• bondage,  femmedom,  Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    Marking Time

    “Oh, Miss. You’re so …” He’s pulling at his bonds, wiggling his nakedness into the bed, struggling with delight. “I’m so what?” The tip of the riding crop punctuates my question as it taps against the gleaming steel cage that fails to conceal his arousal. He grins and strains, his wrists are getting red where the straps are rubbing. He tries to pull his knees up but all he’s doing is exhausting himself. He laughs and sputters. “You’re so … mean.” I laugh. Not just a giggle or a smirk, a full-on, from the belly, laugh. “Because I’m not letting you come? Owning your orgasms means owning the time between…

  • elust,  on writing,  Short Fiction,  Thoughts

    Elust 113

    Welcome to Elust 113  The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #114? Start with the rules, come back January1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    Pillow Slip

    Bill had left for the war in the autumn but Betty’s nightmares had started while he was still at home. Before he’d left, when the dreams first began, he would wake her and soothe her, his body against her the only thing that brought her out of that terrifying fog. Her mind was haunted with ragged limbs and smoke, horrible screams and constant, distant gunfire. She was always running to him in those dreams, but every torn and bloody face she saw, every broken body she tripped over, was someone else’s son or brother, someone else’s husband. In the weeks before he shipped out, they made love more than they…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    The Stranger

    The wind howled around the corners of the cabin and the storm raged on. They arrived after nightfall, greeted by torrential rain falling through the heavy cedar forest. The cabin was rustic and remote, a perfect getaway for an uninhibited weekend. The drive though, had been a long tease. Luke’s hand on Paige’s thigh had started it all as they’d talked about the fun that was to come. “I’m sort of glad the weather is gloomy,” Luke had said with a sly grin. “All the more reason to stay inside and fuck you senseless.” To this Paige had laughed and pulled his hand up her thigh to the heat between…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    No Regrets

    “I’m sorry, Sir, it may be an hour at least before the elevator is moving again. If you could please be patient, we …” “I’m out of patience. Surely there’s something you can do.” “I assure you, everything is happening as fast as it can.” “Fine. Thank you.” David ended the call with the operator and stood there leaning into the elevator wall, red faced and exasperated. Kathryn eyed David from the opposite corner, fury boiling just beneath the surface. After an hour of reviewing the terms of their divorce with a fine toothed comb Kathryn was well stocked with rage. She even hated the tie he was wearing. Spiteful…

  • Flash Fiction,  Short Fiction

    Amour no more

    She watched him sleep, leaving the bed momentarily to open the window and let in the warm night air. The buzz of neon from the bar sign downstairs was soothing, vaguely reminiscent of crickets in grass; it lent white noise and a pale pink glow to the room. Her lover du jour slept heavily, his skin still glistening from the exertion of their urgent and intoxicated fucking, his heavy lower lip slack and glossy as he snored softly. She touched his hair just to watch him stir and turn over, feeling a faint pang of emotion as he so innocently slept. Was it the heat or the wine that made…

  • Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    The Last Eight Letters

    My Dearest Edward, I’m sorry, I cannot heed your warning, I cannot stop myself from this affliction of passion. Your last letter was so ominous, it filled me with dread, and still, I went again. I can’t seem to pull away from the darkness. I am like a moth to a flame, but the flame gives no light, only vast and thundering blackness when I close my eyes, when I feel those cold hands upon my flesh. Mortal flesh, you reminded me. Flesh that knows the secrets of lust and longing. Flesh that has known more daydreams than nightmares, yet I hope that I do not wake from this deep…

  • Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    Marks

    “Purple seemed more appropriate than red … because, well, your name.” I took the roses from him and he shrugged off his coat without hesitation, stooped to untie his boots and tucked his gloves into them. The roses were too cold to be fragrant, the crisp cellophane collar around them fogged with condensation after being brought in from the winter night. “It’s really coming down out there. Feel – cold hands!” He chuckled and slipped his icy hands under the back of my sweater. I winced and he kissed me, part hello, part apology. I stepped back, feigning a smile and turning to take the flowers to the kitchen. He…

  • Masturbation Monday,  Photos,  Short Fiction

    Book Lust

    Draw your finger down my spine. Take in the smell of me. My pages are soft, shuffling against your thumbs as you spread them. Be careful not to be cut, for I am dangerously sharp if you don’t pay attention to how you touch me. My edges are gilded, romantically old fashioned, opulently dressed in leather, ornate and heavy in your hands. We can be old friends, or lovers, your choice. Trace your fingertips over my ink like it’s Braille. I’ll keep your secrets, only my folded corners will betray your lingering thoughts. I hold your desire, I give you release. You can’t keep your eyes off me as I…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    The Red File

    Detective Benson pulled over and put the car in park. He looked across the field to the circus of milling cops and crime scene techs and sighed. When he’d gotten the call, Susan from dispatch had simply said “That old tree in Jim Wellington’s field on route 8” and he could already imagine it; he’d driven that road just two days before on the way to another call. He knew what to expect, it was another murder in the case he simply referred to as The Red File. He hopped the ditch and crossed the field in long strides, joining the huddled group of cops. As expected, the victim was…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    Two Cherries

    Hanoi, Vietnam, 1969. Jack had often thought about that first night, the last night that he could claim any innocence about the world. He had been 18, away from home for the first time and like his peers, had cried silently every night of basic training when they were still stateside. Vietnam was a hazy dream, a world away from everything he knew. It was the last night before they began active duty and like a pride of lions, he and his fellow Privates roamed the city in search of only two things: American Whisky and pussy. As luck would have it, they saw the pink and blue neon sign…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    Better Than The Consommé

    For some, the opening of the velvet lined box they are kept in elicits fear, for others, pride or excitement. Will it be the polishing cloth or will they be set out for service? Who will handle them? Whose hands and mouths will they meet? For Soup Spoon, there is a thrill in being used, and today, having been laid beside Dinner Knife she recognizes the soft steps and quiet humming of Lucy, her favourite of the maids. To be touched by Lucy is to be appreciated, her fingers are so warm and delicate. As Lucy gazes into Soup Spoon’s mirrored curves, she is dreamy and pensive, and lets out…