The Green Room, a Story

A theatrical interlude... The result of another Alison Tyler flasher contest -- this piece is roughly 1,000 words -- where inspiration was an artistic rendering (above) by Mr. Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes. This tale is also the companion piece to Fucking Green, a lustfully verdant palate-cleanser hosted by the most hospitable Donna George Storey. Ticket, please!

The Green Room
© 2008-2009 by EllaRegina
I've always been a sucker for Broadway. Some productions appeal to me more than others and so it was with WICKED. As it happens I also had a crush on the woman who played the Wicked Witch of the West, otherwise known as Elphaba. I didn't know her actual name—despite my devotion to show business I never look at a PLAYBILL—but it was love at first sight. I simply had to have her.

I went to matinées almost every week. I attended nightly performances on a regular basis. I hung around stage door and finally got her autograph. She wasn't green then, except for her eyes. The long nose was off but she was no less dazzling. And, when she signed my PLAYBILL with her green Sharpie and looked straight into my baby blues, I knew and she knew it, too.

The next week there I was, Thursday night, ten to eight, center Orchestra, ninth row: just perfect. When Elphaba came on stage she looked directly at me and I nearly lost it. According to legend, after the Beatles performed on the Ed Sullivan Show the audience seats required re-upholstering, so copious was the collective female effluvia. I was producing quite a stream myself, leaving behind a sopping bouquet for whomever would be sweeping up gum wrappers post-curtain.

Right before intermission Elphaba gave me a special wink. I knew what it meant and I knew what to do. It was going to be a longer break than usual that night. Something had gone wrong with a gobo light filter—green of course—and they needed extra time for its repair. I snuck backstage. I knew this theater like a blind man knows how many paces take him to the bus stop. I found Elphaba in her Green Room, sitting on the make-up counter, pointy boots swinging, drinking Coca-Cola from a bottle, the old-fashioned kind, made with thick green glass. Everything in the room was green: the walls, the daybed, the flowers, stuffed animals from fans... And, Elphaba.

She motioned for me to come closer. We would never exchange a word. I knew she was capable of speech—and of singing!—but we communicated in other ways. She started taking off her costume. Even with her nose she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She threw her black dress on a green vinyl armchair and undid several more layers until she got to her flesh—all of it green. I had read somewhere that she was a Method actress and liked to stay in character while costumed. She demanded the full body coat of green, though most of it would not be visible on stage. She was regal, like the Statue of Liberty, only naked and in a different hue—more of an emerald, like her eyes. She even dyed her pubic hair for the role. Never was there a more dedicated actress.

Elphaba gestured that I disrobe and I did. When my clothes were off, none of them the proper color, she put her soft green-nailed fingers over my eyes and gently slid the lids shut.

It felt funny at first—like having your teeth cleaned with that mini-sandblaster—the paint sprayer going over my body. Elphaba was good at this. She did it every day. And it was easier airbrushing someone else. I dried quickly and was all hers. She drew me close, her green lips meeting mine in a verdant kiss. It took a few seconds to adjust to the nose—it was all in the angle. If I'd had pants on I would have peed in them. I had to lie down, it was far too much for me. I was shaking.

Elphaba sensed my nervousness and led me to the daybed where we lay down together. We continued kissing, our red tongues the only things out of order color-wise, though with red being the complement to green maybe not. I wrapped my green legs around hers. She took me in her green arms. She smelled like a Granny Smith apple, like grass, like basil, like cucumber, certainly nothing like a witch. The paint tasted of kiwi, of springtime, of lime all-day suckers. I couldn't stop licking her. She couldn't stop licking me. Fortunately the paint was saliva-proof; she needed to be onstage in a half-hour.

Elphaba's face found its way to my pussy, or the other way around, and there I was, sitting in a Green Room at the Gershwin Theatre on West 51st Street in New York City, with a green nose fucking the life out of my green-sprayed pussy. She was talented, Elphaba was. The best lover a girl could have. It was a shame she had to take the nose off each night—it had magical powers—but I bet she had other tricks. I came on her face, my juices making the paint glossy. Then I put my head between her green legs and spread them wide, putting my tongue inside her, finding the one place that made her wiggle. With the help of a few fingers I located it. Perhaps they named the G-spot after the color green. I made her come with my hands and mouth and she arched her green body in delight. It's funny—in the theater world wearing green is considered bad luck, but for Elphaba and me it was anything but. The clock seemed not to be ticking but I knew that it was. Soon there was a knock on the door and an announcement: curtain going up in ten minutes.

We put ourselves back together. I hoped I would see Elphaba again, like this, but who could be sure? I know I'm not her only fan. In five minutes I was reinstalled atop my damp seat, not concerned in the least that everyone was staring at me and probably wondering why I was green. I bet they could figure it out. But I didn't care who knew. And shortly, after the orchestra tuned up for the final time, the curtain rose and there was my green girl, looking me straight in the eye. She smiled—her emerald skin framing luminous white teeth; a marquee lighting up the theater—and I knew we were the luckiest girls on Broadway.

Copyright 2008-2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

John Lennon's Thighs

John Lennon's Thighs
© 2009 by EllaRegina
It was the way they moved—legs spread apart, pulsing steadily, strongly—bouncing with the beat. She could imagine them through his narrow black pants, musculature toned and tense, well-shaped—almost girlishly-curved but manly without a question—Paul and George undeveloped by comparison. And John seemed to know what he was singing about—And when I touch you I feel happy inside... She wanted him to touch her. She wanted to make him happy inside—those thighs gripping her like a nutcracker as she leaned her mouth towards the microphone pointed at her from his groin. He could make her sing—and she would make his heart go boom.

On an index card she noted the exact timings where John's thighs appeared throughout the YouTube clip—including a solid twenty-one seconds during "I Saw Her Standing There," coming in strong and steady from 1:13; and twenty-four seconds at the final strums, from 2:36. In motion again beginning "I Want to Hold Your Hand"—especially nice between 4:56 and 5:11.

She played those bits repeatedly, the other Beatles non-existent—Ringo atop his circular platform, Paul, George—extraneous. John Lennon's thighs, over and again, just for her. And, if she concentrated hard enough, she thought, she could find the secret YouTube button to click: after shaking Ed Sullivan's hand, John would emerge from the screen—alive once more—and lie down with her on the living room couch, his thighs enveloping, pulsating. He would still be in out-of-focus black-and-white but she would not care—and she would let him be her man.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Manual Transmissions, a Story

The sidecar companion piece to Rear View Auto Show. I'm on a roll, rolling down the highway...

Manual Transmissions
© 2008 by EllaRegina
I

While he was teaching me how to drive a stick I would grasp Alberto's flaccid cock in bed at night and review the day's lesson, using his flesh to move from first into second gear, then to third, idling in neutral, by which time he was usually hard and would fuck me well beyond fifth gear.

II

Sometimes, when Alberto was behind the wheel, I would reach across and try to pull his cock out and tease it as I had in bed. Were he not such an excellent driver we would have been killed several times, or arrested by the Carabinieri. Once, on the Autostrada del Sole, I leaned over Alberto's busy hand, coaxed his fat prick out of his baggy pants, put it between my lips and sucked him until he had to pull onto the shoulder and stop the car. If my skull had a blowhole Alberto would have spouted some Abstract Expressionism onto the soft ceiling upholstery.

III

The round-knobbed black leather stick shift on Alberto's Fiat was so inviting that I slid it into myself—once I'd sufficiently mastered the gears—using my pussy to shift up or down while Alberto manned the wheel and pedals. I was very happy to relinquish the clutch. We somehow managed this vehicular collaboration and tooled around most of Tuscany one summer quite successfully in this fashion—a shaft of leather and metal rammed inside me as I rode shotgun—my pussy driving the car. It was a great feeling, knowing how to work a stick.


Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Rear View Auto Show, a Story

The result of another 250-word story contest presented by Alison Tyler: "Auto Erotica." No, not that kind of auto-erotica, but the sort involving sex and a vehicle. She invited us to start revving our engines and so I did, even though the particular automobile I describe is not moving. That would have been very dangerous.

Fasten your seatbelts for a nasty ride...

Rear View Auto Show
© 2008 by EllaRegina
Just the idea of it turned me on. Roger, too.

Me kneeling in our car trunk, naked from the waist down, ass and pussy hanging out, bungee cords holding the lid closed, hiding the rest of my body. We'd been driving cross-country when I thought of it, taking scenic-view pauses in designated highway stops.

Lots of semis were parked, especially at night, brawny Marlboro men in the front cabs trying to catch my eye. Furtive movements blurred below their windows; it was monkey-spank time for these lonely roadsters. So, I figured, why not help them out?

Roger suggested doing it Candid Camera-style. He'd hide within eyeshot until a curious trucker bounced from loaded rig to investigate. Then Roger would appear, make sure the driver wasn't Charles Manson, and hand over a condom.

"Yeah, that's my woman in there. She digs the idea of being fucked by a stranger. Go for it, dude."

He'd discreetly move out of range, letting the man have at me.

There was a string of them one night—Roger would make an ace pimp—and several of those latex-covered cocks made me scream and reel inside my little carpeted space, crowbar within reach should anybody get out of hand, but nobody did.

Sometimes a sweaty head poked in asking my name. I didn't want a name. I was just an ass and pussy getting fucked in the trunk of a car at a rest stop along the Interstate. The ultimate mooning—shining orb and telescopes, anonymous all.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

LINES, a Story

I rubbed my shiny genie lamp mid-May and who should pop out in a fragrant wisp but my inspiration, Alison Tyler, with another 250-word story contest I'm hallucinating was originally called "All About Ink." At any rate, it was being held in honor of that particular liquid because Alison had just launched a blog dedicated to tattoos.

She led us to the diving boards: "Do with ink what you will. Tattoo you? Sure. Dip a quill pen in it? Fine," she cooed. And so, peering down into the deep dark possibility pool, I jumped...


LINES
© 2009 by EllaRegina
Eve had beautiful lines. She enjoyed showing them off. Mornings she visited each reporter's desk, loaded tray slung around neck—the office version of cigarette and candy girls pacing movie aisles at intermission, hawking their wares.

Eve was a filler girl. Her tray held ink bottles, dangerously-pointed unmolested nibs, typewriter ribbon spools, sharpened pencils, even packs of Lucky Strikes. She filled my inkwell just so—bending over the desk, behind slightly perked upward like a bunnytail, ample breasts oscillating above my writing pad. I could smell the perfumed handkerchief wedged between those glorious pendulums, see the minute rose tattoo anchoring Eve's nape to heart-stopping body. I had to have her.

I followed Eve to the supply closet. Her posterior twisted with her gait—angling right-left like windshield wipers—stocking seams running heels-skyward, directionals to Eve's fine rump. Always straight, those lines, perfect as the rest of her.



She locked the door behind us. A chair stood amid the supplies—I sat. Eve dove across my thighs, facedown, her lines' destination wiggling hello.

"Spank me."

My hand lifted and descended, slapping tweed.

"Harder."

I struck more forcefully.

"I need to feel it," she said, unzipping her skirt, slipping it floorward, leaving a view: pink satin tap-pants, garter belt ribbons securing stockings, unwavering seam lines.

I spanked repeatedly, producing high-decibel squeals.

"They might hear us, Eve. Quiet, or I'll have to fill your mouth with that handkerchief."

In my increased enthusiasm I rolled down underpants, garter belt, stockings, exposing porcelain skin—heels to mid-thigh tattooed with straight brown lines.


Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

HIGH FIDELITY, a Story

In the previous post I referred to The Dark Room, my entry in the recent 250-word story contest held by the lovely Alison Tyler. Our instructions were to write about sound and hearing, or lack thereof. Feeling like I'd missed the mark with that piece -- which seemed focussed on a different sense -- I assembled another 250 words to make up for it. Enjoy! No earplugs necessary:

HIGH FIDELITY
© 2009 by EllaRegina
I couldn't have invented better upstairs neighbours. No television, loudspeakers, not even a radio. The previous occupants' sonorous electronic lifestyle had regularly bombarded my senses, so I was quite relieved at a change of tenancy.

They kept apart, not speaking to others in the building, smiling at me whenever our eyes aligned; walking arm-in-arm, both nattily dressed, trailing plumes of hypnotic scents. I envisioned them artists from some exotic land.

She was a cluster of staccato taps, a path over my head -- likely travelled wearing sexy heels -- traversing my sitting room ceiling, an invisible moving dotted line. His full frame lumbered through their flat with a distinctively masculine gait. Normally, such aural evidence of human ambulation would bother me but with them it did not, given the other sounds they provided...

I most appreciated their proximity at night, abetted by open summer windows. She moaned fifteen feet above in a bedroom mirroring my own, cooing like a pigeon in a beguiling indecipherable sing-song. His outbursts were deep and guttural, synced to her sonic erotic dance; their rhythms parallel, complementary. A hand met flesh in resounding slaps; I imagined his palm on her nicely rounded behind. She'd whimper following each blow. Words were never used; their language seemed purely physical.

Months passed before I first encountered them beyond our building. They sat outside the cafe, each gesturing in a fast-signalled lexicon of fingers, something between a puppetless puppet show and how the ancient black-clad women crossed themselves in church.



Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Alison Tyler Interview & The Dark Room, a Story

Writer/editor/publisher/contest-runner favolosa, Alison Tyler, has done it again! This time with a challenge for us to write a 250-word story about the senses, specifically sound and hearing or the absence thereof. I somehow slid into Home and Alison wanted to interview me for her most exclusive Trollop Salon. She has titled this journalistic inquiry Elephants, Microsurgery and Guilt, which is beyond utterly perfect! Please head over there and check out our conversation.

For your psychological preparation, here is the interview-prompting story, "The Dark Room."



© 2009 by EllaRegina
It was like a game. I imagine that's why he responded. In truth, I didn't want him to see me.

The hotel room resembled a ship's cabin: portholes, blackout shades rendering them lightless; a bed topped by a floating white duvet cloud; dark, wood-paneled walls. I memorized the scene before extinguishing the lamps, sliding naked into cold sheets -- the linens pulled over my head -- waiting for the door scratch of his keycard.

As agreed, the least amount of hallway fluorescence was to spill into the room upon entering.

Something crackled and was placed on the floor. An electric fabric friction accompanied his unclothing.

We wouldn't speak, at least not with words. He rolled in next to me, his breathing audible and excited. We only kissed at first, belly-to-belly, arms around each other, a perfect fit. His tongue enwrapped mine, his erection a baton between us, as if it were a baguette kept piping hot by our holding it in this fashion; resultant emissions loud, primal and uninhibited. His cock filled me as we screeched, yelped and growled. When we came it was as if we'd done this countless times before.

He slipped away to the bathroom and in that moment forgot the rule of darkness. A tile-framed window illuminated a handsome face, smiling at me, happy with the view. Then, as I heard his stream meet porcelain and water I saw it, against the opposite wall: a cane -- black, white and red -- folded into a W.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

A little head & a swallow. A palate cleanser...

A little head from: Kiosk

Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery

Toot toot! Welcome to my stop on the Blow Hard 2009 Blog Tour. Only, since I'm rather old-fashioned, let's pretend we're travelling by train. I think it's much more romantic. And imagine the kind of locomotive from days of yore, like the 2oth Century Limited in "North by Northwest."

What are we doing here, you might be asking? Well, Sommer Marsden started it! All because of one woman's remark. But, look what happened! The happy little suckers came out of the closet and the kingdom rejoiced! And people connoitered -- even reconnoitered -- and there was dialogue, discourse, amusement, food for thought. Most important were the words and the words and the words and the words and the words and the words, even! My, there were so many of them, with a cascade of vocabulary still to come! And there shall be prizes! The more frequently you comment the greater your chance of winning, like the Lottery!

BTW: Comments are now open! The doctor is in! Anyone stopping by before but too shy to speak, you are most welcome for a return visit. Come again, comment often, in fact!

So, here we are, just past our journey's midpoint, and I thought it was time for a palate cleanser. I'd like to offer you a medley of distractions, in case you get bored. I have music, singing, pictures of funny things, videos. We go down in elevators, too! (My personal suggestion is to play the YouTube fare simultaneously, for a Babel Tower experience.)

As for today's theme I hope the title of my post gives you a tip: I'd like to guide you towards observing two senses that interest me very much, especially when it comes to sex: taste and smell -- they're intertwined. Here are two multiple choice polls, which I am leaving open forever. [Please select any and all choices in each poll before you click 'vote' -- repeat votes won't work; you only get one chance. So if, say, five options apply to you then check them and pull that voting lever!]. I'd love for you to participate! Remember, once you draw the curtain closed behind you nobody but you and your conscience will know how your vote was cast. Not even me.

My goal is that these questions and answers, besides possibly making you laugh, provoke further research and development behind the virtual curtain, in my comments section. Feel free to join in and contribute, even if you're new to these parts. You don't have to register or pay dues and can even be anonymous or naked, or both!





To add grist to the proverbial mill, here is a provocative article to start you off, and a product that claims to make semen taste its sweetest. Otherwise, according to the manufacturer, you'll need to purchase and/or digest a pineapple plantation. In a bit of a coinkidink, Sommer herself posted about taste yesterday, with a lovely compendium of information she received from Jeremy Edwards. I'm repeating it not to copycat but because it incidentally relates to my topic for today's stop. Also, there will be a quiz later. (Just kidding.) I thought it would add more stimulation to our discussion, as if we needed any.

To be honest, I feel like somewhat of a Fellatio Fraud. I realised I only write about it in spurts, no pun intended. So, last night I penned a little piece from Memory Lane. It's all true. Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent. It's not completely about fellatio, either, but it's a kind of penis portrait study, a still life. Well, yes and no... Please enjoy this page from my diary. There's been so much good writing on this Blow Hard Blog Tour that it humbles me. And, most of the preceding Tour Guides tend to write about things based in reality, or about what I call "innerings." I generally do not. One foot is always somewhere else (not sure where that is but it's not here). Oh, there's also a snippet of a piece I wrote about smell. It follows the illustration of swallow heads. At any rate, there's lots to keep your attention. The real show is the gabfest behind the scenes, in the back room, i.e. the comments area.

So, let us step into the Time Machine, shall we?

SUCKING A.

© 2009 by EllaRegina
Once upon a time, long long ago, when people still had pubic hair, I knew a beautiful man in a country bounteous with attractive folk whose names had many vowels. He taught me things. He showed me things. He had a lovely thick snake between his legs with a branch of veins and I found that I could easily charm it, and make it expand like an accordion, sometimes just by being in the same room.

The snake cried long thin tears, clear rice noodles. Once I went away to a distant land and the beautiful man told me that while I was gone he thought of me. He recounted how he had stood one August afternoon on the Via Whatever, and as my image filled his head, so his snake filled and started to cry its fishing line noodle tear downwards, where it met the sidewalk from inside his baggy shorts. His underwear, if he wore any, was not tight fitting.

He could do nothing, he said, but stand there thinking of me, as if he were playing a game of Statue. He was stuck to the sidewalk, a strand of Spiderman's web holding him in place, going from point A to point B like a string.

A woman passed by at that very moment, he reported, and saw the clear noodle's shine -- a ray of light from his clothing, gluing him in his sneakers to the warm cement -- and gave him a very dirty look. But he was paralysed.

I took his snake inside my mouth and it performed tricks, ultimately filling my stomach with slippery warm noodles. Sometimes I would stroke him just so I could watch the spouting of Morse Code bursts. I knew they spelled something. It contained a Marconi message expressly for me. That was certain.

When he was as deep inside me as my small mouth would permit, my nose in the forestation of his curly brown, I breathed in his mix of coffee and Jack Daniels, of oceans away, the briny deep, swimming pools, bleach and sun, blended with metal and funghi porcini mushrooms grown in the pitch of wooded shadows -- collectively a dark consuming spice. I wanted to eat him. Surf and Turf.

I was always asking questions -- sometimes about words, expressions, their origins. I had not seen many snakes by that point. His was the only one a carnival member had let me see the most of and for such an extended time. I really got to know that serpent. One day after charming its head and smooth snakeskin with my too-small mouth I asked the beautiful man: "Why do they call it giving head?" In my mind there were just three possible answers; I posed each one in the form of a question:

1. Is it because the head of your snake is involved?

2. Is it because my head is the active participant?

3. Is it because your overflow resembles the head of a glass of beer, as it's filled from a spigot?

He laughed and said "All of the above."

And then we charmed each other some more.

Often, while he was still asleep, especially in the morning when his snake turned into a sturdy sapling, I would creep underneath the blanket or slither my way up his body between steamy skin and the long nightshirt he wore, which enveloped us like a hobo pouch, until I found the dormant snake, curled slightly like a snail. I would suck it slowly, a thumb without a bone, until it grew one, coming alive in my mouth and, in the process, awakening the slumbering man to whom it was attached.

I called these sessions Breakfast in Bed. They were all Self-Service, not Room. No need to call out. And you knew it would be a good day when it started with liquid protein, fortified and filling, delivered piping hot from a dependable snake.


Image: New York Public Library Digital Gallery

Here is a snippet about smell, from a shorty I wrote for one of Alison Tyler's wonderful short-short-short story contests. My piece was called Around the World and it had three parts. This section took place in Roma:

Around the World

© 2008 by EllaRegina

We come to Rome after an extended period in a soulless Northern European country. The difference between the two places is palpable, literally. All one has to do is clamber onto the early Monday #44 bus ascending the Gianicolo hill in late July -- no air-conditioning, everyone perspiring. Women don't shave under their arms. Americans are trained to abhor this, as well as any corporal odor, but luckily my boyfriend and I are not most Americans. The #44 smells like sex on wheels and we are in olfactory heaven.

He turns to me and says "You can tell who just got fucked this morning," and I agree. The other thing: you know that everyone on the bus has a clean set of genitals; Italians are meticulous about bidet use. Every ass, pussy, cock and ball is fresh -- ready to be had and enjoyed At Any Moment. Benvenuti in Italia! We arrive at his apartment and are fucking like dogs as soon as our shoes reach the entryway floor tiles, luggage dropped, the keys still lodged and swaying in the half-open door.












GOING DOWN AROUND THE WORLD:






ALERT: If you listen closely a man says one must
swallow to alleviate any discomfort while going down.

Please disembark this love train at the next village, where our Tour Guide, the delightful Marina St. Clare, will take you by the hand and carry your bags.

Here is the entire lineup, including who, um, came before, should you need to bone up! (The links go directly to the Tour posts; ditto re the Tour Guides after me. You'll be taken right to their offerings, as soon as I have the respective posts' URLs.)

March 31st: Sommer Marsden
April 1: Alison Tyler
April 2: Dakota Rebel
April 3: Erobintica
April 4: Cora Zane
April 5: Heidi Champa
April 6: EllaRegina (Me! You're already here.)
April 7: Marina St. Clare
April 8: Emerald
April 9: Kristina Wright
April 10: Isabel Kerr
April 11: Neve Black
April 12: Surprise Mystery Guest #1!
April 13: Surprise Mystery Guest #2!

Erection, set. THE EMPIRE STATE, BUILDING; a Story

(IMAGE NOT ACTUAL SIZE)
Idea magician Alison Tyler did it again this week with another powerhouse mind-bending short-short-story contest. This time the subject was masturbation, in 250 words, from the opposite gender's point-of-view. As it happens, I've always wondered what it would be like to have a penis (shut up, Sigmund!) and now I can happily report that it was just fine! I only wish we'd been allotted more words -- I had so many other ideas of what I could do with this handy new piece of equipment!

I came up (oops!) with the following:

THE EMPIRE STATE, BUILDING
© 2009 by EllaRegina
On my back, left eye shut, I align my hard cock with the Empire State Building -- my bedroom's eastern view -- until its antenna is a needle rising from my prick's eye -- a fleshy hypodermic, ready to inject.

The window in the opposite wall overlooks an apartment building, the nearest room close enough to jump into, were I Spiderman. Every night it presents a beautifully framed scene: a pale girl, face down on an unmade bed, naked except for knee-highs and pink stilettoed Mary Janes, ankles bound together with an ever-changing inventory of unassuming objects: a pair of shoelaces today, a scarf or dishtowel tomorrow. Her hands are beneath her, rump bobbing in air like a cork riding swiftly downstream. She hides her face under a pillow. I coordinate my strokes to match her behind's rhythmic levitations, as if posting atop a galloping horse.

My hand glides up and down my cock as her plump moons rise and fall. I grip myself, holding the Empire State Building. I wonder if the tourists on the Observation Deck know they are part of my erotic strategy. They've waited hours on line to unwittingly appear within the crosshair sight of my warm gun.

My balls ache. A feverish trail bubbles forward from the base of my spine. The Empire State Building turns into a geyser, a firework display. On the landmark's 86th floor dozens of Japanese visitors wearing I [HEART] NY buttons open black umbrellas simultaneously. I reach for a tissue.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Hot Sheets

My generous friend Donna George Storey is not only a gifted short-story writer, novelist, journalist, gourmet, and columnist; she now sports a hotelier's hat (whatever that looks like). For the past few weeks she has been hosting a literary orgy, Suite 69, at her blog Sex, Food, and Writing, wherein writers' hotel stories are showcased.

I'm the guest there today in Welcome to Hotel Guacamole, with a short-story originally crafted for one of the inimitable Alison Tyler's writing exercises/contests. I thought this 517-word offering, Fucking Green, would be particularly appropriate for Suite 69 as it has to do with sex, food...and hotel sheets.

Thank you so much, Donna, for letting me trample your corridors and peek into the other rooms. There's so much to see! Please let me know when you want the skeleton key back. I hope it's not anytime soon. I'm kind of busy...looking...and trying out all the beds like Goldilocks.

Speaking of green and sheets, a theme seems to be emerging: Alison Tyler just inaugurated a new online hot spot, The Boudoir Blog, where the bed is always the main character. Here's mine.

Enjoy your rolls in my hay!

PS: Don't sit in this postcard's foreground chair. It's reserved for Charlie Brown.

Penis Pencil Tops Beige | E-I-E-I-O, a Story

I love Google Alerts. I use them all the time to keep track of different things, including Internet Erotica Thievery. This happens more frequently than one might think, if one thinks about this topic at all. I usually make alerts for a random selection of sentences within a particular posted story of mine, whether here or on another authorized site. In this way I find out when stories, in some shape or form, are being used without permission -- invariably on a porn site that has, of course, a fake untraceable address overseas, usually in China. Once I got on the telephone and woke up some poor guy in the Czech Republic. He got rid of the scofflaw but quick. Mostly it's like tracking homing pigeons but I gave up stamp collecting and this keeps me busy and off the streets in my downtime.

Often, the Google Alert will direct me to a website that has nothing to do with anything but has picked up on some word within my selected text and has subsequently loaded paragraphs of my writing as content on that site. The work seems to be done by a combination of robot and human being because by the time I get to the scene of the supposed crime any traces of my words are gone.

Today's Google Alert made me laugh. It tracked this phrase:

"He had moved to the bed and was sitting there with his gigantic penis"

These 14 words can be found within E-I-E-I-O, a 580-word shorty I wrote in September for an online contest given by the lovely and eternally inspirational Alison Tyler. But today, with its clickable header: Penis Pencil Tops Beige (penis, tops, and beige appear in E-I-E-I-O), the Google Alert led me to a page full of interesting merchandise -- fun spring term back-to-school supplies for the kids! Handy when your erasers are rubbed down -- this happens to me a lot. But, seriously, a dozen for $2.73! "Work great as taste testers at parties." I think they look like pig feet (or snouts), which, in fact, is very apropos regarding E-I-E-I-O.

The original inspiration, presented to us by Alison: this drawing by the wonderful artist and creator of Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes. He ceased activity for a while so maybe this was Google's special "post it" signal to me that he is back in business and that I needed to post another story. Thanks again to Alison Tyler and Mr. Naked Chicks on Post-it Notes and thank you, Google, for the Freudian nudge!

E-I-E-I-O
© 2008 by EllaRegina
It was like Strip Poker except there were no cards or chips. W. and I, on the sofa, giving each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation even though we were both very much alive. W. made me dizzy. He could make me come just by kissing. I had to sit, or better, lie down, such was the vertigo he gave me. Once he kissed me against a wooden gate and if the structure had not been there, neither would I have been for long, turned to vapor or ash and swirled in the wind, a confetti scattering of desire. So, to kiss W. I needed architecture, preferably the interior variety.

So, the sofa. Green velvet, the kind you buy for the rest of your life. I tried not to think of how many kisses, besides ours, had been exchanged there. It was not healthy to dwell on the past lives of furniture. W. and I had a game. Whenever either of us was close to coming we had to make an animal noise and take off a piece of our clothing. It was easy with W. Soon I was mooing. He laughed and pointed to my short skirt. Off it came, W. pleased that I'd worn no underpants. We resumed our game and he barked. I undid his fly and his trousers flew out the window, disembodied and running, like in a cartoon. W. put his serpent tongue as far as it would go into my mouth. He brought me to the brink again and I whinnied. My garter belt. Our lips together once more and I made him crow. His shirt. Then W. on top of me in gray tank undershirt and gray thermal underwear, his full weight -- twice my own -- pinning me like a butterfly in a specimen case, his cock unquestionably aimed at its target. Before long I was meowing. I pulled my black cashmere sweater over my head.

We had to pause. I needed air. I walked around W.'s bedroom in what was left of my outfit -- a crinkly black silk camisole, its straps falling down, grey thigh-high sheer stockings with black-ribboned bands like chokers at their tops, red patent leather high-heeled pumps. W. liked me to keep those on, no matter what else came off. I also wore a feathered cap, easier to imagine than describe. Its thin elastic string hooked under my chin, something à la Marlene Dietrich although I probably looked more like a circus monkey. If W. played an organ grinder we'd be all set. I paced the room surrounded by beige 1950s horizontally-striped wallpaper. He had moved to the bed and was sitting there with his gigantic penis, the biggest I'd ever seen. It needed its own building. W. enjoyed watching me perambulate before him, half dressed, especially when the combination of what I was wearing was the result of his command.

He pulled me onto the bed. I'd had enough air. His mouth was on mine again and his endless legs held me like a nutcracker. After a few shared breaths he growled and I dug my stilettos into his thighs. The long underwear landed on his wood floor. Then my turn with a squawk (the camisole) and his with a howl (the gray undershirt). We were left with just socks (W.) and stockings and pumps (me). It was at this point that we could travel beyond the tantric barnyard and the second part of the game would begin.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

MONKEYBOARD BUSINESS, a Story

Eternal muse Alison Tyler had another contest the other day, where she asked people to write a 250-word piece "that deals with writing." Those were our only instructions, should we choose to accept them. I did. Here is what I came up with. I "colorfied" it, for extra fun:

MONKEYBOARD BUSINESS
© 2009 by EllaRegina
It happened nightly, while Kay slept. The keyboard, dormant after the final mouse click, reanimated itself in the darkness of her writing room.

It was an orgy of letter-play. Q generally instigated, with his rotund belly and permanent right-leaning dangle. He'd pop off his metal spoke and chase down a tight " or = on the far side of the beige plastic, trying to wedge his tilted appendage wherever he could.

* desired a licking -- U was a good bet for that unless it was too busy being fucked by I, or pegged by T. W was very popular with keys that hadn't been breastfed. Ditto <, >, and ^ (who spoke foreign languages and was often in the company of ~ and `, snobs all). V and Y had many suitors. Alas, poor . was universally ignored, except by those keys having a particular fetish.

X, forever a size queen, alternated between / and \. ! was enthusiastic about trying new positions; ? also experimental. 6 and 9 went at it regularly, not quite knowing what else to do with themselves. S hung with m, control overseeing their activities. O and 0 sought penetration and nothing but, by any available letter -- each felt so different; one could not compare R to E nor Z to G... & masturbated.

And every morning @ 8, after delete and escape depressed themselves, Kay returned to the keyboard -- sitting inert just as she'd left it, ready for her daily thousand words.

Copyright 2009 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

MOTEL SEX

Well, Alison Tyler is at it again as muse to many, including, as always, me. She has a new contest running -- polls open until Friday -- on the theme of "Motel Sex," a tale told in 250 words.

I had a story there but withdrew it. Why? Well, it's hard to explain; if you've ever played Scrabble with me -- when I was eleven -- you might understand. Anyway, you can read my 250 words here, they're just not part of the competition. But do go over to Alison's blog and cast your vote for whichever of the 14 rooms -- I mean stories -- you like best. And don't vote for the deleted story there, obviously mine. You're wasting your vote as it won't count; please give it to a genuine contestant.

Here's my erstwhile entry. You might want to hose down in the cheap stall shower after reading it. It's especially soiling. The video is actually something I serendipitously found on YouTube after my story was already written and submitted. It's practically a virtual illustration! Enjoy:

"We'll Leave the Light on For Ya!"
© 2008 by EllaRegina
There were perks to dating a forensic detective. One was the Ultraviolet Semen Detection Light.

Dexter only fucked in the sleaziest places and part of his foreplay routine involved turning on the light. Dark rooms -- synthetic drapes drawn, Route 1 beyond, flammable floral bedspreads neatly arranged -- were transformed into Abstract Expressionist walk-in paintings with the flick of a switch. The device also located untainted trysting spots; clean sheets were usually a good bet.

Dexter liked to figure out, Rorschach test-style, exactly what had occurred to create the Jackson Pollock studies. "Man, some guy just sat at the edge of this bed and jerked off ten times while watching CNN." Or "They were on top of the spread, he was fucking her doggy style, then he pulled out and they rolled around in his stuff. Look, you can see scissor kicks and a palm print!" He was always right. What resembled an afternoon of kindergarten fingerpainting to me presented an encyclopedia of sex acts to Dexter. The best discovery was a headboard: MIKE spelled out in giant block letters. That must have been written by hand, literally. No man could have such control of his flooding pen.

We were tidy, never adding to the exhibition. I kept Dexter's ultraviolet juice inside me -- in my mouth, my cunt, my ass, my hair. Maybe some of it got onto the pillowcases but we always stripped the bed for housekeeping. Who knows, maybe they had an Ultraviolet Semen Detection Light, too.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

In situ on YouTube -- the rancid sing-song melody purses my lips
but the YouTubers' comments are total high class:
Slide your card key in the door and enter.

DOLLY, a "Broken" Story

Alison Tyler had another contest the other day where she asked writers to expound on the concept of broken in 250 words. I came up with this:


© 2008 by EllaRegina
At college Dolly understood that something was amiss. While glimpsing bolder girls parading naked around the dorm bathroom, Dolly realized she had nothing between her legs. No hair, no lips: just a fleshy mound with a tiny grommet from which urine flowed. The other girls had sprouted curious flowers there—petalled flora releasing exotic fragrances.

Before Thanksgiving Dolly went on her first date with a nice boy named Arthur. They kissed. He put his tongue inside her mouth. Dolly liked that. Arthur touched body parts even her doctor had never visited. Eventually his hand found itself atop Dolly's hillock.

"That's a vacant lot, Arthur. No grass. No furrow." She pulled her daisy-print underpants down to show him exactly what it was that she did not possess.

"Oh, my!" he exclaimed. "Well, isn't that ducky! Never mind, Dolly. You've lots to offer, and it's better this way—no worries about babies."

Arthur taught Dolly how to take his hard penis into her mouth and suck it until buttermilk came forth. Then he folded her like a clotheslined towel and demonstrated how he could fill her plump behind with warm cream using his rigid staff. They found much to enjoy together, despite her empty canvas.

After Christmas vacation Arthur brought Dolly to a tattoo parlor. While the electric needle man busily engraved a © and MATTEL above Dolly's ivory rear, Arthur distracted her from the pain—discreetly unzipping and placing his cock inside her lips like a pacifier until the jobs were done.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

HAROLD and the BLACK FOUNTAIN PEN

Alison Tyler, erotica's "literary siren," has been running ultra-fun and inspirational story contests over at her Blogspot site. She posts a chosen sexy image (or two) taken from Naked Chicks on Post-It Notes, which is exactly what it sounds like, and asks us to write a short piece about what we see.

On September 7th she put up two Naked Chicks drawings and I wrote about both. Then she ran a poll and my first story won. The picture urging me on is reproduced above. My interpretation is below. It's a very grown-up take on one of my favorite books, HAROLD and the PURPLE CRAYON, by Crockett Johnson, a children's classic. (It's one of the items in my "Inspiration" sidebar on the right).

You can read all the entries on Alison's blog here in the original post (in the comment area), or here, where you can also see the actual poll results.

Thank you, Alison and Mr. Naked Chicks on Post-It Notes! And thank you, Mr. Crockett Johnson, wherever you are. Please say Hi to Harold for me.

HAROLD and the BLACK FOUNTAIN PEN
© 2008 by EllaRegina

Harold grew up and left his purple crayon behind, learning how to wield his cock instead, or a shiny black fountain pen, but not at the same time. Harold could have any girl he wanted; all he had to do was draw her. She could be naked, she could be clothed, or anything in between. And she would do whatever he wished, as long as he was able to illustrate those desires. Harold drew a very white girl, nicely shaped and held in by a spare arrangement of thin black lines.

While drawing he felt her kissing him, even though she only existed, so far, from above the kneecaps to just under the breasts -- he was getting to her other parts. The yet-undrawn mouth was planted exactly on his own, as if he were kissing a mirror. A tongue found his. He kissed the faceless girl until his cock became hard. Harold drew a couch -- a simple one as time was of the essence -- so they would have a decent place to kiss, something more dimensional. He drew her knees, which immediately buckled, making the paper twitch. Even though Harold and the very white girl were grounded -- now horizontal on the couch -- their stomachs, both drawn and real, were dropping in a bottomless free-fall from the kissing.

The girl was holding on to her underpants -- whatever Harold had drawn. She rolled them off, slowly, as she kissed him, her mouth never leaving his. He drew her hand so that it reached for his cock. Then his pen slipped, the right side of her thong string not yet drawn. He took his hard cock and brought it to the girl's hand so she could grasp him. He wanted so much to dip into her bubbling inkwell -- once drawn, of course -- but felt it only proper to wait until the rest of her was there, too. After all, she was more than just a collection of lines. He retrieved his fountain pen from the floor and continued, filling in the missing areas -- he drew her asshole and stuck his finger in it -- all the time kissing, and being kissed, with a very white black-outlined hand wrapped around his flesh and blood purple cock, both he and the girl reeling, flying. They would never hit ground because it was not yet inked, so they could float and kiss forever, and so they did.

Harold loved the smell of paper, especially a bleached bond.

(%^)

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Ultra-Kinky NORMAL

Erotica whirlwind Alison Tyler asked for spanking stories on her blog the other day and I handed over something I titled Normal. The following day she pronounced it "ultra-kinky" and I teasingly countered with my contention that it was, in fact, "normal." Of course these things are very subjective.

The next day Ms. Tyler put the story up on her blog along with a poll, inviting readers to cast their votes toward a democratic answer. The verdict: Ultra-kinky, by a hair. The polls are now closed but you can still read Normal here and decide for yourself. Enjoy!

Amidst all the excitement, Kristina Lloyd, a marvel of a writer, declared me "a pervert of the highest order," a pronouncement taken as a great compliment. I asked Ms. Lloyd, who is British, if she could perhaps talk with Queen Elizabeth to see about establishing a "Pervert of the Order of the British Empire" ranking (PBE?). Not only would I enjoy such an honour but I'd be very curious to see what costume details accompany the appointment -- the vestments, accoutrements and insignia. Naturally, this could only happen if the Queen liked my work. Perhaps I shall send her something to read. Then again, I don't want to be a royal pain.