Category Archives: Erotica

St. Nicholas’ Eve

“St. Nicholas’ Eve”
© Angela Caperton
As published by Circlet Press in
Holly caught the 11 o’clock bus at the big stop on Industrial, way out at the edge of the empty parking lot. The last Number 22 for the night would take her all the way to Cedar Hill. Most nights, she rode the packed 10:20, but tonight she’d worked late and the bus was almost empty. She took a seat about halfway back, sagged against the window, and waited for the hiss of the door and the pneumatic bump of forward motion to release her spine before she sank fully into the cracked vinyl seat. She closed her eyes, grateful for the end of another lousy day and slid the stiff shamrock-green sleeve up her wrist to check her watch. She wouldn’t be home till midnight. How the fuck did she get herself into this?

Ten bucks an hour, that’s how, she thought.

She pulled her ridiculous red hat from her head, clutching the fuzzy ivory ball atop it. Her fingernails wanted to turn the fluff into lint.

“Bastard,” she grumbled as she shifted on the seat, the bruise from Santa’s pinch on her ass rubbed uncomfortably against a sharp break in the thick seam of the vinyl seat. By the time she arrived in Cedar Hill, the torn seat would probably cut into her leg. The perfect ending to a perfect fucking day.

She sat up and her gaze froze for a moment on the mirror above the driver hidden down in his well, and she frowned. She would have sworn there was at least one other passenger on the bus, but the mirror showed only rows of empty seats. Holly looked over her shoulder and saw, across the aisle and two seats back, a young man grinning at her.

Or was he young? She glanced at the mirror, empty but for her own reflection and then back at him. A trick of a bad angle, Holly rationalized.

Thick waves of long black hair framed a lean face and his closely trimmed beard adorned a narrow chin. Amber eyes stared at her, the skin at the corners creasing with amusement. He wore a tattered trench coat and a smudged, threadbare sweatshirt filled the gap where the lapels parted, the hood pulled up to cover the crown of his head.

He pulled an apple from the pocket of the trench coat and bit into it with relish, his gaze locked on Holly’s.

He nodded toward her clutched hat. “Sie arbeiten für ihn auch?”

Holly’s face scrunched as the strange words rolled over her.

“Ah! You work for him, ja?” He pointed to her hat, his hands long-fingered with nails that reminded Holly of talons. As he wagged his pointer for emphasis, a clinking sound drew her attention to a wide, shining band of metal around his wrist, and a serpentine curve of links flowing up the wide dark sleeve of the trench coat.

Her breath caught in her throat. Handcuffs, she thought. She looked toward the driver and saw clearly her own reflection in the mirror and no one else’s. She slowly let go of the air in her lungs.

“Maybe we can talk, eh?” he said. “Trade stories?”

The brakes of the bus whistled as it pulled to the curb and stopped beside a deserted bench, an advertisement for Maxine’s department store showing through the crimson and green graffiti. Holly glanced at the driver again, his grin like that of a gingerbread man. She rose from the seat and without truly looking at the stranger, nodded and walked past him to the open door of the bus.

She didn’t hear him behind her, but his warmth pressed against her back and ass, caressing her shoulders through the stiff material of her elf costume as she descended the two steep steps to the lamp-lit sidewalk below.

December fifth should’ve been cool, but the night air felt hot, almost steamy.

The bus pulled away as the stranger walked beside her, the damp light of the lamp casting devilish shadows onto his face. He took a bite of the apple and juice trickled down his chin beading in his beard. She followed the light and found herself leaning near him. He smelled like pine trees and old ashes.

He smelled like home.

“It’s different now, all those pretty windows with flashing lights and puff-cheeked Kringles.” He stepped away from her and started down the street, the shadows quickly threatening to devour him. Holly watched his retreating back, noticing the bundle of long, thin sticks that poked out of his coat pocket.

He stopped and half turned. She could barely see his face, but felt his gaze. “Coming, liebchen?”

Holly looked around the deserted street, the tall buildings dark, no golden glow in any of the rows and columns of windows, no barking dogs or sounds of pre-holiday turmoil.

She pulled her Santa hat back on her head and the ivory ball bounced against her cheek. She quickly joined him and shivered in the unnatural heat that seemed to surround him. The odd compulsion to follow him overpowered her pinched ass and debt-weary brain. Later she would tell herself it was the seduction of the rabbit hole that kept her feet moving.

He grinned, toothy, lips shining, and took a last bite of the apple before he tossed the fleshy core to the gutter. Back and forth, he wiped his hand on his tattered coat, then extended it to her, his shackle reflecting the distant streetlight.

And the moon.

“Rupert,” he said with a courtly nod, his thick accent turning his name into a stroke along her spine.

She took the offered hand, his long fingers curling around hers, one smooth talon caressing the delicate flesh at her wrist. “H-Holly,” she stammered.

He laughed, deep and throaty. “Of course.” Then he draped an arm over her shoulder and steered her toward the next street lamp halo. The scent of clove tickled her nose as his shoes clicked on the sidewalk with a soft, clopping rhythm.

They crossed the street and as they entered the pale ring of the corner lamp, the air turned cold. Holly didn’t hesitate to press closer to Rupert, the warmth of his body banishing the night. The short skirt of the elf suit only reached mid-thigh and her stockings were more for festive show, not for keeping frostbite at bay.

“Why do you work for him?” Rupert asked as they continued to stroll.

Holly shrugged under his heavy arm. “Money.”

“He pays you?” He asked, as if amazed.

“Yeah he pays me—well, he doesn’t pay me, Maxine’s department store does. You think I’d wear this get-up and deal with screaming kids all night if I didn’t get paid?” Holly snorted. “It’s a good job,” she said with little conviction, then shrugged, all pretenses gone. “I need the cash. It’s only for a few weeks, but it’ll really help me out.” She looked up at him, the hood of the sweat shirt having fallen back a little to expose the crown of his head. She saw that his hair had been suggestively spiked, so that he appeared to have horns.

“So, you work for money, not for spirit.”

“Spirit? Of what? Out of control capitalism and obligatory good cheer? You’re kidding, right?”

“So cynical for so young.” Rupert tsked and squeezed her to him. “But I understand. He always smiles. That is why he needs me.”

“Needs you?” Holly laughed as her fingers caressed the shackle.

Rupert chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Saints need devils. When bribes of sweets don’t work,” Rupert lifted his arm off her shoulder and shook it. The heavy rattle of chains rang from the sleeve of the coat, “he calls for me.” His arm fell onto Holly’s shoulder again.

“The season is about more than presents, Holly. It’s about embracing what is found in the longest night and reborn day.”

“Longest night all right.” Holly grumbled as she slowed down, her fingers tingling as realization began to massage her brain.

Holly knew this place but it was different now. They had come to the branching sidewalk that led to Machen’s Park, its green wanderings hidden in total darkness beyond the pair of lights that flanked the path.

Holly breathed and felt him breathe with her. The heat from his thigh seared hers when he stopped. His left hand played with her hair and as the cold chain caressed her neck, another tingle began to work through her blood.

“The park’s closed,” she whispered. “It closed at sundown.”

“Silly, no,” Rupert answered her. “It opened at sundown. Come.” He led her down the path, past the open gate and dark park office.

Holly had not been in the park in years but she knew it had never looked like this. Trees covered almost every space, the limbs wild and grabbing. This little, boring tax-funded park seemed closer to an alpine wilderness than an obligatory green spot in the middle of concrete mountains. Rupert led her off the sidewalk, through a hedge gap and then onto a narrow path between thickets, and when they emerged into a marginal clearing, the moon shone through a canopied web of limbs overhead, brighter than the streetlights. She almost lost her footing on uneven ground woven by bulbous roots.

“Do you know?” he asked as he turned to her. Moon-lit, the hood falling back, his horns glistened sharp and shining. “How lucky you are, liebchen?”

Rupert drew one of the sticks from his pocket. Holly saw that it was long and supple, spiked with the knots where lesser shoots had been cut from it.

Her heart punched at her chest. Her mouth went dry, but her pussy nearly gushed. “Who are you?” she asked him. “Are you the devil?”

He caught her chin between his thin, steel-strong fingers, and leaned close enough to brush her with his breath. “Ja, liebchen. I am the devil. The fucking devil, and so happy we both work for him.”

His hands worked over her, loosening and plucking at her clothing. A flick of his wrist and the elf skirt pulled away from her thighs with a whisper. Rupert tossed it away, his strong fingers inside the waistband of the leggings, then in her, the path easy and wet without the added barrier of panties. She held onto him, crying out at the wonderful invasion. Cold metal pressed against her belly, against her ribs, the stiff, green blouse open to the night as one link of the thick chain caught her right nipple and pulled at it without mercy. The shocking chill and sharp pinch pulled a cry of pleasant pain from Holly’s throat. He’d bound her in those chains, tethered her to him, and Holly reveled in the embrace.

“You’ve been bad,” Rupert growled. “You have been very naughty.”

She struggled against the chain, each arch only tightening the bonds. “So what? Are you going to tell Nick to leave me coal?”

He laughed, the sound close to a howl. “Delightful,” he chuckled as he turned her in the chain’s kiss. The December chill caressed her ass as he rolled the leggings down her thighs and tore them into scraps. Carols sang in her pulse as her pussy greeted winter. She clamped her teeth into her lower lip, sealing her cry of anticipation in her throat. 

Liebchen, believe me when I say no one can hear you.” He put his tongue in her ear and set her body afire. “Except me.”

Something slid up her bare leg, caressed her calf, tickled the tender skin behind her knee, and trailed up her thigh to tease the wet lips of her sex. “You will know the night, Holly, and the reborn day.”

He folded her, her body helpless in chains, her ass exposed to the cold air and his hot touch. The thin caress that traced her legs continued over her back, to her neck, and when Holly awkwardly turned her head, she saw the sapling switch, one of the thin wood sticks he’d had in his pocket. She knew her eyes must have grown huge when she looked at him. In that instant she saw a gleam of understanding and manic joy in his gaze that nearly made her pee.

She struggled to pull air, her lungs squeezed by her prostrate position. “You’re kidding, right?”


He flicked the switch against the back of her right thigh. Holly laughed for the barest moment, then the sting manifested, traveled up her spine and turned the gay sound into a gasp of pain—and wonder.

“Birch, sweet Holly. Very hard to find in this place, but only the best for mein liebchen.”

He brought the birch across her left thigh, the mirroring sting raking her nerves, sending a small yelp past her lips. She struggled against the chains, tried to stand upright, but Rupert held her in place, bracing her against his legs, one steadying hand on her spine. Another whirr and the birch lanced across both cheeks of her ass and Holly’s knees began to shake like gelatin. The sting in her thighs dulled against the fresh pain on her cheeks. The seed of pain didn’t go away, but instead bloomed, a heat and slick ache on her skin that spread to her pussy, nearly dripping with want. She leaned heavily against Rupert’s hips and thrilled at the long, hard bulge that pressed against her side.

He brought the birch across her cheeks again, just above Santa’s bruise. She cried out, tears sprang from her eyes and she realized her skin was coated in a sheen of sweat. She looked up at Rupert. Raw lust etched dark lines into his face and turned his eyes to glowing amber.

“Remember this, Holly,” he said, tapping her butt lightly. “The next time you want to be naughty.” Rupert switched her hard and her bound breath ran free in a gasp. He put his fingers in her again, two of them, thick and strong, and struck her with short sharp blows. Well beyond pain, her gasp became a moan, and her legs turned to clarified butter as a mind-destroying orgasm tore through her.

Her sense of sight returned to her first, a glimpse of moon-spattered brick on a chilly night—and a smell that might have been the first hint of snow. The smooth painted wood of an old bench scrubbed between her fingers, and the faintest taste of blood coated her tongue from where she had bitten herself in her ecstasy. She leaned over the bench, her skin goosy with the cold. Rupert’s left hand caressed her bare breasts, circling and tweaking her nipples.

“Do you know liebchen, how much I love my work?” With his right hands, he adjusted her hips, lifting her slightly and she felt the hard tip of his cock bounce between her ravaged cheeks, brush her asshole, and settle against the ready lips of her sex. “We will get through the winter days, liebchen, but in the meantime we have such schone nights.”


His cock began to slide into her and she wondered how big he was—he felt huge. He filled her slowly, easing the fit, pushing deeper than any lover had ever gone, smooth and slick and enormous, until his shaggy thatch scratched at her raw ass. She imagined him halfway to her heart, the bumpy heat of his cock spreading her clit against the cold, as the bulbous head beat at her G spot and maybe H too, before he began to withdraw.

The trip out delighted her more than the trip in and he began to fuck her with short, almost savage thrusts. There was no question of waiting for him. She came again, almost as hard as she had from the birch, the sweat on her body misting in the cold, her breath a cloud the shape of her pleasure, amorphous and wild as a dream.

He bit her on the shoulder with his wide, flat teeth and thrust deeper still, grinding his thin hips against her, laughing now, wild, as orgasm engulfed her, divine and eternal in a moment of oblivion.

Snow began to fall.

Rupert leaned over her, his hips rolling his astonishing cock deep as her soul. He rocked her, his finger on her clit, the touch almost unbearable. He pulsed inside her and Holly thought she might die.

Feral heat stirred against her ear and she heard him, though the words seemed distant as yesterday, even as the rush of hot pleasure rose out of her pussy and ran through her blood, her skin, her bones, her mind gone, returning to the cold, and the snow, and the silence.

When she opened her eyes, Rupert had vanished as though he had never existed, leaving only fading heat and musk, a whiff of burning coal, and the promise of his last words, “Remember, liebchen, no matter how cold and lonely the winter, the spring will eventually come.”

Every cold, yuletide night, for the rest of her long, happy life, Holly remembered.

Remembered Rupert, and whispered those words like a prayer.
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Jack

Halloween is my favorite holiday!  I hope you enjoy this little dark tale! Great Pumpkin indeed, Charlie…


Jack
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

Out in the middle of Elder’s pumpkin patch, Gracie knew that coming out here with Jack had been the right move. She’d hardly known him a week and already she’d kissed him open-mouthed and let him touch her tits. She really wanted to fuck Jack before Susie or any of the others got to him first, and right here was her opportunity to brand him hers.

The crisp air laced her skin with her jeans barely on and his fingers in her pussy. She held onto his cock, fingers teasing and made him ask to put it in her.

The dirt clods crumbled under her butt as he drove into her, just as rough and strong as she knew he’d be, cock, lips, and fingers expert, fast the first time and real slow the second. Out here in the country, she let herself scream when she came.

A full moon lit them where they lay naked among the pumpkins, her hand resting on the warm ripples of his abs.

“You know what I heard one time about this pumpkin field?” he asked her. 

“No, what?”

“Well I heard that a few years back some of them boys from over in Blackwater would come out here to have some fun.”

Blackwater was a notorious den of degeneracy and yet they always fielded the best football team in the county. “What kind of fun?”

“Well, some say Elder’s pumpkins are the fullest ones grown anywhere ‘round here, full and firm. Them Blackwater boys thought they’d be wicked and picked a young one.  They warmed it up a little, then they cut a hole in it and took turns fucking it.”

“I heard of boys fucking watermelons,” she agreed.

“These pumpkins are supposed to be even better. But that ain’t the story. What happened a year later, when the field was full again, and them boys came back is the interesting part. Seems like they had messed around with the wrong pumpkin and, I don’t know, offended some kind of pumpkin spirit.”

She giggled. “Just like Charlie Brown?” Not far away, something rustled among the vines and she stopped laughing. That Great Pumpkin would be some pretty scary shit if it was real. She moved closer to Jack and listened.

“When they came back, something was waiting for them, something big and fast and strong and, one-by-one it knocked all three of them boys down and cornholed them, and they never come back after that. They say it’s still out here in this field on fall nights when the pumpkins are ripe and ready for picking.”

Silly, she thought, but there were sounds in the field around them, shuffling and rustling and something that might’ve been footsteps. The moon passed abruptly behind a cloud and darkness fell like a gunny sack over her head.

“You know what else I heard?” Jack asked her.

She could hardly speak, her throat dry as the dirt in the field. His rippled abs felt hard and cold under her fingers, like the waxy, pimply skin of a sun-ripe pumpkin. 

She dreaded the moment when the moon would reappear.

“I heard it likes girls even more than it liked them Blackwater boys.”

© 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Lab Rat – Scifi Erotica

I love science fiction books and movies, and sometimes the pulpier the stories are, the better!  I wrote this erotic story “Lab Rat” several years ago and it was sold to the now closed Oysters and Chocolate website.  If you didn’t get a chance to read it over there, I present it here for your amusement. Enjoy!

“Lab Rat”
By Angela Caperton
Copyright 2010

Davie arrived at the psych lab ten minutes early.  Psychology was only an elective in his geology degree plan, but the subject had proven more interesting and challenging than he had expected.  He’d struggled with the first test, his score guaranteed to bring down his grade, but the prof had told them extra credit could be earned by any student who would spend six hours as a volunteer test subject for grad students. Some of Davie’s friends had done their time the semester before in the various testing labs and, even down to androgynous Lexxie Mathis, unanimously they all told him if he didn’t sign up for the Sex and Intimacy series he would be making a huge mistake.

 “I got credit for jerking off,” was Oliver Soland’s two-thumbs-up recommendation.

The lab occupied one of the older buildings on the Quad, a place that smelled like an old fire, ashy and damp. Davie made his way down an empty hall, found the door to Room 232 unlocked, and walked in.

The waiting area looked suspiciously mundane, complete with an empty desk and a closed door he figured must lead to the lab. His knock echoed into unknown space so he took a seat and waited. At nine sharp, the door opened and a pretty brunette wearing jeans and a white coat unbuttoned over a Spoon tee-shirt, emerged smiling into the waiting room.

 “You must be Davie Ingles,” she said. She took the seat nearest him and handed him a clipboard with a release form. “I got your stats from registration. You’re 22, right?  Science major… You know what you’ve signed up for?” She had a great smile and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.

 “To be a lab rat?”

Her lips quirked into a grin. “Some people would say a lucky lab rat. You signed up for the Sexology lab. Read the release please, and sign it.”  Did her grin widen a little when she said “release?”

He gave the paper a spotty read, signed it, and tried not to smirk as he returned … the release to her. He saw clearly that she wore no bra under her t-shirt, one of the o’s in Spoon beautifully circling an erect nipple pushing against thin cotton.


“You know my name,” Davie said, keeping his voice steady in spite of the anxiety building in his stomach. “What’s yours?”

 “Maybe later. We need to get you hooked up first.” Her grin twitched again. She led him through the door and down a hallway to a little room with a chair and a bank of PCs, monitors, and other gear. She handed him a robe. “Undress and get into this.”

“Undress? To my shorts?”

“All the way,” she said and left him to it.

Davie stripped off his shoes, socks, jeans, and shirt. He hesitated at the jockeys, his boner already of considerable size. She’s probably seen hundreds of them, he reminded himself and peeled off the tight drawers. The robe was nicer than anything they would give you in a hospital, calf-length and made of some lightweight synthetic. He put it on and tied the belt loosely, careful to tuck his overanxious dick down just as she came back into the room.

She took his upper arm in a casual grip and pushed him gently toward the chair, pausing just before he sat. “You’re going to have to take the robe off while I wire you or I’m going to have to tell you how to wire yourself. I hope you’re not shy because it’s much easier if I do it.”  Her gaze was stone still, impassive.

No, he thought, it’s going to be much, much harder. “You get a lot of shy guys signing up for sex experiments?” he asked and untied the robe. Mr. Lively had calmed down some but Davie knew the lull wouldn’t last long.

 “You’d be surprised,” she said. “Most people never really think about sexuality except as … an applied science.” She hardly glanced at his unruly cock, which was probably just as well. “Sometimes we get guys in here who think they’re Chippendale dancers, but the lab makes them nervous and they…well they get embarrassed and shrink. You don’t seem to have that problem.”

With quick efficiency, she applied gooey sensors to his nipples and abdomen, his temples, shoulder blades, and lower back. Loose, thin wires connected him to a modest console spangled with blinking LEDs. Her fingers were warm even when the jelly chilled his skin. “You can put the robe back on,” she said, “and have a seat.”

With her help, Davie wrestled the robe around the streaming wires. He left it open in front until he sat in the chair and then he started to fold the tails across his restless penis.

“Wait,” she said. “One more.” She held what he took at first for a condom, though he quickly saw the tube was more rigid and, yes, wired.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a plesmograph.”

“It doesn’t shock, does it? Or vibrate?”

She laughed. “No. It’s just a sensor.” Without asking if he wanted to put it on for himself, she bent to the task. Little Davie volunteered eagerly for his new uniform and she had no trouble sliding him into the cool plastic sheath.  “There,” she said. “All snug. You can cover up now if you want to.”

Out of general respect for science, he closed the robe. Next she gave him a pair of clumsy gloves, like the mail gauntlets of a plastic knight. “VR gloves,” she said. “State of the art.”

“Nintendo would kill for these,” he said as he put them on. They felt a little stiff.

Finally she produced a helmet and fitted it on his head. “You ever been in true virtual reality before?” she asked.

“No. I’ve heard about it. Didn’t know anyone really used it.” The world looked milky white through the helmet’s lenses.

“We’re lucky to have the rig. There are a dozen of them around the country in psych departments all networked together. We call it the O-Zone here.”

“O?”

She grinned that sweet little grin but didn’t explain further. “When I turn it on, the first thing you’ll see will be an orientation space … where you can get a feel for the gloves and we’ll make sure the zone doesn’t make you sick. Some people can’t take it. I’ll talk you through that part, but then – if you’re okay – you’ll be on your own.”

“What happens after that?”

“You’ll see a door. Go through it. You’ll find your partner on the other side.”

“My partner?”

“Yeah. Someone in another lab that’s using the zone like we are. They will present to you as an attractive, young woman.”

He thought about that a moment. He knew that anyone in cyberspace might not be anything like what they seemed.

“We’re measuring your reactions here, so try to relax and behave naturally, but even nervousness and hesitation can produce good data.”

“What do I do?”

“Whatever you feel like doing, but I need to tell you. Your partner is in a different kind of rig than you are. You’re reactions are being measured, but your partner will feel sensations based on what you do. If you do something that causes pleasure – stroke her for example – she will feel good. If you …decide to make love to her, she’s equipped with hardware that will simulate intercourse.”

“You’re shitting me?”

“You’ll be able to hear her reaction, though the voice you actually hear may not be her real voice.”

“She could be a guy, huh?”

 “Is that a problem for you?”

“No. I don’t think so.” He wondered if the sensors could read a lie. The idea of virtual sex with some guy in a girl suit made him a little uneasy.

“One more important thing. If you decide to hurt her, she’ll feel pain. Nothing really harmful, of course, but enough that she’ll know it, and so will you.”

Davie took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said as his heart began to race. His dick shrank a little inside the plastic sheath and he pulled the robe tighter.

“Remember, try to follow your instincts,” she said and then left him alone in the room.

The milky lenses flickered and the dim lab vanished, replaced by a table rendered in high-res graphics, like a top-end video game. The lab girl’s voice whispered in his ear to guide him through the orientation. He turned his head. The space around him appeared amazingly real, almost too real. His hands waved in front of him, bigger and darker than his real hands. He flexed them.

She talked him through simple exercises, taught him to “walk” by gesturing in the direction he wanted to go, helped him handle the objects on the table – a glass, a ball, a pencil. The gloves produced enough feedback that he quickly learned the subtleties of touch, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to see how the technology could replicate other sensations, pleasurable or otherwise. His self-awareness and the boundaries of his senses stretched and he relaxed a little as the alien space became more comfortable.

“Turn around,” she said and he did, almost fluidly, without changing his place in the chair. Where there had been a white wall, he saw a door now. “Relax,” she said one more time. “And have fun.”

Davie glided toward the door and opened it. The knob clicked in his hand and he blinked against the rosy light inside the new virtual space. His partner waited for him there and he remembered the questions he had answered when he signed up for the lab, asking what he found attractive in a partner. Tall, blonde, high-breasted, long-legged.  He wondered how many variations they actually got on the answers to those answers.

Naked. Gorgeous.

He looked down and saw that he was naked too with a virtual cock roughly the size of his real one, and he had a flashback to Sunday school. Adam and Eve knew they were naked…

He saw and felt himself getting hard, aware of the plastic sheath but comfortably detached from it. His virtual cock grew to impressive proportions and his breath quickened, making a sort of rhythmic shushing sound under the helmet.


“Ooh!” the virtual girl giggled when she saw him. “I’m glad to see you too.”

“This is weird.”

“You’ll get used to it fast. Try touching me.” Her voice was decidedly feminine, light and bubbly.

He closed the distance between them in his jerky glide and reached out a gloved hand to her arm. There was no warmth, but the glove registered softness. “Mmm,” she said.  “Now touch me somewhere interesting.”

Davie tried to tweak her nipple, midway between timid and playful, and the best he managed was a thump. “Ow!” she blurted, but then she smiled widely.

His cock grew again – Pinocchio’s lying nose.

“What are we supposed to do?” he asked.

“Anything we want to. But, I’ll tell you, I don’t want to waste my appointment talking.”

He desperately wanted to ask, “Are you a guy?” but he resisted the temptation, even as the thought made his cock shrink a little.

“Listen. We can play a game if you want to,” his playmate said.

“Maybe. What’s your name?”

“Justine.” She didn’t ask his and while he was wondering whether to volunteer it, she said. “Ask me a question, and if I don’t get the answer right, you can spank me.”

Why not? He thought for a moment. “What’s the capital of New York?”

“New York City?”

“No.”

“Oops!” She turned coyly away from him and extended a gloriously perfect digital ass. He swatted her with a clumsy stroke, harder than he meant to.  The blow registered against his palm.

She cried out, “Oh yes,” her voice delighted and a little breathless. “Scranton?”

“Scranton’s in Pennsylvania,” he said.

“You better spank me harder.”

Davie had never spanked a real girl, but he found himself intrigued, his cock growing harder by the moment. He swung with considerable force and the glove registered a sharp blow.

“Fuck,” Justine cried and she staggered a little. “Fuck yes!”

He swung again and again and she began to make little noises that he had heard girls make when they were really enjoying being fucked. He realized that he had become almost comically hard, the plesmograph tight around his real cock and his virtual one reaching out toward a porn star’s native country.

Part of his brain clung to the reality of his being in the chair wrapped in electronics, but the girl in front of him seemed very real. Somewhere, she was very real and he knew by the sounds she made that she was really enjoying whatever the computer was doing to her.

He swung harder.  His cock swelled again inside the plastic sheath, the sensation shocking heat and pleasure up his spine.

Justine began to utter a breathless scream and Davie lost the fight against shooting his wad, the sensation like the disembodied pleasure of a wet dream. He hoped to god he didn’t short anything out.  He knew she was coming, whoever she was, wherever she was, but he didn’t stop spanking her until the room blinked and faded to milky white.

Wetness trickled down his thigh.

For a moment, nothing was real except the helmet and the mess in his lap. His cock shrank stickily out of its techno-cunt.  He dabbed at the semen with the edge of his robe, dazed by what he’d just experienced.

Time passed, what seemed like half an hour went by before he heard his tester enter the room. She unfastened the helmet and lifted it off him. His eyes struggled to grasp the real world in front of him.  The tester seemed almost two-dimensional in the dim room but her face flushed red and her eyes stared wide.

“Look, I’m sorry… I hope I didn’t break anything,” he started.

“No, no. It’s okay. Really,” she helped him stand and took the robe off him. As she removed the sensors, her fingers seemed to stray a little more than they needed to and when she came to the straps that held the cock sheath in place, she hesitated a moment before she touched him.

She slipped the device off and laid it aside. He considered offering to clean it up for her but before he could speak, she stroked his shrunken cock, pausing to smear a slippery circle around the tip.

“Listen,” she said and he recognized the inflection of the word. Justine. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? But I’m not a Psych student. My friend let me come in here to work tonight because I begged her. I just wanted to see what it was like, and … wow.”

“Do I still get credit?” he asked.

She nodded, but he wasn’t sure she had really heard him. “I have to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“Can we go out sometime?”

Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or partwithout written permission from the author.

Goodbye 2012 – Hello 2013

2012 comes to a close in just a few hours, and a new year starts.  2012 was not an outstanding year for me. In many ways it seems to have passed in a blur of mundane activities.  I find myself looking back with some regret, mostly that I wish I had not let a variety of life irritations interfere with the momentum of my writing.  I did write some stories that satisfied me in 2012, but I feel like I should have done more.  I look at my files of partially completed manuscripts and wince at the possibilities put on pause.

But this is it – I am done beating myself up over not spending more time at the keyboard, of leaving so many worlds and words frozen like ants in amber.

Tonight is a night to celebrate the triumphs, to take them and let them feed a rededication to my craft.  I did have some successes this year.  I had several short stories published and had one of my favorites turned into a audio podcast over at Nobilis Erotica with the lovely voice of Rose Caraway giving my story “Tourist” life. My erotic superhero short story “Lawman” was chosen to appear in Circlet’s best of print collection Fantastic Erotica.  I was honored to have stories in collections edited by Delilah Devlin, Kristine Wright, Rachel Kramer Bussel, D.L. King and Maxim Jakubowski.  eXtasy books, Xcite books, Seal Press and Renaissance eBooks published some of my work as well, and I was thrilled to have a couple of my older stories reissued by new publishers.

So 2013 starts with a flurry of successes including the two stories that Maxim Jakubowski selected for his Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11 (available January 1) – “The Boiling Sea” and “Barnacle Bill.”  I am delighted that “The Boiling Sea” is the lead story in this year’s collection.  Also, two of my quickie shorts will appear in Maxim’s collection due out in the spring.

Other successes conceived in 2012 will be given life in 2013 – another audio version of one of my popular short stories and other works that I am determined to finish up and send out into the world.

In a few hours I will enjoy some champagne, the company of good friends and family, and I will bid farewell to 2012 and welcome 2013, embracing the possibilities and adventures that can only be born through will and a creative heart.  I hope your New Year’s Eve is filled with laughter, good company and most of all, I hope it is safe.

All the best for a bright New Year.  Life is sexy – live it.

“Tourist” Available as Podcast

My erotic time travel short story “Tourist” is now available as an audio podcast on Nobilis Erotica!

I am very grateful to Nobilis for including my stories in his wonderful series of podcasts. When he asked if I would allow him to present “Tourist” I seized the opportunity to have another story turned into a sexy audio treat.  It is so cool to experience my stories in this medium, to hear how the voice talent interprets my words. I am always delighted at the results! 

For “Tourist,” Nobilis tapped the beautiful voice of Rose Caraway of The Kiss Me Quick’s audio-erotica website.  “Tourist” is set in Berlin Germany during the 1920s, and with a scattering of German throughout the story, I knew the production might be a challenge, but my goodness, Rose did a beautiful job, German and all!  The podcast turned out amazing, and it gave me chill-bumps to hear my story so eloquently told. 

You can listen to “Tourist” at Nobilis Erotica, or you can download it from iTunes, and if you like what you hear, you can subscribe to Nobilis Erotica and The Kiss Me Quick’s podcasts and hear more sexy stories!

You can also check out my other stories produced by Nobilis.  There are excerpts from my Eppie award winning erotic fantasy novel Woman of the Mountain and from my erotic sci-fi novel Man’s World, and you can also hear my erotic short story “Calendar Girl.”

If you want to read “Tourist” and other erotic time travel stories (including Nobilis Reed’s story “A Man, A Woman, And A Time Machine”) pick up the Circlet Press ebook, Like the Hand of Time, available at Circlet, Amazon and Smashwords.

“Tourist” in Like the Hand of Time

My short story “Tourist” was just published in the Circlet Press anthology Like the Hands of Time. “Tourist” is the tale of a man who travels back in time to fulfill a fantasy and visit his favorite era of history, Germany in the late years of the Weimar Republic, not long before the rise of Adolph Hitler, when a lot of good parties were replaced by one bad one.

Germany between the World Wars was a fascinating place, not only for the art, theater, architecture, and film that the culture produced, but because German cities, Berlin in particular, were like experiments in a freedom of sexual expression that was revolutionary in modern times and prefigured the permissive societies that became more common near the end of the century.

The book Voluptuous Panic, the Erotic World of Weimar Berlin, by Mel Gordon, is a wonderful history of the time and place and I drew heavily on Mr. Gordon’s volume for the details of my story. A city of endless delight and hedonistic expression, Berlin was also a dangerous place, even without the street fighting. Like so many world events of the 1920s and 1930s, Germany was a crucible where all the ingredients of the coming century were tested and, unfortunately for the world, instead of liberation, monsters were born and thrived on a diet of hatred and repressive madness.

Here’s an excerpt from “Tourist”:

Julie danced at the Mandrake. Her name and a grotesque distortion of her image hung in a tattering poster beside the door. She had been dancing there since ‘22, when Papa had turned her out into the street because he could not feed her. Now she had an apartment of her own, which she shared with a shifting cast of roommates down on their luck, other dancers from the club, men who aspired to be pimps but who lacked the moral fiber, and petty black marketers in between deals.

She appreciated the relative fortune of her simple walls and furnishings but always Julie told herself, “Someday my luck will change. Someday I will have more.”

The night she met Paul, she began to believe the stories she told herself. Paul strode into the Mandrake like a champion, head level, eyes sharp and determined, his very presence shivering Julie’s soul unlike anyone she’d ever met. He wore his blonde hair short, stiff in a funny way and it smelled good with a hint of something exotic. He looked like money. He wore an expensive suit that he told her later was real silk. He had the most perfect teeth she had ever seen, gleaming white in the stage light when he sat at the front table and watched her.

“Pretty Julie,” he crooned with sincerity. “If you will come with me tonight, I will make you a duchess.” He barely looked at Rutger before giving the wicked clown a handful of gold coins.

“I don’t care if you don’t bring her back,” Rutger chuckled as he winked and smiled at Julie. “Good luck. Have fun.”

Paul walked out with her, his arm around her waist, possessive and endearing in his hold. He took her to the Paradise and Inferno nightclub, and Julie swallowed hard, awed and worried that she was not dressed well enough. A bony doorman dressed as St. Peter looked them over. “We want to go to heaven,” Paul told him. “Only heaven is good enough for my Julie.”

Julie smiled as the doorman’s scorn melted away when Paul gave him a generous fold of marks, and then they were inside the most infamous club in Berlin. A nearly naked Cupid led them to a booth on the left side of the stage, shrouded in shadows but sometimes washed by red light from the spotlights and floodlights that danced across the stage. She tried not to stare at the dancing sparkle of diamonds and satin flash when the stage lighting splashed sometimes over the women in the audience. As Julie looked around the cabaret, she wondered, what did it feel like to wear a ring that cost more than food for a year? A gauzy white curtain bisected the theater. On the other side of it, Julie knew from stories, hell’s patrons sat in equal splendor attended by handsome devils and almost-nude lady demons.

Satan, his muscular chest bare and painted red, paraded on the stage addressing the audience. Julie grinned, wondering if the obvious bulge in the tight black pants he wore was real or a stuffed prosthetic. Regardless, the illusion gave many in the audience reason to twitter approval. “So, Berliners, welcome to Hell,” he said to the half of the audience hidden from Julie by the white curtain, before he turned to Julie and Paul’s side of the room. “Our friends over in Heaven, don’t worry! We delight in showing you,” he chuckled with low, wicked delight, “what it is you’re missing!”

Paul sat beside her in the booth, his light laughter a hymn beyond the other merriment in the club. She glanced at him as they both faced the stage and smiled, delighted by his obvious enjoyment.

The he slid his warm hand under Julie’s skirt and stroked her slit through the black lace of her panties. She remembered her price tag, but she also grew wet under his touch, her heart pounding. The giddy wonder of his forwardness surprised her even as a touch of disappointment dimmed the glow of the evening. He stopped after only a moment and leaned to her, pressing trembling lips to her ear. “Remove your panties, Julie,” he commanded with a whisper that rippled through her soul. She started to stand, to find shadows or a powder room, but he traced his hand down her wrist and locked it in a grip that claimed, took, breathed, and promised. “No,” he corrected her. “Remove them here.”

She shifted and adjusted, reaching up and behind and under, unfastened her garter and slowly squirmed out of the soft cotton panties. Anyone in the club who looked at her would surely know what she was doing, but perhaps the shadows concealed her. She surrendered her underpants to Paul and looked at him, waiting. Paul curled his fingers into the white material, his thumb stroking the prim edge, then at Paul’s commanding nod and curt order, the waiter brought a strong brandy and a bottle of good wine.

On the stage, a thin woman, entirely nude, pale as ivory, danced in smoky light, a study in white and black, milky skin, black-ringed eyes, the whipping mane of her raven hair, and the thick tangle of silken black between her legs. Sinuous, precise, she fought with the smoke and made love to it, a teasing undulation of flesh and dreams.

Paul took Julie’s hand and rested it on his hardening cock. She pressed through the smooth material of his trousers, her fingers expert from many nights in the Mandrake. She brought him to full, impressive erection, just as the dancer on the stage twirled one final time and vanished into the billowing smoke.

Everyone applauded. Julie smelled opium and hashish. The smoke and the brandy turned her mind golden and she relaxed against Paul, opening his trousers and reaching in to touch the bare heat of his cock. She smiled and stroked down its pulsing length with one testing finger.

The silky bead at the tip delighted her, the slippery warmth of it, the affirmation of Paul’s desire. She smeared the bead and relished his quickened breath.

The stage stayed dark for a long moment, then a clown dressed as an angel appeared and began to tell stories and make dirty jokes about politicians and Socialists, Frenchmen and Russians. Paul put his hand over Julie’s, his fingertips almost tickling the back of her hand as she slowly pumped him. “Wait,” he whispered, and she stopped, but didn’t move her hand, allowing her to hold the hard, responsive flesh.

He poured wine for her and she drank. “You are an American?” she asked him casually as she tightened her grip a moment, then relaxed her hand.

“Yes I am,” he answered with a little smile. “Have you ever been in this place before?”

“No. Have you?”

Paul shook his head. “I’ve heard a great deal about it—read books about it.”

“Are you a teacher?” she asked him.

“No. Only a tourist, Julie. Like so many in Berlin.”

Copyright 2012 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

“Katie” in Underworlds!

Contrast is everything.

I just sold another story to Mischief, for their anthology Underworlds.  The story is called “Katie” and is set in the late 1800s.  It is loosely based on the real-life case of Dr. William Crookes, a renowned British chemist and physicist, who conducted experiments in spiritualism with a pretty young “physical medium” named Florence Cook. Of course, the manifestations in my story are considerably sexier than anything Dr. Crookes recorded in his notebooks!

I enjoy writing stories set in past eras, not only because I love history, especially its darker and weirder corners, but also because such eras provide an opportunity to emphasize the power of sexuality by setting it against a background less sexualized than today’s world. Much of the dramatic appeal I find in erotica comes from the contrast of a story’s sexual content against these more inhibited time frames.  I’ve used eras like the 1950s as a backdrop for stories such as “Calendar Girl,” and I drew on the 1840s for my story of Millerite shenanigans, “Rapture,” because those eras make a sharper contrast that allows relatively mild sexuality to appear daring, even forbidden. It’s not an easy thing for an erotica writer to be shocking in the age of Kink.com, but I like the challenge.  If I’m successful, I hope I can craft a story that helps the reader adjust their attitude to see things through other eyes.

The general notion of the Victorian era as a completely repressed epoch is not exactly accurate. Although there was certainly a puritanical streak that dominated polite consciousness, there was also a tremendous amount of barely repressed eroticism that broke out in interesting ways. The erotic elements of spiritualism were certainly not emphasized in contemporary accounts, but more than one female medium conducted her séances lightly clad or sometimes entirely nude, ostensibly to prevent fraud. The effect cannot have been lost on the gentlemen sitting around the table. Also, most séances were conducted in the dark and, although all hands were supposed to be on the tipping table, who knows what might have happened beneath it? Add in the intriguing possibilities of ectoplasmic extrusions and wonderful things are possible!

Writing a story in a historical period, of course, presents different challenges from a contemporary tale or one set in an entirely fantastic world, like my novel Woman of the Mountain, but the advantages are significant. The internet offers limitless research resources and direct access to period detail and texts that have never been easily available to writers before. I love taking advantage of modern technology to embellish my little windows into the past. When you look into that gas-lit chamber, there’s no telling what naughty things you might see – at the tipping table or under it…

Underworlds will be published by Mischief later this year.

What’s New? TONS!

Earlier this month I wrote about my erotic romance Standing Stone being re-published, and at the time, the original publication date was going to be May 1st.  My publisher asked if I was good with bumping up the publication to tomorrow—April 15th.  What do you think I said? So tomorrow you can purchase Standing Stone!  If you would like to read an except, go here!

I love it when my stories are singled out by anthology reviewers. My recent tale, “Before the Autumn Queen,” in Curvy Girls: Erotica for Women, just received a very nice compliment in a review by Steve Isaak, reviewer at Reading and Writing by Pub Light.  You can purchase Curvy Girls here.

In other print news, I am a Mischief author!  The newly launched erotica line by the UK arm of Harper-Collins is headed by Adam Nevill, former editor for Black Lace.  My short story “Rent” will be in an upcoming erotic paranormal anthology called The Visitor.  “Rent” is set during the Great Depression and tells the story of a vampire who operates a rooming house in San Francisco. Mischief has received a lot of attention in the press and I am very excited to be a part of this new venture!

Also, I am very pleased that two of my stories, “The Boiling Sea” and “Barnacle Bill” will be in Maxim Jakubowski’s Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11 to be released in December 2012!  Both tales are dark erotica, and I do think they are two of the best stories I’ve written.  “The Boiling Sea” follows a Vietnam veteran while he travels through a late 60’s erotic and psychedelic Wonderland adventure.  “Barnacle Bill” is a dark Lovecraftian tale of karma and transformation.   The stories were originally published in Circlet Press’s Like a Vorpal Blade and in my short story collection Darkness and Delight.

Also recently, my dystopian superhero story “Lawman” has been selected to appear in Circlet Press’s print collection Fantastic Erotica: The Best of Circlet Press 2008-2012.  “Lawman” is the story of a retired, formerly superhuman veteran of a 70-year war on immorality and what happens when he decides to walk on the wild side.  Look for Fantastic Erotica in October 2012.

At the very beginning of this year, my horror novella Springs found a new home at Renaissance eBooks!  Now you can also purchase it at Amazon and barnesandnoble.comSprings is the story of Cherie, a video game music composer and what happens when, under the pressure of a critical deadline, she receives a mysterious music box.   You can read an excerpt here.

Finally, I’m closing in on finishing the edit of Woman of His Dream, the horror serial that appears on this blog.  As soon as I’m finished, it’s off to the publishers!  Look for more on Woman of His Dreams as the year progresses, and if you want to read the serial, you can start with the first episode right here!

So, onward to the rest of the year! 

Coming Soon: Standing Stone

A few weeks ago, I blogged about my erotic horror novella Springs finding a new home with Renaissance E-Books.  Now, another of my earlier stories is being reprinted in a new, standalone edition by eXstasy.

Coming April 15 (bumped up from May 1), eXtasy will publish Standing Stone, a novelette I originally sold to a now out-of-print anthology.  I appreciate  the original publisher returning all rights to the authors as quickly as they did, and since then, Standing Stone has been looking…

I think, for any writer, returning to a work from the early seasons is always a nervous business. It was with some hesitation that I opened the file to see about edits.  Modesty aside, I was very happy with how much I still liked Standing Stone, and at how little touch-up I needed to do!

This short book is comprised of three stories, all set in a valley in Northern Europe, but spanning thousands of years. All three parts revolve around the titular stone, an ancient altar to the gods and goddesses of prehistoric Europe. Part one is set in the Bronze Age, where a mushroom-crazed shaman meets a tribal witch under the powerful influence of a new moon.  Part two takes place in the early days of the Holy Roman Empire, with a full moon in the sky, and part three is set in the third decade of the 21st Century, where a crone moon lies nearly hidden behind world-blanketing smoke arising from the pyre of civilization. Standing Stone is a very romantic story and an optimistic one, but like all of life, there are shadows too.  Ultimately, life is about the journeys we take, through darkness and light, and for some, the discovery of a love that binds paired souls to one divine place…

Here’s an excerpt from the second chapter:

She took Olavus’ hand and led him into the forest. It grew wild, untouched by any axe, the trees like towers, the tangle of their branches defying the light of the rising sun. It seemed they walked for a long time in a golden haze and soon the clanking of his armor’s scales sounded like so much rage and fire.  He tried to tread with a softer foot.

“If you are not Roman,” she asked him. “Who are you?”

“I told you. I serve Kang Karl and he is the vassal of God through the glory of Christ.”

“Yes,” she said, and they walked in silence for a while.

The trees thinned and bright cries of a hunting hawk echoed distantly.

“What happened to the boy’s father?” Olavus asked her.

She shrugged. “He sickened when the moon was dark and died when it was full.”

“I am sorry, Vreni.” He wanted to put his arm around her but, in truth, he feared her.
 
“What happened to your son?” she asked.

His heart bled pain. How did she know?

“I was sent east, against…pagans, and I left him in Westphalia with his mother, where they should’ve been safe. The Saxons came. My wife and son were gone when I returned, without even graves to mark where they had died.”

 They emerged from the forest and into the bright morning. Beyond a little field of tall grass, he saw a standing stone, the gray of noonday shadows, in a cluster of young oak trees. Before the monolith, a rough stone altar glinted with offerings and Olavus knew it to be an abomination to God. His heart began to pound like a fist in a cage of bone.

She led him through the grass. Soft summer heat teased a trickle of sweat from under his helmet. The altar before the pagan shrine lay cluttered with offerings, and he wondered what lives might have been sacrificed here. Behind the stone, a shallow pit had been dug and filled with dry branches and boughs of pine, where fire would burn to the glory of the witch’s god, like the rites of Moloch and Ba’al, Odin and Mahomet the god of the Moors.

“This is a holy place,” Vreni said to him. “We pray and Moan protects us.”

“Do you know why I have come here?” he asked.

She said nothing, but knelt before the altar, her thin shift brushing the backs of her calves. The curve of her butt was round and full. He felt his cock stirring and, in spite of the grimness of his errand, he had to hide a grin of wonder.

He had not wanted any woman since Westphalia, since Calia died, and now, may God preserve his soul, he wanted this one.

His words emerged in a whisper, harsher than he meant it, the exact sentence the priest had given him.

“I am here by command of the Church of St. Peter, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, to bring the word of truth to your valley, and if you will not hear it, to temper your people until you embrace the true faith and renounce your false gods.”

She looked at him over her shoulder and he saw fear in her eyes and sorrow.

“I will not harm you,” he told her. “Nor will my men, but we must return from this valley with word that you have converted.”

She settled and stretched her bare legs before the altar, resting on one hand, looking up at him with eyes that had turned to azure. Her shift rode low on her breasts and he saw their soft brown swell, the line of a stiffened nipple beneath the linen. “If you harm even one person here, you will have to kill me,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

Copyright 2012 Angela
Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in
whole or part without written permission from the author.

Too Much Sex?

Here’s a question I’ve been pondering. Can there be too much sex in an erotic story? I almost feel silly talking about gratuitous content in a work of erotica, but there it is.

Woman of the Mountain, was criticized by one reviewer as having too much sex. I saw the reviewer’s point. Since the novel takes place in a world where sex is literally a connection to divinity, the rampant coupling potentially cheapened the sacrament. Woman went on to win an Eppie for best erotica in 2008, but if I were to rewrite it today, I might well remove a steamy page or two.

The easy answer to my question is “an erotic story should have at least as much sex as the story requires.” Many of my tales are, one way or another, about sex. The erotic scenes are central to the story so it’s easy enough to tie the heat and the plot together. In a short story, it’s easier to find the right level of sex, but novels are harder. I’m in the process right now of weaving the 52+ chapters of my blog serial, Woman of His Dreams, into a  novel, so the question has been circling around my brain as I restructure the story. On the blog, I felt like there should be at least a little sex in each chapter, but in a 57,000 word novel, the frequent fucking becomes choppy. Of course. I’m also finding other challenges turning a serial into a novel—pacing, balancing two viewpoints, and such. The process has been educational, though it’s taking longer than I had intended. I’m hoping to have it to a publisher this summer. If you want to read the raw material, with sex in every sequence, it’s all still here.

One unique facet of my chosen genre makes my question even harder to answer. Many readers of erotica read for at least two purposes. Some erotica readers read more for the stories than for prurient interest, but some readers are primarily looking for the kicks that hot, explicit scenes provide. Too little sex in a story definitely risks turning off the reader seeking wank material, while too much may annoy one who reads more for story. Of course, most readers appreciate both elements so, as long as the story justifies the sex, the balance is not too difficult to maintain. For me the ideal approach is to make the sex fit the tale but don’t hold back.

Finally, in erotica, much like horror fiction, I think the best effects are those that are created in a reader’s mind by leaving things unsaid in the prose, which makes the balance between explicitness and ellipsis even more important. Over the five years I’ve been writing, I’ve tried to strike a balance between too much and too little, but I’m sure I sometimes still get the mix wrong. I suppose if I had to condense my experience down into simple advice for a beginning erotica author, I would say, “write just as much sex into the story as you need and then add just a little more.”