Gwen Masters: White
… the rush matched the way he made her feel when he did that one little thing he liked to do between her legs, that one sweet motion that sent her to the moon and back….
Rachel Fogletto: Distracted
You are inappropriate
I’m at my job and I’m trying to focus on completing paperwork
And the thought of fucking you is more distracting than my hangover, my…
…He smiled at her, and she smiled back weakly. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I think I’m finished.”
His smile took on a wicked edge. “Finished? Oh, hardly….”
I.G. Frederick: Leather Love
The sound of leather slapping against
flesh is an aphrodisiac that
makes me wet in anticipation…
Riccardo Berra: It’s So Much Easier When You’re Away
…She pushes me down and straddles me. Her hand flutters between my legs. Touching me everywhere. Like a solitary traveler asleep on a long journey, I awaken to discover that I’ve reached my destination with no memory that time has passed….
David Block: NO – Castration
You’re now a man, you need a good lay
Please explain your pathetic delay…
M/ Lilii – Black Dahlia Creative: (267) XXX-XXXX- mobile
She: How are you today? 2:58 PM
He: Only laying around thinking of ways to make u moan the loudest 3:02 PM
Liz Adams: The Artist
She pinched her nipples and bolts of electricity shot straight between her thighs. She placed a hand there and felt herself dripping, eager to be filled….
Rev Dr. Beverly Dale :Dear Kailey, A Letter about Sex and War
…“Make love, not war”…on target…Laboratory research with animals shows that when the brain’s pleasure circuits are ‘on’ then the violence circuits are ‘off,’ and vice versa.
Robin Elizabeth Sampson: As Campers Speak With Hushed Voices – a poem for my husband
Feet and flashlights pass
inches away from our tent walls
as I taste the salt trace of exertion
on the warm skin of your chest,
brush tongue against nipple,
kiss pulsing neck….
Curly Brain: Email Exchange
Excuse me, but why was I not informed of your fantasy? lol. I would love to sit on your rod and have a slow steamy fuck, while your hands squeeze my ass,…
Laurie Rockenbeck: Insemination is What They Do to Cows
…Having my husband’s sperm squiggling away between my boobs is distracting.
I stop at a light and I look down at the bright blue top to the cup and pat it. Half of my baby is in that cup somewhere….
Monica Day Monica Day: The Pussy Letters
I’ve missed you. I still miss you. When you talk to me, I don’t listen. Then I wonder why I can’t feel you sometimes.
Only I know that you can be shy. Only I know how wild you want to be. As the arbiter of your passion, I have failed you.
Tess Danesi: Darkness
…She looks lovely suspended there, her skin glowing in the pitch illuminated by its own inner radiance. I know if I were to take off the blindfold, her eyes would be moist with tears. I want to see those eyes, but not yet. I am a patient man….
J. Maddox: Journal Entries – February 15, 2011
…I am ready to tell you how I feel about the fingers you left inside me. About how my heart still quivers with desire. I am ready for your eyes to look upon me….
Frances Seidman: The Anatomy of a Marriage
…always the feeling of our bodies reaching for each other.
His final words, “If it were not for leaving you, I am ready to die.”
I live on remembering the kisses and grateful for the experiences that lit up my life.
Rebekah Zhuraw: Words
The problem with love is that it is noisy,
always wanting to declare itself.
Stick a sock in it, I want to say. A gag. A cock—
a cock helps…
R. K. Singh: Wisdom of the Body: Some Reflections
…Through the realities of sex and sexual experience we can gauge a person’s innermost truth, his/her consciousness….
R. K. Singh: From The River Returns: Tanka
It’s not ageing
but eternal delight:
you under me
smooth belly nude necking
slow stroking parting flesh
Robin Elizabeth Sampson: I Want to Watch Us
I Want to Watch Us
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like
to stand in the shadows, maybe by the closet door,
or sit on the desk, partially hidden by a pile of books,
and watch us make love. I’d watch how we begin, slowly,
you on your back, hands tucked behind your head,
me on my side facing you, my hand on your stomach.
I’d watch as I bowed my head to kiss your shoulder,
the hollow of your neck, where I might linger a bit,
my tongue tracing tendons up into your beard, your lips
parting as you felt mine on your skin. I’d watch
my fingers tweaking one of your nipples in an attempt
to teach it how to respond, to harden under my touch.
I’d watch as you traced one finger along my spine, from nape
of neck over shoulders, past my waist, the small of back,
along the cleft of my ass, and back again. I’d watch
me shiver, arch, then press against your thigh, while I extended
my hand to feel you get stiff, cradle the soft sack below,
dance my fingers lightly across the insides of your thighs.
I’d watch you grasp my nipple and pinch, twisting and turning,
and my reaction, lips baring teeth clenched just enough to suck
in air, forehead furrowed, my fingertips digging into the flesh
of your ass, holding on for dear life. I’d watch us kiss, not gently,
but with abandon, my hair getting in the way, sheets wrapping
and tangling until frenzied, we kicked them away.
I’d watch as our touches got urgent, your fingers plunged into me,
my fingers wrapped around you, until we, limbs jumbled, shifted
our bodies so cock and cunt could join. I’d watch as we’d find our pace,
as hands drifted, lifting a leg higher, gripping ass, teasing
those places we used to be afraid of, each sinking a finger or two
deep into the other, linking us in an Escher-like continuum.
As we lost all sense of time, forgetting our age, our place, coming
to rest where all is breath, all is heartbeat, all is pulse, I’d watch.
Backstory: This poem came about from my contemplation of how I am aroused by the visual, despite all the silliness of some saying that women are not visual. But I didn’t want it to be the mirror-gazing kind of visual. So I mentally “watched” as we, my husband and I, made love one night, and wrote from that. There is nothing out-of-the-ordinary in this poem, just two people who know each other’s bodies well. This was one of the poems that I decided to send to the 2010 Seattle Erotic Art Festival, after seeing their call for Literary Art Showcase entries. It, along with another, was chosen as one of ten finalists. This version is the one that was the SEAF finalist. I have edited it a bit when I read it to audiences, changing the tense in places. As with many poems, I could probably keep editing this forever and never feel like I have it quite right. I love reading this one aloud, like at the Erotic Literary Salon, because each time I hear something new in the poem.
Editor’s Note: Robin has been a featured reader on several occasions at the Salon, traversing several states to share her works. She astounds the audience with the elegance of her word choice and placement, creating exquisite poetry that often leaves the attendees breathless.
Gwen Masters: White
The burning started down low, an ache in her lungs that spiraled up to her head. The scent of bananas made her instantly hungry. She sat back with her eyes closed while the rush gathered slow and easy, then came up fast and hard from the middle. It was the sensation of a roller coaster sliding down to the bottom of a slick rail at breakneck speed, then slowing as it churned up another hill, but the adrenaline from the fall was still pumping hard.
She looked at him, at the handsome face framed in tendrils of blue smoke. The smoke matched his eyes and the rush matched the way he made her feel when he did that one little thing he liked to do between her legs, that one sweet motion that sent her to the moon and back. She leaned back against the couch and then there were two of him, the one living and breathing and the one in the little mirror on the table.
Double the pleasure.
“Do me,” she said.
His hand demanded that she open, and she did while the low music of her own blood sounded a bass line through her head. He slid into her and then his rhythm was hers, and she was flying right along with him, saying things that were like second nature, telling him to fuck her hard and fuck her deep. When he rolled her over onto her knees it was like the world was the one spinning, not her, and the idea made her laugh out loud.
Then he was in front of her and it took a moment for her to realize that it wasn’t him at all, not really. It might have been a reflection in that mirror but it felt real, that cock sliding into her mouth while he was behind her and tapping out a rhythm of his own. Some part of her mind (the part that was still sane yet crumbling fast) registered that there were not just the two of them but the three of them.
She swallowed the cock and the other, a rhythm in counterpoint, a candle burning at both ends.
Her reflection in the mirror said many things. “What would your mother think” was one and “Good girl goes bad” was another, but more than anything there was lust. The brand of lust she had never felt before, the heart-pounding-blood-rising-animalistic-whole-body-orgasm lust that told her nothing else would ever compare in the physical world, nothing after this would ever come close.
She came. She came hard and it was a screeching dissonance when she heard him say the words his jealous possessiveness wouldn’t let him say any other time: Take him that’s it show him you like it fuck him let him have all of you make him come.
She wondered briefly (and sanely, imagine that) just how high he was to cross those boundaries they had set in their hearts and minds and then she realized she didn’t care. Her body was just a vessel and the feeling inside it was too great, too brilliant.
Then someone flooded her throat and within seconds he was flooding her cunt. She was swallowing both of them. Her hair was in her face. The strange taste of someone other than her man was on her lips but that was alright, because his familiar hand was on the back of her head and she was watching in the mirror as the powder disappeared again.
“Good girl,” he whispered, and she laughed long and hard.
So when he told her to do whatever she wanted to do and there was another cock in front of her, this one new and untouched, she opened her mouth. She didn’t think to ask how many there were because deep down, she knew. She knew those friends who knew his secret, who knew where he kept the little black box and the mirror and all the rest, those he would trust to be here with them in this place and doing these things.
She started to cry. There was no reason for it, she felt great, why was she crying? Then he said do this and there was a sharp painful scent and suddenly the world went even and smooth. When she came down just enough she knew what had happened and why but she didn’t care. All she wanted was what he was giving her. She inhaled again and there it was.
This was what she wanted.
She devoured the cock in front of her. There was another sliding into her cunt. She thrust back against it and begged for more, her words nothing but moans as the man twined his fingers in her hair and fucked her face with a slow, easy rhythm.
She was going to come again. How many times had she come? It felt as though she came with every line, every blast.
She took on all five of them. One at a time they stood in front of her and she worked magic on their cocks. She made them come, made them moan and she made one groan over and over in pleasure. After that she felt invincible, so she took one of them up the ass so deep she thought she could taste him in her throat. There was no pain, not even when he slammed into her with all his strength and a drop of her own blood hit the pristine white carpet below them. She looked at it and came, right then, while he plowed into her with no grace.
It had been minutes or hours when she nodded and took the needle in her own hands. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what to do; she had watched it happen to him a thousand times. She pressed the plunger and the ball slammed into her center. The high was like nothing else she had ever imagined a body could feel.
Her hands shook and she dropped the needle on the floor.
Everyone was gone. The room was nearly silent. He lay on top of her and slid into her with a gentleness that made her cry. She felt as though she might be dying. Her heart pounded too hard and then it didn’t pound at all, just sailed from one beat to another like a boat tossed upon an unruly sea. His lips were at her ear and he was whispering the words he always did, I love you and then some words he had never said before.
I’m sorry, you never should have seen this or done this and it’s all my fault.
In the morning he looked at her with frightened eyes.
“Are you going to leave me?” he asked.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“Leave me for what I did to you?”
She counted her breaths, even and slow and careful.
“It was my choice, not yours,” she said.
When he climbed into the shower, when he could no longer see her and when he thought everything was fine, she opened the little black box and pulled out the mirror.
Backstory: “White” was written during a difficult time in my life. My boyfriend at the time was a successful musician who had a very loyal following. His public persona was that of the golden boy, the apple of his mother’s eye, the one who could do no wrong. But his private life was a shambles, a blur of every drug and drink imaginable. I stuck with him through two rehabs, believing with all my naive heart that he would get better and eventually become the man he had been before the pills and booze and lines. I wanted so badly to get into his head and heart and figure him out, but in order to do that, I would have to cross a line that I might not be able to cross back. I wrote story after story like this one while trying to come to terms with all that swirled around me, but “White” was the one that said everything I really wanted to say. And if you’re curious, I never did cross that line. I left him instead.
Editor’s Note: Gwen has graced the Salon on several occasions, reading a variety of works including short stories, excerpts from her novels and personal fantasies. One of the most prolific erotica writers, Gwen’s demeanor is quite demure in contrast to her racy content and language.
Seraphina Ferraro: The Kiss
Backstory: This poem was written in a fit of passion after thinking obsessively about kissing my boyfriend while he was out of the house. In a state of absolute distraction, I wrote this in order to get some control over my kiss-ridden mind. It didn’t work, but it felt good to write it and even better to perform it at the Salon.
it’s all in the kiss, really
the first touch of tongue to lips
or tongue to tongue
and I can tell
there’s a telling
little pull below
of strings being plucked
each stroke a strum of fingers on my strings
vibrations feeding vibrations
that shudder outward
loosing goose bumps
and pushing moans before them like parachutes
opening and rising in the heat
afterward, when we are lying
the expanse of the bed between us
separating the radiating heat
that penetrates the skin of the other
it all comes back to the kiss
it’s not the power of his hands,
though those come next
rough and barely restrained force
squeezing and slapping gasps from me
until my breathing only comes in shallow
all to the rhythm of his hands and mouth
a rhythm that I know so well
but somehow still surprises
afterwards, when the impressions
of his hands on my skin
start to bruise and I stretch into the soreness like a cat
aching slow stretches
it all comes back to
and the minute space between them when he
covers my mouth to
cover a scream that might just
wake the neighbors
even more so than the
whispered admissions of undying devotion
and the constant stream of praise that pours from him
prayer-like moans and chants of wonder at the gates of sensation that
combined with the sheer weight and size and driving need of him
drive me breathless and send me tumbling over precipices
afterward, when all we can do is smile
and know that our bodies have spoken
to our hearts like trumpets in the dawn
and our hearts, excited and incensed by all that’s come before
slow to a sane rhythm in the hush following frenzy
and I swear that I cannot move a muscle in its wake
the kiss remains
and, slave to its rhythm,
at its prompting
I will move again
Editor’s Note: Seraphina’s reading of this piece sent the audience’s lips in motion, as if being directed by her words.