Tag Archives: erotica

Fantastic Breasts and Where To Find Them

by Brenna Twohy


Ask me what kind of porn
I’m into
and I will take you on a magical journey
to fanfiction.com/harrypotter/nc17.

What turns me on is Ginnie Weasley
in the restricted section with her skirt
hiked up,

Sirius Black in a secret passageway
solemnly swearing
he is up to no good,

and Draco Malfoy
in the Room of Requirements
Slytherin in to my Chamber of Secrets.

I
am an unapolagetic consumer
of all things Potterotica
and the sexiest part
is not the way Cho Chang
rides that broomstick
or the sounds of Myrtle Moaning.

The sexiest part
is knowing
they are part of a bigger story.

That they exist beyond 8 minutes
in Titty Titty Gang Bang,
that their kegels are not the strongest thing about them

and still I’m told
that my porn is unrealistic.

Not quite as erotic
as flashing ads saying,
“Just Turned 18!”
so you can fantasize about
fucking the youngest girl
you won’t go to jail for.

Told that my porn
isn’t quite as lifelike
as a room full of lesbians
begging for cock-

told that this
is what is supposed
to turn me on.

Don’t you give me raw meat
and tell me it is nourishment.
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like 24/7
live-streaming
reminding me that men are gonna
fuck me
whether I like it or not,

that there is one use for my mouth
and it is not speaking,

that a man is at his most powerful
when he’s got a woman by the hair.

The first time a man I loved
held me by the wrists
and called me a whore,
I did not think “run”.
I thought “this is just like
the movies.”

I know a slaughterhouse
when I see one-
it looks like websites
and seminars teaching you how to fuck more bitches,

it looks 15 year old boys
bullied
for being virgins,

it looks like the man
who did not flinch when I said “stop!”
and he heard “try harder”.

If you play-act
at butchery long enough
you grow used to the sounds of the screaming.

It is just a side effect of industry.
Everything gets cut
into small,
marketable pieces.

I will not practice bloody hands.
I will not make believe
dissected women.

My sex cannot be packaged.
My sex is magic.
It is part of a bigger story.
I am whole.
I exist when you are not fucking me
and I will not be cut into pieces any more!

Joy

by Laura Stamps


The last week of August,

and I awaken to the water

music of doves on my

balcony and the rolling

wing-beat of insects in

the trees as they celebrate

another hot, humid day.

When I open my eyes,

he’s watching me. Two

months ago in June, the

evening of his latest art

exhibition, he stayed

until sunrise. Now he

spends almost every

night here, even though

he doesn’t need much

sleep. “I like watching

you,” he said, after

I asked about those

long dark hours. “It’s

enough,” he said. One

of my calico cats breathes

quietly between us,

burrowed in the sheets,

her paws twitching

while she leaps through

dreamtime. He sits up

and slides the cat out

of the way, careful not

to wake her. “There’s

something addictive

about you,” he says,

as he pulls me into the

comfortable cave of

his arms. “What is it?”

A lavender abstract, the

one he painted for me,

hangs next to the bed.

Every shade of purple

swirls across the large

wrapped canvas, a melody

of color and movement:

buoyant, whimsical,

carefree. Just like him.

Like me. “Since my

divorce, I only do what

gives me joy,” I say.

“Anything else is a waste

of my time.” My single

life gives me joy. My

cats, the Craft, my plants,

my sewing business, my

condo. My freedom.

All of this. Sunshine

flows across the bed,

bouncing off the eight

pots of ruffled leaf

lettuce that line the

windowsill. The cat

rolls against our feet

and stretches straight

as a yardstick before

she curls into a perfect

circle. His hand, cool

on my arm, slips to my

hip, my leg, between

my thighs. I open for

him. A pentacle wind

chime hangs next to

his painting. It jingles

softly, strummed by the

rhythmic breeze from

the ceiling fan. “You’re

my addiction,” he says.

“I can’t stay away.”

His mouth meets mine,

hungry, playful, his lips

an exciting voyage.

I only do what gives

me joy. Anything else

is a waste of my time.

I Light Six White Mallow Flower Musk Candles

by Laura Stamps


in the bathroom before

slipping into the tub with

him. It’s my favorite scent,

the scent of my perfume.

“There’s something you

should know,” he says and

curls his arm around me

like a kudzu vine caressing

a pine. “Just don’t bite me,”

I say, as my lips explore

his collarbone, the sweet

scent of his hair puddled

across his shoulders,

his skin, his heat. “Why

would you say that, Green

Witch?” he asks, plucking

a strawberry from a bowl

on the floor. “Because I

know what you are,” I say.

Strawberry juice trickles

from the corner of his

mouth. I clean his cheek

with my tongue. “Tell me,”

he says. Sliding down,

I rest my head on his

chest, the hot water and

bath mattress a relaxing

garden of sighs. “You’re

a vampire,” I say. “I saw

it in your aura.” Musk

and strawberries tease

my senses. The sugar

of plump fruit on his lips.

The musk of the candles,

the musk of my perfume,

the musk between my

thighs. “One taste of you

would probably kill me,”

he says, kissing the top

of my head. “Why do

I feel like I’ve entered

a foreign land?” My

fingers travel up his

chest like the winding

tendrils of a wood violet.

“Because you have,” I say.

He smiles and lifts my

hand, his tongue painting

a circle of fire on my palm.

And so we begin. The

bathroom whirls with fire

and musk. The fire of

his lips on mine, pressing,

urgent, a dancing flame.

I climb on top, open, and

sink slowly, the musk of

my petals stretching like

a white mallow flower

in bloom. We roll, and

now he’s covering me.

A tangle of arms and legs.

Bathwater splashes the

floor. I don’t care. I’m

a fire-eater, swallowing

his flame with my thighs,

draining his fire with my

mouth. An hour, two

hours. The water cools.

We don’t care. Again,

the fire of his lips on mine,

pressing, urgent, a dancing

flame. Again, I ride him

like a dragonfly sailing

a garden breeze, rising

and falling. Again and

again. This fire, our fire,

it burns until daybreak.

Ivy frames my bathroom

window, watching us

all night by candlelight.

When the first ray of

sunrise seeps through

the glass, its fire-glazed

lips kiss each verdant leaf.

Burning, the vines look

down at the tub, at what

we have done, and brand

us with a new name:

Insatiable.

Perilous Velvet

by Cameron Lincoln


5
You’re the liquid silk within my lungs,
The perilous velvet upon my tongue.
You’re the filthy habit I cannot break,
I crave your taste when I awake.

My devil-sent weakness, my favourite vice.
Danger’s delight, naughty and nice.
Addicted, enslaved, in clouds of sin.
I’ll light you up, and suck you in.

Within my soul you twist and taint.
You dizzy, dazzle, leave me faint.
You roll and drift, you coil and curl.
My nerves are raw without you, girl.

The lingering scent on fingertips,
Your fiery kiss upon my lips.
Unfiltered, toxic, my senses crash.
I’m left as vapour, reduced to ash.