"UNGH!" I yell. My d.i.c.k is this one big gushing spasm, and even though I jack off a lot, this is like a brand new category of d.i.c.k goodness, like I singlehandedly discovered a new planet, just right there on the other side of the moon, one big pulsating planet of d.i.c.kness.

My hands beat on his back as I shoot into his mouth. I try to stop myself, because that's so nasty and embarra.s.sing, c.u.mming in a guy's mouth, I hope I don't make him puke, but I can't help it, it feels so good but I should have stopped, I ...

And now the weirdest part is that he has slid back up and he's kissing me, even though it's probably like trying to hit a moving target because I'm still flopping and shuddering all over the place. I can't stop myself from shaking. I finally calm down a bit and taste the sperm in his mouth and we should both be ashamed of ourselves but we're not, at least I'm not and he doesn't seem to be. We use our tongues to push the bleachy flavor back and forth in our mouths.

His shoulder starts bouncing as I suck on his lips, and then I feel his arm banging against my belly and realize he is jerking himself off and I think, 'Oh my G.o.d!' because isn't whacking off something you're supposed to do in private?

But I don't stop kissing him and I can tell that something is about to happen because he starts making this whining sound out his nose, like a cross between a snotty little kid and a puppy, and then he pulls his head back hard.

Right at that moment I happen to be biting his lower lip, so that when his head jerks I taste his blood in my mouth, like sucking on a copper penny, and I feel something warm and wet squirt on my stomach. I watch the brown in his eyes disappear, leaving only the whites behind.

Now we are lying on my bed. Ricky is trying to catch his breath while I just breathe through my mouth. I look down and see a drop of sperm, about the size of a dime, sitting on one of the packages of socks I'm supposed to take camping with me.

I get up off the bed and throw the socks into a duffel bag, not really caring anymore what I bring or don't bring on the stupid camping trip.

But I swear to G.o.d that if my ex-best friend calls me a c.u.m-eating f.a.ggot I'll kick him hard in the b.a.l.l.s.

Marlene Hoeber Bio Marlene Hoeber is a long time queer, kink, trans, s.e.x- positive, feminist, social justice activist and a devout pervert. She is currently Director of Collections at the archive of the Center for s.e.x & Culture. Marlene was a founding member of the world's first college campus based BDSM organization in 1991. She is also president of the Northern California chapter of the Liberal Gun Club, a member of the board of directors of the Center for s.e.x & Culture, and also a member of the board of directors of the IMsL Foundation. She also has a day job.

Mini-Interview Do you write under your own name? I do write under my own name. I have been doing s.e.x-related activism of one sort or another for 25 years. I made my first decisions about using my own name in that context both when I was young and fearless, but also when we were all dying and fearlessness was how we did everything. I have decided in the interim that I can stick with those early decisions. I think that they have been good for me. Like everyone, I have done things that I am less proud of than other things, but if I am living (a small) part of my life in public, it is very important to me that I be honest.

What's the inside scoop on your story? This story started as a series of emails between my partner, Dorian Katz, and I. She is an artist (see cover ill.u.s.tration drawing) and I am very supportive of her career. I began at one point joking about being the "artwife." There was, for much of the second half of the 20th century, a myth that the real Lee Krasner scuttled her own career as an artist in deference to the career of her partner, Jackson Pollock. This is not true. s.e.xism in the art world is what diminished her career. I began writing to Dorian as Lee writing to Jackson, snarkily complaining about that public perception, simultaneously taking about actual things Dorian and I were doing regarding her art career, and also we were writing each other love letters and talking dirty to each other in character. The notion of Lee as the aggressive top when away from the public eye seemed to perfectly skewer the old s.e.xist myth.

Letter to My Girlfriend Marlene Hoeber Lee Krasner c/o Guggenheim 30 W. 57th St.

New York, New York April 4, 1947 Jackson Pollock The Springs, New York Dearest Jacks, It's almost as cold today as you can be. It's almost as wet today as you can get me.

I know days like this can be hard on your old bones, my darling Jack. Come back into the house to warm up, if your hands get too cold in the studio. I wish I was there to warm them up for you. Put some sugar and hot water in your gin, that's good for you when it rains.

I know you hate working when it's cold. I know the paint drops differently, but you are so much happier when you just keep going. Maybe you'll find new things with the paint working differently, thicker, slower.

Oh, it was so horrible last night, Jack. I had to go to this horrible dinner event and all the d.a.m.n Guggenheims were there. You think we aren't always that fond of Peggy, well, the rest of them are real barbarians. They know all about oil and silver, but are positively stupid about everything else. They don't even know what good booze is. I have a headache that screams Courvoisier.

All is well, no worries. I did my duty as the good art-wife. I put a face to where Peggy sends a trickle of their riches. I was "interesting" for them. I even held my tongue when one of the uncles started going on about splashes of paint that a monkey could make.

I wanted to ask him if he knew where I could find a monkey that f.u.c.ks like an angel and pours gin over my t.i.ts. I wanted to know if he could really train a monkey to beg for my c.u.n.t so sweetly that I can't resist. I didn't ask any of these things. I had another drink and smiled something stupid about how everyone has differing taste in art.

After dinner, the bunch of us staying at Peggy's place went back there to continue the party. Peggy went on and on about how she has never been with a woman but the prospect seems so in-ter-es-ting. She kept looking at me when she said these things. She is such a hideous bore. I don't think any amount of money could make it worth her bourgeois obsession with the daring and in-ter-es-ting. I thought one was supposed to be jaded by as much wealth as she has. Didn't she get this bit of exploration done with at Radcliffe or Sarah Lawrence or wherever it was that she went? You know that I have nothing against women, but she is so horrible!

I ran into David Smith yesterday. He is planning to come visit you in a day or two. I put two cases of gin in the back of his truck for you. It's the good stuff. I charged it on Peggy's account. Make sure you get both cases. You know how David can be.

This is important-I told David that your black eye and broken nose are from a bar fight. It might spoil your reputation as a tough old drunk for everyone to know that your injuries are from me.

Would David be able to look either of us in the face if you had to explain that I broke your nose grinding my c.u.n.t into it? Let them think you are belligerent. Let them think you rail against the world. I know that all I have to do is lift my skirt and the great f.u.c.king genius of the twentieth century begs on his knees to do whatever I want. If you are a genius, Jackson, it is as my toilet.

I can't wait to be home. It's the only place I don't have to hear about Jackson f.u.c.king Pollock, the Greatest f.u.c.king American Painter. I can't wait to be in my own studio. I'm tired of everything always being about you. If there wasn't a little hate, I suppose the love wouldn't be so sweet.

I wish I was waiting for you in the kitchen, by the big wood stove. I'll be there for drunken s.e.x and lunch soon enough. Just ten more days, my sweet grumpy. We'll be in each other's arms soon. I'll be as rough or as sweet as you want, old man. I'll give you whatever you want, as long as I can be with you. I touch myself thinking of you when I go to bed. I wonder if Peggy hears me moaning your name in the dark. I hope she doesn't hear the other names for you I whisper at the ceiling: Worm, Fool, b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I miss your rough hands on my skin, even though I always tell you to try the new soap to make them softer. I miss that b.u.mp on your nose, too. I miss you in my mouth and in my c.u.n.t and in my a.s.s.

I'll be on the late train next Friday. Jack, will you f.u.c.k me in the car in the train station parking lot?

Answer me when I am there with you.

Love L.K.

Christine Solano Bio Christine Solano is the pen name of a poet, writer and photographer who lives in San Francisco. Among her previously published erotica is the story "Walls of Fire," which appeared in Herotica 5.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? I don't see a clear boundary between the erotic and the non-erotic in my writing, it's a continuum. I can only write about my experiences, including my fantasies and fears. Some of it turns out to have s.e.xual content, some of it can be scary, sometimes both.

Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? I wear many hats, including as a writer, but I started as a poet at an early age and will likely end up as one. In between, I continue to write fiction and non-fiction, mostly the latter.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? The ERC is a special place where I meet and hear voices that are at the edge of my usual circles, which I love. The range of flavors of erotic experiences presented on any given evening is inspiring, intriguing, and mind-and body-tingling. I only wish I could attend more often.

Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? Do you have any concerns about publishing erotic work? I use a pen name for erotic work mainly because it frees me to share some very personal experiences and feelings while protecting both the innocent and the less-so.

Gift Christine Solano You're the gift I stole wrapped between my legs I tied you up licking each salty drop I tell myself again this is the last time again wondering why in German "gift"

means "poison"

Ordinary Time Christine Solano Afterwards a measure of peace our skins cooling, my hand counting your heartbeat slowing down we share a beer, we tell jokes, like friends would I wipe away the taste lingering from your last kiss that chilling flavor of so long *

"You were once wild here.

Don't let them tame you."

- Isadora Duncan Tori Adams Bio Tori Adams is currently a doctoral student in Gender & Women's Studies. Her work focuses on stigma and violence surrounding abject ident.i.ties, and looks towards popular and visual culture for points of a.n.a.lyses.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? Back when I wrote this story, my writing predominantly took on a confessional, private tone. Almost everything I worked on was true to my life and experiences. I realized people accessed these writings with their own arousals and histories, and began to play up the erotic aspects of these memories. Perhaps surprisingly, I find myself toning down or taming erotic writing in contrast to non-erotic in order to make pieces easier to engage with s.e.xually and politically.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? The Erotic Reading Circle and the Center for s.e.x and Culture are both supportive environments for discovering your own creative and s.e.xual expressions. Receiving feedback from others working within the erotic genre was helpful in the 'telling a story' vs 'telling my story' distinction; the Erotic Reading Circle helped to make my writing consumable. Regular writing groups take the distance between stories and their writers for granted, and may not provide the same feedback necessary for this type of work. Additionally, the parts that improve a non-erotic story often differ widely from that which could better an erotic story.

Do you write under your own name? I am writing under my own name. Though I do have privacy concerns with current and future sharing, both the span of years and amount of personal progression that have occurred since writing this piece makes it feel more protected.

What's the inside scoop on your story? The person I wrote this story about and I are still close friends, and recounting this vignette is one of our favorite party tricks.

Red Paint Tori Adams Two women toy with power and calculated edge play in the form of fingerpainting July 2010 She smiled at me. The corners of her teeth poked from her lips, almost hidden in the flaking dryness, her thin blood pressing out. Watching me watch her lips, she slowly, slowly, put her pen down. I could hear both ends. .h.i.t the table. She tucked her hair around her ear to pinch the cigarette that I hadn't noticed, and drew it down to her lips. I wondered briefly if she had just done a magic trick, pulled it out from the nowhere s.p.a.ce behind her ear. She sucked on the cold paper, not lighting it. The blood on her lips smeared around the white. It was grotesque; she was beautiful.

I stood to move closer. She shrieked a bit, "Sit down, I didn't tape you!" I ignored her. Of course, I wasn't ignoring her; I don't think I have or really ever could. I moved to her, knelt down in front of her. See, I thought, I'm still yours completely, I'm not disobeying. That's really how things were, and how I felt.

"What would you do if I died?" she asked me. I shook my head. "No, really. What if I just-" She looked around. "-what if I drank this jar of paint?" She plucked the gla.s.s up and held it in front of my face. "I could."

"You couldn't."

Had I really said that? Hadn't I known that was a dare?

She smiled at me. It wasn't a sweet glance, it wasn't gentle. She unscrewed the cap like she was f.u.c.king it, without ceremony or preamble, finger rubbing the rim like it was hot, breathing flesh. I gasped a bit. The cap was off. She was still rubbing along it, sometimes dipping her hand in. We both watched it come up bright red. In flagrante delicto. It all looked too familiar. She brought her fingers to her lips, and I thought for a moment she was going to put it along her wet slices of mouth. I saw images of little kids playing adult, tubes of pretend lipstick, of how these accidental poisonings happened. She knew better than that. She opened her mouth, not wide enough to distort her face (she was still play-acting here), opened just an inch, maybe less. She stuck her painted finger in her mouth, rubbing it clean along her gums, and pulled it out with a smack- pop sound. She licked her tongue against the next one, easing it slowly into her mouth, twirling her tongue on the stiffness. She pulled both fingers out clean, and looked at them triumphantly. I didn't move. She picked up the jar again, not even glancing at the inside. She raised it to me in mock toast, and then paused, tilting for a second. She was waiting for me to stop her, but just a slight moment. I didn't. She leaned her head back and started pouring the red paint into her mouth. She made circles with her hand. I didn't see her grimace, not once. She swallowed easily and looked at me. She had a small drop of the paint on her chin. I rose and moved towards her. I wiped it off with my hand, rubbing it onto my skirt. I didn't know what to say.

When she smiled again, red streaked her teeth in a way it never did when she sucked my c.u.n.t. I smelled no iron or natural scent, and the way the red bled to pink against the white was stiff and hollow, like flicking a nail against bright plastic. I moved closer, holding her mouth on mine; her tongue seemed to fall into me, slight but forcefully. I could feel the paint, wondered at the toxins pinching my taste buds. I heard the pen she'd still held hit the floor. She twisted her arms above her head, and I slipped onto her. Though she was without any doubt the dominant one, it was me who stayed busy when we'd f.u.c.k; she'd laze with seemingly melting bones and I'd sometimes feel like I was fanning her, dropping grapes into her waiting teeth, always a slave, while still my fingers curved almost violently inside her, thumb tapping and yanking at her c.l.i.t, fingers twined through rusty hair to pull her head back further.

Today, though, I moved slower, more languorously. I crouched comfortably between her thighs, feeling ready heat from her p.u.s.s.y. My teeth went from the skin below her breast up to around her flushed nipple, leaving small pale divots; they gaped like jaws. She moaned with extra air, staying in control with firm hands on my shoulders, inching towards clasping at my neck. "Hands," she sighed out, and mine went to her. I held the wide bones of her hips as I dragged her closer to me, moving fingers to smooth open her warm lips. We shook the table, knocking wooden legs, and the almost-empty jar spilled over. Red flicked against us like spittle. I changed my pace, the quickening of her breath kept my speed. My mouth met where her hands were teasing; I flicked my tongue over her curly hair, and flattened it to press her open. She parted slightly, lips keeping a secret. I lapped at her, letting my teeth catch intentionally. When my nose touched against her c.l.i.t, I paused; bringing my hand closer to strum at her, I stuck my other fingers to my mouth. I spit onto them, dragging nails into the warmth of my closed lips coated with her wetness, making them slippery like her, for her. "Girl, girl, sweetheart, b.i.t.c.h." She mumbled out endearments like an incantation, she said my name like it was a command. I leaned so she could thread herself onto me as I met her with shaking hands.

She came silently with her mouth and eyes open; they were colored the same red.

She rolled away from me, and I thought about taking her to the hospital, maybe the emergency room. I could imagine how they would see us, wide-eyed and wild, dripped with red, fingerprints and nail digs marked against our smeared sweat. She'd walk in first, me guiding her; they wouldn't know what to make of us, which part to fix first. It wasn't what she needed. I stopped her then. With my hand reaching around her back, I mouthed against her ear.

"Kate," my tongue tapping at the coiled skin, "let's play nurse, 'kay?" She let me take her into the bathroom.

Vince Clarthough Bio Vince Clarthough (not his real name) is a programmer, statistician, and writer of erotica living on Oakland, California. The die rolls described in the story were generated randomly by a computer program, for added verisimilitude.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? I started writing about s.e.x because it seemed low-pressure compared to other forms of writing.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I would not feel comfortable reading my erotica to a "normal" writing group. I enjoy seeing the variety of erotica that different people in the group have written; it reminds me of the many different ways people experience s.e.xuality.

Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? I do not publish under my own name and I'm sad that I can't brag on Facebook about getting published. :( What's the inside scoop on your story? I don't remember how the original idea for "The Long Odds" came to me, but mostly worked out the details while my mother was visiting and I had to drive her to and from San Jose several times. I decided to make it an experiment in realism by generating all those hundreds of die rolls from a computer program and basing the history of the couple around those results.

The Long Odds Vince Clarthough Lauren has two sixes. She squints over her gla.s.ses and wrinkles her nose to show me how serious this is.

I snicker, just to p.i.s.s her off. It works. "Laugh while you can, doucheface."

She grabs for the die, but I catch her hand in mine. She grabs with the other and I catch that, too. Her anger dissolves into h.o.r.n.y submission, and she barely struggles when I take her ponytail in my fist and force her to kiss me. When I'm done, I slap her, just to remind her I can.

She whimpers and does her little girl voice.

"Oh, Master. You'd better hope I don't get lucky tonight, or you'll be in big trouble."

She mocks me, but the odds are still five-to-one in my favor. It's been two hundred and sixty-nine days since we last switched, and this is the seventh time she's rolled two sixes in one night. Last time that happened was fifty-nine nights ago. She was so hungry for the third six that time; I guess she thought fate owed her.

She's hungry for it now, too; plain as vengeance in her eyes. She makes me wish I believed in fate.

We've been playing this game for longer than three years now-one thousand, five hundred and eighty-five days, to be exact. Back then we were both curious about dominance and submission, but neither one wanted to be the top. So we flipped a coin. She's got an old Eisenhower dollar we use for things like that. It turned up heads, so I had to boss her around for the night.

Speaking of which.

"Go wash the dishes, slave. You can throw your last die after you're done."

She starts to roll her eyes, but catches herself and gets up to do what I told her. Like a good little slave girl.

She sways her hips for me on the way to the sink.

That first night was clumsy, but we liked it enough that we flipped the coin again the next night. I won that toss, too, with tails. She won the third and fourth nights, and by then we were addicted. I came up with the game on the fifth night. She agreed to play, and I won the coin toss to see who started on top.

Every night the bottom rolls a die. If she gets a six, she rolls again. If she gets a second six, she rolls a third time, and if that one comes up six, we switch. Every night there's one chance in two hundred sixteen that power changes hands.

But Lauren started with a run of bad luck. I stayed on top for two years, exploring my power, making her worship my c.o.c.k, bake me cupcakes, change the kitty litter, whatever. I wasn't creative back then.

Lauren was creative, though. After eight hundred and five days she finally got her third six, and she put me through six months of creativity.

She bought me panties, schoolgirl-plaid, and made me wear them to work under my suit. Sometimes when I got home, she'd make me mix her a Brandy Alexander and she'd sip it while I ate her p.u.s.s.y, or else she'd make me dust the Venetian blinds wearing nothing but those panties. Other times she'd sit in my lap and tell me about the skinny hipster chick she used to make out with in grad school, while forbidding me from touching myself.

These thoughts excite me, so I go behind Lauren and molest her while she runs the hot water. I pinch her nipples and rub my c.o.c.k on her thigh through my jeans, and she squirts more Joy into the water than she meant to.

On the one hundred and nineteenth evening of her reign, I rolled lucky. She got f.u.c.ked three times that night, and not once gently. We got married in April of that year, and I got her a leash and a collar with steel O-rings. Garish, I suppose. But then, who needs subtlety when you can make your wife beg for a.n.a.l s.e.x?

To love and to cherish, and all that. I whisper hot breath in her ear. "One in six. You'll never make it." She flips me the bird.

"a.s.swipe."

But she only half means it. I reach under her skirt and finger her while she scrubs the forks, and she's absolutely filthy-soaking wet. Probably she's thinking about what she'll do to me when she rolls that last six. She's not the only one who gets turned thinking about that.

Three hundred and fourteen days into my second run as top, she won the roll and I had to wear the collar. Naturally, she wanted to pay me back by f.u.c.king me in the a.s.s with a strap-on. So she started me with a little b.u.t.t plug, and then she moved me up to a bigger one, and then she never got a chance because six days later I rolled three sixes and put the collar right back on her.

Not fair in the least, but that's the kind of world we live in.

She's a good sport, which is fortunate because in total I've had the power something like seven times as long as she has. I've explained her about probability theory and independent events, the ex post facto fallacy and how the human mind insists on seeing false patterns in the outcomes of random processes, but Lauren still thinks the Fates are supreme b.i.t.c.hes.

Once she's finished the dishes, I can't justify making her wait any longer, so I let her roll.

She stares bullwhips at me and cups the die with both hands. If she wins, she won't risk waiting even a single night before having her way with me. Not this time.

She tosses the die. It skitters across the table, bounces off the pepper mill ... and comes up a four.

The End.

Anain Bjorkquist Bio Anain Bjorkquist is a writer, speaker and wellness coach who helps women develop their subtle strength by teaching them when to turn on and when to let go. She also loves to t.i.tillate readers of her monthly newsletter, "s.e.x Love Joy Uncensored," by including an erotic story. Find more at anainbjorkquist.com.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? When my marriage began to fall apart, I started writing about s.e.x publicly. At first it was extremely scary to hit publish on essays that detailed my s.e.xual trials and triumphs, but quickly it worked better than therapy. The only difference between my s.e.x writing/erotica and my non-erotic writing is the lack of s.e.x. The inspiration for all my writing is my life; there are always pieces of me in every piece I pen.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? Reading pieces in writing groups usually is intimidating for me but reading in the Erotic Reading Circle is absolutely liberating! Nothing compares to bringing s.e.x scenes alive by speaking them aloud in front of other erotica writers who eagerly await with nonjudgmental ears and succulent constructive criticism.

Do you write under your own name? One of the first things I did on the road towards defiantly cultivating my own expression of womanhood was to start writing online without hiding behind anonymity. Being able to share my experiences as both a woman of color and a mother, knowing people knew who I was, helped me be more honest with myself and others.

What's the inside scoop on your story? This story was inspired by reality. Although not all the action in this story is true, what is absolutely TRUE is that Tina's "bag of tricks" exists and often claims victims in sunny South Florida.

My Desire for Women Anain Bjorkquist My c.u.n.t has never led me astray. She usually speaks more clearly than my heart. The lovers who she doesn't like my heart also eventually grows to dislike. So, I knew that if my c.u.n.t desired women then I should follow her lead. Was I bis.e.xual?! I didn't know, but I experimented with it. I thought that, just like with men, when the right "one" broke the dam in my c.u.n.t the truth about my s.e.xuality would spill over. It was then that the Celestial Planning G.o.ddesses sent Tina my way.

Tina was divine: a pretty face and voluptuous body. She had the most perky, full, natural b.r.e.a.s.t.s I had ever seen. Everything about her was fine but nothing was as gorgeous to me as the sight of Tina bent over in front of me. Her dark v.u.l.v.a looked back at me with a glimpse of p.u.s.s.y pink glowing with wetness-tempting me! Tina and I had several quick encounters at s.e.x parties from time to time but never played together without our men. All I could do for months was fantasize about playing in Tina's box, tasting her again and figuring out if I could let go enough to enjoy s.e.x with women as much as I dreamed that I could.

At a hotel s.e.x party Tina cornered me, quickly placing a pa.s.sionate kiss on me, causing me to open my mouth and reach into hers with my tongue. She swirled her tongue around mine then pressed her lips around my tongue. She sucked on my tongue, smacked my a.s.s hard, then rubbed on my booty, making it all better as she pulled her mouth away from mine. My nipples hardened as she whispered something into my ear about how tonight she was going to make time for us to finally finish what we had started so many times before. My face and torso blushed from the rush of antic.i.p.ation. I hoped she would follow through because all I could think about was my mouth on her p.u.s.s.y.