Erotica Readers & Writers Association
Home | Erotic Books | Authors Resources | Inside The Erotic Mind | Erotica Gallery
Adult Movies | Sex Toys | Erotic Music | Email Discussion List | Links

Story Gallery | Treasure Chest

*  Erotic Fiction
Queer Fiction
Kinky Erotica
The Softer Side

By Alan
Other News

By Alice Gray
Slick 50
Stolen Hour
The Fourth Veda

By Amanda Earl
Beating the Gothic Out of Her
Daddy Complex
Mercy and the Man. . .
Real Irish
Sex With An Old Woman
The Afternoon Circle Jerk Society
The Graffiti Artist
The Revenant
The Vampire Responds
The Vessel

By Ann Regentin
What Never Dies

By Arthur Chappell
Tedia, Goddess of Boredom
The Too Beautiful Boy

By Big Ed Magusson
Like a Brother
Old Dogs
The Fix

By B.K. Bilicki
Shades of Night

By Brady Sutton
Girls for Leash
The Peculiar Case of...

By C. Sanchez-Garcia
An Early Winter Train
Riding the Dog
Soul Naked
The Girl With Kisses...
The Doll
The Lady and The Unicorn
You Belong to Me

By Cervo
An Evening At...
Angel's Spawn
Are You Kidding?
Bitsy Takes a Test
Chinchilla Lace
Cruising On A Sea...
Fridays At The Benoit
Mr. Merridawn's Hum
Quigley's Harvest
Readiness Is All
Touring Persephone

By Cherry Black
Face Down
Just A Simple Black Dress
Mrs. Priestly

By Chris Bridges
Passing Notes
The Whitechapel...

By Daddy X
A Woman in My Position
Carnival Ride
Never For Punishment
Nikki Didn't Like It
Size Matters

By Dominic Santi
Kiss of Peace

By G. E. Russell
First Love, Last Romance
Judgement Day
Snow White
The Glass Cage
This Desolate Eden
You Like It Like That...

By Helen E. H. Madden
Going Viral
Husbands and Wives
Neighbor of the Beast
Over the Rainbow
The Fifth Horseman
The Monster Beneath...
Virtual Love
When The Angels Fall

By Helena Settimana
Highway 69
The Space Between

By Huck Pilgrim
A Small Favor
Goodbye Roger
He Sends His Regrets
The Mentor

By J.T. Benjamin
Advice From Miss Millicent
Alternating Weekend
Secret Lives and Lusts
What are Friends For
Olivia's Ulterior Motive
The Baby Doll
The Journals of Chastity
The Question
Thornburg Sex Survey
Use Me
Zachary's Perfect Date

By Jill
A House On Fire?
It's About Sex
Maureen and Sheila...
Sheila Discusses ...

By john e
Ava's Honey
I Wish My Dick...
johnny's jackoff journal
Saturday Morning

By Julius
In Praise of Pussy
The Newcomer
Tight, Tighter, Tightest
You Rang Madam?

By Juniper Maclay
Lunch Break
Public Transportation
The Scientist

By Keziah Hill
Dutch Masters
Laying Down the Law
Strawberry Flavoured Joy
The Second Coming

By L.A. Smith
Both Hands
Missionary Position

By Lara Nickles

By Lilie Berlin
Color Less Ordinary
Naughty Little Girl

By Mairead Devereux
new War Wounds
The Valley

By Mike Kimera
Ask Alice
At the Adult Bookstore
Bar Snack
Deserving Ruth
Fucking Ugly
Happy Anniversary
It May Not be Art...
Living With It...
Mating Calls
Soft Option
Paying For It
Playing With Barney
Sex with Owen
Till Death Do Us Part
The Last Taboo
The Sisters

By Nan Andrews
At Rest
Spirit Guides

By Nick Nicholson
Grigore & Tatiana
Land of Smiles
The Room
The Uniform

By Nikki Isaak
A Rathskeller Jar
The Dread That Stained Kalos

By Oxartes
Androids Behaving Badly
Babylon Nights
Eat Your Veggies
Eclipse Sex
I Am Not A Scorpion
Innocent Flower
Maybe You Can Go...
The Vow Part I
The Vow Part II - Fiend in Need
What Would Aristippus Think

By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

Recalled to Life
by Richard V Raiment © 2004

Lying sprawled out and naked on the bed I am talking to Norman on the phone.  At least I'm trying to talk to Norman on the phone.  My new friend Max doesn't like Norman.  And Max hasn't even met him yet.  He breaks off from what he is doing to scowl at the phone as soon as he realises who is calling, but he doesn't break off for long.

Max likes doing what he's doing, very much likes what he's doing, and isn't going to stop what he's doing on my ex-husband's account.  And I just love what Max is doing, totally love what he's doing, but it's no way to talk on the phone, and the best way to talk on the phone - with your lover lapping your clit.

Jesus, I just said clit.  When the fuck did I last say clit? Hell on earth! When did I last say fuck? And I've said them both now in one sentence.

"What was that, Norman?" I'm trying to focus on what Norman's saying, though I don't know why I am trying to focus on what he is saying—I found it hard enough when we were married—and I know what this call is, that it really does not matter, and I know that that tongue down there does matter, that it's doing things to me that I have never, ever felt before; sending ripples through me, sending shivers through me, warming me and wetting me, tonguing me for fuck's sake, and Norman is burbling-on as usual.

I nod to the phone—and that's stupid, he can't see me—and I try to make the usual non-committal noises but that's hard when I'm wanting to make noises that I can't.

Okay, Norman, you can fuck off now.  Only I can't say that to a pillock of the church— sorry pillar of the church—who is fumbling now, mid-platitude, pretending he still cares, trying to ease his conscience.

I don't need you, Norman, now.  Hell I can't say that one either, for if I said it, when I said it, he would want to know just why I said it, and for reasons of my own I cannot tell him yet.  I'd love to, though: ‘Sorry I can't talk right now, Norman, there's this lovely man in my bed you see and he's putting his lovely warm wet tongue right where your sad little pink prod used to go, and he's doing things to me, to my body, heart, my mind and soul, you see, that you never came anywhere near.

"How's Norma?" Polite instead, whilst squirming, Max looking up at me grinning an evil little grin, licking his lips and diving back in again, making me want to squeal.

I cover the mouthpiece and threaten to smack him on that lovely bare arse at the foot of my bed and he raises an eyebrow and smirks, so I know he'd quite like that and I try not to laugh as I hear Norman burbling alone with his wife out at work.

"Jesus!" "What?" "Nothing, Norman." I didn't mean you to hear that! Max's got fingers inside me, sliding and swirling, or is that me sliding and swirling inside? I hardly now know, but I must put this phone down, say something closing, hang-up, and I do.

"That was very naughty, Max!" I tell him mock-severely, and it has to be mock-severely because I love the devil so. "But you liked it?" Oh yes, I liked it.  Thing about stories like mine is that they're all about girls with long, long legs, long shiny hair, tits as firm as pears and asses round and sweet as peaches.  But that's not me.  I've got three kids with homes of their own, two of them have started families, and like the rest I've got the scars to prove it.  Stretch marks silver on my skin trace a pattern like lightning, except that lightning never curved round folds like that.  It's not that I'm not curvaceous, just that I've more curves than your average heroine.

Older too, and wiser, or was till Max arrived.

I've known Norman from when we were kids together, one of those things that always seemed meant to be.  We went to youth club together, then to church together, groped in parlours and on park benches and fucked on his mother's sofa.  No we didn't.  We made love.  That's what everyone called it then, when kids like us thought contraception was something you had to do when married, and making love we made a baby, forged an accidental bond of flesh.

Accidental? I loved the s.o.b., or thought I did, and went on doing it, thinking it, even in years when I lay in bed wondering if this anxious prodding was all there was and he lay wondering how to get to spend more time with her.

God knows what he saw in her, except maybe she was younger, and willing to be ‘the other woman', someone to be fled to with pathetic excitement, grown-up Postman's Knock.  But you should see her.  She smiles like she's afraid her face will break and she rides a bloody bike.  Nothing wrong with that? You haven't seen her arse; cheeks big enough for tail lights all their own, heavy traffic turning slowly, a hazard to the driver's vision.

He cheated on me, the stupid sod, when he might've negotiated all the freedom he needed because I loved him and am not stupid, would have done a lot, sacrificed a lot, to keep my home and family together.  But his cheating broke me for a while, sending me fleeing from the train-wreck of familiar walls to an ill-considered flat, a womb without a view where I could curl up with a hefty bottle and contemplate oblivion.

That mistake I did not make, though the contact ads in my local paper soon threatened to be another.

It was Mabel's suggestion, a woman as un-like me as could be, a worshipper of the mighty cock who could not get enough even when she strung along a half-dozen lovers at the same time.  Mable, so desperate for her fairy-tale prince that she'd blow any frog as soon as kiss it.

Legislation against false advertising, one notes, doesn't cover prospective dates.

I met unmemorable men, life-defeated, so unaware of what had cost them their previous relationships that they told their women's truths with lips that could not read them, sounded self-justifications to my ears that never sounded pathetic in their own but were.  Un-ironed shirts and body odour, little boys, their mummies lost, stuck with a hunger between their legs they barely understood, and nothing keeping in the oven.

Genuine, Caring men proved both too often, genuine arseholes caring for themselves, and 5' 11" and medium build as often referred to waist and brain size in their turn.  What the sizes of their cocks were I never tried to learn.  I was looking for love.

Then I saw Max's ad: "Distinguished, gentle, gentleman, caring and safe, not looking for a wife or mother, just friendship, no-strings fun."

I guess it seemed honest, apart from anything else—honest enough (in the terms they would publish) about wanting warm, fun sex, so I gave his service a call.

It was honest.

This guy climbs out of this ugly Russian box of a car and he's six feet tall like he told me, and he's slim and dark like he told me, and he's dressed in black, just some gold on his tie, no medallion in chest-hair, no fucking gold bracelet, and he's smiling and it's like the sun's come out, and the smile goes on forever and dances in his grey blue eyes and in his voice.

A warm, brown, voice, and gentle, that tells me I look gorgeous, and a warm-brown manner, too, courteous and friendly.  And he's got this photo in an envelope with his name and contact details on it, so that I can post it to a friend as my security, but I don't need it.  He asks permission to hold my hand.

We convoy to my house, his Russian box behind my coupe, and we are warm with coffee and conversation.  Can this man really fancy me? I'm not sure I believe it. "Of course I do, lovely lady, I've a massive hard-on already."

A what? Bloody hell.  His frankness then and now astounds me, nothing hidden, nothing false.  He even tells me he's a gifted liar, a natural actor who could convince me of the truth of anything that he tells me, and I believe him.  Lies kept him safe and sane once, when the world represented danger, but he doesn't need them now, won't use them unless it's to save a lady's face.

He's had other women too, and of course he would have, and he's honest about them, laughingly confides how the rules about false advertising might have saved him some pain too.  He reflects on bedding one lady he wanted not to hurt, a ‘sexy, petite' lady as round as she was tall, her body a railway map of scars, failed reductive surgery.  He lied then, and fluently; convinced her his inert cock was the product of recent stresses and tongued her till she came.

I knew I wanted him, but I had to go, had pulled night-duty on the ward, and there he is, this stranger-friend in transition of minutes, and I do not want to lose him.  He will see me off, he tells me, and I run up, get changed, knowing he's downstairs, flutterings and mutterings in bodily places I did not know I had, feeling vulnerable at his nearness, already aching with the loneliness of parting.

He tells me he'll return but he's not there after my shift and I guess it's another ‘Don't call me' situation, only then he's at the door and I am ready for bed, and so is he.

Sweet Jesus.  Hands as soft as his voice caress me like remembered dreams, ever so smooth, ever so light, and he's reassuring, gentling.  I'm to tell him if anything hurts me, say no to anything I'm not sure of, and down there is his lovely cock, flushed and veined and throbbing and the one thing I'm really sure of is I want it.  But he has problems still and cannot yet sustain it, part of him battered almost senseless by the woman who used to be his, the stupid bitch.  That's how I first find out about that tongue, first feel it slicking and licking and tilting, flickering on her I only used to know the name of, moistening and rolling my lips, slipping softly inside me, giving way now to his hands, those long fingers so slender and mobile, tongue teasingly still on my clit.

Cunnilingus, it's called, but I did not then know it and had never felt it, had never felt anything like this.  And his poor chap's still wanting, hard-soft with his sadness, so I coax and invert him alongside of me, take the long lovely fellow hard-soft in my lips and feel him grow harder and filling and God!

My man softly pauses, wants to know if I'm sure; do I know how far I want to take it, and oh yes I do, yes I wonderfully do, I can't get enough of this magical monster and just want to eat him, and do.  A taste never tasted, so strange and so sweet, and the heat in my loins is still surging and lifting and oh!

Two firsts in a day in a sweet sixty-nine and suddenly a memory, a very old memory, the dust shaken from it, a feeling I felt years ago, an urging and roiling, a rippling and seething, an in-body writhing making all of me squirm as the dam breaks within me, its old concrete shattered and the soul of me surging wet over its walls.

We've been lovers some time, now, and yes I do love him, and yes—oh boy yes—fully functioning again, a gift to my mouth, cunt—and ass if I want it—and so very lovely and loving and good.  He said he would find me and teach me to love me, show me what love was about.  And he has.  And I love it.  And it's mine, now.  Fuck you, Norman.

© 2004 Richard V Raiment. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Authors live for feedback!
If you enjoyed this story, please send comments to
Richard V Raiment 


  E-mail this page

Search ERWA Website:

Copyright 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
All Rights Reserved World Wide. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or
medium without express written permission is prohibited.

By Riccardo Berra
Ligne Claire
The Girl with Two Lovers

By Remittance Girl
Fixed in Amber
I Waited for You...
Pleasure's Apprentice
The Baptism
The Central Registry
The Other Side
The River Mother
Things Better Left Unsaid

By Richard V Raiment 
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Recalled to Life

By Robert Buckley
A Fragile Desire
A Weekend in Queens..
Absentee Ballots
Adam and Eve on a Raft
An Unconventional Friendship
Bench Mates
Brotherhood Of The ...
Close to Hand
Coins For The Ferryman
Convenience Store
Cthulhu's Toad
Dead Man's Switch
Does Immortality come with a Pension?
Embraceable Ewe
Excess Of Light
Extraordinary Graces
Head Games
Making Her Late For...
Mere Moments
Practicing Lovecraft
Pre Need
new Riley
Seeing Is Believing
Smells Like Money
Surviving Winter
The Angel of Loneliness
The Dog Park
The Exchange
The Great Sin
The Mission
They Need Me
What Now?
You Get What You Pay For
You're the Only One

By Robert GSK
Still Life

By Rose B. Thorny
Only When It Rains
Power and Glory
The Thing Under the...

By Sam Thorne
The Right Man
new The Way, the Truth, the Lifer

By Savannah
Naked Ambition
The Principal of the Thing

By Sidney Durham
I'm Only Shaving!
Junk Yard Goddess
Santa, Baby!
Sometimes I Can ...
Speaking of Escher
The Road Not Taken

By Tulsa Brown
Debt of Honor
Flesh On A Woman
Half Moon Girl

By Valentine Bonnaire
American Daddy-O
Bing Cherry Silk
Bukowski Girls
Colony, Collapsed
Have a Nice Day
l'heure bleue
Once Upon A Time . . .
Red Suede
Yellow, like the daffodils

By William Dean
A Hand in the Bush
Burning Man
Buy Me Something
Forest for the Trees
Great Notion
Kiss Me And Then...
Political Asylum
Port Said
Stranger in the Bonfire
Swap Meet
Switch Back
Twisted Faith

Screen Play
by A.F. Waddell

A Filing Fling
by Addison Long

Menage A Cart
by Adhara Law

Elevator Shaft
by Alana James

Torn in Two
by Alicia Night Orchid

by Angela Caperton

The Lady-killer
by BJ Franklin

The Vacation
by Beth Vox

Frostbite the Ice Pimp
by Chuck Lovepoe

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

So Much in Common
by Daphne Dubonet

Unjust Rewards
by Delores Swallows

The Hand & I.
by EllaRegina

Safari Tuesday
by G. Gregory

The Puss Hater
by Inna Spice

One for the Road
by J. Corvo

Full Serviced
by J.D. Coltrane

Naked Over New York
by J.Z. Sharpe

The Chocolate Wife
by James Robert Sands

Once Shy
by Jamie Smithe

by Jean Roberta

Caitlin Comes Clean
by Jerry Rightson

Something To Make...
by Jim Parr

Melanie and Jay Go...
by jtallen

Peeping George
by Jude Mason

It's Lovely. It's Horrible.
by Kathleen Bradean

The Temp
by Kaye Heche

A Husband's Lesson
by Kim Bax

Better Than a Blow...
by Lauren Mills

Page 12 - No. F
by LilyOrchid

In The Name Of...
by Michael Michele

The Classics
by Nettie Kestler

The Wounded Healer
by Nicholas M.

by Nick Santa Rosa

The Cabin
by P. E. Brink

Post Mortem
by Riccardo Berra

Newly Reformed Woman...
by Seneca Mayfair

by Sybil Rush

by Teresa Lamai

Alter Christus
by Teresa Wymore

Shadows of De La Rosa
by Tori Diaz
[an error occurred while processing this directive]