Erotic Stories by Alicia Night Orchid

Sometimes the question is poised in less obvious terms, but the implication is the same—

• Did this story make your panties wet?

• Did you cream your jeans over this story?

• Did you need a towel after writing this story? I sure did.

• Did you write this story with one hand?

It’s the question most often asked of me in the e-mails I receive following the posting or publication of an erotic story on my website or through some other medium.

In my more cynical moments, I think the question is asked not because readers really want to know if I masturbate to my own music, but because they consider the question to be a subtle way of telling me that they, themselves, masturbate to my stories. Well, I hope so. If my erotic stories don’t make you wet or hard, don’t make you come like a banshee, then however artfully written, they have somehow failed. So, by all means, enjoy.

In my less cynical moments, I think there really are readers out there who want to know this most private thing about me. Actually, I think there are readers who derive pleasure from merely asking the question, regardless of the answer, but that there are more readers for whom knowing the answer to this question somehow enhances their pleasure.

Because, let’s face it, this is a question that seeks a level of intimacy usually reserved only for one’s lover. It’s a question that assumes a deeper intimacy than even questions such as—

• Do you masturbate?

• How do you masturbate?

• When was the first time you masturbated?

• Have you ever masturbated with a lover?

As a testament to how intimate this question is, although my friends and acquaintances know I write erotica, only one has had the courage or perspicacity to ask if I strum to my own stuff— and this while I was holding his hard dick in my hand and hovering over it with my mouth.

But in a world where everything is exposed, where all of us are in a sense the star of our own “reality show,” causing privacy to be treasured above all else, is there anything more arousing than being allowed into that most private corner of another’s life? Isn’t that why readers ask this question of me? Ultimately, they want more than the images and words of my stories, they want the intimacy of knowing me personally in a particularly private way.

And while few, if any, of my readers would ask this question in person, they are empowered by the anonymity afforded by the Internet to ask it from behind a cyber curtain. For what is more powerful, more arousing, than anonymous intimacy? Isn’t this why we post photos of our pussies to cyber lovers, webcam with strangers and talk trash in the middle of the night with people we have no hope of meeting?

If the Zipless Fuck was the way of the 20^th century, then Anonymous Intimacy—is the way of the 21^st Century.

But I still haven’t answered THE QUESTION, have I, the question so many people apparently want to know the answer to? Do I rub to my own rubbish? Ultimately, there is both a short and long answer.

The short answer is no. When I write, all of my energy is focused on the words, the sentences, the characters, the dialogue, the plot. It’s no different than when I’m writing a mainstream short story or a mainstream novel. The business of writing, smut or not, is too important to risk an error of judgment in the middle of a diddle.

The long answer is more complicated. The long answer is the topic of this essay.

The Words

First, you should know that I’m a thirty-two year old woman, currently unattached by choice. I’m a professional writer and am writing two novels—one erotic and one mainstream, plus I am obligated to a regular monthly output of stories, articles and corporate crap to pay the bills. Consequently, I don’t have time or energy in my life right now for a relationship.

Second, you should know that I am bi-sexual. Although there have been times in my life when I have preferred male lovers over female lovers and vice versa, I am not particularly attracted to one sex over the other. Instead, I am attracted to certain types of people, regardless of gender. I prefer creative, intelligent, bohemian types to conventional types. I prefer sensitive, clever, damaged types to strong, silent types. Physical appearance, social status, money mean little to me.

Third, you should know that I am convinced that the most underestimated sexual organ is the mind. The clitoris swells and throbs, the vulva moistens and aches to be filled, the cock stiffens and demands friction, but it is the mind that is the agent provocateur. And, the mind is but an instrument to be played by the words. Whether spoken over a bottle of wine or through a phone line, whether written in a book or across the empty void of cyber space, it is the words, always the words, which set the mind afire. And where leads the words, the body will follow.

Thus, taking this all into account, it should be no surprise that masturbation is for the present my sole source of sexual release, that in my fantasies I love the cunt as much as the cock and that what excites me most are the words in the stories I read and write. The wonderful, sexy, enticing words.

A Personal History

I was a freshman in college the first time I masturbated to the words of a book. The book was Ulysses by James Joyce and the passage was Molly Bloom’s soliloquy at the book’s end. Two elements combine to create a delirious eroticism. First, there is the incredible sensual experience of Joyce’s words and the steamy images they evoke. Second, there is Molly’s honesty as she relates her sometimes bawdy, sometimes tragic sexual history.

I was on the fifth floor of the graduate library at Indiana University, hidden away in the stacks. I was wearing a t-shirt and a jeans skirt and a pair of white cotton panties. I rested the thick book on the chair arm and, while casting a furtive glance about me, pinched my left nipple through my shirt until it bruised. I crossed my legs and squeezed them together repeatedly until I was so wet I was certain it would show through the denim. Finally, I could no longer resist. I opened my legs, laid my head back, pushed the panties aside, and used my fingers to make myself come. Two inside and the heel of my hand on my clit. When I finished, I swiped my sticky fingers against the pages of the book in a slimy tribute to Joyce and Molly.

From there, I found my way to Anais Nin, D.H. Lawrence and Henry Miller, Erica Jong and Susie Bright. Always a dog-eared, well-worn dirty book under my pillow.

After college, I lived in New Orleans for a while. I shared a house on Magazine Street in the Lower Garden District with other writers, poets and artists. In the evenings we tended bars, waited tables, or hawked tittie bars to conventioneers in the French Quarter. Late at night, we smoked non-filter cigarettes, drank strong, black coffee,and wrote or painted or sculpted. During the days, we slept, did a little dope and made love.

One of my roommates was a black man. Tall and sinewy with muscles like ropes, his hair was braided into these amazingly perfect corn rows. Another roommate was a beautiful blonde girl, a poetess, with incredible blue eyes and an ass like a hard, autumn apple. One sultry afternoon, I read them one of my stories aloud. As I read, Michael hardened. His cock, the length and breadth of a baby’s arm, pulsed unmistakably in his trousers. Michelle’s nipples strained at the thin fabric of her chambray blouse.

While I read a passage about a woman giving a man a blow job, she dropped to her knees and unleashed Michael’s long, black member. The contrast of its darkness against her creamy skin and red lips was breathtaking. As she sucked him off, he reached underneath her blouse and squeezed her breasts. I continued to read until he sprayed his seed across her face like a river bursting a dam.

No sooner had they recovered than they both turned and descended on me, pushing my skirt up over my hips, pulling my panties to the floor. “Thank you, Alicia,” Michelle said, while kissing my pussy as if it were my mouth. “Thank you, Alicia,” Michael said, while allowing me to tongue his testicles until he hardened again. In the end, I got on all fours. Michelle lay beneath me, rubbing herself, while nurturing my clit. Michael hunkered above us, his thick cock filling and stretching me, fucking me like I’d never been fucked before. I came hard, bucking and grunting like an animal, screaming it out.

But it was about the words, always the words.

After New Orleans, I lived in Chicago and New York. I worked as a phone-sex mistress to support myself while I wrote. Anonymous, disembodied male voices, sought refuge from the loneliness of their hotel rooms. I gave them my gently sucking mouth and tongue. I swallowed, spit, or let their semen trickle down my chin. I gave them my pussy, tight and trimmed beneath my schoolgirl’s skirt or hairy and gaping like a bloody wound because I was such a slut. Whatever they wanted. I gave them my ass, on my hands and knees, or on my back with my legs pushed over my shoulders. I rode them, they rode me. They spanked me, tied to the bed. I beat them until they were red. I fucked them with a strap on. I took their hot loads between my breasts.

They tell you not to come with the boys. They say that once you start, it’s hard to stop. But one night a man called. I tried to elicit from him what he wanted to hear, but what he wanted most was to make me come. He wanted to read me his stories and listen to my moans as I masturbated. I don’t recall the story itself. What I recall is the delicious sound of his voice across the miles, the rhythm of his words. He sucked my nipples, opened my cunt, and plunged a rubbery dildo, usually reserved for sessions with girlfriends, in and out of me. I held the phone to my pussy, so he could listen to the slippery, sucking sounds of the dildo in my cunt. There, alone in my bed, wearing a headset, stained panties and nothing else, I thrashed and twisted and writhed out my come for my “client.” I came as hard as I’ve ever come to his words. I came again, when he stroked off in my ear, leaving a pool of warm semen on his belly.

The Answer

But I still haven’t answered the question— do I wank to my own words?

In one of my stories, there is a character Miguel. He lives on The Strand at Manhattan Beach, where I live now. He falls for another character, Melissa. But, he can’t penetrate her—there is something in his history, his makeup that makes it impossible to put his penis in another. So they find other ways to satisfy their sexual urges, until she can stand it no longer, until she aches to be filled.

I have known that feeling, that need. I have pushed candles and brushes and bananas and cucumbers and dildos and vibrators into my orifices in an effort to be filled, filled full, fulfilled. I have squatted on a butt plug in the bathroom of an airplane at 30,000 feet because I could no longer tolerate the emptiness.

In another of my stories, Marnie seduces her lover with a delicious meal. In the end, they share a chocolate covered dildo, each of them squealing out their delight as they pump together.

I think of this story every time I cook for a lover. More than once, standing in my kitchen, in my jeans and apron, I’ve pressed my pubis against the corner of the counter and humped until I shuddered out my orgasm and cried out my fictional character Marnie’s name. I have held a mixer to my crotch and let the vibrations take me over the top, remembering how my fictional lovers fed one another a chocolate soufflé.

In another story, a woman meets an old lover. They dine and catch-up on their lives. Then, on the cab ride back to her hotel he confesses his desire to have her perform an act on him she did years ago. He wants her to make him his bitch. Back at the hotel, she straps on her cock and takes him up the ass, denying his cock until she’s had her fill.

I’ve strapped it on in the middle of the night and thrust against my sheets, the knob of the strap-on chafing my clit. I’ve imagined my dick in a man’s tight asshole, imagined his grunts as I plunge into him, imagined him reaching for his cock, seeking relief, only to have me push his hand away. I’ll tell you when, bitch. Oh yes, I’ve imagined that and came and came and came, calling out his name.

So, have I masturbated to my own stories?

Well, I have masturbated to stories and words all of my adult life, and to this day nothing turns me on more than dirty talk or an artfully crafted, well-written story. I have masturbated to the characters and situations in my stories, because they are the stories and characters of my life and they live within me and within my loins. I hunger for these people. Sometimes on a late-night flight, in the sleepy awakening of a sun-splashed morning, and my hand on my pussy knows how to bring them to life.

But I do not masturbate while I write. Ever. I’m too into the writing, the words, the music of the words. I often get wet, often find myself moving to and fro in my seat, often bite my lower lip the way I’ve been told I do when I’m being fucked or taking a good licking. But I keep my hands on the keys, my head with the characters.

Until the story has ended.

I’ll masturbate when I leave this story. I’ll do it in one of my favorite ways, out in the room that looks onto the beach. I’ll strip naked and drizzle my breasts with oil. I’ll let the oil run over and through the patch of wiry pubic hair I refuse to shave for anyone, past my slit until it tickles my anus. I’ll think of what might have happened if I’d been discovered that day in the library while reading Joyce, discovered by a boy. I’ll knead my breasts and tug at my nipples like the boy might have done. I’ll push a finger inside my pussy and pretend it’s sweet Michelle’s tongue and it’s a languid New Orleans afternoon. I’ll find my G-spot and massage it while brushing my clit with the tips of the fingers of my other hand. I’ll inhale the scent of my sex, squirm as my nectar pools on the chair cushion. Fingering and rubbing, fingering and rubbing.

Until the story has ended.