Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

Faithful readers, you all are used to seeing our Lustie names in Black Lace anthologies—indeed, those anthologies might have been what drew you to our online den of iniquity. So I feel obliged to also point you in the direction of the just-released Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7, which contains stories by an astonishing number of Lusties past and present as well as many friends of Lust Bites.

In Shanna Germain’s sizzling “Cherry Bottom,” Cate wants anal sex in a bad, bad way, but her long-time lover is nervous about the idea, afraid he might hurt her. They sign up for Miss Suzanne's anal sex class as a last resort...but can Miss Suzanne help Andrew over his fear and give Cate the sexual experience she truly desires?

Miss Suzanne and her heels again, right at our table. "Can I help, Andrew?" she asked. He must have said yes, because then her cool fingers were at my ass cheeks again, spreading them for him. My asshole puckered up against the cold. My tightening nipples crinkled the paper sheet beneath me.

Andrew's fingers left my body, came back oiled and warm.

"It's like playing pool," Miss Suzanne said, her thin fingers still in place. "It's all about speed and angles."

Andrew's finger was back against me, pressing, pressing. I fought the desire to lean back onto the tip of his finger, to force him inside me once and for all. But part of our class promise had been to let our partner do all the work, go at his own pace, let him do only what he was ready for.

He increased the pressure, opening my asshole, careful to use the flat of his fingertip. "Go," Miss Suzanne whispered, and then Andrew pushed his way inside me. Just a little, just the tip so I could barely feel it, but oh Jesus, there he was.

"More," Miss Suzanne said. Andrew pushed his finger farther into my asshole. Farther, until I was sure he had to be at the first joint. Having him in there like that made my pussy ache with that special emptiness that I loved. Andrew entered me to the knuckle. I imagined what he looked like behind me—starting to sweat beneath his glasses out of fear and excitement, his finger disappearing into my asshole.

"All the way in," Miss Suzanne said. And then he pushed and his finger was inside me, tearing through me with that certain pain that is mostly pleasure. I bit down on the pillow, but most of the moan came out anyway.

"See?" Miss Suzanne said. "She likes it. You're doing a great job."

"Jesus," Andrew whispered. "Oh fuck." Awe and arousal deepened his voice to a husky whisper. Hearing that voice—no fear in there—almost made me come.

Miss Suzanne raised her voice. "Okay, class, is everyone in? Foxes all in the holes?" I'm sure the class laughed, but I couldn't even concentrate to hear all the answers. All I could feel was Andrew's finger in my ass, the way he held it there, so still, the way it filled me and at the same time made me ache for something more, something bigger.

Sophie Mouette goes for heat and humor in “All About the Ratings.” Caroline’s top-rated cable-TV cooking show is being gazumped by Drew’s segment on man-food. When the station manager forces them to work as a team for a “Iron Chef”-type cook-off, Caroline uses every ounce of her sexuality to fluster Drew and make him look like a fool. Her plan, of course, completely backfires…in the hottest way possible.

Caroline turned to Drew and smiled. “I know we’d been talking about a…” she paused to give the words extra significance “…peach tart with whipped cream.” She winked at the audience, admitting they were in on the joke. “But it looks like we need to be flexible.” She hoped the word would call to mind her yoga poses. “Do you have any ideas about the best way to handle raspberries?”

“Delicately. Very delicately. More often than not, I like to nibble them plain.” He slurred a bit, so nibble sounded almost like nipple, but not so much so that it would get him in trouble with Lee. “But I bet we could do something with them to give the peaches a lovely rosy color.”

Then he gave her a searing smile. Her nipples felt as red and plump and tender as the berries heaped in a basket on their counter. She didn’t dare to glance down, but she suspected they were popping out through the fabric of her dress, clearly visible to anyone in the studio and probably to the TV audience.

What she wouldn’t give to have Drew’s sensuous mouth closed around one of those ripe peaks now, suckling at her, drawing out her arousal until she was dizzied and begging for more.

Breathe. Remember to breathe—and to make sure Drew, too, was distracted. “Maybe use some of them for a glaze,” she said breathily. “Nothing makes a peach look prettier than a little moist sheen. And for a topping, how about a nice, warm crème anglaise?” She let the words sink in, watched Drew’s eyes widen and darken.

She’d take his “crème anglaise” in her “peach” any day and she could tell he was thinking something similar.

The whir of a food processor brought her back to reality. The Jarvises were already at work, grinding nuts from the sound of it. (A linzertorte variation with fresh fruit? She should have been paying more attention to them, dammit!)

“Flavor it with rosewater,” Drew added. His voice sounded a little shaky. “Sounds good.”
“You start on the peaches and raspberries, Drew. I’ll get to work stirring up the crème. It takes a little time for it to…thicken.”

As she passed him, heading to the refrigerator for cream and eggs, she cupped his ass briefly under the cover of the counter, just long enough to feel it was as firm and delicious as she’d suspected.

His sigh wasn’t loud enough for the microphones to pick up, but she heard it.

He got her back, though, as he started to split the peaches. “This peach is absolutely perfect,” he sighed. “So juicy and succulent, with just the slightest hint of fuzz. I wish I could eat it right now!”

Even if she hadn’t been sensitized already, that remark, in that tone of voice, would have zinged directly between her legs and gotten her speculating. As it was, she almost spilled heavy cream onto the floor, lost in a vision of Drew’s tongue deftly playing over her slick lower lips and swirling in on the throbbing spot where she needed it most.

Is your appetite whetted yet? If so, then think about this veritable feast of authors: Alana Noel Voth, Alison Tyler, Nikki Magennis, Jeremy Edwards, Gwen Masters, Kristina Lloyd, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Donna George Story, Sage Vivant, Ashley Lister, Thomas Roche, and M. Christian—all in one anthology! (And I hope I didn't forget anybody!) Plus a host of other fabulous erotica writers who haven’t (yet) crossed our Lust Bites path.

Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7. Lust Bites says: Check it out!

Rauxa Prize Celebration

by Shanna Germain

We're celebrating again today at Lust Bites. Why? Well, just because we like to celebrate. I mean, really, good champagne. Decadent chocolate truffles. Naked, well-endowed men. Sexy, curvy women.

What? You don't have chocolate truffles at your celebrations?

Actually we're celebrating because I've just been awarded the Rauxa Prize for Erotic Poetry for my poem, "Ritual." The Rauxa Prize is an annual award given to literary poetry and fiction. Awarded by the Rauxa Foundation (which was founded by Susannah Indigo), the prize has the sole purpose of celebrating erotic writing. Since that's pretty much our sole purpose (and often our soul purpose) here at Lust Bites, it seems like a great place to hold our mid-week, naked celebration.

Of course, you'll want to pop over and read the other winners and runners-up as well. They include some of my favorite sexy pieces this year, including the haunting "The Opposite of Animal" by Ryan Sloan and EllaRegina's story, "The Lonely Onanista."

Just don't forget to come back and celebate (hmm...that's a typo, but I'm going to leave it because it's the perfect combination of celebrate and masturbate)...so, come back and celebate with us! Have a sip of wine, a bite of chocolate and a taste of that sexy man lounging in the corner...

Where the Magic Happens

I’m sure you all have a picture in your head of us Lusties, chained to our desks, slaving away. I’m sure you think it’s all champagne and sex toys, as we lounge in lingerie and write with fountain pens before being distracted by our boy toys (or girl toys) who come to give us massages.

Sometimes, this is true.

But most of the time, alas, there is another scenario in which we find ourselves….

A deadline looms. It’s way past our bedtimes, and our boy and girl toys are languishing alone in our beds. Their mournful calls fall on deaf ears. Instead, we’re typing frantically, vaguely nauseated from too many cups of tea or coffee. Our desks look like an office-supply store exploded. Our eyes burn; our fingers ache—will we ever be able to grasp a vibrator again?

The truth is, we Lusties are a varied lot, as proven by our writing spaces. Nine of us have bravely taken pictures of our work areas, mess and all.

Here’s the game: Can you guess which Lustie works in which space? Your choices are Dayle A. Dermatis, Kate Pearce, Janine Ashbless, Madeline Moore, Madelynne Ellis, Olivia Knight, Portia da Costa, Shanna Germain, and Teresa Noelle Roberts….


Workspace 1
This is my office. But I can't work there... Could anybody?


Workspace 2
Yes, I write in bed! (Desks give me backache.) Note essential author's equipment: laptop, mug of tea, copy of Writing the Breakout Novel by Donald Maass, and two dogs.


Workspace 3
This is my desk. On it I have a bobble head Nora Roberts (signed) so that when I ask her a question she always answers me. Also a Jane Austen action figure, complete with lap desk and quill pen! Underneath the desk on the red silk cushion is my pampered dog, Hunter, a King Charles Cavalier spaniel.


Workspace 4
This is one of the smallest workspaces I’ve ever had, but the one at which I’ve been most productive. You will see hard copy of my latest manuscript. (I prefer to do my first draft on the computer, then print and work from hard copy, then type the final draft on the computer.) I have all my essentials close by: glasses, a can of diet Schweppe’s Ginger Ale, a Dictionary of Sex, some Rub-A535, hand lotion, and gum. The bulletin board is papered equally with important information and my favorite celebrities, including Ms. Joni Mitchell. There are pieces of paper everywhere but the actual message holder, that weird metal spiral thing, is empty.


Workspace 5
My three cats (two are shown in the picture) boast a total weight of 45 pounds and any one of them, let alone two or more, takes up more than the area on my desk available for sprawling kitties while I'm actually working. Unfortunately they like my desk. A lot. And they're so darn cute that it's sometimes hard to boot them off so I can, for instance, get to my keyboard.


Workspace 6
I bought this treadmill specifically for its wide, flat handles, and then I Velcroed an old shelf across the handles as a makeshift desk. The laptop sits on top, and has its own bit of Velcro to keep it anchored. It's best for emailing and editing (I edit by ear, so I often plug my headphones into the laptop and listen as Word reads my work back to me), and if I go too fast, the keyboard gets all sweaty, and not in a sexy way.


Workspace 7
I do have a proper desk, honest! It has all my books on it, well, apart from the ones on the sofa, obviously. Quit smirking. You almost got a picture of my bath, which is where I write all my best stuff.


Workspace 8
I'm as likely to have a glass of wine at hand as I am a cup of tea, but I really do love having candles lit. I admit it: I'm a romantic at heart. Then again, the small calendar above the mousepad depicts penises from famous Italian statuary…. Guess I'm also a mass of contradictions!


Workspace 9
The real world is inside the computer, but all the essentials surround it. The oil is a mix of patchouli, mandarin and pine; the incense is sandalwood—these ingredients vary for each story. The notes are for “The Three Riddles” in the Enchanted novella collection—if you look closely, you can make out the heading “The first riddle.”

Got Naughty?

Alison Tyler



I don’t even have to ask, do I?

If you’re reading this, if you’re sitting before your computer screen with LustBites bookmarked on your hard drive, then you have to admit to being among the naughty. But don’t worry if your bright red stockings are destined to be filled with coal each year, because naughty is the best way to be.

Why?

When you’re naughty, you can leave a few extra buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of bare skin or a bit of racy lingerie. When you’re naughty, you can hold a stranger’s eye for an extra long beat, imparting visions of twisted sex fantasies with your gaze alone. And when you’re naughty, you can plunge yourself into the delicious confections created by the authors in my brand-new anthology Naughty or Nice—all of them just as naughty as you are! Or perhaps even naughtier still.

Why do I focus my attention on this holiday? Why did I start with Merry Xxxmas and let the stories spill into a sequel? That’s easy enough to answer, isn’t it? A holiday dedicated to an older man who’ll put me over his lap and tell me that I’ve been a bad girl… God, that’s my daily fantasy, isn’t it? Of course, other writers have a different yuletide take.

Check out Shanna Germain, for instance. Her character might pretend to be a good little girl. At least, at first. But when she goes before her lover who is dressed in drag as Santa, the truth comes out:

“I don’t see you on my good list, though,” Shannon pulled at her beard with one white-gloved hand. “Something tells me you were a bad girl this year.”

“Oh no, Santa, I was…” I didn’t know what to say. Had I been good? And if so, was I going to get whatever I wanted? But if I was bad, then maybe I would have to be punished. I couldn’t decide.

But it didn’t matter, because Shannon was rubbing her gloved hands up my bare thighs. The fabric was soft and silky against my skin, and I imagined her pressing the tips to my clit, rubbing, soaking up my juices. She was whispering in my ear, her beard scratching against my skin. “I think you were a very bad girl, don’t you?”

In “Carol’s Christmas,” Lisette Ashton retells the famed Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Unfortunately, Carol doesn’t learn from the lessons shown to her by the Ghost of Christmas Future. But that doesn’t mean she won’t get what she wants for Christmas:

The menacing darkness of the future vision was powerful. Carol had dabbled with BDSM before but she had never expected to find herself being chained, pierced and secured to stones. The totality of commitment – the dedicated involvement to submissive satisfaction – was more than she had ever thought she would find. More than she had ever dared hope she would find.

Another spasm of euphoria exploded from between her legs.

When she finally blinked the tears of satisfaction from her eyes, she realised the spirit was pointing at the vision’s stone. He didn’t speak. He was strong and silent and incapable of speech. He simply continued to point, quietly instructing her to obey his command and look at the stone.

“Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,” said Carol, “answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?”

The spirit remained still and silent.

The inner muscles of Carol’s sex convulsed in a greedy triumph.

Being naughty can add spice to any relationship, as deliciously displayed in Domic Santi’s humorously sexy “Mulled Wine.”

“Why does your dick taste like mulled wine?”

If Glen and I were monogamous, that would be a problem. Fortunately, we’re not. So I grinned when I looked down at him and said, “I stopped at Jake and Karl’s Christmas party on the way home.”

“Oh, indeed!” Glen leaned forward, once more sucking my dick into his mouth. His short blond curls bobbed against his Santa hat and his blue eyes twinkled up at me. He sucked me long and slowly, like he was drawing the flavor off my skin to differentiate each of the specific tastes. “Cinnamon, clove,” he laughed, pulling back for a moment. “Perhaps a hint of allspice….”

In my opinion, life doesn’t get much naughtier than performing a taste-test for exotic spices on your lover’s cock. And as the Queen of Naughty, I should know.

Now, tell me. What’s on your Xmas list this year? I mean, aside from Elvis.



For a complete list of contributors, go here.


XXX,
Alison

P.S. Comment for a chance to win copies of both Naughty or Nice and Merry XXXmas. Playboy.com says: No night before Christmas is complete without reading from holiday erotica collection Naughty or Nice.

Art in Motion: Chatting with Eliza Castle

Alison Tyler

Words are my friends. All I have to do is sit at a keyboard, and my fingers start tapping. Empty pages fill quickly, and (generally speaking) easily. But although I see images in my mind, the only way I can capture these visions is through words on a page.

Unless, I call Eliza.

You see, Eliza is my artist. Oh, sure, she’s her own person. Flesh, blood, bone. I don’t actually own her, or anything. But we’ve known each other since I was twelve, and she and I have a definite connection. I see a picture in my head, talk to Eliza on the phone, and presto… artwork begins to pour out of my fax machine or fill up my email box. Somehow, she knows exactly what I’m seeing.

But I got to thinking. Are pictures for Eliza what words are for me? I hear stories in my head, the words perfectly enunciated (unless I’m drunk, and then they’re slurred). Does Eliza see art in her mind? Or is her inner voice a paintbrush? Is her constant dialogue done in pictures rather than words?

I asked her, and this is what she said….

No, I see in motion. I have to feel the curve and I don’t know how to explain it, but let’s say that we’re talking about the curve of a woman’s back going to the small of her back. I see the motion. And I see the 3-D. And if I feel that, I actually feel the motion of what you’re saying in order to see the picture in your head.

Is that something you learned in art class, or is this just the way the world is for you?

In art class, you learn about the negative space. You learn to see what’s not in a picture. That’s as important as what actually is.

What about colors? Are there colors you are drawn to, or ones that you shy away from?

Red, purple, hot or warm colors are my favorites. I'm not drawn to baby blues. I don't like anti-freeze yellow.

Do you move around when you draw? Do you pace the way I do on those times when the words get stuck between my head and my hands?

I always have to feel the motion of the characters… Sometimes, I do move, like when you were telling me about your ideas for the "Lipstick on Her Collar" cover, I elongated my neck, imagined wearing a stiff white collar… I felt tall and sexy.

When I was doing the artwork for "Naked Erotica," with the curtain, I could feel the soft wave in it.

Are bodies just bodies to you, or do you like to draw men over women or women over men (stop snickering Kristina!)?

I prefer drawing the female form to the male form. The female form has more curves. I think it’s more exciting—not sexually, but exciting because of the dips, pinches, peaks, valleys. The man’s body really doesn’t have that. It does, but it’s not as pronounced. You’ve got your six-pack, but that’s just like a quiet, rippling ocean. Where as a woman’s body has got crashing waves. It goes up. It’s cool. It’s always in motion. Doesn’t matter which direction you look at, she’s got curves in the small of her back, her waist…The very first paintings I ever sold were of nudes. And they were the Botticelli nudes.

How do ideas come to you?

You hear someone’s voice talking about what they want.... As soon as I hear the words, I see the image. I can see the ruffle going down the side of a dress… I keep thinking about the covers that you and I talk about, where suddenly I just saw the image in my head. Like picking up a crystal and turning it over and over and over and over.

Together, Eliza and I have collaborated on all of the 15 covers for the Pretty Things Press books. She has illustrated several of the books, themselves: Juicy Erotica and Sex & Candy. Here is a snippet from the soon-to-be-released S&C.

From “Kneading” by Shanna Germain

At home, I don’t let her touch me. There is only this: my fingers tangled in her thin apron strings, cascade of cotton and flour against the floor, Macy’s dark arms iced with sugars and spice.

My recipe is simple: Macy and me, hands and skin, kneading and heat. “The best recipes just taste complicated.” This is something I plan to teach her.

Macy stands, her apron at her feet, still in her white baker’s clothes. Her arms at her sides.

I pull my own apron over my head, wrap the wide fabric around Macy’s waist, around her hands. Still not touching. The cloth wraps her twice, three times. Macy’s eyes, nutmegs in their spicy stare, watch me. The only thing on her that moves, her breath and those eyes. I lean down to tie the cloth around her. Her stomach smells of honey. I want to lick it clean.

Instead, I grab the cloth wrapping. I pull it toward me and Macy comes too, bringing her sugar scent. She thinks I might kiss her, maybe she expects me to kiss her, but I don’t. I trail my fingers up her arms, the crunch of sugar beneath my skin. At first, she just stands, one foot cocked to the side like a horse, waiting. I keep my fingers there, against the skin of her arms, smoothing and pressing.

This evening, there is nothing but this: soft chocolate breasts inside my strong hands, roll and pinch of skin, my fingers lathered in Macy’s dew and sweat and sweet cream. There is only her reaching, dark fingers, hungry mouth.

Inside my mouth she is the first spoonful of tapioca pudding. She is finding a fudgesicle in the freezer on a hot summer day. She is the sweet cinnamon bloom of apple pie up on the tongue. She is the perfect cake, hot from the oven.

xxx

Eliza is often the first person I talk to in the morning and the last person I talk to at night. Even though we’re separated by several thousand miles, we share coffee and cocktails on a daily basis.

Everyone should have an artist. I highly recommend it.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Eliza Castle is here today to answer questions. Comment for a chance to win a complete set of the 14 books currently published by Pretty Things Press.

Highballs, Cocktails, Cones and Hoses: A Hard Look at Hot Jobs

by Shanna Germain

I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years. I started milking cows for the farmers down the road (it seemed way better, in my fourteen-year-old mind than my other option: watching said farmers’ kids), and then moved on to stacking hay. I served up soft-serve cones for one summer, and watered plants for another. After that, it was grocery store clerk and waitress. Waiting tables soon led to slinging drinks at a bar (not to show my age, but you were allowed to do that at eighteen back then). I was a paramedic, a firefighter and part of a grounds crew. A newspaper reporter. A photographer. The list, surprisingly, continues for a while before you get to my current “smut writer” status. But you get the picture (and you get this bonus picture from FX Networks' show Rescue Me as well!).

Over the years, I learned one thing from all those jobs: how to cash a paycheck.

No, not really. I learned that work—no matter what you’re doing—can be sexy. It’s all in how you look at it (and who you’re looking at). Throwing hay in 102-degree heat was hot as hell, but so were the older college boys who drove the tractor. The older-man botanist who worked at the greenhouse had the kind of profile that made me accidentally drown more than a few poor seedlings. And as the only girl on an otherwise all-male firefighting crew…well, you can imagine the kind of trouble one could get into when you throw in hot flames, long hoses and big, shiny trucks (the trucks were never my thing, really, but the guys sure got off on them).

And bartending—that might have been the sexiest job I’ve ever had (other than smut-writing, that is). Sexy drinks. Sexy customers. Dim lights. The ba-ba-boom of the music...It was this inherent sensuality that convinced me to put together a collection of erotica based on drink names. (Shameless plug: Screaming Orgasms and Sex on the Beach will be available from Pretty Things Press in early 2008, and includes a number of our amazing Lust Biters writers).

As I wrote in my introduction: Before I became a sex writer, I was a bartender. The money was great, but that wasn’t why I stayed. I stayed for the chance to pour two fingers of Jack over ice and slide it to the sexy businessman on the other side of the bar. I stayed for the shy blonde who came in on Friday nights and blushed every time she asked for a Muff Diver. I stayed because I liked to lean in when I lit a customer’s smoke and I liked to whisper, “Here’s the Wet Dream you ordered. Let me know when you’re ready for another.”

I know I'm not the only one who thinks that jobs of all sorts are sexy. Recently, I picked up an erotic collection about hot cops and another about men in uniform. But it's not just doctors and lawyers and firemen that we're lusting after. One of my favorite stories ever (sexy or otherwise) is Maggie Gray's deliciously hot and sad, "Fuck Dying," in which the narrator has a most unusual job. And who can forget that other Maggie (Gyllenhaal) and her fantastic turn as a paper pusher in Secretary? For those of us who've always imagined that librarians really are the most seductive creatures on Earth, it turns out to be true--check out this sexy, funny and haunting video about librarians from musical group, Haunted Love.

When you're done with that, step up to Bar Lust Bites and have a seat. Here's your After Work Special. Sure, I can light that cigarette for you. But only if you're willing to talk. One thing about bartenders (and writers), we're good listeners...

So, what's sexy about your job right now? Or, if you're a writer, what sexy bits have you stolen from past or current jobs to give to your characters? And, yes, we can even talk about the unsexy bits if we must (like the time I got splattered with an entire blender of strawberry margaritas--I was picking strawberries out of my hair for weeks!).

Here, have another shot. Settle in. It's going to be a long, steamy night...

H is for Hooray!

Ah, yes, here I am again.
Begging you to lend an ear.
Clearly, I can’t get away from the alphabet.
Darling, you might even say that I am obsessed with learning my letters.
Ever since I started the Naughty Stories from A to Z series, which features 26 stories in alphabetical order, I’ve used the ABCs as a guide.
From Naughty Stories, I moved onto the challenge of editing 26 books, with each story beginning with the appropriate letter of the alphabet.
Good writers rise to any dare.
Hey, they tease me, How are you going to deal with Q?
I don’t know, I stammer, blushing while thinking of a book of stories dedicated to Quarterbacks, or Queen, or, um, Queues.
(Jeremy would have something clever to insert here, I’m sure.)
Kiki and Kristina, stop twittering in the back!
Let me say my piece and get on with it.
Most of the time, the ABCs are my friends.
Now, that I’ve gotten through H and have moved onto IJKL, I’m nearly halfway there.
Oh, but I know you’re wondering what each letter will be.
P is for panties, punishment, paddling, perverts?
Quiet down, there’s no rush.
Right now, we’re focusing on the four just released (E is for Exotic, F is for Fetish, G is for Games, and H is for Hardcore).
So sit back, sip your cider (or something stronger, Sommer) and get ready for a taste.
Tease—I meant a tease.
Unfortunately, as the books are so short, I can’t give you much more than a sliver from each.
Very short, but oh so hot.
What’s that, Mat?
X-rated?
You bet, how could they be anything else when peppered with stories by Lust Biters Dayle Dermatis, Gwen Masters, Kristina Lloyd, Madelynne Ellis, Mathilde Madden, Shanna Germain, and Teresa Noelle Roberts.
Zippers slide down, and hands reach in, and oh, hell… go on, read the next sexy tidbits—you know you want to.

E is for Exotic, Native Tongue by Shanna Germain:

I fold my body down until I can nestle my own tongue against Margret’s bikini bottom. She’s still working her tongue against my clit, but I try to focus. I slide her tiny bikini to the side to allow me access. I tuck my finger inside her. She is wet already, smelling of sea salt and musk.

I slide two fingers inside her, loving the wet clutch of her, the way she moans into me. My thumb rubbing across her clit, I slide a third finger in. I fuck her like that, pushing so hard her tongue slides back and forth across my clit with the movement of her body. Through the wet fabric of her suit, her hard nipples rub my belly with the movement.

Margret arches her back. Her tongue becomes frantic across my clit, and then she gives up and sucks me, hard into her mouth. We don’t come together; she goes first, moaning as I dive into her with my fingers. It is this sound, the meaningless vibrations of her throat as she sucks my clit, that lets me follow her.

The place we bring each other to, there are no words for that.

No words at all.

F is for Fetish, Boot Camp by Kristina Lloyd:

So here I am on my hands and knees, gazing at five pairs of army boots, all in need of some love and attention. I’m so horny I can barely kneel. The detention block’s at the far end of the lawn, and every Tom, Dick and Harry in there has probably got binoculars on my butt. The guys, my guys, sit with their feet planted wide, pants tucked in or hitched up so I can see everything there is to see; every last eyelet and lolling tongue; every stitch, scuff and scratch; every line of dust and each grain of Iraqi sand lodged in the creases that are etched in the leather.

G is for Games, No Limits by Madelynne Ellis:

Colored plastic stuck to our palms, and feet, which squeaked and sighed with our every move. We were the final pair in a Twister death match, and I for one was going for broke.

“No limits, to what exactly?” I asked. How much strain my calf muscles could take in order to make this a victory for the girls?

The naughty look in his shocking blue eyes suggested not. I suspected he had something far more risqué in mind. So, possibly what he meant was that there were no limits to how big a spectacle he was prepared to make of us. Not that I was worried on that score. You don’t play Twister in a short skirt and fishnets without weighing up the consequences first. I knew exactly how much I had on display, and he couldn’t strip me naked with his eyes.

“Left hand, red.”

His palm slithered down my inner thigh, wakening hungry nerve endings, on route to its destination, the colored circle by my foot.

H is for Hardcore, Me, When I’m With You by Mathilde Madden:

“How much longer?”

I don't answer. But I do stop teasing and tell you to stand up. Your cock is so hard and needy. It makes me wince to see you move around with it jutting out in front of you.

Big hard cock, big hard man. You, standing over me as I lie on the bed, would almost make me feel weak and small if I didn't have such an incredible hold over you. If I hadn’t taken you to the edge five times already today. If you didn’t need to come so much right now that it's pulsing off you.

You're naked. You're so pretty when you're naked that all I really need to do is look at you. Strip you and have you stand there while I masturbate to the sight of you. Use you as porn.

***

So there you have it. Four slippery little excerpts from four sexy little books. And guess what? In honour of our 200th post (which I believe is this weekend) Cleis Press has graciously donated two full sets of the A-H books. So comment today for a chance to win 8 of your own ABC anthologies. And then you can spell cool words on your bookshelf, too.
XXX,
Alison

On Stage with Scott McMorrow

Lights fade up on Alison Tyler sitting at her blue Formica kitchen table dressed in a red silk bathrobe. She’s drinking a cup of coffee and typing into her laptop.

Alison Tyler: Come on, we’re doing this online. Can’t you at least dress me better?

Lights fade to black
Lights fade up as Alison Tyler enters her kitchen dressed in killer boots and a black leather dress. She sits at the table and sips from a martini glass.

Scott McMorrow: Nice entrance. Love the dress.

AT: Oh this? I just threw it on.

SM: Do you think I could have one?

AT: A black leather dress?

SM: An entrance. You showed up looking like a porn goddess. I just kind of showed up.

AT: Not a problem.

Lights rise on Scott McMorrow sitting at his desk, typing on a Mac.

SM: That’s it?

AT: You’d like more detail.

SM: Maybe a few adjectives. An adverb. You could ask me what I’m wearing.

AT: I didn’t know this was going to be that kind of an interview. (deep sigh) What are you wearing?

SM: Killer boots, black leather…

AT: We should start. Where’s my vodka?

SM: I thought you were sipping coffee.

AT: Switched drinks with the outfit. (checking notes) We recently discussed the German cannibal trial on Lust Bites. One man allowed himself to be cooked and eaten by another… Caused a bit of, um, consternation among our readers. You wrote an entire play on the event, called Leftovers.

SM: Leftovers doesn’t focus on that particular event, though it definitely holds elements of the relationship those two had, physically and emotionally. The play is a dark comedy about a reality cooking show, Eat or Be Eaten, that has contestants vying to win so they can gain the rank of most coveted comestible.

AT: First t-shirt of the day. So, for you, cannibalism is…

SM: Delicious. I enjoyed researching that play. And, hey, everybody has to eat.

AT: Do you always look to real-life events for source material?

SM: People do wild stuff. I like that. And if I can use it…

AT: Tell me about Puppet Therapy.

SM: That play is rooted in a marriage counseling practice that was big in the 70s… couples using puppets to role play with each other. I put a twist on it.

AT: Whips, chains, and threesomes?

SM: I’m all about the cheap thrill. That play does have an elephant, though.

AT: Always fun for a casting director. I read in your bio that the play was performed in Italian. Did you have a chance to see the translated work?

SM: Teatro del Navile did a great job of that in Bologna. The warped humor played really well for the Italians. Though I don’t speak the language, I could follow the rhythm of the audiences’ reactions.

AT: Now what about your play, Fishing the Moon? This one features a girl in drag, masturbation on stage, death and dismemberment. Another play features Jell-O. In a bucket. Used for… you get the idea. I’m sensing a theme with you.

SM: Want to know what flavor Jell-O?

AT: Your latest play, Future Sex, is being read at The Bay Area Playwrights Festival on August 5th. Can you tell us a little bit about what that festival is like?

SM: Great experience. We had a pre-festival retreat. All of the playwrights had to read their plays in front of each other.

AT: Kind of like show and tell. Ooh, and I know all about the thrill of being Exposed, of being Caught Looking, of playing Hide & Seek….
(Beat) Wait! What’s that noise?
(A siren offstage)
It's the Shameless Plug Alert… not that I’d know anything about that. Scott, you edited the erotic poetry collection, Velvet Heat, which features 45 poets, including fellow Lust Biter Shanna Germain, and was a finalist for an IPPY award. The sultry photograph on the cover is by Thomas S. Roche. A commenter today will win a copy of this luscious collection—and one of Shanna’s poems from Velvet Heat is below. Thanks so much for visiting, Scott.

SM: Great to be here.

AT: Now what flavor was the Jell-O, again? Learn more about Scott at www.ScottMcMorrow.com.

Lights fade to the sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass.

Letter to My Ex
Shanna Germain

I met a man last night who reminded me of you:
snake-hipped, thin through the calf, tight across the chest,
even said howdy pardner in that fake-ass drawl.
But he didn’t fuck like you, all tongue and teeth and tip.

No.
He was soft and gentle and didn’t once use
the flat of his hand against my will.
Baby, it made me ache for Dallas,
the leather rain across my face, the press of buckle
to my backside, the way your teeth snapped against
my skin, a dog at the end of his chain.

Yes,
I said to this guy last night, but he wasn’t you.
That first time I came for you—for anyone—you said
pressure and time, pressure and time will make you mind.
I still have indents in my skin, pockets where you
buried your bones—they wait for someone to dig
them out and resurrect their desire
by firelight, by rainfall, by your stiff fingers,
thunderbolts that split my skull like a sneeze.

God damn,
I want to be sick of wanting you.

I think I'm in love...

Alison Tyler

That is, I'm in love with this...


I have my author copies in hand. The book is beautiful. The weight. The cover. The fonts. God, I love a good font.

And check out this all-star line-up:

Shanna Germain
Vida Bailey
Jen Cross
Teresa Lamai
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Nikki Magennis
Lisette Ashton
Ryan Field
Brooke Stern
Zaedryn Meade
James Walton Langolf
Kristina Lloyd
Xan West
Sommer Marsden
Donna George Storey
Stephen Elliott
And, um, me.

Here is an excerpt from the intro:

Love is a dangerous game.

No doubt about it.

From the moment your eyes meet, until that first touch, first kiss, first tryst on the living room floor, your emotions run ragged. Your heart races. Every look burns with intensity. Every statement is loaded, filled with double-meanings. You hear things differently. You speak in a brand-new language.

But love in a pain-pleasure relationship—well, that just ratchets things up another notch. His hand on the back of your neck is no longer the prelude to a sweet caress. It’s the move before he puts you in your place, drops you to your knees, shows you who’s in charge...

One from Kristina's delicious story:

He twisted the fabric tight, wringing it into a tail which he tucked behind me, leaving me exposed from the waist downwards. He stooped for more raspberries then, pulling the elastic, he slid his hand into those tight white panties and crushed soft red berries into my cunt. His leather fingers paddled and probed, mashing me and the fruit into one glorious pulpy crimson mess.

I groaned, wanting to slide down the tree in mindless, soporific lust. He took more berries, pushing them higher into me this time, his hard, leathered fingers stirring in my hole. I felt like I was part of a recipe: insert fruit and mix well. Around us, trees whispered in the breeze, a bee buzzed somewhere at ground level, and I could feel my face flushing with shame and arousal.

Brett watched me, his blue-grey eyes shy and fascinated. “Is it good?” he smiled, fingers still working.

I could barely speak. “Fuck, yes,” I breathed. “So good … it’s so good.”

And from the back cover:

Whether you dream of surrendering to a lover or of taking control, the dark fantasies and heart-pounding suspense of erotic bondage in Love at First Sting will have you begging for more...

XXX,
Alison

My cat is purring
And scratches my skin
So what is wrong
With another sin

The bitch is hungry
She needs to tell
So give her inches
And feed her well
—The Scorpions

P.S. I'll be giving away a copy of Love at First Sting - the book and the CD. (And, no, you can't get one without the other. I insist on sending you a copy of the Scorpions' CD along with the book. Deal with it.) How can you win? Post a comment. Extra points for clever ones. No pressure. I'll choose one randy (I mean "random") commenter. Winner will be posted in the Coming Attractions on Sunday. And Sommer, you can't win. Your contributor copies are on their way. I swear!

Got a Minute?

I’m going to make this quick. I have a thing for ultra-short sex stories. There is just something so damn hot about flash fucking. I mean, flash fiction. Not only do I like writing short-shorts, I like reading them. This is why I have edited three anthologies on the theme: Down & Dirty, Down & Dirty2, and Got a Minute? And why I am currently editing a fourth. Stories in these books range from 75 words to 1,500. Max.

Doubt the power of a quickie?

Just look at what Lust Biter Shanna Germain can do with under 600 words. The piece is called Squeaky Clean. But I swear, it will make you feel dirty.

There’s something hot about washing sex toys. And it isn’t just the water. There you are, standing at the sink, running your lathered hands up and down the bumpy blue shaft of your favorite vibrator, removing any signs of last night’s play, leaving only memories. Beneath the soap and the water, the toy is almost alive, the way it shimmies and wiggles beneath the flow, a slippery fish headed upstream.

Flash back to last night: his hands, lubed, wrapped around the head, coming slowly down the shaft, preparing it for you. You can’t remember wanting anything more, anything other than the quivering false-cock inside you, your lover’s hands bringing it slowly, softly to the edge of your thigh, against your lips, forcing the tip inside as you arch your hips, moan, ask for it, please, yes, please. But he makes you wait, makes you beg before he’ll slide it in, the rubber slipping deeper and deeper, whirring its quiet circles of pleasure inside you, filling you.

Your hands are rougher with the toy now, stronger as you stroke the rubber, every last inch, making sure you don’t miss a spot. The rubber is firm beneath your fingertips, and you close your eyes while you wash, imagining your hand around your lover’s shaft in the shower, water raining on you both. Your hands soaped and slippery, sliding up and back down to circle the tip until he thrusts his hips against your curled fist.

You turn the vibrator on and it buzzes alive beneath your fingers, nosing in and out of your palm, searching for its flower, a scent of nectar. You set the toy against the inside of your arm—wet and humming—and it makes your hips tingle and ache so that you press them against the edge of the sink.

You remember the mornings when he takes you before he showers. You, standing in front of the mirror, nearly swooning as he nibbles your neck before he bends you over the sink. He is quick and a little rough—the way you like it in the mornings—and your whole body seems to lift when he enters you, as though some invisible force is holding you along. He pinches your nipples until you look up at your reflection and the sight is enough to make you come.

The toy is clean now, but you can’t help soaping it up one last time, just to hear the motor rumble as your palm runs up and down its length. After a few minutes, you reluctantly rinse the toy and turn off the water.

It’s almost five and your lover will be home soon. You have a sudden image of meeting him at the door, toy in hand. No, you imagine draping your body across the couch, feet up along the arm rest, vibrator sliding its way between your thighs.

Or, you imagine him coming home, calling out “I’m in here!” when he opens the door. He will come to the bathroom, find you elbow-deep in hot, soapy water, washing the blue vibrator that you used together last night. He will watch you run your hands along its thick shaft, and imagine it is his own cock, stiffening beneath your fingers. Then, he will join you, pressing himself to your back, sinking his hands deep into the liquid next to yours.

You like this idea best, and you stand, poised at the sink, the vibrator in your hand, waiting for him to enter.

For more short (but not necessarily sweet) stories, please check out Got a Minute?—which also features three stories by Teresa Noelle Roberts, two more by Shanna Germain, one killer one by Dayle, and a delicous piece by Gwen.

XXX,
Alison (100 words or less) Tyler

P.S. What can you do in 100 words or less? Show us! Post your super-short fiction in the comments. One lucky commenter will win a copy of Got a Minute? (But you don't need to post your porn in order to enter.)
P.P.S. I've posted a 100-word piece of my own, here.

A Group Retreat with the Sensational Susie Bright

by Alison Tyler

We, at LustBites, are all atwitter. Today, we’re featuring an interview with editrix extraordinaire Susie Bright! Ms. Bright is the cofounder and editor of the first women's sex magazine, On Our Backs, the founder of the first women's erotica book series, "Herotica," and the editor of the excellent "Best American Erotica" series, which she began in 1993. BAE 2007 is the 15th collection in the series. Basically, Susie rocks!

Susie, you are an inspiration. One who's made such an impact to all of us: readers and writers alike. We’re truly excited you’re here.

Lust Bites: One lustbiter recalls picking up a Best American antho, "And it was like I'd been given treasure. All the erotica I was reading tended to be very romantic, health spa-ish, full of adverbs.

Susie Bright: LOL! who of you said that? Please tell me! I have never heard the "health-spa-ish" appellation before, that is too perfect. And just ask me about the Adverb Diet!

LB: And suddenly here was good stylish writing with contemporary characters I could relate to, wit, intelligence, relevance ... oh, I was so happy it existed."

SB: I must quote this. You must reveal.

LB: It was Kristina Lloyd who said that. (You don't mind that I've outed you, Kristina, do you?) Another Lustbiter remembers reading a quote from you. It was so powerful, she posted it on the wall: "Close your eyes for a moment, and remember the last time you had an orgasm. At the moment of climax, how many of you were thinking about a lovely walk on the beach, or a bouquet of balloons?" God, that was freeing.

SB: Yes, I remember writing it, and it liberated me to just blurt it out. I was taking a chance, but it really does seem to speak for the multitudes! Who among you had this memory?

LB: Um, that was me. It's still one of my favorite quotes! You know, we wish we could sit around a roaring fire with you, drinking bubbly and painting our nails while we slip sultry questions into the conversation.

SB: Well, why not? Why do we never have a group retreat, get-together, something?

LB: As we're an international crew, that's not going to happen unless one of us rakes in the lottery. So instead, we've managed to come up with a variety of questions. Pick and choose your favorites, or go off on another tangent altogether. (We'd all love to hear more about the delicious Best American Erotica 2007 which features one of our crew, the ever so talented Shanna Germain.)

SB: I have an interview with Shanna on my blog...

LB: What do you think of the romance genre's trend toward erotic romance?

SB: I wrote a piece answering this very question, which I'm really proud of.

LB: What do you look for in an erotic story? What do you hate to see?

SB: The erotic story has a built-in expectation: Person A Meets Person B (Maybe a C and D, etc) and They Get It On, After a Brief Conflict.

That expectation is deadly. Predictability is the torture of literature. So, a great erotic story for me is one that makes me completely forget that I think I know what's going to happen, that makes me really wonder how the conflict will be overcome, that captures me with suspense of some kind. That makes me innocent.

Well, you hit on my "hates" in your comments above. Mushy, cornball, bigoted crap-cakes. With lots of adverb frosting.

LB: What shocks you? Has this changed over the years?

SB: Not really. My sensitivities are pretty consistent. Cruelty and callousness, the real kind, not the erotic variety, are what push my buttons. But I will publish these very things, these kind of characterizations, if they're not gratuitous, because of course, if it REALLY shocks you then it means the author knows what they're doing, with their craft and imagination. In other words, to take an example from mainstream literature, of course "Hannibal Lecter" frightened me. He's supposed to. The Marquis de Sade IS shocking, he'd better be. An erotic story can have shocking, anti-erotic content and still be wildly successful as writing and as erotica, if it finds its own divine conclusion.

On a more political note, what really shocks me is the tenacity of Anglo-American puritanism. I am so fucking sick of it, and it never lets up, never stops ruining people's lives, never lets go of its hold on democracy.

LB: Who or what are your heroes/inspirations?

SB: I'm one of those people who just goes wild over a new bud opening, a new person I just met on the bus, an intact sea urchin shell on the beach... I don’t meant to sound like a ditzy ingenue, but I would be crushed if I didn’t find something new that's beautiful or intriguing or contemplative to get into, day to day. I'm impulsive that way.

LB: Has there ever been a story that you wished you'd written yourself?

SB: That is the essence of BAE... I wish I wrote virtually all of those stories! That's exactly my criteria!

LB: Have you ever considered starting your own Susie Bright imprint or publishing empire?

SB: Yes, certainly. Stay tuned...

LB: What is your feeling about ebooks? Do you think people will ever make the full transition to online reading, leaving paper books behind?

SB: I have. I mean, I'm bi-readable now. I enjoy ebooks all the time, because I read on my computer ALL THE TIME. But I love my books, always will. It's like loving movies and loving books and loving music.

Thank you for your time, Susie. We can't wait to see what you have waiting for us in the wings...

***
Be sure to check out the BAE editions featuring Lustbiters -

Alana Noel in BAE 2005

Gwen Masters in BAE 2006

Shanna Germain in BAE 2007

And visit Susie's journal for more.

XXX,
Alison

Shanna's Famous!

Our own lovely LustBiter, Shanna Germain, is interviewed on Susie Bright's blog!

Check out the informative interview and the delicious excerpt from Shanna's sexy story, "Entry Point," featured in BAE 2007.

My personal feeling is that Shanna's going to be famous for a lot longer than 15 minutes!

Who, Who Are You?

Today, I thought we’d chat about that old bugaboo—pen names. Pseudonyms. The nom de plume. Why do writers use them? Why are they so prevalent in erotic writing? Is it a necessity to cloak yourself in a new identity if you’re writing about sex? Or can you just be plain old you?

Of course, writers use pen names for at least a million reasons, and maybe more: to protect themselves and their loved ones, to save their career (see the recent rash of politicians writing erotica under a nom de plume), to keep their anonymity, to write more freely…

In some cases, it’s used as a marketing tool. (Apparently, publishers believe that a writer with a name like Howard Dumpleberry is probably going to sell a lot less erotic books than a writer named Arizona Gorgeousbody).

Over the years, many writers have used pen names to great success (and often found even greater success after their real name was disclosed to the public). Right off the top of my head, I think of two:

Anne Desclos, the intellectual French Journalist and translator who penned “Story of O” under the pseudonym Pauline Reage. The story is that she wrote the sado-masochistic book after her lover told her than women couldn’t write erotic novels.

Under the pen names A.N. Roquelaure and Anne Rampling, Anne Rice wrote her “Sleeping Beauty” series as well as a number of other erotic works. (By the way, while we’re talking about names, did you know that her given name was Howard Allen O'Brien?)

On the other hand, there are erotic writers out there who have chosen to disclose their identity, to be proud of what they write no matter the costs. Susie Bright is a perfect example. Cecilia Tan, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Bill Noble…the list goes on.

Personally, I’ve chosen not to use a pen name. For lots of reasons. The first is probably because I’m too damn proud. If I’m going to go through all the time and energy to write something good, I want the world to know it’s mine.

The second reason is because I made a choice early on that if I was going to write erotica and make money at it, I had to give back. And for me, that giving back means being proud to write about sex. It means showing respect to my readers—if they’re going to be brave enough to buy and read my writing, then I’m going to be brave enough to claim it as mine. And it means making a dent in a system (at least here in the States) that says sex is bad and is something that must be hidden. When people ask me what I write, I want to be able to say, “I write erotica, and here is my book that I’m so very proud of."

Okay, ladies (and gents), I’ve spouted off long enough. Do you use a pen name? Why or why not?

And, readers chime in: do you like it when an author uses their own name? Do you prefer not to know who's writing the books you read? Do you not care as long as the writing’s good?

Inquiring and erotic minds want to know!

Best,
Shanna

Shanna Germain
www.shannagermain.com

Character Creation Wednesday

A major part of every erotica writer's job is lounging around in their jammies, dreaming up sexy men and women who want to get it on.

Okay, so it sounds like a lot more fun and a lot less work than it actually is. But coming up with characters is definitely one of my favorite parts of writing erotica. I'll admit I’m a bit of a thief when it comes to my characters. I’ve been known to steal—I’m sorry, borrow—personality traits and physical attributes from friends, family, loved ones, enemies, passing strangers and photographs in magazines.

Lately, my characters have shown up with my bike mechanic’s gorgeous grease-stained fingers, a stranger’s tattooed feet, the pouty lips of Sark (a character from the TV show, Alias), a laugh I overheard in a coffee shop, and my man’s habit of talking to himself in Italian while he cooks. All sexy in their own way, and all the little details that can make a character really come alive on the page.

So: Where do your characters come from? How do you create them and put them on the page? Do you “borrow” from real-life people? The rich and famous? Books and movies? Or from the depths of your imagination?