Is This a Dagger That I See Before Me?

by Jean Roberta

So far, no one here has interpreted “edgy” writing as involving blades of various kinds. Swords, switchblades, ritual knives (athames), skewers, and various other tools or weapons are great props to use in melodrama, and I find them more versatile than guns. The appearance of an object with an edge and/or a point always raises the tension and introduces several possibilities. The famous literary theory that if a gun is introduced in the first scene, it must be fired later in the narrative applies equally well to a blade, but in that case, it could be used for Shakespearean swordplay, a dastardly secret stabbing, or for cutting the cake at a surprise birthday party.

The following piece was written early in this century, and it was inspired by my discussions with two fellow-members of the Erotic Readers and Writers Association. The male one, “Cervo” (an academic, playwright, poet and novelist, unfortunately now deceased) claimed to have “faith in metaphor” as a means of understanding the world.

In an exchange with the female one (Shiloh) about Freudian theory (in which she seemed well-versed), I asked her if it was true that Freud thought all women were masochistic. She claimed that Freud wondered (didn’t assert) whether there had to be some vaguely masochistic tendency at work “in order for the mind to accept the idea that pleasure comes from being penetrated.”

I answered: “I’ve often thought the answer to this question depends on the metaphor one uses (if any) to conceive of fucking. If it is thought of as a knife in the guts, then obviously it is likely to be considered unappealing. If it is thought of as a sausage in the hungry mouth, then it makes more sense.”

She responded: “And then the question would be... which analogy is sexier?”

I didn’t accept her implication, and I wrote the following story as a response. It was first published in 2002 in a marvelous magazine of dark fantasy with beautiful artwork, Cthulhu Sex from New York, which went defunct (as great publishing venues so often do), and then in Problem Child (2003), an experimental zine produced by Lori Selke of Oakland, Calif, which lasted for two issues (as far as I know).

This story, which I originally thought of as an unpublishable private joke, might even be published a third time. A group of very young and eager-looking writers/editors/artists in Toronto (judging from their photos) plan to launch a new fantasy mag, Augur, with a Canadian focus, and they are asking for reprint stories for a teaser issue. I sent them three, including this one. I await their decision.

Awakening

I am a teenager, and the Spirit of the Sixties (actually, the recorded sound of “Glad All Over” by the Dave Clark Five) is blasting all around me. The whole room rocks to the beat as I breathe in the combined smells of sweat, hairspray and Jade East men’s cologne; all the guys think it gets us like Spanish Fly or something. My stretch pants grip my whole lower half like a pushy date. I want to dance, and this makes me angry. My partner has to be male, and I have to wait for him to ask me: stupid rules. Stupid world. I want something cold to drink, I want someone to see me for who I am (even if everyone can see the teasing in my hair and the pimples under my makeup), and I want to Do It soon.

Christie digs me in the ribs. She thinks it’s her sacred duty to find me a boyfriend, and she thinks that’s all we can ever be for each other: boyfriend-finders. “J,” she tells me, “he’s looking at you. He’s got a neat name, Blade Steele. His parents must be rich.”

“Blade?” I ask. “That’s his name?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s so masculine and classy. Rich people give their kids names like that.” Or crazy people, I think. Maybe cartoonists. “He’s got his own car,” Christie tells me. “He’s looking at you.” I try not to notice, but it’s hard. Hard-up, that’s what I must be to care what some boy from the South End thinks of me. Guys like that usually assume I’m easy. I can’t afford to let my reputation get any worse. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T,” sings Aretha from the speakers, “find out what it means to me.” Maybe it’s already too late for me to get any respect from anybody, ever. I could scream, or cry.

“Hey,” he insinuates, looking at me as if he has known me for years. “Come and dance.” (Or dance and then come? Come while dancing?) He just assumes I’m willing, and he’s right. All my friends and his friends are watching, and I can’t turn him down. Then someone worse would ask me, and everybody would say things behind my back no matter what.

I can get into the beat, no matter who I’m with. He’s a better dancer than the other guys I know. He smiles as if he likes me. I guess I can’t hate a boy I don’t know very well yet. He’s not bad-looking, even handsome in a way. He has a nice nose - “chiseled” is what that’s called, I think - and laughing eyes. The smell of Jade East comes at me in gusts. Having a boyfriend with his own car would really help my reputation.

Slow dance, oh my god. He’s holding me tight, letting me know what he wants. I’m supposed to believe this feeling is a sign of Love. I’m supposed to be a Nice Girl, that’s why. My breasts are mashed against his hot chest and his sweaty hands seem to be burning through my back like brands. He’s breathing into my neck, breathing hard. I can feel the hardness through his pants, so I pull away. I’m sure everyone is watching. I can’t stand it. We have to get out of here.

“Come on,” he murmurs. I don’t even bother to tell anybody where I’m going. Fuck them. That’s probably what they’ll all do later anyway, but then they talk about me.

It’s cool outside, and I can breathe again. His arm is around my shoulders as if he wants to take care of me. I know better, but I want to believe in this. My prince, my shield against the stupid world. The one guy who sees things the way I do, and who loves me beyond my wildest dreams. Yeah, sure.

His car is a Chevy. It looks like a family car to me, but I don’t care if it belongs to his dad. For now, we’re the only ones in it. I know he’s taking me to a place where I shouldn’t be, where my parents don’t want me to go. They don’t want to admit that I’m a woman (not legally, but as a certain famous writer once said, the law is an ass) and I have rights.

The neighborhood is quiet, with big lawns. Not exactly rich, but respectable. Unlike me. He pulls into the garage. “My parents aren’t home,” he grins. Of course; I should have known. This is my cue to - what? Scream? Run down a dark street to find some guy in a car who will drive me home without wanting anything in return? I already know what’s going to happen. I agreed when I got into his car. I guess it’s true that I’m a born slut. I just hope he won’t get me pregnant.

He leads me into a basement room and turns on the light. It’s a red lightbulb in the ceiling. “I bet you’ve never seen a real man before, baby,” he tells me. “Look at this.” He sits on a day-bed and rips his shirt off over his head, proud to show me his sweaty chest with a trickle of hair down the middle. He unbuckles his belt, watching me watching him. Too bad for him that guys can’t get paid to do strip-tease. He pulls his tight jeans down over his thighs. His jockey shorts are sticking up at a strange angle. When he pulls them off, I see why.

It’s actually growing out of his crotch, with a nest of brown curly hair at its base. The red light bounces off it as he moves. It looks about a foot long, and both sides of it are sharp. The point looks as if it could pierce through the thinnest or thickest of objections. I can’t believe this! I don’t believe it. I know it’s not real. But he made it real. I know that too.

“Let me go!” I shriek, even before he grabs me.

“Hey, baby,” he soothes me. “Come on, just sit down here with me a minute. Don’t be like that.”

“You did it,” I tell him, as if he didn’t know. “You made it that way. It was all right before, it was flesh and blood.” I know I’m wasting precious breath, but I want him to know that I know he has brought a stupid symbol into the physical world. “You creep!” I shriek, wasting more breath. “Why?”

I can’t get free from his grip. “Hey baby, I didn’t force you,” he tells me. “You’ve been begging for it. I know you like them big and hard.”

“I didn’t know!” I scream into his face. I could scream my lungs out, and he wouldn’t hear me. I don’t want to cry. “I thought you were like all the other guys!”

He laughs aloud. “How do you know what the other guys are like, honey? You’re a bad girl, aren’t you? That’s what they told me. Now you think you can make a fool of me, but I don’t take that. You can’t back out now.”

In years to come, this line of argument will be called Patriarchal Morality. At the moment, however, I am stuck. As I am deathly afraid I will be.

Either I will be alive tomorrow, or I won’t be. It’s that simple. It’s not theoretical to me. My pussy feels hot and swollen, hungry and slightly sore, like - like something else I can barely remember. So mote it be.

“I guess you’re right, Blade,” I tell him, carefully moving closer. Of course he thinks I’ve accepted his view of things, no matter what it’s going to cost me. He pulls me onto the day-bed beside him and slides a hand inside my pants, wanting to explore me with his fingers first.

I bet he has no idea where my new teeth are located.

--------------

The Best Laid Plans

by Giselle Renarde

May 1st is the anniversary of my first date with my girlfriend. A few days from now, we'll have been together for 9 years.

To celebrate, we planned a nice little getaway this week. I can't resist fancy inns, so I booked a couple nights at one we hadn't been to.

For weeks we've been talking about how great it was going to be.

We had our little road trip and that was fun. We checked into our room and it was so antique-y. Just what I love about fine inns. We ate offsite and dinner was great. Took a lovely walk. Back to the room. My girlfriend couldn't bear to miss Dancing with the Stars and she knows I'm not a huge fan, so she brought me a bottle of wine as somewhat of a peace offering, I guess. Made the show more fun for me.

Here's the thing: I drink alcohol very rarely, and when I do it's maybe half a glass of wine. I guess the saltiness of my kettle chips kept me sipping that wine, because by the end of Dancing with the Stars half the bottle was gone. My girlfriend doesn't drink, so that was all me. All 88lb me.

I didn't actually feel too affected that night, but the next morning, as my girlfriend was getting ready for the fancy-ass breakfast I'd already paid for, I started feeling... not good.

Really, really... not good.

Until this super-special getaway, I had vomited a grand total of TWICE in my entire adult life. But I guess my body wanted to remind me why I don't usually drink, because I tossed my cookies like you wouldn't believe.

And all the while, my girlfriend stood beside me, tilting a water glass against my lips every so often... until I started throwing up the water. Then she just stood there and watched, which was weirdly comforting. Throwing up isn't something I do too often. It was nice that she could be there to share the experience.

The experience itself was not pleasant. I became so weak and nauseous I ended up spending the entire day in our fancy hotel bed. I insisted my girlfriend go downstairs and enjoy breakfast. I knew how much she was looking forward to it. She came back with a bouquet of flowers and a get well card.

The rest of the day was just her taking care of me, which is something I've never really experienced. I've never asked anyone to take care of me. I've never let anyone take care of me.

I'll be honest with you: it was hard to ask her for even the smallest favours. I'm used to doing everything myself. At one point I was in bed and I needed a cool cloth to put over my eyes. I asked if she could run some cold water over a facecloth for me, and... she did. What's more, she seemed happy to do it.

I think that's when it dawned on me that the time we spend together is so valuable it doesn't matter what we're doing. My girlfriend didn't mind caring for me. She consistently put my needs above her own. I can only hope I would be so selfless if our situations were reversed. Pretty sure I wouldn't be. I'm not always the most mature person.

I'm still not feeling great, which explains why this post is entirely off-topic. Hopefully I've learned a lesson most people learn when they're 15 or so (don't drink half a bottle of wine) but I know this getaway will remain one of our most memorable--right up there with the day trip we took to Niagara-on-the-Lake when the power was out and only two shops were open.

Everybody wants a trip to be perfect, but perfection doesn't challenge anyone. Finding out how your partner treats you when you're sick (and, in my case, realizing there's finally someone in my life I don't mind asking for help) is much more useful than perfection.


Giselle Renarde is an award-winning queer Canadian writer. Nominated Toronto’s Best Author in NOW Magazine’s 2015 Readers’ Choice Awards, her fiction has appeared in well over 100 short story anthologies, including prestigious collections like Best Lesbian Romance, Best Women’s Erotica, and the Lambda Award-winning collection Take Me There, edited by Tristan Taormino. Giselle's juicy novels include Anonymous, Cherry, Seven Kisses, and The Other Side of Ruth.

Farewell Dear Shadow: An Edgy Story

I was struggling to come up with something edgy, because I seem to have lost my edge lately.  The following is an edgy story I posted here a few years ago, and as Lisabet described in her entry, this is one publishers have often received with an embarrassed cough and tip toed away from.  Though I do believe its a good story.

"Farewell Dear Shadow": An Edgy Story

She shoved him roughly in the shoulder and then shoved him again. She couldn’t stand seeing him just standing there like a noodle in front of the closed door of her daughter’s bedroom. Not another two seconds could she abide it.

“My baby in there, she’s hurting is all,” said the woman to the young man. “She’s your wife, my little girl. Your wife, she’s in there and she needs you.”

“No,” he said. “I can’t. Not again. Not no more.”

“Are you a man?” She held up the Palmetto Credit Union Preferred Customer calender in her hand, with the days crossed and the temperature marked with a pencil, always the same temperature. “By my good Catholic reckoning its her time abed. That makes it your time, sweetie.”

“I can’t get it up. Not this time.”

“Oh - you can get it up when you want to. We both know that.”

“Jesus Christ - “

“Don’t we?”

“Ruby!”

"Don't we?"

"Please!"

“Don’t we both know that?”

She moved in, poked the spiral wire corner of the calendar under his chin like the tip of a knife. “You don’t say no to mama, not in my house. Sweetie. Its my baby’s time. I will be a grandmother. I will have a grandchild. Now you do your duty to her.”

“Ruby,” said the young man, looking gray-green. “You gotta be shittin’ me by now. I can’t.”

“You git abed. What happened to her, it ain’t her fault. Its the Lord’s wrath. Because we was wrong. My little girl is hurting and she needs her husband’s seed inside her field.”

“Seed? Ruby, that field’s gone bad.”

”Are you a man? I know men. I know men clear through. Man would fuck a hole in a tree if a tree stood still. I know you.” The room was warm and small. Straw smelling air blew in off the drought toasted cornfield outside in the summer heat of the open window. A dragonfly clung to the screen and was gone. “I know you, sweetie. Don’t I know you clean through?”

“It was a different time, Ruby. It was a different world.”

“Honey.” She shook her head maternally at her wayward son-in-law. “Times don’t change. No, they don’t. You can talk to me. I’m your wife’s mama. That makes me your mama too. Talk to mama. I was a married woman 27 years. There’s nights I know, the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. A man wants to show up and it just lays there on him like a dead dog. But you a young man. You just scared is all.”

“That girl, she’s dangerous like she is.”

“Performance anxiety’s all it is. A clear case of performance anxiety. All men gets it. Nothing to be ashamed of, honey.”

"You ain't hearing me?”

“All men gets it.”

“Mama!”

“You’ll see I’m right,” Ruby said, speaking slowly and softly, putting her hand on his arm. “You go in that room now and see my little girl layin’ there waitin’ on her husband. She’s all wet and good. All head up and ready. Waiting to feel you movin’ in her deep inside, all warm, skin on skin. She open up her dress for you and let you get a good look at ‘em. Don’t you like that? Sure you do. You and me, we both know that. Any man likes that.”

“You got to stop this. Somebody’s got to stop this thing.”

“World needs children more ‘n ever now. Look at me, sweetie. Nothing to be scared of in that room. Woman in that room loves you and wouldn’t hurt you.”

“That woman ain’t there, Ruby - “

“Woman in that room there. You and her, you the light of the world now. The world needs healthy babies - ”

“Ruby!”

“You got the hardest damn cock, Ulysses. You got a real hard cock when you want it. Your cock harder than her daddy’s when you had it in me. You got a cock like a hammer handle. You got the hardest, hottest, meanest, drivingest damn cock any woman ever felt humping in her. You know what’s good? Women, we talk among ourselves. Here’s what’s good. She told me about you. She did. She told me how she likes it how you hold both her shoulders tight in your hands like you do just when you’re about gonna come. Holding her shoulders tight, like you steadying her in place for that hot, hard thing a yours moving in her, moving in her, moving good in her. You come good. Real good. I felt it every time you came in me. Every time. Felt your splash deep in me. A woman feels that little hot spurt of love, she love you holding her shoulders tight while you lie on her then she feel that hot little love splash way deep in her belly, make her feel like a woman. Satisfy you. Satisfy - your appetites. I do love me some grandchilden, Ulysses. I surely do. You owe me. We owe her. For our sins against her.”

She moved in close and pressed her sweating body against his. He took a step back and she pressed in harder. “Remember?” The staleness of her unwashed clothes now that water was scarce, the musky scent of her body reached his nose and stirred him below. “Remember how it was?” He closed his eyes, felt the movement of her hands and agile fingers descend to her blouse. The snap of buttons being undone for him. Clothes pulled down for him as she wiggled them off her shoulders.

“Look at me. Sweetie. Look at mama. Don’t look away, look at my eyes. That’s right. Just look at me. Nothing else, just look at me. Now look down at me. Look what women got. Look at these. Get a good look for inspiration. On account of your performance anxieties. Put your hands on ‘em. Don’t look around. Look at me, dammit. Now your hands.”

He was looking. He was remembering. Now he was holding and remembering, falling under her spell. He was weary of fighting. He let his senses go to her.

“Put your lips on ‘em, Sweetie. I know you want to, you can. Go ahead. That’s it. You can do it. Now, the other one. You sweet man. Put your lips all over them.”

“Why can’t it be you?” he whispered, pressing his face into her damp skin. He opened wide, flattened his tongue and sucked her whole breast into his warm mouth and held it like huge fruit tasting her bitter-salty, rigid nipple tapping on the back of his throat. His strong arms wrapped around her and crushed her tight to him. The wheezing breath of his nose was hot on her skin as he sucked with his whole mouth around her breast.

“Because it can’t,” she gasped, rising on tiptoe to meet him. Her left hand twined in his hair and gathered him possessively. “It can’t.” Twining his hair in her fist to hold him tight as she pressed her chest into him drawing him deeper into her possession of him. “Babycakes done called your name.”

Her other hand reached down and caressed his swelling cock under his jeans.

“Let mama help.”

She unzipped him, unbuckled him, opened him. Reached inside. He was almost ready for her daughter. Good. Very good.

She lifted his cock out. It was stiff enough, but she wanted to see it the way that she remembered it. Hard as a hammer handle. Stiff as a fence post. It was a beautiful phallus, heavy, circumcised and bald. Thick and brutal. She smoothed the skin back with her fingers gently as she settled onto her knees.

She spit in her hands.

“Mama, maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

He said it every time. He never meant it.

She slicked it top to bottom with wet fingers, pulled the skin back tight and spit on the red knob of it and slicked it with her palm hard and roughly, palming his knob which made him grind his teeth with the intensity of his pleasure. Rubbing his knob in a circle with her palm, heating it up good, always made his cock huge for her. Made it hard as a damn hammer handle, it did. She could feel his urge building to take her down and just have it out with her right down there hot and heavy on the damn floor, polishing his knob till he was all dick and no brain. She pulled his cock to her so that he staggered, overwhelmed by her power over him. She placed it in her lips, dwelling on the unwashed saltiness for a moment. It was the hardness that moved her everytime. It was the unrelenting, threatening stiffness of it that made her weak in the knees and weaker in the will. She squeezed it hard with her fist. Slapped it a little like a cat swatting a ball. Hard. He was hard enough for Annie now.

There were sounds in the field outside. Ulysses’ eyes were closed in her trance of lust. She looked past him beyond the window and a dead walker was stumbling blindly through the corn, bits of dead skin dangling from his skull. He’d likely fetch up on the barb fence wire and stick on it. There’d be time later to walk out and put a shovel blade through his neck. Once you got the head off clean they stopped moving.

She reached around him and opened the bedroom door.

The huge smell of rotting meat, days old, staggered them.

Annie had been at the flea market shopping for what had been her idea of antiques. Mostly dishes and old soda bottles. Ulysses and Ruby were sitting on the old sofa watching a Gary Cooper movie. They had noticed each other almost from the day Annie and Ulysses had noticed each other. There had always been an unspoken state of sexual truce, of cautious understanding. There had been contact too. If they bumped too close past each other in the narrow hallway or touched knees under the table there were a flurry of quick earnest apologies.

That deeply familiar sofa with its friendly old cushions that sagged in the middle like an old horse with the material memories of all the butts they had contained, had a way of involuntarily colliding bodies together in the middle so that they had to make a conscious effort not to land in each other’s laps. Warm bodies that wanted to be chaste, could quickly be seduced by dim rooms and flickering screens. It became easier to just put his arm around Ruby. It became easier for Ruby to just let herself sit close, thigh touching thigh, then head on broad shoulder in that restive afternoon full of light and time and distant thunder, and a sensuous laziness that hinted of naps and soft beds, lying very close side by side in the summer heat.

He cuddled her, with his warm, confiding, bedroom baritone chattering about the movie, the corn crop and this and that, humming close to her ear as she snuggled back.

And in that forever air a man just forgot.

Forgot his obligations. Forgot his fear of reaching over the line. Ruby’s loose blouse, which, if you looked just right, revealed the dark stippled rim of a forbidden nipple. He tried the nipple. She did not resist. Only raised her eyes to look him stern and straight while his hand remained under her clothes. To chastise him. Or defy him to go further.

She coughed. She couldn’t help it. The first day or two the stink of the dead attracted hungry dogs and cats, believing in the kindness of all humans, and so to their doom. Which kept the walkers fed. Rough on the animals.

She turned him towards the door. “Go to her, she’s waiting on you.”

But he was already bending over, starting to gag. He unloaded part of his breakfast on the carpet and the sight made the bile rise acidly in her throat as well. She shook her head violently, slapped herself. If he went on too long his cock would sag. A limp dick was too hard to revive. She reached into a pocket and took out a small tube of Ben Gay cream and stuffed a ferociously minty smelling dab in each nostril and then up his nose too. She took his shoulders and shoved him inside.

“Not supposed to shut the damn window,” she muttered. “Who shut the damn window on her?”

His wife, her darling daughter who - according to the calender was in her fertile time, at least in better days, was tied to the bed with leather horse tackle. Hands and feet. Not the mouth. She’d chew through leather and dislodge her teeth on it from her decomposing gums. The bed was getting soggy with her draining juices. On the bed beside the chair was an old towel, blue with mold, and a tennis ball.

Annie turned her head at the sight of them and her eyes sparkled like a cats in a light. Her mouth opened showing twisted teeth, her lips long gone. She was naked. She was always naked. Always available. Always untouched. Almost always.

“He’s ready for you, honey.”

But he wasn’t. He was losing his erection fast.

“Lord, Ruby I can’t do this again.”

“Lord yes,” she said. “The Lord’ll give you strength. I’ll give you strength.” She spit on both palms and went down on her knees.

She took his sagging cock in her mouth and pulled him to her.

She covered her teeth with her lips and bit down on it and sucked on the tip until she felt it swell. She slicked her hands up and down, twisting on the shaft, up and down. Twist. Up, down, twist. He wasn’t fighting back now. He was under her spell again. She felt it. She had tamed him for a while.

When she stood he was almost swaying, looking a little ridiculous with his eyes half closed and his resurrected cock standing straight out of his open pants.

“Now let’s get this done,” she said, “because my man’s waiting on me too.”

“Bill?”

“I ain’t asking you to nothing I ain’t gonna do. I want me my grandchildren. Now you do right by her.”

He removed his jeans. He was naked from the waist down. He looked towards Ruby’s exposed breasts and she pushed them out for him. For inspiration. After all, poor boy, Annie had been been laying in the hot air for days and someone had closed the damn window. She was getting pretty ripe.

He took the towel and the tennis ball. He dropped the towel over her mouth. Over her champing teeth. He squeezed the tennis ball tight between them. He closed his eyes and stroked his phallus, remembering Ruby. Remembering the afternoon when Annie had been off in town at the flea market. He climbed onto the bed, took up the position between her knees and lowered himself onto her.

Ruby had laughed, slapping at him as he had pressed her back against the arm of the sofa and lowered himself onto her. “Don’t! Don’t!” But he did. “Want to go for it?” he said. And when he had both her breasts out all the way and she laughed and said “Don’t!” he did anyway. And there they were, in the room. Two people alone. A woman who was not his wife. And her breasts were . . . Out.

“Don’t you want to go for it?” he said and when his hand was finally under her dress and his fingers up her pussy and her pussy was out too, she had whispered “We need to stop this, sweetie. It’s just all kinds of wrong.” But they didn’t.

He opened his eyes, with an effort made out Annie’s slit and tried to stuff his cock inside. It wouldn’t go. He felt her rotten flesh starting to tear a little and drew away. “Can’t,” he said.

“You got to wet her up,” said Ruby.

He spit in his hand and reached for her vagina.

“Not like that,” snapped Ruby. “You know not like that. You know how. Like you used to for me.”

He looked at Ruby. There was no mercy in her face. He looked at Annie, his wife.  He licked his lips.

It was his beastliness that afternoon on the sofa that seduced Ruby. The beastliness that seduced her for many reckless afternoons after that. His male beastliness and his primal male energy and the thrill of feeling herself lusted over so illicitly by somebody at last and the danger of being taken at any moment in any place and roughly plundered by his beastliness and then discovered in their sin. On the afternoon of the sofa the beastliness of his powerful arms lifted her, having by now undressed her, the wet of her pussy on his fingertips still, carrying her down the hall to the bed Ruby shared with her second husband Bill who was also away, and throwing her down hard upon bed, shaking the room, tearing off his clothes, showing her his hard veined cock and then quickly mounting her like a beast, shouting her name eleven hard plunging seconds later when he came deep inside her, his face straining red with the raw beastliness of his pleasure. How he wanted her, this beastly gorgeous man. He stayed hard and called her name again when he came the second time ten minutes later. And then thirty minutes later, and would have taken her again except they heard Annie’s car coming up the gravel driveway and jumping up laughing had hurried down the hall weeping for fig leaves to cover themselves with.

He licked his lips again and his mouth felt too dry. The Ben Gay was masking the smell okay, but nothing could save him from the taste to come. He ducked in, closed his eyes and put his tongue to her dead vagina.

Ruby was standing in the doorway watching with her arms over her breasts. She dipped her head, gagged daintily and turned away. She closed the door on them.

Ruby went down the hall to the other bedroom. She stopped at the door and put another gob of Ben Gay up her nose to be safe and went in. Her husband Bill lay on the bed, trussed up in belts and horse bridles like Annie, as if he had been readied for a randy sex game. Except Bill had been a walker for awhile longer than Annie. It was he what done it to Annie.

A strange thing, his cock had become erect when he passed. This was a common thing for corpses someone said, even walker corpses.

“I’m sorry honey,” she said as she undressed. “It’s all God’s punishment for what we done by you and Annie. Let’s get it over quick. I just want to do right by you so you know I’m sorry.”

She spit in her hand and wet herself. She put a towel over his mouth and pressed the tennis ball between his teeth. “Now you’re safe,’ she said.

She unwrapped a condom and carefully rolled it on him as all the while his teeth champed and chewed on the tennis ball. She spit on the condom covering his phallus and wetted it. She straddled him and slipped him inside. “Do you love me, honey?” she said. “Do you forgive me now?”

She began to jiggle her hips up and down on him vigorously, remembering how it used to be when they were first married and fresh and new. This man who was Annie’s father and the rightful grandfather of Annie’s children.

And then. Something.

He was still inside her. She could feel him inside her.

Yet she felt . . . unanchored.

Ruby reached down and felt the rubber rim of the condom dangling freely between her thighs. She looked down at her husband’s groin. “Oops,” she said.

It was fizzy, sweet-sour and high on his tongue like a well chilled champagne from Hell. On the fourth lick an immense ammoniac puff of decay swamped his senses like rancid cheese, even cutting through the shielding smell and sting of the gob of Ben Gay up his nose. He thought about baseball scores as he licked her and licked her one more time trying to spit her out of his mouth as best he could.

When she seemed ready he lifted up, took up the position again and plunged his half flagging cock into her. She was all rank, cold, spoiled meat. The acid taste in his mouth was of his own breakfast fighting to rise up his throat.

Annie’s busy mouth had stopped moving. His late wife lay very still as if she were accommodating his weak thrusts. His manhood stiffened up. He came quickly. Like many things, it wasn’t so bad if you didn’t think about it. He spurted and pulled out instantly. His cock was alive with a writhing blanket of semen soaked maggots that dripped off onto the sheet in clumps. He frantically wiped it on the stained, foul smelling sheet. Annie was struggling with the tennis ball in her teeth again, lying still no more, trying to get at him. He climbed down and sat on the floor beside the bed with his head in his hands for a long time. Her straps were coming loose. He let them come loose and waited. His lips moved silently with a prayer. Or possibly a curse.

Her feet touched the floor as she tottered over him.

Ruby scooted off Bill, opened her legs quickly and gingerly took the condom in her fingers and lifted it out of herself. He was in there alright. She flicked it across the room. “Bill, I can’t do anymore to make up for you,” she said. She climbed off of him and sat on the bed. She began to weep. “I can’t carry it no more. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, what I did. I’m sorry you found out. I’m sorry you went out and got bit. I can’t carry it no more. I’m so sorry.”

He struggled against the leather straps. One was coming loose. She reached over and tightened it. “We done been through it. Did all we could to make up. This is hell we’re in. I reckon now we had it coming but not you and Annie. I can’t carry it. But you got to know we got a nice grandbaby on the way. For you, honey babe.” Her eyes stung with tears of relief. Clean and human. “If we’re all damn lucky he’ll take after his daddy and not his mommy.”

She closed the door on him and went down the hall to Annies' room. It was quiet in there, though she sensed something going on. And then she made out the wet sounds. She listened hard, hoping. No. Not kissing sounds. Chewing sounds.

She sat on the floor and thought of the shovel leaning on the broom closet. And the pick axe next to that. And then nothing. She was tired. She watched the door knob as it turned.

How do they still know how to turn a knob, she wondered.

Flash Fiction on the Edge

For this fortnight's post, given that the topic is "edges", I thought it'd be fun to do some flash fiction.

In true flash fiction style, I'm going to spend 20 minutes writing this -- not a minute more -- and do very minor editing afterwards. (Basically just a clean up edit, but nothing in depth.)

I'm armed with my water bottle and five chocolate eggs left over from the Easter candy stash.

Ready for flash fiction in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... GO!

-----

The restraints at my ankles and wrists cut into my flesh, holding my down, limiting my movement. It hurts, but I like it.

All my attention is on my cock. It's so hard -- it's been hard for almost an hour now -- and Master continues to tease it... to tease me.  The lights are low and I'm blindfolded, sitting in a chair, attached to it with those restraints.  Before starting, Master had put headphones over my ears, pumping me full of a soft, droning noise -- the kind of noise that blocks out all other sounds and puts me in a relaxed state, almost hypnotic.

I can't see my cock because of the blindfold, but I imagine it's a dark and angry red.  Not only has it been hard for almost an hour, but Master has been teasing me with the edge of orgasm.  Every time I start to get the slightest bit flaccid, he grabs my cock and starts stroking, making me insanely hard again, bringing me right to the edge of orgasm and then releasing his hold on me, leaving me gasping and panting and just half a second from having gone over that edge and diving down into orgasmic release.

Master likes to tease me.  And I like to be teased.

Master grabs my cock again.  His hand is meaty and firm, surrounding the entirety of my erection in his grip.  Slowly, he strokes, gaining speed with every passing heartbeat.  It starts to hurt, having been masturbated so much in this past hour, but that hurt is soon subsumed by the rising and mounting pleasure.  I'm so close.  I'm gonna cum.  I'm going to blow my load and have the most earth-shattering orgasm I've ever had.  I'm going to--

Master lets go of my cock.

I double over, as best I can being partially restrained, gasping and panting for air.  The hormones and chemicals of orgasm are rushing through my bloodstream, heightening every single fucking thing I'm feeling right now.  My heart beats so loud it's like there's a drum playing in my ear.  All of it feels incredible, but I'm still denied the one thing that I've been begging for, crying for, desperately searching for.  I still haven't orgasmed.  My load is still sitting in my aching balls.

My breath slowly comes back to me and I don't pant and gasp anymore.  But I'm wired.  I'm so fucking wired.  I need release and I need it now.

It's this moment in an edging session where I question why I torture myself like this.  I could've stayed at home and jacked off and had my orgasm by now.

But it wouldn't be the same.  And it wouldn't be anywhere near as powerful as the orgasm I know I'm going to have when Master determines that I am finally allowed to cum.

Before I can think further on it, I feel Master's hand on me again.  This time, though, he's grabbing and fondling my balls.  He tugs on my sack and rolls each ball between his fingers, like he's testing me, assessing me.  I hope I meet his approval.  I wonder if he can tell how aching and full and tense my balls are to me -- I wonder if he cares.

That hand moves up to my cock and grabs hold of it again.  Like always, he starts off by stroking slow.  With every up and down stroke, he gets a little faster, his fingers grip on a little tighter, and my skin feels on fire from the friction but pleasure soon overwhelms everything.

I whimper.  I gasp.  I moan.  I beg.  "Please... please let me cum.  Please, Master."

I can feel myself rushing to that edge, to that point of no return where I known that if I pass over it, my balls are going to empty themselves so much that I'll be plastered in my spunk.  I can feel myself starting to go over that edge, just a second more, just one second--

Master releases my cock.

"Fuck!" I scream.  The muscles throughout my entire body contract and release, contract and release, over and over again, but that orgasm still doesn't happen.  My chest heaves as I struggle for breath again.

Suddenly, Master pulls the headphones off one ear and I hear him growl, "You think you deserve to cum?"

"Please," I whimper.  "Please, Master.  I'll do anything -- anything -- if you let me cum."

He lets go of the headphone and it slams against my ear again.  I don't know if I've earned my orgasm or not -- I don't know if this is going to end soon or if I have another hour of this excruciating torture.

Master grabs my cock again and strokes -- slow at first and quickly speeding up.  He hadn't given me time to fully recover from the last one, so I'm still gulping air and gasping for breath, my whole body is tense, my muscles clamped down and hard like steel, and I grimace, pulling back my lips and exposing my teeth as I try to bear this exquisite torture.

Like before, I can see and feel that edge, I know that I'm seconds away from orgasming, from being unable to contain my jizz.  I start panting harder, leaning forward and doubling over, but Master doesn't stop.

Maybe this is it.  Maybe this is the time he lets me cum.  I expect him to stop at any second, to release my cock and let it twitch and throb and be unable to release its pent up energy... but he doesn't stop.

That edge is coming.  That edge is so close.  Master is going to stop now... I know it.

Still, he doesn't. He keeps going.

Master keeps stroking me, pumping my cock, pushing me toward that point where there's no turning back.  I grimace and let out a groan, which soon turns into a roar, and then a shout.

And I get thrown over that edge.  I fall over the cliff and into the depths of sexual release.  Fire and life and sex and every iota of energy that exists in my body rushes to my groin, rises through my shaft, and shoots out, splattering all over me.

It seems to last forever.  My orgasm doesn't seem like it's going to end.  I get lightheaded from the rush of energy to my crotch, from my inability to draw in a full breath of oxygen, and I feel like I'm going to pass out.

Eventually, my orgasm comes to an end and I can breathe again.  I'm spent.  I'm limp -- limp all over, not just my dick.  I slouch in the chair, the restraints barely managing to keep me sitting upright.

Master lifts off the headphones and blindfold, undoes the restraints, picks me up, and carries me to his bed.  He lays me down and cuddles with me as I drift off to sleep, simply unable to keep my eyes open a moment longer.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press. With his erotica writers' group, he is a member of the Indie Erotica Collective (website still under construction). He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Writing on the Edge (#risk #darkness #amwriting)

By Lisabet Sarai

“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable” ~ Cesar A. Cruz

I saw the above quotation on a bag at the Strand Bookstore last week. To be honest, I’m not sure my writing deserves the label “art”. For the most part, I write to explore my own fantasies and to entertain my readers (and myself), not to either comfort or to disturb.

The majority of my stories reflect the fact that I’m a sex-positive optimist and an incurable romantic. My characters tend to enjoy themselves and each other. In my tales, erotic pleasure often morphs into love. Even when it does not, sexual experience rarely leaves a bitter aftertaste. I don’t always write unambiguously happy endings, but my protagonists usually learn something valuable about themselves and the world.

Every so often, though, I get the urge to write something darker—a story fueled by the disruptive power of intense desire. I’ll create a scenario full of risks, with characters who have unacceptable but irresistible needs. In these stories, sexual obsession leads to blind desperation. The raw force of the libido overwhelms rationality and morality.

These occasional dark stories that emerge from my unconscious definitely do disturb readers—to the point that the tales are almost impossible to publish. A case in point is my short piece Unforgivable, originally written for the Grip on the theme of “Confession”. I included this dark story, which features rape and worse, in the manuscript for my lesbian collection Her Own Devices. The publisher politely asked me to remove it.

Then there’s “Renfield’s Lament”, about a henchman so overcome with desire for his vampiric master and mistress that he arranges for his own murder in order to attract their attention. I eventually self-published this bloody tale, as part of my paranormal collection Fourth World. Nobody else would touch it.

“Fleshpot” also fits into this mold. That horrific story of sexual addiction did make it into an anthology—a collection of tentacle porn! I guarantee it will make you squirm.

Now I’m sitting on a new piece that seems too edgy to be publishable. “Countertransference”, a story about a psychiatrist who’s erotically obsessed with her teenage patient, has so far been rejected three times.

Here’s a snippet from this unpopular work:

Watching Alisha Al-Maghribi is not part of my job.

True, her chart reads “Under observation; potentially dangerous to herself and to others”, an appropriate notation given that she slashed her father’s (thankfully empty) mattress to ribbons with a butcher knife, then set fire to his multi-million dollar beach house. However, the orderlies and shift nurses are responsible for monitoring her, not I. It’s assumed the clinical director of a prestigious psychiatric facility like The Elms will have more important tasks than keeping an eye on one particular “guest”.

As indeed I do. I should be reviewing my notes for this afternoon’s therapy sessions, tackling the endless paperwork my job entails, or perusing the clinical journals stacked neatly on the corner of my desk. Instead I spend my time riveted to the computer screen, unable to resist my fascination with my exquisite and disturbed patient.

She’s calm today. Her back to the me, she hums to herself as she bends over her drawing. Her honey-colored curls are clipped into a casual knot atop her skull, exposing her slender neck. The high resolution surveillance camera—best on the market, like everything at The Elms—reveal tiny blond hairs that dust the tawny skin of her nape. An undeniable heaviness settles in my pelvis as I gaze at that graceful, vulnerable curve. I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth. It’s easy to imagine stepping up behind her, clasping those smooth, bare shoulders in my palms and running my tongue up her spine. I can taste the salt I’d lick from her downy flesh, sense the shiver that runs through her at my touch. She’s taut, fragile, ready to bolt like a frightened fawn, but there’s a melting in her, too, a tiny core of trust in me, her doctor.

Gradual, gentle, careful not to startle her, I trail my fingers down her sides and across her rib cage, then reach forward to cup her girlish tits. Alisha sighs and lets her head fall back against my more ample breasts. I fill my lungs with her scent of cinnamon and roses. A slick tightness coils between my legs, urging me to move faster, to take her before I lose my nerve. I bury that urgency, willing myself to a slow but inexorable advance, like an incoming tide claiming the beach.

A knock on my office door drags me back to the present. “Dr. Gardner? Are you there?”

I stab the off button on my monitor, shaking my head to dispel my lustful fantasies. The images scatter, but the shame and the wetness remain.

~ ~ ~

I’m not really surprised this tale has been so difficult to place. I knew when the premise occurred to me that it would be a hard sell. It violates all sorts of taboos, including the trust inherent in the doctor-patient relationship. Technically Alisha is of age, but any reader can tell how much of the attraction lies in her youth. Finally, the ending is anything but happy. Perhaps there are lessons learned, but there is also irremediable damage done.

Despite the knowledge that this story might be unpublishable, I couldn’t stop myself from creating it. When I feel the temptation to write along the edges of what’s acceptable, I almost always give in, partly as an antidote to the sunny perspective in most of my work. Everyone needs a change, right?

Sometimes I feel that these shadow-drenched tales are better written than my more popular fiction, if only because they explore more intense emotions. I guess that in some sense, they are closer to being art.