The Kama Sutra—now with extra naughty bits!

by Sophie Mouette

Ladies and gentlemen, for your consideration, may we present a new anthology: The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra: The Fullest Ever Illustrated Collection of the Kama Sutra and Its Variants, edited by the illustrious Maxim Jakubowski.

There have been many published versions of the Kama Sutra. Translations. Illustrated versions, with lush pictures or cartoon how-to’s. There’s even a Complete Idiots Guide to it. It has fascinated us for centuries. So why yet another version?

Well, this one’s different. No, really, it is. Yes, there’s some history and discussion, some lovely black-and-white illustrations, all the usual. This one, though, has stories.

Contributors were challenged to pick a position and spin a tale of how that position came to be named what it was. What fun! It’s like writing a history lesson combined with a fairy tale, only with sex!

Teresa

“The Tale of the Playing Elephant” was inspired by the “herd of cows,” a three-or-moresome involving one man several women. It’s more than a position, it’s a party—and I love a party! What truly intrigued me, though, was this snippet: “It is also interesting to imitate the elephants’ water games, the behavior of the he-goat, etc. One can amuse oneself with the women by imitating the water play of the elephant and cow-elephant, the bleatings of the he-goat with the nanny goat, or the behavior of a stag…The imitation of elephants’ water play is considered as being one of the amusements of the herd of cows.” (Quoted from The Complete Kama Sutra, translated by Alain Danielou, Park Street Press, 1994)

For me, great sex can involve laughter as well as intensity. (Okay, I admit it. We sometimes quote Loony Toons at each other in bed) What’s more intense than group sex? And what’s sillier than goofy animal imitations? How brilliant that the Kama Sutra recommends the combination! But what could have led those wise ancient Indians to this conclusion? It begged a story.

In my tale, three lonely, stressed-out women meet up with a playful younger man down by the river, and one sort of fun leads to another:

The fire of Jaimala’s lust cooled a bit in the face of the more immediate need for playful revenge. Older than Vikram or not, she was not so old that she’d forgotten the cardinal rule of water-fights: Keep them going until everyone involved is wet, laughing, and gasping for breath. “Ladies,” she said, “get him!”

And they did.

At first they were just splashing.

Then Vikram dunked Jaimala.

Adarna had resolved there would be no touching, but some things were not to be borne, so the three women ganged up and dunked him.

And it was all innocent and playful, and yet it wasn’t, because every time Vikram looked at the women, his eyes were full of desire as well as mischief, and every time the women looked at him—or at each other, for that matter—it was the same. And when they touched, even in jest, they all felt the heat.

Then, somehow, they fell into to doing elephant imitations—spraying each other and trumpeting and laughing like children. “If we’re all elephants,” Vikram said between bouts of laughter, “that makes me the bull elephant and you the cows. And you know what that means.”

“You protect us fiercely from hunters and tigers?” Adarna suggested, trying desperately to lead them back to safer territory. Vikram snorted.

“In any case,” Jaimala said, drawing closer, “You’re not a calf anymore, but I’m not sure you’re the lead bull yet. One of the young ones around the fringes of the herd, perhaps, waiting his turn with the females.”

“That’s not very kind.”

“Answer me honestly,” Jaimala asked. “Do you know what to do with one woman, let alone three?”

He sputtered. Looked away and then looked back again, meeting each women’s eyes before he answered. “One woman, yes, although I’m sure I still have much to learn from the right teacher—or teachers. Three women would be a challenge, but it would be a challenge I’m willing to die trying to meet.”

Dayle (writing as Andrea Dale)

When I saw the call for submission for this anthology, I knew immediately which position I wanted to write about: the Tigress (sometimes also called the Tiger). See, Teresa and I have been working on and off on an alternate-Victorian-England/India paranormal erotica project, and the heroine of the novel is an Indian demi-goddess, being the product of a union between Budhi Pallien, goddess of the northern forests, and a human man.

What led Budhi Pallien to lie with a human? Okay, maybe he was just too delectable to pass up—that’s perfectly understandable. But why would she go so far as to bear his child? It was a story that needed to be told.

Even a goddess can lose her heart.

But first, she’ll take her pleasure….

It is one thing to be brave—it is another to be overconfident.

She was the goddess of the forest, and thus she had dominion over it. At her unspoken commands, thick vines twined their way in beneath the archways and down along the columns. They reached into the air and wrapped around Duranjaya’s wrists, drawing his arms above his head.

Anchoring him in place. Leaving him stretched and vulnerable to the deity’s whims.

He had heard of such games before, but never played them, and indeed he had only briefly considered them with the thought that the woman would be at his mercy.

Now he was helpless, and to his surprise, it was not an unwelcome sensation at all, even as he knew Budhi Pallien would not be gentle and was unlikely to be truly merciful.

She stalked him still, sizing up her prey, and yet all he could think of was that even if he died in the end, his last moments would be in ecstasy.

Her hand cupped the fullness of his sac, measuring, considering. She trailed a single nail along the underside of his cock, from base to tip.
He bit back a moan, but the twitching of his member revealed all he felt. Budhi Pallien laughed, low and sultry, almost a tiger’s rumbling purr.

“I am glad my lingam pleases you,” Duranjaya said, although the throbbing of his blood in his veins and the need for relief made it hard for him to speak. “It is but yours to use as you see fit.”

He hoped that would be soon.

She laughed again. “Foolish man,” she said. “You are mine to use as I see fit—all of you….”

The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra also contains stories by Nikki Magennis (another beloved ex-Lustie), who spins for us The “Tale of the Thunderbolt”; friend-of-Lusties Michael Crawley, who enthralls us with “The Tale of Dvitala,” and 20 other fine and inventive writers.

Enjoy!

Crush Wednesday: Fantasies about Fantasy

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

Long before puberty, I was enamoured with the brave men and fierce women who inhabit the worlds depicted in fantasy novels and movies. Brawny barbarians, elegant sorceresses, wily wizards, valiant knights, sardonic swordsmen and warrior women who quipped in the face of death? Elves, dwarves, hobbits, and other fascinating non-humans? I reveled in it all as an escape from life as a shy, bookish kid without a valiant bone in her clumsy body.

After puberty, my thoughts about my favorite fantasy heroes and heroines changed a bit. I didn’t just want to share their adventures. In some cases, I wanted to have adventures with them, if you know what I mean.

Take the Lord of the Rings series. Tolkien’s Eówyn was my first girl-crush, although I didn’t have words for it until many years after I first read the books. Miranda Otto’s beauty and gravitas reawakened that crush in the movies, and now I have words for it. And very explicit mental images.

Aragorn, with his heroism, his fateful destiny, and his seemingly doomed cross-species love, also got under my teenage skin. Why couldn’t he love a nice human girl, like Eówyn, or better yet, me? Thinking “Why not both of us, and I could take the middle? And Arwen could come play sometime when she wasn’t too busy being all otherworldly” was a little advanced for my teenage years, but once again the movie versions of the book reawakened old literary crushes in much more grown-up ways. Sandwiched between Viggo and Miranda—yum!

Oh, heck, bring on most of the Fellowship! Between the ones whose characters I love (Sam might be on the short and round side, but I have a feeling he’d be fun, even with that service-oriented d/s thing he has going with Frodo) and the ones who are pure sex on a stick (Boromir didn’t seem like crush material until I saw him played by Sean Bean, but for Sean, I’ll forgive a few tragic flaws. And consider Legolas—body of a buff college student, two thousand years of experience!) it could be quite a party.

Gratuitous Sean Bean as Boromir picture!

But I don’t confine my fantasy-fantasies to the Lord of the Rings. One of my early crushes was Robin Hood, and once I grew up a bit, I got all sorts of interesting ideas about “Merry Men”—some hotly homoerotic, some about what a lucky, lucky girl Marian was, alone in Sherwood Forest with all those men in tights. Leaving aside smutty thoughts (yes, I can do that sometimes), I love the Robin Hood legend to this day. I’ve enjoyed all the film incarnations I’ve seen, from Errol Flynn to Michael Praed, who was, in my opinion, the hottest Robin Hood ever. (And his Robin of Sherwood had Herne the Hunter in it, which moves it from historical fantasy into mythology, which is interesting even to me.) And the somewhat obscure 1991 Robin Hood featured the ever-intriguing Uma Thurman as a butt-kicking and fun Marian. (I haven’t seen the most recent BBC series yet, though. Netflix time!)

Heck, I even loved Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves because it’s Robin Hood, even though it was silly and Kevin Costner, while not unattractive, was entirely wrong for the part.

Of course, that might have had something to do with Alan Rickman’s Sheriff of Nottingham. Yummy, campy evil with a voice like silk: He can take me captive and do terrible things to me any time.

The Arthurian legends? Who hasn’t daydreamed at some point about being swept away to Camelot and all the hunks of the Round Table? As a young woman, I wept buckets—and fantasized copioiusly—about the tragic love triangle at the center of the legends. Lucky Guinevere to have two such amazing men as Arthur and Lancelot in her life, even if it ended horridly! Now, I get annoyed, thinking that before they tore a kingdom apart when they obviously all loved one another, they should have tried poly. Less tragic, and much sexier.

Barbarians? Those who’ve read Lady Sun Has Risen know one of my guilty pleasures is the dominant, underclad, totally politically incorrect barbarian hero. You wouldn’t want one around full-time, but the women they kidnap always end up looking bonelessly happy. It’s the sword-wielding and the alpha quality that gets to me, not the big muscles—Arnold Schwarzenagger didn’t appeal to me in any other roles, but as Conan? Whew! I have a huge weakness for barbarian movies, from The Scorpion King to the Conan epics to the really cheesy ones like Kull the Conqueror (both Kevin Sorbo and Tia Carrere are lovely creatures, whether they can act or not) and The Barbarians. I saw the latter with my gay best friend, both of us laughing our butts off and still getting kind of hot and bothered. It was in Spanish with no subtitles and you know what? It made absolutely no difference. The whole point was brawny, heroic alpha males wearing very little.

And finally, I’m putting in a picture just for Dayle. I never saw the TV fantasy spoof Wizards and Warriors, which came and went while I was in college in a place where TV reception was non-existent. Dayle has fond memories of the evil Prince Dirk Blackpool, though, and just because I love her…here’s a picture! Hey, he’s pretty sexy. Between him and several shady characters played by Alan Rickman, maybe we need to revisit the theme of Hot Evil…

Note: The Arthurian illustration is by Howard David Johnson and can be found here.

LADY SUN HAS RISEN: Nothing Says Springtime like Sex-Magic…

by Teresa Noelle Roberts
Then a crazy notion popped into Miryea’s head, and she went with it because talking about sex seemed far preferable to letting her mind wander even further down paths of self-doubt, or worrying about the possibility of slavers. “We’re going to be in Thelana for the Spring Equinox rites. Want to see if we can find out what their festival is like?” She felt a shimmer of excitement at the idea of being the newcomer in some insular village--inhabited, since it was her daydream, by unusually handsome, well-endowed single men as randy as the goats they herded, but a great deal cleaner. She didn’t know about Thelana, but in Yareth, it was considered especially good luck to lie with a new acquaintance on the Equinox, a particularly powerful offering to Lady Sun and the Lord of Grain. What a Spring Equinox she and Velari could have, with men lining up to entertain them!
Lady Sun Has Risen.



When you think about spring, you probably think about flowers. Brilliant green grass. Tiny chartreuse leaves unfurling on the trees. Birds on the wing. Newborn lambs gamboling in the field, if you live in an area where you see that kind of thing (or “ORDER YOUR EASTER LAMB TODAY” at the grocery store or butcher shop if you’re in a more urban area).






Easter’s bound to come to mind. For some people, it’s a solemn religious holiday, but for a lot of us, what we associate with Easter are the playful trappings: dyed eggs, bunnies, chocolates and jelly beans, baby chicks whether real or marshmallow.

You know what almost all of that imagery has in common?

Fertility. New life.

And you what leads to new life? You guessed it: sex. In the case of trees and grass and flowers, it’s rather dull sex, windborne sex or sex requiring insect interference, but face it, there’s a lot of fertility being carried on those soft spring breezes. (Or, as I’ve been known to say when my pollen allergies are especially bad, “Someone make those trees stop fucking in my air!”) And granted chocolates and jelly beans don’t have all that much to do with sex, but the chocolates, at this time of year, are shaped like those fertile rabbits, and the jelly beans look like tiny eggs, so the fertility symbolism holds.


In western European pagan traditions, May Day and Midsummer were traditionally connected with a certain amount of sexual license. That tradition, being heaps of fun, lasted long after paganism was officially supplanted by Christianity. (A Midsummer Night’s Dream got its name for a reason.) You don’t hear so much about sex magic on the Spring Equinox, though maybe because in much of western Europe, it can still be cold and nasty in mid-March.

Nothing on where I grew up, though. A village just north of my old hometown had five feet of snow dumped on it on March 1, and I’ve known it to snow in May in my old stomping grounds. Even though I’m now living in a slightly less vicious climate, spring’s still semi-mythical to me, and I’m fascinated with spring flowers, spring folklore—and of course, being me, spring’s sexual side.

Maybe that’s why, when I went to write Lady Sun Has Risen, a novella that involves springtime and sex-magic and pagan rites, I set it in a slightly warmer climate. In my imaginary Soranian Empire, it’s really spring by the vernal equinox. Lady Sun has returned to her partner the Lord of Grain, and as the goddess and god celebrate their reunion, so do mortals.

Basically by shagging anyone who’s agreeable; all rules and restrictions other than “Make sure everyone involved has fun” are set aside for the day. (Sounds better than chocolate bunnies and Easter egg hunts, doesn’t it? Maybe we should start our own religion. We can keep the chocolate bunnies—for energy!)

Miryea, a female physician, thinks her interest in sexy, infuriating half-nomad Adimir is a case of opposites attracting. Nothing serious could come of their attraction, but a fling with Adimir sounds like the perfect way to celebrate Spring Equinox.

Adimir has no problem with this plan, especially since he's already figured out Miryea's just the kind of woman he likes—a strong woman who melts for spanking and rough-and-tumble foreplay.

But the gods have a little more in mind for them than just another Equinox celebration—even if there are a few differences to overcome first.

He pulled her closer to him. “Who’s going to keep you safe from a wicked barbarian Kulchu if you go wandering off in the forest like this?”

She felt a flash of terror, then saw his smiling face, felt his free hand caress down her spine to cup her bottom. She smelled the heat of his body, slightly sweaty, yet clean, and very male, almost drowning out the earthy, green smells of spring and the bitter, sharp scent of bonestrength. She could practically taste his skin, the salt and musk of it. The only thing in real danger, she reasoned, was her common sense—and that was already a lost cause. Adimir might be imperious, arrogant, condescending—but he was also the most handsome man she’d ever seen, pure walking sex, and if he wanted to kiss her, she wasn’t going to resist.

In fact, she closed her eyes, raised her face, anticipating his lips on hers.
The kiss was all she could have imagined and more. Hot, yet sweet and mouthwatering, like the chili-laced tamarind candy she bought whenever she found it in the marketplace.

She’d been kissed before—before now, she’d have said she’d been kissed fairly competently and thoroughly--but this was beyond anything she’d ever experienced. It shot through her body, pulsing in her nipples, waking butterflies in her belly. Lighting a fire between her legs.

She couldn’t wait to find out what happened next. Would he kiss her until she was melting like butter over the fire, or would he move more quickly, reaching for her aching breasts, her moist, heavy sex? Either would have its merits, although she hoped he didn’t move too fast, leaving her trailing behind him.

What he did next, though, was nothing she could have anticipated.

He pulled his hand back and smacked her ass.

The force of the blow would have made her stagger except for his firm grip on her wrists. She squeaked, more from surprise than pain, tried to squirm away. Shocked, and drunk on sensation from the kiss, she was slow to react, her body sending mixed signals to her brain--was this pain or pleasure?

The second thwack made her knees buckle, and the third was just as forceful. By the third, though, she’d found her voice, if not the coordination to fight back effectively in any other way, and exclaimed, “Stop it!”

“That should teach you to be more sensible,” he snarled, giving her one last thwack, as if carried by momentum.

Like the spankings her grandmother had administered when she was much younger, these smacks were more loud and startling than painful.

But being spanked by a handsome beast of half-Kulchu male was a very different experience.

These swats left more than her bottom throbbing.

Her breasts, her sex, and everything in between, already sparked to life by the kiss, tingled with excitement. Her ass throbbed rhythmically, but it was far more pleasurable than painful. The rhythm of sex, in fact. She felt herself swelling, moistening.

Lady, she’d have to change her salvar at this rate! And it wasn’t even as though he’d been roughhousing with her in a flirtatious way, reverting to that stage of life where boys tormented girls to show their interest. No, the arrogant fool was acting like he was her father and she was a child who needed discipline. He’d even called her “little rabbit,” like her own father had.

And still she wanted him, even though he was treating her like a child. Was she insane?

Maybe, and certainly her self-respect wouldn’t thank her later, but for the moment, all she could think about was impressing upon him that she was no little girl to be teased and scolded and spanked, but a grown woman.

A woman with needs that he’d awakened.

A woman who’d show him what she was made of.

With a barely suppressed moan, she pressed herself against Adimir, moving like a cat in heat so he’d feel her curves, know that he hadn’t been dealing with a child. Then, she figured, once he started to show interest, she’d spurn him, salvage her pride, and make it clear that if he wanted her, he’d have to court her properly, not kiss her and smack her as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted.

Except that he was already showing interest, in the form of a hard cock jutting proudly against her.

A large cock hard and eager enough to let her know that the kiss had excited him as much as it had her, and that he hadn’t been thinking “fatherly” when he’d spanked her, any more than she’d been thinking “daughterly.”

Lady Sun Has Risen is available at Phaze Books. But if you’d like to win some hot springtime spanking and sex-magic to enliven the last weeks of winter, leave a comment below.

Did I mention that Adimir’s people’s version of the Equinox ritual involves spanking and a little dominance and submission? I tell you, we should start a religion! Chocolate bunnies and kinky sex for everyone!

(Flowers and flowering tree courtesy of FreeFoto. Cartoon spanking courtesy of SarahThorne.com.)

In the Future, All Women Will Be Hotter

by Dayle A. Dermatis and Teresa Noelle Roberts (aka Sophie Mouette)

Dayle: Last week we talked about how in the future, it seems, all men will be hotter—at least, according to science fiction movies and TV. But it’s not just the men…check out all those hot women in formfitting futuristic outfits, carrying ray guns they know damn well how to use! They often get to be the captains, the leaders, the rebels, the ones in charge of not only themselves and their own destinies, but of spaceships, armies, and even planets.

Science fiction has always been a place for women to shine—it’s long been a venue for writers to explore strong women, women’s equality, etc. Future women were often in jobs far beyond what a current woman could reasonably expect. Uhura in the original Star Trek series may have not had a lot to do other than say “They’re hailing us,” but she was on the bridge, and that was a big step back then (not to mention she was black—but that’s another topic of discussion entirely).

I remember being impressed by—and kind of wanting to be—Princess Leia when I saw the first Star Wars as a wee lass. She was beautiful, powerful, strong, got to wield a gun (quite capably, I might add), and she had the most wonderful ability for wit and sarcasm even in the direst of moments.

To me, that was a lot sexier than the stupid bronze bikini and being chained to a giant slug. Chains, yes. Giant slugs…ew!

Teresa: It’s not that other genres don’t have strong women who can handle themselves in a dangerous situation. But often, these characters face conflicts that grow of out being a woman in a male-dominated field. The tough women of science fiction have their own set of clichés (among other things, that they’re unusually beautiful!) but our heroines aren’t the only female officers/commanders/space pirates/rebels/whatever in their worlds—just the ones the story focuses on. It’s refreshing, and it can, in the hands of good script writers, allow them to become more complex characters.

Take one of my major SF female crushes, Commander Susan Ivanova from Babylon 5. She’s one of many female Earthforce officers, and no one on the series makes a big deal of her gender. She’s a sexual being (a bisexual being, even, although alas there aren’t any girl-kisses), and she looks good in her uniform, but that’s only part of what she is. She’s a loyal military officer who ends up rebelling against a corrupt government, a daughter with a complicated relationship with her parents, a Russian Jew with a strong ethnic identity in a future when ethnic identity is often downplayed, and a warrior capable of not just kicking butt, but delivering almost Biblical rants while she does.

Gotta give props to Babylon 5 as well for a character who breaks a lot of the science-fiction-woman cliches. Delenn, the Mimbari diplomat whose romance with a human shakes both cultures, isn’t stereotypically hot. Her bony head ridges, loose-fitting clothes, and serious, scholarly demeanor are about as far from Captain Kirk’s alien’s babes or even butt-kicking-but-conventionally-beautiful Ivanova as you can get. The viewer falls for her as gradually as her human partner does, drawn in by her character instead of her beauty…and much as I like beautiful women, that’s pretty cool.

But this was supposed to be about crushes, and I have so many of them! Firefly offers a rich field to choose from. Perky, curvy Kaylee and sultry philosopher/courtesan Inara are each appealing in their own way, and River, despite being underage, underweight, and spooky, moves like a goddess (especially in the fight scenes in Serenity).

But I harbor a weakness for Zoë. The combination of gun-blazing heroics, snarky common sense, and well-drawn relationships with her husband and her PTSD-ridden captain win me over. Okay, the bitchin’ body and tight leather clothes don’t hurt. And seductive criminal Saffron (or whatever her name really is) can dazzle me with her breasts and drug me with her lipstick anytime, thanks!

Claudia Black as Farscape’s renegade Peacekeeper Aeryn Sun is smoking. But I also liked Farscape’s roguish, gray-skinned Chiana.

Apparently I have a thing for heroic women with big guns and leather pants (or well-tailored uniforms) and an almost equal yen for bad girls, good heart optional. Which makes me wonder why I’ve been neither robbed blind nor dragged into the wrong kind of undercover operation by any of my past girlfriends.

And then there are a few crushes that my partner-in-future-lust shares with me and will cover below: Janeway and Starbuck!

Dayle: Definite agreement on Zoë; Gina Torres was gorgeous and scary on Angel, fabulous in her smaller role on Alias, and I’ve got Cleopatra 2525 in my Netflix queue even though I’m sure it will be appallingly bad. (I’ll watch appallingly bad for the right actors!)

More of my official SF women crushes:

Star Trek gave me some goods ones: Dax on Deep Space 9 (gimme that lesbian kiss, baybee!) and Janeway on Voyager (finally, a female captain! plus I’ve had a crush on Kate Mulgrew since I was a kid.) I even have a certain fondness for Counselor Troi, even if she had the worst lines on the show.

In hindsight, Maya on Space: 1999 was a crush of mine long before I understood about crushes on women.
Who doesn’t love the new Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica (not to mention President Roslin, Boomer, Number Six, Dualla, Admiral Cain, D’anna…I think I have to lie down now)? Tortured and possibly brought back from the dead, she may be the first crush I’ve ever had on a blonde woman. It must be her triceps.

::Teresa nods in agreement about President Roslin. Let’s hear it for smart, attractive, mature women!::

But speaking of both Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica, let’s talk actress Michelle Forbes. First she was the sexiest Bajoran ev-ar, then she was the sexiest dark and conflicted commander of the Pegasus. Yay!

Gwen on Torchwood. I think I love her especially much because if this were a US show, they never would have cast someone with a gap between her front teeth and thighs bigger than toothpicks—and those are two of the things that make Gwen gorgeous, along with that incredible thick, dark hair and her fantastic smile. Over on the Doctor Who side of things, I’m sorry, but Rose was just too goofy and annoying for me. But Miss Martha Jones! Smart, dedicated, loyal, quick-thinking, and a classy dresser to boot—and she helps save the world.

Any role played by Claudia Black. ::Teresa, her eyes glassy, is nodding in agreement and rummaging for her ray-gun-shaped vibrator.:: I mean, it just wasn’t worth watching Pitch Black after…oops, wait, that’s a spoiler. Ya’ll will spank me if I give away spoilers. ::pauses to consider that again::

You know, when it comes to women, I do have a type, but it’s not like my bad-boy crushes on men. No, I seem to like my womenfolk with dark hair and pale eyes and fierce intelligence and wit. I admit it: It’s more physical than anything else. I like girls, and I like hot sexy girls in leather.

What about you, faithful readers? What makes the women of the future hotter?

In the Future, All Men Will Be Hotter

Dayle: So Teresa and I were chatting one day, and we realized that most of our media crushes involved science fiction (well, for me, that’s along with musicians). The more we talked about it, the more people we came up with. Will it really be true, we wondered, that in the future all men will be hotter?

Is it the ray guns? The form-fitting futuristic material? The phallic-shaped rocket ships?

Teresa: I think it’s because so many of the hot men of science fiction are intriguing rebels—whether literally, like Han Solo or Firefly’s sexy, brown-coated buckers of authority, or the Captain-Kirk types who are willing to flout the rules to do the right thing (or to help them get into the cute green-skinned chick’s miniskirt).

Though the outfits do help.

Dayle: We also realized that while we agreed on some of our future men, we were clearly divided on many of them…which led to the realization that even in the future, we’d still fall for the same type we each do today.

Although I was young enough when the original Star Wars came out that I was all about Luke, by the time The Empire Strikes Back hit, I’d firmly landed on the side of bad boys. Oh, give me Han Solo’s cheeky grin, his never-ending supply of witty rejoinders, his questionable moral turpitude. (Teresa adds: You can’t have all of Han Solo. You must share with your sister in erotica-writing!)

I tumbled right from there into the arms of Starbuck from the original Battlestar Galactica series. (Not literally, but certainly in my adolescent fantasies, because I wrote appallingly bad Mary Sue fan fiction about him.) Was it his tight pants? The wicked twinkle in his eye? His willingness to fall into bed with just about any woman? His ever-present, phallic-shaped cigar?

Star Trek was brimming with eligible hotties, no matter which version of the show you’re talking about. Keeping in line with my preferences, let’s talk about good ol’ Trip from Enterprise. Oh, that Southern accent. Oh, that nearly naked body. Come to think of it, he and Cap’n Tightpants (okay, okay, Captain Mal Reynolds) of Firefly were cut from the same mold, weren’t they?

Then there’s the most recent incarnation of Doctor Who, played with manic cheekiness by David Tennant. He just needs someone who’ll match him wit for wit, and I’d like to think I’m up to the task. Hey, you smart, cute bad boy, come over here and gimme some. (This is where Teresa and I clearly diverge—and she’ll explain just why Christopher Eccleston dampens her panties instead.)

And what were these wicked lads doing if not preparing me for the ultimate future bad boy, Captain Jack Harkness? (S’cuse me while I fan myself.) Dimpled, nattily dressed, omnisexual and proud of it, Captain Jack fulfills just about anyone’s fantasy, doesn’t he?



Teresa: No argument on most of Dayle’s choices, especially Cap’n Tightpants and Captain Jack Harkness. [We pause while she drools quietly into her keyboard, considering some cross-over universe where they meet and pull off wild capers and then have hot man-sex.]

Then again, I’m hot for most of the men of Firefly. Brilliant, conflicted Simon, with his pretty white skin and his endearing shyness and his stubborn strength; big, dumb Jayne with his big guns, his big muscles, his big mouth, and his surprisingly big heart; and charmingly quirky Wash could have special places in my bed were they only real. (Well, maybe not Wash. Not unless Zoë wanted to play too, because otherwise she’d kill me.) Both Simon and Wash remind me of the eccentric “Is he a genius or a nutbar or both?” guys in my life, only larger than life and having a chance to show off how heroic and sexy geeks can be.

And Jayne? Well, my fantasies about him involve a ball gag, because I don’t cope well with stupid, but there’s something about the dangerous way he moves, and the way he plays with that knife of his… [Ponders whether one can be the dom while gagged.]

Babylon 5’s Captain Sheridan reminded me of my evil ex, from the red hair to the self-righteousness. But I found love among the aliens: Narn rebel leader and bad-boy mystic G’Kar. He’s slightly lizard-like, which is kinky even for me, but talk about an intriguing personality: rogue and saint, warrior and diplomat, part-time villain and part-time Christ figure. I like complicated.

And I bet he’d be fun in bed, despite the lizardy look. Or maybe because of it. Ponder the length and agility of the lizard tongue.

As for Doctor Who, I enjoy David Tennant’s Doctor. He’s adorable and funny, yet intense when he needs to be, and he looks like he belongs in a New Wave band. I can understand why Dayle’s hot for him. But he doesn’t get me in the groin.

Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor is the one who makes my panties pound. Maybe it’s the leather jacket, or the fact that he’s craggier and more worn around the edges. Or maybe it’s the darkness, the weight of time under his good humor. (Tennant’s Doctor shows that side too, but it’s harder to buy it with his boyish face.)

Or more to the erotic point: David Tennant’s Doctor would tie you and threaten you with Dire Things, and spank you a few times before you both cracked up, and you’d have a great time. Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor would tie you up and threaten you with Dire Things and you might wonder if he actually meant them, or if he’d ever untie you. And you’d have a different, scarier, and more interesting (to me) great time.

Dayle: [Who has dragged herself back from watching appropriate SF DVDs with her rocket-ship-shaped vibrator.] Come on, we know some of you are SF geeks at heart. Tell us who you want to meet in a dark spaceship corridor with an alien probe just for you…

And tune in next week when we follow up with Crush Wednesday: In the Future, All Women Will Be Hotter!

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 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.

When Two Heads Are Better Than One (and We’re Not Talking About Those Heads!)

by Sophie Mouette (aka Dayle & Teresa)
















Dayle

Teresa and I (aka the joint writing team of Sophie Mouette) are at the tail end of a week-long writers’ retreat on the Oregon Coast, where we’ve written more than half of our current novel-length project. What better time to ramble on about our experiences with collaboration?

One caveat: There are as many ways to collaborate as there are collaborators. For example, I know at least two sets of writers who work such that one half of the team writes the rough draft and the other half fleshes out the details. That’s not how we do it, so we can’t really talk about that style of process. Everyone’s different, and every collaborative team is different.

Our method is to brainstorm our stories and novels together, tossing thoughts back and forth and building on idea and concepts until something really clicks. Then we decide who’s writing one scene or chapter, and we trade back and forth. Sometimes we can each be working on sections at the same time, but more often than not, we’re building on what the last person just wrote.

Teresa

Dayle forgot to mention that our brainstorming process involves wine. Sometimes a lot of wine. We don’t necessarily endorse this for everyone, but it works for us, although sometimes it makes it hard to decipher our notes in the morning. But anyway…on to more details of how we collaborate.

For longer projects, we each have areas or characters or subplots we’re more or less in charge of. For instance, in Cat Scratch Fever, I filled in a lot of the details of how the zoo actually worked, since I’d done fundraising for an aquarium. (I swear neither the office sex nor the criminal board member was based on real life, but the sheer level of insanity…that’s 100% real.) Dayle filled in a lot of the setting since she often visits the big cat sanctuary that inspired the one in the book.

In our current work-in-progress, which involves a personal chef working for a wacky starlet, she’s in charge of pop culture details and I’m handling the food, echoing what we’re interested in. (This also gives me a great excuse to buy more cookbooks and cooking magazines as “research”.) We’ve been passing chapters back and forth full of brackets along the lines of [Dayle: celebrity name?] and [Teresa: foodie stuff here].

And sometimes things divide out in really strange ways. For instance, I’ve written every sex scene so far in this book and she’s written every scene of the plot thread involving the heroine’s dog. We haven’t figured this out yet, since I like dogs better than she does and we’re equally fond of writing sex scenes.

Dayle

I didn’t forget to mention the wine; I just wanted to leave something for you to write about….

One of the biggest pluses of collaboration (other than the fact that you each have to write only half a story or book) is the ability to bounce ideas off each other. The final product is stronger and richer that way.

But there are downsides, too. We tried to avoid a good chunk of them by having a signed contract with each other. We’ve been friends for almost 20 years, but we still felt that was crucial—hopefully if we do have any disagreements, the contract will help protect our friendship. It covers issues such as “if one person stops writing partway through the book, do they get a percentage of the advance” and “how does future money get divided if one of us dies.”

There’s also scheduling and timing. We live on opposite ends of the US, so we don’t get to meet up very often. We also both have lives away from Sophie: solo writing projects, not to mention husbands, houses, friends, etc. If I’m off on one of my motorcycle jaunts, she has to wait until I return to get the next chunk of a project from me.

We’ve been lucky in that we usually agree on things, but occasionally we hit a sticking point where we each have to argue our point. Thankfully our friendship has held up through these! We try very hard to keep the love and respect at the forefront.

We also (I think) have healthy egos—not too overblown, but not too wimpy. Teresa can edit my words and make them stronger, and I can do the same for hers. If you’re too wedded to your prose, collaboration probably isn’t for you.

Teresa

We’ve been collaborating long-distance since Sophie Mouette was born. When we first started writing together, Dayle was actually living in Wales, which made even scheduling a phone call interesting. At least now it’s only a three-hour time difference. Thank goodness for email.

This week has been heavenly in terms of our creative process. Instead of being on opposite sides of the country, we’ve been on opposite sides of a big table. When one of us reached a sticking point, the other was there for bouncing ideas around. We’d read bits out loud to each other, riffing off each other’s words in a way we can’t do when we’re apart. If something one of us wrote didn’t work, we could talk it through on the spot. We not only made tremendous progress on our current book (the end’s in sight!), we also started plotting two sequels and helped each other brainstorm our next solo projects. The synergy, the sense of a shared brain, has been simply amazing.

In fact, this whole week has been about synergy and sharing a brain. About writers sparking off writers. Our retreat wasn’t just the two of it; it was a whole beach house full of writers determined to get away from the distractions of home and write up a storm. We had private or semi-private rooms, but a lot of us ended up working in the common area, earbuds in, burning up our keyboards.

We’d help each other brainstorm through sticky spots, urge someone out for walks on the beach when she obviously needed fresh air and a fresh perspective, cheered as we each hit important milestones. We were all working in different genres (erotica to inspirational—how’s that for range?) but we all shared a common goal of getting tons of writing done, and we helped each other reach that goal. And all of us have been buzzing about how wonderful it’s been to be with people who “get it.”

I guess that’s one advantage Dayle and I have. We don’t often get the wonderful experience of being together and being surrounded by other creative people, all busily working away, but we are at least sharing the process, sharing both the highs and lows of writing.

Writing is inherently a lonely job. Face it, we spend a lot of time by ourselves, in our heads, staring at a little screen and talking to imaginary people. But when we’re “being Sophie,” at least we’re both talking to the same imaginary people.

Dayle

There’s also one other thing we had to negotiate, which is unique to writing erotica, and that’s language. What slang and euphemisms for body parts and sexual acts did we like and dislike? Thankfully we both abhorred the same ones! We were lucky: I think there’s only one word she doesn’t like that I could go either way on.

Teresa
This isn’t to say that one of us won’t question a particular term in a particular context. Once in a while, for example, I might use a word that, to Dayle’s ear, doesn’t fit the mood, or she might have a character say something I’m not convinced the character would say. Sometimes we hear the suggestion and say, “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”; sometimes after a little discussion we’ll decide that the original wording is fine. That’s all part of the fine art of collaboration!

Dayle

Collaboration has its pros and cons, and its up to every individual writer to decide whether it will work for him or her—and then there’s the challenge of finding someone with whom you click.

But when it works, it works really well. If you’ve read Cat Scratch Fever, we’d love to hear your comments about what you thought about book in terms of this little chat about collaboration. Could you tell that Sophie has two brains…?

(Cat Scratch Fever by Sophie Mouette was a 2006 Black Lace release and received a four-star review from Romantic Times.)