I’ve been exploring erotica. I tend to write out a first draft in bits. Then I expand upon. I’m a sprinter, less of a runner, so I capture scenes. I rarely go beyond that. Here’s a piece that dropped out this morning. Literally just the first pass on it. Let me know what you think. He stood in the doorway and I turned to retrieve his parcel from the kitchen counter where I placed it earlier. My stark white asscheeks mooning below my cotton shorts. As I neared the archway to the kitchen I felt him. His large hands took both my left hip and my right arm. He pressed me and my hands splayed out against the eggshell wall. Only a sliver of air was between us, and my ear caught his desirous breath. I relaxed, allowing him to take me in. I could tell he’s been waiting for such an opportunity. I noticed him immediately when he moved in, curious what being in his arms would feel like. He leaned in close, and announced his arousal. I smiled, acknowledging, and I looked down, inviting him to my neck. He brushed my hair away and I felt his lips on my nape. He released a small sound of satisfaction. His cock twitched against my back. I moved my feet apart, and he removed all the distance between us. His cock was rock hard. His hands explored my skin. I turned my head and looked at him, giving him my consent. He swept my asscheeks with his palms and I spread my legs a little bit more. He ran his index finger just under the trim of my shorts, our breath building together. He cupped my asscheek, and the length of his finger reached my lips wet opening. I attempted to press back only to have him press me harder against the wall. I felt his cock pulse as he slid two fingers inside me. He moaned at how wet I was and kept his lips on my neck. His fingers began a steady rhythm. I held onto the wall for steadiness. His other hand reached under my tshirt and around to my breast. I twisted slowly to face him. Our lips met and we kissed. Soft and inquisitive at first, then fully. Hungrily. He turned me to face him and as we kissed he removed my clothing. I was raw and naked in front of him. His eyes looked at all of me, and I have never been so seen. My eyes followed his as he examined all of me. I was so aroused my juices couldn’t be contained and they escaped down my inner thighs. My nipples were erect. My skin was alive. I stood still, waiting for him. Looking at my fully aroused body he removed his clothing. The afternoon sun caught his ebony skin and showed me his sweat. His cocks tip glistened. The lust that was hanging between us was heavy and rich. He took his time, and when he was ready he stepped towards me. I motioned to the bedroom but he led me to the couch. He leaned me over the high sofas arm and slid into me. His thick cock filled me and I moaned.

Some filthy flash fiction (explicit sex) ---- The most lucrative attraction of the traveling circus from the Far East was never featured on the billing. Only word of mouth brought curious patrons to the small tent hidden behind the big top. And most, when told of the ten shilling entrance fee by the attending clown, beat a hasty retreat. Surely no circus act was worth that? Even the name didn’t suggest wonders worth the price. “Hercules and the Hummingbird.” Presumably they had a strongman, and perhaps he’d taught a hummingbird to hover over his head or something. Not a sight they’d part with a week’s wages to see. But those that coughed up the coppers did not regret it. They spoke of what they’d seen in hushed whispers for years to come. Elspeth was there on a recommendation from her cousin in Singapore. Mary had told her she simply must see the act. Elspeth had required her maid Vicki to dress her up as a commoner, for it would not be the done thing to be seen frequenting a circus of all things. And so uncharted was the territory she’d be venturing into, she insisted Vicki accompany her. The two alighted from the cab, and with bonnets strung tight over their heads, they navigated their way through the rabble to the rear of the big top. The noise, smells, and dirt of the trampled mud all assaulted Elspeth’s senses, and she swore she’d take cousin Mary to task if this ordeal wasn’t worth it. A pantomime clown took their money with a ridiculously wide grin. “Enjoy the show, ladies,” he bellowed and opened the tent flap for them. Inside, two rows of bench seats in a semicircle faced nothing more than a low rectangular table, with a blanket spread upon it and an old pillow at one end. At the other end sat a plump woman with a cheery face, dressed in rags, and a maid’s cap much like the one Vicki wore. Her legs dangled from the table as she appeared to inspect each audience member with a cheeky smile and an occasional wink. Above her, the sparse interior was lit by a single kerosene lantern hanging precariously from the tent pole.

You're welcome to read this, but it was really just to test the length limit of posts. it appears to be at least 11,000 words lol. Chapter One: If the Dress Fits Frey marveled at her surroundings as she was escorted to the royal table. Opulence oozed from every corner of the banquet hall. Grandiose chandeliers, burning hundreds of candles, hung from the vaulted ceiling. They cast a flickering golden hue over the rich tableau below. “How did they light those candles all the way up there?” She mumbled to herself as a servant pulled her chair out. She stepped towards the table and waited for the chair to be slid under her before lowering her bottom as delicately as possible. “They winch them down, light them, and winch them back up,” the servant replied in a low whisper as he leaned over and spread a napkin across her lap. “You might see the pulleys attached to the cross beams if you look hard enough.” Frey blushed and chastised herself. She should be more careful. A proper princess would, of course, know how they lit the candles. Or, more likely, wouldn’t care. Keep your mouth shut, silly girl! Beneath the chandeliers, white linen dressed a dozen long feasting tables. Their silver and crystal place settings reflected distorted images of the diners taking their seats. Bedecked in exquisite fineries, the kingdom’s richest and most influential characters were earnestly engaged in high society chatter and gossip. They canoodled and cackled while waving their goblets at scurrying waiters. She admired the gowns worn by the ladies. She knew from her mother that fabric of any blue shade came at great expense, being the most difficult dye to procure from nature. Here there was a predominance of blue and indigo, violet and mauve on display. Clearly, these people enjoyed exhibiting their wealth. Almost as much as they enjoyed the King’s wine. But the garments were nothing compared to her own dress. An azure cloud of mulberry silk floated around her. Without breasts large enough to hold the strapless garment aloft, handmaidens had used hidden tape, stuck directly to her skin. Frey fought the urge to scratch her itching chest.

From "The Butterfly Defect" a novel currently at 150,000 words that will never see the light of day. In this scene, Tracy, having already been led to the dark side by Simon before he died, finds out what he left her in his will. And when she wonders what to do about it, she finds out even more about herself. -------- The contents of the box revealed themselves to be eighty thousand pounds in cash, which Tracy asked Adam to bank for her, a tangled bunch of war medals, pouches of rare coins and a rust stained dagger with a swastika and "SS" engraved in the hilt. She recoiled at the last item. "Is that what I think it is?" "It is. And it's illegal in the UK and most of Europe, being genuine Nazi memorabilia." When he saw Tracy frown, he added. "Oh, don't worry, it wasn't Simon's originally. He liberated it from East Berlin after the war. Nevertheless, you can't put it on the open market without risking a stiff penalty. But we have contacts if you'd like us to sell it for you?" Tracy thought for a while. Her first instinct was to have it destroyed, but her inner, darker voice spoke up. To do so would be to invalidate whatever Simon had endured to acquire it. Maybe even death-defying efforts, for all she knew. And who was she to just write that off? If he'd wanted it destroyed, it wouldn't be here. But still… "What would you think of me if I tried to make money from that?" she asked. Adam took a large swig of whisky. "It's irrelevant what I'd think of you," he said, turning the dagger so it caught the light. "I suspect you know that. But you also might like to know that I wouldn't care in the least. See, this firm has quite a niche clientele, with Simon, and now yourself being prime examples. It's okay, don't be shy about it." He placed the dagger back on the table and flicked it into a slow spin with a pudgy finger. When the spin slowed, then stopped, it was pointing right at her. "You're special, Tracy. It's no surprise you and Simon found each other. We're a little special here, too. People have their own interpretations of morality. You, Simon, me and the other members of this firm share an interpretation that's somewhat distant from the middle of the bell curve, shall we say?" He looked up from the dagger and right into her eyes. "You've not only entertained Simon's butterfly collecting, as he called it, but you've enjoyed it too, yes?"

Transgressive fiction has a way of getting under your skin and staying there. Bret Easton Ellis, Cormac McCarthy, Chuck Palahniuk, Flannery O'Connor — these writers didn't ask for permission to go dark. They just went. So we want to know: What's the one book that made you feel genuinely uncomfortable — and you loved it for that? Did it influence your own writing? Would you recommend it here, or is it too much even for this crowd? Drop it in the comments. No judgement. This is exactly the place for it.