Love Between Trapezes

by Peaches Pleasant

Vivienne’s legs were spread wide, blood rushing to her head. The whip cracked and Damien laughed. “Okay, sweetheart. You can come down now. You’ve been a very good girl.” Artfully, Vivienne dismounted from the practice bar which she’d been hanging onto. “Goddamnit Damien, I don’t think I could have held myself upside for much longer with you licking my cunt like that.” He cracked the whip again, this time just grazing the side of her ass. “You are complaining because I eat your pussy too well?” ”Of course not, you know what I mean.” She walked over to him, pulling him in by his lapel, enjoying the feeling of fabric against skin. She unbuckled his belt and released his attention-starved erection. With a quick lick to the underside of his shaft, she walked back and sat on top of the practice bar. “Now you come here.” He obliged, entering her inch by inch, delicious torture. Vivienne wrapped her legs around Damien’s waist as his cock plunged all the way inside her, penetrating her soul. Damien grabbed her hand and held it high over her head as they kissed, finding a rhythm from their hips to their lips. They heard the lions roar as their cage was brought by the door of the practice room, on their way to the rings. He withdrew from her with a sigh. “Sorry,” he said, gently stroking Vivienne’s chest where the buttons of his shirt left a series of small, red indents. ”Don’t be, work has to come before pleasure some time. I know you’ll make me come plenty, later.” That was what Damien loved about Vivienne: her infinite patience, her genial understanding. Not to mention, of course, her voracious libido.

He gave her a last tap with the whip, almost gentle this time, and turned to exit the room to take his turn as the star of the Big Top. Vivienne smiled at his retreating figure. There was something about the way his coattails swung, the way those black pants hugged his ass. God, and the way he handled the whip. His grasp on the shaft, self-assured, erotic. She wondered if anybody else saw it that way. She saw the way the single, or at least unaccompanied, young mothers would smile at him after the show, directing their ample cleavage in his direction. It wasn’t jealousy that made her watch; not exactly. She knew sometimes, these women would come back to the tents long after the show was over and the rest of the audience had gone back to their safe homes, homes without wild animals or glitter or death-defying tricks. Such a pity, to be without. Sometimes she would climb up to her perch on the pretense of preparing for tomorrow’s show. But sometimes she would lower the rope down and watch him, giving women a private tour of the Big Top. It always started the same way; he would bring her center ring and have herstand on the ringmaster’s platform, gazing into the now-empty seats. If she was the right kind of woman, she would imagine all those eyes
on her, the power that comes with knowing everyone’s attention is on you. And her lids would lower softly as her chest swelled in a motion that was somewhere between masculine and orgasmic. Sometimes, of course, that moment didn’t happen. And then Damien would continue, courteously, but that would be all. But when it did, he would always wait for that gesture. He would noisily, making no pretense, step on the platform to join her, behind her. He would place the end of the whip in her hand, never letting go, while wrapping his other arm around her and, softly, grazing his lips along the nape of her neck. It never failed. Vivienne could feel herself dampening just thinking about it, as her left hand subconsciously raised to her chest. She rolled her nipples between her fingertips, pulling hard as she remembered the seductions she’d witnessed. But tonight he would be all hers. Tonight she might tell him that she knew. He’d be mad, at first, that she’d been spying, but he’d forgive her once he knew she liked it. Loved it, loved to watch him in that coat, watch him bring out the wildness in even the most docile looking suburbanite. Loved hearing these lambs cry out as he showed them how animals should fuck. Her hand lowered from her breast, slowly trailing down her belly and landing on her swollen clit. The way he looked taking them from behind. She knew how it must feel for them– like it did for her the first time with Damien– but to be able to see him in action was at least as good.

Tonight she wanted to pretend to be one of them, let Damien take an innocence she’d lost long before the circus. She had the outfit all picked out. She wanted to hang from her own trapeze and lower herself down on his cock, she wanted to cry out into the nothingness and hear the echoes of both their orgasms reverb throughout the tent. Two fingers from her other hand were tap-tap-tapping at the walnut shell inside her, and she knew she was close. She wanted to come before his act was over so she could meet him offstage, put her fingers in his mouth before she went on. She could hear the applause, listening to how much the crowd loved him. Almost as much as she did, maybe more sometimes. Maybe not surprisingly, this thought was the one that pushed her over the edge. As she peaked she heard a scream. Vivienne wasn’t sure if it was her own voice that had cried out just now until she heard a roar, different than the ones she was used to; this one was thirsty, menacing, The orgasm rolled and someone in the crowd cried out: “Holy Fuck!”

Fifteen Minutes

by Basia Dekleva

“Come on, harder. Fuck me hard.”

“Stop. Ehm, Jess, could we try that one again? Let’s remember the girl is just getting fucked by a big guy she kinda likes, alright?”

Jess rolled her eyes. She had had a bad day and now this. Dubbing porn. Dubbing fucking porn. “Fuck me”, she thought to herself.
When Sam told her about a job that would pay her rent she hadn’t expected this. But fair enough. She had a nice voice. She was good at talking. And dubbing porn certainly paid more than her last job at a language school.
And this was only her second day. It was bound to get better. Hopefully. At first she was apprehensive to work in such a small space with unknown guys shouting “Suck me hard”. But her usual partner turned out to be 40, gay, and utterly likable. And a very good actor. By the end of the first day, listening to the recordings you could have sworn he had got converted to heterosexuality by the power of porn. “Bless dicks, cunts, and tongues. Amen”, Jess thought.
But the porn. She didn’t even know where to start. Sleazy man, double the size of any of the guys she had ever fucked. And not in a good way. Blank pussies and over-sized tits staring at her from the screen. It was Barbie against Ken on steroids. All the time. It wasn’t fun to watch. She had heard about porn geared towards woman or whatever but she certainly wasn’t the one dubbing those movies.
She tried the second line once more, this time with a little bit more conviction. Mike, the sound engineer gave his OK and they continued.
The weeks passed and Jess grew accustomed to the job. She ooh-ed and aah-ed. Was one day a baroness riding a noble knight and the other a strict nun getting God’s absolution through the sanctity of the friar’s sperm.
Then one day she showed up to work and Martin, her gay dubbing partner, was gone. Turned out Martin was sick and on this movie she would work with Florian. After a brief introduction they started off but Jess had difficulties concentrating on the lines. Because Florian was not Martin. She guessed he was her age. Probably a student. Probably also temping. And she felt attracted to him. Brown, deep-set eyes, a genuine smile. What was not to like? And it was obvious that Florian wasn’t blind to Jess’s charms either. And so the hour flew by, the tension rising and a certain awkwardness filling the space between the two partners while they huffed and puffed into the microphones.
Oh, just like this, come on. Suck it. Oh yeah, lick the balls. Oh yeah, you like it when I put my fingers up your wet cunt, do you?
Oh yeah, come on boy. I want to feel your hard cock inside me. Ahhh…
You like this, yeah, come on. No none ever gonna say I can’t treat a girl the right way.
And so it went forth, Jess getting wetter and damper by the minute, trying to avert her eyes from Florian who was by now sporting an erection difficult to conceal.
Until Mike put an end it.
“Hey guys, let’s take a break, alright? Get something to drink or whatever. See you back in 15. I’m going out for a smoke.”
And so he strolled off, leaving the other two behind in the recording studio. There was an awkward silence now that Mike had left and Jess decided to break the ice with a typical excuse: “Sorry, just got to head to the loo real quick. Will be right back.” And no sooner had she finished her sentence had she already slipped past him.
She rushed off to the bathroom, took a piss, washed her hands and splashed some water into her hot face. She took a look at her watch. Thirteen minutes left. “What now?”, she thought to herself. She felt a weird knot in her tummy but decided to walk back to the room. Florian was leaning against a stool when she entered but immediately got up when he saw her. He cleared his throat. When she met his gaze it was like two trains colliding into each other head-on. She took a step back but then steadied herself. Twelve minutes left.
She parted her lips, his eyes still resting on her, hesitant for a moment but then asked in a small but firm voice, “Do you know how to treat a girl the right way?” Before she had finished her question she had already crossed the room, tugging lightly at his leather belt. Florian, agreeing to the game, replied, “You like it when I put my fingers up your wet cunt”. “Fuck me hard”, Jess whispered in a low voice while unbuckling his belt and reaching down for his hard cock.
They are the players, they know the script. But there’s been enough talk already. He lies down on his back and Jess mounts him, taking all of him in with her damp vagina. Thrusting herself back and forth. He reaches for her breasts and light sounds of pleasure come from her lips.
Jess glimpses at the watch. Six minutes left. She starts moving faster, arching her back, leaning forward to kiss him and then pulling back all while rubbing her pulsating clitoris with her left. She pushes harder against him…four minutes. Then a deep simultaneous groan comes from the two when Jess feels Florian coming insider her. She moans. But he has already flipped her over, spreading her legs and licking her damp pussy, sucking at her clitoris, teasing, harder. Until she comes as well. And a deep sound echos through the studio.
Two minutes left.
Mike comes back five minutes late. He asks, “You guys ready for some more dirty talking?”

And You Will Adore It: an erotic tale

By L.N.R.

Today I’m meeting him in an old office. I’ve been there before. White on off-white. A water cooler. A chair. Nothing unique or memorable. It’s the kind of place a man goes to hide. A place he can bring a nameless female to slip out of her black dress, lay across his cold, gray desk and wait.

“C’est jour de tempête, c’est jour de tempête, c’est jour de tempête…” This time it’s a poem by Julien Hommage. My master likes to remind people that he speaks four languages, one of them French. Usually poems make my stomach do little somersaults of embarrassment, but this is an order. “Memorize this for me,” his last e-mail said. “You will recite it on Wednesday in my office at 5 p.m. Mistakes will be punished.”

“Ton talon s’abat sur mon corps, frappe mon menton encore et encore.” My floor is almost done. Afternoon light illuminates the floor and I imagine cruel, heavy boots walking across it. “Ton talon s’abat…” I look at my phone, 4:17. I need to get dressed.
Sitting in the reception of his nearly empty office complex, I watch the nervous receptionist. She’s told me to go up the marble staircase several times but I am sitting, as commanded, on the left side of the couch, legs crossed, silent. I smile at her, keeping my face calm while my heart bangs out a very different story. The receptionist gets out her phone and stares at it intently.
Finally he appears at the top of the stairs, sees me and makes a quick gesture with his head. Shaking a little, I stand and try a confident walk, but I can’t control my knees. I stumble a bit on the marble stairs and his lips smile just enough that I can see his yellow, jagged teeth. We go up.

Continue reading…

Very Small Rooms

by Greg Baines

My first glimpse of Yu Ting, actually, was on a grainy web cam that was pointed at her as she squashed into the wall dressed in some black lacey fuck-me lingerie. She paned around the room she lived in and I saw her mum crumpled and asleep next to her.

Her house was forty one square metres in total and mine was about eighty but I did share with a French girl who didn’t believe in sex before marriage. But when she moved in I wasn’t in love with Yu Ting.

Yu Ting now ‘feels-close-enough-to-get closer-and-show-more-commitment’ (go to bed), but the French girl and her unemployed mother have forced us into public parks at odd hours hiding from people doing Taichi to grope and get our hands tangled in each other’s clothes and to avoid guys with uniforms and whistles roaming around killing pleasure.

Half of her thinks that I am, of course, some no-good-dirty-foreigner-who-will-fuck-anything-that-moves and say any ‘sweet-words’ to any girl to fuck her so when I told her I’d never heard of  “couples cafés” she slapped me and told me I was a rotten egg and I’d probably fucked many girls in them. Continue reading…

Appetisers and Aperitifs

by Mark Talacko

Have all our guests arrived?  inquired P’an Chin-lien.

Xochiquetzal and Kurukulla just arrived, making 29. I’m sure we can expect Aphrodite soon; the sea was seen churning and foaming off of Chong Ming.

Remember to seat Astarte and Ishtar at different tables. We don’t want a scene like at Luamereva’s last year in Cocody.

It was P’an’s turn to host la fêtes des déesses, an annual gathering of the world’s love, sex and fertility goddesses during which they replenished their powers by feasting upon the sexual energy of mortals. As goddess of brothels, promiscuity and general lasciviousness, P’an knew that nothing says sex better in Chinese than Shanghai.

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Eight Writers Rose to the Occasion for Shanghai Erotic Fiction

Dena Rash Guzman got cold Shanghai all hot and bothered.

On Thursday, February 17^th, HAL teamed up with That’s Shanghai and pleasure object creators Lelo for Shanghai Erotic Fiction, a delightful evening of erotic fiction at Glamour Bar on the bund.  Spirited revelers kept their lips wet on appropriately themed drink specials and free vodka shots passed around throughout the night.  Eight erotica readers tickled the passions and funny bones of the bulging crowd of nearly 200 listeners.  Lucky draws from Lelo and Glamour Bar from artist and event promoter Bree Harrison’s sexy box kept the audience enraptured between readings.  At the end of the night, three deserving authors strolled away with elegant pleasure objects from Lelo.  Sam Gaskin won audience favorite for his piece “No Sexceptions,” which proved that no barrier can stand between a man and the southern hemisphere of his lover’s boob.  Yeah, that’s what he did.  Coming all the way to the [Lady of the Evening] of the Orient from Sin City, Dena Rash Guzman’s rapport with the audience won her best performance with an excerpt from her piece “Ballad of a Chinese Paper Fan.”  Those of us wondering if a powerful tartan-wearing man of the Scottish Highlands could woo a lady of the East as well as he would a lady of the West who picked up the latest Harlequin romance at the super market were treated to Sam Childley’s answer in “A Scottish Lord in Shanghai,” “That’s Shanghai’s” choice for literary merit.   Thanks to all who came and to those who showed up for a great evening with eight very talented writers.

Join us for more great nights in March for Shanghai BARd Fight—a series of three lit events in bars around Shanghai as a part of Split Works’ JUE Festival.

Pictures and stories below…. Continue reading…

Accompaniment

by Joshua Tintner

I remember building spaceships, guns, and cars as a child.  Chunky things, they all ended up resembling 1980s-era Volvos—but then you can’t expect Frank Gehry curves when you give a kid Legos.  Maybe that’s why I never made Lego buildings.  Erecting a building with Legos isn’t creating, it’s stacking. Turning boxes into bigger boxes.

Bat an eye, blink away 20-odd years, and I now live in one of those boxes-made-of-boxes.  I’m walking into one of these sad behemoths, shuffling past the teenage security guard who thinks he’s a soldier.  Above me, rows of windows rise like stale layer cakes into Shanghai’s “foggy” skies.

My girlfriend and I scamper into Building-12, one of its cavities being our current apartment.  Good timing, as we are only slightly damp from the famous Shanghai Autumn drizzle.  We’re both tired from the office, but I still notice a naughty smirk rising on my girlfriend’s glossy lips.

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