Inexplicable Desire - #Chemistry #Erotica #Connection

Several years ago I reviewed M.Christian’s sci-fi erotica story BionicLover. This tale follows the disturbing and intense relationship between a shy, struggling female artist and a butch woman of the streets who, when the story opens, has a magnificently crafted artificial eye. Thinking about the book after I wrote the review, I realized one reason it moved me so deeply: the author never really explains anything. We see the near-irresistible attraction between Pell (the artist) and Arc (the increasingly bionic butch). We watch as Arc replaces one body part after another with prosthetics, as Pell falls ever more deeply under her spell, as Arc vanishes then returns to the arms of the woman who somehow makes her whole–but though the emotions feel genuine and true, we never know why anyone does anything. Unmediated by reasons, we experience the desire, the longing, the loneliness, directly. The tale remains hauntingly ambiguous as well as overwhelmingly erotic.

In contrast, much of the erotic fiction I read focuses considerable attention on explaining the source of the attraction between the protagonists. Sometimes it’s something as superficial as big breasts or washboard abs. In other cases, the characters clearly complement each other, in terms of personality or history or mutual fantasies or kinks. In all too many stories, the erotic connection is pretty much a foregone conclusion, because the author has made the reasons for that connection painfully obvious.

Desire isn’t necessarily like that, though. Attraction often cannot be explained—except by amorphous concepts like “chemistry”, which is no explanation at all.

I remember one of my lovers, from my sex goddess period, when I blossomed from a self-conscious nerd into a flaming nymphomaniac. I met him at a mutual friend’s wedding, and wanted him from the very first instant. This wasn’t due to his physical appearance. He was cute, but no movie star. It certainly wasn’t because of his personality. He turned out to be arrogant as well as somewhat dishonest. None of that mattered. I wanted him. He wanted me. We had sex within four hours of meeting. Over the next few weeks, we shared some wild times, pushing the envelope (as they say), until I came to the conclusion that I didn’t really like him that much.

Call it chemistry if you like, the inexplicable force binding two souls, two bodies, who by rights shouldn’t be together at all. Whatever it is, it cannot be predicted, or explained.

Another wonderful literary example of this phenomenon is Willsin Rowe’s searing novella The Last Three Days. If you’ve ever thought lust was trivial compared to love, read this book. Rowe’s protagonists are in some sense addicted to one another. Insatiable need draws them together again and again. The pleasure of their encounters tempers their mutual antipathy. The emotions become so tangled that neither the characters nor the reader can sort them out—but they feel incredibly real.

There’s a clever little acronym frequently cited in author circles: RUE, which stands for Resist the Urge to Explain. Usually, when someone invokes the RUE principle in a critique, she’s commenting on a back story dump or an excess of description that slows down the pace of the narrative. Meditating on these two exemplary stories, I see that the RUE particularly applies to the erotic attraction between one’s characters. The more surprising, unexpected, complex and inexplicable that is, the more compelling the tale.

Desire cannot be summoned at will, nor can it be reasoned away. Desire simply is. And we erotic authors are but its chroniclers.

Flasher Sunday: Faded Red Flannel - #Flasher #BrokenHeart #Chemistry

Faded Plaid Flannel

He’d left it behind when he moved out. Guess the old bathrobe became too ratty even for his casual tastes. She can’t look at it without seeing his wiry frame wrapped in the faded plaid flannel, crouched over his poetry at the kitchen table. Vodka on one side, smoldering cigarette on the other, close enough to touch, a million miles away.

She holds it to her face, breathing him in, sweat and tobacco, and underneath, that elusive musk that first hooked her. Addictive, intoxicating—in an instant she’s drunk with the astounding lust that first drew them together. Eyes closed, she relives their ecstatic frenzy, the clarity of pure connection. In bed they were one body, obscene and holy. She never cared what they did; every carnal act felt like a sacrament. The loss of him, of that glory, is a vast, black, aching wound in her chest.

He’d felt it, too. Inhaling her female perfume, he lost himself, drowned in her lushness. Scary. One reason— along with his wanderlust—that he’s gone.

Chemistry’s not the same as compatibility.

She stuffs the rag between her thighs. Eventually the flannel will smell only of her.

Sunday Snog #165: Chemistry

Jeez, it’s Sunday already. Where did the week go?

Anyway, that means it’s time for another snog. This is number 165, believe it or not. I’ve been posting kiss excerpts almost every Sunday, since 2011!  

Today’s kiss is from my short story Chemistry, originally written for the charitable anthology Coming Together: With Pride but also available as a stand-alone ebook. Either way all sales benefit HIV charity AVERT.

Kit is a workaholic, a brilliant pharmacological chemist who is driven to succeed. She wants a life that is controlled, disciplined, and predictable. When she meets Frank, her hairy ex-hippie neighbor, she's inexplicably and irresistibly attracted to him, though he represents everything that she despises. She tries to fight her own desire, but discovers that sometimes, chemistry trumps rationality.

This is one of my favorite stories, partly because there’s a bit of me in Kit, and quite a bit of my husband in Frank.

Once you’re done with my snog, head back to Victoria’s Blisse Kiss home page for more sexy Sunday kisses!

As she waited for her machine to boot, she took a deep breath and tried to focus her thoughts. She took a bite of her sandwich, savoring the smoky Jarlsberg and the crisp greens.

The curtains were open. She realized that he might, just might, be able to see into the room. A blush crept over her, starting with her cheeks to warm her earlobes, her nipples, her fingers and toes. What was she thinking of, sitting there nude? She glanced down at her naked body, and realized that she was still wearing Frank's chain around her waist. She unclasped it. It lay coiled in her hand, glittering seductively.

Oh dear, she would have to return it. But not in person. Definitely not. She could package it up and leave it on his doorstep. She could mail it to him. Even as Kit mulled over the various ways she could get the chain back to its rightful owner without further compromising herself, she was putting on a summer shift, earrings, sandals. She was still arguing with herself when she found herself on Frank's doorstep, the chain clutched in her fist.

She couldn't help it. She didn't understand. Frank opened the door wearing nothing but an Indonesian batik sarong and holding a half-full wine glass.

"Katerina! What a completely unexpected pleasure."

Kit held out her palm. "I -- um -- you should take this back."

"But I gave it to you, princess. It's yours." His eyes narrowed and his smile widened. "You know that. You didn't need to come back here."

"Well, I wanted to, um, apologize for acting so ..." Normally the most articulate member of her team, Kit now found that she was unable to assemble a coherent sentence.

Frank laughed. "So wanton? So deliciously horny? No apologies necessary, princess. Quite the contrary." He grabbed her wrist. "Come in, have some wine with me." Kit seemed unable to resist. "We'll just talk, that's all. Don't worry. I want to get to know you, find out about you and your life and your work."

Before she knew it, Kit was sitting at the linoleum table in the kitchen at the back of the house, a full wine-glass in front of her. She couldn't seem to explain that she didn't drink. Frank raised his glass.

"To neighbors. To new friends." He sipped at the wine. A ruby drop hung in the thicket above his full lips. "To chemistry."

Then all at once he was kissing her, his mouth a bewildering array of flavors: wine, sweat, pot, and faintly, pussy. A wildfire of desire raced through her body. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she met it halfway. His hands were all over her, snaking down her neckline to caress her tits, sliding up her hips under her dress, slipping between her damp thighs as he discovered she wore nothing underneath.

In less than ten seconds he had his fingers crammed in her cunt and she was humping them madly, moaning and twisting herself to force him deeper. 

 

Giving Back

By Lisabet Sarai

Gratitude, I've found, begets plenty. Count your blessings and you find that they multiply. And when you keep the good flowing, benefits always return.

I've led a fortunate life in many respects. I want to do what I can to share my bounty. It's more difficult than you'd expect, though. I donate financially to causes I support, but what I can offer is a mere drop in the bucket compared to what's needed. And money is so impersonal.

For a long time now, I've wanted to volunteer my time to some worthy endeavor, but actually, with my work schedule, I don't have a lot of time available. Furthermore, I'd like to use my specialized skills for the benefit of others. Working in a soup kitchen or entertaining orphans doesn't really take advantage of my years of education and experience.

Then I found Coming Together - the perfect way for me to volunteer something uniquely mine and help make the world a better place.

I can't recall how I heard about Alessia's work. I wasn't a part of the organizing group on Literotica. I believe that Coming Together: For the Cure was the first charitable anthology in which I had a story. Several of my close friends and relatives are breast cancer survivors; I was thrilled to have the opportunity to do something that might spare others some of the misery they experienced.

Since then, I've contributed to six more CT anthologies: Under Fire, With Pride, Al Fresco, At Last, As One and By Hand. I also wrote a stand-alone novella, A Breed Apart, for the Tabooty series, a protest against Amazon's de-listing of erotic titles that featured incest or other taboo topics. About half of the stories I've provided to Coming Together are exclusive, tales I wrote specifically for the anthology in question. I figured that if someone likes my writing, he or she should be willing to fork out a few bucks for the chance to read something brand new - especially if it's for a good cause.

Back in 2009, my involvement with Coming Together moved to a new level when Alessia asked me to co-edit Coming Together: For Her, an amazing collection of erotica by Laurence Doyen. I'd previously edited two multi-author anthologies (Sacred Exchange and Cream), not to mention scores of research papers by students and colleagues, so I had the necessary qualifications, and I really enjoyed the process. After release of Laurence's book, Alessia proposed that I take responsibility as editor for a new Coming Together Presents imprint, which would feature full-length collections of erotica from single authors.

After some soul-searching - I didn't want to make a commitment if I couldn't follow through - I agreed. Since then, we've published five Coming Together Presents volumes, by some of my favorite erotica authors: M. Christian, Remittance Girl, C. Sanchez-Garcia, Robert Buckley and Teresa Lamai. You may not be familiar with some of these names, but let me assure you: all of them write stunning, arousing, thought-provoking erotic tales - and each is distinctly different. You will get the chance to hear from all of them this month, during our Share the Love event, so I won't sing their praises any further. Come back later in the month for samples of their eloquence and heat. (Check the sidebar for the Blog Fest schedule.)

I'm proud of the stories I've written for Coming Together. To be honest, though, I'm even prouder of the books I've edited. They benefit causes I wholeheartedly support, but on top of that, they're incredibly good. I'd love to get the New York Times to review them, because these volumes offer more than just sexy stories - they're literary gems.

Anyway, I'll let the other authors speak for themselves. I want to share a bit from one of my own favorite Coming Together stories, Chemistry, which I wrote specifically for Coming Together: With Pride. The story is also available as a stand-alone Hor D'ouvres title, for only 99 cents.

Kit is a workaholic, a brilliant pharmacological chemist who is driven to succeed. She wants a life that is controlled, disciplined, and predictable. When she meets Frank, her hairy ex-hippie neighbor, she's inexplicably and irresistibly attracted to him, though he represents everything that she despises. She tries to fight her own desire, but discovers that sometimes, chemistry trumps rationality.

****

Frank was staring at her again, his eyes twinkling behind his wire-framed glasses. Absently, he scratched his unruly head. She could tell that he hadn't showered.

"I guess, then, that we're neighbors."

"Yes, well, I don't spend much time at home." She licked her lips nervously. "Mostly, I'm at work."

"You work too hard, I think. You need to take time to enjoy life." He rummaged in his pocket and she caught another glimpse of his scrotum and his half-hard cock. Hastily, she turned to examine one of the posters.

"Want to do a number?" He was holding out a fat hand-rolled cigarette. Kit felt a sudden panic.

"No - um - I don't do drugs. I know too much about them."

"Oh?" He lit the joint himself and drew in a lungfull of the fragrant smoke.

"Yes, well, I work for a pharmaceutical company."

"Really. What a coincidence." She didn't understand. But she didn't want to ask questions or prolong the conversation. Really, she didn't want to talk about herself at all. She should be going home.

He took another toke and held it, closing his eyes. His expression was beatific. He reminded her of some hairy elf, or perhaps a giant, grizzled teddy bear. The smell of pot smoke drowned out the incense. Kit felt dizzy.

Frank stubbed out his joint. "Stand up -- what's your name?" His voice was soft, dreamy.

"Kit."

"What's that short for?"

"Katerina."

"Oh, I like that much better. It suits you. I've always thought that ladies should have long, intricate names, names that dance on your tongue. Stand up, Katerina. Please. Let me look at you."

She felt brief indignation. Nobody told her what to do. Yet she obeyed, coming to her feet in front of him, so close, too close, the reach of bare skin between her top and shorts inches from him. She was light-headed, not herself.

"Katerina," he whispered. Then he reached out and grasped her buttocks, pulling her to his face.

His beard was softer than it looked, tickling her. For a moment he simply held her, breathing in, inhaling her as if she were another drug. Suddenly there was shocking wetness. His tongue circled her navel, dipped inside. Her sex clenched in a sudden, delicious spasm. He lapped in widening circles, then traced a wet path up her sternum. When he reached her bra, he deftly peeled back the stretchy material to expose her small breasts. He fastened his mouth on one swollen nipple. Kit moaned, embarrassed by her sudden need.

He sucked at her till the node of flesh was unbearably tender. Just when she couldn't bear any more, he switched to the other breast, strumming the rigid bead at its tip while her clit vibrated in sympathy.

"Oh, please...", she sighed. Her shorts were sticky and uncomfortable. She wanted them off. Frank paused and smiled at her. "Just a moment, Katerina, if you can be patient. I have something for you."

He scurried off to the glass display case, a comic figure, his shorts slipping down his hips to expose his furry butt. Her belly and breasts were soaked with his saliva.

Kit shuddered, desire mixed with revulsion. How could she let this smelly, hairy, untidy, old -- anachronism -- touch her? But God, it felt so good. Her cunt was sopping. Her pussy scent overwhelmed the smell of pot. I should go, she told herself, get out of here while I can. But Frank was back now, pulling her bra over her head, fastening a delicate silver chain around her waist. He eased her shorts over her hips. She kicked off her shoes, and he shimmied the lycra garment down to her ankles and off.

Kit stood before him, naked except for the ornamental chain. The silver strands brushed, ghostly, against her sensitized skin. Frank licked his lips. His eyes burned blue as gas flames; she basked in the heat of his obvious lust.

"Oh, yes," he breathed. "I thought that would suit you. Yes indeed..." His fingertips traced an airy path across her skin, touching but not touching, setting up currents that caressed her throat, her breasts, her belly, the smooth mound between her legs. "I don't know why you do it, though."

"Do what?" Kit almost groaned with frustration, as he appraised rather than caressed her.

"Shave, wax, whatever it is you do to remove your bush. A bare beaver looks so -- unnatural."

Annoyance almost overwhelmed Kit's horniness. "Well, I haven't had any complaints from anyone else. Also, without the hair I'm more sensitive."

His mischievous smile returned. "Oh, is that true? Well, then..." He slipped to his knees and peeled open her lower lips with his thumbs. "I've always enjoyed sensitive women." The tip of his tongue flicked across her swollen clit. Her back arched in reflex, forcing her pussy into his face. The old goat immediately took advantage, fastening his mouth on her sex and sucking like a human hoover. His tongue gathered the juices from her depths, then smeared them over her naked mound.

"Oh, um, ooh..." Kit writhed against him, wordlessly begging him to return his tongue to her throbbing clit. He seemed oblivious, though, focusing instead on her labia and the depths of her pussy. It felt exquisite, intense, but her clit screamed for some of the attention of that wet and agile tongue.

Then he stopped. "What...?" she began. She sucked in a surprised breath as he actually picked her up in his arms.

His curly chest hair tickled her breasts. He smelled a bit funky, sweat rather than soap; hints of pot smoke and incense lingered in his beard. Before she knew it, she was stretched out on her back on the pile of carpets and cushions she had noticed earlier, with the surprisingly strong and flexible old hippie kneeling between her spread thighs.

He rubbed his fingertip against the rigid bead of flesh at her center. She yelped, her pelvis dancing on the velvety surface under her. Apparently pleased with this reaction, he continued to massage her clit with one hand, while the other dabbled in her soaking cunt. One finger, then two, deep into her, but not deep enough. She moaned and twisted as both hands played her, one devoted to her clitoris, the other wandering, stroking, even gently probing her taut rear hole.

Luscious colors swirled across Kit's closed eyelids, whorls and eddies of brilliant blue and emerald green that pulsed in time with the throbbing in her pussy. She breathed in gasps, sucking in smoke and sandalwood. She was melting, liquefying. She was crystallizing into a thing of pure pleasure.

The crystal shattered. Kit wailed, her body going rigid and then limp. Frank continued to stroke her gently, drawing wetness from her depths, trailing it along her inner thighs. For a long time Kit basked in the rosy after-pleasure, perfectly relaxed, forgetting that he was there.

He bent to kiss her. The salty seaweed taste of her own sex shocked her into awareness. "You enjoyed that, didn't you, princess?" he murmured in her ear. "I told you that you shouldn't work so hard."

****

If you enjoyed this excerpt, maybe you'd like to get a copy of the story - or the full anthology - for yourself. You can buy all the Coming Together titles at All Romance Ebooks - who has generously waived their usual cut so that 100% of the selling price goes to the designated charity.

Meanwhile, you can win a copy of my M/F/M ménage novella Truce of Trust, simply by commenting on this post. Be sure to include your email address. I'll draw a name on Saturday February 4th.

And don't forget to comment every day, if you're interested in winning a Kindle Fire. See Alessia's post from yesterday for details!

Sunday Snog from "Chemistry"

It's Sunday once again, time for hot excerpts featuring the application of lips... Thanks to Victoria Blisse, Sundays have become a good deal hotter!

This week's Sunday Snog comes from my short story "Chemistry", originally published in the anthology Coming Together: With Pride, a charitable anthology benefiting AIDS research. "Chemistry" has a rather non-traditional hero. He's kind of old, and not at all buff, but I adore him.

Kit is a workaholic, a brilliant pharmacological chemist who is driven to succeed. She wants a life that is controlled, disciplined, and predictable. When she meets Frank, her hairy ex-hippie neighbor, she's inexplicably and irresistibly attracted to him, though he represents everything that she despises. She tries to fight her own desire, but discovers that sometimes, chemistry trumps rationality.

**********

The beads clicked together as Frank returned holding two steaming mugs. "Here you are, then." He seated himself on the stool next to her, close, too close. Invading her personal space.

"I don't..." Kit began. But the rich aroma of the coffee made her mouth water. Just this once, perhaps.

"Sorry, I don't have any milk, but there's sugar." He pointed to a ceramic bowl molded in the shape of a peace sign. He dumped a heaping spoonful into his own mug.

"Uh, no thanks." She took a tentative sip, then drank deeper. The flavor was earthy and complex. She could feel the caffeine racing through her blood.

Frank was staring at her again, his eyes twinkling behind his wire-framed glasses. Absently, he scratched his unruly head. She could tell that he hadn't showered.

"I guess, then, that we're neighbors."

"Yes, well, I don't spend much time at home." She licked her lips nervously. "Mostly, I'm at work."

"You work too hard, I think. You need to take time to enjoy life." He rummaged in his pocket and she caught another glimpse of his scrotum and his half-hard cock. Hastily, she turned to examine one of the posters.

"Want to do a number?" He was holding out a fat hand-rolled cigarette. Kit felt a sudden panic.

"No - um - I don't do drugs. I know too much about them."

"Oh?" He lit the joint himself and drew in a lungfull of the fragrant smoke.

"Yes, well, I work for a pharmaceutical company."

"Really. What a coincidence." She didn't understand. But she didn't want to ask questions or prolong the conversation. Really, she didn't want to talk about herself at all. She should be going home.

He took another toke and held it, closing his eyes. His expression was beatific. He reminded her of some hairy elf, or perhaps a giant, grizzled teddy bear. The smell of pot smoke drowned out the incense. Kit felt dizzy.

Frank stubbed out his joint. "Stand up -- what's your name?" His voice was soft, dreamy.

"Kit."

"What's that short for?"

"Katerina."

"Oh, I like that much better. It suits you. I've always thought that ladies should have long, intricate names, names that dance on your tongue. Stand up, Katerina. Please. Let me look at you."

She felt brief indignation. Nobody told her what to do. Yet she obeyed, coming to her feet in front of him, so close, too close, the reach of bare skin between her top and shorts inches from him. She was light-headed, not herself.

"Katerina," he whispered. Then he reached out and grasped her buttocks, pulling her to his face.

His beard was softer than it looked, tickling her. For a moment he simply held her, breathing in, inhaling her as if she were another drug. Suddenly there was shocking wetness. His tongue circled her navel, dipped inside. Her sex clenched in a sudden, delicious spasm. He lapped in widening circles, then traced a wet path up her sternum. When he reached her bra, he deftly peeled back the stretchy material to expose her small breasts. He fastened his mouth on one swollen nipple. Kit moaned, embarrassed by her sudden need.

He sucked at her till the node of flesh was unbearably tender. Just when she couldn't bear any more, he switched to the other breast, strumming the rigid bead at its tip while her clit vibrated in sympathy.

"Oh, please...", she sighed. Her shorts were sticky and uncomfortable. She wanted them off.

Frank paused and smiled at her. "Just a moment, Katerina, if you can be patient. I have something for you." He scurried off to the glass display case, a comic figure, his shorts slipping down his hips to expose his furry butt. Her belly and breasts were soaked with his saliva.

Kit shuddered, desire mixed with revulsion. How could she let this smelly, hairy, untidy, old -- anachronism -- touch her? But God, it felt so good. Her cunt was sopping. Her pussy scent overwhelmed the smell of pot. I should go, she told herself, get out of here while I can. But Frank was back now, pulling her bra over her head, fastening a delicate silver chain around her waist. He eased her shorts over her hips. She kicked off her shoes, and he shimmied the lycra garment down to her ankles and off.

Kit stood before him, naked except for the ornamental chain. The silver strands brushed, ghostly, against her sensitized skin. Frank licked his lips. His eyes burned blue as gas flames; she basked in the heat of his obvious lust.

"Oh, yes," he breathed. "I thought that would suit you. Yes indeed..." His fingertips traced an airy path across her skin, touching but not touching, setting up currents that caressed her throat, her breasts, her belly, the smooth mound between her legs. "I don't know why you do it, though."

"Do what?" Kit almost groaned with frustration, as he appraised rather than caressed her.

"Shave, wax, whatever it is you do to remove your bush. A bare beaver looks so -- unnatural."

Annoyance almost overwhelmed Kit's horniness. "Well, I haven't had any complaints from anyone else. Also, without the hair I'm more sensitive."

His mischievous smile returned. "Oh, is that true? Well, then..." He slipped to his knees and peeled open her lower lips with his thumbs. "I've always enjoyed sensitive women."