Category Archives: Microfictions

Microfiction: Hibernation by Jean Roberta

 

The moon is full tonight.  I can’t see it shining on the billows of snow outdoors, but I know they look like the curves of a voluptuous woman, sparkling like a queen’s jewels.   I want to remember all the words of that French song:  my country is winter.  Je suis une citoyenne de l’hiver.

I can’t sleep, even though my comforter is as warm and soft as the sympathy of an old friend.  Tara’s last words are like an annoying song in my head:  “You’re not really my type.  You can’t meet my needs.  Let’s face it.  I’m not putting you down, but you have to admit it.”  Her canned speech was meant to justify her escape, so she could rush into the arms of Bo the jock, heartthrob of the under-30 crowd.  I wonder how long the new couple will last.

If the three of us were stranded in the northern woods, I wonder who would survive.  My womanly body can withstand the cold, and I have good instincts.  Weightlifter’s muscles and cuteness don’t catch fish or muskrats or rabbits.  Political correctness and popularity don’t count in a life-or-death situation.  Some women have lived such trendy urban lives that they never get to meet their true selves.

A warm heart behind warm breasts always counts, or it should.  I would appreciate a woman with my qualities.  I would hold a woman like that with all my strength, and not let her go.  I could live in a cave with a woman like me, exploring her body like an old-time voyageur ranging over the True North.   Pressed against her in our bed, I would start with her breasts.

Tits like mine deserve hands like mine:  knowing hands that can support them, making them feel weightless but generous.  The homage of those hands would send tingles from the flash-points of my hard nipples through my warm flesh, over my ribs and all up and down the central power line of my spine.  My belly would flutter, and my clit would turn on like a lightbulb.

In the short days and long nights of winter, I could spend months in bed with a woman like me.  We would not give a damn about the world outside, and we wouldn’t lose interest in each other like bored children looking for new toys.

My old, favorite toys would give us endless pleasure.  I wouldn’t even mind getting out of bed to look through my sock drawer for my thick purple candle with the undulating shape that looks like a Coke bottle on speed.  A woman like me would love to be stroked with a thing like that, and she wouldn’t care what it was made for.  Women like me are household witches who can make magic out of anything that comes to hand.

Wax grows warmer and softer when you play with it, almost like human flesh. My candle is more responsive than some women.  More reliable too.  Rubbing it between my lower lips makes me feel as if I’m melting and changing shape inside.

I want to be filled to bursting by someone like me.  I can smell my own heat, and it warms the space between my sheets like some essential oil.  My candle absorbs more of me each time.  Someday it will smell more like me than I do, and then I can share it with a woman who will appreciate it whenever I can’t be with her.

I am the butch and the femme, the doer and the done-to.  The right woman would value my versatility.  I am persistent.  I’m almost there.  Just a little more — oh!  Yes!  I am so good for me.

How I wish I could hibernate in my cozy suite until spring.  I’m not sure the rest of the world is ready for me yet.

“Hibernation” appears in the charity anthology, Coming Together: By Hand (www.eroticanthology.com)

Jean Roberta teaches English and creative writing in a Canadian university, and writes in several genres. Her fantasy erotica includes “Taste” in Best Erotic Fantasy and Science Fiction, “Smoke” in Best Fantastic Erotica, and “The Way to a Man’s Heart” in Like a Sword, all from Circlet. Her bisexual pirate saga, The Flight of the Black Swan: A Bawdy Novella (Lethe) is available in several formats, including audiobook. She blogs here: www.ohgetagrip.blogspot.com and here: www.erotica-readers.blogspot.com.  More here: www.JeanRoberta.com

 

Microfiction: Tryst by Ainslie Lloyd

Tara had never been fond of cooking. Actually she loathed it but hesitated to confess.

Fortunately this didn’t disturb Greg, who quite enjoyed messing around in the kitchen, tasting soups and stirring sauces, braising and baking.

But it was only decent that she prepare the occasional meal.

Late one afternoon Tara found herself in the kitchen of necessity. Greg was working very hard these days and was usually late. Uninspired, she slopped olive oil into the frying pan.

It spilled into the shape of a human hand. Diaphanous fingers curled, flexed, reached toward her, glistening in the stovelight.

Startled, she slapped a hamburger patty into the frying pan.

The hand tossed it back.

Fleeing to the front door, she gulped in lungfuls of January air. She’d eat out.

The meat couldn’t stay on the countertop, though. Teeth chattering, she went back.

The hand beckoned from the frying pan.

“You’re losing it, woman,” she muttered. “You’re really, truly, losing it.”

Because it was inevitable, she offered her own hand.

And was clasped in a satin-cool touch. Ethereal fingers glided, slowly warming as they intertwined with hers. Stroking with a delicate fervor, they caressed the back of her hand.

Her fear slid away. A minute passed. Two. Five. Sudden heat tingled in her groin.

She jerked free. Dumped the oil down the drain.

Translucent fingers flickered in the sink.

Laughing hysterically, she drove to A&W. Fries nibbled one by one. Two extra cups of coffee. It was dark when she got home.

Lingering in her frigid car, she considered knocking on a neighbor’s door. She could say she’d lost her keys. Or seen a prowler. A dark stranger.

The front door opened. A shimmering hand beckoned in the porchlight.

Knowing it was fate, she obeyed.

On the couch, her lips parted, her breath quivered, as warm strokes moistened her neck, then glided ever lower to cup her breasts. Her nipples hardened in aching eagerness.

In the bedroom she shed her blouse and bra, and gasped as sensuous fingers slithered beneath the waistband of her panties. Arching on the bed, she shoved away that final barrier.

Licking fingers circled, tantalizing her clit, then flooded her inner recesses. Ohmigod, this is way better than Greg! she thought as she succumbed. Blazing heat shot her to a soaring climax, then yet another screaming release.

Afterwards, she languorously prepared a very late dinner for Greg and herself. She even sang as she opened the Cabernet they’d been saving. She’d serve shrimp cocktail and a crisp salad, followed by steak grilled to perfection with sautéed mushrooms. For dessert, she’d bring out crème brulee …

Lurking among the branches of the potted Norfolk pine, a translucent hand throbbed with bright rainbow filaments, each shot through with light.

Then it seemed to sigh.

Soon, after a rest, it would writhe and convulsively stretch, straining against itself until a perfect living replica glistened by its side.

Ainslie Lloyd normally writes under another name. She has published 26 books, as well as many short stories, poems and articles on the craft of writing. Ainslie lives in the Canadian prairies.

Microfiction: Holy Trinity by Jade Sylvan

I don’t know if I should write this, but I don’t think Mother Superior or Mother Esther would pry even if they had the password. Might delete later, but this happened early Sunday morning.

When it started I was in my cell. Everything was as it always is. Dark wood crucifix on the wall. Pale prayer desk. No lights on at all. The white ceiling was the color of ash. I couldn’t sleep. Normal. I was uncomfortable on my back. I rolled over. The metal bed frame creaked and moaned.

I lay facedown. Felt more comfortable for about thirty seconds, then decided to flip onto my back again.

I turned back over. On the end of my bed was a man.

I should have frozen, but I relaxed. Somehow I knew he wasn’t a threat. He was here for me. For my pleasure. I pulled him close and inhaled, expecting to smell sweat. Musk. He kind of smelled like nothing, though. I felt his hand grip my thigh.

“I can’t,” I said.

He pulled away. I could still feel the weight of his body on the bed. My breathing shallow. An electric current ran between us.

Then someone else was there, behind me. Back propped up against the wall. My head in her lap.

She rested one hand on my collarbone. The other reached out for the man’s hand. They clasped hands over me. Static from her fingers near my neck. They were painfully still.

I reached up for the wrist near my chin. I pulled it down so it brushed against my face. Skin soft as silk. Her fingers gliding along my highest ribs, close to my breast.

My breath became urgent. The woman’s hand was almost touching my breast. The man’s other hand was inches from my thigh. I wanted them to touch me. Either of them. Both.

Aching stillness covered us. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for some change. The air was charged, almost vibrating. Then the two silhouettes on either side of me moved, barely. More of a shift in weight than a deliberate action, but the break in the stillness was too much for me. Breath poured into my lungs and moaned back out. The animal of my body reached for them, two hands to two wrists, and pulled them into me. Her hand cupped my breast. Stopped for a moment, as if to make sure of its placement, then started to caress. His hand slid under my nightgown, around my underwear. This hand wasted no time. Dove in.

The feeling of both of them touching me, watching me as I writhed under them, was enough to make me climax immediately. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to stifle any screams I might release when I lost control. For a moment, I thought it wouldn’t happen. That I’d settle back down and lie there awkwardly between these two strangers before thanking them for trying and sneaking them out.

Then blankness. Neutral light. Pure electricity and love.

I couldn’t help it. I cried out. I was far beyond worrying if anyone heard. I sang one long note of pleasure as the last currents of electricity jolted through me. This was what God wanted. These beings were sent here for me. For this.

I opened my eyes and saw the same two silhouettes for an instant. In another instant, they melted into the normal outline of my cell. Something fundamental was different. I realized that thing was a shift in my state of consciousness. I was awake now. Before, I’d been dreaming.

I was panting and washed in sweat. My right hand was on my breast, my left between my thighs. I was sopping wet. I inhaled deeply, smelling my own musk and a another, floral scent. Dried roses? My hips and calves were tight. Sore. I looked down at my spent lower half and almost choked. Someone was sitting on the end of my bed. Another dream?

No.

A woman.

My hands shot away from my body. The left one was damp and pungent. I shoved it under the covers, wiping it off on the sheets, flushed with embarrassment. The woman sat there unfazed. She radiated calm nonjudgment.

This serenity seemed to emanate, washing over me. I relaxed into it. She was stunning. Strong and slender with medium-dark skin and a powerful mouth. Deep amber-brown eyes. Simple white sleeveless dress. A cross between Beyoncé and photos of my mother when she was young. It was still night, but I could see her clearly. She didn’t glow the way the angel had. More like she was made of light.

“You didn’t trust my Son,” she said. “Thought you might trust me.” None of these guys wasted time.

“It’s not that I didn’t–”

“Lent is only forty days. Then you can go right back to your vow of chastity.”

“How can I possibly give up my vow for that long and still call myself a nun?”

“You have a blessing from your Mother Superior. What else you need? High-five from the Pope?”

“No. I mean, that’d be cool–”

“What are you worried about?” She somehow managed to look stern without furrowing her brow or making much of any expression at all.

“I don’t know. I just never…. There were rules and I didn’t think they could change.”

“Did you enter the Sisterhood to be comfortable?”

“Of course not.”

She shifted so she was farther up the bed. Her face didn’t soften, but her voice did. Just a touch.

“You wanted anticipated discomfort. Poverty. Obedience. Chastity. The script.”

“Doesn’t everyone wish suffering had a script?”

She actually laughed. Smiled.

“Fair enough,” she said.

She scooted up closer so her hip was near my shoulder. I could smell her. The dried rose smell from before plus wood shavings and old wool. My musty fingers were still under the blankets. I draped the other ones across my stomach. Tried to relax it. She reached out with one hand, hovering it inches from my head.

“May I?” she said.

I nodded. She stroked my head gently. The feeling was unbelievably soothing. I could feel my brain relax and rest into the back of my skull. Outside I heard the whistle of freezing wind.

“Is it snowing again?”

“Yes. This should be the last big storm.”

She ran the tips of her fingers lightly across my scalp. It’s been a while since I’ve shaved my head, so there was about a quarter-inch of baby-curls for her to drag her nails through.

“Did you send me that dream just now?”

“No.”

“Did He?”

“We believe straightforward communication works best.”

The muscles around my eyes released, two jelly bulbs sinking back into their sockets. I may have, just slightly, started to purr.

“I don’t understand why you’d ask me to do this.”

“I can’t tell you what you’re supposed to learn from a lesson.”

She shifted so she was lying beside me. Her left arm beneath me, cradling me like a parent as she kept stroking my head. I was getting sleepy.

“Not even a hint?”

She laughed. My eyes were closed but I imagined she was smiling. “Go to sleep, Woodline.”

Her touch became a warm breeze. I drifted off.

Jade Sylvan is the author of Kissing Oscar Wilde and the apocalyptic lesbian sci-fi horror burlesque musical of the century, Spider Cult the Musical (coming summer 2016). http://jadesylvan/com

Microfiction: Cat Call by Elizabeth Coldwell

“And look out for the cat,” the Morgans say. It’s the last item on their list, after telling me to help myself to snacks and that if Emmy wakes before they return, on no account to let her watch TV on the couch with me.

“I didn’t know you had a cat.” I try to hurry them into their waiting taxi. Having to babysit on Halloween is grim enough, without the couple treating me like I’m nine, not nineteen.

“We don’t.” Shari Morgan adjusts the cape of her Supergirl costume. “He lives next door but he treats this place like his own… If you see him, don’t let him into the house.”

“I won’t, I promise. Now go.” At last I’m able to close the door behind them. Wandering through to the kitchen, I think about firing off a text to Deb or Mindy, telling them how lame this all is, but they’ll be at the party now, just like I should be.

I pour myself a glass of milk. Through the screen door, I think I see a sinuous black shape weaving its way up the path. Remembering the Morgans’ warning, I prepare to shoo the cat away. A noise over the baby monitor distracts me for a moment. When I turn back, if I didn’t know better I’d swear I could see the shape on the doorstep changing, growing larger… But that’s crazy. It’s nothing but a trick of the light. Even so, I’m startled when the knock at the door comes.

It’ll be trick or treaters, I tell myself, trying to recall where Shari Morgan said she’d left a bowl of candy for just such an occurrence.

“Happy Halloween. May I come in?”

The visitor is tall, with long black hair tied in a ponytail and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. He might be gorgeous, but caution guides me to ask, “Who are you?”

“Theo. I’m a neighbor. And you are…?”

“Brie. Emergency babysitter. Did you see a cat out there?”

He shakes his head. “No one here but me.” He smiles, slow and lazy, and something in me comes unglued. “Wanna hang out?”

“Sure.” None of the Morgans’ many rules said anything about not spending time with a very cute neighbor. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

I expect him to ask for a beer. Instead, he says, “That milk looks good.” He gulps it straight from the carton, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Want to dance?”

“Why not? When the cat’s away, right?”

Somehow, I find myself in the living room, pulled tight to Theo’s broad chest. Theo’s acting like he has the run of the place but I’m sure the Morgans won’t mind. They obviously know him, after all.

For a big man, he’s so light on his feet. He twirls me around till I’m dizzy and breathless. When he puts his lips to mine for the first time, I taste milk and something that’s uniquely him. His kisses are sweet, intoxicating, and I don’t object as he eases the straps of my dress from my shoulders. In the movies, bad things happen to babysitters on Halloween, but I feel safe in Theo’s arms. Safe, and a little bit naughty.

His cock rubs against me, hard in his jeans, and I reach down to unzip him. When I wrap my fingers around that thick, pulsing length, he purrs with delight. “Hey, slow down…”

“I can’t.” I stroke him up and down, relishing the feel of him in my hand.

Theo pulls my dress down further so he can knead my bare breasts. I don’t normally let a guy move so fast, but tonight I’m wild, wanton, my blood roused by the witchy magic of Halloween. He sucks my nipple, and desire zings down to my pussy.

We shed our clothes, and Theo urges me down onto all fours. I hear foil tearing, and I don’t look need to look over my shoulder to know he’s fitting a condom. He pushes home, stretching me with his big dick. This is how animals fuck, I catch myself thinking as his balls slap against my ass cheeks, and it feels so right. Heat rises between us, and we move in an ever-quickening rhythm.

In the moment before he comes he bites the nape of my neck, like he’s claiming me. It sets off my orgasm, and I dissolve around him.

He gathers me to him, and I rest my head on his dark mat of chest fur, sated and oh so pleased with myself. I don’t intend to sleep, but I begin to drift, and when I open my eyes again, Theo’s gone, leaving only a faint ache between my legs to remind me he was ever here.

 

* * *

 

The Morgans arrive home half an hour later.

“I hope you weren’t too bored,” Shari says, and I shake my head, though I’ve no intention of telling her how I passed the time. Her voice takes on an exasperated tone. “Oh, Theo, what are you doing here?”

I glance round, wondering if the tall, dark and friendly neighborhood hunk has come back to apologize for running out on me, and freeze. Standing on the mat, blinking his green eyes and licking his lips, is a sleek black cat.

Elizabeth Coldwell is the author of numerous short stories and two full-length novels, ‘Calendar Girl’ and ‘Playing The Field’. Her stories have appeared in the best-selling ‘Best Women’s Erotica’ series and Black Lace’s popular ‘Wicked Words’ collections. Formerly the editor of the UK edition of Forum magazine, she now contributes a spicy monthly column, ‘The Cougar Chronicles’, to its pages. When she is not busy writing, she is an avid supporter of Rotherham United Football Club and can be regularly found on the terraces at weekends, cheering her boys to victory (hopefully!).

Not-so-Microfiction: Layover by Elizabeth Schechter

“I’m sorry, sir. There are no other flights tonight, what with the storm.” As if to punctuate the young ramp agent’s sentence, there was a deep rumble of thunder that rattled the windows behind her. Her name tag said her name was Samantha, and she frowned slightly at her computer. “The soonest I can put you and your companion on a flight will be tomorrow morning at nine, with a connecting flight through BWI. Will that be sufficient?” She looked up, pleasant and hopeful despite the fact that people had to have been yelling at her all night for the flight delays and  cancellations.

Daniel sighed, reaching up and rubbing the collar he wore beneath his shirt. She must not have noticed the diplomatic codes on the reservation, or she probably wouldn’t be so eager to please. “It’ll have to do. What are the odds of getting a hotel, do you think?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I’m afraid the airline doesn’t put people up because of canceled flights. Not anymore.” She looked past him, then met his eyes and lowered her voice. “Is your master going to be all right with the delay?”

“You did notice the codes?” Daniel asked, amazed. “Which means you’ve also noticed how long we’ve been in transit. I have to say, you’re remarkably calm for someone–”

“Who knows she has a vampire who will no doubt need to drink living blood within the next few hours?” She smiled. “I know a bit more about vampires than most laymen. My sister is a bond-slave. And she has the same fidget.” Samantha raised her hand to her collar, mimicking Daniel’s gesture. “She’s been a bond-slave five years now, and I know her Master well.  And… honestly, there can’t be that many albino Japanese vampires. Even if I hadn’t seen his name on the reservations, I’d know that your master was Justiciar Hiro Itami. How soon will he need living blood?”

“Soon.” Daniel lowered his voice. “Any suggestions?”

“For casual travelers, any of the restaurants would be able to provide poured blood. You can even get it at the coffeeshop right where you came off the escalator. But for the privacy you’d need–” Samantha gnawed her lip for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Yes. I have an idea. Give me a minute, will you?” She picked up her phone and dialed. “Hi, Chris? It’s Sam. Please tell me you have an opening?”

Daniel stepped away from the desk to give her a chance to do whatever she was doing, walking over to the Japanese man sitting nearby. He looked like a wealthy businessman, impeccably groomed in an expensive suit, his eyes hidden behind dark, designer sunglasses. But there was nothing that could hide either his striking white hair, or his otherworldly air.

“So?” he asked, his deep, accented voice enough to melt Daniel’s bones. He lived for this man, breathed for him, would do anything for him.

“There are no flights leaving tonight, Itami-sama,” Daniel answered, bowing slightly, then going to his knees. “The agent is seeing what she can do, but the soonest we can be on our way home is tomorrow morning.”

Itami grimaced, and Daniel caught the glint of his fangs as his lips parted. He swallowed, desire and fear mingled as they always did. They had been late to the airport this morning in Denver, so Itami had settled for poured blood before the flight, foregoing the lengthy rituals that revolved around the taking of living blood. If all had gone well, they’d have been home in New York by now. But the storm that had settled over Atlanta had delayed their connecting flight, then grounded it. Now–

“I suppose there is always the men’s room,” Itami said, his distaste clear in his voice. “There can be no proper preparations, but it is better than–”

“Sirs?” Samantha called, her soft footsteps coming closer. “I’ve made arrangements for you, complements of the airline.”

Daniel glanced at Itami, who nodded. He rose, dusting off his knees. “I thought you said the airlines didn’t do that anymore?” he asked.

“I pulled strings, and cleared them with my manager. It was the diplomatic codes that did the trick.” She smiled. “Terminal B, by Gate 19. It’s called the Nap Attack. They’re waiting for you.”

“What is this Nap Attack?” Itami asked, standing up. He didn’t bother with his bags — Daniel collected the attache and the shoulder bag, along with his own messenger bag.

“It’s a sort of micro-hotel, for people who have long layovers,” Samantha answered. “A private place to rest or work. Sometimes we — I mean, the airport employees — take advantage of it on nights like this. They have comfortable couches, and showers. And the suites are sound-proofed.”  She smiled,  bowed slightly to Itami, and added, “Drink deep and well, Justiciar.”

Itami’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. “Thank you. You have a familiar scent to you. I think… is it Claire, bound to Grigori, to whom you are related?”

Samantha dimpled. “Clara, sir. And yes. She’s my sister.”

“I will pass on my compliments to Grigori, then,” Itami said. “His bond comes from a fine family. Daniel, make a note. Also, a note of commendation to the airline for this fine young lady.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel said. He smiled to the now-blushing Samantha as he followed Itami away from the gate.

*

Nap Attack looked like an odd storefront, one that perhaps sold toiletries and closet doors. Daniel went up to the counter, which bore a bold “No Vacancies” sign. The young man behind the desk smiled.

“Daniel Remington? We’ve been expecting you.” He picked up a clipboard and handed it to Daniel. “Just sign here for yourself and your Master. I’ve put extra linens in already. No one should bother you.”

Daniel smiled and scrawled his name across the bottom, skimming the rental agreement as he did so. “How long do we have the room?”

“Until tomorrow morning, eight o’clock,” the young man answered. He handed Daniel a key-card. “Suite five, all the way back, on the left. Our last one. Sammy’s timing was perfect. Right after she called, we had three attempts to rent it within five minutes.”

“I appreciate it,” Daniel said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If you need anything, just ring the desk.” He looked past Daniel and nodded. “Drink deep, sir.”

“My thanks,” Itami said. “Daniel.”

Daniel nodded and led the way to the last door on the left. He opened the door, stepped back and let Itami enter first, then followed his master. A low, wide couch, with blankets and pillows stacked neatly on one end and a trundle underneath. A tiny desk, and a comfortable-looking armchair. An internal door that led into a bathroom, with a small pocket of a closet between the rooms. He set the bags down on the floor and turned to lock the door. It closed solidly, thumping into place with more gravitas than he’d have expected; instantly, the incessant hum of noise from the airport was cut off, leaving only the slight burr of the air conditioner. Daniel nodded. Sound-proofed, indeed. He turned to face the room, and saw Itami coming out of the bathroom, carrying a towel. He’d laid his sunglasses aside, revealing his pale violet eyes.

“Are the lights too bright?” Daniel asked. He checked over his shoulder — yes, there was a dimmer switch. “I can turn them down–”

“I am fine,” Itami answered. ” He laid the towel on the back of the chair, and smiled. His fangs were fully extended, and his voice slurred when he spoke.

“Your suit. Remove it. Unless you wish it ruined.” Daniel swallowed and reached for his tie. As he untied and unbuttoned, he saw Itami take up his shoulder bag and unzip it.

“On our next trip, we must plan more thoroughly. Our ritual will be abbreviated,” Itami said as Daniel went to the closet to hang his suit. When he returned, he was wearing only his collar and the specially-made resin chastity cage to which Itami held the only keys. He moved to Itami’s side.

“May I take your coat, Tono?” he asked, fixing his eyes on the large screened television on the wall. He knew what was in the bag — he’d packed it — but he wouldn’t look at what awaited him until Itami gave him leave.

“We are alone, koibito,” Itami murmured. Daniel turned slightly and saw his master smiling at him.

“I know,” Daniel answered. “I like taking care of you, Hiro. And I will never get tired of calling you my master. So, may I take your coat?”

“You may,” Itami answered, letting Daniel take the suit jacket from him. Daniel walked back into the closet, trying to fight the urge to bury his face in the jacket and just breathe in Itami’s scent. People wanted to believe that bond-slaves were unwilling victims, coerced into serving  the vampiric elite and held captive through means either nefarious or demonic. He knew better. He hung the coat neatly on a hanger and returned to Itami’s side.

The chair had been moved to the middle of the small room, and Itami had spread the towel over it. He stopped in the middle of rolling up his shirt sleeves, and gestured without saying a word; his meaning was clear. Daniel sat down, resting his hands on his knees. Waiting. Itami walked slowly around him, stroking his chin. Deliberating. Then he nodded and returned to the desk, picking up a bundle of what Daniel knew was several long lengths of silk cording, very light and extremely strong. Itami said nothing, tucking the bundle into his pocket before moving behind Daniel and running his hands down Daniel’s arms to his wrists, closing around  them and drawing Daniel’s arms behind him. Daniel tipped his head back, his eyes closing as the silk cord tightened around his wrists, binding them together. He wasn’t sure what Itami was planning — he never knew until it was over. But he never cared, either.

“Open, koibito,” Itami murmured. “I want to see your eyes.”

Daniel blinked, watching as Itami appeared in front of the chair, going to his knees as he bound Daniel’s ankles to the legs of the chair. Then he reached down and tugged, and Daniel felt pressure on his wrists. Itami’s smile was feral as he drew the end of the cord up between Daniel’s legs and attached it to the cage. Then he rose, taking a step back.

“It is far more simple than we are used to, but needs must. Still, it is enough.” Itami studied his handiwork for a moment, then growled deep in his throat. “Struggle,” he said, his voice thick. “Fight it.”

Daniel tugged on the bindings, feeling the movements of his arms pulling on his cock, knowing that he was going nowhere, and knowing that Itami needed him to fight. Needed the illusion of taking down his prey. Even though Itami knew that Daniel would bare his throat for him willingly if he so much as crooked a finger. Daniel tugged harder, and moaned as his growing erection fought against the warm prison of the chastity cage. He heard Itami laugh, a deep chuckle. Then he heard a soft jingle. His head shot up, and he saw Itami drawing a chain out from beneath his shirt and slipping it over his head.

“Hiro?” he gasped, straightening, pulling on the cords. Itami just laughed, using the key dangling from the chain to unlock the chastity cage. He slowly slipped it off, until Daniel’s erection was freed. Daniel whimpered, then yelped as Itami wound the now loosened end of the cord around his cock and balls and pulled it tight.

“I will feast,” Itami slurred. “But perhaps an aperitif first?” He knelt in front of Daniel, slid his hands underneath Daniel’s ass, and swallowed Daniel’s cock. Daniel gasped, his body going rigid as he felt the head of his cock entering Itami’s throat. Long fingers slid over his ass, teasing light strokes that made Daniel squirm and thrust between the probing hands and the warmth of Itami’s mouth.  Daniel felt the brush of Itami’s fangs against the sides of his cock, then Itami’s hands locked, holding Daniel in place, growling around his cock as Daniel came, thrashing mindlessly against the cords and his master’s hands.

When he finally went limp, and Itami let him go, he heard that wonderful, deep laugh. “How long, koibito, since I last allowed you to spend?”

Daniel gasped, whimpering and trying to remember how to talk. Or add. Or think. Right now, breathing was taking up all his conscious control. Finally, he managed to stammer, “Ah… two… two weeks. I think.”

Fingers trailed over his cheek, and Daniel opened his eyes to see Itami smiling down at him. “I shall have to remember to allow it more often. You came far too quickly. But it was a lovely appetizer, nonetheless.” The chair shifted, and the cord tugged painfully on Daniel’s cock as Itami rested one knee between his legs. He placed his hands on Daniel’s shoulders and bared his fangs. Daniel sighed, leaning his head back as far as he could, and turning his face toward the door to better offer his throat to his beloved master.

The ignorant believed that vampires were savages, that they would half-murder their bond-slaves with their brutality. Nothing could be further from the truth. When Itami drank living blood from Daniel, he did it elegantly. Almost delicately, and this time was no exception. He leaned his body against Daniel’s, pinning him in place. He lowered his head and buried his nose into Daniel’s hair, his breath soft against Daniel’s neck. He licked, once, the ticklish spot just beneath Daniel’s ear, then trailed his tongue down until his lips brushed against the pulse hammering in Daniel’s throat. Then he paused. He always did, waiting until Daniel whimpered in need and lust, bending his head even further back in silent offering.

“Hiro!” he whimpered, pushing up against the body pushing him down. “Please, Hiro, please!”

There was a moment, the barest breath where Daniel was certain that time stopped entirely. It was the only explanation for that eternity where all that he could feel over his entire body was the heat of Itami’s lips, the warmth of his breath, the feel of his body against Daniel’s. Until that stillness was shattered by the needle-prick of fangs as sharp as needles, as Itami began to feed. The pain was replaced almost immediately by heat, as whatever alchemy was found in the body chemistry of a vampire sent every pleasure center of Daniel’s body into overdrive. He groaned, straining against the cords, his cock starting to stir once more as he was overwhelmed with a desperate need for satiation, one that would only be filled when Itami finished with him. Itami shifted, his bite deepening, his low, guttural moan hitting Daniel like a physical blow, like the stroke of a flogger.

Unexpectedly, Itami reached between them, grasping Daniel’s cock in his hand as he shifted once more, sipping more leisurely now, caressing the skin of Daniel’s throat with his tongue. Daniel’s pleas were swallowed in his choking, gasping moans of pleasure, caught between the ecstasy of being the feast, and the feel of Itami’s hand stroking him back to aching hardness.

He felt Itami’s laughter against his skin, felt the ache and loss as the fangs slid from his veins, followed by the gentle swipe of the flat of Itami’s tongue. That same alchemy that produced the overwhelming pleasure as the vampire fed also healed the wounds completely, leaving not even a trace of a scar. When and if a bond-slave returned to civilian life, there would be no signs left behind of their time serving in a vampire’s collar.

Daniel closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath as Itami moved away. He usually came when Itami fed, but this time, it was too soon; vampiric chemistry couldn’t combat the human refractory period. It was too much, too much stimulation. Now his skin felt as if it was on fire, and he was hard enough that the air against the head of his cock felt like sandpaper. He shifted, feeling the pull of the cords against his ankles and wrists, but no answering pull from his cock. The cord must have come free. He whimpered, then moaned as gentle fingers trailed down his throat, over his collarbone, and down the length of the ugly scar on his chest.

“Daniel?” Itami murmured. “You did not spend.”

“You expected me to? Twice in under ten minutes?” Daniel gasped. “I’m sorry, Hiro. I don’t think that’s possible. Not for me.” He blinked rapidly, trying to force himself to more coherent thought, then caught his breath as fingers brushed the inside of his ankle. The cords fell loose on his left ankle, then on his right, and Itami pulled him out of the chair and onto his feet, holding him close. Daniel rested his cheek against Itami’s shoulder, breathing in his scent, feeling the rough raw silk of Itami’s shirt under his cheek. “I wasn’t expecting you to go down on me,” he murmured. “But it’s a good thing you did. If I’d come when you were feeding, I’d have shot all over your suit.”

“Suits can be cleaned,” Itami’s voice was a comfortable rumble against Daniel’s ear. “I have left you in discomfort. This is unacceptable.” He stepped back, holding Daniel at arm’s length.  Then he pulled him close once more, and kissed him. Daniel moaned, tugging against the silken cords that still bound his hands behind him, and Itami drew back, just far enough that his lips tickled against Daniel’s when he spoke. “What do you want, my Daniel?”

“You,” Daniel answered immediately. “Only you. Always you.”

Itami smiled, kissing Daniel once more, then stepped back and helped Daniel to his knees. He took the towel from the chair, and draped it over the edge of the couch. “Then you know what to do, my Daniel.”

Daniel bowed his head and shifted on his knees until he was able to bend over the couch. He could hear Itami behind him, the rustle and slide of silk and wool. When he tried to look, something came flying at him, settling over his head and shoulders — Itami’s shirt.

“Need I gag and blindfold you?” Itami chided. He ran his nails down the length of Daniel’s spine. Then his body covered Daniel’s as he knelt behind him; Daniel felt Itami’s cock against his ass, heard the snap of the tube of lube opening, and moaned. There was no preparation, no gradual teasing — Daniel couldn’t have stood the extra stimulation, and Itami knew it. No, there was only Itami’s hard cock, slick with the gel lubricant, pressing against Daniel’s ass. Daniel yowled, louder than he was used to, fighting to stay still as Itami entered him.

“I think that we will test the sound-proofing of this room,” Itami murmured. “Unless…”

Something soft and warm thumped down over Daniel’s head. He had a moment to realize that it was a pillow before Itami pressed down on it, muffling Daniel’s voice and cutting off his air. Daniel bucked, but Itami’s body over his, and his strong hands on the pillow, kept him from moving. He felt Itami’s knee, pushing his apart, opening him wider. Then Itami was moving against him, fast and hard, his breath hot on Daniel’s back. Daniel strained against the cords, gasping for air, his entire world narrowing to the single point that was Itami’s cock. He could feel his orgasm building, feel the darkness creeping around the edges of his consciousness. How long could he stay like this, before he passed out?

He tried to breathe, feeling the pillow ticking filling his mouth and nose, and rational thought dissolved; he started to fight in earnest, pushing up against Itami, shifting from side to side, trying to get away from the suffocating pillow. All his struggling accomplished was to make Itami bear down on him more, thrust harder, and to rub his own cock against the towel enough that he howled his orgasm into the gathering darkness. As he slipped away, he felt sharp needle-pricks in the back of his shoulder.

He woke on the floor, his head pillowed on Itami’s thigh, Itami’s fingers combing through his hair. He’d been out long enough for Itami to untie him, then rebind his hands in front of him. He took a long, shuddering breath, then another.

“Are you awake, koibito?” Itami asked.

Daniel nodded, his cheek scratching against Itami’s skin. “Yes.”

“Good. You are well? I did not harm you?”

Daniel tried to shift, discovered his ankles were bound together as well. So he rolled, twisting until he was looking up at Itami. “I’m fine, Hiro. How long was I out?”

“Not very long. A few minutes.”

Daniel nodded. “And did I imagine it, or did you bite me again?”

Itami laughed, his fingers curling into Daniel’s hair, then running down his neck. “Yes. It pleased me to do so, and pleased you as well. You are a magnificent feast, my Daniel.”

Daniel smiled. “Three course meal. Appetizer, entree and dessert.” He looked down at himself, the cords that bound his wrists and his ankles. Then he looked up at Itami and grinned. “And leftovers?”

Itami laughed. “No, koibito. I am sated, and I think I will be until we get home. You will rest now.” He shifted, leaving Daniel lying on the floor as he rose. Daniel sat up, and noticed that the couch had been cleared off, and the blankets and pillows arranged to make a bed. Itami bent, lifting Daniel easily and setting him on the couch. As he drew the blankets up, Daniel held his hands up.

“You’re not resting?”

“I thought I would work while you slept.”

“Hiro, you have to rest, too,” Daniel protested. “I know you just fed, but you still need rest. There’s enough room.”

Itami sat down on the edge of the wide couch and smiled, looking down at Daniel. “I bind you so that you will not overexert yourself, and you still insist on caring for me.”

“That’s my job, Hiro,” Daniel said gently. “Also my privilege and my pleasure. Now come lie down.”

Itami nodded. “Until you sleep, then.” He rose, walked over to dim the lights, then came back and joined Daniel underneath the blankets, prodding Daniel so that he rolled onto his side, then drawing him into his arms, his back resting against Itami’s chest.

Daniel sighed, closing his eyes. “Thank you, Hiro.”

“You are welcome, Daniel.” Itami’s breath on his neck was soft. “Kimi wa totemo taisetsu ni yo.

Daniel felt his breath catch. “I love you, too,” he murmured.

“I know, koibito. I know.”

Elizabeth Schechter has been called  one of the top erotica and alternative sexuality writers in the world. Her writing credits include the award-winning steampunk erotic romance House of Sable Locks, the science fiction BDSM duology Tales from the Arena, and the Celtic fantasy Princes of AirHer shorter work has appeared in anthologies edited by D.L King (Carnal Machines), Laura Antoniou (No Safewords), and Cecilia Tan (Jingle Balls; Like a Prince).

Elizabeth Schechter was born in New York at some point in the past. She is officially old enough to know better, but refuses to grow up. She lives in Central Florida with her husband and son, and a most accepting circle of friends who are both very amused and very proud of the pervy, fetish writer in their midst.

Elizabeth can be found online at http://elizabethschechterwrites.com, or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Elizabeth.A.Schechter.

Microfiction: A Pair of Snakes by TS Porter

The Gorgon is blindfolded when I arrive at the hotel room.

She is always blindfolded and bare, sitting patiently at the end of the bed. She does not move as the dry rasp of my scales across the doorway fills the room, until all of my long tail is inside. The door closes with a click. The Gorgon maintains her composure, as if she has not heard, but her hair is not under her voluntary control. Her snakes weave and tangle, wild in their excitement.

I slither closer, and her breath catches slightly when I check the blindfold, fingers brushing her cheeks and the back of her neck as I do. If the blindfold comes undone I’m dead, but it never slips. She has tied it as firmly as ever. Her snakes wrap around my arms, holding me close, and I smile as I untangle myself.

“Gorgon,” I whisper, caressing the edge of her jaw to tilt her little face up toward me.

“Lamia,” she whispers in answer, and I delicately trace the edges of her soft lips with my fingertip. We have no names to each other. We are merely a gorgon and a lamia, chance met and joined for pleasure.

The bed – always at least king sized, and even that nearly not enough for all of me – creaks and groans under my weight as I climb onto it. I wrap a turn of my tail around the Gorgon’s slender body, squeezing slightly, and she shivers despite the heat of the room. We’re each of us enough snake to hate any chill. I take my time, stroking her back and sides, her throat, her thighs and belly and finally the perky little breasts that adorn her chest. Her nipples are already pebbled up tight; her spine arches and she moans as I pinch them, one and then the other. The first sound of the evening. The first of many.

The Gorgon is drenched slick already when I slide the tip of my tail between her legs. I could fuck her with it, she opens her legs wider to encourage me, but not today I think. I rub against her sex, teasing at the wet heat of her with smooth scales, before moving on. I slither around and around her, loving the softness of her skin and teasing at her pleasures in passing. I move her where I like, her body tiny and helpless against my strength. Finally, when she is panting and whining in her throat, I wrap her up, coiling around and restraining her. It pushes the limits of my flexibility, but I hold her with her hands restrained behind her back, her legs spread wide and my head between them.

My tongue flicks, scenting her tart musk and arousal. The Gorgon trembles when my tongue brushes her.

“Please,” she begs, her snakes twisting and squirming in anticipation as she cannot. “Oh, please…”

For such sweet begging I cannot deny her. I lash the thin tips of my tongue across her tender sex twice more, making her body jolt, before I press in to tend to her pleasure. Her clit is swollen firm beneath my lips and tongue, her flavor creamy and rich in my mouth. My hands are free, and I stroke them over her body, feel her straining muscles and again find her nipples. I pluck them in time with the swirl and flick of my tongue on her clit. Her entire body strains against my unrelenting grip, crying out as her first orgasm takes her. The second takes longer. I suck her clit, lash it hard with the tip of my tongue, and finally wring it out of her. Her body bucks and twists, trying to escape and get more at the same time, before she collapses against my coils that support even as they restrain, nearly sobbing in relief.

I give her no time to recover before I unhinge my jaw and slide my tongue all the way into her waiting sex. My sharp teeth scrape lightly against her lower belly, the tender crease of her thigh, and the soft muscles of her ass. The Gorgon gasps as much from the implied danger as the twisting of my tongue inside her. I have crushed and devoured larger than her – but then she has petrified greater than I.

My tongue undulates inside her, finding the perfect places within her to press and tap and rub. Her moans are deeper now, her voice growing hoarse with prolonged pleasure. Her thighs shake and she squirms as much as my grip and teeth will allow her, fucking herself on my tongue. The creamy slick of her pleasure drips into my waiting mouth as I give her a third and – for today – final orgasm.

I unwrap the Gorgon as I rehinge my jaw. I can feel the pattering of her heart when I lay her on top of me; the little trembles passing through her as I stroke her back.

“Oh, Lamia…” the Gorgon breathes, nuzzling her face into my breast as she cuddles against the round softness of my belly. Her snakes rub against my chest, peppering my breasts with dry snaky kisses. Another time I might ball around her to seek my own pleasure rubbed against her skin, but fall is not my season. It is enough for me now to see hers. The Gorgon knows this, and does not press. I hold her for a time, until she has recovered.

The Gorgon and I always part with a kiss, her hot little lips soft against my own and her snakes caressing my cheeks. Then I leave so she can remove her blindfold. I will be nothing but sensation and memory to her until next we choose to meet for pleasure.

TS Porter may or may not be a collection of knobbly twigs animated by ancient magics and cleverly disguised as a human by the use of glasses and an oversized hoodie. They have sold stories to several upcoming Circlet anthologies, and have a smutty novella with LT3 due out in December and available for preorders now! TS can be found online at ts-porter.tumblr.com.

Microfiction: Sunset, Moonrise, Shadows Falling By T.C. Mill

Sunset, Moonrise, Shadows Falling

When she reaches for him, he responds with such passion that their desperate kiss knocks her mask askew. Below the edge of painted porcelain, carmine smears her lips. He sees its color in the last of the light, as the shadows lengthen across Carcosa.

Even as his hands settle at her laced-slender waist, his eyes dart from side to side. The courtyard on their right is empty, its inhabitants fled or cowering indoors; and as for what will come sweeping down the street on their left hand—nothing can stop that.

His fingers stroke against the rough nap of velvet. Her hair is a wig; its curled ends bounce as she takes a shuddering breath. She reaches for her collar and with a short, swift movement rips the lace apart, baring the tops of her breasts. He finds the ends of the ribbons to loosen her stays, his knuckles scraping between her back and the ancient stones of the wall.

“Kiss me again,” she demands.

He complies, not looking at what the slipped mask has bared. It doesn’t matter. The glow of the rising black stars is kind to her.

Her gloved hand cups his cheek; the leather is supple but horny, cold in the evening air. After stripping his own gloves, he reaches for her bared skin, seeking warmth. He finds her breasts heavy and firm, even hard, as smooth as quarried marble. He feels the swell of her breath, but cannot detect a pulse.

It doesn’t matter.

Her hips grind against his as her arms wrap around his shoulders, and her weight draws him down when her feet leave the ground, legs crossing behind him. He leans forward to brace her against the wall. They’re pressed close now, thigh to thigh, core to core, and surely she can feel his pulse, his growing urgency.

Circling one sharp-peaked nipple, he schools himself in patience. There is no need to rush—after they finish, there is nothing left to do—but they do not have much time, either.

As they fled the palace, following the wails of Camilla and the prophecies of Cassilda, he saw the towers behind the moon beginning to crumble.

He kisses along her jaw and neck. She sighs in his ear, high and sweet, like a song from her very soul. For a moment he thinks he might love her. He is not such a fool as to imagine the reverse, and yet—they were close, for members of the Court. There is room for passion left in their hearts, some that had not been forced out by awe and horror.

Let that passion bloom now. Let it spread and cover them, let it be the last thing they know when the King descends.

Leaving her limbs around him to support her, he puts both hands to her breasts. They move quickly, almost roughly, though she seems untroubled. His mouth travels lower, and his nostrils are filled with her perfume: the most delicate essence mixed with the rawer scent of her sweat, her fear and lust.

She rakes through his hair, catching strands, pulling. “I can feel it.” The words grate from her throat, where moments before sighs had rung. “The echo—coming—through the stone—”

She, too, is reduced to touch, who once could see so much.

“Keep hold of me.” With one hand, he moves with deliberation and swiftness: hiking her skirts, layers of satin and velvet cast up, and then pulling aside the hem of his long waistcoat and unlacing his breeches. His frock coats tails flap like wings as he pumps his hips against her.

She shifts, almost writhing, frantic to help him find her entrance.  Finally, he does, and she is slick, and hot—heat at last, there at the hungry folds that part around his cock—so hot their joining feels molten.

Their heads knock together in that first thrust, as they both strain towards each other, and as, perhaps, they each silently beg a kiss. His mask is simple felt, absorbing and softening the clack of porcelain and bone. Pain’s white sting is as welcome as pleasure in these final moments.

But her mask, connecting with his cheek and forehead, is jostled further. She throws her head from side to side as his thrusts find the right angle inside her—he hears her cry, thankful and demanding—and the mask loosens and falls. It might shatter on the cobbles below his feet; he doesn’t look.

Instead, he kisses her revealed face—modestly hidden still, because even if the shadows were not shielding her, he has sealed his eyes now. There is no more he needs to see. Instead he learns with his lips: her full mouth, her long, sharp nose with flaring nostrils, eyelids that the purse of his kiss can cup and cover. Which it does, delicately. More than passion, he finds something dark and small and warm to share: a trace almost of affection.

He is bared to her, with her, within her; he is sharing himself with someone at last, at the last. He is losing himself. Loss coils at the core of him, hot and hollow; his balls seem to swell with it, ready to pour out this last offering, a last sacrament of life, past hope.

She seems touched by it, too. He hears her shuck the glove off, and then her bare hand is against his cheek—silken scales rubbing, the finely manicured claws pressing his skin as gently as his fingers grip her gown’s yellow velvet.

His climax comes, and before he loses himself utterly in the pleasure that wrings him, wracks him, turns his mind in circles like cosmic orbit, but cannot quite reach the chill at his heart—before this comes, he showers as many kisses as he can on her uncountable eyelids.

And the twin suns sink beneath the far shore of Lake Hali for a very long night indeed.

T.C. Mill is a freelance writer and editor in Wisconsin. Her book reviews and fiction updates can be found at TC-Mill.com.

Microfiction: The Demon’s Name by S. Maxwell

The Demon’s Name

When he was sixteen, his mother had asked him why he wouldn’t go to the school disco. ‘Aren’t you interested in girls?’ she’d asked, meaning it as a joke. He’d replied in his head only: ‘No, just women.’ Nothing had changed since then. Even now, girls his own age were still just girls: flighty, silly, irritating with their giggles and meaningful looks that meant nothing.

No, women were the thing: mature, powerful and alluring. They looked out at him from the screen of his laptop, their eyes full of dark promise, offering more than any mere girl could hope to comprehend. But women had no reason to be interested in an untested product like Jack, and his fantasies of passionate, intense encounters with femme fatales had stayed just that.

Hence the ritual. Not that he really expected it to work, but like many guys his age who were supposed to doing masses of homework and filling out college applications, he had a lot of time on his hands. The book had come to him from a friend’s dusty attic, ‘borrowed’ without its true owner (whoever that might have been) knowing. Black leather bound with weirdly pristine pages, coming from a time before there was acid in paper… Such a book had to be respected.

If it had been any more complex, he would no doubt not have bothered, but the ritual was simplicity itself: light a candle, nick your hand, pour three tiny drops of blood into the flame while saying the demon’s name three times. Cutting himself should, he knew, have been the hard part, but it wasn’t. After an hour or two of fantasising about what might happen and holding back from climax despite his ever growing excitement, he’d ended up throwing himself into the ritual with a lack of irony that surprised him. The nick was made to the skin below his thumb, and the drops of blood fell rhythmically, one, two, three, then an extra one by mistake before the tissue was applied. And all the while chanting in a low voice: her name. He leaned back. The ritual had not said how she would appear. And of course, she wouldn’t.

In a sense, she didn’t. The creature that crawled out from the dark space beneath his bed was like nothing he had imagined.

He was too terrified to scream, or move. The creature was on all fours, yet… it was undoubtedly a naked woman, her skin tinged with green, glistening in the light of his bedside lamp, her teeth thin canines, her eyes utterly black… and in every other way, a woman. Curved, soft, with breasts swaying softly as she made her lizard-like way towards him. He noticed her hands then, long and bony, her fingernails true claws, perfectly maintained and painted a deep blue… Her tongue flicked out, halfway between a human and a reptile’s. His paralysis did not abate as she flowed over him, pinning him to the ground. Her flesh was hot and dry against his skin. Her tongue searched his face, as if she were a blind woman learning his features through touch. She pinned him down, her claws raking his wrists and hands but gently, drawing no blood. Her feet pushed his legs outwards, splaying him, as if she were preparing him to be staked out on the floor.

And then she lowered herself onto his cock. He had remained rock-hard the entire time, something he hadn’t even noticed until now… Enveloped by soft, oiled muscle, held in the grip of the creature’s cunt, a grip that tightened until it hurt him, and his cock responded by engorging itself still further, as if the two organs were fighting for dominance…

Her eyes looked into his, and in the midst of his terror he was gifted with the certain knowledge that she had not come here to harm him, though she was more than capable and would have been willing under other circumstances. The nature of his fright shifted sideways, from sheer mortal terror to a partial fear of the unknown, of his own desires.

Still holding his cock in her cunt’s firm grip, she began to move, softly and gently, her oscillations an expert display of restrained violence. She could have torn him limb from limb. Her power was palpable, a presence all of its own. But beneath it, these soft, gentle movements…

He was young, and he had not masturbated that day. It did not take her long to bring him to climax. He felt for the first time the spray of his semen contained within that warm, enveloping passage, sensed her cunt drinking it avidly, as if starved of liquid sustenance.

Her tongue found his face once more, and again she looked him in the eyes as she licked his cheeks, his lips… and withdrew. She turned, crawled back towards his bed, then glanced over her shoulder as she reached the patch of darkness from whence she had emerged, and whispered a single word in a voice that make him think of snakes and honey:

‘Mine.’

She darted into the blackness, and he knew she was gone. The room grew still. He looked down at his cock: it was still rock hard, and no trace of his semen remained. She had taken it all. Why? Where?

When he summoned her tomorrow night, perhaps he would find the courage to ask.

Microfiction: Fear-Desire-Love by Annabeth Leong

Fear-Desire-Love

When I took Ru Hi Na to dinner at my parents’ home, my father noticed at once the way hir scenting tendrils flicked always in my direction no matter where hir many eyes pointed. He asked me for help in the kitchen, and when I got there, he gripped both my shoulders. “What’s going on with you and that alien?”

“Nothing,” I said firmly, as if the word, pronounced with sufficient emphasis, could convince us both. But my blood escaped my control. I could feel the rush of it through my ears, the blush heating my neck, chest, and cheeks.

My father turned and spat in the sink.

***

Ru Hi Na and I went for a long walk along the river after we left the house. Ze trailed hir scent tendrils before and behind us and let hir eyes drift shut. At last, ze said my name in hir voice made of sighs, the three syllables simultaneous, winding around each other as they formed. I loved hearing it that way, and I’d once spent hours playing with audio software, trying to construct a proper pronunciation of hir tripartite name in my voice.

“Ru Hi Na,” I answered teasingly. Ze told me once that ze likes how I separate hir name, as if I’m calling to each of hir three parts individually. My father was right, I thought. We were fascinated with each other.

“Tonight-at dinner-always with me, the smell-name-breath of you is anxious-expectant-sad. Why?”

I took a moment to savor hir intertwined thoughts as the poetry they were, delivered in the mix of hir language and mine that we had invented together. Then I untangled them painstakingly in my mind, careful not to drop any of the threads.

My father’s disapproval had made me feel rebellious enough to be honest. I answered in my stuttering approximation of hir words, the sentiments isolated in my mouth, though they mingled in my chest. “Fear-desire-love.”

Hir three-fingered hand brushed the back of mine. I caught and held it in the way of human lovers, and I knew ze understood because I could feel hir swallowing the scent of me with every one of hir throats.

***

We went together to hir room, where I stripped for hir. I had no idea whether my body would be attractive to hir. Human ideals of loveliness had never accounted for the light-and-shadow vision of hir people or their exquisite sense of smell. Hir scent tendrils licked through the humid interior of my mouth, tickled my armpits, then settled between my legs.

“Unknown-thrilling-uncertain,” ze sighed.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” I admitted.

Ze bared hirself as well, turning hir kaleidoscopic skin inside out to reveal its vulnerable pink underside, the nerve endings visible and quivering. For me, the question of beauty did not matter. There was only intimacy, the deeper knowing I had always desired with hir.

I had once tried to read a PhD thesis on the anatomy of Ru Hi Na’s people, but the descriptions had been too human, too separate. It seemed incorrect by nature to examine Ru Hi Na a piece at a time when ze embodied multitudes.

I despaired of this human limitation as I attempted to create a way of making love to hir. I wanted to put my hands everywhere at once, but I recalled that ze enjoyed my humanity. I could not be with hir as one of hir own. I could only be myself.

I eyed those exposed nerves. Did ze want me to look at them? Smell them? Lick them? I didn’t want to hurt hir, but I’d also been with too many lovers who’d seen me as fragile and weren’t willing to do the rough things I enjoyed. “What do you want me to do?”

I didn’t know the words ze breathed in reply. For a moment, we stood helplessly, farther apart than ever in this moment when I desperately wanted to bring us close.

Then ze reached for me and brought me into hir. My body settled against hir soft, pink skin, and hir nerves moved against me. They felt like the ends of pencil erasers. I imagined them removing all traces of other lovers, all previous ideas of what love was supposed to be and how I was supposed to behave.

Ze made an unholy sound as ze did this, trembling everywhere in the sweaty throes of the thing beyond pain and pleasure that is sometimes called ecstasy but ought to be known as revelation.

Was this how hir people ordinarily made love, or something ze did now only for me? Beneath my desire for a territory that belonged only to us, however, was an older knowing, that there is absolutely nothing new. Lovers have always discovered each other, have always searched together for the place where pain and pleasure no longer matter.

I rubbed my cheek against one of hir nerves. I caught the scent of my sex on my fingers and lifted it to hir questing scent tendrils. Ru Hi Na wouldn’t expect me to do what humans usually did, and there was no need to approximate the practices that had always seemed imperfectly fit to me.

Carefully, I showed hir how to give me the feeling I truly craved, how to touch me in the places I’d been taught never to let anyone touch me. An orgasm spilled from me unexpectedly, almost incidental to hir touch.

I knew I could never answer my father’s question. The explanation for what was going on with me and Ru Hi Na would require more words than even ze could intertwine.

Microfiction: The Arena by Niki Crow

The Arena

I make my way through lamp-lit streets. It’s the middle of the night but I woke up with a craving I couldn’t quench.

I can see it just up ahead—the Arena Club. I’ve been on this planet a year now and I’ve been a member for nearly as long. In fact, I became a member the same day I first heard about the place. It’s housed in a modern building, with big signs telling everyone what’s inside. This is a fancy neighborhood; on Moha it isn’t shameful to have sex. So unlike the people of Earth, the Mohans don’t hide away to make love.

I’m at the entrance to the club now, and I can feel the pulse in my pussy, filling my clit with blood, engorging it and making it sensitive. How I love that feeling of anticipation! I hurry inside and choose my usual seat at the back of the female only section. For me, it’s as much of a thrill to watch other women bringing themselves to orgasm as it is to watch what goes on on the stage. There’s nothing quite as beautiful as a woman touching herself, watching her as she spreads her legs and pushes her pelvis forward to expose her clit, or to watch her fuck herself with any kind of object. There’s nothing quite as beautiful as the look of utter pleasure on her face as she comes. It’s remarkably similar in all humanoid species.

I leave everything but my favorite dildo in the locker room, and make my way to my seat. I have a clear view of the stage, but what goes on there– an ordinary guy-girl fuck–can’t hold my attention. There’s someone in the seat next to mine, and she’s mesmerizing. Her shapes are soft and rounded, her skin as dark as the night, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat covering her forehead. Her legs are flung up on the armrests of her seat and she’s slowly pushing a pink dildo into herself. I can’t help myself; I lean forward to get a better view. She notices, of course, but only smiles at me. God, how I want to touch her! I want to rub her clit, suck those prominent nipples, and drive that dildo deep inside her. But there’s no touching in the Arena Club, no sex allowed unless you’re on stage. But I bend the rules, just a little, and reach out to touch her thigh.

“Wanna play?” I ask.

I’ve never been up on the stage before—not that I haven’t received invitations—but I’ve been happy watching and touching myself. Until now.

Her smile broadens and she leaves the dildo halfway inside her to tap on the panel next to her seat. A moment later, a light flashes on my own panel—her invitation. I accept and we’re entered into the queue.  There’s no going back now, and as the couple leaves the stage to make room for three Mohan men, both our panels flash again. We’re up next.

In the props room, I choose a strap-on with a built-in vibrator for the wearer. I put it on and align the vibrator. The metal against my clit feels wonderful and I brace myself not to start it just yet.

The guys don’t take long, and before we know it, it’s our turn. She takes my hand as we enter the stage.

“I’m Anna, by the way,” she whispers.

“Rita,” I reply.

And then we’re on. Anna lies down on the padded table in the center of the well-lit stage, and spreads her legs. She’s flexible, giving the audience a great view of her gorgeous, wet pussy. I put the tip of the dildo against her and push inside, slowly. I can feel the eyes of the audience on us, and it’s turning me on like crazy. Why have I never been on stage before?  I set the vibrator on slow and fuck Anna in an equally slow pace, in rhythm with the suggestive alien music, pushing upward with every stroke to touch her G-spot. All the while I rub her clit with my thumb, and she’s pinching her nipples.

It doesn’t take long before we’re both about to come. I push harder into her, speed up the pace, and amp up the vibrator to maximum. Seconds later, we’re shouting out loud as our bodies lock in spasms and I’m swept away into oblivion. It’s divine. It’s heavenly and  it’s without a doubt the best orgasm I’ve ever had.

I catch my breath for a second and then I meet her eyes. I want more, I’m not ready to get off the stage just yet. And as I remove the strap-on and move to straddle her face, I know for certain that I’ll never spend my nights at the Arena Club cooped up in a seat in the back again.