|Keeping my finger on the pulse, LOL|
Who says my erotica isn't contemporary and relevant for today's world? 😁 I've been fingering my way through my files, ahem, to find the stories that speak to this international pandemic.
The obvious one is Quarantine, which you can find in full and for free if you hop over to my Website and click on FREE READS in the top bar. It's set in an Ebola research facility and it's about two people going stir-crazy under lockdown:
'This bloody sucks!' Lee moaned.
'Well whose fault is that?' she yelled, surprising even herself with her vehemence.
'Really? Who are you blaming?'
'You're the one who bent -' Lee stopped mid-sentence.
'What?' Tessa sat up and dropped her voice to a hiss. 'What did I do?' She saw Lee's face work as conflicting impulses fought for control.
'You were bent over.' The words seemed to come from a constricted throat. 'Your ... arse...' He made a generously curved shape in the air with his hands to make up for his incoherence. 'I walked into the bench.'
She was gobsmacked. 'You dropped solvent everywhere because you were looking at my butt? In a HAZMAT suit?'
Bolt Hole, which appears in my collection Fierce Enchantments, is also about two uneasy companions hiding away in a confined space, only this time it's during a zombie outbreak:
“What’re you doing out here on your own?” he asks.
“I wasn’t alone,” she rasps.
The water down her cleavage just feels like more sweat now. She can’t bear it. She’s got to lean back against the metal just to stay upright. Discarding the spade against the wall beside her, she wrenches off her other glove, then pulls down the zipper of her suit from collar to navel. The vest-top beneath is absolutely sodden with sweat, and plastered to her torso. She sees the pale flash of the man’s widening eyes, and she knows her chest is heaving as she pants for breath, but it doesn’t seem important. All she wants is to get out of these leathers.
She wriggles out of her bags and belts, frantic to shed the weight. The front zipper of her biker all-in-one goes all the way down to her crotch, making it easier to peel off the arms and shoulders and drop the top half of the suit to hang from her hips. That helps. She sets her shoulders back against the corrugated metal, praying for cool, but it’s warmer than she is. She can see the man staring. His torso is completely bare, and she envies that. She can feel the moisture flooding between her burning thighs. Her mind is a churning whirl.
She wants to be naked. She wants to be cold. She wants water and a breeze.
He’s gone very still. Outside, the living dead moan with frustration.
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Lust in the Dust is of course full of apocalyptic crisis sex. My own story, The Basque of the Red Death, is a pastiche of Poe's famous plague tale:
On Midsummer Eve, six months after we'd sealed ourselves within the castellated walls, Prince Prospero threw his wildest party yet; a masquerade ball themed upon pagan Arcadia. A suite of seven chambers in the heights of the abbey was opened and prepared; a cloister in coloured glass wherein the old abbot had been inclined to contemplate the Seven Ages of Man, or the Seven Deadly Sins, or perhaps the Seven Sorrows of Our Lady, but now turned to more worldly and hedonistic use.
The Easternmost room, lit in blue, was dedicated to the pleasures of the tongue; Amuse-bouche, the nobles called such things. The centrepiece was a plump and naked maiden, lying supine amid platters of tiny pastries and sweetmeats, covered from head to rosy toes with creamed vegetables piped into intricate patterns, and bejewelled with pomegranate pips and sugared almonds — like a living, breathing, reliquary. Officially she represented Gaia, Mother Earth. I happened to know that Helga had volunteered for this role because she preferred it to running up and down the abbey's stairs.
The Purple Room centred upon a veiled trio of Fates who stood with arms linked, facing outward to the walls of the chamber. They were veiled and draped in prodigious swathes of plum-hued silk, so that not only their features but their very forms were impossible to make out — all but their breasts, which were uncovered and glistened with oil, the nipples stained dark with blackberry juice; somehow more naked for the being the only body-parts visible. The unspoken invitation to touch those orbs, to grope and stroke and play, was all but irresistible.
In the Green Room an ivy-wigged and leaf-painted dryad sat in a sling at head-height, her thighs spread by two loops. On a table beneath was a bowl heaped with brandy-soaked fruit, which the wanton would receive with a giggle into the slippery clench of her sex before squeezing it back out of that cornucopia, now subtly flavored.
The Orange Room was staffed by Cynocephali; naked girls masked with the heads of dogs and leashed like animals too. They served strictly on their knees.
The White Room took this theme further; the seven Pleiades here were bound firmly to racks and upended over tables, thighs spread by bars and wrists hoisted over their heads; their virginal silk dresses artfully inadequate to the task of shielding their maidenly modesty.
In the Violet Room flagellation was on offer; the three mistresses there were dressed as avenging Furies and strutted about with horse-whips in hand, taking full advantage of their license to inflict punishment.
But the Red Chamber, the one at the end — the one with that terrible black-draped clock — stood empty and unused. Whatever debauchery it was intended to host, no one had yet plucked up the courage.
Oh - and if you are up for a horror (not erotica) tale of necrophilia, dark gods and mental collapse set during the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1919, you can always try my story Nine Portraits of Empress Danrin, found in Dark Voices: