When Rachel Kramer Bussel posted a call for submission for a fantasy-themed erotica anthology, I thought long and hard about what that meant to me. Could I write a role-play scene? A truly out-of-this-world scene?
The concept that got me wet was a blending or confusing of real and fantasy. In my story “Symphony”, I enjoy the murkiness of whether the main character is fantasizing the scene or living out a fantasy. Either are possible.
Enjoy this nibble.
She settles deeper into the piled pillows, their crisp white covers rustling against her naked shoulders. Her soft exhalation, almost inaudible to her, stimulates the delicate wireless electrodes adhered to her cheeks, throat, chest, and belly. The signal is transmitted to the listeners and sets off a fast scritching from the dark edge of the room.
You weren’t joking about getting readings almost immediately. The sound level meter is working.
Do you think the condenser mic is close enough? That didn’t read.
A sterile light, reminiscent of the dentist’s office, glares off the sheet. She keeps her eyes closed against the brightness but wants to feel it on her bare skin. She’s allowed to have as much or as little covering her as she likes.
Haven’t seen you since that Psychoacoustics conference. Still focusing on Systematic Musicology?
Yep. They brought me in for my expertise with fractional octave filters.
She slides the sheet down to her belly, revealing herself to the analytical gaze of the shadowed musicologists. She strokes the sides of her breasts, cups them in her hands, lifts and squeezes them. Her inhaled breath whistles between pursed lips. At the top of the breath, she pinches both nipples, squeezing and holding. The breath leaves her nose on a whimper and she hears a clipboard tap someone’s wristwatch.
So we’re really doing this. Doesn’t it feel…sordid…in front of all these people?
If we can use what we learn to trigger sympathetic neurological and biological effects in listeners, we should feel honored.
Music that can make people…come.
I hope she doesn’t overdo it. It won’t work if she’s just acting.
The palpable focus turns up her sensitivity and she sends one cold hand stroking over her ribs. Her semi-reclining position mounds her belly and encourages the folds above and below. They watch and listen and she whines her anticipation for them. Yes, she wants to turn herself on, to roll up the sunny hill of pleasure and play on the craggy peaks of joy that will send her home to herself, triumphant.
This is best done bare. She kicks the top sheet off altogether and slits her eyes to look down her body.
She feels her nudity more acutely in the shadows than in the light.
Alto sax here.
We’re using A-frequency-weighting on the SLM, right?
She swipes two fingers of lube from the stainless steel dish they had provided and slicks it into the folds of her labia. Her fingertip nudges her tender clit, eliciting a chattering chirp, and she presses the flat of her fingers to either side with a croon.
Not too fast. Can’t have the symphony last only a minute or two.