loving…

She met him thrust for thrust. And she made the most incredible noises…!

have people grope me gently

Group sex induces a fugue state of touching, where your vision tunnels into a starry blur of hands and mouths and your vocabulary narrows, by necessity, into yes, no, please, stop, and harder. After my fifth glass of wine I decided I wanted to lie down and have people grope me gently, as though I were Marina Abramović performing Rhythm 0, unrated and uncut. I lay down on a futon that had been folded out for the night and put my arms above my head, where my hands dangled off the frame.

Somewhere above my head, people were kissing. A girl asked to remove my underwear, which I would lose in the apartment, and walk home without later that night.

[…]

Though an orgy may seem like a free-for-all, all tangled limbs and flesh slapping together, in reality it proves to be more like a place in which ordinary dampers on the act of boning are simply lifted. Due to the complete erasure of standard courtship narratives, propositions are frank, conversation runs wildly personal, and — this particular to the orgy itself — even time’s passing seems reconfigured. Was I being fingered for a few minutes, or forever?

L. Pham – How to enjoy an orgy

as our tongues clash

Both of us are at a party, getting drunk and having a good time. You’re in a dress that hugs your body in all the right ways and I haven’t been able to keep my hands off you since we got here. Our hands start to wander lower as the night goes on and I can’t tell if I’m dizzy from the drink or your body pressed up against mine. Everyone else is forgotten about the second your tongue slips in my mouth, my hands on your ass pulling you as close as I can while you gently grab the back of my hair as our tongues clash. I slip my knee in between your legs to which I’m rewarded with a small gasp against my lips, I feel you slowly start to grind on me and your grip on my hair tightens which only makes me groan into your fucking mouth. We start to rock against each other until we’re brought back to reality and I pull away to look at you, panting with your flushed cheeks and eyes full of lust, you lean into me and whisper ‘I want you’ before leading me upstairs. We find an empty room and your lips are on mine, clumsy kisses full of desperation. I push you up against the wall and sink my teeth into your neck while I run my hands up the outside of your thighs and under your dress to pull your panties down to your knees. I slip my hand in between your legs and tell you how fucking soaking you are before I start to fuck you. I pump my fingers in and out of you, using my other hand to slide my thumb through your pussy and massage your clit. Fucking you the way you wanted to be fucked. I don’t let up while telling you how much of a good girl you are for me and how much I love fucking you, bringing you closer to the edge till you cum hard with my name on your fucking lips.

Anon – peace and plants erotica

squeal more

She moaned.
She groaned.
She whimpered.
She begged.
With each sound she made He fucked her harder
and made the bed squeal more.

Faraz Sajid

invocation of my guardian angel in six sexts

i. angel of god, deliver me to the doorstep of your wilderness. lead me into temptation. teach me everything you think there is to know about thirst and i will teach you what i can about ecstasy. offer me neither a kingdom nor a temple but sacrilege: all the dirty things you would do if you were here. bury your sins in me the way you know i like to be fucked.

ii. how hot is the fire under the flesh? what face do you make when you come? is it the same one jesus had before his corpse leaked enough water for the nearest man to guzzle and become a believer? did you know that the line between pain and pleasure is as thin as the one between forgive me father for i have sinned and punish me daddy i’ve been very bad?

iii. wouldn’t you like to see me on my knees before you, lips wrapped around your name in prayer? you can use my grandmother’s rosary to bind my wrists to a ruined statue of an archangel in some back alley church and take me pressed against the hilt of his sword. i promise you, no one is watching. not even god.

iv. o wicked angel, what a mess your holy wars have made of the sky. what a garden you have made of me, what an agony. my pussy weeps for you. i call for you at night with legs spread wide as your wings, wondering what it would feel like to be pounded until i am a moon sheet of host you can tuck under your tongue for later when you are hungry again.

v. let me learn my nakedness in yours. let me baptise you in the river between my thighs. the games we play, three denials of the cock: you get a kick out of making me beg and in my hubris i cannot help but do the same. not that i mind —i went to sunday school for a year to learn my unworthiness before i earned the right to taste a body willingly given.

vi. eve took the fruit and i the seed of the serpent. meet me on the other side of the confessional and tell me you want this. i am a trespasser making myself known to a transgressor. maybe that’s how we know that there is still something immaculate to be forgiven in each other, and where to find what little of it is left just to see it ruined.

Camille Rosas

I’m Over the Moon

I don’t like what the moon is supposed to do.
Confuse me, ovulate me,

spoon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient
date-rape drug. So I’ll howl at you, moon,

I’m angry. I’ll take back the night. Using me to
swoon at your questionable light,

you had me chasing you,
the world’s worst lover, over and over

hoping for a mirror, a whisper, insight.
But you disappear for nights on end

with all my erotic mysteries
and my entire unconscious mind.

How long do I try to get water from a stone?
It’s like having a bad boyfriend in a good band.

Better off alone. I’m going to write hard
and fast into you, moon, face-fucking.

Something you wouldn’t understand.
You with no swampy sexual

promise but what we glue onto you.
That’s not real. You have no begging

cunt. No panties ripped off and the crotch
sucked. No lacerating spasms

sending electrical sparks through the toes.
Stars have those.

What do you have? You’re a tool, moon.
Now, noon. There’s a hero.

The obvious sun, no bullshit, the enemy
of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures.

But my lovers have never been able to read
my mind. I’ve had to learn to be direct.

It’s hard to learn that, hard to do.
The sun is worth ten of you.

You don’t hold a candle
to that complexity, that solid craze.

Like an animal carcass on the road at night,
picked at by crows,

taunting walkers and drivers. Your face
regularly sliced up by the moving

frames of car windows. Your light is drawn,
quartered, your dreams are stolen.

You change shape and turn away,
letting night solve all night’s problems alone.

Brenda Shaughnessy

The Orgy before lockdown

Remember, remember a time before this bloody pandemic…

‘I love a good orgy.’ Frank W, pissed as a pudding in a makeshift bedsheet toga, declares to no one in particular; he has hooded brown eyes and a flushed round face – an accountant’s face – but this evening, in keeping with the party’s ancient Roman theme, it is a senatorial face: Cicero’s face, perhaps?

There are thirty people in the room, which, indeed, is humming harder, but thankfully the ceiling’s still in place. All skipping the light fandango. All in various stages of undress. My mouth tastes of rusty sea urchin and a woman’s groin – the taste of wild, casual sex. Of life itself.

‘There you are!’ A slightly overweight woman (the wife of some PR person currently clutching at the sagging bosom of Tania R, the radio presenter). In my arms, she demands, ‘Give me your mouth.’ Her huge tongue rapes my mouth aggressively while her plump hands grope greedily beneath my toga. ‘I so love you, love you more than you could know -’

‘What about your husband?’ I ask.

‘He’s the most dreadful shag. He really is.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’ What else could I say? She was, after all, quite tipsy.

‘Ahhh, but you, you are an open invitation to lust. Let’s find somewhere we can fuck, yes. My pussy is growling -’

A change of scene. A small bedroom, curtains discreetly closed on the night. On the bed she climbs astride me. She is warm, heavy, and soft. She grinds against me, eyes half-closed; harder and harder she grinds. And I think how tangled and entangling life is. My life, of course, is a knot that can’t be undone –

‘My God,’ she half-screams. ‘I’m going to cuuuuuummmm!’

And she does, convulsively.

Back in the party room, the fun room, the Roman orgy room, I meet the eyes of a blonde woman who smiles sheepishly at me. My tongue remembers her wounded flavour from the last party in this place. I desire her again, but my cock has been pumped dry for the moment –

But my desire is not to be suppressed. It becomes almost savage. I approach her.

‘Hi.’

‘Hallow.’

Oh, to touch, to kiss – this delicious night! To taste the world on her skin. Her body quivers against mine as we dance. ‘Would you like to take me somewhere a bit quieter?’ she asks, her voice little more than a whisper beside my ear –

Another change of scene. Both of us naked. Kisses like fire. Burning soul deep. I lay her on the bed, my face between her yawning thighs and kiss her second mouth – soft kisses, hard kisses, lingering kisses; kisses using lips and tongue and fingers. And she spills over, floods everything with her desire. She is like an ocean. She is the taste of divinity!

She is pulling on my cock which juts like a meaty club from between my legs. ‘Do you want to cum up me,’ she asks quietly.

‘Oh, yes, yes, yes I do!’

Time passes. And like all good things, an end is in sight. Sunday morning arrives dull and grey. The detritus of the party is scattered all around. Glasses, overflowing ashtrays, discarded bedsheet togas. And I feel like hell. Hungover. Exhausted. Sore inside my underpants.

Depression is setting in –

I remember her faint whispered goodbyes earlier. Perhaps the last words I’ll ever hear from her – and I feel so terribly, unutterably lost.

Outside it’s raining. A miserable soaking drizzle. Her name is Lydia, and driving home I have these bitter-sweet flashbacks of her – like sexual hallucinations. Our fingers locking together as I dance inside her. Her lips tasting of the moon winds. Her whispering to me, the words like strange poetry to my ears. Like fingertips brushing my very soul. Like alien dreams of another life, of other possibilities – But then perhaps that is our destiny? To spread unmeasured love amongst people we may never see again? Memory twists like a knife blade inside me. And, perhaps, it’s that pain which leads me to search in love’s ruins for even more love…?

Who knows? Who can say?

called rush

this was no purple blossom romance, love. it was me, sucking your lips at the bar, on the dance floor. it was you, pinning me against the wall, clasping my hand on the drive home. it was me, asking questions, you, straddling my hips while we lie on the wet grass as the cops drove by and shone a light. it was our laughs that followed, you placing my finger in your mouth, and i noting the deep blue of the moon, the brown gold of your hair in my hands, and again, your voice soothing even the stars.

O. Ayes

Temptation

She said, ‘The morning grind ain’t just about coffee you know…’

Libidacoria

Put simply,
I want you.

Take me
From behind
Without provocation.

Take me
Any way
Your gorgeous mind
Can concoct.

Force me
If the mood
So strikes.

Or lure me
If it suits you
Better.

I want
To be surprised.

I want
To be entered.

I want you
So overcome
With passion
That it dictates
Your action.

I want you
To want me.

How much simpler
Could it be?

Kristie LeVangie
Libidacoria