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This month: jealousy, inadequacy and a whole new missionary position. Rate each entry below in three categories: literary merit, heat and originality. Each month's highest-ranked entry will proceed to the year-end competition.
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From Fortunate Son
by Walter Mosley
(Little, Brown) |
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OVERALL RATING: 7.603
 
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To buy Fortunate Son, click here
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"You're always calling me," she said in the same removed tone Eric used when he told her he loved her. "Telling me how you feel. But I'm not the person you think I am. That whole summer after we graduated, I fucked Eric every day. Sometimes I'd be with him and then come to be with you for a while, and then I'd go back and Eric would fuck me again. I didn't want to be with him, but I couldn't help it. I had to go. And I didn't care about what I was doing to you . . . "
As she spoke, her voice became a whisper; she leaned over him and her skirt slowly rose from the movement of him shaking his head, trying to deny her words.
"You wanted me to kiss your dick, and when I finally did you didn't know that I had been doing Eric like that since the first night in my car. He didn't ask me if I would, he just shoved it into my mouth and held my head so I couldn't move."
Drew slammed the arm of the chair with his fist.
"No!"
Christie realized that there was a new person coming out of her. She'd never talked like this, never tortured anyone like this. She felt Drew's hands on her naked thighs and she liked it.
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To buy Fortunate Son, click here
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"You're always calling me," she said in the same removed tone Eric used when he told her he loved her. "Telling me how you feel. But I'm not the person you think I am. That whole summer after we graduated, I fucked Eric every day. Sometimes I'd be with him and then come to be with you for a while, and then I'd go back and Eric would fuck me again. I didn't want to be with him, but I couldn't help it. I had to go. And I didn't care about what I was doing to you . . . "
As she spoke, her voice became a whisper; she leaned over him and her skirt slowly rose from the movement of him shaking his head, trying to deny her words.
"You wanted me to kiss your dick, and when I finally did you didn't know that I had been doing Eric like that since the first night in my car. He didn't ask me if I would, he just shoved it into my mouth and held my head so I couldn't move."
Drew slammed the arm of the chair with his fist.
"No!"
Christie realized that there was a new person coming out of her. She'd never talked like this, never tortured anyone like this. She felt Drew's hands on her naked thighs and she liked it.
When he looked up at her she said, "Put your head back down."
"When my parents were gone he came to my house," she continued. "When you called on the phone I was in the bed with him. When I answered sometimes I was licking his cock while you went on about Yale and what you would do there."
That was when Drew pushed her panties aside and pressed the flat of his tongue against her clitoris.
"Oh, yeah," she said. "Once . . . once he came in my mouth while you were asking what kind of tux you should wear to the prom."
Some of the things she told him were true, others the product of imagination. When he tore off his clothes and fell on top of her she whispered, "And he has a really big dick and he could fuck for hours before he'd come. He'd have me coming again and again and begging him to come for me."
This last part was too much for Drew. His orgasm was a painful, wrenching thing. He pounded so hard against her that one of the legs of the chair broke. She laughed and he kept pounding. She knew that he was past feeling it but didn't ask him to stop. And he didn't stop. He kept going until he found the feeling and came again.
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From This Book Will Save Your Life
by A.M. Homes
(Viking) |
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OVERALL RATING: 5.458
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To buy This Book Will Save Your Life, click here
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He locks his bedroom door and takes out his stash. He tugs at himself. Were women's breasts always that large? He closes his eyes and thinks of the women he dated when he first got to L.A.: women waiting to get married; some already had been married and were living off the profits, hoping to land someone richer the second time around. They were all very attractive in an all-too-perfect way. He remembers one in particular — the hills and curves of her ribs, her hips. He made love to her once, thinking there would be more — she made love to him once knowing that would be it. He remembers her on her knees in front of him — how he exploded into her mouth. She said he gave her butterflies, and so he did — ordering her a box of live ones sent overnight. He thinks of Cynthia, Cynthia and her husband fucking, and finds that perversely inspiring. He thinks of Cynthia on her knees, the husband behind her. He thinks of the meditation masseuse, with her finger up his ass. He thinks of his ex-wife, and suddenly everything is in gear — he comes quickly, surprising himself.
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To buy This Book Will Save Your Life, click here
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IGNORE ME.
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From Toilet
by Thomas Woolley
(Suspect Thoughts) |
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OVERALL RATING: 4.233
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To buy Toilet, click here
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Man: If I were a slave and you were my master, what would you do to me?
Jonathan: I would crucify you.
The man moved toward the bed. Undressed and lay down on his back. Jonathan, disgusted, impatient, rolled his eyes so far back in his head he could practically see out the window behind him. Ready . . . set . . . go.
Man: Do you want to see me in a position like I am on the cross?
Jonathan: Yeah, sure.
The man is stretched out on the bed, back pressed against the mattress. He is trying to keep his abdominal muscles tight, his chest flexed. Pretending to fight the gravity of the cross, wanting to be hot. Hot for Jonathan, though Jonathan couldn't care one way or the other, he is not into this scene the way the man is.
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To buy Toilet, click here
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Man: If I were a slave and you were my master, what would you do to me?
Jonathan: I would crucify you.
The man moved toward the bed. Undressed and lay down on his back. Jonathan, disgusted, impatient, rolled his eyes so far back in his head he could practically see out the window behind him. Ready . . . set . . . go.
Man: Do you want to see me in a position like I am on the cross?
Jonathan: Yeah, sure.
The man is stretched out on the bed, back pressed against the mattress. He is trying to keep his abdominal muscles tight, his chest flexed. Pretending to fight the gravity of the cross, wanting to be hot. Hot for Jonathan, though Jonathan couldn't care one way or the other, he is not into this scene the way the man is.
Jonathan wonders how the man is able to breathe all flexed and held like that. After a moment's hesitation, Jonathan puts on his best aggressive face. The one that has worked in this scene before. Sort of brooding, he thinks. A mix of vintage Brando and young Nicholson. The unpredictable nature of the combination face makes him look, Jonathan believes, controlled, determined, powerful. The man thinks Jonathan looks like a murderer and likes it.
Jonathan climbs horizontally across the man's vertical body, straddles him, and presses his knees firmly against the man's ribs. They push inwards. The man must work harder for each breath. The man's arms are outstretched, one to each side, palms up. And the toes of one foot are placed upon the top of the other. He is, for the moment, Jesus-ish. Jonathan inclines forward, drilling his thumbs into the fleshy palms of the man's hands, simulating, as best he can, the puncturing of skin, the metal that could attach the man's hands to the boards of the cross if there had actually been one. The man's cock blooms red, blood is pushed up the shaft to the big mushroom head. Jonathan can feel it beating against his ass and lower back with the man's increasing heart rate.
The man, whose head is slightly inclined to the right — a gaze upwards, beatific, The Passion — whispers to Jonathan some word like "please," or is it just an exhalation? Jonathan is not sure. Jonathan says, "I love you so much, I must kill you rather than let you go free." His timing is not always right, but Jonathan has judged correctly this time. It is explosive heat in the room, all darkness from the drawn shades. The man tries to raise his head to kiss. There is a tear in his eye, and then the ejaculate from his cock shoots straight up and across Jonathan's back.
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From The Possibility of an Island
by Michel Houellebecq
(Knopf) |
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OVERALL RATING: 7.216
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To buy The Possibility of an Island, click here
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We were in the Hotel Sanz, the bed faced a big mirror, and it was so hot that each movement made us sweat profusely; I had my arms and legs crossed, I no longer felt I had the strength to move, all my senses were concentrated in my sex. For more than an hour she straddled me, going up and down my cock, around which she contracted and relaxed her just-waxed little pussy. Throughout all this time she caressed her breasts (which gleamed with sweat) with one hand, while looking me in the eye, smiling and deep in concentration, attentive to all the variations of my pleasure. Her free hand was closed around my balls, which she sometimes pressed gently, sometimes hard, to the rhythm of the movement of her pussy. When she felt me coming she suddenly stopped and pressed sharply with two fingers to stop the ejaculation at its source; then, when the danger had passed, she began to move back and forth again. Thus I spent an hour, perhaps two, on the brink of exploding, at the heart of the greatest joy a man can know, and in the end it was me who asked for mercy, who wished to come in her mouth.
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To buy The Possibility of an Island, click here
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We were in the Hotel Sanz, the bed faced a big mirror, and it was so hot that each movement made us sweat profusely; I had my arms and legs crossed, I no longer felt I had the strength to move, all my senses were concentrated in my sex. For more than an hour she straddled me, going up and down my cock, around which she contracted and relaxed her just-waxed little pussy. Throughout all this time she caressed her breasts (which gleamed with sweat) with one hand, while looking me in the eye, smiling and deep in concentration, attentive to all the variations of my pleasure. Her free hand was closed around my balls, which she sometimes pressed gently, sometimes hard, to the rhythm of the movement of her pussy. When she felt me coming she suddenly stopped and pressed sharply with two fingers to stop the ejaculation at its source; then, when the danger had passed, she began to move back and forth again. Thus I spent an hour, perhaps two, on the brink of exploding, at the heart of the greatest joy a man can know, and in the end it was me who asked for mercy, who wished to come in her mouth. She got up, placed a pillow under my backside, and asked if I could see the mirror okay; no, it was better to move a little. I moved to the edge of the bed. She knelt between my thighs, her face level with my sex, which she began to lick methodically, centimeter by centimeter, before closing her lips around my glans; then her hands went into action and she jerked me off slowly, forcefully, as if extracting each drop of sperm from the depths of me, which her tongue made rapid movements to and fro. My vision clouded by sweat, having lost all clear notion of space and time, I nevertheless managed to prolong this moment a little, and her tongue had enough time to effect three complete rotations before I came, and it was then as if my whole body, irradiated by pleasure, vanished, sucked in by nothingness, in a release of blessed energy. She kept me in her mouth, almost immobile, sucking my sex slowly, closing her eyes as if to hear more clearly my screams of happiness.
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From My Lives
by Edmund White
(Ecco) |
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OVERALL RATING: 4.970
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To buy My Lives, click here
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We started to see each other all the time. He'd be out jogging in the spring rain and he'd ring my bell and come up and fling himself, drenched and mud-splattered, across my bed. I'd kneel on the floor between his legs, which were dangling over the edge of the mattress, and I'd pull his gym shorts down and inhale the smell of his jockstrap, which was visibly swelling. In an instant the head of his dick would be poking up stickily over the elastic waistband. When I'd peel down the jock and release it, it would be hard as wood and smell at once sweet like sperm and bitter like urine. My temptation was to forgo undressing myself altogether and not even to touch my own cock. I just wanted to serve his, which had become the center of my world for the instant, to work for his climax and to lick it down like a greedy cat. Sometimes I felt sex — our sex — had little to do with pleasure and was a merely symbolic transaction, another notch on my belt, another performance in the long run he was racking up. Later we relaxed more, took our time, beguiled the hour, but in the beginning perhaps we were too anxious. I wanted to make sure it happened. I was worried that this much younger man would become irritated by my prolonged milking and would push me aside as someone sleeping might wave off a mosquito. I suppose I wanted to say the simple fact of our being together felt like a miraculous act of generosity on T's part. I was always grateful. Gratitude is my main erotic emotion, one that goes well with abjection.
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To buy My Lives, click here
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IGNORE ME.
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