“Dreaming of You” cover art by Max Ginsburg
A few weeks ago, the brilliant Jane Gilbert at Behind the Chintz Curtain wrote an article about how erotic euphemisms…how shall I put this…work against the sexiness of a story. That post, which I highly recommend, prompted #EuphOff, an impromptu meme and one of the best writerly challenges I’ve ever heard of. The idea is to write a 500 word story using as many horrible euphemisms for sex and anatomy as possible.
Ms. Gilbert, Lunabelle of Ninja Sexology and Curvaceous Dee all posted amazing contributions last week. They are hilarious – you just need to read them for yourself – so, when Ms. Gilbert asked if I’d like to contribute something to #EuphOff I trembled with an acquiescence born from quivering enthusiasm.. in other words, I said, hell yes.
So, in honor of Erotic World Book Day, here’s my contribution – an example of what good erotica isn’t. This little dip into Bulwer-Lytton territory inspired by the historical romances I read as a girl. And to sweeten the deal, Exhibit A was kind enough to read this for you in his lovely British accent. Play the audio file at the end of the story to hear the euphemisms come to vivid, turgid life!
Finally, if you’d like to read more terribly, terrible erotica, and thus appreciate the good stuff all the more, please click the coffee bean at the bottom to see other contributions.
Happy Erotic World Book Day!
“The Lady and the Euphemism”
Chrysanthemum trembled beneath Declan’s cobalt gaze, which pierced her like the teeth of a panther in the dark.
“Come here,” he commanded, in a voice ripe with command.
She had no choice but to obey.
Slowly, Chrysanthemum rose, horrified by the sticky, sweet lady-nectar that coated the soft down of her virgin inner thighs. Her nether-lips felt swollen and tender to the point of distraction. She was reminded of the time she had dropped a brick on her toe, and marveled at how much better this aching in the cradle of her maidenhood felt.
“Remove your garments, you loose-moraled strumpet,” Declan growled in tones that would not be ignored.
Chrysanthemum jumped to obey, at once humiliated and intrigued at the thought of her new husband, the mysteriously wealthy duke who had saved her from financial ruin not a fortnight before, seeing her as no man had seen her – without clothing, just as she’d been when her mother had pushed her free from the warm confines of her body and into the cruel, cold world eighteen years before.
Color stained her alabaster cheeks and her lips trembled as she slowly unbuttoned her chemise, exposing the round globes of her generous femininity. The raspberry tips hardened beneath Declan’s avid gaze, perking like two puppies begging for a treat. It was nearly too much, and Chrysanthemum tried to close her shirt, but Declan’s hand shot out with the quickness of a viper.
“No. Leave yourself exposed.”
The rough timbre of his voice caressed her skin like a feather. Without thinking, Chrysanthemum panted as she slipped her skirts off, so that she stood before him in nothing but her undergarments, shamed and without pride.
He touched her then through her silk trousseau, and her body responded of its own accord, arching into the invasion like a port welcoming a ship home.
Licking his lips like a fox, Declan removed the final barrier to her modesty with cold efficiency and resumed touching her honeyed love-passage, a place never before caressed by a man. Chrysanthemum moaned, seeking to kiss him, yet he rebuffed her mouth, choosing instead to suckle at her mounds like a starving baby. All the while, his fingers slid through the petals of her most private rose.
Her pearl of pleasure quivered, straining from her body, and Declan, cognizant of her blossoming pleasure, obliged and pressed her love button with expert assurance.
Chrysanthemum bit her bee-stung lip as a pleasure unlike any she had known wracked her frame, and her inner-passage clutched at his fingers like the suction cups of an octopus.
“Oh, yes! Yes,” she cried as he wrung yet more pleasure from her thrumming, slick orchid of love, stopping only when she swooned in his arms.
“Ah, my sweet,” he murmured into her auburn locks. “This is only the beginning. My turgid, throbbing manhood awaits.”
The End
Narration by Exhibit A:
The post Erotic (??) Fiction: The Lady and the Euphemism appeared first on Malin James.