Anticipation is the Best Part

By Victoria Blisse (Guest Blogger)

I must confess that I’m a present shaker. I shake, I squeeze, I run my fingers all over them. I am never tempted to open a present early, though. Why? Because I love the anticipation. I’ve got a parcel and in it could be anything at all. I can guess, I can dream and eventually I get to open it and see what’s inside. Sometimes I’ve guessed right and other times I’m not even close but a little bit of me is sad once the present is open because the anticipation is then gone.

It’s a bit like that when I’m writing too. I love coming up with my ideas. I’m not a planner but I always have a general idea of what is going to happen in my story and the wonder and the magic of starting something new and not quite knowing where it’s going to end up is addictive. I tend to get a bit bogged down in the middle because I’ve got it all planned out and that spark has disappeared but then I surprise myself and with most stories the run in to the end is very pleasurable. Then after the torture of editing I get to anticipate what the readers will think of my latest offering!

I’m always looking forward to the next exciting thing and I’m lucky that my life is full of excitement. I’ve got so much to look forward too. I’m a big fan of Christmas and that is creeping closer and closer. I’ve started work on my Christmas presents. This year I am going to make something for everyone on my Christmas list because homemade gifts rock and I have loads of crafting/sewing/cooking things I want to do for people. I’m starting early because with so much to do I know if I leave it much later I’ll never manage to do it all in time! I am eagerly planning for baking Christmas cake and Christmas pudding too. I love these little things that show me the Christmas season is coming.

But first there is the Blissemas season which starts on the 1^st December and dear readers, you can look forward to it too as there will be a Kindle Fire up for grabs. Keep an eye on http://blissemas.co.uk for more details. I can’t wait there’s going to be so many awesome authors involved with great, festive blogs and a great big seasonal Sunday Snog with loads of wintery/festive kissing excerpts. It will be epic. I can’t wait. Well, I can, I sort of explained that already didn’t I? I love eagerly waiting…

I’m trying not to get too far ahead of myself but my mind keeps leaping forward to next June because my husband and I will be hosting our first event in Scarborough on the North East Coast of the UK. We’re having a day at the library with an erotic market, readings and a Smut by the Sea book launch too. I can’t wait. It’s going to be so much fun. For all the details check out http://smutbythesea.co.uk . It’s strange because I am excited and nervous and I’m looking forward to it and dreading it all at the same time! I am confident it will not be a disaster, after all we’ve sold tickets already and that in itself is impressive but sometimes I worry it might not be as successful as I’d want it to be but generally I’m just excited because it’s going to be a fantastic day for people to have fun and enjoy something sexy. How often does that happen? Not often enough I’d say.

So what have I got to look forward too? Lots and the best bit is, well, that IS the best bit for me. I love Anticipation.

Bio: Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United fan and award winning erotica author. She is also the editor of several Bigger Briefs collections, Smut by the Sea and Smut in the City.

She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories.Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.

Find out more at http://victoriablisse.co.uk or follow and friend Victoria: http://twitter.com/victoriablisse http://facebook.com/victoriablisse

Celebrating

By Lisabet Sarai

It's hard for me to believe, but in January 2013, I will turn sixty. Am I looking forward to beginning my seventh decade? Well, as they say, getting old is better than the alternative!

My mother died at fifty-two. One of my dearest friends succumbed to ovarian cancer at fifty-four. Life is always uncertain. My reaction to that hard fact? Celebrate whatever and whenever you can. Thus, even though we really can't afford it, we're throwing a massive party to celebrate my hitting the big Six-Oh. It only happens once!

Since I live in the tropics, the party will be outdoors, on the terrace of an oceanfront hotel. We'll have a buffet dinner, wine and beer, plus an open bar. I'm hoping to hire a band, though I haven't located one yet. In my view, it's not a party if there's no dancing.

The hotel wanted me to commit to a minimum head count. That's pretty tough, since the majority of people I'm inviting live in the U.S. I know from personal experience how difficult and expensive it is to travel halfway around the world. I've tried to balance realism with wishful thinking in my estimate of forty people. I was amused to find that the hotel thinks this is a small party.

In fact, several of my prospective guests have already told me they're coming. I'm thrilled, although some close friends have regretfully declined as well. The RSVP deadline is still several months away, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Of course, if everyone invited actually showed up, we'd be way over budget. Not that I'd begrudge the money – it would be worth it.

Meanwhile, the event has given me the opportunity to reestablish contact with people I haven't heard from in a long time. I sent invitations to friends I figured wouldn't be able to make it, just to open the lines of communication and let them know that I thinking about them, that I'd love them to be here if it were at all possible.

The whole process has been great fun so far – finding a venue, deciding on the menu, creating invitations and the guest list, handling responses – and I'm looking forward not just to the party itself but to all the interactions leading up to the event. I haven't entertained at this scale since my siblings and I organized my dad's eightieth birthday party a decade ago. I'm trying hard not to think about the possible disasters that could derail our plans. Worrying won't prevent these negative happenings, but it certainly will tarnish the pleasure of anticipation.

My only regret is that I haven't been able to invite people from the world of Lisabet Sarai, even though I count some of you among my closest friends. I'd love to celebrate with you. However, for serious practical reasons, I need to keep my writing life strictly separate from my so-called real life. With one or two exceptions, most of my invited guests know nothing about my erotic self. If my writing colleagues were to mingle with these innocent friends from my non-erotic existence, the risk of inadvertent exposure would skyrocket – despite the best intentions.

I think I need to plan another gathering, in either the U.S. or the U.K. (or maybe both!), strictly for my writing friends. What a fantasy – to meet you all in the flesh, swap gossip, share readings, drink and dance and revel in the company of fellow outlaws. I love living in Asia, but I'm pretty isolated from the erotica community. I'm definitely going to try putting a party together next time I'm headed for western climes.

For one thing, that will give me something to look forward to, after this birthday bash is history.

Waiting for Anthony

By Kristina Wright

Anthony’s wife worships at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, two blocks from my condo in the city. They drive in from the suburbs because Sacred Heart is the only Catholic church in the area that still observes Latin mass. Anthony’s wife prefers the old-fashioned church services of her childhood to the contemporary version offered in the bland suburban church near their stylish five bedroom, three bathroom home. Each Sunday, Anthony dutifully drives his wife and their two little girls to church and drops them off at the curb in front of that imposing stone building. Then he drives a block to the coffee shop where he will get the Sunday Times and an extra hot double latte, killing time while his family attends services (and prays for his soul, presumably).

Or, he used to. That was before me.

We met at the Colley Café one particularly chilly autumn Sunday morning. I was nursing a nasty tequila hangover and sipping a heaven-sent chai latte when he strolled in, wearing grey chinos and a black sweater, looking like the suburban dad he is. I didn’t take much notice of him as he purchased his newspaper and latte and settled into the red overstuffed chair caddy corner to mine. He was a hairy Italian guy with a well-fed belly and an expensive gold watch on his wrist to match the gold band on his ring finger. Most definitely not my type.

Our eyes met over the top of his paper and he arched one thick, dark eyebrow at me as if I had said something of which he disapproved. He stared a fraction of an instant too long to be polite. My pick-up radar went off as I recognized the glimmer of interest in those dark, unreadable eyes. Even though I looked like Technicolor death in my pink and red flannel pajama pants and purple Stockley Gardens Art Festival sweatshirt, my dirty blond hair twisted in a knot on top of my head, the Italian guy thought I was hot. That spark of desire in his eyes felt like a physical touch and left me with a surprising ache between my thighs.

We started talking and discovered we had absolutely nothing in common. He is a financial advisor with a wife and two kids, a hefty mortgage and a time-share in Orlando. I’m a happily single artist who pays the bills waiting tables and teaching middle-aged women how to find their inner goddess through yoga and belly dancing. Anthony is only five years older than me, but he lives in a different world—a world of two-week vacations and minivans with screaming children and rigid rules of right and wrong. That first Sunday, Anthony told me he liked my laugh and my ladybug pajama pants. I liked his big, strong-looking hands and the way his dark eyes never wavered from mine when I told him I hadn’t had sex in nearly two months.

Three Sundays later we gave up on small talk and gave in to temptation. On the pretense that Anthony wanted to see some of my art, we walked the short distance from the coffee shop to my building. That familiar walk felt like the walk of shame before the deed is done. I was getting ready to take a married man to my bed and fuck him. I’m no angel—I’ve been with my share of guys who were supposedly already in a relationship, but though I had toyed with the committed and the affianced, Anthony was my first married hook-up. What surprised me was not the guilt, but the lack of it. I didn’t give it a thought. The only thing I could thing about was fucking him, feeling those big hands on my body and his cock—hopefully as big as his hands—moving inside me.

I was painfully aware of Anthony behind me, staring at my ass, as we climbed the stairs to the third floor of the brownstone where I lived. I kept waiting for him to touch me—wanting him to—but it never came. My hand trembled, jangling my keys loudly, as I let us into my condo and his deep laugh at my awkwardness eased my nerves. It felt as if we were moving in slow motion as we crossed the threshold and a tingle of restless anticipation danced along my rigid spine. Then he laid his big, warm hand across the back of my neck as the door closed behind us and my sigh was almost a moan.

I led him directly to the bedroom, feeling no need to play coy at this point. We both knew why we were here—and it wasn’t so Anthony could look at my watercolors and oils. Sunlight streamed through the drafty, hundred year old windows, illuminating the white sheets on my rumpled, unmade bed. For a fleeting moment, my thoughts went to his dutiful wife sitting in the church a few blocks away, sunlight streaming in through stained glass windows. The sun shone on both of us that day, the virtuous woman and the whore. My twinge of guilt fled before it could take hold when Anthony gently turned me toward him. His hands were warm and steady, soothing.

He cradled my face in those large hands and placed the sweetest, most chaste kiss on my lips as we stood beside my bed. I knew this was the point of no return. He was giving me the option to walk away. I could say no. I could be virtuous, too. Instead, I whimpered one word against his soft lips. “More.”

He gave it to me. He gave it all to me that first Sunday afternoon on my unmade bed. While his wife knelt in prayer two blocks away, he knelt between my thighs, thick and rigid, his cock all I had prayed for.

When he entered me that very first time, I cried out, over and over again, “Oh, God!”

For six months, with the exceptions of Christmas and Easter, when even bad Catholics make an appearance in church, Anthony has worshipped my body every Sunday as if it is the only cathedral he will ever need to enter. When I let myself think about it, which isn’t often, I feel the sharp edge of guilt knocking against the ache of desire. I push it aside because I want him so bad he makes me ache—and because being with him has opened up something inside me, unleashing a frenzy of creativity I’ve never experienced before.

I spend the nights between our meetings painting. I don’t go out with friends anymore, I don’t want to. I want to fuck Anthony—and if I can’t satisfy that desire, I want to be alone and paint. Canvases are lined against the walls and perched on window sills. The longer I am with him, the more… feral, for lack of a better word, my art has become. My art is darker, wilder, almost frightening. And in some of my work, I find myself painting Anthony. But not the Anthony I know, or at least not the suburban dad he appears to be. No, the creature in my paintings is the man who brings out this wildness in me in bed and in my art. The guilt of being with him never goes away completely, but it seems an small sacrifice for what Anthony gives me in return.

Anthony has no such guilt about being with me. I ask him, but the answer is always the same.

“She has her faith and I have mine,” he tells me, using his long fingers to part my plump labia. He opens me to his heavy-lidded gaze, hovering over me like a dark devil while his cock lies thick and hard against his thigh.

I moan, writhing in anticipation as I clutch the brass headboard. “What is your faith?”

“This,” he says, slowly pushing a thick finger inside of my wetness. “Desire is the closest we get to heaven in this life. Passion is sacred.”

I am intrigued even while I’m aroused. He slides a second finger in me and I nearly come off the bed. He knows how to touch me, this middle-aged, middle-class suburban husband and father. He knows what I need and he gives it to me like a gift.

“That sounds like sacrilege,” I gasp.

His laugh is fiendish as his fingers coax me into incoherence, gliding over the engorged bump of my G-spot like it was a worry stone. “I don’t believe anything is sacred,” he says. “But I believe in fucking you.”

I don’t know what I believe in, but at that moment it doesn’t seem to matter. All I know is his fingers are moving inside of me, stroking me in a way I’ve never experienced. An image of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam flits through my fevered brain—God reaching down to touch Adam, their fingers not quite touching. Anthony’s fingers inside of me are like the fingers of God, creating me from the inside out. Conjuring my soul into existence from the sheer will of his dark desire, making me in his image. And then making me come.

Excerpt from "In the Dark Woods" (Fairy Tale Lust: Erotic Fantasies for Women, Cleis Press 2010)

Breathless

By Kristina Wright

As I write this in the wee hours of August 30, my stomach is undulating with my unborn son’s unsuccessful attempts to negotiate more space for himself in my womb. My ankles are nonexistent and my feet have swollen to the point that the only shoes I can squeeze them into are cheap Old Navy flip flops—and that’s becoming more difficult by the hour.

As I write this, I am excited and scared, worried and yet peaceful. My emotions rise and fall with my breaths, each one bringing a different concern or reason to be joyful. Above all else, I am filled with anticipation.

As you read this, I am in a bed on the third floor of a hospital in southeast Virginia, recovering from a Cesarean section and quite possibly holding my newly born son. My stomach is far from flat, but it is no longer stretched to capacity with the weight of the unborn baby. My ankles and feet are likely still quite swollen and I probably look like hell. And I don’t care.

As you read this, I’m likely in pain and/or on pain meds. I might still be feeling the effects of the IV drugs given to me during surgery. I have likely cried a lot of tears and laughed until I thought my incision was going to split. I am euphoric with the new mother’s high and I am filled with anticipation.

As I write this, I am attempting to focus on what happens after the baby is born instead of stressing about the surgery I’m about to endure. I am focused on getting through this last little bit of time before I arrive at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 6 AM on Thursday, September 1. I am trying not to think about the spinal block I will receive or the incision that will be made some time after 7:30 AM that will bring my second son into the world. I am breathless with anticipation of the future.

As you read this, I am not thinking about writing, editing, blogging, doing the laundry or the dishes—or what you think of me. I am exhausted, but I will not sleep much because I am in a hospital and that isn’t conducive to rest. I am focused on my new baby, on my toddler at home, on my body’s amazing abilities, on the people I call family. I am anticipating going home, getting to know my new baby and healing my body.

As I write this, I am hugely pregnant, I have a book deadline looming on the same day the baby will be born, I am exhausted, I am uncomfortable.

As you read this, I am no longer pregnant, the book is finished and submitted, I am still exhausted and uncomfortable, but for different reasons.

As I write this, I am the mother of one.

As you read this, I am the mother of two.

Writing is a process by which an author can convey a message. Time has a way of altering that message, changing its meaning and scope, making it more or less relevant to the reader. Writing is about building anticipation for the next scene, drawing the reader in, giving the reader a glimpse of something just outside his reach—a promise of the future, a secret no one knows, an answer to a riddle, a glimpse through a cracked door.

Reading is about extracting meaning and deciphering truth. It is a pact with the writer to have a little faith, to trust in the words and to hang on until the bitter, bloody end when all will be revealed.

Reading is about unraveling the mystery. It is anticipation in the form of pages being turned, paragraphs being skimmed quickly for instant gratification and then reread slowly and savored for their resolution.

Writer and reader need each other. In fact, they can't survive without each other. Lacking one, the other is pointless. Without both, there can be no anticipation.

As I write this, I am on the precipice of a life change, sleepless with the anticipation of what is to come.

As you read this, I have flung myself into the abyss, trusting that all will be well. I’ll see you on the other side. Promise.

Waiting Outside the Door

By Lisabet Sarai

Three years since I last saw him, and now his plane is late. I perch on the edge of the chair across from the American Airlines desk where he told me to meet him, tension winding me tighter with every moment.

It’s always like this. My chest aches. It’s difficult to breathe. My nipples are as taut and swollen as if he already had them wrapped in elastic bands. I try not to be distracted by the stickiness between my bare thighs. I glance at the arrivals screen. His flight has just landed. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, before I can expect him. I fill my lungs deliberately and try to slow my racing pulse.

I hover between joy and terror. It has been so long, too long. What will he think of me, the strands of gray in my hair, the new wrinkles? What will he ask of me? Will I be able to give him what he needs? I remember other reunions, too few, too short. No time for more than a few kisses, a few playful swats on my bared butt. I remember lying on his lap in Golden Gate Park, my skirt flipped up around my waist. I can precisely recreate my shame and my excitement. I recall slouching down in the front seat of his car in a dark, sweltering parking garage, while he unbuttoned my blouse and dabbled his fingers in my cunt, naming me as his slut. A few hours every few years is all we manage, a country and my marriage separating us even as our history and our fantasies draws us together.

Today will be different. I’ve booked us a hotel room, in this city where neither of us live. We have the entire day. My husband waits for me at home, while I wait here in the airport for my master.

From "Reunion"

***

Sometimes I think that anticipation is what separates erotica from porn.

Porn is about getting off. Sex is the main event. Usually, there's minimal preparation, little time spent setting the scene or exploring its meaning for the characters. Nothing wrong with that. Why should you wait for what you really want?

Erotica, in contrast, is more about the experience of desire than the sensations of sexual activity. Desire has physical effects but fundamentally it is seated in the psyche - mind, heart, spirit, whatever you want to call it. Thinking about fucking an object of desire can be as arousing as the actual act - sometimes more so. Anticipating the connection with one's lover can provides an intense erotic charge quite independent of the actual meeting.

Anticipation can evoke a variety of emotions. Fear or nervousness may be a significant component, especially when you know you're about to push beyond your previous limits.

***

It was just an ordinary door. Solid core, Yale lock, standard peephole, identical to all the other doors on the fourth floor of this unexceptional building on the corner of West 14th and B Street.

So why was he sweating and trembling as though he stood before the gates of hell? No, that wasn't quite right. He knew the door led through damnation, to salvation. He craved the peace, needed to be redeemed. But he was, as always, afraid to take that first step.

His cock was already an iron bar in his worn jeans. His heart jack-hammered against his ribs. Don't be a pussy, he told himself. Get on with it. His work-reddened knuckles hesitated, inches from the door.

Without warning, it swung open. His heartbeat raced into overdrive. He could hardly breath.

From "Poker Night"

***

I seem to write a lot of scenes where my characters hover outside a door, anticipating the pleasure or pain that awaits them on the other side. Thresholds and gates are potent symbols, I guess. I believe that sex has the power to reveal new truths, new sides of our selves. The doorways in my tales lead my characters into new realms of knowledge as well as sensation.

The other aspect of waiting outside a door is the notion of choice. Aroused, trembling, fearful of what will be revealed, the character must decide to take that fateful step into the intoxicating unknown.

***

The next two hours were possibly the longest in my life. I couldn’t focus on my book; I kept hearing Geoffrey’s velvet voice: “If you’re ready for more...”

I wasn’t ready. Maybe I’d never be. I knew, though, that I couldn’t, wouldn’t, let this chance slip away. My body buzzed with tension, anxiety and lust more or less indistinguishable. I tried to picture what it would be like, but my imagination was not equal to the task. What did I know about dominance and submission? Sure, I’d seen “9 ½ Weeks” like everyone else, but I figured that was just fantasy—though the film did affect my dreams for days afterward.

“You must give me your trust,” he had told me. Could I do that? Was that even wise, to surrender myself to someone who, despite my knowledge of his reputation, was basically a stranger?

I replayed his delicious kisses over and over. My pussy grew wetter and more swollen with each passing minute. I considered pulling my vibrator out of the drawer, to cool myself down and bolster my rational capacity. I knew somehow that Geoffrey wouldn’t approve. He wanted me to wait, to build up the pressure. That was why he’d barely touched me in the foyer. He wanted me hungry.

Lying fully clothed on the chenille bedspread, I was acutely aware of my body—aching nipples, damp thighs, pulsing clit. I circled a wrist with my finger and thumb, wondering about sensations of rope or leather. I would have sworn that I was one hundred percent alert, counting the seconds until my summons. Yet somehow I drifted off into sleep.

I bolted upright some time later. My bedside lamp made a lonely pool of brightness. The window showed a square of solid black where there had been deepening twilight before. I snatched my alarm clock and peered at its face. Eleven oh five! Fear shot through me like an electric shock.

Shuffling into my sandals, I raced down the hall to his door at the end. My heart felt as though it would split my chest. I sucked in a lungful of air and knocked.

“Enter.” One word only. A command. An invitation. I turned the knob, my knees wobbly, feeling like I was moving through jello.

From The Understudy

***

I think I may actually enjoy writing the premonitory arousal even more than the sex itself. I spend a lot of time fantasizing about sexual scenarios, and so do my characters. What happens in their heads is at least as real as the events in the bedroom or the dungeon.

I also realize, reflecting on my own work, that anticipation is perhaps most potent in the case of BDSM tales. I suppose this isn't surprising. A skilled dominant knows how to stimulate the submissive's imagination as well as her body. The step across the threshold from vanilla normality to kinky excess is easier when one is mentally prepared.

But it's never that easy...

***

The hotel lobby was bright and noisy with tourists. Kate felt conspicuous and embarrassed as she crossed to the elevators, as if she were already naked.

In the elevator, a western man and a Thai girl fondled each other, whispering and giggling. They left at the sixth floor. The ride to the twelfth seemed to take a long time. Everything was hushed, muffled. Her heels made no sound on the thick carpet. Her heart beat in her ears, absurdly loud.

Kate hesitated as she turned the key in the lock. Seized with sudden fear, she nearly turned and ran back down the hallway to the elevator. This was irrevocable. She knew that. In opening this door, she would open her well-ordered life to chaotic and irrational forces that she did not understand.

She remembered Gregory's words. “You were born to this,” he had said. And “I will teach you.” She swallowed hard and turned the doorknob.

From Raw Silk