Halloween Flash Fiction: Night Hunting

Halloween is upon us… All Hallow’s Eve… something so mysterious and sexy about that, and I guess the fact that I like pumpkins kind of helps as well. Anyway, here’s a flash fiction piece with Halloween in mind: just a dash of fantasy/fantastical elements. Be spooked, be turned on!

Night Hunting

Shot of a gothic woman in a winter park. Fashion.

(Pic credit: Bigstock photos)

I have thick lips. My mouth is small but my lips are full and thick, with my upper lip slightly thicker than my lower lip. According to ancient Chinese face-reading wisdom, that means I cherish both love (upper lip) and sex (lower lip) but value love over carnal pleasure. That is evidently bull crap. I don’t believe in love that can’t be consummated in ardent sex.

In fact, normal sex has become tedious. I want and need more to satisfy myself. BDSM was fun for a while, but I hated it whenever the dominating partner really believed that I must submit to him body and soul. Soul? I don’t even own or recognize my own thoughts half the time, how the heck could I hand over my soul?

Most of them were just control freaks in disguise anyway; gross.

I treated myself to a vampire lord once. He was good, very satisfying. It especially helped that he could read minds but was chivalrous enough to pretend that he respected my wishes and made an effort to lure my secrets out. That was fun. But being immortal, he had kind of a weird psyche. His long history and super powers made him ultra cool to spend time with, and I learned quite a few tricks from that encounter, but it was not really my thing.

Dragons though, dragons drive me insane. They are notoriously bad-tempered and very picky; they are truly passionate creatures and they seldom have sex with just anyone, they must have feelings for you to take you to bed. I am of course referring to dragons when they are in human form. Most of them have learned by birth the first magic of invisibility so that they are always safe. But after that, most of them have learned to take the human form by age fifty. Fifty may sound old to you, but for dragons that have life-spans of up to one thousand years, fifty is technically toddler-age.

My first dragon was very human; he felt kinship enough with us to have already lived five full cycles of human life. When I met him, he was a history professor. Guess what his specialty was? Dinosaurs. Such a nice touch. With dragons’ phenomenal memory, it was more than a breeze, it was a joke how easy it was for him.

We had sixty years of happiness, which wasn’t bad in human terms, but for him, it was short and I left him emotionally quite bruised. My bad.

In case you’re wondering how old I am now, I’m two-seventy. Yes, two hundred and seventy. I belong to the second clan of hybrid witches. We are not immortal: we age, only much slower than normal, and of course we never die of traditional illnesses or poor health: even the most fundamental herbalism covered way more than that.

I am currently single and definitely looking. Call me crazy but I like the dirty and accident-prone world of normal humans. You mustn’t judge, but I’m now posing as a stripper and hoping to hunt for my next romantic adventure. What other dark creatures lurk in the night, pretending to be human? Would I finally find my monster match in passion, evil intent and knowledge of the other world?

 

New Flash Fiction: Coming Around – a Lesbian Tale

Today you will find a new flash fiction piece of mine published at Guy Hogan‘s Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette. Guy is really generous in promoting erotica writers. My story is titled Coming Around. It is a lesbian tale of a girl who comes around to admitting her deep feelings for her best friend, who may just turn out to be the love of her life. This is a less explicit story, with more elements about the workings of the mind and emotions involved than the gritty details of sex. I had a fun time writing it, I hope you’ll enjoy reading it!

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(Pic credit: Stockvault – a free stock photo site!)

Enjoy the story: Coming Around.

xx,

Anna

 

Sylvia Plath: My First True Obsession

Sylvia Plath was my first true obsession. I was a teenager then. My English teacher talked about Sylvia Plath, and introduced her poem, “Daddy” to the class one Wednesday afternoon. It was pivotal for me. I was hooked, I was mesmerised, I fell in love and desire for her: her brain, her struggles, her words, her intense emotions, her lack of ambiguity (she either loved or hated a person) and her undeniable power.

The internet was non-existent for me at the time. To find out more about this enigmatic woman, I almost camped at the public library near my house and searched everything related to Sylvia Plath: biographies (mostly for photos that I could stare at for hours, believing that memorising her features could help me understand her more), her poetry collections and other writers’ commentary on her. Sylvia Plath, Sylvia Plath, Sylvia Plath: the name that drummed itself in my mind all my waking hours, and during fitful nights of bizarre dreams as well.

She was born on October 27. I have considered posting this on her birthday, but somehow it’d feel like a calculated hypocrisy which I’m convinced she wouldn’t approve of.

You could read biographies of her, but it wouldn’t really make you know her.

Her poetry offers a glimpse of her mind at various stages of her life. So go here for a complete list: Sylvia Plath’s poetry.

Her novel, Bell Jar would awe you in the strength of this extraordinary woman. Imagine she was only a teenager when she went through the mental breakdown! Get a copy and be awed: Sylvia Plath’s Bell Jar.

But besides these, I think it’s eerily revealing to really get inside her head by reading her journals. Not the abridged version Ted Hughes published after her death, but this unabridged version:

The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

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If you are still hooked and interested as I once was (and still am), grab a copy of her drawings as well. Yes, she is so scarily talented, isn’t she?

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I hope this extraordinary woman continues to be admired, respected and obsessed over, generations to come. Thank you for enthralling me, Sylvia Plath!

 

Romance, Romance, Romance!

I find autumn romantic. Some find it depressing with the leaves falling; the crisp, dry air may even be triggering your nose allergies, but I love the cooler air; I love wearing long-sleeved blouses or wrapping myself up in a wool cardigan. The extra touch, the soft fabric, the need to get warmer feel romantic to me. Romance is in the air all year round, but for me, autumn is when romance abounds. I fell in love with my very first heart-throb in autumn, so the link between romance and autumn is very personal to me. To celebrate this special season of romance, let’s have plenty of romance quotes to pamper the shameless romantics out there!

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(Pic credit: Stockvault – a free stock photo site!)

“Romance is everything.” — Gertrude Stein

“I think romance is anything honest. As long as it’s honest, it’s so disarming.” — Kristen Stewart

“Romance is the glamour which turns the dust of everyday life into a golden haze.” — Carolyn Gold Heilbrun

“Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.” — John Greenleaf Whittier

“Poetry, beauty, romance, love… these are what we stay alive for.” — Robin Williams

“Romance is tempestuous. Love is calm.” — Mason Coole

“The best scientist is open to experience and begins with romance – the idea that anything is possible.” — Ray Bradbury

“Wave after wave of love flooded the stage and washed over me, the beginning of the one great durable romance of my life.” — Bette Davis

“To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance.” — Oscar Wilde

 

Distilled in Time: Virginia Woolf’s Suicide Note

There are moments that are forever distilled in time. One moment, one decision, one thought that is captured forever in the minds’ of men. Virginia Woolf‘s suicide note is her last piece of writing, and the heavy significance it holds makes the emotions embedded within even more painful to read and to feel. I came across its original handwritten image from the Open Culture website. Their article on it is also well-written. Go read it if you’d like.

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(Pic credit: an Open Culture article)

The first time I heard the suicide note read aloud was from the heart-wrenching movie, The HoursNicole Kidman’s performance in it blew me away. If you haven’t watched that movie yet, please do. It was moving and very well-made. The novel which inspired the movie was The Hours: A Novel by the giant (apparently, I’m biased), Michael Cunningham.

The impact of the suicide note itself is powerful. I share it with you here:

Dearest,

I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.

 

 

New Flash Fiction: Queen of Dilbots

Shall I? Yes, let’s. Why not? This is my first attempt at a flash fiction piece with some sci-fi elements in it. Still erotic in nature, not explicit, but the ideas are there, I believe. Hope you enjoy it, I present to you: Queen of Dilbots!

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(Pic credit: Hot Robot)

Queen of Dilbots

He was a surgeon. I was a small-time smut-writer. We met at a mutual friend’s Christmas party and hit it off right away. Our sparks flew everywhere. I could have sworn that the room was ablaze in purple because of us.

He had to travel often for medical conferences; he was a big somebody. I showed him an oversized pink dildo that I bought online the first time he had to fly away for two weeks.

“That’s kind of big.” He flashed me his lopsided grin.

“Yes. Reminds me of you.” I answered.

“Pink?”

“Yup. Hot pink and oversized.”

We laughed.

I meant it as a flirt, but he took that comment to heart: that the dildo served as a reminder of him. During his medical conference he made a call to a friend of his, a mechanic, and to a cousin of his, a chain adult-store owner.

With his anatomical knowledge and the expertise of his pals, they designed the first RX series, the prototype that raked in two million dollars the first quarter. “RX” stood for Robot Extra, “Extra” as in oversized. It was the first artificial intelligence robot aimed only at sexual pleasure. Sanitation was a given. Customization of facial features, skin tone, height, weight and anything any man or woman could imagine was possible. The AI program was written with a complex algorithm that made the robots seem humanly spontaneous and adventurous.

He signed his share of the design patent in my name; he made sure I was financially secure to do anything I wanted for the rest of my life.

With the launch of the RX series, I became known as the “Queen of Dil-bots.” When the first quarter’s paycheck rolled in, I almost pissed in my pants laughing. He proposed to me that night.

Fast-forward ten years to today: I am obscenely rich. I have even learned to be charitable at times. Prisons are more peaceful now, with various models of pleasure robots donated each year. Social media reports that I am kind and humane. Truth is: I simply love the extra positive promotion and cash.

I let my fur coat drop to the cold floor. I watch him, my handsome husband, lying in this white bed, tapped into machines, his life sustained by tubes. All that filthy money and so-called modern technology are useless in healing him.

I straddle him and slowly fondle him, making him hard. Then I ride him. I know he hears, feels and knows me. That great mind of his trapped in this unmoving body; it drives me mad. Is he perhaps a lunatic already, imprisoned inside his own brain? I cannot bear that possibility.

He has always loved my being in charge sexually, sitting astride him and controlling our movements. He soon climaxes. I relish the gush of his hot cream, that organic fluid with all its germs but real, alive and truly human filling me up.

“I love you.” I whisper in his ear.

I unplug him from the machine as I wash down the cyanide pill with a cold beer.

See you again in oblivion, or heaven, or hell, wherever you wake up in, fully alive. Burning in fire for all eternity with you still beats seeing you lying immobile. Wake or sleep forever with me, my love.

 

Me as a Life-drawing Model

It is true. I had been a life-drawing (or figure-drawing) model for about 2 years. Yes, nude. It was during a time when I was depressed and needed a boost in self-confidence, particularly confidence in feeling that I was beautiful as a woman, as a human; that even if the man I lived with at the time did not desire me, it was not because I was fundamentally unattractive. I needed to believe that I was not ugly.

(Pic credit: The Gor Project – 3: Photograph of a model attired as a Gorean “kajira” (slave-girl), wearing a Gorean “camisk” garment by Marcus J. Ranum)

It would have been easy to go to a random bar each night, find one-night-stands and numb myself into believing that I was sexually attractive, but that would probably have been damaging to my sense of pride and dignity later on. I needed a “clean” sort of ego-boost. Denial of sex from the man I wanted made me question my raw sexual appeal. I had convinced myself that there was no beauty in my body, which was why I (believed) I failed so miserably in making him desire me.

I guess at the bottom of my heart, as shattered and blackened as it was at the time, there was still a tiny seed of hope. I might not have the charms to make all men love me, but surely, I could not be that ugly.

Posing nude at art classes as a life-drawing model lifted my confidence. It was physically “hard work” as well: thinking of new poses every 15-30 seconds, 1-5 minutes (for shorter sessions) and holding an interesting pose for longer sessions that lasted from 15-30 minutes made you rediscover muscles you never knew you had.

If you want to find out more about life-drawing modelling as a living, I recommend this book:

Modeling Life: Art Models Speak About Nudity, Sexuality, And the Creative Process by Sarah R. Philips

It was not the route that I had chosen, but those 2 years of modelling made me believe that I was good: not just “beautiful” (because there is beauty in all human bodies from an artist’s perspective), but that I was able to come up with interesting (sometimes even described as “wacky”) poses for artists. That was a compliment towards my creativity, of my ability to inspire. That was truly ego-boosting.

My life-drawing modelling experiences found their way (always as a positive, healing, affirming experience) in two of my books: Almond Scent, a lesbian erotic romance, and my latest M/F erotic novelette, Through His Lens. I’ve truly enjoyed writing both of these stories.

If you ever want to try out a part-time job that is satisfying in a completely new (but truly all-encompassing) way, life-drawing modelling might be an option. Be sure to contact genuine art studios or art schools, though. Safety first. Always.