry as I am dirty, and don’t want to distract you from that meat.”

“Fair enough,” Kourt said with a smile. “Whatever you like. I love you. You are beautiful. And today is a special occasion.”

Vanni found once more that he could not tell if Kourt was making a joke or not. He sat down on a low stool and started scrubbing all over. “Not really. You shouldn’t pay any attention to cultural habits.”

“Why not?” Kourt asked in childish tones of disappointment. “Because I’m a Servitor? Because you are? Because I’m Crecarian, and only human about as deep as my skin? What if I said you ought not to resist pleasure with the same bitter determination that you resist pain?”

Vanni groaned under so many questions posed so fast. He let his hair down and combed it, then settled in to wash its thick, silver-blond lengths. Out of bone-deep habit, he kept his mouth shut until he had considered the questions appropriately.

When he was done rinsing the suds away, he turned to smile at his lover. Kourt wasn’t even looking. All of his attention was on the food. For all Vanni knew, Kourt had watched until the last moment, or not at all.

He might have sneaked into Kourt’s mind to find out, but it wasn’t worth provoking him. Instead, he asked “Did I miss a spot?”

“No,” Kourt said.

“Are you sure?”

Kourt turned around, surprised. “Yes, I’m sure. Did you want me to see, or did you merely endure my admiration?”

Vanni stood up slowly, arching his back to make the best of his lean, strong and perfectly symmetrical figure. “I take pleasure in your admiration. Only, I rarely see you acknowledge something so insignificant as my—“

Kourt was up and across the room so fast, Vanni hardly saw him move. Kourt scooped him up in his arms and sucked a deep kiss form Vanni’s lips as he kicked the cover off the bathtub. Gently, Kourt lowered Vanni into the hot water, as if tucking him into a soft bed.

“Nothing about you is insignificant,” Kourt said. “I watch you all the time. Only, you’ve acted uncomfortable every time you see me looking. Now, enjoy your bath and get ready to come out with me. We are going to celebrate the beauty of you.”

“Yes,Kourt,” Vanni said.

The last thing he wanted was to comply. Every time Kourt kissed him, Vanni wanted to skip over all other considerations directly to a quick fuck. Over time, he had learned that if he was patient, Kourt would give him everything he wanted and more.

He stayed in the tub until Kourt called him on to eat. He dried off and went to get clean clothes. That was when he noticed the spread Kourt had assembled. He stood over the table and studied it, trying to remember where he’d seen such a thing before.

“Seven-dish feast,” Kourt said, filling in the blank Vanni was drawing. “The lady at the meat stall said, specially for today. It’s all things you like, or at least things you’ve eaten without objection.”

“If you make me go through all this, you have to come too,” Vanni said. “It’s for everybody.”

“I don’t have a birthday,” Kourt repeated. “And I can’t see celebrating my emergence. I was alive long before that day came. All I remember is being cold, alone, desperately hungry and violent for the first time in my life. It’s hardly worth a party.”

“Well,” Vanni hesitated, squaring up to the challenge of winning any kind of disagreement against a Master Servitor. “You’re not violent today, nor cold or alone. You’ve come a long way in just two hundred years. That’s something, at least.”

“Fair enough,” Kourt said. “Get dressed. Showing me that fine ass of yours isn’t going to change my plans.”

Vanni pulled out his wear-softened work pants and a knit shirt, then sat down to the feast Kourt had arranged. Beside real meat there were fried vegetables, mashed ones and long roasted yellow things. Kourt had somehow got hands on fresh bread, sweet wafers and fruit as well. There was more than plenty of beer. All Vanni had to do was sit down and eat it. They devoured everything in old Servitor style, acknowledging that good things weren’t guaranteed to come again.

When Kourt stood and stretched, he looked too relaxed to be also full of energy. He grabbed Vanni by the arm and steered him out into the corridor. Whatever the hour by local reckoning, it was a noisy one.

Kourt smiled serenely as they let the crowds carry them along. They came at last to the center of the spindle. In most port stations, some sort of trick would be in place to disguise the fact of being inside a large spinning tube. Perhaps an artificial sky, or an elaborate but unnecessary ceiling would hide the truth.

Not so for Port Calm Monsoon Dry Wind. The Home Ship people saw a sky as a prison. Wide-open spaces were so rare and precious, they were revered. Kourt and Vanni stood out in the crowd by virtue of their suntans. The crowd above and below was uniquely and uniformly space-living humans. Their bodies were thin as if elongated by the light-gravity lives they enjoyed.

Though tall, Vanni had never fit in among them. He was fluent in Tene Tatu, but his first language had been PCU Type 5 Standard, as taught to him in the nursery of a Servitor university. He spoke six other languages beside those, and was learning Vantishari from Kourt. The Home Ship people would hardly admit they spoke anything but Tene Tatu, unless there was cred to be made. He understood the songs going on above and below, but preferred Kourt’s lullabies.

“Those songs you sing at night,” Vanni asked, lips close to Kourt’s ear. “What language are they in?”

“Anglois,” Kourt said. “They’re songs to make human children sleep. Didn’t you know?”

“Nope,” Vanni said. “I just suddenly wondered. They’re nicer than these ones.”

“Oh yeah?” Kourt asked. “These sound happy. What are they singing about?”

“Cred,” Vanni said. “Wars and pillage. Greed. And how proud they are to have the chance at another year of it all.”

“Huh.” Kourt smiled on. “I guess it’s better that I don’t need to understand. Come here.”

Kourt drew Vanni closer, and left his arm tight around Vanni’s hips. He forced his way through the crowd until they were pressed in at the central railing. Kourt pulled out his pack of sizzlers and shared them with Vanni. All up and down the port, others were sending out streamers and light shows. Kourt laughed over it all, and joined in without hesitation.

When a fellow came by selling milk-looking wine, Kourt bought the largest-sized bottle. Vanni helped him drink it, by now accustomed to Kourt’s expectations regarding a journeyman’s tolerances. Kourt held him closer, kissed him time and again, and helped him stay upright as the crowds buffeted them.

“See?” Kourt asked, leaning in to nibble at Vanni’s neck. “I can’t have this moment without you. Isn’t that worth a party, at you are here and so am I?”

“Oh yes,” Vanni agreed, then hiccuped. “But I’d rather be alone with you right now. All I can think about is how it feels when you’re inside me.”

“Just keep thinking, little Vanni boy,” Kourt said, like a promise.

“I will,” Vanni said. “Want me to show you?”

“I have my own imagination, thanks,” Kourt said. “And for me, anticipation is part of the pleasure. Now, look at that. What is it?”

Vanni leaned over the railing and saw that among the confetti and balloons, there were people out beyond the railings .Vanni tossed his sizzler to see what it did. Instead of falling or rising, it drifted. “Dunno. Maybe the grav’s off. It wouldn’t matter much in this crowd. They can do with it or not, once there’s enough open bottles. You want to try it?”

“Sure.”

Then Kourt was up and over, spinning confidently, reaching to catch Vanni in his arms once again. Vanni leaped to catch up to him. They held tight to each other, but more people were reaching out to them. Then Vanni noticed what else was drifting among the false sparks, streamers and confetti.

“Oh,” Kourt said, catching a passing shirt. “Is it an orgy? I wasn’t expecting group nudity.”

“Me either,” Vanni said. “Though I guess the stories about this place had to start somewhere.”

“Are you into this?” Kourt asked.

The question came out calm, with no judgment. Vanni knew if he said yes, Kourt wouldn’t mind in the slightest. It all went back to Kourt’s unrelenting curiosity about what Vanni liked and wanted of their sex life. That intensity was unsettling, considering that Vanni had been strictly forbidden something so disorganized as love until Master Crowe came into his life.

Vanni looked around and shivered. “No, I don’t think so. If I’m going to get laid, that’s something I only do with you.”

“Then we’d better get out of here,” Kourt said. “Sometimes people forget to take no for an answer.”

“That isn’t going to work for me,” Vanni said. “I’m not sharing you. Not even the visuals.”

“I think you have a jealous streak,” Kourt said, smiling wider. “I like it.”

Vanni laughed, and Kourt shoved off from a convenient body to set them drifting toward a railing. Jealous? Oh yes. Possessive, obsessed, all the things Vanni had been warned of that made love dangers came quiet naturally to him these days. Never mind that his training had supposedly put an end to those impulses, Kourt had reawakened a few of Vanni’s primal, human instincts.

The alcohol was also doing its part to undo Vanni’s self-restraint. While the rest of the port seemed bent on communal excess, Kourt and Vanni quietly retreated to their ideas of indulgence. Was it secretive, like a Servitor should be, or merely a desire for privacy? Vanni couldn’t care. As soon as the door closed, he reached to loosen Kourt’s clothes.

This was not their usual, semi-formal, focused and disciplined style. Kourt kissed Vanni again, but this time there was something very Servitor indeed flowing between them. Vanni grasped as raw emotion, love and pure lust, crashed through their physical contact. Something deeper, wilder and more urgent pulsed underneath it all. For once, Vanni didn’t resist whatever it was that rose up so naturally in his lover.

“Please, I need it,” Vanni said. He shoved his hand down Kourt’s pants, rubbing at that crazily sensitive, so-xeno spot on his belly. He felt it when, instead of going hard like a human might, Kourt shifted his shape to suit their purposes. “Let me see, or let me feel it. I don’t care which.”

Kourt laughed, but let his eyes change shape to their natural, slitted irises. “There, my horny xenophile. Is that what you need? An alien you can see?”

Even with that gentle teasing, Vanni only wanted more. One day, Kourt would trust him completely. He would put aside his entire human act and show Vanni what was hiding under perfect muscles and golden skin. But for now, this was plenty to interest whatever it was that made Vanni seek out and embrace that which was radically different from himself.

“Right here,” Vanni said, leaning up against the wall. “Those swing beds are dangerous for anything energetic.”

“Turn around,” Kourt said as he dropped down to knee.

Vanni obeyed on pure instinct, leaned his weight against the wall and shoved his pants down. Kourt grasped Vanni’s buttocks and parted them wide. Vanni sighed happily, then Kourt licked form the base of his coccyx down to his perineum, and lapped his way back up to Vanni’s hole.

“Please,” Vanni whimpered, then made himself clench his jaw. He didn’t want to distract Kourt form whatever he had in mind.

Kourt lapped eagerly at Vanni, but even in this it was nothing like what Vanni might have had with a human. Saliva was all well and good, but what Kourt had was thick and made his skin tingle. The tip of Kourt’s tongue penetrated Vanni with delightful gentleness, spreading that modified saliva deeper.

“Kourt,” Vanni moaned. “Please. I need your cock. I miss it so much. You said I had to ask first.”

Once again, Kourt did that stunt of moving so fast Vanni couldn’t track him. There was only a change of heat and pressure. Kourt’s hands clenching at Vanni’s wrists, then the blunt tip of his shaft pressing urgently at Vanni’s ass. Even after all this time, Vanni had no idea if this act had even a passing resemblance to what Kourt would have enjoyed with a Crecarian. He wanted to care, but Kourt had taken him from zero to fuck-me-now in about two minutes.

Kourt kissed so hard on the back of Vanni’s neck, it was almost biting. “You feel so good.”

Vanni relaxed into Kourt’s slow penetration. “Tell me what you want, please, just this once.”

Kourt laughed against Vanni’s neck. “You really don’t listen to a word I say. Just trust me, like you always do.”

Vanni groaned as Kourt began once more to fill him in that unique way of his. Vanni arched his back, spreading wider as Kourt sank into him. Though they stood perfectly still, Kourt’s shaft grew thicker and longer, piercing Vanni as deep as he could take. Vanni whimpered, certain that this was the time he would break under that relentless pressure.

“That’s it,” Kourt purred into Vanni’s ear. “You can take it. Duzzin’ hurt. Just relax, lover. I’ve got you.”

Vanni squirmed, Kourt groaned and that strange sense of connection-beyond-flesh snapped comfortably into place. Something in their Telsma senses fused, echoing traces of sensation and emotion back and forth. At least, Vanni assumed Kourt got the same feedback as he did. He hardly felt this was the time to ask.

“Deeper,” Vanni begged. “Please, Kourt, I can feel it, please! Do it again, I need it!”

“Sure thing, pretty Vanni,” Kourt said with a chuckle. “Real soon now.”

Vanni screamed as Kourt began at last to thrust. Whatever it was Kourt did to him, it overrode every thought beyond satisfaction. His flesh became the conduit for raw power, as if his love for Kourt had become a physical thing of flesh and bone. His ass bounced eagerly as Kourt rode him, but after a few minutes, even that was somewhat secondary to the real pleasure Kourt gave.

His need rose, too fast and too hot for him to endure long> Kourt’s control of the Telsma burned bright, keeping the torrents to something within reason. Vanni twisted and writhed, helpless and thrilling to the pulse of energy that echoed between them.

“Do it,” Vanni begged. “Please, Kourt, please do it to me again.”

“Right now?” Kourt asked, teasing again.

“Yes, skies above right now I want it now!”

“Now,” Kourt said, with the iron-sounding strength of a Suggestion skill to make it real.

Vanni shouted as Kourt’s will rolled what was left of his own. What Kourt desired was Vanni’s total satisfaction. With that wicked Suggestion trick, Vanni got precisely that. He came hard, for a long time, shivering and bucking through aftershocks that ran far beyond reason.

“Now,” Vanni managed to cry out, though his own Suggestion was a pitiful thing compared to Kourt’s.

Their bodies shook, and they slid down the wall together. Vaguely, Vanni was aware that his seed had splattered all over the place. That hardly seemed to matter as their mutual tremors went on and on.

Kourt kissed Vanni’s hair, still laughing as he shivered. “You should have let me do that to you in front of the whole port.”

“Skies no,” Vanni said, and coughed to clear the soreness from his throat. “They talk about me enough as it is.”

“Oh yeah?” Kourt asked. “What do they say?”

“That I’m a virgin,” Vanni said. “Don’t ruin their idea of my purity. It’s the only thing that kept them from selling me off by the hour when I was an apprentice.”

“For a Sourcerer, you’re a pretty good liar,” Kourt said. He got up and helped Vanni to the swing bed. “I’m impressed. Would they really have pimped you?”

“Sort of,” Vanni said, and yawned. “It would have been to do with arranging my dowry, which I don’t need because I’m not getting married. But I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t have stopped them either. So. Virgin. And ever will be, as far as the Home Ship peoples will ever know. So when we wake up?”

“Yes?”

“Do it again.”

 

Further racy imaginings of H B Kurtzwilde can be found in the whimsical steampunk adventure, “Chocolatiers Of The High Winds”:

Chocolatiers of the High Winds
**Finalist for the Lambda Literary Award!** We are pleased to present to you gentle readers the airship Drama “Chocolatiers of the High Winds.” Originally published as a weekly serial on Circlet.com, this rollicking adventure puts the steam into steampunk as we follow young Mayport Titus while he and his cohort seek to supply the world once more with that elusive and tricksy treasure known as chocolate. Mayport is the heir to the Titus Chocolate fortune–or what is left of it after his parents were lost on the high winds when he was a boy and the banks and handlers have had their way since. Perhaps the young Titus heir takes after his father in some ways, for he is no conformist to social moires. As soon as he is of age, our hero slips the bonds of institutional education for an intercontinental adventure in search of his father’s old airship, The Dutch Process. Now available as an ebook!
Price: $6.99
Formats: :

Happy holidays, from all of us at Circlet Press!

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[Advent Calendar 2013] Excerpt from “Beyond The Softness of His Fur: Private Revolutions” by TammyJo Eckhart

Sunday, December 15th, 2013

From “Beyond The Softness of His Fur: Private Revolutions”

By TammyJo Eckhart

The nice doctor strokes my head after we get through all of the shapes and colors. She mixed them up, trying to trick me, but i’m not a stupid animal; i know the differences now. i eat the treats she leaves — chicken pieces, real chicken, not pet food — but as i eat i smell something else and look up. Master is outside the open door, and She has carryout with Her.

Who needs treats when She’s here? (more…)

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Mark Does more Stuff, for Mary Anne Mohanraj!

Friday, November 15th, 2013

Mark Reads… even more of Mary Anne’s new book, “The Stars Change”. We posted his reading of “The Night Air” a few days ago; now see his reaction to “Thick As A Brick”:

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Mark Does Stuff, now for Mary Anne Mohanraj!

Saturday, November 9th, 2013

Hey there, loyal readers! One of our authors, Mary Anne Mohanraj, has done an awesome thing. She’s asked Mark (of Mark Reads… fame) to read excerpts of her new book of spec-fic stories, “The Stars Change”. Check out Mark’s reading of the story “The Night Air” here:

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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 ambererotica.wordpress.com.

 

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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 ceciliatan.com.

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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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