This Month’s Theme:
“Love and Lust”

Once again, for February we’ll observe Valentine’s Day with stories of romance, which might include sex. This is adults only, so if you’re not an adult, go away. Now, in the realm of “shameless self-promotion,” I have a more than passing interest in quality erotic speculative fiction. In 2013 I published Salacious Tales, a 500-page, 22-story anthology by a bevy of talented authors—never mind the cover art and 23 interior illustrations by stunning artist Aleksandar Žiljak. Support small press and those writers by checking out the anthology. But for now, on to some of that sort of thing right here and now.

“Impossible Intimacy”
Science fiction (alien)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Jace Morgan had flown his spaceship from one corner of the galaxy to the other. He’d long admired the similarities in bipedal races, and had enjoyed making love with many of them. But he wasn’t whoring around; he was looking for Miss Right. There had to be love out there, but so far he’d had great sex but no romance. He wanted an intimate physical relationship, but he needed more than that.

And then he met Zarta in a planetoid bar. There were thousands of people there, hardly any two from the same world, and Morgan was scoping out the women of any species. Green skin, three eyes, four arms, no breasts—as long she had a sex organ that at least approximated a human vagina, then she was worth investigating for a potential romantic connection.

It was a cliché: Their eyes locked across a crowded room. She was beautiful by any humanoid standards: golden skin, eyes glowing like backlit silver, a lion-like mane of blue hair tumbling in a mess of sexy curls about her shoulders. She was slender, without the typical flared hips of a female who bore live young. She had three large, firm breasts, and oversized lips that beckoned. She was stunning.

But beyond the physical attraction, he was drawn to her as he’d never been with a woman, like the quintessential love at first sight. He joined her at her table, and he could tell she was equally taken by him. They talked for hours, learning about each other. He told her about Earth and his life; she talked of her home planet, Elyriax, and her life as a space pilot. Like Morgan, she owned her own ship, and like him she did contract runs for all manner of things. They had everything in common.

After six hours of drinks, food, stories, and laughter, the attraction had become overwhelming. They went to her ship, which was moored on the planetoid near his. They came into each other’s arms and began kissing wildly. Clothing flew off, and he marveled at her three breasts. She was exotic and erotic, and he knew he was in love with her. He’d found Miss Right.

They tumbled into her bed, hands groping to explore each other. As her fingers clumsily bumped into his erection, he found the hairless spot between her legs—and realized she didn’t anything remotely like a vagina. And she had also frozen with her fingers cautiously touching his penis.

“Computer, lights,” she said, and the lights came up.

They separated, staring at each other, mouths agape.

Zarta had clearly never seen anything like a penis before—sensible, since she had nothing designed to admit one. Between her legs was an oval patch with an array of perhaps a hundred fleshy nubs, like fat pencil erasers. There was nowhere for him to enter her—no way to make love.

“I should have known,” she said, her voice cracking. “You’re so wonderful… I was just hoping you’d be like me.”

“How does sex work with your people?” he asked.

“Our males’ genitalia are similar to ours,” she said. “Our pleasure nubs rub together, and the male secretes sperm. We give birth here.”

Zarta pointed to the faint line that ran from her abdomen to her ribcage, looking like a seam waiting to be opened.

“We open here,” she explained, “and close afterward.”

He sagged back on the bed. “I’m sorry, Zarta. Physical intimacy is important to me, and I thought… I thought you were the one I’ve always sought.”

She lay next to him. “I felt the same about you. How can we be wrong?”

In that desperate, depressing moment, Morgan realized that there was no such as thing as “the one”; there was no Miss Right. There were women who were very good, and those who could be best friends, and those who could fuck a man into heaven, but no woman could be everything.

And suddenly, she was straddling him, and he felt her bumpy patch atop his now-flaccid penis. She leaned in and kissed him, and it was the kiss of a lifetime. He grew instantly hard, even as she began moving her slender hips back and forth. He felt the nubs of her bowl tickling his manhood, rubbing the length of his shaft like a hundred massaging fingers. The sensation was amazing.

She rode him, crying out in ecstasy, and he moved his hips, sliding his organ against her nubs. It wasn’t like being inside a woman; it was something original, exciting, adventurous. And when she began to move faster and wail in orgasm, it sent him over the edge. He bucked and grabbed for her, roaring as he exploded. She collapsed in his arms.

They each recovered, breathing heavily, for several minutes before she raised her head and looked at him.

“That was incredible,” she said. “That’s so much more liquid than men of my species. They just get wet. You… you just exploded!”

He laughed. “Yes, that’s what we do.”

He realized how close he’d come to letting her go—a woman he’d fallen in love with at first sight—over something as shallow as whether she had a sheath between her legs. She was different, but clearly there was pleasure to be had between them. He silently he thanked the universe for her decision to climb atop him and show him the error of his ways.

And then she said, “In my culture, our sex often involves oral stimulation of each other’s genitalia. Is that true of your species?”

Morgan smiled and held her close, thanking the universe again.

“Needing More”
Science fiction (dystopian future)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

It was Darvill’s birthday, and he stood naked in the barracks waiting to be taken to his gift. As far as he could see in either direction, three-high bunks lined either wall. There were nearly nine thousand men in their barracks, he knew.

“You can’t wear that,” Tirren said from where he reclined on his bunk.

Tirren wasn’t naked. His birthday had been a month before. Darvill knew there were seventeen others in the barracks who had birthdays this day.

“Your necklace,” Tirren said, pointing. “You have to be naked.”

Darvill reached for the pendant dangling by its silver chain and held it up in the dim light. It was one of the few things he owned. The pendant was a small silver horse—rearing, with big wings made of a white inlay, and with a single golden horn.

“They’ve let me wear it to my birthday before,” Darvill said. It was cold in the barracks, and he felt his scrotum tightening up beneath a shrunken penis.

Tirren shrugged. “Silly, if you ask me. There haven’t even been horses for a thousand years. And I don’t think they wings or horns.”

“It’s mythology.” Darvill let the pendant dangle back to his chest.

“Silly,” Tirren repeated, and rolled over. “Well, enjoy your birthday gift, Darvill.”

Darvill knew he would. He always did. The gift was always wonderful.

Just then, he heard the barracks overseer on the speakers, calling the birthday boys. Eagerly, Darvill ran naked towards the sound.

*   *   *

He and seventeen others headed through the barracks valley, toward the birthday center. They passed eleven other massive barracks, and were always joined by others with birthdays. There were hundreds by the time they reached the center, which was sat at the edge of a dark forest.

Soon, like all the others, he was brought into the center. Darvill was shown to a small white room with only a white-sheeted bed, and there he beheld his gift. He sucked in his breath when he saw her, like he did every year.

She was awesome in her nakedness—so similar yet completely different from men. Those bulbous globes on her chest, her narrow waist, her flaring hips… and of course that heavenly place between her legs. He knew the wondrous sensations that awaited him inside her, in that sheath hidden by the patch of hair. He felt his phallus hardening as he beheld her, barely breathing as he stared, wide-eyed.

Her yellow hair was tied back, and she had full lips. She looked up at him with nervous green eyes.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he replied as his phallus jutted out before him.

And he moved to her, and she scooted back, reclined, and spread her legs. She seemed as eager as he was. He climbed between her legs and directed his phallus towards her now-visible pink cleft. He leaned in, and his pendant dangled until it brushed her chest, between her soft mounds. He realized she was staring at it, and suddenly he was aware that she also wore a necklace.

It was a gold chain, and her pendant lay between her mounds. It was a golden sphere encircled by rings of red, blue, and green. He froze, transfixed by it, even as she was transfixed by his. He realized his erection was subsiding, and shook himself out of his mesmerism.

“We need to do this,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He squirmed into place as she groped for him, and her soft, delicate touch stiffened him again. He moved in, and she guided him inside her. In seconds he was moving in and out of her, making animal sounds and watching her face contort with pleasure. He began to grunt louder amidst the dizzying sensations, and when she finally wailed in ecstasy, the sounds set him off. He exploded within her and collapsed atop her, feeling those soft mounds pressed against him.

They lay awhile, breathing heavily, and then he forced himself up on his hands. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“A horse,” she said, nodding to his pendant. “With pegasus wings and a unicorn horn.”

“Yes,” he said. “What is yours?”

She held it up, smiling. “A world—like this one, but not. They say other worlds circle our Sun. Some have rings around them.”

“I like it,” he said.

“I like yours.”

He climbed off her, lay next to her. “Everyone else thinks my pendant is silly.”

“Wonderful things like these make us imagine other things,” she said. “They make me believe that there’s something more than the life we have.”

“You don’t like the birthday gifts?”

“I do, very much. I just think there must be more than impregnation, and children growing up to do it all over again.”

Outside the room, an overseer’s voice on the speakers announced that their time would be up in five minutes. Unexpectedly, that idea stung Darvill.

“We’ll never see each other again,” Darvill said. “I don’t want that. I want… more than just this one gift with you. Is that strange?”

“No. I feel the same way.”

She rolled to face him, hugged him close. Darvill reciprocated. It felt as wonderful as the gift.

“We’re in barracks through the forest,” she said. “I can escape tonight, if you’ll meet me.”

“They’ll execute us if we’re discovered,” he said.

He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, and felt his own responding.

“I think the risk is worth it,” she finally said. “I don’t know why.”

They held each other until an overseer announced a one-minute warning.

“I’m Darvill,” he whispered.

“I’m Valeen,” she replied.

She kissed him. Darvill returned the kiss, and knew she was right: There was something more than anyone thought. Other worlds, flying unicorns, and more things he couldn’t yet imagine. And he knew escaping was indeed worth the risk.

No—he knew that Valeen was worth it.

He didn’t know why, but he didn’t think he needed to.

“Frigid Women”
Horror (zombie apocalypse)
By David M. Fitzpatrick

The worst part about the zombie apocalypse was the lack of living women. Well, none that Jim Deighan could find. Thanks to men being the selfish, violent, horrible men they were, the women were in hiding. Of course they were—most men would kill other men to get their women, with rape the ultimate goal. The men made the zombies seem nice.

At first, Jim was okay with the lack of women; after all, they’d only ever screwed him over at every turn. There was the school girlfriend who’d told everyone about his poor performance; the one who’d fucked some other guy at Jim’s own birthday party; the wife who’d fucked everyone; the second wife who’d left him for another woman. Yeah, the zombie apocalypse without women wasn’t a bad idea.

But while he didn’t miss the companionship, he missed the sex. Jim just needed someone to screw.

*   *   *

Jim was hiking down a deserted road, weaving amongst a traffic jam of abandoned cars and a strewing of burned bodies, and he never saw the zombie. She was behind a rolled-over pickup truck, and she was suddenly right there, snarling and lurching toward him, arms outstretched.

He’d been daydreaming, and he frantically went for his machete, but she was on him before he could. Luckily, she wasn’t fast or strong, and in seconds he’d wrenched her arm behind her and slammed her face-first into the hood of an old blue Toyota. The tiny undead woman growled and struggled beneath him as he reached to unsheathe his machete to cleave off half her head… but then a thought occurred to him.

She was newly dead. Fresh blood from an arm wound suggested she’d been bitten maybe hours before, and her flesh was almost the color of a living person’s. She’d been a survivor who’d been bitten but escaped—for all the good it had done her. Too bad—she’d been a doll: a cute, heart-shaped face framed by lustrous black hair; she was a slim, five-foot-tall pixie in a knee-length blue skirt and with beautiful legs.

And Jim’s groin was jammed against her ass. As she squirmed beneath him, her grinding woke up his manhood. In seconds, his erection was rock hard, jammed in her ass crack. The idea mortified him—but just for a second.

She was newly dead. Why not?

He looked left and right, partly to make sure no stunned survivors caught him in the act, but mostly to make sure there were no other nearby zombies. All was clear.

With his free hand, he managed to unbuckle and unzip. He yanked her skirt up and tore her panties away. His heart was pounding madly. He couldn’t believe what he was doing.

He jammed his erection between her cold butt cheeks and went to work. It didn’t long; with the little dead woman writhing beneath him, he soon ejaculated all over her—like no living woman had ever let him do.

“I love you,” he told her, and she snarled in reply.

*   *   *

He found an abandoned house and ate some canned beans he’d found, even as she growled at him from down the hall. Eventually, he went to the bedroom, where she was on her stomach, arms and legs tied tightly to the bedposts. She was naked, snarling and wriggling. It was clear she wanted him again—this time for making love, not that cheap ass-crack masturbation.

He trembled with excitement as he straddled her and entered her from behind—and thought he’d lose his erection. His love was damn cold, like fucking a ham right out of the fridge. But after a minute or so, the friction of his stroking warmed her up—she was hot for him. He had his way with her twice that night as she growled and writhed beneath him, and she never complained about him not using a condom, about coming inside her, about being too quick. And she didn’t demand that he cuddle with her afterward and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. He had the sense to not fall asleep next to her.

She was perfect.

*   *   *

He’d nearly used up all the non-perishable food in the house eight days later when it happened. He was making love to her on the bed when he literally split her up the middle, thanks to decomposition. Her insides began pouring out, and he cried at her passing. She’d been so good to him, but he had to accept reality. He split her head with the machete to end her un-life, and he abandoned the house.

He was on the road days later when he met the live woman. She was disheveled, dirty, and tired. She seemed simultaneously relieved and nervous about finding him.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she said.

“Why would you say that?” he asked, incredulous.

“I’ve been escaping rape gangs for months,” she said. “Everywhere I go.”

“I’d never do that to a living woman,” he vowed, and she knew he was telling the truth.

*   *   *

They spent a month together in three houses, avoiding zombies and playing cards. It was a good friendship.

Then, one night, he was almost asleep when she crept into his room and slid into his bed. He came awake as he felt her warm, naked body pressed against him, and she kissed him in the dark.

When she pulled her lips away, she said, “I’m falling in love with you, Jim. I’m glad we’ve found each other. Please hold me.”

“Sure,” he said, but he knew the friendship was over, and only a miserable woman was in his future.

After he’d choked her to death, he tied her naked to the bed, found a can of hash, and settled back to wait for her to turn. She’d be his perfect woman soon enough, and he’d make love to her for a good week after her death.

But there would be no goddam cuddling, no chance of her screwing him over.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.