I’m thrilled to have a story in Stretched, the latest release from Racy Pages. And extra thrilled because, wowsers, we’ve got a sexy guy on the cover. Not only that, he’s been given equal space to the sexy woman, and blimey, he’s even more undressed than she is!
Respect to Racy Pages!
Stretched‘s editor, Tinder James, writes in the intro: “The world of Stretched is filled with the heated encounters of strangers, phantom lovers, and couples devoted to satisfying one another. This collection often floats into that dreamy band of consciousness, gently bumping its head on the shore of reality.”
I have to keep re-reading that second sentence. It perfectly and beautifully encapsulates the type of erotica I like to read and write. A lot of the authors in the book are new to me, and it’s a fabulous, fresh collection. My story, All My Lovers in One Room, is told from the point of view of a woman who believes she is dying.
Here’s an excerpt:
You know that white light you hear rumors of? A glorious white light at the end of a tunnel, brighter than anything you’ve known, a huge sense of tranquility and long lost family members awaiting you with open arms? Here’s a tip: avoid the family. Hang a sharp left before the exit and you’ll find yourself in an antechamber with all your flings, exes and casual fucks. I realize it’s not ideal (and some may prefer the family option) but if you want to buy yourself some extra time, it’s a way to duck the point of no return and to avoid all those uncles you couldn’t shake off at weddings.
The woman we had a threesome with (at Charlie’s request – although to be honest, he practically begged me) is chatting to the chick I had sex with as a student because I thought it would make me cool. I suppose I used them both. I wonder if they’re discussing me but I figure I’m of little interest to either woman these days. If Charlie were here, he’d be hoping they were about to give us a floor show. He could be predictable like that, Charlie could.
But Charlie’s not here, he never fucking is.
Oh, Charlie! He was the whirlwind I span from, the storm who thrilled me, the fucker who kept me waiting and wanting. But this time, his rotten punctuality really takes the cake. Charlie, I’m dying here! Don’t tell me you’re stuck in a meeting and don’t try texting me either. I’m at death’s door, capisce? I can’t get a signal. I need you here and I need you now.
I would never have said that to him in life, would never say need because I don’t believe in need. There’s only want unless it’s life threatening. But hey, it pretty much is right now!
Tick tock tick tock.
And then I feel him approach. I’m like an animal sensing an earthquake before the tectonic plates have shifted. Hairs ripple on the back of my neck and my blood sets up a pulse in my cunt. A thousand and one butterflies dance in my stomach. Oh Charlie, you divine bastard.
I smell him first. He smells so real, so intimate. He’s the essence of life knocking out the stink of sterility in my nostrils. I catch the scent of his neck, the aroma of warm skin spliced with muted notes of aftershave and the worn, laundered cotton of his collar. I get the tang of city traffic, fumes and hot rubber, then paperwork like linen and the metallic whiff of cheap, blue ink on his fingers. Maybe my nose is super sensitive now the rest of me’s shutting down but I think I smell the tabby cat he stroked en route to work that morning, the sun-baked wheatfields in the pasta he ate for supper last night, the heat of his cock in his palm, the spill of his come, the mountain breeze from the Alpine holiday we said we’d go on one day. Or perhaps that’s his fabric softener. I don’t know. I breathe him in, wanting to consume all the scents he acquired while he was busy doing other things, living a life I know so little about.
Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy.
No, he’s not a spy. He just acts like one. “The name’s King,” I like to say, “Charlie King.” If he’d been more available to me, I don’t know what I’d have done. I might have lost interest but I doubt it. Time and again I tried to let go, move on, find a man who could topple him, but how to let go when something’s got you in its grip?
Ah, and there, now, the softness of his lips, like angels and feathers as he teases with his hello: kiss, murmur, kiss, his fingers sliding down my neck with a tenderness that’s menacingly, enchantingly possessive. Those fingers say more than any words could: I own you, you’re mine.