| featured personal |
|
| search articles |
|
|
| promotion |
|
| partner links |
|
|
Honesty. Integrity. Ads.
The Onion |
 |
Photos, Videos, and More
CollegeHumor.com |
|
|
Top 99 Women
AskMen.com |
|
|
Funny, sexy videos
Heavy.com |
 |
Belgian Nun Reprimanded for Dirty Dancing
Fark.com |
|
| sponsored links |
Advertisers, click here to get listed!
|
|
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
This month: Sex, lies and videotape. 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.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
|
"Tarot" From Ooh La La!
by Florence Dugas
(Thunder's Mouth) |
|
OVERALL RATING: 6.333
 
|
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
She lets herself go, agile fingers skimming across her skin with exquisite softness, slowly untwisting her Hooksexups, polishing her muscles, effectively providing her with strength again after her energy has been sapped by the bath. The maid has her lie down on a folding table once she has slipped out of the robe. First, lying on her stomach, she is massaged from her neck down to her heels, unavoidably feeling something stirring inside her when the long, brown fingers knead her ass and thighs. But she'd rather believe it's just a feeling of comfort. She almost falls asleep anyway, listening to the gurgling sounds of the emptying bath.
The young Creole woman is working her shoulders, the beginning of her neck, grazing her breasts whose tips are hardening, not that she notices as her hands lower themselves toward her midriff, before moving back to polish her nipples from time to time. Her brown hands make the extreme winter pallor of her pale skin appear almost indecent.
She lets herself go, agile fingers skimming across her skin with exquisite softness, slowly untwisting her Hooksexups, polishing her muscles, effectively providing her with strength again after her energy has been sapped by the bath. The maid has her lie down on a folding table once she has slipped out of the robe. First, lying on her stomach, she is massaged from her neck down to her heels, unavoidably feeling something stirring inside her when the long, brown fingers knead her ass and thighs. But she'd rather believe it's just a feeling of comfort. She almost falls asleep anyway, listening to the gurgling sounds of the emptying bath.
The young Creole woman is working her shoulders, the beginning of her neck, grazing her breasts whose tips are hardening, not that she notices as her hands lower themselves toward her midriff, before moving back to polish her nipples from time to time. Her brown hands make the extreme winter pallor of her pale skin appear almost indecent.
The young woman looks at herself in the ceiling mirror, and from her perspective, the girl massaging her appears closer to her than she in fact is, as if it were her mouth, her lips massaging her, and not her fingers. But very soon, it is actually her darker lips that are now attaching themselves to her taut nipples, licking then sucking on her hard tips, racing across her tremulous skin, her pretty café au lait face soon ensconced between her thighs. All she can see is the back of her head, a mass of short, dense curls when the maid's mouth alights on her cunt, and the masseuse's tongue separates the delicate lips of her opening, skimming across her dilated clit. She feels as if she wants to come that very moment, if only to release all the tension building up inside her since she walked into the house. With her hands, she grasps the short dark curls and pulls the girl's face hard against her stomach — black against white — her lithe tongue butterflying over her clit now feeling more forceful, more incisive.
The young maid pulls her body down toward the edge of the table, both her legs now winging over the sides, the indefatigable tongue squirming around her red-hot button, plunging down into her wet vagina, tiptoeing across her anus and delicately forcing it open . . . Finally she comes, no longer able to restrain her voice, flooding the girl's face with her juices. The maid rises, wiping her mouth, her chin, and her nose with a towel and, curiously enough, smiles not at her but toward the mirror on the ceiling. The thought that someone has just witnessed the whole scene through a one-way mirror dawns on her with absolute certainty.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
From Last Seen Leaving
by Kelly Braffet
(Houghton Mifflin) |
|
OVERALL RATING: 4.333
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Buy Last Seen Leaving here
|
|
He jumped onto the bed, flopping down next to her. Reaching up and sliding a hand up the front of her shirt along her stomach, he said, "Don't you like the way I look?"
She said, "If I had your job" — he was on his knees next to her now, kissing her stomach, his hands moving her shirt up so that he could get to her breasts — "I'd take pictures of everything. The beach, the boardwalk, the buildings — " She was wearing her swimsuit underneath her T-shirt. He pulled one of the cups aside and bit at her nipple.
"You're so hot," he said. "So fucking hot."
She grabbed his face in her hands and forced his head up to look at her. "You think so?"
"Yeah." His mouth was open, slightly, his eyes dazed with the alcohol, but his hands were still moving on her back, her breasts, her stomach.
|
|
|
|
|
Buy Last Seen Leaving here
|
|
He jumped onto the bed, flopping down next to her. Reaching up and sliding a hand up the front of her shirt along her stomach, he said, "Don't you like the way I look?"
She said, "If I had your job" — he was on his knees next to her now, kissing her stomach, his hands moving her shirt up so that he could get to her breasts — "I'd take pictures of everything. The beach, the boardwalk, the buildings — " She was wearing her swimsuit underneath her T-shirt. He pulled one of the cups aside and bit at her nipple.
"You're so hot," he said. "So fucking hot."
She grabbed his face in her hands and forced his head up to look at her. "You think so?"
"Yeah." His mouth was open, slightly, his eyes dazed with the alcohol, but his hands were still moving on her back, her breasts, her stomach.
She kissed him then, feeling the stud in his tongue sliding against her own, and he tasted like beer and smelled like aftershave and suntan lotion. His hair in her hands was greasy and tangled. The last man she'd been with was Seth, whose hair had always been soft and clean — but Seth worked in a yacht club, and this kid worked on the beach. She touched his chest, which was smooth and hairless and well defined, and thought of Seth's body and its covering of crisp, dark hair. Body part by body part, memory by memory, she erased Seth; replaced him.
His hands were at her cutoffs now and she let him take them off, thinking not about the sex that she was about to have with this person who was four drinks away from a stranger, but about how odd it was that she was here, in this place, in this motel on this bed with this person. She felt as if she were outside herself, watching. It was some other person with black-and-blond hair licking at Jay-Jeremy's neck, somebody else's black-lacquered fingernails fumbling with the condom. Somebody else's ankle that parted from its fellow to admit his legs between them, somebody else feeling the weight of his body on hers, somebody else who clutched his back as he grunted and sighed. Somebody else.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
From Everybody Loves Somebody
by Joanna Scott
(Back Bay Books) |
|
OVERALL RATING: 3.667
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Buy Everybody Loves Somebody here
|
|
"Sorry, Professor Harrison."
He wants her to call him Eric.
"I really have to leave." . . .
She tries to regain her balance, buying time with nervous laughter. Really, it can't be as serious as it seems. Surely he's joking when he tells her that he knows what she wants and wraps his arms around her. He's relaxed into laughter again, and now she's laughing, both of them admitting to the inanity of this embrace. How can he know what she wants when she doesn't know what she wants? Then and now. The present offering no more than a repetition of the past.
He combs his fingers through her hair until they're snagged by a tangle. He brushes his lips against her cheek. His touch is surprisingly gentle, and this gives her the momentary impression that she can trust him. She wants to trust him. She wants to be able to anticipate what will happen next. And the possibility that what happens will injure her reputation stirs in her a vague, odd sense of relief. Whatever happens, she won't be able to go on pretending to be innocent.
Tentatively, she parts her lips. He slips his hand inside her T-shirt, caresses the curve of her waist and climbs upward. Slowly, cautiously. See how easy it is? Show him what you want. Okay. The soft exhalations as they settle into each other. Okay. Here you are. She isn't wearing a bra — a simple discovery that has an animating effect, and suddenly he is all over her, his tongue is inside her mouth and he is fumbling with the zipper of her jeans.
|
|
|
|
|
Buy Everybody Loves Somebody here
|
|
"Sorry, Professor Harrison."
He wants her to call him Eric.
"I really have to leave." . . .
She tries to regain her balance, buying time with nervous laughter. Really, it can't be as serious as it seems. Surely he's joking when he tells her that he knows what she wants and wraps his arms around her. He's relaxed into laughter again, and now she's laughing, both of them admitting to the inanity of this embrace. How can he know what she wants when she doesn't know what she wants? Then and now. The present offering no more than a repetition of the past.
He combs his fingers through her hair until they're snagged by a tangle. He brushes his lips against her cheek. His touch is surprisingly gentle, and this gives her the momentary impression that she can trust him. She wants to trust him. She wants to be able to anticipate what will happen next. And the possibility that what happens will injure her reputation stirs in her a vague, odd sense of relief. Whatever happens, she won't be able to go on pretending to be innocent.
Tentatively, she parts her lips. He slips his hand inside her T-shirt, caresses the curve of her waist and climbs upward. Slowly, cautiously. See how easy it is? Show him what you want. Okay. The soft exhalations as they settle into each other. Okay. Here you are. She isn't wearing a bra — a simple discovery that has an animating effect, and suddenly he is all over her, his tongue is inside her mouth and he is fumbling with the zipper of her jeans.
Feet bare, jeans down. He pushes her backward, back farther, back through a doorway and across a hall, back into a room until she tumbles onto a bed. He falls over her but catches himself with his hands and peers down as though from a great height.
If he is using her, then she is using him. Looking up at the professor, she could almost convince herself that there's nothing wrong with this, as long as the satisfaction is mutual. Yet now that it is too late to refuse him, she wants to refuse him. All her strength goes into the effort of escape. She tries to lunge out of his reach, but he's got his hands inside her shirt again, and he manages to hold her in place, while with a single swift motion, he turns the shirt inside out and pulls it over her head. At the same time he nudges her legs apart with his knees, and after an awkward series of jabs, he's tearing into her.
His face is hidden over her right shoulder, which he pressed down with a hand that is too soft to be so strong. His other hand is rubbing her left breast. One of his knees is on her thigh, pinning her to the bed. When he bears down, his weight squeezes the breath from her lungs. She can't breathe. If she can't breathe she can't think. That's good. Without thinking, there can be no memory. Only the thudding of the headboard against the wall.
But you see, Nora, he's far more experienced than you, with precise ambitions and self-control. How artfully he thrusts, once more, a strong, groaning thrust, and then withdraws, spilling onto the sheet, an accomplishment that instantly becomes in Nora's mind the distinguishing factor.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
From A Woman Alone At Night
by Tamara Faith Berger
(Soft Skull) |
|
OVERALL RATING: 6.083
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Buy A Woman Alone At Night here
|
|
I was on the TV, leaning back against the couch. I'd never seen my face on a TV screen before. My cheeks were red. My lips were kind of open. That is what I looked like? That was how he saw me?
"See how beautiful, baby? Look." John told me to shift to the left and relax my legs a little. "I'm not taping this, okay? I'm just showing you how pretty you look." . . .
John took his face away from the camera. He was setting up a tripod, taking off his pants.
"I gotta show you something."
Crouched behind the camera again, I watched his big stomach, the beef of his legs. John started focusing in on my vagina.
"Stop it. Don't!" My voice got high-pitched. I covered myself with my hands.
"Easy." John laughed. "Just wait. I'm not taping it. You'll see how pretty it is. You'll see what I see."
"No. I don't want to."
"Yeah you do, baby. You've got the prettiest pussy. All I can see is that pussy in front of me. I dream of it at night, growing over my face."
There on the screen were my thighs, all that hair.
John came over and kneeled on the ground. I wanted to slam my legs shut and double my hands. I turned my head to the side and held hard.
"Open your eyes."
Slowly, squinting, I looked at the screen. John's thick fingers moved my slippery hand. He was trying to spread me. The whole screen was moving with red and pink dots.
"See how hot it is? You've got such a beautiful wet pussy, Mira."
I strained my eyes. A beautiful pussy? I wanted to hurl a brick through the screen.
|
|
|
|
|
Buy A Woman Alone At Night here
|
|
I was on the TV, leaning back against the couch. I'd never seen my face on a TV screen before. My cheeks were red. My lips were kind of open. That is what I looked like? That was how he saw me?
"See how beautiful, baby? Look." John told me to shift to the left and relax my legs a little. "I'm not taping this, okay? I'm just showing you how pretty you look." . . .
John took his face away from the camera. He was setting up a tripod, taking off his pants.
"I gotta show you something."
Crouched behind the camera again, I watched his big stomach, the beef of his legs. John started focusing in on my vagina.
"Stop it. Don't!" My voice got high-pitched. I covered myself with my hands.
"Easy." John laughed. "Just wait. I'm not taping it. You'll see how pretty it is. You'll see what I see."
"No. I don't want to."
"Yeah you do, baby. You've got the prettiest pussy. All I can see is that pussy in front of me. I dream of it at night, growing over my face."
There on the screen were my thighs, all that hair.
John came over and kneeled on the ground. I wanted to slam my legs shut and double my hands. I turned my head to the side and held hard.
"Open your eyes."
Slowly, squinting, I looked at the screen. John's thick fingers moved my slippery hand. He was trying to spread me. The whole screen was moving with red and pink dots.
"See how hot it is? You've got such a beautiful wet pussy, Mira."
I strained my eyes. A beautiful pussy? I wanted to hurl a brick through the screen.
"I want to show you how it looks."
No, I'll never get used to what it looks like.
I was holding his fingers right where they were sliding. I couldn't help looking down. My vagina stuck on the fingers of a man.
"Your pretty wet pussy."
There was foam on John's hand. I looked up at the screen. There was something about all the skin, pink and stretched — it looked like a bat hanging upside down.
Quickly, John leaned in and placed his head between my thighs. He stuck his tongue deep up my vagina and started Frenching me there. I watched the back of his head on the screen: he was pushing and licking me all around the hole. The muscles of his lips were curling inside me. I couldn't stay still. He was sucking all my wetness. It was making me sweat.
"Stop, stop . . . " I heard myself moaning.
John spread my legs wider, then he stopped and pulled away. He looked back at the screen.
"Don't you see how sexy that is?"
Still watching the screen, John pushed his finger up me. I was so wet that his finger disappeared. He was holding my thighs, making my lips flare. Another finger went in. Then there were three. It wasn't going to stop. Heat rose between my shoulder blades, two red-hot rods. I stared at the screen. All his fingers were inside me. I bucked my hips up into his thrusting. It was never going to stop.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
From The Alchemy of Desire
by Tarun J. Tejpal
(Ecco) |
|
OVERALL RATING: 6.611
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Buy The Alchemy of Desire here
|
|
The house given to them by the institute sat at the tip of the Upper Mall and provided a panoramic view of the plains. It was old and in a state of disrepair — the glass panes held together with brown packing tape, the wooden frames of doors and windows rotting, the rafters termite-tunnelled — but it had a rare warmth and intimacy. Once Sober's parents left — he for the institute and she to teach at the local missionary school — I spent the day launching campaigns on Fizz's body.
I insisted she pad around the house only in a short shirt, and when she cooked our breakfast I held her from the back and trapped my hand between her legs. We were so wired, we fed each other food with our mouths, while we fed our hands each other's bodies. Every so often I leaned her out of the dining-room window and, falling to the floor behind her, I put my lips on the ball of her ankle and began a familiar journey.
|
|
|
|
|
Buy The Alchemy of Desire here
|
|
The house given to them by the institute sat at the tip of the Upper Mall and provided a panoramic view of the plains. It was old and in a state of disrepair — the glass panes held together with brown packing tape, the wooden frames of doors and windows rotting, the rafters termite-tunnelled — but it had a rare warmth and intimacy. Once Sober's parents left — he for the institute and she to teach at the local missionary school — I spent the day launching campaigns on Fizz's body.
I insisted she pad around the house only in a short shirt, and when she cooked our breakfast I held her from the back and trapped my hand between her legs. We were so wired, we fed each other food with our mouths, while we fed our hands each other's bodies. Every so often I leaned her out of the dining-room window and, falling to the floor behind her, I put my lips on the ball of her ankle and began a familiar journey.
I took the hard little ball of her ankle in my mouth and sucked it so fully that it acquired a deeply erotic dimension. I then journeyed to the promise of her fleshy calves and sucked them so fully that they became sexual organs. And then I slowly curved around the shin and ascended the dome of her knees, resting at the peak, mouth open and lips moving. Descending on the other side I banked to the back, and drove my tongue flatly down the smooth highway of her inner thighs, eyes firmly set on the dark line of the final ranges. And so I journeyed slowly, seeking the source of the musk; and as I came closer and closer and the flesh grew and grew and the musk grew and grew, my control began to waver. From my mouth I became my nose. From handing out pleasure I began to hunger for it. Window by window, my thinking mind shut down. Reason, intellect, analysis, perception, speech — everything went, one by one.
I was now an ancient beast, on all fours, prowling in pursuit of a spoor and a secret place.
Outside the pale of civilization.
An animal no longer to be denied.
And when I had drunk at the source, deep and long, I was nothing but a tumescence. I rose behind her and seeking traction held her at the waist, and as she looked down the rolling green slopes all the way to the sweltering north Indian plains, I began to move in the oldest dance of all. The wind carried her moans to all corners of the subcontinent.
We moved from room to room, savoring how the body changes as the surroundings change. We became different people in different settings.
Aristocrats in the bathroom.
Plebeians in the kitchen.
Students on the veranda.
Adulterers in the living room.
Lovers on the dining table.
And in the bedroom partners and soulmates.
And in doing so we discovered that the greatest lovers are not those who are blessed with constancy and sameness, but those who never stop changing. Those with the gift of being different people at different times.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
Bookslut
Guardian Books
Galley Cat
The Elegant Variation
New York Review of Books
The Paris Review
Moby Lives
Book Lust
Village Voice Books
BoldType
DazeReader
Publishers Marketplace
Erotica-Readers
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
