Sexy Snippets for April

by | April 19, 2014 | Sexy Snippets | 6 comments

It’s the 19th of April – the wettest month of the year in many locations. Today’s your chance to add to the general soaked state of the world by posting your Sexy Snippets!

The ERWA blog is not primarily intended for author promotion.
However, we’ve decided we should give our author/members an occasional
opportunity to expose themselves (so to speak) to the reading public.
Hence, we have declared the 19th of every month at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association blog Sexy Snippet Day.

On Sexy Snippet day, any author can post a tiny excerpt (200 words or less) in a comment
on the day’s post. Include the title from with the snippet was
extracted, your name or pseudonym, and one buy link, if you’d like.

follow the rules. If you post more than 200 words or more than one
link, I’ll remove your comment and ban you from participating in further
Sexy Snippet days. So play nice!

you’ve posted your snippet, feel free to share the post as a whole to
Facebook, Twitter, or wherever else you think your readers hang out.

Have fun!

~ Lisabet

Lisabet Sarai

Sex and writing. I think I've always been fascinated by both. Freud was right. I definitely remember feelings that I now recognize as sexual, long before I reached puberty. I was horny before I knew what that meant. My teens and twenties I spent in a hormone-induced haze, perpetually "in love" with someone (sometimes more than one someone). I still recall the moment of enlightenment, in high school, when I realized that I could say "yes" to sexual exploration, even though society told me to say no. Despite being a shy egghead with world-class myopia who thought she was fat, I had managed to accumulate a pretty wide range of sexual experience by the time I got married. And I'm happy to report that, thanks to my husband's open mind and naughty imagination, my sexual adventures didn't end at that point! Meanwhile, I was born writing. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration, though according to family apocrypha, I was talking at six months. Certainly, I started writing as soon as I learned how to form the letters. I penned my first poem when I was seven. While I was in elementary school I wrote more poetry, stories, at least two plays (one about the Beatles and one about the Goldwater-Johnson presidential contest, believe it or not), and a survival manual for Martians (really). I continued to write my way through high school, college, and grad school, mostly angst-ridden poems about love and desire, although I also remember working on a ghost story/romance novel (wish I could find that now). I've written song lyrics, meeting minutes, marketing copy, software manuals, research reports, a cookbook, a self-help book, and a five hundred page dissertation. For years, I wrote erotic stories and kinky fantasies for myself and for lovers' entertainment. I never considered trying to publish my work until I picked up a copy of Portia da Costa's Black Lace classic Gemini Heat while sojourning in Istanbul. My first reaction was "Wow!". It was possibly the most arousing thing I'd ever read, intelligent, articulate, diverse and wonderfully transgressive. My second reaction was, "I'll bet I could write a book like that." I wrote the first three chapters of Raw Silk and submitted a proposal to Black Lace, almost on a lark. I was astonished when they accepted it. The book was published in April 1999, and all at once, I was an official erotic author. A lot has changed since my Black Lace days. But I still get a thrill from writing erotica. It's a never-ending challenge, trying to capture the emotional complexities of a sexual encounter. I'm far less interested in what happens to my characters' bodies than in what goes on in their heads.


  1. xanwest

    His lips part. He can’t stop staring at my cock. My hand cups the back of his head, twisted in his hair. This is the moment. The moment when he needs to own his desire.

    My hand gently pulls his head towards my cock. It is centimeters from his lips. But he must close the distance. He must choose this. One movement is enough and then there will be no more choices.

    Time is suspended. His eyes reach up for me, begging me to force him. Fear rushes through his body in waves and I soak it all in, sourcing power from it through my hand at the back of his head.

    My smile softens just a bit. “Put your mouth on it, boy. Wrap your lips around my cock.” And I am softly stroking his hair, drawing off the shame. “My cock is throbbing, aching for your mouth, boy.”

    The tenderness in my voice and my gestures opens up a rawness he can feel in his chest. It scares him. And seduces him. He wants to be this naked, this vulnerable. He wants to be this cared for, this claimed. He wants to please me.

    196 words from “Nervous Boy”

  2. Honey Geil

    "Get on the bed right now, on your tummy. I'm Naughty Nurse Noelani, LPN – Licensed Porno Nurse. You've been such a bad, bad boy Naughty Nurse Noelani is going to give you your medicine!"
    "Oh, Naughty Nurse Noelani, what have I done wrong?"
    "You gave me only five orgasms last night. I want more! Now get down and take your medicine. On your stomach! Right now!"
    He did as he was told. As he lay on the bed waiting for whatever Kai planned to dish out, he smelled tropical fruit. The scent of vanilla, pineapple, and mango drove him wild with passion.
    "What is that, my naughty nurse?"
    "It's to make you slick so you melt in my hands."
    In seconds, her long fingers rubbed massage oil on his shoulders. As she promised, he melted in her talented hands. Her thumbs pressed at tight muscles just below his shoulder blades. Kai always gave him a great massages.
    "May I melt somewhere else?"
    "Where do you have in mind?"
    "How about in your pussy?"
    The sting from her smack against his ass ignited his hard balls and made his cock twitch with pleasure.

    193 words from Okole Maluna (Bottoms Up) by Honey Geil

  3. Anonymous

    Larysa was mesmerized, having never watched anyone have sex before, and since there were no mirrors in her bedroom, she never saw what she and Cooper did to each other. She found herself quite turned on. Her panties were damp and she shifted her position in the chair, feeling even more flushed. She turned her attention to what the man did to the woman.

    She was further mesmerized to realized how close she was to seeing every detail of the man licking the woman’s clit and sucking ever so slightly and gently, then vigorously as he stuck a couple of fingers inside her. Larysa, without realizing what she was doing, found her hand at her crotch and lightly rubbing her own clit.

    The man raised himself up and with a slight nudge, directed the woman to her hands and knees facing the mirror. Just as quickly, the man mounted her from behind and Larysa let out a small gasp. They were looking right at her, or rather the mirror, so engrossed in what each other was feeling, but again she thought they couldn’t see her watching. She felt a little embarrassed for them as well as herself.

    197 words from Larysa's Dilemma: The Geil Clinic: Erotic Research
    by July Hunter

  4. Elizabeth Black

    Angelica Preston stood in front of her mailbox, bills and junk mail in hand, and saw that old Mrs. Buckland's Full Wolf Moon Magik of New Orleans catalog was once again in her slot. For some reason the mail carrier stuck her neighbor's mail in her box on occasion. Curious, she leafed through the pages and found a sex magik spell that came with its own red candle of a wax penis. Instructions told her to light the candle, anoint it with Lords of Lust oil, and recite Deuteronomy 23:1, which read "If a man's testicles are crushed or his penis is cut off, he may not be admitted to the assembly of the LORD." The spell was Triple Strength! Guaranteed! and it cost $25.00 plus tax.

    From "When The Veil Is Thin" by Elizabeth Black

  5. sybil rush

    She looked like a model who had stepped out of a lingerie catalogue. I’d been sure the guys would love her, but what if she slipped and fell? What if she panicked and froze? The lasers splashed neon stripes across her skin and the music thumped and pounded. There was nothing to worry about. She was on fire.

    On her second song, my wife rolled the straps of her top down her shoulders, then unhooked it in the back, and dropped it on the floor. She danced with her arms crossed to hide her boobs. When she finally lifted her arms and set them free, half the men jumped up and went back to the stage again to get a closer look. My wife still has beautiful tits. They’re not big, but they’re all-natural, perfectly shaped, and hang just right. She hopped and shimmied a little, to make them bounce. And then the song was over. Tessa put her top on and came down from the stage.

    That was my wife, dancing almost naked, with men ogling her. I should have been in a murderous rage, right? Nope. It was the hottest damn thing I’d ever seen.

    From “At the Pirate’s Booty” by Sybil Rush, in the anthology Valentine’s Day.

  6. Juliet Waldron

    …While the tender friction of lips produced delirium, one of his shapely hands had simply, directly, begun caressing the soft notch between my legs through the shift. I was cradled close, leaning against his chest, drinking in his kisses. I gasped his name, responding helplessly to the circling of those sensitive fingers.

    After a while his hand moved beneath the shift and slipped along my thigh. A few voluptuous passages took his hand, degree by degree, to the warm and quivering satin inside; I parted my knees. It was shameless, but nothing else was possible. He accepted the invitation, went straight to make artful love among the curls. Delicately, he began a thing I did to myself sometimes, as tenderly on the mark as if the glossy petals he touched were his. I gasped, utterly lost and pressed against his hand, eager for each exquisite turn upon the wheel of sensation. When he, exploring the lips of the ecstatically welling spring sought entrance, I gasped in pain. My hand flew to cover his.

    The endless honeyed kiss was broken.

    "It doesn't matter," I whispered…

    From "My Mozart" by Juliet Waldron

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