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Fulfillment and Other Erotic Stories [MultiFormat]
eBook by Alicia Night Orchid

eBook Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance
eBook Description: Reader Favorite's First Erotica Collection! Alicia Night Orchid's erotic fiction has appeared in zines like Cleansheets, Sliptongue, Mind Caviar, and Literotica. Her story "Do You Masturbate (To Your Own Stories)" is one of the highest rated stories in the "Toys and Masturbation" category at Literotica and her essay "Eros and the Eagle" took third prize in Literotica's Free Speech contest. A former "phone sex goddess," this first-ever collection includes Fulfillment, On Siesta Key, Heat, On Convention, Changing Places, The Masseur, In Chicago, A Christmas Story, The Other Man, Red Eye, Alley Cat, and Surrender. Don't miss this personally selected anthology of this highly-acclaimed author's finest erotic stories.

eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, Published: 2005
Fictionwise Release Date: September 2005


7 Reader Ratings:
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INTRODUCTION

I am thirty-two years old, but I remember with an almost overwhelming immediacy the first time I read a "dirty story" and masturbated to the images it evoked. I was thirteen years old and the author was Anais Nin.

It was the summer between seventh and eighth grades. While my parents were at work and my brother played baseball, I moped at my lonely lot and hunted through boxes of old books in the attic. After I found A Spy in the House of Love, I relished each moment of privacy, for it was when I was alone that I could lose myself in the brothels, art studios and gypsy caravans of 1920's Paris.

My breasts were no more than mosquito bites, my pubic hair, wispy and wan as a spider's web. Although I understood the clinical aspects of "sexual union between the male and female of the species" (because I'd read and re-read the materials all of us girls had received in Sex Ed to help us understand why we were bleeding down there), I was completely devoid of personal experience.

Well, not completely. At the Valentine's Day dance, Mark P. had kissed me and tried to put his tongue in my mouth--oh yuck. Later in the year, on a field trip to the Wisconsin state capital, Jeff O. slipped an arm around my shoulder, then nonchalantly allowed his hand to come to rest on my right breast. It felt more like an extra layer of clothing than anything else.

But, Anais, Anais. You tripped my wire, you turned my world upside down, Girl. More than that you flooded my panties and creamed my jeans. Your images of artists painting nudes, of whores cavorting with men and women together, of ladies and gentlemen losing themselves to passion in a moment of weakness, captured my imagination and flooded my senses, and got me off in a way I've never recovered from.

Ever since, it's been about the words, the words, always the words--His throbbing manhood, her pulsating tunnel, his upright staff, her heaving bosom.

Later, I would discover D.H. Lawrence and Henry Miller, Erica Jong and Susie Bright. Later, still, I would have my Personal Sexual Revolution period during which I fucked and re-fucked with relish and indiscretion the boys and men of my youth, my Married Monogamous period with a good man who had no idea how far in over his head he was, my Lesbian Period when every short-skirted girl in Audubon Park was fair game and, finally, my Love and Let Love period where I am today.

I've been with many men and just as many women--who's counting--I've brought myself off in elegant mansions and sleazy toilets. I've tried nearly every toy out there. For a year I was a phone sex goddess. Once, I starred in a film with two bi-sexual men.

But, after all of that, my desire is only piqued, not nearly quenched. After all of that, what still turns me on most are the words, the words, always the words. The words that stimulate the imagination, that make me feel dirty, that make me wet and nasty and wanton.

Always the words.

That's what these stories are about--the words that get us off, alone and with our lovers.

Enjoy.

Alicia

* * * *

FULFILLMENT

The sound of the surf on the beach is a slick kiss. The coarse sand blown by the wind, a lover's slap.

She came here out of duty and a sense of adventure. Her brother, the bond portfolio manager, and his slinky Jamaican wife have abandoned their home on Manhattan Beach for a year in London. Now that she's graduated college, now that it's time for her to experience more of the world than cornfields in Iowa, can she come house sit for a year? Maybe she can find her muse here? Maybe she can find fulfillment?

The first month she's too intimidated to venture onto The Strand and the Beach. These people are bronzed and ripped and swaggering. From the privacy of her balcony, she watches their volleyball, their surfing, their dog walking. She covers up with jeans and a Hawkeye sweatshirt, feels pale and uncertain. Mornings she communes with the dolphins from afar and pecks out unconnected words on her keyboard. Evenings, she indulges the stars and the cries of lovers in the distance. Unanswered E-mails, letters, and voice messages mount. They all think she's weird anyway.

The second month she turns to cycling, hitting the weights in her brother's exercise room. She eats only rice and salmon, drinks only water, tans in the sun between workouts. Her sweat and urine smell faintly of the sea and her face glows pink under locks white as corn silk. She shaves, plucks, and waxes every imaginable hair from her armpits, legs and pubis. On all fours, in front of a floor to ceiling mirror, she lifts her buttocks high and uses her brother's razor to remove even the palest, most innocuous follicle from this most tender of regions.

By the middle of her third month, she's found work at the Coffee Bean in Hermosa. Her days begin with a five-mile run on The Strand, then continue with vanilla lattes and no-whip, non-fat mochas. After work, she returns to the beach house and her keyboard. Evening after evening, bold words arise, dance with one another, conjure up images and moods and create character and tension, before finally collapsing on their chairs, wallflowers after all. It's a frustrating pattern that mimics her life and all of her writing so far.


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