Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (19 page)

Tone

Ember Eli

I notice everything about my prey, because in the details of who they are lies the secret to how to take them down.

She had bows on her pumps. Pert, perky bows. The light crimson was an exact match for the buttons on her blouse and the horizontal line on her off-white handbag. The color was picked up again in her lipstick, but not in her earrings. Those were simple, bone-white like her blouse. Her clothing was spotless. Even her shoes had no more than that morning’s specks of dust. Everything about her, from the bows to her hair to the way she walked—and later, spoke—was crisp.

I insinuated myself into her presence by pretending I was lost. She gave efficient directions, allotting to me that portion of her attention that was required for the task. I could see that all the while, the wheels were still turning. No doubt she was thinking about her 5-year plan, or the small pile of mending waiting, carefully folded, on a closet shelf. I upped the ante and allowed a flash of naked need to pass across my eyes. “I have a disability,” I told her. “It’s like dyslexia, but with spatial relationships. It’s almost impossible for me to find my way.” She hesitated, and I watched her recalibrate her plan for her day. Her values won out, as I knew they would. She did what she should, and walked me all the way to my ostensible destination.

As we walked I gradually began to lengthen my stride to throw her off hers. At first she took two steps to every one of mine, maintaining the same tight movement as before, but then I distracted her by asking her how far we were from our destination. As she turned partially

toward me to answer, her steps lengthened into my rhythm and her hips began to sway slightly. A startled look flashed across her face, and I could see her brushing it away as if it were a fly.

I smiled ingratiatingly. “You must allow me to thank you for your trouble,” I said. “I was told there is a lovely tea house right near my destination. Perhaps you know where it is?” My question allowed her to pretend that she remained in the helper role. “Yes,” she replied. “I’ll show you.” When we arrived at the Casbah Tea House, I let my veil of helplessness fall away for a moment. I looked deeply into her eyes, saying, “I was told there are some priceless exotic blends in here. Not to be missed.” I raised my eyebrow in a way that was more statement than question, and moved boldly to hold the door open for her. She hesitated before the door. “Not to be missed,” I repeated firmly. A slight glaze came into the edges of her eyes, and she walked through the ornate carved wood and bronze door of the Casbah. “I’ll have the black currant,” I told the counter girl, “and the lady will have …” “Chai, please. Decaf.” Laden with our tea on a small tray, I walked past the conventional tables and chairs and chose a low corner table surrounded by cushions.

She was clearly unnerved by the seating arrangement. She hesitated, and then slid those prim pumps off, placing them carefully between us so she could tuck her legs under and smooth her skirt down as far as possible. “Where are my manners?” I murmured smoothly. “The name is Tone.” “Tone?” she repeated faintly. She hesitated while a brief inner struggle ensued. I knew she had thought of asking if my name was short for Tony, or Antonia, perhaps. What stopped her was her first full- on awareness that she didn’t know if I was male or female. I pretended not to notice her discomfiture. “Olivia,” she said. “Livia,” I repeated, “charmed.” I picked up her hand and kissed the top momentarily before setting it carefully back down. A slight flush crept into her cheeks, then subsided as if by the force of her considerable will. But she let my presumptuous abbreviation of her name slide.

Livia sipped her chai, and I watched its spicy warmth affect her features. I had chosen the Casbah for its sensuality and those floor cushions. I stretched my legs out and “accidentally” grazed her knee. The merest hint of a shudder passed through her, and I watched her extinguish it instantly, as one might stifle an involuntary cry that they feared could lead to their detection—say, if they had seen someone approaching on a dark night and wished to pass back into the shadows unseen.

I knew it was time to act.

I looked directly into her eyes again. “I have a confession to make,” I said. She looked at me, and I read the shock in her eyes at my inappropriate words. But her body remained perfectly composed, and she gave me no prompt. “I wasn’t really lost,” I continued. “I wanted to meet you.”

I watched her lose it then. To a less discerning observer, she would still appear put-together. Her back remained erect, her breathing even. But I could read her small signs. She was stunned. The tiny evidence of her conflicted emotions could be read in her eyes, traced in the subtle flare of her nostrils, the almost imperceptible movement of the small muscles under her cheekbones.

“I—” she began slowly. “I have lived my life in such a way that this sort of thing simply does not happen to me.” I smiled then, because I knew I had her.

“Until now,” I said simply. “Yes, until now,” she agreed. I had unmade her identity in three sentences. “What do you want?” she asked. There was a pliability to her tone that I was sure had never been there before. Her voice cracked on the unfamiliar cadence. I took her hand again, and this time continued to hold it. “I want to watch you explode,” I said. “I want to see you in the grip of something that, for once in your life, you can’t control. I want to see you grieve the futility of your past, and hunger for things you put away with your first words.”

She looked directly into my eyes then, and for the first time her eyes were completely unveiled. I watched her see me seeing her.

I knew if she had been standing, her knees would have buckled. That perfect posture would have slipped into something fluid and lost. As it was, she shifted. She raised herself up on her knees for a moment, then settled back down directly on top of her feet, placing the hand I wasn’t holding palm-up on her knee. Unconsciously, she had assumed a posture of supplication. She waited attentively for whatever I would say or do next.

“Clear your calendar for the day,” I commanded. I squeezed her hand gently, kissed her on the cheek, then rose. While getting her another chai and a peanut butter cookie, I watched her fumble with her cell phone and make several brief calls. I returned with the tray. “You will need to stay hydrated and fueled,” I said. She took my offerings, and when she had finished, I rose wordlessly, again taking her by the hand. She followed pliantly, and I felt an arching pleasure at her transformation, which I knew was only the beginning.

This time I strolled at an easy pace, and the sway remained in her hips. Her eyes had softened at the edges yet a new intensity burned at their core. As we walked, she began more and more to inhabit her body. She did not ask where we were going.

As we drew closer to my lair, my mouth began to water. My shins and heels vibrated with the urge to pounce. My teeth ached, anticipating her newly pliant flesh.

I will not harm her. It is my gift to know how to tightrope a woman across her edges. I will let her fall … yes. I will let her fall again and again. Into the hidden nets that will keep her whole.

I will start with her outer trappings and work my way in. I will take her apart cell by cell until she is unrecognizable to herself. But I will know her.

The first thing I will do once we are inside is kneel before her. I will take out a knife. Hold it up so she can see its length and sharpness. She will stand perfectly still then. I will reach down slowly, and cut the bow off her shoe. Just one. I will pocket my trophy while she watches. Then I will undress her and roll on those perfectly-pressed clothes. My musk will infuse so deeply into their folds that she will never get it out. Should she ever want to.

I notice everything about my prey, because in the details of who they are lies the secret to how to take them down.

I do it for the joy of it. The joy of using everything I have—eyes, wits, teeth, fists—in service to her unmaking. Her reshaping. To see her reduced to her essence and thus made huge.

[go to top]

“There’s no safety in writing well. There is no way to be naked, which is what you have to be to be a good writer … and still be safe … I think one of the things that’s happened in sexual writing is we’ve gotten the notion that nakedness is about being explicit about details and techniques. I find that really tedious. What is truly naked is emotional exposure. And for every writer that’s different. The place where you’re pushing yourself the most emotionally is going to be different. It’s way different … depending on your age and the world you were brought up in, depending on who you’re most afraid of …. Every person has a fear. And fear is your best friend.”

-
Dorothy
Allison

(
in
E
.
Benedict’s
The Joy of Writing Sex)

Lilycat

Bio

Lilycat is a DJ for FCCFree Radio, where she forces people to tell her their life stories, and she also writes. She has stories in
Chemical
Lust
,
Whipped
,
More
5
Minute
Erotica
,
Surprise
and
Hos
,
Hookers
,
Call
Girls
,
and
Rent
Boys
and another book ….She’d like to thank her biker daddy—Mr. O—for the inspiration.

Mini-Interview

How did you start writing about sex?
How
does
it
differ
from
non
-
erotic
writing?
All the cool kids were doing it—so I did it, too. Erotica has sex in it.

Do
you
write
in
multiple
genres
and
,
if
so
,
why?
I tweet … People make me do it.

How
is
the
Erotic
Reading
Circle
part
of
your
writing
process?
I get the best feedback from ERC and it encourages me to write. I get to hear great stories, too.

Do
you
write
under
your
own
name?
Why
or
why
not?
Do
you
have
any
concerns
about
publishing
erotic
work?
I write under a fake name because that was my Christmas gift to my mother … I’m cheap and she is hard to shop for.

What’s
the
inside
scoop
on
your
story?
What
inspired
it?
Any
caveats
or
unusual
tidbits
you’d
like
to
share
with
your
readers?
Someone told me there is nothing more beautiful than the sight of a woman giving you a blowjob …. That is all.