EllaRegina

Unmentionable of Mention

2010-08-06T21:33:00.040-04:00

Images: "Bra" by Annie Pootoogook
"Tour Eiffel. Lace pantys" by Endru

Word is getting around about Sex in the City: Paris and some words are being scribbled about my story in particular!

Victoria Blisse (BlisseBlog) writes:

"The Red Brassiere" by EllaRegina is not only clever but entertainingly vivid and sensual too. It is flirty and light and then serious and passionate [...] [,] a wonderful flight of fancy that carries you along with French abandonment from beginning to end.

Steven Hart at Erotica Revealed made me blush with his review:

By far for me, however, the best story in this anthology is EllaRegina's "The Red Brassiere," an homage to the film, "The Red Balloon," by Lamorrisse made in 1956. This story is a truly outrageous surreal fantasy about a flying red brassiere that magically becomes the seductress of all the men in the multi-national capitol of France. I will not spoil this story with further plot elucidation, but I will say that it is a work of delightfully playful story telling that authentically lifts the heart. And that's what makes it so perfect, because despite the endless struggles of urban life, Paris is a city that truly is available to the open heart when it is supported with élan, a little charm and a sense of humor.

I'm also quite thrilled that Xcite Books selected The Red Brassiere as the free extract to represent the anthology. You can do the extracting here. [Click on the Free Extract format bullet, then Add to Basket and Checkout. (Free) registration is required.]

Paris is coming...

2010-05-05T00:15:00.037-04:00

Video: Oh La La by Isabella Rossellini.
...in more ways than one!

Sex in the City: Paris is the second in a series of gemlike anthologies inspired by and devoted to the erotic lives of various cities, brought to you by none other than genius editor Maxim Jakubowski and published by Xcite Books.

From Monsieur Jakubowski's introduction:

Cities are not just about monuments and museums and iconic places, they are also about people at love and play in unique surroundings. With this in mind, these anthologies of erotica will imaginatively explore the secret stories of famous cities and bring them to life, by unveiling passion and love, lust and sadness, glittering flesh and sexual temptation, the art of love and a unique sense of place.

Sex in the City: Paris is available as a printed book/PDF/ebook, and an iPhone/iPod/iPad app.

My contribution, The Red Brassiere, the book's finale—merci beaucoup, cher Maxim!—pays homage to an early cinematic memory. Spoiler: my celluloid madeleine can be viewed in its entirety here.

We'll always have Paris, cheri.

May Your Celebrations Be Felicitous!

2009-12-31T23:44:00.006-05:00

The Green Room, a Story

2009-10-22T22:30:00.016-04:00

A theatrical interlude... The result of another Alison Tyler flasher contest -- this piece is roughly 1,000 words -- where inspiration was an artistic rendering (above) by Mr. Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes. This tale is also the companion piece to Fucking Green, a lustfully verdant palate-cleanser hosted by the most hospitable Donna George Storey. Ticket, please!

The Green Room
© 2008-2009 by EllaRegina
I've always been a sucker for Broadway. Some productions appeal to me more than others and so it was with WICKED. As it happens I also had a crush on the woman who played the Wicked Witch of the West, otherwise known as Elphaba. I didn't know her actual name—despite my devotion to show business I never look at a PLAYBILL—but it was love at first sight. I simply had to have her.

I went to matinées almost every week. I attended nightly performances on a regular basis. I hung around stage door and finally got her autograph. She wasn't green then, except for her eyes. The long nose was off but she was no less dazzling. And, when she signed my PLAYBILL with her green Sharpie and looked straight into my baby blues, I knew and she knew it, too.

The next week there I was, Thursday night, ten to eight, center Orchestra, ninth row: just perfect. When Elphaba came on stage she looked directly at me and I nearly lost it. According to legend, after the Beatles performed on the Ed Sullivan Show the audience seats required re-upholstering, so copious was the collective female effluvia. I was producing quite a stream myself, leaving behind a sopping bouquet for whomever would be sweeping up gum wrappers post-curtain.

Right before intermission Elphaba gave me a special wink. I knew what it meant and I knew what to do. It was going to be a longer break than usual that night. Something had gone wrong with a gobo light filter—green of course—and they needed extra time for its repair. I snuck backstage. I knew this theater like a blind man knows how many paces take him to the bus stop. I found Elphaba in her Green Room, sitting on the make-up counter, pointy boots swinging, drinking Coca-Cola from a bottle, the old-fashioned kind, made with thick green glass. Everything in the room was green: the walls, the daybed, the flowers, stuffed animals from fans... And, Elphaba.

She motioned for me to come closer. We would never exchange a word. I knew she was capable of speech—and of singing!—but we communicated in other ways. She started taking off her costume. Even with her nose she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She threw her black dress on a green vinyl armchair and undid several more layers until she got to her flesh—all of it green. I had read somewhere that she was a Method actress and liked to stay in character while costumed. She demanded the full body coat of green, though most of it would not be visible on stage. She was regal, like the Statue of Liberty, only naked and in a different hue—more of an emerald, like her eyes. She even dyed her pubic hair for the role. Never was there a more dedicated actress.

Elphaba gestured that I disrobe and I did. When my clothes were off, none of them the proper color, she put her soft green-nailed fingers over my eyes and gently slid the lids shut.

It felt funny at first—like having your teeth cleaned with that mini-sandblaster—the paint sprayer going over my body. Elphaba was good at this. She did it every day. And it was easier airbrushing someone else. I dried quickly and was all hers. She drew me close, her green lips meeting mine in a verdant kiss. It took a few seconds to adjust to the nose—it was all in the angle. If I'd had pants on I would have peed in them. I had to lie down, it was far too much for me. I was shaking.

Elphaba sensed my nervousness and led me to the daybed where we lay down together. We continued kissing, our red tongues the only things out of order color-wise, though with red being the complement to green maybe not. I wrapped my green legs around hers. She took me in her green arms. She smelled like a Granny Smith apple, like grass, like basil, like cucumber, certainly nothing like a witch. The paint tasted of kiwi, of springtime, of lime all-day suckers. I couldn't stop licking her. She couldn't stop licking me. Fortunately the paint was saliva-proof; she needed to be onstage in a half-hour.

Elphaba's face found its way to my pussy, or the other way around, and there I was, sitting in a Green Room at the Gershwin Theatre on West 51st Street in New York City, with a green nose fucking the life out of my green-sprayed pussy. She was talented, Elphaba was. The best lover a girl could have. It was a shame she had to take the nose off each night—it had magical powers—but I bet she had other tricks. I came on her face, my juices making the paint glossy. Then I put my head between her green legs and spread them wide, putting my tongue inside her, finding the one place that made her wiggle. With the help of a few fingers I located it. Perhaps they named the G-spot after the color green. I made her come with my hands and mouth and she arched her green body in delight. It's funny—in the theater world wearing green is considered bad luck, but for Elphaba and me it was anything but. The clock seemed not to be ticking but I knew that it was. Soon there was a knock on the door and an announcement: curtain going up in ten minutes.

We put ourselves back together. I hoped I would see Elphaba again, like this, but who could be sure? I know I'm not her only fan. In five minutes I was reinstalled atop my damp seat, not concerned in the least that everyone was staring at me and probably wondering why I was green. I bet they could figure it out. But I didn't care who knew. And shortly, after the orchestra tuned up for the final time, the curtain rose and there was my green girl, looking me straight in the eye. She smiled—her emerald skin framing luminous white teeth; a marquee lighting up the theater—and I knew we were the luckiest girls on Broadway.

Copyright 2008-2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

BLIND TASTING, a Story. (Complete Menu.)

2009-10-05T23:07:00.008-04:00

The editors of Sliptongue Magazine, with their most discerning and refined palate, have chosen my "culinary" exploration, Blind Tasting, for permanent display within their eternally-revolving virtual dessert showcase.

All courses, a full meal. Bring your utensils and an empty stomach.

John Lennon's Thighs

2009-08-19T03:27:00.019-04:00

John Lennon's Thighs
© 2009 by EllaRegina
It was the way they moved—legs spread apart, pulsing steadily, strongly—bouncing with the beat. She could imagine them through his narrow black pants, musculature toned and tense, well-shaped—almost girlishly-curved but manly without a question—Paul and George undeveloped by comparison. And John seemed to know what he was singing about—And when I touch you I feel happy inside... She wanted him to touch her. She wanted to make him happy inside—those thighs gripping her like a nutcracker as she leaned her mouth towards the microphone pointed at her from his groin. He could make her sing—and she would make his heart go boom.

On an index card she noted the exact timings where John's thighs appeared throughout the YouTube clip—including a solid twenty-one seconds during "I Saw Her Standing There," coming in strong and steady from 1:13; and twenty-four seconds at the final strums, from 2:36. In motion again beginning "I Want to Hold Your Hand"—especially nice between 4:56 and 5:11.

She played those bits repeatedly, the other Beatles non-existent—Ringo atop his circular platform, Paul, George—extraneous. John Lennon's thighs, over and again, just for her. And, if she concentrated hard enough, she thought, she could find the secret YouTube button to click: after shaking Ed Sullivan's hand, John would emerge from the screen—alive once more—and lie down with her on the living room couch, his thighs enveloping, pulsating. He would still be in out-of-focus black-and-white but she would not care—and she would let him be her man.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Manual Transmissions, a Story

2009-07-19T02:27:00.005-04:00

The sidecar companion piece to Rear View Auto Show. I'm on a roll, rolling down the highway...

Manual Transmissions
© 2008 by EllaRegina
I

While he was teaching me how to drive a stick I would grasp Alberto's flaccid cock in bed at night and review the day's lesson, using his flesh to move from first into second gear, then to third, idling in neutral, by which time he was usually hard and would fuck me well beyond fifth gear.

II

Sometimes, when Alberto was behind the wheel, I would reach across and try to pull his cock out and tease it as I had in bed. Were he not such an excellent driver we would have been killed several times, or arrested by the Carabinieri. Once, on the Autostrada del Sole, I leaned over Alberto's busy hand, coaxed his fat prick out of his baggy pants, put it between my lips and sucked him until he had to pull onto the shoulder and stop the car. If my skull had a blowhole Alberto would have spouted some Abstract Expressionism onto the soft ceiling upholstery.

III

The round-knobbed black leather stick shift on Alberto's Fiat was so inviting that I slid it into myself—once I'd sufficiently mastered the gears—using my pussy to shift up or down while Alberto manned the wheel and pedals. I was very happy to relinquish the clutch. We somehow managed this vehicular collaboration and tooled around most of Tuscany one summer quite successfully in this fashion—a shaft of leather and metal rammed inside me as I rode shotgun—my pussy driving the car. It was a great feeling, knowing how to work a stick.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Rear View Auto Show, a Story

2009-07-18T17:59:00.012-04:00

The result of another 250-word story contest presented by Alison Tyler: "Auto Erotica." No, not that kind of auto-erotica, but the sort involving sex and a vehicle. She invited us to start revving our engines and so I did, even though the particular automobile I describe is not moving. That would have been very dangerous.

Fasten your seatbelts for a nasty ride...

Rear View Auto Show
© 2008 by EllaRegina
Just the idea of it turned me on. Roger, too.

Me kneeling in our car trunk, naked from the waist down, ass and pussy hanging out, bungee cords holding the lid closed, hiding the rest of my body. We'd been driving cross-country when I thought of it, taking scenic-view pauses in designated highway stops.

Lots of semis were parked, especially at night, brawny Marlboro men in the front cabs trying to catch my eye. Furtive movements blurred below their windows; it was monkey-spank time for these lonely roadsters. So, I figured, why not help them out?

Roger suggested doing it Candid Camera-style. He'd hide within eyeshot until a curious trucker bounced from loaded rig to investigate. Then Roger would appear, make sure the driver wasn't Charles Manson, and hand over a condom.

"Yeah, that's my woman in there. She digs the idea of being fucked by a stranger. Go for it, dude."

He'd discreetly move out of range, letting the man have at me.

There was a string of them one night—Roger would make an ace pimp—and several of those latex-covered cocks made me scream and reel inside my little carpeted space, crowbar within reach should anybody get out of hand, but nobody did.

Sometimes a sweaty head poked in asking my name. I didn't want a name. I was just an ass and pussy getting fucked in the trunk of a car at a rest stop along the Interstate. The ultimate mooning—shining orb and telescopes, anonymous all.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

LINES, a Story

2009-07-09T12:46:00.005-04:00

I rubbed my shiny genie lamp mid-May and who should pop out in a fragrant wisp but my inspiration, Alison Tyler, with another 250-word story contest I'm hallucinating was originally called "All About Ink." At any rate, it was being held in honor of that particular liquid because Alison had just launched a blog dedicated to tattoos.

She led us to the diving boards: "Do with ink what you will. Tattoo you? Sure. Dip a quill pen in it? Fine," she cooed. And so, peering down into the deep dark possibility pool, I jumped...

LINES
© 2009 by EllaRegina
Eve had beautiful lines. She enjoyed showing them off. Mornings she visited each reporter's desk, loaded tray slung around neck—the office version of cigarette and candy girls pacing movie aisles at intermission, hawking their wares.

Eve was a filler girl. Her tray held ink bottles, dangerously-pointed unmolested nibs, typewriter ribbon spools, sharpened pencils, even packs of Lucky Strikes. She filled my inkwell just so—bending over the desk, behind slightly perked upward like a bunnytail, ample breasts oscillating above my writing pad. I could smell the perfumed handkerchief wedged between those glorious pendulums, see the minute rose tattoo anchoring Eve's nape to heart-stopping body. I had to have her.

I followed Eve to the supply closet. Her posterior twisted with her gait—angling right-left like windshield wipers—stocking seams running heels-skyward, directionals to Eve's fine rump. Always straight, those lines, perfect as the rest of her.

She locked the door behind us. A chair stood amid the supplies—I sat. Eve dove across my thighs, facedown, her lines' destination wiggling hello.

"Spank me."

My hand lifted and descended, slapping tweed.

"Harder."

I struck more forcefully.

"I need to feel it," she said, unzipping her skirt, slipping it floorward, leaving a view: pink satin tap-pants, garter belt ribbons securing stockings, unwavering seam lines.

I spanked repeatedly, producing high-decibel squeals.

"They might hear us, Eve. Quiet, or I'll have to fill your mouth with that handkerchief."

In my increased enthusiasm I rolled down underpants, garter belt, stockings, exposing porcelain skin—heels to mid-thigh tattooed with straight brown lines.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

K is for Kreativ.

2009-07-03T22:21:00.037-04:00

Another day, another surprise, or rather a double surprise. I was nominated for the mysterious Kreativ Blogger Award by two of my utterly awesome writer-magician friends. Yesterday, Donna George Storey paid me the honor and today Nikki Magennis followed suit.

I tried to trace this phenomenon's provenance but was overwhelmed by the Google search results. If anyone knows who started this thing please do tell.

Anyway, as the name implies, this award recognises a blogger who is creative -- I imagine -- in ways going above and beyond the usual, whatever that happens to be.

The Kreativ Blogger Award meme works like this: if you accept it, you are supposed to list seven of your favorite things and nominate seven blogs that deserve this award.

Now, I confess to having a problem with numbers -- i.e. making decisions from a multitude of excellent choices -- and I also do not wish to hurt feelings by inevitably leaving out bloggers who are no less Kreativ than the ones I select. And, I know that everyone is very busy, so although this chain -- in theory -- would ultimately remain unbroken, if the spirit doesn't move my nominees to pay it forward then by all means they should not.

That said, here we go:

These are a few (well, seven) of my favorite things, subject to change at any time, and in no particular order of importance. In their parts they are not the sum of me, but a random sampling of the whole:

1) My shredder, from Staples. No longer on their website otherwise I'd show you. Cheaper than therapy.

2) Paris. We'll always have it, you know?

3) Venice. Hopefully it will stay afloat.

4) My collection of oddball notebooks and journals (surely they'll all be filled one day!).

5) The telephone as a communication medium. I have an aural fixation.

6) Casablanca, the movie.

7) Flying.

*

I nominate the following bloggers, who manage to enlighten and surprise me with a zest of this or that, teaching me things I don't already know. I'm listing ten, not seven, because I nominated one of the people who tagged me, another was also named by someone else (sorry, couldn't help meself; they're just too damned Kreativ!) and because -- remember -- I am not very good with numbers:

1) P. S. Haven
2) Tara Alton
3) Marina St. Clare
4) Susie Bright
5) Joss Lockwood
6) Scarlett Greyson
7) Jeremy Edwards
8) Craig J. Sorensen
9) Alison Tyler
10) Nikki Magennis

Thank you, Donna and Nikki!

Tweet Me!

2009-07-03T19:15:00.008-04:00

New bird on the block: I don't know what possessed me but I now have a Twitter account. I have no idea what I will Twit about -- as if I need another distraction -- or how frequently, but here I am, newly flown in and ready to flap my wings with other birdies. If you want to follow me feel free. Right now I am in my cage, eating colorful bits of birdseed. Soon it's time for a bath. My feathers are a tad dirty. Tweet tweet!

Pina Bausch (27 July 1940 - 30 June 2009)

2009-07-02T02:12:00.010-04:00

R.I.P. Pina Bausch.

It's a Mystery! OR... Whodunnit?

2009-06-27T18:47:00.013-04:00

Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery
My suburban tale of debauchery, "Blind Tasting," appears in the newly-released eBook and paperback, Coming Together: Against the Odds, a short story anthology edited by the altruistic Alessia Brio as part of her Coming Together series published by Phaze Books. All proceeds will benefit the charity Autism Speaks. (The profits are highest when books are ordered directly from the publisher). The Kindle version is available from Amazon. The print edition can also be purchased from Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

The singular, inimitable noir/erotica writer and editor, Maxim Jakubowski, has penned the introduction. Behold! Here is the stellar lineup of contributors:

Introduction Maxim Jakubowski
Will She Kiss Me? Giselle Renarde
Under a Moving Star Angela Caperton
Blind Tasting EllaRegina
Undercover Angel Alessia Brio
Always a Bridesmaid Andrea Dale
Choke Gregory L. Norris
The Booty Call Caper Kathleen Bradean
Sen-Sen Alicia Night Orchid
It Had To Be You GS Wiley
Missing Pieces Jasmine Black
Claim Mate Brenna Lyons
Sixth Sense Teresa Noelle Roberts
No Boundaries Moondancer Drake
The Arch Eva Batonne

When I first read the submission call, soliciting "mystery-themed erotic fiction," I wasn't sure I had anything that fit the bill, though the accompanying description gave food for thought:

All behavior is communication. The trick is to figure out just what it's saying. No behavior communicates as clearly or on as many levels as sex. All the physical and emotional senses are engaged. Add the element of intrigue, and the intellect is engaged as well.

Then I heard Alessia Brio interviewed on Gracie Passette's Cult of Gracie internet radio program. Towards the end of the hour-long discussion, Ms. Brio talked about the anthology, providing the exact words I needed to hear. She said the story could be "any sort of mystery -- it doesn't have to be a crime-drama type of mystery -- it could be a 'which one of these party guests is licking your backside while you're blindfolded?' type of mystery." Ms. Passette laughed and said she'd much prefer that to "the dead dinner guest" while I practically screamed into my computer's loudspeaker holes, "Alessia, have I got a story for you!"

In fact, "Blind Tasting" does involve -- among other things -- dinner guests (though none are killed off), and it's closer to what Ms. Brio proposed: not exactly a whodunnit, but rather a "who done it to whom?"

I find it particularly ironic and poignant, given my story's scenario, that the profits from Coming Together: Against the Odds go to Autism Speaks. The majority of autistic people do speak -- contrary to popular misconception. "Blind Tasting" offers an interpersonal counterpoint: four couples who, at a strategic point in the narrative, are not permitted to communicate with speech or sound or even by using physical/body language, if doing so causes the "message transmitter" to be identified by the recipient.

Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery
To whet your proverbial whistle,* here is an excerpt -- a wee taste of "Blind Tasting." I shall begin as most mystery stories do: at the beginning...

Blind Tasting
by EllaRegina
They called themselves The Montridge Eight, after the metropolitan area suburb in which they lived, a thirty-nine-minute commute to the City, and though the name sounded like an underground terrorist group from the 1960s, their most incendiary efforts had involved turning on a Viking stove or lighting a Weber grill. A four-couple gourmet cooking club, The Montridge Eight met once a month, their homes revolving as venue, to travel the world gastronomically, one country and cuisine at a time. Creative professionals all, they were detail-oriented: an evening's theme would extend well beyond the food, to the decor, the wine, the music, sometimes even to the furniture.

The Greens, the Blacks, the Grays, the Whites: a box of crayons -- an odd one since the Blacks were not, the Whites were light brown and the Greens and Grays beige variations. They were the epitome of sophistication and urbane modern living. The men had long been vasectomized, completely relieving their marriages of pregnancy scares and latex fluid barriers. The couples were close and getting closer. The Montridge Eight gatherings elicited flirtatious behavior that grew stronger over the years. It began with one foot finding another under the table, or venturing further, toes slowly massaging a crotch. Hands would sneak inside waistbands from behind. Soon, parlor games were incorporated: first dirty Mad Libs -- "Name of Person in Room" particularly revealing -- then adult Charades, followed sequentially by Twister, strip tease, Strip Poker and Spin-the-Bottle. The Blacks, who lived in a former firehouse, offered their pole for dancing when they hosted, a mirrored ball on the high ceiling throwing sparkles over the dimmed space as each woman spun around the shiny brass upright, inspired by the thumping disco groans of Donna Summer and company. With each installment of the cooking club The Montridge Eight became increasingly daring and experimental. Perhaps it was the Cabernet, or the Pinot Grigio, or the Riesling, or the Rioja.

Although beyond familiar, the Greens, Blacks, Grays, and Whites -- a living version of the board game Clue -- decided from the onset that during these occasions they would refer to each other, including their own spouses, as Monsieur or Madame, evoking old black and white movies where the husband called the wife "Mother," lending the evenings a certain frisson of staged formality -- an interesting counterpoint to the sub-table footsie and miscellaneous lusty doings -- often inspiring unscripted postprandial role-playing once the couples were back in their own bedrooms:

"Would you do it to me in the Library with The Lead Pipe, Monsieur Gray?"

"Most assuredly, Madame Gray. My very large one. Where shall I put it?"

Across Montridge's verdant tree-lined streets, a parallel scene was unfolding at the Green house:

"In the Billiard Room, on the table, with The Rope, Madame Green?"

"Of course, Monsieur Green. A hog-tie is definitely in order," she replied, spreading her excited legs as Monsieur Green undid his perfectly slip-knotted neckwear, anxious to truss Madame's limbs, rigid cock pointed towards her from an unbuttoned fly.

To be continued, dot dot dot. Buy the book, dot dot dot!

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

A clue relating to a key scene in "Blind Tasting."

One of my inspirations for the story.
"Blind Tasting" was initially featured on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website in their February 2009 Erotica Fiction Gallery. Kisses to Rose and Adrienne! And a special hug to Donna George Storey for plugging "Blind Tasting" so nicely at the time on her blog.

*A big thank you to phantaglyph of thefreesoundproject for the 2-second wolf whistle recording.

R.I.P. Michael Jackson

2009-06-25T20:51:00.032-04:00

Photograph: Shaan Kokin/Julien's Auctions/Reuters
In those few moments during which they unloaded his white-enshrouded body from the green helicopter onto a maroon-padded gurney atop the Los Angeles Coroner's Office building, one could decipher within its mummy-like shape: the feet pointed together as if tightly bound, and it was a sad feeling to know that they would never dance again.

Michael Jackson's patent for a special shoe-engagement system.

A Mammoth Lump of Happiness

2009-06-15T23:53:00.000-04:00

I am chuffed to bits at the news that my O. Henry parody, The Gift of the Magic Lump of Coal, has been selected by the discerning and ever-esteemed Maxim Jakubowski, editor nonpareil, for inclusion in his prestigious anthology, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9, a showcase of literary finery. (Of course, my story will first be translated into proper English.) The annual volume, containing works by over 40 writers -- both established and "new" voices -- will be published across the pond by Constable & Robinson (January 2010), followed likewise in the US of A by Running Press. I am most humbled and honored to be in this respected collection once again. 'Tis my supreme pleasure, Maxim! Thank you!

Happy Birthday Dear Alison!

2009-06-12T12:01:00.029-04:00

...to a Groovy Chick!
❤All we know is that Alison Tyler -- the lovely and talented writer, editor, publisher, gift-giver, contest-thrower, door-opener and all-around creative inspiration to many -- blasted into this world during the fair month of June, tilting our green blue planet slightly off its axis with her entry. And, of course, nothing has been the same since. We are choosing today to celebrate though Alison herself is partying until July.❤So, without further ado, Alison, I present your birthday presents: a duet of vintage cards expressing my felicitations; an eternal bouquet of balloons; the Happy Birthday song, as sung by one of the omnipresent "hot monkey sex" monkeys; and a topical Donald Duck cartoon. Then, get your dancing shoes on for a singalong Beatles Birthday and a Japanese animation cover of their song. (It's hallucinatory when both are played together.) Finally, it's time for deliciously psychedelic birthday cake. Oh, I also got you a pony! For birthday boots, please go here.❤I hope you enjoy(ed) your birthday, Alison! I wish you many more! And, may they be happy and healthy, always!

XOXO

❤

Your friend and admirer,

ER

This cross-blog birthday party present is the brainchild of the ever-charming Nikki Magennis.❤

HIGH FIDELITY, a Story

2009-06-02T14:48:00.002-04:00

In the previous post I referred to The Dark Room, my entry in the recent 250-word story contest held by the lovely Alison Tyler. Our instructions were to write about sound and hearing, or lack thereof. Feeling like I'd missed the mark with that piece -- which seemed focussed on a different sense -- I assembled another 250 words to make up for it. Enjoy! No earplugs necessary:

HIGH FIDELITY
© 2009 by EllaRegina
I couldn't have invented better upstairs neighbours. No television, loudspeakers, not even a radio. The previous occupants' sonorous electronic lifestyle had regularly bombarded my senses, so I was quite relieved at a change of tenancy.

They kept apart, not speaking to others in the building, smiling at me whenever our eyes aligned; walking arm-in-arm, both nattily dressed, trailing plumes of hypnotic scents. I envisioned them artists from some exotic land.

She was a cluster of staccato taps, a path over my head -- likely travelled wearing sexy heels -- traversing my sitting room ceiling, an invisible moving dotted line. His full frame lumbered through their flat with a distinctively masculine gait. Normally, such aural evidence of human ambulation would bother me but with them it did not, given the other sounds they provided...

I most appreciated their proximity at night, abetted by open summer windows. She moaned fifteen feet above in a bedroom mirroring my own, cooing like a pigeon in a beguiling indecipherable sing-song. His outbursts were deep and guttural, synced to her sonic erotic dance; their rhythms parallel, complementary. A hand met flesh in resounding slaps; I imagined his palm on her nicely rounded behind. She'd whimper following each blow. Words were never used; their language seemed purely physical.

Months passed before I first encountered them beyond our building. They sat outside the cafe, each gesturing in a fast-signalled lexicon of fingers, something between a puppetless puppet show and how the ancient black-clad women crossed themselves in church.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Alison Tyler Interview & The Dark Room, a Story

2009-05-27T15:57:00.013-04:00

Writer/editor/publisher/contest-runner favolosa, Alison Tyler, has done it again! This time with a challenge for us to write a 250-word story about the senses, specifically sound and hearing or the absence thereof. I somehow slid into Home and Alison wanted to interview me for her most exclusive Trollop Salon. She has titled this journalistic inquiry Elephants, Microsurgery and Guilt, which is beyond utterly perfect! Please head over there and check out our conversation.

For your psychological preparation, here is the interview-prompting story, "The Dark Room."

© 2009 by EllaRegina
It was like a game. I imagine that's why he responded. In truth, I didn't want him to see me.

The hotel room resembled a ship's cabin: portholes, blackout shades rendering them lightless; a bed topped by a floating white duvet cloud; dark, wood-paneled walls. I memorized the scene before extinguishing the lamps, sliding naked into cold sheets -- the linens pulled over my head -- waiting for the door scratch of his keycard.

As agreed, the least amount of hallway fluorescence was to spill into the room upon entering.

Something crackled and was placed on the floor. An electric fabric friction accompanied his unclothing.

We wouldn't speak, at least not with words. He rolled in next to me, his breathing audible and excited. We only kissed at first, belly-to-belly, arms around each other, a perfect fit. His tongue enwrapped mine, his erection a baton between us, as if it were a baguette kept piping hot by our holding it in this fashion; resultant emissions loud, primal and uninhibited. His cock filled me as we screeched, yelped and growled. When we came it was as if we'd done this countless times before.

He slipped away to the bathroom and in that moment forgot the rule of darkness. A tile-framed window illuminated a handsome face, smiling at me, happy with the view. Then, as I heard his stream meet porcelain and water I saw it, against the opposite wall: a cane -- black, white and red -- folded into a W.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

A little head & a swallow. A palate cleanser...

2009-04-06T05:51:00.041-04:00

A little head from: Kiosk

Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery

Toot toot! Welcome to my stop on the Blow Hard 2009 Blog Tour. Only, since I'm rather old-fashioned, let's pretend we're travelling by train. I think it's much more romantic. And imagine the kind of locomotive from days of yore, like the 2oth Century Limited in "North by Northwest."

What are we doing here, you might be asking? Well, Sommer Marsden started it! All because of one woman's remark. But, look what happened! The happy little suckers came out of the closet and the kingdom rejoiced! And people connoitered -- even reconnoitered -- and there was dialogue, discourse, amusement, food for thought. Most important were the words and the words and the words and the words and the words and the words, even! My, there were so many of them, with a cascade of vocabulary still to come! And there shall be prizes! The more frequently you comment the greater your chance of winning, like the Lottery!

BTW: Comments are now open! The doctor is in! Anyone stopping by before but too shy to speak, you are most welcome for a return visit. Come again, comment often, in fact!

So, here we are, just past our journey's midpoint, and I thought it was time for a palate cleanser. I'd like to offer you a medley of distractions, in case you get bored. I have music, singing, pictures of funny things, videos. We go down in elevators, too! (My personal suggestion is to play the YouTube fare simultaneously, for a Babel Tower experience.)

As for today's theme I hope the title of my post gives you a tip: I'd like to guide you towards observing two senses that interest me very much, especially when it comes to sex: taste and smell -- they're intertwined. Here are two multiple choice polls, which I am leaving open forever. [Please select any and all choices in each poll before you click 'vote' -- repeat votes won't work; you only get one chance. So if, say, five options apply to you then check them and pull that voting lever!]. I'd love for you to participate! Remember, once you draw the curtain closed behind you nobody but you and your conscience will know how your vote was cast. Not even me.

My goal is that these questions and answers, besides possibly making you laugh, provoke further research and development behind the virtual curtain, in my comments section. Feel free to join in and contribute, even if you're new to these parts. You don't have to register or pay dues and can even be anonymous or naked, or both!

Do You Swallow, or...? (Multiple Choice!) ( online polls)

To add grist to the proverbial mill, here is a provocative article to start you off, and a product that claims to make semen taste its sweetest. Otherwise, according to the manufacturer, you'll need to purchase and/or digest a pineapple plantation. In a bit of a coinkidink, Sommer herself posted about taste yesterday, with a lovely compendium of information she received from Jeremy Edwards. I'm repeating it not to copycat but because it incidentally relates to my topic for today's stop. Also, there will be a quiz later. (Just kidding.) I thought it would add more stimulation to our discussion, as if we needed any.

To be honest, I feel like somewhat of a Fellatio Fraud. I realised I only write about it in spurts, no pun intended. So, last night I penned a little piece from Memory Lane. It's all true. Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent. It's not completely about fellatio, either, but it's a kind of penis portrait study, a still life. Well, yes and no... Please enjoy this page from my diary. There's been so much good writing on this Blow Hard Blog Tour that it humbles me. And, most of the preceding Tour Guides tend to write about things based in reality, or about what I call "innerings." I generally do not. One foot is always somewhere else (not sure where that is but it's not here). Oh, there's also a snippet of a piece I wrote about smell. It follows the illustration of swallow heads. At any rate, there's lots to keep your attention. The real show is the gabfest behind the scenes, in the back room, i.e. the comments area.

So, let us step into the Time Machine, shall we?

SUCKING A.

© 2009 by EllaRegina
Once upon a time, long long ago, when people still had pubic hair, I knew a beautiful man in a country bounteous with attractive folk whose names had many vowels. He taught me things. He showed me things. He had a lovely thick snake between his legs with a branch of veins and I found that I could easily charm it, and make it expand like an accordion, sometimes just by being in the same room.

The snake cried long thin tears, clear rice noodles. Once I went away to a distant land and the beautiful man told me that while I was gone he thought of me. He recounted how he had stood one August afternoon on the Via Whatever, and as my image filled his head, so his snake filled and started to cry its fishing line noodle tear downwards, where it met the sidewalk from inside his baggy shorts. His underwear, if he wore any, was not tight fitting.

He could do nothing, he said, but stand there thinking of me, as if he were playing a game of Statue. He was stuck to the sidewalk, a strand of Spiderman's web holding him in place, going from point A to point B like a string.

A woman passed by at that very moment, he reported, and saw the clear noodle's shine -- a ray of light from his clothing, gluing him in his sneakers to the warm cement -- and gave him a very dirty look. But he was paralysed.

I took his snake inside my mouth and it performed tricks, ultimately filling my stomach with slippery warm noodles. Sometimes I would stroke him just so I could watch the spouting of Morse Code bursts. I knew they spelled something. It contained a Marconi message expressly for me. That was certain.

When he was as deep inside me as my small mouth would permit, my nose in the forestation of his curly brown, I breathed in his mix of coffee and Jack Daniels, of oceans away, the briny deep, swimming pools, bleach and sun, blended with metal and funghi porcini mushrooms grown in the pitch of wooded shadows -- collectively a dark consuming spice. I wanted to eat him. Surf and Turf.

I was always asking questions -- sometimes about words, expressions, their origins. I had not seen many snakes by that point. His was the only one a carnival member had let me see the most of and for such an extended time. I really got to know that serpent. One day after charming its head and smooth snakeskin with my too-small mouth I asked the beautiful man: "Why do they call it giving head?" In my mind there were just three possible answers; I posed each one in the form of a question:

1. Is it because the head of your snake is involved?

2. Is it because my head is the active participant?

3. Is it because your overflow resembles the head of a glass of beer, as it's filled from a spigot?

He laughed and said "All of the above."

And then we charmed each other some more.

Often, while he was still asleep, especially in the morning when his snake turned into a sturdy sapling, I would creep underneath the blanket or slither my way up his body between steamy skin and the long nightshirt he wore, which enveloped us like a hobo pouch, until I found the dormant snake, curled slightly like a snail. I would suck it slowly, a thumb without a bone, until it grew one, coming alive in my mouth and, in the process, awakening the slumbering man to whom it was attached.

I called these sessions Breakfast in Bed. They were all Self-Service, not Room. No need to call out. And you knew it would be a good day when it started with liquid protein, fortified and filling, delivered piping hot from a dependable snake.

Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery

Here is a snippet about smell, from a shorty I wrote for one of Alison Tyler's wonderful short-short-short story contests. My piece was called Around the World and it had three parts. This section took place in Roma:

Around the World

© 2008 by EllaRegina

We come to Rome after an extended period in a soulless Northern European country. The difference between the two places is palpable, literally. All one has to do is clamber onto the early Monday #44 bus ascending the Gianicolo hill in late July -- no air-conditioning, everyone perspiring. Women don't shave under their arms. Americans are trained to abhor this, as well as any corporal odor, but luckily my boyfriend and I are not most Americans. The #44 smells like sex on wheels and we are in olfactory heaven.

He turns to me and says "You can tell who just got fucked this morning," and I agree. The other thing: you know that everyone on the bus has a clean set of genitals; Italians are meticulous about bidet use. Every ass, pussy, cock and ball is fresh -- ready to be had and enjoyed At Any Moment. Benvenuti in Italia! We arrive at his apartment and are fucking like dogs as soon as our shoes reach the entryway floor tiles, luggage dropped, the keys still lodged and swaying in the half-open door.

GOING DOWN AROUND THE WORLD:

ALERT: If you listen closely a man says one must
swallow to alleviate any discomfort while going down.

Please disembark this love train at the next village, where our Tour Guide, the delightful Marina St. Clare, will take you by the hand and carry your bags.

Here is the entire lineup, including who, um, came before, should you need to bone up! (The links go directly to the Tour posts; ditto re the Tour Guides after me. You'll be taken right to their offerings, as soon as I have the respective posts' URLs.)

March 31st: Sommer Marsden
April 1: Alison Tyler
April 2: Dakota Rebel
April 3: Erobintica
April 4: Cora Zane
April 5: Heidi Champa
April 6: EllaRegina (Me! You're already here.)
April 7: Marina St. Clare
April 8: Emerald
April 9: Kristina Wright
April 10: Isabel Kerr
April 11: Neve Black
April 12: Surprise Mystery Guest #1!
April 13: Surprise Mystery Guest #2!

You just put your lips...

2009-03-30T16:36:00.009-04:00

Take a deep breath because you're going to need it. Tomorrow launches the first annual Blow Hard Blog Tour. Sommer Marsden (a k a Smut Girl) will deal the first blow -- I'm just giving you a little head start. In the meanwhile time to bone up, perhaps in front of a mirror.

Me on YOU!

2009-03-26T11:31:00.018-04:00

My most excellent friend, writer Donna George Storey, has been examining different aspects of the writing life in a kind of intime online writers' workshop and has focussed on the second-person narrative voice for the past few days.

I weighed in, having written a few stories from that POV -- one that is curiously almost universally maligned -- including a little tale entitled "The Lonely Onanista," which has enjoyed some success despite the fact that it uses a voice one is supposed to avoid at all costs.

I said that in my mind the YOU of second-person placed any prospective reader right in the "driver's seat" -- a good thing! They'd just land there from above, in position -- sitting, knees bent, hands up with fingers curled as if already gripping the steering wheel -- like in old television commercials. (Or am I making that part up?)

I go into some detail about the background of the story and why I chose that particular voice to tell it.

Check it out, you!

And thank YOU, Donna, for giving us more food for thought!

Thank YOU, Erobintica, for the video inspiration!

All-Day Suckers! Coming Soon...

2009-03-16T00:46:00.017-04:00

Yesterday I was just a cock tease but now I can blow my cover. I've joined an all-girl team of contented cocksuckers for the Blow Hard 2009 Blog Tour. Beginning March 31st, this itinerant 12-day blow job feast will sing the praises of suckage -- from the mouth of one sated fellatrix at a time -- so wipe your calendar clean!

Our bush league has some pretty heavy hitters:

March 31st: Sommer Marsden
April 1: Alison Tyler (No Fool, she...)
April 2: Dakota Rebel
April 3: Erobintica
April 4: Cora Zane
April 5: Heidi Champa
April 6: Moi!
April 7: Marina St. Clare
April 8: Emerald
April 9: Kristina Wright
April 10: Isabel Kerr
April 11: Neve Black

We will be offering discourse, fiction, memoirs and who knows what else -- all blow-job-centric. You can win a titillating prize! And, hey, no road tour worth its weight in ejaculate is without its roadies -- I say we call them our FlufferNutters -- so go ahead and apply! We'll need lots of help carrying our knee pads.

More to come. Watch this space!

Thar She Blows...!

2009-03-15T00:40:00.008-04:00

I'm not much of a joiner but now I'm on a team! Details soon to, um, come.

Erection, set. THE EMPIRE STATE, BUILDING; a Story

2009-03-14T02:12:00.010-04:00

(IMAGE NOT ACTUAL SIZE)
Idea magician Alison Tyler did it again this week with another powerhouse mind-bending short-short-story contest. This time the subject was masturbation, in 250 words, from the opposite gender's point-of-view. As it happens, I've always wondered what it would be like to have a penis (shut up, Sigmund!) and now I can happily report that it was just fine! I only wish we'd been allotted more words -- I had so many other ideas of what I could do with this handy new piece of equipment!

I came up (oops!) with the following:

THE EMPIRE STATE, BUILDING
© 2009 by EllaRegina
On my back, left eye shut, I align my hard cock with the Empire State Building -- my bedroom's eastern view -- until its antenna is a needle rising from my prick's eye -- a fleshy hypodermic, ready to inject.

The window in the opposite wall overlooks an apartment building, the nearest room close enough to jump into, were I Spiderman. Every night it presents a beautifully framed scene: a pale girl, face down on an unmade bed, naked except for knee-highs and pink stilettoed Mary Janes, ankles bound together with an ever-changing inventory of unassuming objects: a pair of shoelaces today, a scarf or dishtowel tomorrow. Her hands are beneath her, rump bobbing in air like a cork riding swiftly downstream. She hides her face under a pillow. I coordinate my strokes to match her behind's rhythmic levitations, as if posting atop a galloping horse.

My hand glides up and down my cock as her plump moons rise and fall. I grip myself, holding the Empire State Building. I wonder if the tourists on the Observation Deck know they are part of my erotic strategy. They've waited hours on line to unwittingly appear within the crosshair sight of my warm gun.

My balls ache. A feverish trail bubbles forward from the base of my spine. The Empire State Building turns into a geyser, a firework display. On the landmark's 86th floor dozens of Japanese visitors wearing I [HEART] NY buttons open black umbrellas simultaneously. I reach for a tissue.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Hot Sheets

2009-03-12T18:23:00.011-04:00

My generous friend Donna George Storey is not only a gifted short-story writer, novelist, journalist, gourmet, and columnist; she now sports a hotelier's hat (whatever that looks like). For the past few weeks she has been hosting a literary orgy, Suite 69, at her blog Sex, Food, and Writing, wherein writers' hotel stories are showcased.

I'm the guest there today in Welcome to Hotel Guacamole, with a short-story originally crafted for one of the inimitable Alison Tyler's writing exercises/contests. I thought this 517-word offering, Fucking Green, would be particularly appropriate for Suite 69 as it has to do with sex, food...and hotel sheets.

Thank you so much, Donna, for letting me trample your corridors and peek into the other rooms. There's so much to see! Please let me know when you want the skeleton key back. I hope it's not anytime soon. I'm kind of busy...looking...and trying out all the beds like Goldilocks.

Speaking of green and sheets, a theme seems to be emerging: Alison Tyler just inaugurated a new online hot spot, The Boudoir Blog, where the bed is always the main character. Here's mine.

Enjoy your rolls in my hay!

PS: Don't sit in this postcard's foreground chair. It's reserved for Charlie Brown.

A Black Lace Virgin

2009-03-06T04:47:00.020-05:00

Photograph: New York Public Library Digital Gallery

I am truly chuffed, as my British friends would say, to announce that Black Lace, an erotic fiction imprint of Virgin Books (Random House; UK), has bought two (!) of my short stories for their upcoming (6 August 2009) anthology, Sexy Little Numbers (UK version here), the debut of an annual collection presenting the best erotica stories written by women.

From the Amazon.com product description:

"Sexy Little Numbers" will combine humour and attitude with wildly imaginative writing from all over the world.

I am also chuffed because the Black Lace editor, the dashing and discerning Adam Nevill, said some awfully nice things about my work. They brought tears to my eyes, they did.

I shall be in very good company. Other contributors to this sure-to-be-almost-too-hot-to-handle volume include Janine Ashbless, Portia Da Costa, Kristina Lloyd, Madelynne Ellis, Charlotte Stein, Justine Elyot, and Kristina Wright.

Cheers!

(Mysterious Mock-up Cover by Me)

A Garden of Frenzied Delight

2009-03-05T06:21:00.006-05:00

Illustration: New York Public Library Digital Gallery

Being in a short story anthology is like being a flower in a botanical garden. In this case, with the delicious and wild Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex, edited by the incomparable Alison Tyler, there are 59 other specimens to consider and enjoy, all of them rare and exotic -- just waiting to be smelled, fondled, licked by the sun, feel a little special.

So it has been recently with "Faceless Filly Seeks Rider," my contribution to this beautiful arrangement of literary flora. Its first shout-out arrived February 13th from an Amazon customer reviewer, Amy Stapleford, who called it "hot, clever, and oh-so-smart." As if that wasn't enough of a Vitamin D tickle, on February 28th, in a full-page book review on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website, reviewer Kathleen Bradean, a fine author herself, chose six stories to highlight and had this to say about mine:

And while I may have a soft spot for established couples, EllaRegina's "Faceless Filly Seeks Rider," is a sex with a stranger fantasy that got me going. In the form of a Craigslist ad, it is cheeky, smart, funny, and deliciously dirty. Here's a story that can quote French pornographic literature and make it seem earthy instead of pretentious.

Thank you Amy and Kathleen, for smelling my flower, so to speak, speaking of earth.

One thousand fragrant rose petals shall rain on my brilliant writer friend Jeremy Edwards for alerting me to both of these instances. (I was too busy with my nose in the other flowers). Jeremy's wonderful "You in Your Apricot Panties" -- which I like to call "a character study of a delicate underthing" -- about 100 pages away from me in this particular collection, was also given a tip of the solar hat in both venues.

My wish here -- and with every anthology I've been in and will be a part of hence -- is for each lovely flower to ultimately be given its moment of attention and recognition under glowing rays of sunlight. This would make the gardener and all the botanical specimens she has carefully and lovingly assembled very smiley and happy, indeed.

Penis Pencil Tops Beige | E-I-E-I-O, a Story

2009-02-24T00:20:00.037-05:00

I love Google Alerts. I use them all the time to keep track of different things, including Internet Erotica Thievery. This happens more frequently than one might think, if one thinks about this topic at all. I usually make alerts for a random selection of sentences within a particular posted story of mine, whether here or on another authorized site. In this way I find out when stories, in some shape or form, are being used without permission -- invariably on a porn site that has, of course, a fake untraceable address overseas, usually in China. Once I got on the telephone and woke up some poor guy in the Czech Republic. He got rid of the scofflaw but quick. Mostly it's like tracking homing pigeons but I gave up stamp collecting and this keeps me busy and off the streets in my downtime.

Often, the Google Alert will direct me to a website that has nothing to do with anything but has picked up on some word within my selected text and has subsequently loaded paragraphs of my writing as content on that site. The work seems to be done by a combination of robot and human being because by the time I get to the scene of the supposed crime any traces of my words are gone.

Today's Google Alert made me laugh. It tracked this phrase:

"He had moved to the bed and was sitting there with his gigantic penis"

These 14 words can be found within E-I-E-I-O, a 580-word shorty I wrote in September for an online contest given by the lovely and eternally inspirational Alison Tyler. But today, with its clickable header: Penis Pencil Tops Beige (penis, tops, and beige appear in E-I-E-I-O), the Google Alert led me to a page full of interesting merchandise -- fun spring term back-to-school supplies for the kids! Handy when your erasers are rubbed down -- this happens to me a lot. But, seriously, a dozen for $2.73! "Work great as taste testers at parties." I think they look like pig feet (or snouts), which, in fact, is very apropos regarding E-I-E-I-O.

The original inspiration, presented to us by Alison: this drawing by the wonderful artist and creator of Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes. He ceased activity for a while so maybe this was Google's special "post it" signal to me that he is back in business and that I needed to post another story. Thanks again to Alison Tyler and Mr. Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes and thank you, Google, for the Freudian nudge!

E-I-E-I-O
© 2008 by EllaRegina
It was like Strip Poker except there were no cards or chips. W. and I, on the sofa, giving each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation even though we were both very much alive. W. made me dizzy. He could make me come just by kissing. I had to sit, or better, lie down, such was the vertigo he gave me. Once he kissed me against a wooden gate and if the structure had not been there, neither would I have been for long, turned to vapor or ash and swirled in the wind, a confetti scattering of desire. So, to kiss W. I needed architecture, preferably the interior variety.

So, the sofa. Green velvet, the kind you buy for the rest of your life. I tried not to think of how many kisses, besides ours, had been exchanged there. It was not healthy to dwell on the past lives of furniture. W. and I had a game. Whenever either of us was close to coming we had to make an animal noise and take off a piece of our clothing. It was easy with W. Soon I was mooing. He laughed and pointed to my short skirt. Off it came, W. pleased that I'd worn no underpants. We resumed our game and he barked. I undid his fly and his trousers flew out the window, disembodied and running, like in a cartoon. W. put his serpent tongue as far as it would go into my mouth. He brought me to the brink again and I whinnied. My garter belt. Our lips together once more and I made him crow. His shirt. Then W. on top of me in gray tank undershirt and gray thermal underwear, his full weight -- twice my own -- pinning me like a butterfly in a specimen case, his cock unquestionably aimed at its target. Before long I was meowing. I pulled my black cashmere sweater over my head.

We had to pause. I needed air. I walked around W.'s bedroom in what was left of my outfit -- a crinkly black silk camisole, its straps falling down, grey thigh-high sheer stockings with black-ribboned bands like chokers at their tops, red patent leather high-heeled pumps. W. liked me to keep those on, no matter what else came off. I also wore a feathered cap, easier to imagine than describe. Its thin elastic string hooked under my chin, something à la Marlene Dietrich although I probably looked more like a circus monkey. If W. played an organ grinder we'd be all set. I paced the room surrounded by beige 1950s horizontally-striped wallpaper. He had moved to the bed and was sitting there with his gigantic penis, the biggest I'd ever seen. It needed its own building. W. enjoyed watching me perambulate before him, half dressed, especially when the combination of what I was wearing was the result of his command.

He pulled me onto the bed. I'd had enough air. His mouth was on mine again and his endless legs held me like a nutcracker. After a few shared breaths he growled and I dug my stilettos into his thighs. The long underwear landed on his wood floor. Then my turn with a squawk (the camisole) and his with a howl (the gray undershirt). We were left with just socks (W.) and stockings and pumps (me). It was at this point that we could travel beyond the tantric barnyard and the second part of the game would begin.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

More, More, More!

2009-02-16T23:13:00.022-05:00

This website was reviewed today by the lovely and sex-positive EssinEm on the fabulous Jane's Guide! Their slogan: Where we waste our time, so you don't have to!

I like what is said about my erotica. The only "criticism," so to speak: there isn't enough of my erotica here. Fortunately, this can be remedied.

Onwards and upwards!

Thank you and big kisses, Essin' Em and Jane!

MAMMOTH Erotica News!

2009-02-15T01:03:00.018-05:00

I am delighted to announce that the much-awaited short story anthology, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8,is now available at fine bookstores everywhere.

Edited by the discerning Maxim Jakubowski and published by Constable & Robinson (UK) and Running Press (USA), this annual volume includes my story "The Lonely Onanista," as well as works by a veritable Who's Who of stellar eroticists whose writing I greatly admire, some of whom I am proud to call my friends.

Among the glittering stars:

Tara Alton
Lisette Ashton
Rachel Kramer Bussel
M. Christian
Portia Da Costa
O'Neil De Noux
Jeremy Edwards
Maxim Jakubowski
D.L. King
Kristina Lloyd
Nikki Magennis
Thomas Roche
Kris Saknussemm
Lisabet Sarai
Craig J. Sorensen
Donna George Storey
Alison Tyler
Alana Noël Voth
Kristina Wright

I am most honored and flattered to be in their esteemed company!

A nice plug...

2009-02-06T18:28:00.021-05:00

My story BLIND TASTING got a lovely write-up today from my generous and supportive friend Donna George Storey. She said some very nice things with her usual spot-on turn of phrase and linked my work thematically to recent events in Blogville, both local and global.

Writing can be such a lonely endeavor that such moments of uplift and encouragement, from a fellow scribe whose works I appreciate likewise, taste very sweet indeed -- no pun intended.

Thank you, Donna! I lift my dripping Caipirinha glass in your direction!

Below, Carmen Miranda, singing Tico Tico, paralleling her cameo appearance in my story.

In situ on YouTube.

BLIND TASTING...

2009-02-01T08:00:00.039-05:00

Vintage found photograph courtesy of ~Kim~
All month you can read BLIND TASTING, my suburban tale of debauchery -- a ménage à huit variation. It's featured in the February 2009 Erotica Fiction Gallery on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

BLIND TASTING is the story of four couples who share a gourmet palate, among other delights. Something is surely cooking in this one...

In June, BLIND TASTING will appear in Coming Together: Against the Odds, a short story anthology edited by the altruistic Alessia Brio and published (simultaneously in print/ebook) by Phaze Books. All proceeds will benefit the charity Autism Speaks.

Bon appétit!

MONKEYBOARD BUSINESS, a Story

2009-01-20T01:38:00.019-05:00

Eternal muse Alison Tyler had another contest the other day, where she asked people to write a 250-word piece "that deals with writing." Those were our only instructions, should we choose to accept them. I did. Here is what I came up with. I "colorfied" it, for extra fun:

MONKEYBOARD BUSINESS
© 2009 by EllaRegina
It happened nightly, while Kay slept. The keyboard, dormant after the final mouse click, reanimated itself in the darkness of her writing room.

It was an orgy of letter-play. Q generally instigated, with his rotund belly and permanent right-leaning dangle. He'd pop off his metal spoke and chase down a tight " or = on the far side of the beige plastic, trying to wedge his tilted appendage wherever he could.

* desired a licking -- U was a good bet for that unless it was too busy being fucked by I, or pegged by T. W was very popular with keys that hadn't been breastfed. Ditto <, >, and ^ (who spoke foreign languages and was often in the company of ~ and `, snobs all). V and Y had many suitors. Alas, poor . was universally ignored, except by those keys having a particular fetish.

X, forever a size queen, alternated between / and \. ! was enthusiastic about trying new positions; ? also experimental. 6 and 9 went at it regularly, not quite knowing what else to do with themselves. S hung with m, control overseeing their activities. O and 0 sought penetration and nothing but, by any available letter -- each felt so different; one could not compare R to E nor Z to G... & masturbated.

And every morning @ 8, after delete and escape depressed themselves, Kay returned to the keyboard -- sitting inert just as she'd left it, ready for her daily thousand words.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Chanukah Erotica Redux

2008-12-26T16:00:00.002-05:00

Image: Coco de Mer
It's the fifth day of Chanukah, just past the midpoint.

If you need a break from all that dreidel-spinning and song-singing, you can read my erotic holiday offering, TWISTED CANDLES.

Enjoy!

The Gift of the Magic Lump of Coal

2008-12-24T20:08:00.014-05:00

THE GIFT OF THE MAGIC LUMP OF COAL
© 2008 by EllaRegina
PREFACE:

This story is a parody of "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry (a pen name for William Sydney Porter), written in 1906 and now in the public domain. No one owns a United States copyright on or for this work.

I have taken the original story and put it into an erotic context. Throughout, I've used bits from the O. Henry work, "as is," or paraphrased and repurposed; incorporating the words -- usually out of their original context's order -- into my retelling.

I tried to keep as close as possible to the word count of the original tale.

"The Gift of the Magi" can easily be found online -- you may wish to compare the two pieces and/or familiarize yourself with this classic American Christmas story if you do not already know it.

***
Apologies to O. Henry

One hundred and eighty-seven times. That was an exact tally. And sixty of those times had occurred out of bed -- whilst standing, sitting on a chair, or tethered together like marionettes in a slow walk amid their tiny rooms. Many a happy hour had been spent. Della kept count of their lovemaking in a small dog-eared leather-bound journal, kept within a tiny desk drawer next to the shabby couch, in the furnished flat rented at $8 a week; their love had been proven one hundred and eighty-seven times in the forty-five days they'd been married. There was not much in terms of material goods but they had each other and that seemed enough for now. And the next day would be Christmas.

Mr. James Dillingham Young was only twenty-two and already burdened with a family, but only in the financial sense -- his income having been cut from $30 weekly to $20; his nineteen-year-old bride, Della, gave him things a millionaire's money could not buy. It did not matter that he needed a new overcoat and went without gloves. It did not matter that their letter-box could not hold a missive nor that their electric button doorbell would not ring. Neither did they care that they lacked the means for proper wedding bands or even Christmas presents.

Whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above the entryway vestibule he was called "Jim" and fervently hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, his sweet Della. She would unleash her golden cascade of hair, falling beyond the knees, itself almost a garment, and greet him wearing nothing but her black lace-up boots and pink corset -- the flaxen thicket of muff hair that Jim so adored peeking out from the embroidered brocade -- slightly shivering unless standing close to the fire, but with the knowledge that another kind of warmth was soon to come.

Tomorrow would be Christmas Day. A threadbare upholstered chair stood by the rear window and Jim rested on its feather-poked cushion, his trouser buttons undone. He looked out on a dull gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard, empty of people. Had there been someone they could not bear witness to any activity in the second-floor Dillingham home taking place below the neck. Fortunately, the flat directly across the airshaft was occupied by a blind couple; they never so much as lit a gas lamp for illumination. Della impaled herself atop Jim, his cock shooting up hard against her insides as she sat on his lap. He lifted the mass of her hair with a practiced hand.

"What do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas, little girl?" he queried, his sword-moving accompanying every other word.

"Nothing, Santa," answered Della, moaning low. "This is more than plenty."

"How about if Santa gives you a special present -- a baby for next Christmas?"

At the word baby Della felt Jim's flesh within her arch rigidly to the left -- like a bat being swung -- in an uncontrollable pulse.

"No, James," said Della, soberly slipping out of the role for a moment to note their fiscal circumstances. "We cannot afford a baby. You know that. Finish how you always do, please, and give it to me quick. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me."

"Ah," replied Santa, "so there will be no baby as there can be no milk to feed him. I understand. But Santa always has plenty of milk for beloved mothers."

On cue with that phrase Della left Jim's lap and briskly switched to a kneeling position at his feet, taking his milk-filled prick inside her mouth, lips and tongue holding it tightly as she moved to and fro. She looked up at him -- her brilliantly sparkling emerald eyes in an unwavering gaze, rosy nipples peering over the laced corset, her surrounding hair a shiny gilded rippling curtain -- as he thickly spouted, a drop or two splashing on the worn red carpet, though Della was careful, as ever, to keep his issue behind her lips the best she could. He spent so copiously it was always a challenge.

"Santa isn't finished with you, Little Miss. Go put on your skirt and come back here."

Della complied, revisiting his post in a petticoat and wool swirl, mounting herself as directed across Santa's muscular knees. Jim unpeeled the seemingly infinite layers of fabric until he reached Della's plump ivory buttocks and took his old leather strap -- the one he used in place of a fob chain on the gold watch he inherited from his father, who inherited it from his father -- and brought the cowhide down with a resounding slap, causing Della to whelp and blush, thinking perhaps Mme. Sofronie below could hear them. Jim alternated between the strap and his strong bare hand, stroking her muff hair soothingly between blows.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings.

Sometimes Jim paused and insinuated a finger into the eye of Della's rear, causing her to topple and groan with pleasure on his thighs; he had to hold her steady while he dipped the finger in and out. When he felt she was ready, Jim deposited some saliva into the palm of his hand and spread a portion over the little hole, widening it until it could contain a bigger part of himself. Then, skirt still topsy-turvy and aflutter, Della sat upright and eased her private entrance onto Jim's stiffness, slowly and gently -- her leg muscles hard at work controlling the speed of her descent -- until Jim was firmly encased in the spot that was his alone; it surely had been made for him and no one else.

Once they met in this way she became intoxicated, leaning into him, purring like a cat, rotating her hips like a spinning hoop. Jim, too, was transported -- and delighted to be doing something so clandestine and dirty that no other soul in the world could possibly have conceived it -- erupting again like a testy whale, coating Della's posterior walls with his warm milk as the scaffold man's tin of white paint covered the billboard by the Elevated tracks on Second Avenue.

Della swiftly wedged the powder rag inside her thatched crevice to collect any excess drippings. There could not be a baby next Christmas. There simply could not.

They settled themselves and Jim went to his overcoat, drew a package from the pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Merry Christmas, Della."

She approached the parcel curiously. White fingers and nimble tore at string and brown paper. No ecstatic scream of joy, just hysterical tears and confused wails at what she had found: a lump of coal. Della ran and flung herself on the couch. Jim offered comfort immediately and explained:

"This isn't as it appears, my dearest. You shall see. In twelve days our fortunes will change, and for the better. Come."

Jim led his wife to the table and bent her over its top. Again he raised her skirt, revealing her charms. A small vial of salve emerged from his trouser pocket and he put an even layer on the lump. He re-entered Della's most intimate space, this time with the coal as pathfinder.

"No," protested Della, her hindquarters not used to such an unyielding invasion.

Jim made soft noises of assurance as he guided the lump farther and, in fact, Della was accustomed to it within a few minutes.

"Have no fear," said Jim. "We shall begin to celebrate tomorrow, on Christmas Day. Then you will understand."

The young couple went to bed and slept soundly, enfolded in each other's arms.

***
When they awoke Della made coffee and a simple, forlornly festive Christmas breakfast. She herself did not eat as the lump of coal suggested a liquid subsistence. She could spare the food given how plump she was. Almost like a Christmas goose, she reckoned.

Jim came to the table with a twinkle in his eye.

"After breakfast, we shall take a nice walk," he said.

The mere thought of their promenading along the Avenues, greeting fellow neighbors and strangers in Christmas spirit, all the while knowing that his lovely wife hid a pitch black secret beyond her buttocks excited Jim greatly. So much so, that before Della had finished her beef broth he insisted on starting to make use of the particular gift he had bestowed upon her. He laid Della over the table, pulled her nightgown above her waist, and tucked his prick into the opening that had no coal, thrusting towards her heart like a shovel. She wriggled her behind, further arousing him; he fondled her hairy muff in response. Before he could spend he took care to extract himself and instead of penetrating her mouth -- though she could actually swallow whatever he had to give as it was not solid food -- he deftly lodged in her rear, bucking deeply, stopped by the hard object at the end of his cock.

"Oh!" exclaimed Della.

"Do not worry, my dearest. The coal shall remain in place and I shall leave no babies here." Jim spent against the lump, which promptly absorbed every drop he surged.

He was right. There was no need for Della to insert her powder rag as usual -- no effluvia remained.

They dressed. On went his mended overcoat, with holes in pockets where gloved hands should be. On went her old brown jacket and her old brown hat and the whirl of a skirt and her lace-up boots.

They wandered to Broadway and observed the scene. A light snow had fallen overnight and lines from the carriages were already engraved as if the quiet white surface had been combed. Apple-cheeked youngsters tossed snowballs at one another. They walked past the shop windows, admiring goods exceeding their grasp. They exchanged pleasantries with the grocer, the vegetable man and the butcher; all in repose, out of their work uniforms. Della did not even feel the lump of coal whereas Jim could think of nothing but.

"Squeeze yourself together," he instructed her. "It shan't be noticed and will greatly assist things."

"As you say, my dearest," obeyed Della. "Nobody could ever count my love for you."

Mr. and Mrs. James Dillingham Young went back to the flat and Jim folded Della over the table once more and plugged at her coal until they both were absolutely spent.

***
Jim returned to work the morning after Christmas but the evening routine continued for twelve days. At 7 o'clock on each of those nights the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the stove, hot and ready to cook Jim's chops. When she heard his step on the first flight stairs Della briefly turned pale, anticipating what awaited her. While Jim ate she drank the beef broth and the juice of a few oranges. They followed with the postprandial promenade to the Avenues, smiling and nodding at passersby as if nothing was out of order. When they arrived home Jim undid his wife's clothes and churned into her coal bin with enough sparks to start a fire that would be sure competition for the one glowing beneath their mantle.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, while Jim was at work, Della had the notion to surprise him by completely shearing off the curls between her legs, using his long steel razor blade. "Please make him think I am still pretty," she whispered to herself.

The door opened at 7 pm; Jim stepped inside and closed it. His eyes were fixed on Della, prepared for him in corset and boots. "You've cut off your hair...," he murmured. "Let's have a sight at the looks of it."

"Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, aren't I?" she entreated. "It'll grow out, and fast. You'll see! I just had to do it, Jim!"

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave that could make me like my girl any less." He tumbled down on the couch, brought Della close, nestled his face in the bald mound between her thighs -- inhaling its scent while teasing the exposed flushed bud with his tongue tip -- and smiled.

He did indeed fancy her shorn. A little schoolgirl, she was. He jolted her rump that night with greater ardor, hugging her bosom as he released. And, shuddering together in their pleasures, they both felt something had changed. Della sensed a contraction within and the warm flow of her husband's baby-making liquid. Jim hit no wall at the end of Della's dark tunnel. He reached into her tight aperture with a few fingers and beamed. It was as he knew it would be.

Della leaped up like a singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

She had not yet seen her beautiful present and eagerly held out an open palm. Jim deposited an item of precious metal upon it -- something fine and rare and sterling -- that seemed to flash with a reflection of Della's bright and ardent spirit. Covered with his spunk, ever the more easy to slip on a finger, was a diamond ring.

THE END
First draft written on Christmas Day, 2007, not far from the Manhattan location where O. Henry allegedly penned "The Gift of the Magi" in 1906.

***
Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

First published on Literotica.com.

TWISTED CANDLES, a Chanukah Story

2008-12-21T16:32:00.063-05:00

© 2008 by EllaRegina
Judith saw herself as Eleanor Rigby, the Jewish version, only she didn't keep her face in a jar by the door. Instead, it was permanently fixed, locked into a doleful expression. Widowed young and unexpectedly, Judith lived alone in a large pre-War apartment building, 18 stories up, in the north tower of the San Remo on Central Park West, with a splendid aerial view; a legacy from Solomon, her late husband: 2500 square feet of beautifully furnished rooms, empty of people like the historical replicas at the Metropolitan Museum, but without a velvet cordon barrier rope across each threshold -- an oversized dollhouse waiting for its playful inhabitants to arrive.

Solomon had been hit by a yellow taxicab one Sunday morning while crossing Broadway with an order of bagels, smoked salmon and whitefish from Zabar's, the food orchestrated wayward and airborne as a result of the collision, eventually scattering over the street like the letters O (the bagels) and I (the strips of fish): OI! And the couple had just decided that it was time to start a family. They were going to begin "trying" that very morning. The brunch Solomon was bringing home would serve as celebration and sustenance for a day-long fertility ritual of lovemaking.

Judith's girlfriends helped her grieve. After a year, they suggested she place an ad on JDate.com and move forward with her life. Then, one by one, the women disappeared; they could only take so much. Judith had become a black cloud, and one would have to be a real friend to endure the darkness she cast. Judith ultimately learned that she had no real friends after all.

Judith went for the spin on JDate, twirling like a dreidel for several years, meeting one handsome accomplished Jewish man after another. Nothing ever worked out. There was Adam, the restaurateur with the peppermill penis and a menu's worth of anger issues; David, the contract lawyer on whom she performed a handjob while they watched a Jennifer Aniston movie one afternoon, lying on his brown leather couch -- reprising the event two days later with Annie Hall as background aphrodisiac. David, who never replied to her last e-mail; Judah, the charismatic Israeli rock star with an exotic shaynah madel in every Jewish port of call; Zev, the emotionally-withholding architect whose hypnotic smell made her his slave in bed. He had "commitment issues," thought Judith, but when Zev left her for another -- non-Jewish -- woman, Judith realized that he simply could not commit to her. She had high hopes for Dr. Moses, the colorectal surgeon; dashing and creative. Judith liked calling him Dr. Moses in lieu of Eli, his first name, and enjoyed being travel companion on his "busman's holiday" -- for Dr. Moses the rectum was not only a place of business, so to speak, but also the locus of his sexual predilection; he was the first to whom Judith had opened that particular portal. She figured Dr. Moses knew what he was doing, inside and out, and if he fucked her up while fucking her could also repair the damage he'd caused, and probably at no charge. But, after playing doctor with Judith for a number of months and countless "house call examinations," he, too, evaporated like gas, disappearing into the city noise one evening on the pretext of an emergency case of bolting flatulence at Mount Sinai Hospital.

Judith regularly attended Beth Jehudah, a k a B.J., the local synagogue, known for its hot single desirable congregants and the social whirl of activities organized just for them. It attracted those in search of tradition and prayer as well as others looking for a mate, if not forever then for as long as it lasted. It was at B.J. that Judith met Reuben the engineer, who, despite his tediously boring conversations, brought her places on the crisp Pratesi sheets (a wedding present from Solomon's parents) she'd never been to before. Reuben departed after a few months, more interested in making sure buildings remained vertical than in keeping Judith horizontal and satisfied. Benjamin was another fellow B.J.-er. Substantially younger than Judith -- they were several rounds of college-year cycles apart -- he'd made millions composing the three-note audio squiggle heard when connecting to the telephone company. Judith and Benjamin feverishly e-mailed each other several times a day, spoke on the telephone as if they were old friends, but then, following a series of sporadic dates, he became increasingly unavailable, no explanation. After three weeks of Benjamin missing-in-action, Judith spotted his face on JDate.com and knew her time with him was up; she assumed the young stud had picked on someone his own age.

The Disappointers. That's how Judith came to view them. She stopped dating altogether and became more involved with Beth Jehudah, not for its social offerings, but volunteering -- doing mitzvahs like bringing hot food to poor elderly Jews living alone -- and taking classes in the Kabbalah and Jewish Mysticism. She resigned herself to a life outside the body -- a life of the mind and soul. If there were a Jewish convent Judith would have been first in line to join the Order. She kept to herself and her little daily routines, living her Jewish Eleanor Rigby life 18 stories above Central Park, trying not to dwell on what might have been but was clearly not to be.

The First Night
Erev Chanukah fell on the Sabbath this year and were Judith at Beth Jehudah she would be hearing the Torah portion recounting Joseph's dream, but she did not go to services; this was a holiday she always preferred to celebrate at home, observing it privately. The menorah candles were to be lit first, followed by the two Shabbat candles, 18 minutes before sunset. Judith used the same cheap tinny menorah saved from her teenaged Hebrew school days, filling the first holder -- all the way on the right -- with one of 44 thin multicolored twisted candles packed into the small blue box from an Ohio Yeshiva, a product unchanged since her childhood. She said the blessings and lit the azure blue helper candle -- the shamash -- then used it to light the first Chanukah candle, a red one, and placed the shamash in its custodial position, higher than those of the other holders. She lit the Shabbat candles, reciting the appropriate prayers.

Judith consumed her typically parsimonious meal, an odd combination of things as always -- tonight just a plate of potato pancakes she'd fried that afternoon, a side of applesauce, and an excellent glass of Katzrin, a rich garnet-colored wine produced only in outstanding vintages by a winery in the Golan Heights, the source for most of her Chanukah meals' alcoholic accompaniment. She sat at the dining room table and stared at the two burning lights, almost in a trance -- like a still photograph, unblinking -- until they were smoky wicks. She brought her empty plates and glass into the kitchen where she deposited them into the dishwasher. Then she took a long hot bath, put on a pair of Solomon's colorful silk pajamas -- he'd tracked down a rainbow of vintage unused new "dead stock" Sulka silk nightwear on eBay, each pair a different rich hue; in a sentimental moment after his death Judith had them altered to her size -- and crept into bed.

Sleep came quickly, aided by the Katzrin and the tub soak. Judith fell smoothly into fast-moving yet languid dream vignettes. The forest green silk pajamas were being taken off, her body caressed by the hands of a man. She could smell him in her sleep and tried to identify who he might be. It was like the scene in Rosemary's Baby where Rosemary is ravished by the devil and says This is no dream! This is really happening! But this was not a demon, though he was clearly other-worldly, and he was partly familiar. Judith recognized Zev, the architect, but he was kinder here, even talking to her, encouraging her and exuding moans of arousal. Zev had never uttered a word or made a sound in bed, not even when he came, which had consistently driven Judith totally meshugah, mesmerized as she was by his scent. Now he was saying things to her new to his lips, dirty things which made her sleeping pussy flood. He rubbed her entire body with oil -- olive oil -- that seemed to drip from his fingertips, but in the dream Judith didn't worry about how it was going to stain the good sheets. She let Zev say the filthy words to her, put his cock in her over and over, hard and steady, beginning with her mouth, where she could taste centuries of olive groves. Zev filled her up however and wherever he wanted, defiled her to their mutual delight, in a way that felt like he really meant it, which had never been his style. This was a new Zev, an emotive and giving Zev, and he made her come several times before she woke up.

In the morning Judith opened her eyes, staring at the pale blue ceiling painted with white clouds. Her forest green pajamas were carefully folded, sitting on top of the bottom sheet in a neat pile, like part of a store display, the white duvet pushed down into the footboard of the sleigh bed, as if there had been a fight for which the arena had to be cleared before the rumble could begin. Every inch of Judith's skin was soft and moisturized, albeit of a slightly sallow tinge. When she swallowed she tasted olive oil.

The Second Night
On the second night of Chanukah Judith lit the candles and ate her dinner, changing only from Katzrin to Sangiovese, with its nuances of chocolate, spice and oak -- eager to re-enter the ecstatic dreamworld she had experienced the night before. She unfoiled a few Chanukah gelt coins and let them dissolve on her tongue while fixated on the three flames, absent-mindedly flattening the gold wrappers' embossed menorahs, Hebrew lettering and ridged edges with her thumbnail until the sheets were unadorned mirror-like circles. After her bath she dressed in her silk pajamas, slid into bed and was soon asleep.

Again a pair of hands unbuttoning her top, caressing her breasts, pulling off her pants. Judith's eyes opened. It was Adam, soft and smiling, warm and sweet, not angry as she had known him outside of this dreamspace, in his restaurant. He massaged her as Zev had the previous night, olive oil emanating from his fingertips as well. They kissed, Adam wrapping himself around Judith like a snake, pulling her towards his heat. She could feel his peppermill cock hitting her belly. His was the shamash, for sure, the tallest Chanukah candle. She could smell his muskiness mixed with olive oil. Like Zev, Adam was naked, paralleling his Eden counterpart -- no clothing in sight.

Judith skimmed his erection from base to head, cradling his balls, gently squeezing them. She put three fingers in her mouth to collect more lubrication. They tasted like chocolate, specifically the variety used in Chanukah gelt. The moonlight coming through the curtainless windows illuminated the bedroom enough for Judith to see that her fingers were milk-chocolate brown. She glanced at the peppermill. It appeared to be made of solid chocolate. Judith put her tongue on Adam's cock, to confirm its composition. She licked it playfully. Indeed, from top to bottom: chocolate, even the balls. She began to suck -- Adam deep inside her mouth now -- wondering whether his cock would shrink in size with her consumption of it, like a popsicle in the sun. But it did not melt. It was warm and sweet.

Adam fucked Judith's mouth like this, gently at first and then with more force. He pulled out and placed his lips on hers, working his brown lollipop inside her down below. They bucked at each other for hours, and though Adam's cock did not diminish in measurement, with each thrust it left warm cocoa syrup on her inner walls. He came in a hot drizzle of olive oil, exactly as Zev had the first night. When Judith awoke the next day, the bed was littered with Chanukah gelt wrappers buckled like golden rose petals -- no traces of chocolate on their inner silvery sides -- reflecting the early light. Her lavender pajamas were in a sharply-folded stack at the foot of the bed, the duvet moved aside.

The Third Night
The third night of Chanukah was much like the second except there was another candle in the menorah and a glass of Merlot to drink while Judith watched the wax burn, mesmerized. After dinner, she put Dead Sea salt crystals in the bathtub, let all limbs drop from contact with the porcelain and tried to float on the water -- as if she were in Israel itself -- but, even light as she was, she kept hitting bottom. Judith lay in the tub until her fingers wrinkled, then dried off and put on her pajamas.

It was Judah tonight, like his Chanukah hero namesake Yehudah HaMakabi: Judah the Maccabee; Judah the Hammer. He was there with her, just the two of them; no other women, no ports calling, his hammer at the ready -- a warrior sword, taken from Apollonius. But this was no ordinary length of metal; it was warm rigid flesh, pointed between Judith's legs.

"How can I serve you?" asked Judah.

"Purify my temple!" Judith ordered.

She was not used to such commands emerging from her lips, especially with men. She was the passive one, the one to submit. But suddenly she felt the need to tell this soldier what to do. Luckily, Judah had no problem switching roles and he purified Judith's defiled temple as she asked him to, and in the way she desired, multiple times -- her pale winter legs draped over his broad shoulders, knees at each ear -- as he plunged his mighty sword inside her again and again until morning broke, kneading her flesh with his oily fingers, rolling her around the sheets, emptying himself within her in a tumult of screams, hot olive oil filling her insides. When she lifted her eyelids at daybreak she was alone in her cloud-bedecked sleeping chamber; the turquoise pajamas perfectly arranged at bed's edge, duvet draped over the footboard like a fortress wall.

The Fourth Night
Judith realized that the form-changing spirit joining her in bed each night was not an incubus as she had first thought. She'd learned of incubi in her Jewish Mysticism class at Beth Jehudah. A true incubus was a demon with an unnaturally cold penis, representing pure evil. Repeated sexual penetration by such a creature would result in the deterioration of a woman's health, or even her death. But this being's penis was far from cold and Judith did not become weaker. On the contrary. These Chanukah dreams invigorated her; she was progressively energized after every night's encounter to the point where a smile started to grow on her face, turning skywards with each successive day. She left the house more frequently for no particular reason -- not to see her periodontist or pick up some organic clementines at Whole Foods -- just to walk, no destination in mind, and breathe the crisp December air. She wandered the landscape of Central Park, enchanted by its winter costume. She watched the ice skaters at Wollman Rink with a twinkle in her eye. Judith understood that the men in bed each night were her Chanukah presents, and each had arrived already unwrapped. They were a dream life of what could have been -- perfect sex with the flawed men who had discarded her, now in their freshly-minted, untainted, and attentive versions.

On the fourth night the fried latkes and applesauce filled Judith's flat stomach as they had the previous three nights. The wine selection was a dusky aromatic Cabernet. Four candles burned in the menorah with the fifth, the shamash, overlooking the others from on high. Judith watched the flames with deep interest. There were five now: it was midway into the Festival of Lights. She took her bath, staring at the glittering chandelier suspended over the tiled room, its teardrop silhouettes cast upon the walls -- half shadow, half sparkle. A facing mirror showed her pale form amid the still fluoride-green-tinted water, her small breasts' rosy areolae and nipples exposed -- twin compacts of her grandmother's rouge -- buoyed at sea level.

Out of the tub and dry, she dressed herself in Solomon's pale spring green pajamas, put her feet into charcoal wool suede-soled L.L. Bean slipper socks and padded, fully relaxed, into the bedroom where she was soon on the other side.

David found her somewhere south of a moonbeam. Although he did not speak Judith could tell that she was the focus of his attention, not Jennifer Aniston or Annie Hall. He kissed her, his tongue leaping into her mouth like a serpent. He almost breathed fire. He was anything but the lethargic, pathologically-bored sexual-favor-recipient of yore. David massaged Judith's body from head to toe, beginning with her champagne-fluted breasts and working towards larger anatomical parts. His fingers, like the others before him in these nocturnal alliances, dangled filaments of aromatic olive oil. With David there seemed to be an abundance. Judith put it to practical use, as in their past duet of meetings, but this time without a container holding lubricant. She gathered a palm-puddle of oil from his fingertips and applied it to his upright cock. It wavered slightly with excitement, as if a separate being. She coated this warm limb in oil, spreading it evenly along the skin and then began stroking it, coaxing it -- first with one hand, then the other; sometimes with both. She was teasing David, stopping and starting, randomizing the pace of her motions. His eyes never left hers.

She could see peripherally that the room was changing: wallpaper printed with pages from contractual law books unrolled from the floor in an ascent, adhering to the walls, its letters rearranging themselves -- the sentences reversed to read from right to left as if written in Hebrew; David was, after all, a Jewish lawyer. But still, his gaze was solidly upon her, his prick alive and guided by her knowing hands. They kissed again, this time with mouthfuls of oil. It was a flood. They were kissing and swallowing simultaneously. Judith concentrated on David's cock, her own deluge between her silken legs. David's fingers found that warm wet place, lodging themselves as Judith continued to work his baton. She could feel his arousal, his swollen happiness, and that he was close. She was almost there as well. David could be very good with his hands when he put his mind to it.

The point of no return finally arrived, for both of them. Fine print serif letters fell from the wall in a cascade of boilerplate vocabulary -- of whereof and hereunto and pursuant and forthwith and herein and thereof and thereto -- as David spouted, olive oil shooting to the ceiling as from a geyser, and out of Judith's radiant opening the same, a torrent, neither of the natural wonders ceasing. The olive oil continued to spring and stream, flowing onto the floor, soon welling into a wading pool, and then, with the unbroken wave of effluvia a rising tide, incrementally absorbing the furniture, creeping towards the 19th floor, the wallpaper buckling and detaching with the moisture's effect. David and Judith -- Senior Lifesaver-certified both, fortunately, thanks to Jewish day camp several decades back -- were unmoored and free-floating, ascending with the push of oil, her hand still on his shooting prick, his fingers still inside her, until they reached the bedroom light, shaded by an upturned antique parasol from France. Their heads bobbed at the ceiling, sealed in a slippery kiss, until the oil veiled their mouths, filled their nostrils and obscured their eyes.

When the sunlight woke Judith she was in bed, dry; the room exhibiting its normal state: pale, gray-painted unadorned walls, the red-patterned Oriental rug, a black lacquered armoire, an empty birdcage, a slipper chair, a fainting couch, a wall of books -- all of them with letters intact. The duvet was accordion-folded at the base of the footboard, the pale spring green pajamas exquisite Origami.

The Fifth Night
Judith lit the five candles one by one with the shamash, recited the blessings and sat down to her Chanukah meal, accented by Pinot Noir, redolent of flowers, raspberries, cherries and the forest floor. She retired earlier than usual, feeling sore, as if she had spent the entire previous night swimming in a pool without end. She filled the tub, adding several capfuls of therapeutic spruce bath oil. She needed to be loose and refreshed for dreamland.

Reuben the engineer visited, bearing seasonal gifts of Chanukah jelly doughnuts -- Israeli sufganiyot -- in the form of his two testicles. Perfectly rounded they were, as would be expected of an engineer's balls; perhaps they had been created on a computer. A layer of confectioner's sugar surrounded the red jelly nipples sprouting like half cherries from the center of each fried doughnut's bloated surface. Judith took off her yellow pajamas and tossed them to the foot of the bed. She threw the small mountain of bolsters and pillows onto the slipper chair.

Reuben gently squeezed one of his balls until a kernel of jelly popped out. He caught the substance with his other hand, made Judith lie down and parted her legs. She complied. He took the jelly and loaded it into the gaping mouth at the bottom of her torso. Then he straddled her -- knees on either side of her chest -- and put his cock into her mouth, at the same time extruding more jelly from his doughnuts and reaching between Judith's legs to pack her until the goo protruded in a hillock. His cock tasted sweet, as if sugared.

They quickly switched into a 69 position. There was no talking, which was preferable, Reuben being so excruciating conversationally; to not have that pressure, to only engage with him physically, was a dream come true, in a dream. Judith smelled like a spruce tree which somehow blended perfectly with the bouquet of fried dough, sugar and jelly. They put their mouths on each other's private sweetness. Judith softly massaged Reuben's sugar-coated balls as she sucked on them, licking the white powder from here and there. She took each ball carefully into her mouth, coaxing a little jelly from each one. She slid her lips over his erection, her saliva turning its exterior into a syrup condom, which she then licked until it melted and she reached flesh again. In the meanwhile, Reuben was studiously sucking the jelly out of Judith, delicately tickling her clitoris, hidden beneath the glossy redness yet its location well-known to him.

A drift of white powder began to fall from the ceiling as they worked on each other -- the bedroom transformed into a wintry Japanese erotic print. They toiled beneath an endless descent of sugar granules, some fine of flake, others coarse as grains of kosher salt. The flurry lightly coated the floor, letting the room reflect the lunar gleam. It covered their connected bodies in a white blanket. There was no sound, nothing heard from the real city beyond the windowpanes. And, even with Judith's body a snow-covered mountain, Reuben knew every trail. She arched her hips when his tongue touched her sweet spot; he bucked forward as her cheeks drew him inside, her tongue wrapped around his pole. They were a candy necklace; mouth fucking, ball-sucking and jelly-gathering for what seemed to Judith at once an infinity and an instant. Reuben kept her perfectly vertical -- his oil shooting into her mouth like a running faucet; her jelly-filled pouch a quivering Jell-o mold -- until the crack of dawn, at which point the sugar snow stopped its fall and Reuben vanished, this time leaving in the duty of a spirit, not in abandonment as he had before.

Judith awoke in a bed free of sugar dust, her long brown hair spread over an assortment of cushions, the duvet a jelly roll at her feet, the yellow pajamas squarely placed on the bed corner like a bakery package.

The Sixth Night
The shamash had six Chanukah candles to light. Judith said the prayers. She'd made a fresh batch of potato pancakes that morning and the applesauce was of her own creation, cooked from several pounds worth of Golden Delicious bought at the Union Square Greenmarket on Wednesday, the day before. The wine for this evening's Chanukah tasting flight was a bright purple Gamay Nouveau, which advertised itself as "shouting youth!"

And, so it was, that after her bath and the retreat under the bedclothes, who should appear but the representative of a later crop, Benjamin, the young man of few notes -- each of them worth several millions. Benjamin had been an uneven suitor and he and Judith never actually slept together. Now, here, as the nightly spirit had ferried him, newborn-naked, she could plainly see the impressive monument she'd never had the pleasure of meeting. Aimed towards the heavens was Benjamin's marble pillar, its veiny roadmap visibly pulsing.

Benjamin was humming. Apparently, he could string more than three notes together in dreams. It was the Chanukah song, Ma'oz Tzur, "Stronghold of Rock," whose melody and lyrics were printed on the back of every blue cardboard Chanukah candle box, below an illustration portraying a man at table's end wistfully lighting an oversized fully-loaded menorah while two boys watch from his left; a sand-colored in-perspective stone fortress and desert trees as background. Judith always found the image strange -- why was a table set up outside, in the middle of a landscape? And no women or girls -- were they home frying potato latkes?

Benjamin segued his tune -- singing now -- into the English version, Rock of Ages, as he pulled Judith's pajamas off, never missing a beat. He could not kiss as his mouth was already occupied but he could do other things to celebrate the holiday.

Rock of Ages let our song
Praise thy saving power;

The younger man took Judith by the legs and flipped her over like a coin, onto her stomach, as if her legs were the wooden handles of an arcade game.

Thou amidst the raging foes,
Wast our shelt'ring tower.

With tower, he grabbed Judith's rear and pulled her into a kneeling position, pink hindquarters in the air.

Furious they assailed us,
But Thine arm availed us,

At the word arm Benjamin reached into Judith's wetness, testing the waters. He was humming again, his lips and tongue directly on Judith's succulent offering, the vibrations of his musical expression acting as a tuning fork on her flesh. She moved her hips from side to side, each swing coinciding with his outbursts' rhythm. His hands caressed her buttocks and thighs as he hummed, olive oil slipping his fingertips over her body.

Soon Judith could feel his mighty column at her fortress opening. He was singing again, almost yelling:

And Thy word broke their sword,
When our own strength failed us,
And Thy word broke their sword,
When our own strength failed us.

The first sword brought Benjamin across her moat; with the second, his aged rock plowed through the fortress door.

He repeated the stanzas, cued by every other word to thrust deeply inside Judith; power and sword merited more profound buttressing.

Benjamin began a new verse, emphasizing specific phrases or words with his movements:

Kindling new the holy lamps,
Priests, approved in suffering,
Purified the nation’s shrine,
Brought to God their offering.
And His courts surrounding
Hear, in joy abounding,
Happy throngs,
Singing songs
With a mighty sounding.

Judith gripped the sheets with Benjamin's every penetration, fearing that they would both take flight. Captivated by his own song, Benjamin was almost davening as he fucked, slapping against the female warmth percussively, his hardness resolute, a notable difference for Judith, accustomed to the carnal embraces of much older men, whether real or hallucinated.

His motions became increasingly frenetic, as if bewitched:

Children of the martyr race,
Whether free or fettered,
Wake the echoes of the songs
Where ye may be scattered.

At that last word Judith felt Benjamin's cock twitch, like a shifting gear. He continued, lost in his own momentum, Judith centered on his obelisk at it rammed her with pleasure, reciprocating with her own jiggles:

Yours the message cheering
That the time is nearing

Judith was about to come.

Which will see
All men free,

Hot oil rang out of Benjamin and into Judith with those lines, setting both into a spasm lasting some minutes. Benjamin managed to utter one last phrase and a final riposte:

Tyrants disappearing.

And with that word he, too, faded, becoming part of the room's darkness.

Judith's eyes were opened by daylight. The bed was orderly, save for the retracted duvet. Her purple pajamas were in repose on the sheet, as if just delivered by the hand laundry.

The Seventh Night
On the seventh Chanukah night Judith lit the candles, recited the blessings and sat down to her meal of latkes, applesauce and a glass of Syrah smelling of earth and oak. She was spellbound by the almost-full menorah, the candles emitting a small orange wave of heat. Her bath was no special ritual this evening, just routine. Judith fell into bed with a perfectly clean body.

Dr. Eli Moses entered the dream, his cock at midnight, likely coinciding with the actual time; he was a very exacting surgeon. He carefully unbuttoned the top of Judith's sky blue pajamas -- the same color as the scrubs he wore in his office -- removing it as from a sleeping child. Judith pretended to slumber but she was bubbling with anticipation; she knew what Dr. Moses would be doing with her. He undid the drawstring of the pajama bottoms, peeling them down imperceptibly so as not to wake her, pausing when he reached the triangle of coiled, neatly-trimmed brown hair and lowering his face, enchanted by its perfume. He pulled the pants all the way off and Judith opened her eyes. Words were not necessary. It was as if everything had been choreographed.

Judith rose from the bed and positioned herself, bending over the footboard, head on the soft mattress, her behind on full view atop the duvet-covered smooth carved wood. She stretched her arms out before her -- Superman in flight -- and waited. Dr. Moses sloped himself onto Judith, covering her body with his like a shadow, as if they were tandem parachutists; his arms along hers, their legs aligned, his belly at the small of her back, his erection wedged between her buttocks like a kosher frank in a toasted bun. They remained in this position long enough to sync heartbeats and then Dr. Moses gently broke the seal, separating from Judith and standing up. He massaged her from feet to head, no inch ignored, oil emanating evenly from his fingers, until he met her nail-bitten hands. She could feel the thin unctuous coating encasing her.

Dr. Moses concentrated on Judith's ripe tuchis, playing with it, giving a surprise spank or two which caused her to lift both feet slightly in reaction; the oil made the slaps echo off the walls. His hands, one on each buttock, rotated clockwise, tapping and striking, as if thumping bongo drums, accelerating in speed and pressure. She could feel her ass heating up, almost smell the oil burning. Dr. Moses was dribbling oil from his cock, a sizable one -- a healthy young tree. He greased himself with the elixir seeping from his body parts, becoming harder with each slick application. He leaned into Judith so she could feel his massive lubricated excitement. A finger entered her backside, moving teasingly to and fro. Another joined it, then a third, for company. He was stretching her, preparing the operating theater. Actually, he had all the instruments he needed: a single very large one.

Judith felt a hard yet soft warm prod at her tight but at-ease portal. She tiptoed, inclining, and set her ready opening onto the oily snake head, reaching back in assistance to spread herself wider while the good doctor did his part, guiding it steadily in, past the clinching sphincter -- Judith grimacing for an instant but giving no resistance -- and unhurriedly immersed himself until his entire tree was absorbed, leaving only its base of gnarly curly roots. Dr. Moses filled Judith wall-to-wall, his prick holding her immobile like a skewer. The tushie doctor started leisurely, gliding in and out of her round ass; advancing and withdrawing, quietly and fastidiously. Judith sank her upper body deeper onto the bed with each ardent stab, welcoming the doctor's tool. She could feel him throbbing profoundly near some internal organ. It would be many years before a colonoscopy would be medically advised but Dr. Moses was providing a most favorable sneak preview. His pace quickened, driving into Judith more vigorously. She shuddered in delight, both of them reverberating. His furry thighs pounded against her shaven ones. Judith felt sweat and oil wicking from his muscular limbs.

The hot fluid trajectory shot into her suddenly -- as if a trigger had been pulled -- determinedly flushing through her interior. Dr. Moses howled, Judith at his heels, clenching her buttocks, squeezing his broad colonoscope inside her, not wanting to relinquish its pleasure. A few drops of oil reached her mouth.

Her next awareness was of lying in bed, face up, a light snowfall outside the windows, the duvet mashed into the space between mattress and footboard, her sky blue pajamas ordered -- top resting on bottoms -- with surgical precision.

The Eighth Night
The eighth and final night of Chanukah fell on the Sabbath as did the first so the menorah candles would be lit and then the two Shabbat candles, 18 minutes before sunset. At Beth Jehudah that evening they would be reading from the Book of Kings. Judith said the prayers and placed the last candles in the menorah, filling it, lighting them with the shamash. It was a modest yet beautiful rainbow of varicolored stalks, the twisted candles.

Judith sat for the eighth time with her frugal Chanukah meal, this night uncorking a special bottle of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild Bordeaux that she and Solomon were to have opened on their 5th wedding anniversary, which, by coincidence, fell on the last day of Chanukah this year. This date also happened to be Judith's 36th birthday, a lucky number in the Jewish religion: a multiple of 18, the numerical value of the Hebrew letters spelling the word chai, meaning "life"; furthermore, 36 was the total amount of candles lit during Chanukah's eight days, excluding the shamash helpers. Solomon had purchased the wine shortly after their marriage: a $500 bottle = $100 per year. Drinking the rich burgundy-colored liquid without Solomon across the table to share the experience was bittersweet but she consoled herself by replaying the past week's dreams in her head until she felt warm between the legs. Feeling sexual gave Judith hope, even if her half-full glass was not exactly based in reality.

She picked up the small wooden dreidel, examining the toy. There were still marks on it, in crayon and pencil, from being kept in a shoebox with her other childhood memorabilia. Some of the paint had worn off the four sides, each imprinted with a colored Hebrew letter: Nun, Gimel, Hey, Shin; an acronym for the Hebrew phrase Nes Gadol Hayah Sham! -- A great miracle happened there! -- referring to the holiday's premise: a lamp burning oil for an extraordinary eight days. The blue Nun was mostly intact, as was the red Gimel, but the green Hey and purple Shin had seen better Chanukahs. Judith spun the dreidel once. It fell with the Shin face up. Wood was the traditional 5th year wedding anniversary gift; was Solomon giving her a signal?

She drank the wine, holding each mouthful until it warmed her cheeks, then swallowed. She stared at the illuminated candles, entering her usual trancelike state. The wax verticals did not appear to be changing in stature. Normally they would reach bottom in half an hour. At first Judith thought it was the wine affecting her vision, but she continued to drink -- she was commemorating something after all, though she was not sure what, exactly -- and watched as the candles remained aflame at full height. Two hours and an entire bottle of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild Bordeaux later, the Shabbat candles long burned out, Judith felt the call of her bed.

Even though it was forbidden to blow out candles on the Sabbath, Judith could not leave a lit menorah unattended for risk of fire, and there was no available Gentile to call for the task as most of her known neighbors were Jewish. She blew on the spiraling flames. They did not die. She put the empty dishes, wineglass, drained bottle, cork, silverware, linen napkin, napkin ring and placemat on a silver tray, adding the blazing menorah, and transferred the lot into the kitchen. She wrote the date on the cork's top with a black Sharpie marker and placed it on the granite-countered service island, sideways, looking a little bit like a dreidel itself. Once she put everything away she held the menorah under running water to quench the nine golden flickers. It was the only method to extinguish the fire. Nothing. Judith saw that she had a set of trick candles on her hands, like those she had bought as a girl at Al Flosso's Magic Shop on West 34th Street.

She took the burning-but-not-wax-dripping menorah into the bathroom and set it on the galvanized aluminum vanity stool. She filled the tub with very warm water. Tonight it would be a bubble bath -- Mr. Bubble. It was the only time she got to have a man in her bathtub, she realized sadly. The old television commercials' slogans ran through her head: There's a man in the bathtub!... Makes getting clean almost as fun as getting dirty! Not exactly, she thought. Getting dirty was what it was all about.

Judith surrendered her naked body into the arms of Mr. Bubble -- the menorah producing additional heat in the closed porcelain-tiled room -- wondering who would visit her tonight in bed. She had gone through the latest players, the entire cast of characters. Who was left? What did the spirit lover have in store for her, on this final evening of their exchange?

She drained the tub, watched Mr. Bubble make his swirling exit and put on her pajamas, red this last Chanukah night. These had been Solomon's favorite pair; he looked absolutely regal when wearing them. Judith transported the misbehaving lit menorah into the bedroom and planted it on the curtainless windowsill, safely centered. As she set the object down she realized that the candles filling the holders replicated the colors of Solomon's entire pajama inventory: the azure blue shamash and the other eight -- forest green, lavender, turquoise, pale spring green, yellow, purple, sky blue and red. She crawled into bed with great suspense, eager to discover who would climb into her dreams and into her body tonight.

Judith waited for the spirit but he did not come. She watched the menorah, its reflection in the window glass combining with the actual item it mirrored to present an illusion of 18 flames, all of them stalwart and unyielding. Judith got out of bed and approached the other bedroom window, also facing Central Park. She could see across to Fifth Avenue where some of her Jewish brethren on the East Side had placed electric menorahs in their windows, to be left on all night -- dozens of lit blue bulbs: penis-head beacons in even rows spanning the buildings -- dotted-line grids; penthouses to lobbies -- as far as she could see, from Uptown to Downtown.

She returned to bed and focused on the flames, her mind making pictures out of their distorting shapes as a child sees creatures in wallpaper at night. After a while, one flame would suddenly engorge, popping over the remaining candles like a comic book talk balloon, then resume its normal size. This occurred several times. Judith rubbed her eyes, not sure of what she was witnessing. Then, another round of expanding flares, but this instance Judith could see something beyond the orange blazes. Within the enlarged fan of fire was a face, a familiar but long-ago memory. She saw Noah, the first boy who had ever kissed her in a manner quite different from her parents and relatives. Noah had a tongue which he put into Judith's mouth. This momentous occasion had taken place in broad afternoon light on a Thursday, in the Hebrew High School lounge at Temple Emanu-El. Even at fifteen Noah exhibited symptoms of male pattern baldness. And his kiss seemed to be that of a mature man as well, not that Judith had any way of comparing. There he was, framed by smolder and fire, smiling, not moving -- a yearbook picture rippling like a windstruck flag, eternally preserved in time. All they had shared was a kiss and a carpool ride, and maybe a slice of pound cake after services one Oneg Shabbat. What would have happened had Judith followed Noah into the light of life? Where was he now? Did he have any hair left? Were his kisses still vertiginous? Before she could probe these thoughts with more intricacy Noah dematerialized.

Another candle erupted into a burning canvas, and at its center -- like a portrait in a gigantic locket -- was Gabriel, a leader of the Jewish Leadership Camp Counselor-Training Program in which Judith had enrolled the summer before college -- two months on a secluded verdant campus in the Berkshires. Although social interaction between staff and participants was not exactly encouraged, the few years of age difference separating the two factions made such liaisons virtually impossible to avoid, and so it had been with Judith and Gabriel. They held hands while watching movies in the mosquito-ridden dark before the large screen set up on the main field, sat next to each other at mealtimes and took hikes together several Sundays in a row, finding themselves alone, far from the campus -- atop a mountain or on cool flat rocks beside a stream. Like Noah, Gabriel also had a tongue, and he put it in Judith's mouth as well. Being college-age he knew a few more tricks -- tongue twisters, he called them -- and Judith had no problem tugging down her blue jean shorts and polka-dotted underpants to allow Gabriel demonstrate a thing or two between her suntanned thighs. Gabriel showed Judith his warm hard penis and let her touch it. One day, amidst a meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, his face was between Judith's legs and her hand was clasped around his penis, stroking it. They both felt very good, and, as the gong rang for dinner from the distant mess hall, Gabriel's penis imitated a volcano from within Judith's flushed fist while he caused her to flood in a way very different than her menstrual period but from the same aperture. Where was Gabriel today? Where was his Vesuvian penis? Though he attended Harvard and she would enter Brown that autumn, their paths never crossed, despite being only an hour apart by Amtrak. Gabriel's face dissipated and the flame went back to its predictable dimensions.

For the third time there was a fiery burst, yet another old flame: Hillel, corkscrew-haired and bespectacled, an upper-classman whom she'd met while sitting on a bench in the Brown Quad during orientation week. Hillel was pre-Med with little time to spare. But whenever he had a moment for recreation Judith was always a willing playmate. She'd experimented more with Hillel than she had with Noah or Gabriel. And, she was advancing with a penis, now taking it into her mouth and seeing what she could make it do. Judith found she could make it do one thing consistently and well, and this made Hillel a very content fellow. She didn't like the idea of a tense doctor-in-training so viewed her moments with him as examples of proper bedside manner and her personal contribution to science. The Nobel Prize it surely was not but Judith was happy to give someone pleasure and receive it at the same time, Hillel caressing the parts of her he could reach while she was in the middle of these oral examinations. Hillel never seemed to want more. Perhaps he could sense that Judith was not yet ready to venture further physically. Maybe intuition told him he did not have the time to devote to her in the way that a deeper relationship required. Their friendship gradually but amicably tempered and they spent fewer hours together in Providence as they delved into their respective studies. Judith made Phi Beta Kappa, graduated, thought of but ultimately decided against law school, and moved to New York City where she got a job in publishing. Hillel went on to medical school. Judith imagined he would eventually head the cardiology department at some important urban hospital. He had such nice long and dexterous fingers.

"Noah, Gabriel, Hillel." "Noah, Gabriel, Hillel." "Noah, Gabriel, Hillel." Judith repeated their names to herself like a mantra, unaware that she was talking out loud. "Noah, Gabriel, Hillel." "Noah, Gabriel, Hillel." "Noah, Gabriel, Hillel." In the middle of her spoken reverie, the names morphed into Hebrew words: Nes Gadol Hayah..., Nes Gadol Hayah..., Nes Gadol Hayah... Judith bolted upright as if shoved by a gigantic hand. She knew what would come next: a Shin was needed to finish the Chanukah dreidel acronym!

Nes Gadol Hayah Sham -- A great miracle happened there!

Judith knelt on the bed, practically floating. A Sham was coming: there!; a Shin was about to arrive!

She looked at the burning menorah, tears running down her face from each eye like twin ropes unfurled.

"Solomon!" she cried.

The menorah candles were afire, ablaze, with an abrupt ferocity. A shifting form sprang from the flames and meandered as a wispy six-foot trail towards the bed, smelling like sulfur, smoke, wax, burned onions and cream cheese. As the figure hovered over Judith it crystallized into sharpness as if a camera lens had been swiveled. There he was, naked, radiating heat and very much alive: Solomon.

He dropped on top of her immediately -- an electric blanket -- and they held each other in a lock. Judith didn't know if it was real or a dream; Solomon didn't know if he was alive or dead. But these were merely technicalities. His cock was just as Judith remembered: wildly livid and alert, its eye smiling -- weeping slightly. He put his mouth upon hers.

Solomon's kiss tasted like smoked salmon, likely the last thing he'd eaten, a sample sliver from Zabar's fish counter, presented to him on a piece of waxed paper by a freckled hand. But Judith didn't mind. She was hungry in every way.

Their tongues met, ladling breath and juice into one another, both of them panting, gasping for air. Solomon hadn't used his lungs in a few years; respiration no longer came easily. He ripped his pajama top from Judith's body; six mother-of-pearl buttons ricocheting around the room -- small fast-moving planets orbiting within a galaxy on full-tilt. The garment rose in the air like a red flag and settled somewhere on the floor. He loosened the cord on his old new dead stock pajama bottoms and yanked them from his widow, setting them aloft where they lingered for a few moments, disembodied, before fluttering to the carpet.

His head landed between Judith's legs, nose inhaling her fragrance, tongue drinking the nectar from her well. Judith's knees were up, flanking Solomon's shoulders in a vice. She caressed him wherever she could -- his hair, his ears, his neck, his upper back, his nipples, his arms. They kissed once more, Judith tasting herself on her dead husband's lips. This increased their ardor and they melded into each other again, devouring what they could, like starving dogs drawing meat from a tossed bone. Judith reached down for Solomon's luscious grinning penis, her long-lost friend. She stroked and pulled at it, making the eye shed more tears. She switched angles and took him into her mouth where she sucked and licked and then, releasing her wet grasp, fondled him, holding his balls like precious eggs, taking them one by one within her lips.

They moaned together, they yelped together, they cried together. New York City disappeared, the room's walls fell away like a collapsing stage set. The bed remained -- a floating barge, a desert island upon which desperate castaways were making the most of their limited rations. Solomon put his palms on Judith's small breasts, rubbing circularly until her nipples inflated. He pulled her towards himself, clutching the flesh of her buttocks. He took her hands into his, tightly, and pushed her back onto the bed, his body on top, stretching all four arms out above their heads, his feet over hers, tracing her insteps with his toes.

Solomon whispered words into Judith's ear, words of love, things she hadn't heard since that last Sunday before he left for Zabar's. He reminded her that making love on the Sabbath was a mitzvah, as if she needed any convincing. She held her breath as he eased his hardness into her. She let out a cry when he was all the way inside. He fit her like a glove, one she'd lost several years ago, never expecting to find again. Solomon rocked gently at first, still holding Judith's hands, teasing and kindling her with his syllables.

They made love for hours, Judith wailing, Solomon calming her with a twist of the hips, making her come over and over and over. A menorah was not to be used for any other purpose, such as illumination, but it was unintended: the two bodies on the bed -- entwined like braids of Shabbat challah bread or the twisted candles in the blue cardboard box -- were cloaked in an orange-blue light, emulating the fervor generated on the mattress.

Solomon held himself back from ejaculating. Maybe once you cross to the other side that ability is lost, thought Judith. Yet he was hard, and remained so, giving her one ride after another. He swung himself into her in every way possible according to the laws of physics and, sometimes, with postures defying those rules. Judith could not speak; her body was just the recipient of pure bliss and love, delivered by an untiring passionate messenger. They stared eye-to-eye, unblinking, as Judith had gazed at the burning menorah -- two brown eyes looking into a twin pair. Judith's body reddened as the joyous pleasure she was being given took over. She yielded to it, watching Solomon as he kept on like a marathoner, hurtling against her perspiring flesh. Then he let himself go, loudly. Judith felt a warm surge unleash within her from Solomon's prick. She tingled, then shivered, teeth chattering. Solomon gave her a long kiss and Judith knew that he must be going.

"Don't leave me again," she pleaded.

"I shall live inside you," he said quietly, "and then near you and over you, forever."

There were tears in his dark eyes. He gave Judith a slow-motion sweeping caress. And with that final touch Solomon levitated from his widow's body -- a fiery light -- and soared through the closed casement into the December chill, permeating the glass panes like a laser. Judith watched his form grow smaller as it flew over the naked wooden postures of the leafless trees -- a flame slowly extinguishing over Central Park, twinkling like a dying star.

In the morning Judith's red pajamas were laid out flat like paper doll clothing on Solomon's side of the bed, facing up, his preferred sleeping position; the right shirtsleeve was angled towards her, as if it wanted to hold her hand. Both Judith and the empty nightwear were beneath the warm duvet. She felt liquid between her thighs and put a finger there to investigate. It was semen, not olive oil, and it tasted just like Solomon. She noticed a damp white patch on the indigo sheets and a few distinctly masculine pubic hairs. She looked to the menorah on the windowsill. The candles were burned down. She put on her pajamas, robe and slipper socks and left the bedroom, drawn to the living room by an unusual temperature. There, in the fireplace, was a full pile of wood, completely ablaze. Yesterday, the slate-lined space had been empty. Although there was no formal ritual to mark Chanukah's end, Judith sat on the green velvet chair by the fire, not taking her eyes off the flames until they burned out at dusk and Chanukah was officially over. Her own personal logwatch seemed as perfect as any ceremony.

Within the month, Judith, age 36, would find out she was carrying Solomon's child.

Nes Gadol Hayah Sham!

A great miracle happened there, on Central Park West, in the San Remo, on the 18th floor.

THE END
Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

My Story 1 of 10 HOT Erotic Holiday E-Offerings

2008-12-12T18:19:00.015-05:00

Masterful writer and editor Jolie du Pré has generously included my work on her sizzling seasonal list of Hot Erotic Holiday E-books.

(It's not an E-book but it is a free E-read!)

Catch it here.

Scroll down to this woman lying on the couch. My story, The Gift of the Magic Lump of Coal, is an erotic parody of the classic O. Henry Christmas tale, The Gift of the Magi.

Enjoy!

Thank you, Jolie!

The Colonoscoper and the Snake Charmeuse

2008-12-10T21:14:00.016-05:00

Another story launched into cyberspace: The Colonoscoper and the Snake Charmeuse, a profoundly anal tale of tails. Not for sissies, this one.

It's at Sliptongue Magazine, a refined website devoted to literary erotica. They describe themselves thusly:

Literary fiction, with both humorous and dark erotic content. Emotion saturated tales that bring about a surge in the bloodstream, shivers in the spine, swells of laughter, or any combination thereof.

I am most honored to be there.

I find it serendipitous and amusing that their logo complements my story.

(I had this tale online previously under a different pseudonym; I killed her off in the name of pseudonymic efficiency).

MOTEL SEX

2008-12-04T02:06:00.031-05:00

Well, Alison Tyler is at it again as muse to many, including, as always, me. She has a new contest running -- polls open until Friday -- on the theme of "Motel Sex," a tale told in 250 words.

I had a story there but withdrew it. Why? Well, it's hard to explain; if you've ever played Scrabble with me -- when I was eleven -- you might understand. Anyway, you can read my 250 words here, they're just not part of the competition. But do go over to Alison's blog and cast your vote for whichever of the 14 rooms -- I mean stories -- you like best. And don't vote for the deleted story there, obviously mine. You're wasting your vote as it won't count; please give it to a genuine contestant.

Here's my erstwhile entry. You might want to hose down in the cheap stall shower after reading it. It's especially soiling. The video is actually something I serendipitously found on YouTube after my story was already written and submitted. It's practically a virtual illustration! Enjoy:

"We'll Leave the Light on For Ya!"
© 2008 by EllaRegina
There were perks to dating a forensic detective. One was the Ultraviolet Semen Detection Light.

Dexter only fucked in the sleaziest places and part of his foreplay routine involved turning on the light. Dark rooms -- synthetic drapes drawn, Route 1 beyond, flammable floral bedspreads neatly arranged -- were transformed into Abstract Expressionist walk-in paintings with the flick of a switch. The device also located untainted trysting spots; clean sheets were usually a good bet.

Dexter liked to figure out, Rorschach test-style, exactly what had occurred to create the Jackson Pollock studies. "Man, some guy just sat at the edge of this bed and jerked off ten times while watching CNN." Or "They were on top of the spread, he was fucking her doggy style, then he pulled out and they rolled around in his stuff. Look, you can see scissor kicks and a palm print!" He was always right. What resembled an afternoon of kindergarten fingerpainting to me presented an encyclopedia of sex acts to Dexter. The best discovery was a headboard: MIKE spelled out in giant block letters. That must have been written by hand, literally. No man could have such control of his flooding pen.

We were tidy, never adding to the exhibition. I kept Dexter's ultraviolet juice inside me -- in my mouth, my cunt, my ass, my hair. Maybe some of it got onto the pillowcases but we always stripped the bed for housekeeping. Who knows, maybe they had an Ultraviolet Semen Detection Light, too.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

In situ on YouTube -- the rancid sing-song melody purses my lips
but the YouTubers' comments are total high class:
Slide your card key in the door and enter.

DOLLY, a "Broken" Story

2008-11-25T05:21:00.015-05:00

Alison Tyler had another contest the other day where she asked writers to expound on the concept of broken in 250 words. I came up with this:

© 2008 by EllaRegina
At college Dolly understood that something was amiss. While glimpsing bolder girls parading naked around the dorm bathroom, Dolly realized she had nothing between her legs. No hair, no lips: just a fleshy mound with a tiny grommet from which urine flowed. The other girls had sprouted curious flowers there—petalled flora releasing exotic fragrances.

Before Thanksgiving Dolly went on her first date with a nice boy named Arthur. They kissed. He put his tongue inside her mouth. Dolly liked that. Arthur touched body parts even her doctor had never visited. Eventually his hand found itself atop Dolly's hillock.

"That's a vacant lot, Arthur. No grass. No furrow." She pulled her daisy-print underpants down to show him exactly what it was that she did not possess.

"Oh, my!" he exclaimed. "Well, isn't that ducky! Never mind, Dolly. You've lots to offer, and it's better this way—no worries about babies."

Arthur taught Dolly how to take his hard penis into her mouth and suck it until buttermilk came forth. Then he folded her like a clotheslined towel and demonstrated how he could fill her plump behind with warm cream using his rigid staff. They found much to enjoy together, despite her empty canvas.

After Christmas vacation Arthur brought Dolly to a tattoo parlor. While the electric needle man busily engraved a © and MATTEL above Dolly's ivory rear, Arthur distracted her from the pain—discreetly unzipping and placing his cock inside her lips like a pacifier until the jobs were done.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

MAIDEN VOYAGE, a Story

2008-11-03T23:00:00.039-05:00

A clip from The Opening of Misty Beethoven, a Golden-Age-of-Porn classic, and the stimulus for my story, Maiden Voyage. You need not have seen this wonderful piece of cinematic history to appreciate my tale but if you are familiar with it you will find little clues along the way serving as subtle references. The male protagonist is named in homage to Mr. Jamie Gillis, Renaissance man, superstar and the film's leading actor, shown above. Thank you, Jamie Gillis, for your blessing and inspiration!

Fasten your seatbelts and enjoy the flight!

MAIDEN VOYAGE
© 2008 by EllaRegina
I have wrangled one of just a hundred coveted seats on the inaugural transatlantic commercial flight of MaidenAir® -- the first carrier devoted exclusively to female passengers. Their slogan is long on pun and short on grammar: MaidenAir, th'AIR for Her...™, as if copywritten by Lady Chatterley's lover had he been a Madison Avenue ad man; but I am enchanted by their Pepto-Bismol-pink aircraft and cartoon logo: a bulbous blushing airplane nose penetrating the void of a soft billowy doughnut-shaped cloud -- an almost perfect smoke ring -- white cotton candy against a crosshatched pale blue sky.

Online booking lists options, questions, an enigmatic travel wardrobe caveat -- "two-piece outfit only: top and bottom; no dresses, jumpsuits, et cetera, allowed" -- and one strict directive: "No carry-ons permitted: your every on-board need will be taken care of," a promise at once frightening and reassuring. I choose window seat 34A, my brassiere size -- a superstitious air-travel ritual -- and indicate meal preference: Asian VegetAIRian. For "sexual orientation" I scroll until the appropriate selection appears on the horizon amidst a multitude of possibilities and put my cursor arrow within the square outline next to "Heterosexual, mostly," clicking a check mark into the empty space. Form completed, I am e-ticketed for MaidenAir® Flight No. 001 (MA-001), departing New York City (JFK) 02 May at 19:30; arriving 7 hours and 10 minutes later on 03 May in London (Heathrow) at 07:40.***Crossing the Boeing 747-400's threshold is like swimming through a gynecological speculum into an endless tunnel of pink; I'm inside a 416-seat vagina. The color scheme dominates the cabin interior -- carpet, upholstery, walls, storage bins, barreled ceiling -- as well as the flight attendants' uniforms: bubblegum pink on the women; a boisterous peacock hot pink for the men, down to the shoes, a fleet of which stand guard winging the entrance, welcoming us onboard one by one. Pre-takeoff classical music pipes in at an ethereal sound level: Beethoven, "Für Elise" -- feminine, calming. Royal Class™ is enthroned behind a pink velvet curtain; Coachman Class™ is where I belong. A phalanx of flight attendants -- male and female -- stands at the airplane's rear, hovering like a raincloud, as we find seat assignments matching the information on our pink tickets.

For this maiden voyage only one quarter passenger seating capacity is utilized: every ticket-holder is surrounded by empty spots ; alternate rows are occupied -- a sparsely arranged checkerboard. I stow my jacket in the overhead bin and claim 34A, a pink burrito wrapped in absorbent toweling, window shade open -- a startled eyelid -- black tarmac below and beyond. On the aisle seat to my right are three neatly folded pink blankets -- I can almost see static sparks radiating from the synthetic fabric -- four head-sized pillows cased in same, and a pink rhomboid vinyl zippered tote with bracelet-loop handle, MaidenAir®'s logo on its front; underneath, in block capitals: SKY-BAG™. I unzip to inspect the contents:

One pink toothbrush, MaidenAir, th'AIR for Her...™ along its top; U.K. on the bottom in raised letters.

A finger-length pink tube of presumably pink toothpaste.

Pink dental floss threaded on a dollhouse-appropriate spool.

A pink satin eyeshade with pink elastic band.

One pink headset.

Two pink foam earplugs.

A pen, memo pad, diminutive body lotion vial, lipstick and sealed moist towelette, all boasting the MaidenAir® logo, each item pink.

A mini-dispenser of hot pink Tic-Tacs.

A pink plastic comb, embossed with the now-familiar MaidenAir, th'AIR for Her...™

One pair magenta anklet socks, of a singular design: plastic Louis XIV heels, pink, adhere to the anatomically correct area, creating a hybrid sock-shoe with non-slip zig-zag-runnered traction soles.

Spiraled transparently-wrapped pink condoms in five different sizes, London landmarks on the shiny packaging, keyed to symbolically denote the enclosed products' dimensions. In ascending size order: Cleopatra's Needle obelisk; Tower of London; Nelson's Column; The Monument to the Great Fire of London; Big Ben.

A pink-topped clear cylinder, the magnitude of a small cucumber, containing a gelatinous substance; printed longitudinally with the London Underground symbol and TubeLube™ in a Gill Sans font.

A thumb-sized pink plastic bottle of the official MaidenAir® fragrance; it smells like semen mixed with pineapple and cumin but is not unappealing.***In the seatback pocket facing me, next to a pink vomit bag and MaidenAirWaves, the in-flight magazine, a rigid laminated folded menu board presents wordless diagrams picturing faceless humanoids performing assorted activities. On one side, the usual safety instructions; on the reverse, other visualizations -- tableaux simply rendered, yet clearly conveyed via nimble economy of line: women in airplane seats, nude from the waist down, no features except for red O mouths, no pubic hair, pink seat belts fastened, legs sloped over forward seats, also strapped down with pink belts: held yoga poses; limbs open and waiting like unemployed nutcrackers, the odd heeled anklet sock-shoes on all feet. Next to the battened-down women, pink flight attendants, male and female, engage the seated passengers in a variety show of sexual acts -- the kinds feasible onboard a 747-400 with a cruising speed of 565 miles per hour traveling at 35,000 feet. My forward seat ahead does, in fact, sport ankle-cuff-length pink belting on either side, mirroring the board diagrams.

I gaze out at the high gloss pink wing -- the aircraft body seems to have been painted with nail polish -- a red light blinking at its end. I vibrate between my legs, synced to the pulsing signal. Yes, this will be an interesting 7 hours and 10 minutes. I have not flown in too long a time, in every sense of the word, and MA-001 could be just the ticket; I am more than ready to be launched.***Good evening, Ladies and Ladies! Welcome aboard MaidenAir®'s inaugural voyage, flight No. 001 bound for London Heathrow. We are there for you! Each passenger has been assigned a personal Coachman or Coachwoman based on the collected booking form data. He or she will do whatever possible to make your MaidenAir® experience a most enjoyable one. We wish you a pleasant flight. Thank you.

My Coachman is Jamie G., according to his nametag. Salt and peppery, handsome, Beatle-inflected English, an older man; my type, on the nose. I swoon, feeling an immediate intoxicating chemistry. One hand wears a pink latex glove. Jamie G. politely asks me to remove all clothing from the waist down. I hand him black garments, black underthings and black boots; he puts them in an overhead bin. My Coachman shows me how the funny sock-shoes are worn. He lays my calves over the forward seat, pink belting fixing me in place -- I would open my legs for him anywhere. He modifies the seat angle so I am at an alpine pitch, genitals aligned with the forward seat top. Once limb configuration satisfaction is achieved, Jamie G.'s latexed hand gives my pussy a warm fondle. He sucks pink thumb and forefinger, extending the remaining three to me. I eagerly oblige. His head brushes my goosebumped thighs; burrowed in further investigation, skywriting an indecipherable message on my clitoris. Were I not moored I would be levitating. "You're ready for takeoff, Miss 34A," he determines, restoring the seat to its default state. He unfolds a pink blanket and covers my nakedness. He knows how to find me later. I'm not going anywhere; he's got me in a holding pattern.***The airplane roars, taxiing down the runway with increasing velocity, and soon I perceive loss of ground contact and hear the wheel mechanism retracting. We are quickly whisked aloft as if by a gigantic pink patent-leather glove; the borough of Queens falls away outside my portal, a toy village panorama.

There is the usual wordless safety demonstration run-through but I never pay attention; I do, however, take notice of the ensuing pantomime: a menu board sexual position sampler; performed in the nearest aisle by a Coachman-Coachwoman duo and across the cabin by two Coachwomen -- one tantalizing preview, albeit a dressed rehearsal.

Something drops from above. It is pink, plastic, shaped like a penis and filling up with air.

Ladies and Ladies: The CloudPleasers™ have descended! Place this interactive self-inflating device firmly in your vagina, secure the Velcro strap behind your waist and breathe normally. The CloudPleaser™ will expand, conforming to your interior dimensions; its sensors consistently monitoring your body temperature, vaginal wall pressure, blood flow, lubrication, pulse and contractions throughout the flight. Please observe the nearest seatback video screen. Our patented chartHERflight™ system records and constantly updates your readings in real time as well as documents the aircraft's location, ground speed, altitude and distance traveled at any given moment. You can track your comings and your goings: the pulsating pink CloudBursts™ represent your arousal; their size correlates to your excitement level; static pink circles indicate orgasms reached. Upon deplaning your complete flight registry will be automatically sent to the e-mail address you provided when booking. Keep your CloudPleaser™ inserted during the flight at all times or until a uniformed Coachman advises you to remove it; kindly refrain from touching the device as it is set on automatic pilot. Finally, with your health and safety foremost in mind, MaidenAir® always uses fresh CloudPleasers™: "one woman, one flight, one CloudPleaser™," manufactured from our proprietary hypoallergenic material, MaidenTex™.

We offer every amenity to help make this a thrilling journey. Our in-flight entertainment service takes off with your SKY-BAG™ headset. Plugged into the armrest receptacle, it connects you to an array of stimulating cinematic material and audio selections designed to enhance amorous urges. We have placed a complimentary copy of our titillating in-flight magazine, "MaidenAirWaves," inside the nearest accessible seat pocket; feel free to take this with you when we reach our destination. Your overhead PheromonAir™ nozzle, releasing a customized formula expressly blended for each passenger, is sure to inspire the optimum in-seat head trip. Blast off, with pleasure!

I lodge the ballooning gadget as instructed and twist my air nozzle open full throttle -- palpably more desirous when the current is aimed at my nostrils. I rig the headset, activate the video program and tap "entertainment preference keywords" onto the finger-sensitive LCD panel: Straight; Extreme; Oral; Anal; Babymaker. A grid of windows, each bearing a frozen image, floods the screen. I play them simultaneously, a 10.6" diagonal orgy: enormous engorged cocks, many hairless holes, white semen abounding in dolphin fountain spouts. Were these not obviously pornographic they would be great advertisements for Elmer's Glue. There are several audio channels: musical choices, orgasm sound effects and an adjustable click track thumping a single beat; I find the collective video Babel's accompaniment. My CloudPleaser™ steadily, actively fucks me, its rhythm ever-changing, based on what I watch, what I hear, what I inhale and my physical reactions to their commingling.

I look at the chartHERflight™ monitor. A lower-case t-silhouette representing the aircraft is situated on the map near Nova Scotia, a line from the t leading backwards to JFK and forwards over the Atlantic, towards the British Isles. A cluster of glowing pink round CloudBursts™ is already registered, like beads on a wire; I'm an in-progress pearl necklace being strung, jetting across the ocean.***Beverage Service commences. Jamie G. brings my pink lemonade-vodka cocktail, a Misty London™, no rocks, exactly as per the booking form request.

I peruse MaidenAirWaves: video synopses are skipped -- I hate plot spoilers; enticing photographs beckon -- vintage as well as contemporary -- grouped by category, subject, sexual predilection; erotic writings, from Catullus to Sappho and beyond, are alphabetized by author, including my favorite, Anonymous. The magazine's pages also function as a catalogue, detailing products for sale in MaidenAir®'s bulging Cloud9Shop™: an arsenal of vibrators, dildos (one- and two-seaters; with or without harnesses), plugs, beads, gags, whips, spanking regalia, bondage toys, sex games, condoms and lubricants, DVDs of all in-flight videos; everything duty free. I worry that the potential estrus generated by this entertainment multi-tasking -- reading, gazing at photographs and item specifications, watching videos and listening to audio tracks concurrently -- will burden chartHERflight™'s circuits, but they appear to handle, as I do, the abundance of stimuli.***Jamie G. arrives with my meal, lowering the nearby tray table. I unpeel the foggy steaming clingfilm topper, its exterior scribbled in pink marking pen: 34A amid a cartoon cloud outline. Dinner is excellent: spicy chickpea and vegetable curry, cold Indian beer. There is salad but I'm full; the untouched Italian Extra Virgin Olive Oil package enters my shirt pocket -- I can't let such a delicacy be discarded.***Jamie G. returns and gives me a quizzical look while collecting my pink tray. I resume in-flight entertaining -- multiple CloudBurst™-inducing passages scribed by my preferred author. I glance at the seatback screen whenever I detect that familiar twitter, seemingly occurring more frequently and intensely if Jamie G. is within sniffing distance. My necklace is assembling quite nicely. I may have the chartHERflight™ log printout framed.***Beverages accumulating, the loo calls. I ring for my Coachman, pressing the armrest's C button until a pink light winks overhead. Jamie G. resurfaces, undrapes me, disconnects the CloudPleaser™, unbuckles my legs and acts as escort to the WCs -- I toddle awkwardly on sock-shoes -- dutifully waiting beside me in a long queue of semi-clad women and their respective Coachmen and Coachwomen. Red OCCUPIED lights are illuminated; contented high-pitched vowels emerge from within random compartments, floating like rows of excited comic book letters. Jamie G. explains that the WCs double as menu board diagram practice rooms and fitting booths for Cloud9Shop™ merchandise; there is even a dedicated MileHighDungeon™. Flashing green VACANT, one door opens; a Coachwoman steps out, gripping two leather paddles, followed by a dazed twinkling tittering passenger wearing the same outfit -- waist-to-toes -- as mine, except for lavender-pink heels and matching stripes dividing anklet backs like seams in silk stockings. Her dimpled buttocks are pinker than anything onboard.

I relieve myself and Jamie G. resets me in 34A, CloudPleaser™ reinstalled. Shades have been drawn, lights dimmed; perhaps a nap can be managed.***I leave the pink world for several hours, dreaming of cocks -- flying cocks dripping with white glue, winged cocks in all sizes, a rare-bird aviary comprising different flesh tones, feather curves, free-falling freewheeling flying styles -- some riding the wind, others against it -- making their loop-de-loop rounds in the skies. A wayward cock loses its path and flies into my mouth, a lost bird. I clamp it between lips, engulfing warmth and heartbeat. I taste its semen, which recalls pineapple and cumin. The bird is moving. I undo my eyeshade.

This is no dream. Jamie G. straddles me, his Boeing 797 filling my mouth, discharging, air-dropping its cargo. I swallow avidly; I had room for that salad after all. A handful of new CloudBursts™ glimmers on the screen. And I'm not the only one: my lavender-pink-heeled aisle mate is being very well attended to by her Coachwoman, poised betwixt strapped legs, a mammoth condom-covered pink rubber phallus mounted on a thigh harness -- my neighbor's mouth and pussy alternating as its target. Her unplugged CloudPleaser™ hangs in mid-air, flying solo, abandoned: a wet pacifier, temporarily out-of-service. The woman six rows away is a twisted pretzel, ankles flanking her head, seat tilted so far back she's practically upside-down. I see glittery navel adornment and shaved landing strip. A Coachman is plowing her rear with his oily pink cock: Cleopatra's Needle, Nelson's Column at most, but doing its job well -- they caw like seagulls. All around me I hear mating calls of wild birds and can distinguish moving figures in the cabin's semi-darkness, lit only by pink safety lights tracing the aisles.

Jamie G. notes my wandering magpie eyes. "Give me your SKY-BAG!" I hand it over, hypnotized. He rips off a condom -- The Monument to the Great Fire of London -- removes my blanket and flips back my seat. Cock airworthy and skyward, he applies TubeLube™ to His Royal Hugeness and the condom's pink exterior once it's rolled on. "I'm heading towards Pudding Lane!" he declares, referencing the Great Fire's source as he skydives into my pussy. His lips find an ear. "Actually, Miss 34A," he whispers, rotating his monument like a propeller, stirring me up, "this batch is improperly marked; it's really Big Ben."

"I thought so, Jamie G.!" In no way is he a mere column.

The condoms also have sensors; my chartHERflight™ chronicle is virtually uninterrupted. Mine is a Coachman par excellence. He contributes a strand of static and palpitating CloudBursts™ to my transatlantic pearl necklace. The towel under me efficiently absorbs all copious effluvia, my private bouquet permanently impregnated in its fibers. Truly, the whole aircraft exudes Eau de Vagina by this point, what with a hundred of them being happily serviced, one way or another.

Jamie G. stores his personal gear and unbuckles me. "Come," he says, uncorking my CloudPleaser™, grabbing the pillow stack and a few condoms. "We need more room for the in-flight entertainment I think you'll enjoy best of all." He leads me to a bulkhead where a gauzy pink curtain on a ceiling track cordons off several square meters. The space is intended for wheelchair-bound passengers but there are none booked. Jamie G. organizes me on elbows and knees, slipping a pillow beneath each joint. He encircles my waist with a pink belt attached to the pink carpet -- otherwise used for securing rolling paraphernalia. "Safety first!" he says. After cuffing other floor belts around ankles, mine and his, he palms my small breasts, causing the Extra Virgin Olive Oil packet to cascade down.

"Aha!" he exclaims. "Just what I was looking for! Miss 34A is a very naughty girl. Not only hasn't she finished her supper but she's absconded with the fixings!"

"How did you know?!"

"It's my job," says Jamie G., "plus our sensors take inventory."

"I'm sorry. I don't like seeing food go to waste."

"Oh, that won't happen. Don't worry!" He rips open the plastic -- I envision rich golden-green oil welling at the brim. I turn, watching him spill precious liquid into his hands, rubbing them together.

"That's pretty fancy skin cream, Jamie G."

"Not its ultimate use, Miss 34A..."

I feel Jamie G., all hot and hot pinked against my bare thighs. One olive-oil-dressed finger makes a maiden voyage, probing an untreaded passage.

"I've never done this!" I say, surprised.

"I read your booking form," replies Jamie G., "and am familiar with the Miss 34A history. You're curious. Or...?"

"Yes. I'm an intrepid traveler who believes in exploring untrampled spots off the beaten path."

Jamie G. concentrates on his spelunking, adding oil and more fingers to my Chunnel.

"It's chiming time for Big Ben," he announces, momentarily departing from my posterior. He fits a new condom on his timepiece, tossing it abundantly with salad dressing. He imitates the clock tower, gently gliding his wide-bodied fuselage inside my evacuation door.

"Ding Dong Ding Dong, Ding Dong Ding Dong," he sings,

"Ding Dong Ding Dong, Ding Dong Ding Dong.

Dong.

Dong.

Dong.

Dong.

Dong."

(He is completely within me by the fifth Dong.)

"Dong.

Dong."

It must be 07.00 in London. I am being driven by a piping baguette and speculate whether our destination is not Paris instead.

Jamie G.'s body covers my back -- on top like a tandem parachutist -- and begins to buck, pressing, deeper yet, transcending what I thought was the frontier; my head mashing the cushioned pink wall as if it were a pillow. His heat, his weight, his touch, his voice, his breath, his cock, his smell. He sends me into a raptus: besotted, mesmerized -- I would do anything for him.

"Wait until you see the CloudBursts™ I'm going to drop," he whoops. "You won't believe your eyes!"***"Hold on!!" commands Jamie G. between primordial squawks. Turbulence never comes at a convenient time and this occasion is no different; we are also descending. My rear is airborne but his architectural anatomy tethers me, as do strips of belting. The airplane rattles and shifts altitude at a jerky pace. One hundred women are screaming, whether from sheer ecstasy or fright I have no idea. Through the thin curtain I sense vague luminous rectangles: one hundred video screens flicker like winning slot machines in Las Vegas -- one hundred chartHERflight™ paths beaming enough necklace bling to stock Tiffany's.

Jamie G. pulls a mouth-level telescopic disc from the wall. Out pops a pink rubber cock, like a magic trick snake. "This will stabilize you," he says. My lips surround the pink horizontal. Indeed, with this orthodontic-retainer, his salad-dresser holding up the rear, belts cinching my waist and our ankles, the 747-400 could flip over, twirling three times like a test pilot action, and we'd still be right where we are.

I am flying. We are flying, high, very high, in the sky; soaring -- the airplane's nose pointed down, Jamie G.'s cock ascending. A smoldering liquid oozes from the skyhook tickling my uvula. It tastes like semen, pineapple, cumin and is rather appealing. I produce appreciative noises while drinking; I am tanked.

"That's our MaidenBlaster™ fuel," says Jamie G., hands grasping my midsection. "All Coachmen donated. It's running this bird, too, oil prices being what they are -- circulated throughout the cabin as well. But it's only to be shared with extraordinary passengers -- like you, Miss 34A." When he utters my name fiery oil loads his condom -- I wiggle my ass in response, captivated by every word -- and, at that precise moment, wheels kiss tarmac in a smooth touchdown. There is applause, maybe for the landing, or our floor show, its shadow play likely visible from behind the scrim. My rectum contracts, thirstily guzzling what remains of the olive oil, my throat behaving similarly with the MaidenBlaster™ fuel. Jamie G. keeps Big Ben ticking as I shudder.***Ladies and Ladies: Welcome to London Heathrow Airport. Local time is 07:40. For your safety and comfort we ask that you wait until we have come to a complete stop at the gate before summoning your Coachman to properly assist you with deplaning. On behalf of MaidenAir® and the entire crew, I'd like to thank you again for joining us on this very special voyage. We hope you've enjoyed the flight and look forward to seeing you onboard again in the near future. Have a nice day and thank you for coming and going with MaidenAir®!

Once the airplane is halted Jamie G. detangles us, tucks himself in and helps me up. I can barely stand or walk. He provides careful guidance back to 34A, unlatches the overhead bin and reunites me with my New York City mourning costume. The chartHERflight™ screen is overflowing. Static pink circles throng the original line; offshoots have blossomed, forming a flow chart -- not much can be seen of water and continents. Jamie G. takes a hot pink 1-inch-diameter badge from his trousers. Two yawning black m squiggles, resembling tiered birds spread in flight, span edge-to-edge. He pins the ornament to my jacket. "Miss 34A, you've earned your wings."

I cannot deplane without assistance. Jamie G. knows that; it's his job. He supports me as we wait to disembark. I dangle my SKY-BAG™ -- it's all I can lift. We begin moving, slowly, behind other passengers -- many of whom are also having trouble in the basic ambulation department -- and their attendant Coachmen and Coachwomen. While vacating I glimpse the cockpit yearningly; pilot and co-, sitting: grinning, sunburned, pink. Next time I'll ask if I can visit.***One hundred pink wheelchairs fringe the ramp outside the airplane exit door. Jamie G. settles me in one and we're off. We pass the boarding gate where a batch of giggling women -- gazing at us in wonderment like hungry puppies -- awaits this particular aircraft, departing for JFK in a few hours, after it's been cleaned, refurnished and refueled: one thousand MaidenAir® Coachmen are probably within a designated hangar, taking that matter in hand at this very instant. I am wheeled to the luggage carousel where our bags, home-delivered courtesy of the airline two weeks pre-boarding, are swiftly retrieved: one hundred identical pink rolling duffles, front and back touting MaidenAir®'s logo, with the phrase I'm coming and going! -- figure-eight orbits of white calligraphy -- repeated in an overall pattern.

Jamie G. hitches my bag to the wheelchair, rolling us toward Customs and farther, through a series of automatic pink plastic-padded sliding doors -- gaping swollen labia as they open -- until we greet crisp English air. A hundred black London cabs are queued; one is hailed. With pink duffle deposited in boot, Jamie G. transfers my still-trembling frame onto the back seat, and bids me adieu.

"Good-bye, Miss 34A," he says, leaning against the lowered window. "It has been my pleasure taking care of you." Jamie G.'s odor perforates the confined space, entrancing me, and I realize: those were his pheromones emanating from the nozzle like a genie from a bottle. I was sprayed with Jamie G.; held under his knee-weakening spell the entire voyage -- during my occupancy of 34A, and directly from the source when unseated in his vicinity. I am too spent to do anything but smile.***I watch Jamie G.'s figure become a pink matchstick, then vanish beyond the plump-lipped aperture of the pink MaidenAir® terminal. I roll up the glass to contain and enjoy him for as long as I can.

I begin to doze and am roused by my burly, behatted Cockney-accented cabbie:

" 'ello, Lovey. Are we coming or going?"

"Both."

He starts his engine and we launch into the thick of London, webbed in early morning haze, on the wrong street side. I hope two weeks here fly by as I'm already thinking about my return trip.***Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

THE MAMMOTH BOOK of the KAMA SUTRA is HERE!

2008-10-28T21:40:00.021-04:00

Now safely ensconced on both sides of the Pond: The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra, edited by the peerless Maxim Jakubowksi and published simultaneously by Constable & Robinson (UK) and Running Press (USA).

This beautiful illustrated book is part historical non-fiction, and part erotica. That's where my esteemed fellow contributors and I came in. We each wrote tales that allegedly inspired various positions detailed in the classic lovemaking "instruction book" of Ancient India, The Kama Sutra. My story, The Tale of Kakali and the Climbing Tree, explains the origins of the sexual embrace "Climbing a Tree." Told in an antiquated voice, it's a mix-up of Cinderella, Pinocchio and Jack and the Beanstalk. And, even with the formal language adopted, I somehow managed to make things sufficiently filthy -- in a good way, of course.

As there was no space alloted in the tome for dedications, I would like to thank my writer friend Stella Omega, whose lovely Dendrophils -- special objects that give new meaning to the term tree hugger -- served as inspiration for my erotic imagination when writing this tale.

HAROLD and the BLACK FOUNTAIN PEN

2008-09-16T03:19:00.041-04:00

Alison Tyler, erotica's "literary siren," has been running ultra-fun and inspirational story contests over at her Blogspot site. She posts a chosen sexy image (or two) taken from Naked Chicks on Post-It Notes, which is exactly what it sounds like, and asks us to write a short piece about what we see.

On September 7th she put up two Naked Chicks drawings and I wrote about both. Then she ran a poll and my first story won. The picture urging me on is reproduced above. My interpretation is below. It's a very grown-up take on one of my favorite books, HAROLD and the PURPLE CRAYON, by Crockett Johnson, a children's classic. (It's one of the items in my "Inspiration" sidebar on the right).

You can read all the entries on Alison's blog here in the original post (in the comment area), or here, where you can also see the actual poll results.

Thank you, Alison and Mr. Naked Chicks on Post-It Notes! And thank you, Mr. Crockett Johnson, wherever you are. Please say Hi to Harold for me.

HAROLD and the BLACK FOUNTAIN PEN
© 2008 by EllaRegina

Harold grew up and left his purple crayon behind, learning how to wield his cock instead, or a shiny black fountain pen, but not at the same time. Harold could have any girl he wanted; all he had to do was draw her. She could be naked, she could be clothed, or anything in between. And she would do whatever he wished, as long as he was able to illustrate those desires. Harold drew a very white girl, nicely shaped and held in by a spare arrangement of thin black lines.

While drawing he felt her kissing him, even though she only existed, so far, from above the kneecaps to just under the breasts -- he was getting to her other parts. The yet-undrawn mouth was planted exactly on his own, as if he were kissing a mirror. A tongue found his. He kissed the faceless girl until his cock became hard. Harold drew a couch -- a simple one as time was of the essence -- so they would have a decent place to kiss, something more dimensional. He drew her knees, which immediately buckled, making the paper twitch. Even though Harold and the very white girl were grounded -- now horizontal on the couch -- their stomachs, both drawn and real, were dropping in a bottomless free-fall from the kissing.

The girl was holding on to her underpants -- whatever Harold had drawn. She rolled them off, slowly, as she kissed him, her mouth never leaving his. He drew her hand so that it reached for his cock. Then his pen slipped, the right side of her thong string not yet drawn. He took his hard cock and brought it to the girl's hand so she could grasp him. He wanted so much to dip into her bubbling inkwell -- once drawn, of course -- but felt it only proper to wait until the rest of her was there, too. After all, she was more than just a collection of lines. He retrieved his fountain pen from the floor and continued, filling in the missing areas -- he drew her asshole and stuck his finger in it -- all the time kissing, and being kissed, with a very white black-outlined hand wrapped around his flesh and blood purple cock, both he and the girl reeling, flying. They would never hit ground because it was not yet inked, so they could float and kiss forever, and so they did.

Harold loved the smell of paper, especially a bleached bond.

(%^)

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Ultra-Kinky NORMAL

2008-08-04T03:53:00.016-04:00

Erotica whirlwind Alison Tyler asked for spanking stories on her blog the other day and I handed over something I titled Normal. The following day she pronounced it "ultra-kinky" and I teasingly countered with my contention that it was, in fact, "normal." Of course these things are very subjective.

The next day Ms. Tyler put the story up on her blog along with a poll, inviting readers to cast their votes toward a democratic answer. The verdict: Ultra-kinky, by a hair. The polls are now closed but you can still read Normal here and decide for yourself. Enjoy!

Amidst all the excitement, Kristina Lloyd, a marvel of a writer, declared me "a pervert of the highest order," a pronouncement taken as a great compliment. I asked Ms. Lloyd, who is British, if she could perhaps talk with Queen Elizabeth to see about establishing a "Pervert of the Order of the British Empire" ranking (PBE?). Not only would I enjoy such an honour but I'd be very curious to see what costume details accompany the appointment -- the vestments, accoutrements and insignia. Naturally, this could only happen if the Queen liked my work. Perhaps I shall send her something to read. Then again, I don't want to be a royal pain.

THE LONELY ONANISTA prepares for MAMMOTH Swim!

2008-06-25T20:42:00.039-04:00

The Lonely Onanista is gearing up for a marathon swim across the Atlantic Ocean to the British Isles where she will make a cameo appearance in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8, the prestigious annual volume edited by the superlative Maxim Jakubowski, published by Constable & Robinson (UK) and Running Press (USA).

I am overjoyed to be in this important anthology with what is certain to be a mammothly fabulous roster of word fondlers.

In a FRENZY!

2008-06-20T18:55:00.036-04:00

I am pleased as punch to announce that my 355-word shorty, "Faceless Filly Seeks Rider," will be appearing (among very good company) in the upcoming flash-fiction anthology, Frenzy: 60 stories of sudden sex, edited by erotica Grand Meisterin, Alison Tyler.

For those of you at home wishing to join me in this frenetic and festive celebration strap on your dancing shoes and gather 'round this virtual LP track, Frenesi, by the late great Artie Shaw. (Frenesi is Español for frenzy.)

DONNA GEORGE STOREY Interviews ME!

2008-03-10T00:24:00.028-04:00

Donna George Storey, writer extraordinaire, who has been my inspiration (and open-hearted friend) in the Land of Erotica Scribing since Day One, has done a most generous Q & A with me on her blog, where I say more than a few words, mostly about my story, The Lonely Onanista, and other things—including handkerchiefs, corduroy, Champagne, wallpaper, Craigslist, Mother Theresa, who I'd have for dinner, autobiography, imagination, my back burner and other creative monkey business. You can read it all here.

THANK YOU, DONNA!

THE LONELY ONANISTA runner-up:2007 Rauxa Prize for Erotic Writing

2008-01-19T19:42:00.006-05:00

Photograph: The Virtual Typewriter MuseumRauxa: n.
of Catalan origin

Definition: Unbridled emotion and passion; wild spontaneity; overflowing creativity and capacity for action.
To see you naked is to recall the Earth. -- Federico García Lorca
This lovely quote is part of the foundation of the Rauxa Prize, an annual award "in celebration of great erotic writing."

My little tale, The Lonely Onanista, is one of three equally-ranked runners-up for the 2007 Rauxa Prize for Erotic Writing, chosen from among many hundreds of entries.

The Rauxa Prize for Erotic Writing is given annually for an erotic short story (or novel excerpt) of "exceptional literary quality" and is judged by a select jury. All entries are read "blinded," that is, without the author's name available. Past judges have included Steve Almond, Leigh Davidson, Susannah Indigo and Bill Noble.

The winner is André Aciman, whose work I greatly admire, for an excerpt from his novel Call Me by Your Name. Although I wouldn't have minded adding the proverbial glittering tiara (it's actually a statue) to my collection of regal headgear, I am pleased that he is the recipient.

There is an additional Rauxa Prize given for erotic poetry.

I am beyond thrilled, honored to have been nominated, and delighted to be in such illustrious company for this most prestigious and important award in the world of erotic writing.

POP!

I extend my arm, full glass of Champagne in hand, and toast myself, the winners and runners-up, all!

HOORAY!

Photograph: AMEA // World Museum of Erotic Art

THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF THE KAMA SUTRA

2008-01-18T05:14:00.011-05:00

Illustration: New York Public Library Digital Gallery
I am extremely happy to announce that my work will be appearing in The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra, edited by Maxim Jakubowksi, editor and writer par excellence, to be published simultaneously by Robinson (UK) and Running Press (USA) in June of this year.

I wrote a sweet little tale of ancient India that, were it not for its sexual content, could be read to Kindergartners 'round the globe -- an erotic amalgam of Cinderella, Pinocchio and Jack and the Beanstalk. More I cannot say right now, other than that I am completely thrilled.

[Illustration: Mudra (ritual gesture) positions]

BWE 2008, SECOND LIFE version...

2008-01-09T22:14:00.003-05:00

Not sure whether to file this under Good News or Bad News:

Best Women's Erotica 2008 is part of an erotica book library being offered to those who participate in SECOND LIFE.

For the uninitiated -- courtesy of Wikipedia -- SECOND LIFE, abbreviated as SL, is an Internet-based virtual world where users (a k a "Residents") "can explore, meet other Residents, socialize, participate in individual and group activities, create and trade items (virtual property) and services from one another."

Description of the Book Library:

Kick start your private book collection with this set of hot erotic adult books to lay by the side of the bed and give your partner some exciting thoughts. They come in a discrete, anonymous wooden box ready to unpack and place on your shelves or tables.

[...]

For your privacy, the spine of each book is disguised as the "Life of Washington" by John Marshall (history was never this much fun) and they all have a plain brown leather back.

Each book is only 1 prim and they're all transfer, so get them as a present for someone special!

[If you understood that last sentence you're way ahead of me].

The big question:

Will the "Residents" have real orgasms whilst reading the SECOND LIFE version of Best Women's Erotica 2008 or will they be virtual ones?

Me? I have enough to deal with in FIRST LIFE, thank you. I'm staying right here.

BEST WOMEN'S EROTICA 2008 #1 on Amazon!

2007-12-23T17:21:00.002-05:00

The numbers are updated hourly but for a few days now Best Women's Erotica 2008 has been the NUMBER ONE bestseller on Amazon, in their "Erotica Anthologies" category! I'll take credit for about 5% of that achievement, given that there are 21 stories in the book.

;-)

My Story THE LONELY ONANISTA on Cleansheets

2007-12-19T01:08:00.006-05:00

"What happens inside our National Monuments, our Heroic Statues, our Memorial Obelisks? Few even know they have an inside. But they do, and they seethe with endless, concealed, triumphantly unofficial erotic excess. Listen quietly at Lincoln's knee. Creep in the middle of the night to press your ear to the Washington Square Arch."

--Bill Noble, Editor, Cleansheets.com

The Lonely Onanista, on Cleansheets.com beginning 12.19.07

Image by cerebus

HOT HOT HOT off the press!!

2007-12-15T20:57:00.013-05:00

Now in stock at Amazon!

Order your copy now!

Best Women's Erotica 2008, edited by the divine Violet Blue.

Another fine product from the fabulous Cleis Press!

For a Google Book Search limited preview click here! (My story begins on page 185 in case you are not taken there automatically). Note: The HTML Table of Contents on this Google Book Search page does not list my story but by scrolling through the preview material itself you can sample it, and most of the others; please do so at your leisure and, hopefully, with pleasure.

Then, go ahead and order a copy or two of Best Women's Erotica 2008! You know you want to... Take that beautiful woman to bed, anytime you so desire. Or anywhere else. She's very portable.

The full lineup of 21 contributing authors -- all women -- in order of appearance:

Jacqueline Applebee
Morticia Catherine
A.D.R. Forte
Jordana Winters
R. Gay
Lola David
Miel Rose
Kell Brannon
Donna George Storey
Xan West
Saskia Walker
Cerise Noire
Amy Wadhams
Jessica Lennox
Kay Jaybee
msprism
K.L. Gillespie
EllaRegina (that would be moi!)
Peony
Scarlett French
Alison Tyler

Looking for !nspiration?

2007-11-01T15:51:00.003-04:00

While we are waiting for more information from Headquarters, why not peruse my "Inspiration" department? These are puzzle pieces, in the form of objects (from books to wearables, some of which are bound to shake you up, literally and figuratively), that, when put together, form me, more or less. I especially recommend "The Tingler," at the very bottom of the page. Headgasms guaranteed!

Technorati

2007-10-31T19:50:00.003-04:00

Here is my Technorati profile, should anyone care:

Technorati Profile

(Well, there actually IS more in the known universe about me but for now this will have to do...)

NOT off the press, BUT...

2007-09-03T05:49:00.002-04:00

You can already pre-order on Amazon!

I am psyched beyond anything imaginable.

Best Women's Erotica 2008, edited by the divine Violet Blue.

Coming soon from the fabulous Cleis Press!

I am here!

2007-09-01T20:55:00.002-04:00

Good news soon to come! Stay tuned...