The Literary Courtesan

An erotic salon where my pen will stroke your senses.

Sunday, January 30, 2005

The negotiations continue

I know, I've been such a tease. But I've been ... busy.
Here's some more of this story.

It was his turn to shift.
"What are you doing?"
She had unlatched the belt buckle and was now unbuttoning the top of his fly. She could feel how warm his skin was through his shirt, feel the strain of his erection against his pants. She unzipped the fly, watching his face for a reaction. He stared at her. "I asked you what you were doing," he said.
She slid the palm of her hand down underneath the waistband of his briefs, felt the hairs on his lower belly that were slick from him. "I'm not the only one who is wet," she said.
She pushed her finger against the head of his cock.
She knew there were people passing by not 20 feet away, and the thrill of getting caught was driving her on.
He was compliant, but she could sense his hesitancy, too. She pulled her hand out of his pants, put both hands on his hips, and began to push his pants down around his thighs.
"I don't think this is a good idea," he said.
She wasn't listening.

Saturday, January 15, 2005

Further negotiations

She forced her attention away from her groin, which was not an easy thing to do. He felt her attention shift in the way her body stopped moving in rhythm with his hand.

"You need to stop," she said.

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then I think you'll be bored."

She was sure they made quite a sight. Her skirt pushed up, his hand still between her legs, she on her tiptoes in the stilettoes. He relaxed his grip on her and she nudged her knee between his knees, pushed his legs slightly apart, and reached up her hand to cup his balls through his pants. He was as aroused as she was. The question was, what were they going to do about it?

With her other hand, she grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulled his face down, kissed him. He let his mouth go soft, and she explored the inside of it with her tongue as if she was seeking out a pearl in an oyster. She could hear the sounds from the street--cars passing, the occasional horn, a siren--but she didn't fear detection. She began to unbuckle his belt.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

For those of you who are waiting

I haven't posted anything more to the story of dinner because I haven't decided in which direction it should go. There are clearly negotiations at hand, but who will hold the power and who will cede ground here?

Sunday, January 09, 2005

Postprandial negotiations

"That's a lovely view you're offering," he said. "But what makes you think you get to be in charge tonight?"

She loved negotiations, knew exactly how she could get her own way. She thought to pull down his jeans, kneel before him, suck his cock, swallow him. She reached her hand out, began to unloop his belt from its buckle. But he was bigger than she was, and before she could finish loosening his belt, he had swung her around so that she was up against the wall. He pulled her skirt above her hips, grabbed her labia, rubbing the lips together. She could feel the rough brick against her bare ass, and she tried to put her hands behind her to protect the flesh. Instead, he grabbed her arms, pinned her hands above her head with one of his hands, while the other continued to squeeze and rub. He was not being gentle and she felt herself respond to the roughness of it even as she became aware of just how little she could do to stop him from whatever he had planned. And it was that awareness of her body’s weakness that caused her to rebel, to struggle to free her hands, to pull away from the other hand that was between her legs, rubbing her clit. She struggled harder, trying not to lose her balance on the stiletto heels but trying to pull away from the hand that was now tormenting her with pleasure

Friday, January 07, 2005


No one writes erotic poetry like Pablo Neruda. Here's one of my favorites.

‘Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,’
XII From: ‘Cien sonetos de amor’

Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?

Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.

Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and a genital fire, transformed by delight,

slips through the narrow channels of blood
to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.

Dinner part three

After she had paid the bill, she suggested they take a walk down by the river. The moon hung over the city, a big fat lazy summer moon in competition with the illuminated city. She could feel the friction in her groin as she walked, the cool of the night air a shock against the heat he had created. They passed a narrow street full of small shops, all dark, all closed at this late hour, and she pulled him in the direction of the darkness. A few doorways in, she pushed him so that his back was up against the wall.

"My turn," she said.

While he watched, she lifted her skirt so that it was above her hips. She smiled. She wished she could read his mind, but she was pretty sure that his thoughts were not on anything other than her. She liked that. Having his attention. And she did have his attention. But what would she do with it?

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Dinner continued...

The return of the waiter broke her concentration. The waiter dropped the check on the table and gave them that look; someone knew what they were up to. She didn’t care. She turned her attention back to him, felt him withdraw his hand, the trail of his wet fingers across her thigh. She watched him put his finger in his mouth, taste her. She pulled his hand toward her, closed her mouth around his finger, tasting her desire, tracing the whorls of his finger with her tongue. She smiled at him.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Remembrance of Spring Sex on a Winter's Day

Sex. There's no escaping it, especially at this time of year. I'm in my garden, watching the ants marching up the stalks of the peonies in search of the buds. How must the flower within the bud feel? Tiny feet skittering across the bud cover, like fingers, the nibble of tiny mouths, chewing away at the outside, seeking to free the soft petals within. And then to be liberated! To burst forth in all their fecund, sexual glory--the big blowsy blooms thrusting themselves into the heat of the sun, the caress of the air, sending out a smell so intoxicating that bees flock to carry out the work of pollination, procreation, fucking. Peonies are gigantic cunts, looking to be serviced by hundreds of little bees.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

A Rose by any other name


Vagina. Labia. Clitoris. Yoni. Cunt. Pussy. Twat. Quim. Pootang. Box.

Let me tell you a story...

I am going to begin a story here, just the beginning of an encounter. With your suggestions, we'll see what becomes of our two characters.
So, shall we begin?

The restaurant was crowded, but the two of them barely noticed. All of her focus was on his face, watching his eyes as he watched her, mesmerized by the flash of blue that even in the semi-darkness she was locked upon. She kept her eyes open even as they wanted to close, but she wanted to see his face as he observed her reaction to where his fingers had wandered while they were lingering over coffee. She had worn a short skirt and was glad of it. Now, she could feel his fingers between her legs, one finger buried inside her, his thumb brushing her clit. She was sure that if anyone in the restaurant looked closely, they’d be able to see what they were about, but the darkness, the tablecloth, the corner table, all served to camouflage the passion. How could he look so calm? One hand on his coffee cup, the other at play inside of her. She could feel her nipples straining against the thin cloth of a summer shirt, saw him notice how erect they were, and felt herself grow even wetter in response to imagining that he was not in fact sipping the foam off his cappuccino, but was instead teasing the breast with his tongue, bringing her to orgasm by the pressure of mouth against tender flesh, pinching her hard, harder, until she almost cried with the pain of it. She shifted position to allow his fingers further access to her, feeling him stroke the smooth and the ridged and all of it wet and slippery. She wanted to come, could feel herself building to it, but kept pulling back from the sensation, afraid that that once she felt the beginning of the orgasm that she would lose control, begin to moan, draw attention to them. And part of the deliciousness of what was going on was the intimacy of it here in the midst of other people.

Monday, January 03, 2005

The stroke of a pen on flesh

I write stories. I write stories on commission,
custom-written and designed for a single end. My tales
are meant to provoke a visceral response, a sexual
response, and having done that, I assume that the
reader touches him or herself until orgasm has been
achieved. I sell orgasms, and I do it without laying a
hand upon you.

My pen is a sexual organ. I use it to stroke your
imagination, to swell your most sensitive parts with
blood, to make you slick with desire, elevate your
heartbeat, escalate the rhythm of an ancient drum
under your skin. You read my stories and I fill you
with a desire to fuck and suck, to penetrate and be
pierced, to tickle, and lick, and slap, and thrust.

You’re curious, aren’t you? You’re hoping that I
will soon show you a sample of my work. It’s okay.
Nothing to be ashamed of. I would imagine that your
curiosity is driven by a couple of different
motivations. One one hand, you wonder if reading my
stories will arouse you. Let’s face it. Most of the
porn out there is garbage—poorly written, told as if
one is eavesdropping on a teenage boy’s bravado, full
of dirty words and clinical detail and no sense of the
feelings provoked by the contact of flesh on flesh.

But I don’t write pornography. Pornography comes to
us from Greek; it means to watch prostitutes. Commerce
and sex, it seems to me, is a conundrum. The basics of
life, food, shelter, come at a cost. Or at least they
do in a capitalist system in which everything is for
sale. But sex. Well sex is like breathing, and so far,
we haven’t slapped a price on air. And, there’s not
getting around that I’m part of the system in which
desire costs money. I could give my words away for
free. Many writers do, enamored of the activity
itself, but I decided a long time ago that I came into
this world with a few specific talents, and if I’m
going to survive as a single woman, then selling what
I’m good at is how I take care of myself.

I write erotica.

Erotica is another Greek word. Erotica refers to eros,
to love, to the emotions surrounding sex. But don’t
worry. I write about the acts in enough detail.

Maybe your second motivation is to read to see if you
identify with the expressions of desire. We all worry,
I think, whether our desires, our fantasies, fall
within the rubric of normal. Tender stuff, that,
worrying that what we want, what brings us closer to
our primordial self, is something perverted, abnormal,
sick. I don't believe in those words, of course,
although I know that many do.

If you would like to contact me regarding my services, I'm at

Welcome to my erotic salon

I am a literary courtesan. What does that mean, exactly? Check back here on a regular basis to find out.