I’ve been exploring erotica. I tend to write out a first draft in bits. Then I expand upon. I’m a sprinter, less of a runner, so I capture scenes. I rarely go beyond that. Here’s a piece that dropped out this morning. Literally just the first pass on it. Let me know what you think. He stood in the doorway and I turned to retrieve his parcel from the kitchen counter where I placed it earlier. My stark white asscheeks mooning below my cotton shorts. As I neared the archway to the kitchen I felt him. His large hands took both my left hip and my right arm. He pressed me and my hands splayed out against the eggshell wall. Only a sliver of air was between us, and my ear caught his desirous breath. I relaxed, allowing him to take me in. I could tell he’s been waiting for such an opportunity. I noticed him immediately when he moved in, curious what being in his arms would feel like. He leaned in close, and announced his arousal. I smiled, acknowledging, and I looked down, inviting him to my neck. He brushed my hair away and I felt his lips on my nape. He released a small sound of satisfaction. His cock twitched against my back. I moved my feet apart, and he removed all the distance between us. His cock was rock hard. His hands explored my skin. I turned my head and looked at him, giving him my consent. He swept my asscheeks with his palms and I spread my legs a little bit more. He ran his index finger just under the trim of my shorts, our breath building together. He cupped my asscheek, and the length of his finger reached my lips wet opening. I attempted to press back only to have him press me harder against the wall. I felt his cock pulse as he slid two fingers inside me. He moaned at how wet I was and kept his lips on my neck. His fingers began a steady rhythm. I held onto the wall for steadiness. His other hand reached under my tshirt and around to my breast. I twisted slowly to face him. Our lips met and we kissed. Soft and inquisitive at first, then fully. Hungrily. He turned me to face him and as we kissed he removed my clothing. I was raw and naked in front of him. His eyes looked at all of me, and I have never been so seen. My eyes followed his as he examined all of me. I was so aroused my juices couldn’t be contained and they escaped down my inner thighs. My nipples were erect. My skin was alive. I stood still, waiting for him. Looking at my fully aroused body he removed his clothing. The afternoon sun caught his ebony skin and showed me his sweat. His cocks tip glistened. The lust that was hanging between us was heavy and rich. He took his time, and when he was ready he stepped towards me. I motioned to the bedroom but he led me to the couch. He leaned me over the high sofas arm and slid into me. His thick cock filled me and I moaned.

I found her in a quiet cafe, down a side street on the outskirts of Portofino. Not that she was missing. Her face brightened when I asked if I could take her photo. But as I flipped the lens cap off my new Leica she raised a stilling hand. "First," she said firmly, "You have to tell me why." I put the camera down "Why what?" I asked. She took a drag of her cigarette and blew a tight stream of blue smoke from the corner of her smile. "Why me?" The look in her eyes warned me that a bullshit answer would not win her favour. "Because I like taking photos of young women." I said, looking right into her interrogating stare. "And you are the only young woman around here." She nodded, stubbed out her cigarette and chuckled, "Good answer," as she stood, took me by the hand and pulled me towards the door. "Come on." she said. "You don't want a photo of me sitting at a cafe table. Its too cliche' don't you think?" "I suppose" I shrugged, somewhat bemused by the tight grip she had on my hand. The last person to lead me anywhere like this would have been my mother, decades ago. "Where are we going?" I asked, as the cafe door banged closed behind us. She turned to me, and winked. "My place. I hope you have lots of film."

Some filthy flash fiction (explicit sex) ---- The most lucrative attraction of the traveling circus from the Far East was never featured on the billing. Only word of mouth brought curious patrons to the small tent hidden behind the big top. And most, when told of the ten shilling entrance fee by the attending clown, beat a hasty retreat. Surely no circus act was worth that? Even the name didn’t suggest wonders worth the price. “Hercules and the Hummingbird.” Presumably they had a strongman, and perhaps he’d taught a hummingbird to hover over his head or something. Not a sight they’d part with a week’s wages to see. But those that coughed up the coppers did not regret it. They spoke of what they’d seen in hushed whispers for years to come. Elspeth was there on a recommendation from her cousin in Singapore. Mary had told her she simply must see the act. Elspeth had required her maid Vicki to dress her up as a commoner, for it would not be the done thing to be seen frequenting a circus of all things. And so uncharted was the territory she’d be venturing into, she insisted Vicki accompany her. The two alighted from the cab, and with bonnets strung tight over their heads, they navigated their way through the rabble to the rear of the big top. The noise, smells, and dirt of the trampled mud all assaulted Elspeth’s senses, and she swore she’d take cousin Mary to task if this ordeal wasn’t worth it. A pantomime clown took their money with a ridiculously wide grin. “Enjoy the show, ladies,” he bellowed and opened the tent flap for them. Inside, two rows of bench seats in a semicircle faced nothing more than a low rectangular table, with a blanket spread upon it and an old pillow at one end. At the other end sat a plump woman with a cheery face, dressed in rags, and a maid’s cap much like the one Vicki wore. Her legs dangled from the table as she appeared to inspect each audience member with a cheeky smile and an occasional wink. Above her, the sparse interior was lit by a single kerosene lantern hanging precariously from the tent pole.

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Transgressive fiction has a way of getting under your skin and staying there. Bret Easton Ellis, Cormac McCarthy, Chuck Palahniuk, Flannery O'Connor — these writers didn't ask for permission to go dark. They just went. So we want to know: What's the one book that made you feel genuinely uncomfortable — and you loved it for that? Did it influence your own writing? Would you recommend it here, or is it too much even for this crowd? Drop it in the comments. No judgement. This is exactly the place for it.