Category Archives: Microfictions

Microfictions

Microfiction: A Pair of Snakes by TS Porter

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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.

Microfictions

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

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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.
Microfictions

Microfiction: The Demon’s Name by S. Maxwell

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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.

Microfictions

Microfiction: Fear-Desire-Love by Annabeth Leong

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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.

Microfictions

Microfiction: The Arena by Niki Crow

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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.

 

Microfictions

Microfiction: Custom Made by Tuulia Saaritsa

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Custom Made

The brain is a sexual organ.

Mine sloshes in its container, a pretty metal casing, its outer layer shaped like a skull. My skin (another organ) stretches over it, pulled by a minute network of wires. I am smiling up at my lover.

Tonight, she’s a bear.

I bury my face in her coarse fur, my fingers at her shoulders, searching out the slip of leather on metal. The skin is real, but not alive like my organic skin, which fires up at the feel of thousands of single hairs pricking my thighs. We couldn’t afford more than one real skin apiece; we’re not old enough. Decades to go yet on the assembly line before my next promotion, putting together radios, motors, escape pod control panels; tiny intricate metal entrails.

“Screw me in both holes?” I pant, the bellows in my chest drawing in cooling air, and she flips me over. Her claws dig into my hips.

She is enormous as the sky, and the familiar purring of her machinery picks up pace as her desire heats her core engine. I spread my legs and bury my head in our pillows as she skewers my oiled cunts with her many-jointed pricks.

Goldilocks, she calls me through our neural link, and I imagine a young woman of gooey flesh, spread willingly on the bedsheets by a creature of muscle and bone. Fantasies. Always fantasies. It wouldn’t work otherwise.

We grind together, hard enough to dent, and my brain lights up like fireworks.

Microfictions

Microfiction: Multiplicity by Cèsar Sanchez Zapata

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Multiplicity

“It is a tribute—the ultimate tribute to decadence,” said he, the man named Stephen Orrok, standing on the second-story balcony and staring out at a coterie of media vans cluttered beyond the steel gates bordering his estate. Four aerial cams hovered two feet over his head, their flickering lenses trained down on him. Static droned inside his ear, and then through the buds, he heard the rapid-fire questions of journalists—out there.

“You think yourself God?”

“Pray to me in any name you wish.”

“You certainly consider yourself above the law.”

He tapped a fingertip over his pursed lips. “I abide by the ones I agree with.”

“You’ve violated hundreds of international cloning edicts. Special agents from three different global agencies are on their way to shut down your operation.”

“They arrived ten minutes ago.” He grinned, turning on his heels and walking inside. He crossed his hands behind his back, pacing slowly with the cameras always floating above him. “I offered them a deal. They accepted—every last one, man and woman. They leave my little party alone, and in exchange, they get one free night.”

“To do what?”

“To do her.”

He felt the awe, the excitement take hold of their bodies, as profoundly as he felt it overflow his own; felt it, more than heard any indication, no gasps or tight frenzied murmurs. The farther he moved, the more he felt the heaviness in his balls, and thousands of moans and sighs bleeding together, reaching out to him from beyond.

“How do you respond to critics who claim you’re only a bitter, vengeful cuckold, hell-bent on soiling the image of the world’s most beautiful woman?”

“I’m not dealing with androids. These are not machines designed to act, or sound, or to resemble her. Those fools fail to understand—they are her, every single one; her heart, body, and all-consuming passion. Albeit, minus certain inhibitions. Well, they don’t hold their silly reputations sacred.” The moaning grew louder, bouncing off the walls in the corridor, as he neared the corner. “Rest easy, the world will still have its most beautiful woman . . . just multiplied infinitely.” He reached the iron-cast railing overlooking the grand ballroom, so the cameras could survey his kingdom. His voice dropped to a whisper impossible to hear over the cacophony of sex, “How special will she be then?”

The buzzing set off again, the hacks riling up for another barrage of questions; he tapped his earlobe severing the feed. Interview ended.

He gazed at the ocean of bodies—naked dozens tumbling over naked dozens more, here, there, everywhere two dozen more arms, legs, breasts, tongues moist and slavering. A chorus of hers, a choir of orgasms with which he was intimately familiar. Each her was more than a mere replica of her—they were fantasies. Fantasies come to life, scalding flesh and blood, with the hunger for pleasure emanating from every pore. Every man and woman had paid to attend and realize a dream by owning her for the evening. Roaming eyes be damned! The fantasy came true the moment they took her, any which way they chose.

That’s when he saw that one, knowing immediately she belonged to him.

The desire was so clearly, frustratingly, evident on her face—the hammering ache of lust that is unstated, and worse yet, unsated. Clad in just a silk, purple robe, she weaved amid the orgy, like a queen over her subjects, gazing steadily, unwaveringly at him.

He walked along the rail, undoing his belt, unbuttoning his pants, and started down the grand staircase as she reached the first step. She rose out of the sea of coitus like Venus herself, slowly removing her robe, revealing her stunning perfection. She was a goddess—fit for a god.

He snatched her wrist, wrenching her forward and hauling her into his arms. “Welcome home, lover,” said she, and it didn’t matter that he knew; it always shook him when they first spoke. In that instant when the words first reached his ears, he felt all alone with Dianna—with the only her.

He steered them backwards, and she had her hands full of him before his bottom touched the steps, and climbing onto his lap, thrusting her breasts over his mouth, positioning. He seized her ass and she dug her nails into his back, her thighs tightly embracing his hips, her elbows carving into his shoulders as his cock slipped lower between them, between shaven lips. He doused her chest with kisses just as he entered her; tracing the tiny, scattered birthmarks on the underside of each breast with his tongue while his prick explored within.

She moaned into his face. Hot, hurried breaths—a tiny squeal, as he rolled them over laying her on her back. She rolled them around again, and on and on they went, restlessly, eager, oily and pliant as seals when they came together. It was bestial; it was greedy, each voracious and unforgiving. He never relented on her nipples, his licks and bites measured and meticulous. Precise.

She always said he had a talented mouth.

The real Dianna said.

Let others write lies, but the love they’d shared was nothing if not a lesson in hedonism.

The one thing they both prayed never to see was the one inevitability. And when they reached that end, they did so together—collapsed forward on all fours, breathless. Tangled.

Shit.

Only a man who’d once possessed the real thing could tell the difference—and such was his hell, for he knew—unlike the others—he knew in his heart, festering inside, that the woman now beneath him, squirming, pleading in whispers for his prick wasn’t, as they say, the real McCoy.

A suitable alternative, surely, but he would never taste or feel or touch the real her again. If ever that chance existed, he’d spoiled it tonight.

A small sacrifice to pay for revenge.

Bitter? Perhaps—

Multiplied infinitely.

Microfictions

Microfiction: Latex Hack by Dee Maselle

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Latex Hack

My body floats in a gel tank, my brain and nerves wired to the infinite sensations of the exonet.

I can shape my appearance here, but appear I must. Nothing is invisible in the exonet’s virtuality. My shieldcode becomes a skintight suit of black latex embedded with intelligent micromesh, covering me from toes to fingertips to chin. I feel the latex; smell it via the conductive gel bath. The tightness and sheen empower me, make me bold and lithe.

Still–I fall into an unseen trap as I glide around EasBank’s patrols. Nothing is invisible, but destruction can wait beneath a layer of benign code.

I find myself in a seamless granite pit, its opening capped with bars. My wrists are shackled to the floor. Electric blue chains had dived to snare me as I tumbled, disoriented by the explosion of the trap.

An agent appears in my prison. He is cleanly bald, his bronze arms wrapped in fine cybernetic wires. Black latex trews cling to his lean legs like wet ink. A dark metal cuirass protects his torso.

He saunters around my straining body and raises an antiquated monocle. He leans to examine me through the lens. I know the device must not be as quaint as it appears; he is probing the data structure of my suit.

“Well, well,” he rasps, tucking the monocle in a compartment on his cuirass. “One of MachEmerge’s. Pretty outfit.  But what were they thinking, sending an ingénue like you against EasBank?”

> YOU’LL NEVER KNOW, I send in plaintext. The intelligent mesh in my gloves has abraded the encryption in the cuffs. I rush the agent. When he grapples me, I steal his monocle. I spring toward the bars above, melt through them, and escape with my fragment of EasBank tech.

> DUEL. The text scorches the rubber of my palm. I keep my grip on the smoking monocle; the pain is illusion. I have won, but the agent wants to meet me in neutral territory.

We are professional exonet specialists, but there is a secret stratum of the curious, the proud, and the inventive who will duel. My breath catches at the notion of a curious, proud, inventive agent in black rubber and cybernetic wire.

He meets me in a frost white chamber. “Let’s talk deal, not duel,” he says huskily. “I’ll study your suit, and you’ll detank with two million fresh toll codes.”

The agent has not hidden the stiff bulge stretching the glossy rubber between his legs. I cannot hide my arrested stare.

“Four million, and I’ll study your pants,” I whisper.

A transparent blade extends from his fingertip. He slices circles from my latex top, allowing my breasts to spring through the holes. The blade comes exquisitely close to my skin, but never touches it; my nerve interface is left intact as the code of the suit is cut away.

My nipples are stiff; my breathing quick. My breasts are pale moons against the darkness of my suit. The agent meets my gaze and allows a twist of a smile. He crouches and slices a careful oblong in the latex at my crotch. I do not stop him. I am sure my tanked body is aroused by this exposure, and I am wet in virtuality. I feel it as the chill of the chamber brushes my shaven cleft.

The agent’s cuirass vanishes, its shieldcode sinking into his skin. He keeps his latex trews. He slices them open and his cock presses forward: thick, veined and tawny. The blade retracts. His hand curls around my core and he squeezes his palm to the mound above my clit, three fingers arcing into my slick opening.  The curve of his wired hand hums with vibration. Curious, proud, inventive indeed. My passage quakes and I whimper with pleasure. I tug him to the white floor.

He sinks between my legs and thrusts into me. We are both on corporate time. It will be a fast mind-body mating for two anonymous rubber lovers a globe apart.

We fuck with the shameless aggression of craving. He presses me into the floor, his clean-shaven sac pounding against my ass. He rests his weight on one wired arm; he catches my breast in his hand and the aching tip of the other breast between his lips. He nips the crown, and laves it with his hot tongue. The processing power! The intricate randomized detail of a realistic tongue!  My gloved fingers grip his pumping ass, stretching his latex and letting it snap against his skin. The smell of hot rubber rises between us.

I gaze at the bars above, my mouth opening to release immaterial cries. I know my body is silent in its tank, tubes in my nose and throat preventing anything but quiet air from escaping. The agent’s cock scythes without mercy through the opening he has cut for himself in the crotch of my suit. He explodes, sending his own low groan to the digital abyss.

I feel his cream pulse hot inside me, and I wonder if he has ejaculated in his tank in EasBank.  He pulls out and smears our mingled fluids on the rubber stretched across my belly.

That–and the image of his essence dispersing like a cloud in a warm gel bath—and I am lost. He rubs his twitching meat against my clit, growling and biting the side of my neck. I wrap my glistening legs around him and crash to a ferocious climax. I cannot stifle an anguished shriek. I pull his hips hard against me to compress my wracking pulsations.

I still quake as a MachEmerge tech yanks me from the tank. “What on earth were you up to in there?” He jerks his head toward my vitals screen. “Got a few million toll codes rolling in, though.”  He begins to towel away the damp residue of the bath. I want to dive back in.

END

Microfictions

Microfiction: A Blindfold. A Cigarette, Offered and Declined. by Bernie Mojzes

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A Blindfold. A Cigarette, Offered and Declined.

There is the blindfold, of course. That always comes first, though he could always decline. He never does. The blindfold, and the wrist-binding rope. Then the long walk through cold, stone corridors. The scent of mold, of the sawdust that scuffs under his bare feet, and under the heavy-booted feet beside him. The creak of rusted iron hinges, and harsh step into the light. Hot sand between his toes, the sunlight warm on his face, spots of brightness–the closest thing to daylight he’s seen in a year–through the black fabric covering his eyes. The scent of gunpowder.

They’d played this scenario so many times, Emelia leading him out of her basement and onto the desert sands that sifted through the courtyard of her family’s home. Toe-tripping over rubble from the bomb blast. Pressing him against the hot stone of the courtyard wall.

The sound of the rifle being loaded.

Always, was this the time she’d actually do it?

There was an offered cigarette. Always. Part of the ritual, though he’d never taken it. Though Emelia knew he didn’t smoke. The one true thing she’d known about him. The rest–their courtship, their marriage, their shared love of cheesy romantic comedies–all a lie.

Now her family was dead. His fault. His mission.

Once a month, she’d lead him out of his cage, out into the courtyard, up against the wall. The blindfold, the cigarette, the loading, the gunshot.

Splinters of stone cutting his cheek.

Then her hands pulling at his belt, pulling his cock free, hardening in her hand.

The rustle of cloth. Rough fingers gripping his hair, forcing him to the ground, and then Emelia, his captor, his wife, his enemy, straddling him, taking him inside her, riding him hard and fast and angry. Shattered stone digging into his back, his ass, his thighs. His bound hands a painful lump in the small of his back. The scent of her enfolding him.

Her need is as desparate as when they’d first met. Of course it is, he’d been designed for her, sculpted to her tastes, his pheremones tuned to her locks. The perfect spy.

“I loved you,” she said, always said, her tears wet on his cheek, her cunt wet on his cock. Or, sometimes, “I love you.”

I love you, too. Thought, not said. He’d lost that right, when he’d sent the codes that disabled the compound’s anti-missle defenses. When he’d killed her family.

For God and country.

But he couldn’t kill Emelia. And though he could have escaped, how could he deny her this one thing?

It’s Pavlovian, by now. The blindfold, the long walk, his erection pressing against the thin cloth of his cotton trousers.

Emelia comes first, always, at least once. So much has gone into his design, down to curve of his penis and his sexual endurance. Nothing left to chance. The perfect lover, the one you don’t let go.

Sometimes, she sends him back to his cage, still hard. Aching. Sometimes, she brings him to climax, his seed sticky on her fingers, or spilling into her mouth to be spat back contemptuously on his face.

Now, today, there is the sun on his skin, the fabric on his face, the sand under his toes. The cigarette. The cartridge sliding into the chamber. The bolt being drawn.

Always, is this the time she’d actually do it?

It’s spring, and the gentle breeze brings the scent of desert wildflowers he will never see.

Microfictions

Microfiction: Fallen Leaves by TS Porter

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And since you were good enough to enjoy our deliciously sexy trick, please, have this treat to see you off into the night. Don’t worry about the things in the yard and the things in the trees and the things that go bump in the night–not every nocturnal sound is a scary one, after all!

TS Porter is a talented newcomer who thought it would fun to slip this into the mailbox, and again, we forgot to get a bio before they vanished…but I can tell you that a piece by this author will appear in the forthcoming Like a Haunted Trail sometime next year.

Happy Halloween, Spooky Samhain, and so on and so forth to all!

Fallen Leaves by TS Porter

They lived for that one night every year – not that either of them were alive, anymore. The days turned crisp and cool, the trees erupted with a riot of reds and golds. Summer died on the cold teeth of winter, and for just a single night the lines between the spirit world and the physical world blurred completely away.

Eliza could feel it in the house as October lengthened. Increasingly she felt a prickling at the back of her neck, as though she were being watched. Things moved in the house, not where she’d left them. Doors opened and closed on their own, and quiet footsteps echoed across empty floors. Occasionally she felt the ghostly touch of fingers on her arm, her cheek, brushing across the back of her neck. It was an old house, Eliza had built it for her love centuries before. There had obviously been renovations since then, but at its core it was a very old house. It would be easy to blame it all on a draft, on the settling of an old building as it adjusted to the cold of winter. She knew better.

Eliza dreamed full lips against her own, the softest golden skin in broad curves under her hands – rubbing her face against plump breasts and running her fingers through long dark hair. She dreamed endless kissing, caressing touches all over her body. She yielded eagerly to insistently probing fingers that entered her, stroked and filled and brought her to the peak of pleasure. She dreamed the heat of a pulse shuddering under her teeth and the intoxicating sweetness of her love’s blood on her tongue. No one else tasted so good.

She woke in the evening with a second depression on the bed beside her and ran her cold fingertips across the silk sheets, feeling the ghost warmth with a smile.

It was like this every year as the walls between them began to fall away. Eliza purchased the latest fashion magazines and left them in a neat stack on the coffee table. Over the next days she found them other places around the house – as though someone had been paging through one curled up in the window seat overlooking the night garden, or lounging across the bed, or on the couch by the fire.

Eliza sometimes caught a glimpse of a raven haired woman in a red dress as she walked through the house, just a hint from the corner of her eye, but whenever she looked back there was nothing. Just mirrors that reflected an empty house back through her.

The month wore itself to a close, vivid dying leaves fell from the trees, and finally it was time. Eliza brought up a bottle of rich red wine from the cellar, a good year from a wonderful vineyard that tasted like home. She let it breathe while she dressed herself in the very best of her clothes.

She sat by the fire and poured the wine as the sun set, the welcome dark of this one night settling in. Eliza could feel the change in the air, a presence when her love could finally join her. Lightly glowing fingers wrapped around the stem of one of the wine glasses, and Eliza finally looked up to see her love seated on the other end of the couch.

Rosabel was every bit as gorgeous as she’d ever been in life. She wore a very modern slinky red dress with a slit up to the thigh, but her long black hair she still wore in a crown atop her head, bound in ribbons. She moaned as she sipped the wine, a happy hum with ruby drops on her soft lips.

Rosabel’s warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile as she set the glass aside.

“My love,” she greeted, reaching toward Eliza. Eliza took Rosabel’s hand in hers. It was warm and her skin was smooth, so very much like how she’d felt in life.

“Eliza?” the ghost asked, reaching up to softly wipe away a tear from Eliza’s cheek.

“It’s just been a long year,” Eliza shook her head. “I missed you.”

“No, dolcezza…” Rosabel crooned, tugging on her hand, and Eliza couldn’t hold back any longer. She fell into her love’s arms, holding as close and tight as she could. “I know, I know,” Rosabel soothed, gentle fingers stroking through Eliza’s hair. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

Eliza leaned up to kiss the smoky wine from Rosabel’s perfect lips, her own glass forgotten. There would be time for wine later. There would be time for talking, to tell the most important of everything that was new. There would be time for dancing, Eliza had new music of their old dances to share. There would be time to make love. Eliza would have the chance to worship Rosabel’s body, to feel and taste and brand her love into her memory for another year.

They lived for this one night every year – neither of them alive, but each eternal in their own way. They were nothing but bright leaves fallen from the tree – but did not leaves dance as they fell?

They would dance as long as they might.