This is an erotic story about stories, about writing, about writers and readers.
If you came to this page believing yourself safe or immune to my seduction, perhaps it is because you need to. Perhaps you are a lover who wants to be taken and ravished. Perhaps you hope to come away believing yourself the innocent victim of my depravity. You know I won’t allow that. I can’t let you leave without making sure you admit, if only to yourself, that you were a willing partner. These are just words. I put them down here. Like obscene photographs of things you’ve imagined doing, or gaudily coloured sex toys. If they make your heart beat faster, or cause you to shift in your chair. If you moisten or grow hard, it’s because your mind has wandered into the places it desired to go. You have drunk these words in, and put them to the purpose of your pleasure. You are no innocent. You came here looking for eroticism and perversion and so you found it. Your thighs might be wet, your cock might be hard, your mind fills with lewd images – at the prompt of these words perhaps – but you came and you stayed and you read, you slut.
If you have come here demanding literary fellatio, I’m a willing lover, but don’t imagine yourself completely in the driver’s seat. I will take my time with you. I will make you itchy and impatient, I will tease you and, if I’m feeling particularly cruel, I may leave you with readerly blue balls. Perhaps this is one of those stories I will make you to finish for yourself? Hmm? Perhaps you arrived in search of a quick and impersonal fuck behind the bus shelter. I may wrap my thighs around your waist, but not for free. I’ll force you to carry the sting of that sordidness, the stench of stale urine, the wind-blown wrappers of those disposable snacks with you. I’ll infect you with nagging questions of why you were so frightened to take me to bed. I’ll show you everything you fear you’ll lose in giving yourself over to me for an hour, an evening, a night.
Words are my sex organs. Not singularly, but in the aggregate. Characters are the arms with which I draw you to me. Settings are the bed, the sheets, the meadow, the back-seat of your dad’s car, the rubbish-strewn alleyway, the warm, wet sand on a twilit beach. Plots are the acts and there is always, always conflict. I may propose the game, but you must accept before the game is on, my dear.
My poetics are my touch, my fingers, my tongue, my lips and the tips of my nipples, the crown of my cock. Soft and soothing, hard and rapacious, greedy, hypnotic, comic, fumbling, disorienting.
Here we are, then, you and I. Body to body, eye to eye. Sigh and I’ll sup on it. Linger and I’ll fill you. Don’t ever mistake my pen name for an indication of my gendered intention. I can fuck you and engulf you in a single moment, here, now, like I just have. If you pause for a moment, you’ll feel me come, in you, around you, through you. That taste of something foreign on your tongue? That’s me. I’m in your blood now.
And if I have done my job well, and been a memorable seducer, you will exit this space with the fear with which all lovers take their leave: that I have marked you in some way, that my scent is on your skin, that something small but significant has happened and you won’t be quite the same again.
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There’s a podcast version of this piece of flash fiction here.
Mmmmm! I don’t fear that you have marked me, left me different… I know that you have. And I am extremely grateful for it.
This was a delightful piece, I found myself unable to take it in silently; it called to be read aloud, the sound of the words filling the room that only I am in — well, only me and your words from my lips. A delightful and yet still unsettling seduction.
Mmmm. I love it when you’re loud.
Your writing has always left me loud — I have found myself longing to share your words with others, relishing each opportunity to speak out your words and observe their effects, to see just how delightful your fuck-by-proxy leaves those I care for.
There is plenty of writing by others, erotic and otherwise, which I am content to simply send along and let others do with as they will. Your myriad methods of seduction beg to be heard, not simply taken in with the eyes; one sense alone cannot suffice. I am loud because I can be nothing else, not when I am held by your words, by their power…
I think much of what keeps me coming back to read more (and to read again,) much of what fascinates me and moves me to share your work, is that it doesn’t seem to be “about the sex.” I mean, it is, but only incidentally so. You’ve mentioned before that erotic fiction can “examine how desire changes us and how we are changed by desire,” but I so seldom see work by anyone else which does that, it’s much more often rehashing descriptions of sexual acts. I enjoy that examination, and I appreciate that you consistently invite others to explore and examine, too.
(I’m also reminded that it’s been just over a year now that I’ve been promising myself to pick up and start reading the late Mr. Banks’ work… Really need to get on that. Hmm.)
Quite easily the most erotic thing I’ve read in a long while… Feeling requisitely defiled… The bath I am about to take is certainly going to be lingered on just a little while longer than decent…
I misread that as ‘fingered’, predictably.
” I will make you itchy and impatient, I will tease you and, if I’m feeling particularly cruel, I may leave you with readerly blue balls.”
That itchy impatient feeling is what ignites my need to devour more of your words. I don’t like feeling comfortable while I read to be seduced. Thank you for leaving scratch marks on my mind.
It’s what keeps me coming back to the writers I love too. Seduction should never be comfortable.
*swoons*
“Don’t ever mistake my pen name for an indication of my gendered intention. I can fuck you and engulf you in a single moment, ” I never have done, I come here often to be fucked by you. To have you drip your filthy sometimes slowly, sometimes with a quick sharp thrust into me. However I have no fear of it, I linger in the smells and marks, their dirt delights me.
Mollyxxx
Delicious. Delightful. Dangerously addictive. More, please! Jane xxx
Yes, you do all of those things with the might and caress of words. Your words beget images and sounds and scents and the insatiable warmth of desire. What you give -and freely take-is our shared humanity and deep capacity for love. Is a gift.
Only as much of a gift as you give me by reading. I mean that.
Eyes gaze upon the ink, paper, and quill. Sweat beads upon the scalp as the tongue licks the lips, anticipation.
You don’t know me. I am the anonymous lover who appears far more seldom than my desire would demand. I come for your wicked lash of truth. I come because you claw the blinding scabs of complacency. You suck me in with merciless calculated determination I am in your thrall mind, soul, and eros. You know me better than I know myself.
your words always seduce, beautifully disturb, linger, you use indelible ink and you give generously, copiously, thank you.