Dating Advice From . . . Engineers by Steph Auteri Q. For optimal functionality, what should go into a first-date emergency kit? A. Fine wine, road flares, a snake-bite kit and Ghirardelli chocolates.
This month: playful submission, an out-of-body experience and at least one woman who knows how to ask for what she wants. 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. Two winners of that contest will be announced: grand prize (as chosen by a panel of a celebrity judges) and readers' choice. The judges' pick will receive $1,934, commemorating the publication date of Tropic of Cancer.
"Fuck me," said Victoria, once, and then again, and then again. Downstairs Howard could hear the tinkle and murmur of the wake for this girl's dead mother. Clutching his own forehead he brought himself up behind her. At the slightest touch of him to her, she wailed and seemed to quiver with preorgasmic passion, and yet she was, as Howard discovered at his second attempt, completely dry. In the next moment she had licked her hand and brought it round. She rubbed herself with this fiercely and rubbed Howard. Obediently his erection returned.
"Put it in me," said Victoria. "Fuck me. Put it in me up to the hilt."
Very specific. Tentatively Howard reached forward to touch her breasts. She licked his hand and asked him several times if he liked doing what he was doing, to which he could only answer with the obvious affirmative. She then began to tell him just how much he liked it. ...read more
"Fuck me," said Victoria, once, and then again, and then again. Downstairs Howard could hear the tinkle and murmur of the wake for this girl's dead mother. Clutching his own forehead he brought himself up behind her. At the slightest touch of him to her, she wailed and seemed to quiver with preorgasmic passion, and yet she was, as Howard discovered at his second attempt, completely dry. In the next moment she had licked her hand and brought it round. She rubbed herself with this fiercely and rubbed Howard. Obediently his erection returned.
"Put it in me," said Victoria. "Fuck me. Put it in me up to the hilt."
Very specific. Tentatively Howard reached forward to touch her breasts. She licked his hand and asked him several times if he liked doing what he was doing, to which he could only answer with the obvious affirmative. She then began to tell him just how much he liked it. Tiring a little of the running commentary, Howard moved his hand lower along her belly. She raised it at once like a cat stretching, she held her stomach in — seemed to hold her breath in, in fact — and only when he ceased touching her there did she breathe again. He had the sense that every time he touched an area of her body that area was at once moved out of his reach and then returned to his hand a moment later, restyled.
"Oh, I so need you inside me," said Victoria and pushed her backside yet higher in the air. Howard tried to stretch over her, to touch the skin of her face; she moaned and took his fingers in her mouth, as if they were somebody else's cock, and proceeded to suck them.
"Tell me you want me. Tell me how much you want to fuck me," said Victoria.
"I do . . . I . . . you're so very . . . beautiful," whispered Howard, rising up on his heels a little and kissing the only bit of her that was really accessible to him, the small of her back. With a strong hand she pushed him back on to his knees.
"Put it in me," she said.
OK, then. Howard took hold of his cock and began the breach. He had imagined it would be hard to top the moaning that has already occurred, but, as he entered Victoria, she managed it, and Howard, who was not used to so much congratulation so early on in the procedure, feared he might have hurt her and now hesitated as to whether to push deeper.
"Fuck me deeper!" said Victoria.
And so Howard pressed deeper three times, offering about half of his ample eight and a half inches, that happy accident of nature which, Kiki once suggested, was the true, primal reason why Howard was not still working as a butcher on the Dalston High Street. But with his fourth push the nerves and the tightness and the wine overpowered him, and he came in a small, shivery way that gave him no great pleasure. He fell forward on to Victoria and waited morosely for those familiar sounds of feminine disappointment.
"Oh, God! Oh, God!" said Victoria and convulsed dramatically. "Oh, I love it when you fuck me!" click to close
From: The Electric Michelangelo by Sarah Hall
(Harper Perennial)
It was at the Pedder Street parlour that Cyril Parks graduated from the blue-balled frustrations and unconsummated altercations of sexual prelude to the real thing with women. Some of them came into the shop with their loins already aflame, and either he or Riley would be offered their rumps on heat if there was enough privacy. Some considered it essential gratuity. They came to have fire drawn on their white bodies, or flowers around their nipples, their nipples extended pinkly like rose petals across the breast, felines crouching near their vulvas. The hints of coitus. There was that aspect to the profession. The graphic, creamy rich slick of it, its spermary and ovum character. Marine life on an inner thigh, a snake resting coiled on a buttock or slithering into the shadowy-crease of a bum. The base symbols of fucking, the vividly erotic. Some, woman came to inscribe their risque nature on their bodies, to elicit wanton behavior from the viewer or to declare their own, and they would desire Cy afterwards, being already mostly naked, being ready for more than the needle's entry. ...read more
It was at the Pedder Street parlour that Cyril Parks graduated from the blue-balled frustrations and unconsummated altercations of sexual prelude to the real thing with women. Some of them came into the shop with their loins already aflame, and either he or Riley would be offered their rumps on heat if there was enough privacy. Some considered it essential gratuity. They came to have fire drawn on their white bodies, or flowers around their nipples, their nipples extended pinkly like rose petals across the breast, felines crouching near their vulvas. The hints of coitus. There was that aspect to the profession. The graphic, creamy rich slick of it, its spermary and ovum character. Marine life on an inner thigh, a snake resting coiled on a buttock or slithering into the shadowy-crease of a bum. The base symbols of fucking, the vividly erotic. Some, woman came to inscribe their risque nature on their bodies, to elicit wanton behavior from the viewer or to declare their own, and they would desire Cy afterwards, being already mostly naked, being ready for more than the needle's entry. The last scratch of pain leaving behind only sore proof of lust as it departed. Some of them wanted to see it through to the gasping, shuddering, juddering very end. So there was sex like gauze to cover their colorful wounds.
-Do you know what this swallow means, darling? Can you guess it? Well, I'll show you. Take your trousers down. Come on, you'll not be sorry. That's right. Well, look at you, all truncheon meat and no helmet, constable. You better sit for this, hadn't you?
Or they would take his hand and place it between their legs, wait for his response, his eyes complying, then they'd mould his cock into a pleasing shape like potters at the wheel, glaze him hard with the spit of their hot, kiln-oven mouths, so that he was in a state where they could use him. And some of them he liked, over and above the sucking and screwing, and he would have courted them were it not for the rigmarole of having to introduce them to his boss, the certainty of his malevolent interference. Riley, at his lewdest and most sordid, said not to be fooled by caresses and kisses, polite and tender exchanges, the lick of a tuss and the sweet discovery of that spot which got both parties banging together like shutters in a hurricane. He said that some women just liked the bite and the tear and the spite of tattooing and of coupling, that it was pain which got them wet and wanting. And if Cy was going to handle these ones in the parlor when Riley wasn't around, randy and mucky and germ-ridden as they may be, he'd have to do away with shy passes and gentle thrusting and considerate loving. He'd have to slap them and grip them and fist them and turn them around dog-mounted to blunt himself in, or put it in their arses. click to close
From: "Not West, Not East" in A Primitive Heart by David Rabe
(Grove Press)
"Are you cold?" I'm talking about one of the things my fingers have discovered.
"Please," she says. "I'm really all right now. You can go back to bed."
The fact that she has gone to stand naked on the veranda has made me aroused. I'm naked and she's naked except for her panties. We're both naked on the veranda, the both of us stuck out on this island of adobe midair. I'm already hard when I get her back into the bed. The fact that she stood weeping on the veranda has made me hard. I don't now exactly what I think I'm doing as I press her back on the bed and kiss her. End something. Yes. Change something. Yes. Of course. But what? Her arms fold around me. I'm on top of her. I don't know exactly what I think I'm doing as I make love to her, but I keep at it. It goes on a long time. The bodies take over. They could do this without us. Maybe they are. Maybe they are doing it without us. Maybe I'm just hanging on and hoping to be a part of it....read more
"Are you cold?" I'm talking about one of the things my fingers have discovered.
"Please," she says. "I'm really all right now. You can go back to bed."
The fact that she has gone to stand naked on the veranda has made me aroused. I'm naked and she's naked except for her panties. We're both naked on the veranda, the both of us stuck out on this island of adobe midair. I'm already hard when I get her back into the bed. The fact that she stood weeping on the veranda has made me hard. I don't now exactly what I think I'm doing as I press her back on the bed and kiss her. End something. Yes. Change something. Yes. Of course. But what? Her arms fold around me. I'm on top of her. I don't know exactly what I think I'm doing as I make love to her, but I keep at it. It goes on a long time. The bodies take over. They could do this without us. Maybe they are. Maybe they are doing it without us. Maybe I'm just hanging on and hoping to be a part of it.
Our bodies are still going at it. They're really going at it, the lips are tangled, the tongues probing and pushing one another. Each of us could be almost anybody. That's the idea. The parts are all named and interchangeable. The night is this big house with people in it. I'm holding on to my body, trying to stay with it, as if it's about to get away somehow, as if it's about to jettison me entirely.
She's below me now, and she's very open, very raw, and her openness seems an opportunity to me, something I can take advantage of to slip beyond her boundaries, to part her emotional restraints on the basis of her opened-up body, her parted guard, so that I might slip into her and get the truth. "Why were you crying?" I say. I say it softly, tenderly, but the effect is violent. Her drooping eyelids spring back and she looks into me as if I'm burning.
"I don't know," she says, and grabs my hair. "I don't know." She shuts my mouth with her own, and the bodies hurtle on.
But I know what's going on, even though she didn't tell
me. In the second drawer of the dresser, the one that has been designated as
my drawer while I visit her, I have my plane ticket in it's official little folder
with the airline logo on it, the times of my departure and arrival on a computer
printout. That's why she's crying, because I'm leaving tomorrow, I have a son
back east, a little boy, and I'm going to see him, and now that I know all this
it angers me. I resent it. With one breath or another, I feel bitter toward her
for it. I feel something radiating out from her to wrap around me. It's spun
from something deep inside her, and it's immaterial and sinewy, and I can feel
it closing around me, sealing up certain alternatives. I can feel it and I'm
enraged at her for it, as I pin her there and stroke her, holding her tighter
and tighter, appalled and helpless before my own collusion in this matter, the
burgeoning swoon of collaboration and receptivity into whose thrall I am going
willingly. Not in the sense of will as volition, as selection between options,
but in the sense of ambition, an irresistible need, a force of desire that is
irrational. And so I succumb, willfully. click
to close
Baird moved so fast even Alina was taken by surprise. One minute he was across the room, staring hot-eyed at her nudity. The next, he was on the bed and spinning her around so she was on her knees with her back to him. He pulled one of her wrists behind her back and wrapped it in the forcecable, then bound the other wrist, too.
Alina inhaled at the wild arousal that exploded low in her belly. She twisted around to grin at him. "You taking me captive, Baird?"
For just a moment, she thought she glimpsed bitterness in his golden eyes. "It seems to be the only way I can keep you."
Before she could question that flash of dark anger, Baird caught her breasts in his warm, long-fingered hands, and she gasped. Skillfully, he rolled her tight nipples between thumbs and forefingers until pleasure furled through her like a red silk ribbon. "Believe me," she wheezed, "I have no desire to go anywhere."
"Are you sure?" He raked his teeth gently over the straining cords of her throat.
She shivered. "Ooohhhh, yes." His fingers tightened, pulled, pinched. Each tiny motion created glittering sensations that raced through her body in a river of fire headed straight between her thighs. "Especially when you do that." ...read more
Baird moved so fast even Alina was taken by surprise. One minute he was across the room, staring hot-eyed at her nudity. The next, he was on the bed and spinning her around so she was on her knees with her back to him. He pulled one of her wrists behind her back and wrapped it in the forcecable, then bound the other wrist, too.
Alina inhaled at the wild arousal that exploded low in her belly. She twisted around to grin at him. "You taking me captive, Baird?"
For just a moment, she thought she glimpsed bitterness in his golden eyes. "It seems to be the only way I can keep you."
Before she could question that flash of dark anger, Baird caught her breasts in his warm, long-fingered hands, and she gasped. Skillfully, he rolled her tight nipples between thumbs and forefingers until pleasure furled through her like a red silk ribbon. "Believe me," she wheezed, "I have no desire to go anywhere."
"Are you sure?" He raked his teeth gently over the straining cords of her throat.
She shivered. "Ooohhhh, yes." His fingers tightened, pulled, pinched. Each tiny motion created glittering sensations that raced through her body in a river of fire headed straight between her thighs. "Especially when you do that."
"Then I'll do it some more. You have the most luscious nipples." He twisted the little tips until she squirmed her butt against the hard ridge of his cock.
"Glad you" — she had to stop to pant — "glad you approve."
"Oh, I definitely approve." Baird reached down between her thighs, finding the very spot that craved his touch. His fingers slipped easily in the slick cream that had risen as he'd played with her. "And I'm not the only one."
"That's putting it mildly." Alina let her head fall back against his shoulder as he strummed nipple and clit.
Alina licked her lips in anticipation. With her wrists bound at the small of her back, she felt deliciously vulnerable and intensely aroused. She'd never played sexual games before — which probably wasn't surprising, given that her encounters had been rare and hurried, usually driven by riaat hunger more than true attraction. The only man she'd ever really wanted had been Baird.
And now, for tonight at least, she had him.
The bed shifted under her knees, and she tensed, swallowing. Shooting a quick look over her shoulder, she saw him kneel at the foot of the bed and lower his head to her backside. His fingers parted her labia for his tongue.
Alina groaned as he gave her sex a long, slow lick that ran right between the seam of her lips up to her clit. She stopped to pant. "You do realize I don't really need anymore foreplay?"
"Perhaps not." He took one of her lips between his teeth and gave it a gentle, teasing tug. "But I've waited for this a very long time, and I'm going to make it last." He released her, then went for her clit, his tongue dancing over the hard little nub.
Pleasure jolted through her body like bolts of current. "In that case" — she had to stop to moan — "be my guest."
A long forefinger slid into her sex, slowly, as he angled his head and licked. Each flick of his tongue felt like a hot little flame, and Alina writhed, maddened. She could feel her climax heating, stoked by that working finger and his clever mouth.
Her sweet young lover had grown into a big, skilled, outrageously sexy stranger.
The orgasm built like a storm about to break, hot and fast and…
He stopped. "Not yet." . . .
Baird drove his cock into her sex in one hard, long thrust that made her back arch. He thrust slowly, taking his time. Sometimes he added artistic little touches, working his way to the balls and then grinding his hips, raking both her clit and the walls of her sheath with merciless pleasure.
Alina hunched back at him, dying to come. But every time she was about to go over, he pulled away.
"You've got a mean streak," she managed, the third time he stalled her orgasm.
"Now that you mention it" — he drove in yet another hard thrust that tormented her sweetly — "I do." click to close
From: Sleep WIth Me by Joanna Briscoe
(Bloomsbury)
On top, she was all demure, a ruffled blouse thing covering her breasts and her small waist. One of her legs was propped up, her skirt falling down and revealing a part of her thigh in the blurred orange light. She was wearing stockings secured with a simple, lacy band. Casually, she wore stockings below her dull girl clothes, like a disturbing adolescent from a Balthus painting. I looked down again. I caught the faintest scent of something familiar, yet different, warm and mushroom and private. In the brown-furred darkness, I saw then, at the top of her thighs, a black shadow like a pool of blood. I caught my breath. I stared. I gazed, absorbing every detail that emerged as my eyes searched in the fragmented light. I moved nearer her and held her. I kissed her thigh. I dipped my head towards that delectable scent up, up to its slick sweet origin, to where she was opening to me.
She pulled her leg away.
"Only if you sit," she said in her calm tones.
Like an animal, rearing and foolish, I did as I was told. She knelt in front of me, and my hand reached under her skirt, feeling the rough edge of the surprising stockings, meeting an airy warm space before the even more surprising lack of underwear, and my finger found her and moved, slid back and forth across the metallic slick of liquid, her every secret curve and pocket of warmth a revelation. I bathed my fingers in her, rubbed, slipped, teased....read more
On top, she was all demure, a ruffled blouse thing covering her breasts and her small waist. One of her legs was propped up, her skirt falling down and revealing a part of her thigh in the blurred orange light. She was wearing stockings secured with a simple, lacy band. Casually, she wore stockings below her dull girl clothes, like a disturbing adolescent from a Balthus painting. I looked down again. I caught the faintest scent of something familiar, yet different, warm and mushroom and private. In the brown-furred darkness, I saw then, at the top of her thighs, a black shadow like a pool of blood. I caught my breath. I stared. I gazed, absorbing every detail that emerged as my eyes searched in the fragmented light. I moved nearer her and held her. I kissed her thigh. I dipped my head towards that delectable scent up, up to its slick sweet origin, to where she was opening to me.
She pulled her leg away.
"Only if you sit," she said in her calm tones.
Like an animal, rearing and foolish, I did as I was told. She knelt in front of me, and my hand reached under her skirt, feeling the rough edge of the surprising stockings, meeting an airy warm space before the even more surprising lack of underwear, and my finger found her and moved, slid back and forth across the metallic slick of liquid, her every secret curve and pocket of warmth a revelation. I bathed my fingers in her, rubbed, slipped, teased.
"I need to fuck you," I said in jerks.
"No," she said.
She raised herself above me, and she rubbed herself against my fingers, up and down, clasping my shoulders with a hard grip.
She rose and fell, emitting sounds that aroused me still further. Her movements were fluid, her small hips circling, her hair and thighs so wet that I opened out my hand against her, cupping, sliding, inserting my middle finger inside her as I moved.
She threw herself against my shoulders and pressed herself into my body, my dick against her stomach, rising, rising, tightening as her movements made me gasp.
I grabbed her hips and pulled her into my lap.
"No," she said, her breath faster.
"What the fuck?"
"Not until..."
"Jesus."
"You're an attached man," she said.
"You are —"
"It's not the same."
"You won't?"
"Not until —"
"Fuck," I said. "Hampstead Heath."
She was silent.
"Come on," I said. "Oh please. Come on, darling."
She shook her head, biting into my neck as thinner juices fell onto my hand. The sea-life indentations were warm inside her.
I had to have her. For a fraction of a moment I thought I could rape her. I considered pushing her to the floor and pumping into her, spending my terrible, welling explosion of desire. I shocked the image away from me. She pressed herself harder against me. I felt the spasm of the orgasm taking root in my groin.
"Run away with me," I blurted out. "Run — away with me."
She gripped my shoulders with urgent pressure.
"A weekend. Wherever. Forever."
I felt the shudder go through her, long and deep and propelling her far away from me to some distant place where her mouth was parted and her eyes were dark and the voice she cried in was barely her own. I followed her movements later, and in that moment of exquisite pleasure, I knew what I was capable of doing for her.click to close
