Erotica Readers & Writers Association
Home | Erotic Books | Authors Resources | Inside The Erotic Mind | Erotica Gallery
Adult Movies | Sex Toys | Erotic Music | Email Discussion List | Links


Story Gallery | Treasure Chest




Erotic Fiction
Queer Fiction
Kinky Erotica
The Softer Side
Quickies
Flashers
Poetry


The Best of 2013

The Afternoon Circle Jerk Society
by Amanda Earl

Beating the Gothic Out of Her
by Amanda Earl

Real Irish
by Amanda Earl

Mercy and the Man. . .
by Amanda Earl

The Revenant
by Amanda Earl

The Vessel
by Amanda Earl

The Too Beautiful Boy
by Arthur Chappell

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

Never For Punishment
by Daddy X

Like a Brother
by Big Ed Magusson

Old Dogs
by Big Ed Magusson

Goodbye Roger
by Huck Pilgrim

He Sends His Regrets
by Huck Pilgrim

A Small Favor
by Huck Pilgrim

Ava's Honey
by john e

LOX
by john e

Eclipse Sex
by Oxartes

Adam and Eve on a Raft
by Robert Buckley

Dead Man's Switch
by Robert Buckley

Does Immortality come with a Pension?
by Robert Buckley

Embraceable Ewe
by Robert Buckley

A Fragile Desire
by Robert Buckley

Surviving Winter
by Robert Buckley

You're the Only One
by Robert Buckley

Dissolve
by Sybil Rush

Bing Cherry Silk
by Valentine Bonnaire

Colony, Collapsed
by Valentine Bonnaire

Have a Nice Day
by Valentine Bonnaire

l'heure bleue
by Valentine Bonnaire

Once Upon A Time . . .
by Valentine Bonnaire

Red Suede
by Valentine Bonnaire

Yellow, like the daffodils
by Valentine Bonnaire

Novelette

Invisible Lines
by Raziel Moore



Archives

By Alan
Curtain
Other News


By Alice Gray
Slick 50
The Fourth Veda
Stolen Hour


By Amanda Earl
Daddy Complex
The Graffiti Artist
Sex With An Old Woman
The Vampire Responds


By Ann Regentin
What Never Dies
Newborn
Remembering
Surrender


By Big Ed Magusson
The Fix
Methadone


By Brady Sutton
Girls for Leash
The Peculiar Case of...


by C. Sanchez-Garcia
An Early Winter Train
The Doll
The Lady and The Unicorn
Riding the Dog
Fidelis


By Cervo
An Evening At...
Readiness Is All
Chinchilla Lace
Fridays At The Benoit
Cruising On A Sea...
Bitsy Takes a Test
Touring Persephone
Are You Kidding?
Quigley’s Harvest
Mr. Merridawn's Hum
Angels’ Spawn


By Cherry Black
Mrs. Priestly
Face Down
Just A Simple Black Dress


By Chris Bridges
Second-hand
Fast-forwarding
The Whitechapel...
Passing Notes


By Daddy X
Nikki Didn't Like It
Overscratch
A Woman in My Position


By Dominic Santi
Drillers
Kiss of Peace


By G. E. Russell
Judgement Day
Nebulous
First Love, Last Romance
Snow White
This Desolate Eden
The Glass Cage
You Like It Like That...


By Helen E. H. Madden
When The Angels Fall
Husbands and Wives
The Fifth Horseman
The Monster Beneath...
Neighbor of the Beast
Over the Rainbow
Going Viral
Virtual Love


By Helena Settimana
Balance
Highway 69
Amadou
The Space Between


By J.T. Benjamin
The Question
Thornburg Sex Survey
Alternating Weekend
Secret Lives and Lusts
What are Friends For
Olivia's Ulterior Motive
Advice From Miss Millicent
The Baby Doll
The Journals of Chastity
Use Me
Zachary's Perfect Date


By Jill
Kidnapped
Sheila Discusses ...
It's About Sex
A House On Fire?
Maureen and Sheila...


By john e
I Wish My Dick...
johnny's jackoff journal
Saturday Morning


By Julius
In Praise of Pussy
Tight, Tighter, Tightest
You Rang Madam?
The Newcomer


By Juniper Maclay
Lunch Break
The Scientist
Public Transportation


By Keziah Hill
Laying Down the Law
Strawberry Flavoured Joy
The Second Coming
Angel
Dutch Masters


By L.A. Smith
Missionary Position
Both Hands


By Lara Nickles
Almost
Hero


By Lilie Berlin
Naughty Little Girl
Color Less Ordinary


By Mike Kimera
Kneading
Soft Option
At the Adult Bookstore
Postcard
Playing With Barney
Deserving Ruth
Till Death Do Us Part
Happy Anniversary
Mating Calls
It May Not be Art...
Living With It...
The Last Taboo
Hand-Jobs
Fucking Ugly
Paying For It
Sex with Owen
Ask Alice
The Sisters
Bar Snack

May

by Angela Caperton © 2008

 

erotic fictionMay's breath puffed white in the moonlight, rising like a bride's lifted veil, misting the absolute forest darkness for a moment, and then passing like a season or a scent. She followed a deer path through the densest bottomland south of Shawnee, deep in West Virginia wilderness untouched by any axe in living memory. She fell often and her long skirt gaped ragged at the right knee, exposed skin oozing thick red, though she felt no discomfort. Her sweater, snagged and torn in a dozen spots, let the October chill seep into her.

Winter waited on the other side of the cold wind. Tonight the earth would freeze, the very last night May might find her way here, bruised and frozen, blinded by the moonlight, aching inside with divine pain.

All she knew was his smell, clover and cinnamon and vinegar, the faintest trace in this frozen forest, vivid as his fingers on her breasts, his cock inside her, so long ago, back in the spring.

The deer path widened into a clearing and the full moon lay like a silver dollar on the pond, beyond her misting breath among the creaking trees. Inside her something kicked.

Springtime.

*          *          *

May stood on the porch of her house and stared at the empty driveway. Mom and Dad had taken the Buick all the way to Charleston.

May had never been alone before. Eighteen and she had never been alone.

Even out here, half a mile from Shawnee, Mom and Dad did not want her to be alone. They watched her like the hens in the yard watched their chicks.

"You don't trust me," She told them.

"It ain't you we don't trust," Dad said.

May knew what Dad meant. Dave and the other guys at school looked at her like they wanted to eat her. She knew about Adam and Eve and the sin made by men and women, and she knew exactly what Mom and Dad were trying to keep away from her. She knew what the kids did on Friday nights at the Works drive-in movie theater up in New Martinsville.

Julie, the nastiest girl in school, told May all about it, though May was the crazy girl in ankle-length dresses, thick, shapeless blouses that hid the shame of her breasts, and no lipstick. Lipstick was the scarlet sin. May's hair had never really been cut, only trimmed at the very ends and the shining golden length of it perched on her head, rolled and pinned, tight as a silken cocoon.

Her parents forbade her the radio. She knew about the Beatles and she heard the girls in gym class singing about Good Loving. May watched Julie dance with Dave, fast dances her Dad called the gyrations of devils and slow ones that made May ache between her legs when she thought about Dave holding her that close.

None of that for May. She was not even allowed to be alone.

But tonight they had no choice, really. Grandma Perry had called them. Grandpa was dying in the hospital down in Charleston and Grandma needed to go there. Mom and Dad would pick her up in Point Pleasant and they would be gone at least a day.

May had to be in school the next day for the senior picture, girl in the long dress, third row. She had begged them, some inner voice crying out the importance of being there at school in the morning, one time, among the other kids, even as strange as she was. Once—stamped on the moment, proof that she had been alive.

No one ever called her. No one ever came out to her home, to the very edge of Shawnee, not the old men and women from the church, not the dancing girls, certainly not Dave.

What would she do if Dave came out tonight, while Mom and Dad were gone?

May knew the word.

Julie had told her. "Fuck." What animals do, when the rooster tops the hen, a boy and a girl.

The boy fucks the girl.

May watched the night, her breath rising and falling, quickening. Something on the wind made her heart beat faster, a scent, green and fresh at first, cut grass, the blood of springtime.

Clover.

The rank fresh smell came to her on the breeze, warm, filling her. May shivered and then slipped back inside, closing the door against the night. Mom and Dad were gone.

Truly gone.

She looked around and then she touched her waistband, unbuttoning, unlacing, and she shed her long skirt, left it lying in the living room beside the sofa. She ran her hands over the cool softness of her slip and gathered the hem, rolling it, baring her legs and her big, cotton panties. She wished Dave could see her.

Cinnamon.

Delicate as a shiver, sharp as a pin, the smell touched May between her legs, and she spun, giddy with the promise of her own fingers, touching sin, stroking it to swelling. She knew the touch, exactly so, from all the other times she had sinned quietly in her room.

She sank back onto the sofa, pushing her blouse up to bunch at her throat, fingers frantic on her clit and under the cotton of her bra. She shed her slip with a whisper, and then kicked her panties away in an ivory arc.

Pleasure and sin took May, washing her in waves of sensation. Her cries echoed in the empty room then settled into silence.

Alone.

Flushed, she tugged her blouse down, lost in the scent, the cinnamon a red blur in her head, a voice that whispered, come out, come out into the clover, join me in the green. May felt the quickened pulse of blood in the earth, wet and raw. She walked to the front door and opened it again, stepping back out onto the porch, the spring damp kissing her thighs, wetter under the touch of the night, sweet spice and musk.

Rapt, she studied the yard then walked out into it, palely lit by the crescent moon, kept walking, past the driveway, across the road and into the poor fields. The warm breezes caressed her sinful place, bare and open. The clover and the cinnamon held her, drew her out into the night, the house behind her fading. Mom and Dad gone, everything new, the green and good, the perfumes of the night and her own sweat, the wet between her legs.

She began to unbutton her blouse, her breath fast and hard, cinnamon inside her, life inside her. For a moment, horror, doubt, and a sense of sickened awareness halted her steps.

And then certainty came in a rush of wings.

She opened her blouse to the hot warm air, to the dark angel descending, golden in the moonlight, like heaven falling upon her. May saw his wings against the moon, ephemeral, thin as shadows and she knew him.

He was the lord of springtime and he smelled faintly of vinegar and strongly of clover and cinnamon, immense and fragile, a shape like a fluttering cloak against the darkness as he lit before her.

The wind from his wings kissed her, washed over her, his scent overwhelming, turning the darkness green, scattering light in her vision, sparks and then fire. May felt her sex dripping, felt the nipples of her small breasts tight as buds, aching for his touch.

In starlight, he seemed gigantic, almost two feet taller than May, his chest broad and faintly shining in the starlight, his arms thick and sculpted as a wrestler's. She reached out, hardly daring to touch him and she felt his skin, cool as grass in the spring night. A powdery residue dusted her fingertips and she shivered as he put his hands, three-fingered and oddly jointed, on her shoulders, peeling the thin blouse away, He stroked her breasts through her cotton bra tentatively, as though puzzled by the covering.

May reached back to undo the snap, aching to be naked for him, to have his scent cover her like a robe.

She hardly dared to look at his face. His beauty blinded her. All she saw clearly were his eyes, red and enormous, luminescent as stars. The rest of his features were blurry, shifting, as though concealed behind the mask of his overpowering scent. He ran his hand down the curve of her hip, a place no one had ever touched before, and she trembled with wanting him.

He wanted her too. She looked shyly down at his slender waist, then lower to the thin, hard rod that rose to brush her stomach, soft as velvet and stiff as stone. He began to make a noise, a faint buzzing that seemed to be one with his scent, the voice of springtime, the song of his desire, and she let him lay her down upon the damp, cool grass of the lawn.

Against the sky, she saw the full majesty of him, an angel with burning eyes, and May knew anything he did to her would be holy. He knelt between her legs, wings folding like an umbrella, his hands on her thighs, light as leaves, stroking upward, odd fingers tracing the line of muscle, all the way to her slit, smearing the moisture there, opening her.

She began to breathe hard. There was nothing but his scent and his hands and then the long coil of his tongue, tasting her breasts, wrapping them in a moist band, up the curve of her throat, invading her ear, exploring her.

His male part seemed enormous and she knew what he intended. She wanted it with all her soul. She wanted him to fuck her, wanted his scent on her like anointment. She moved against his strange hand and moaned, inviting him.

Buzzing, he held her under her bottom and lifted her slightly. The long, tapering rod of his penis, serpentine and flexible, touched the lips of her slit. He pulled her to him and pain stabbed, brief and liberating, and then there was only pleasure, the rush of green, of spring, of promise.

He filled her. Everything she had ever known fell away from her, the world of her parents, of the high school, of Shawnee, even Lord Jesus, all trivial beside the wonder of his body, the rapture of his smell and the cool, hard miracle of his angel's skin.

She opened like a flower to a bee and he dusted her with his shining essence, the long tendril of his tongue probing her lips, slipping between them like the shoot of a green plant. She tasted the cinnamon and vinegar of his scent and she knew the flavors would never leave her.

Moving with him then, she felt something inside her, a sensation far stronger than any she had ever summoned with her own touch, a building frenzy as insistent as a thunderstorm, matched by the sudden intensity of his movements as he lifted her, wings unfurling behind him, like the canopy of heaven. He held her lightly as a doll, driving deep into her, the tenderness gone now, his rhythm savage and urgent as creation.

Pleasure took her, the very heartbeat of life, and she saw his face clearly, the facets of his red eyes, the shifting surfaces of his mouth, the blankness where he should have had a nose, immaculate symmetry, all angles and glass, the face of God.

His penis pulsed deep inside her and then the gush of his spending, endless as spring rain, holy and perfect, and she knew that nothing in her life would ever approach this moment, that she had found a pinnacle and everything hereafter would be shadows.

Withdrawing from her, he stood and turned away, his wings furling again, his immense, strong body seeming smaller. His buzzing grew deeper in tone and May saw him tremble. She sat up and reached out to him, but he stepped back, out of her reach, and then sank to his knees, wings folding around him with a dry rustle.

She stayed beside him through the night, her mind still numb with his scent and his wonder, and she watched him die, stretched out on the grass, his hard body shriveling, turning brittle, red eyes gone dim, then black and empty.

In the first light of morning, he curled like a brown leaf and became ashes that blew away in the rising wind.

*          *          *

Her parents, of course, never knew.

When they returned from Charleston, two days later, lost in their prayers for Grandpa, they hardly noticed May. She had become their girl in the long dress again, quieter even than before, a blessing of a daughter.

But they couldn't see what she saw, feel the springtime alive like a pulse in her belly, taste the angel's scent and know the constant arousal of his memory.

She lived that spring and summer in a dream, her mind emerging sometimes to wonder at what had befallen her, though she could not speak of it. She understood that the angel who had visited her was the same creature that had been seen in Point Pleasant months before, that he had been young then, uncertain of his place in this world, lost perhaps, singular and divine.

A moth man they called him. A monster.

He had summoned her, his mate, with the song of his scent, enslaved her will and her desire in the manner of a sacred being, the son of god, a shower of gold fallen upon her like Zeus in a pagan myth.

The swelling in her belly was slight at first, but by summer's end, her mother noticed she was gaining weight and cast suspicious eyes on her, but May hardly talked to them by then and they left her alone. She hid the thickening beneath her shapeless clothes and sang hymns beside them in the little church, though her hymns were never to their God.

Then, in the first chill of winter, she knew the rest of it, heard his voice in her blood telling her what she must do to nurture the life he had bestowed upon her, and, on the last full moon night of October, she had left her house and gone into the deep woods, walking long miles to this place, where he had been born, the manger of mud and warm decay.

She did not hesitate to step into the shallow pond, feeling the muck pull at her shoes and caress her ankles, her calves. Walking became difficult and she let herself settle into the water, her long skirt floating up around her like a spent blossom tossed onto the pool.

The chill mud beneath her feet felt distant as the stars and she knew that when she lay down she would be warm, entangling herself in roots, binding herself to the earth, a cradle for new life that would grow inside her through the cold months, feeding on her flesh, growing strong enough to come out into the world, in time, singular and sublime.

Eternally renewed as the spring.


_______
© 2008 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Born in Virginia and later raised on a sailboat, Angela Caperton has traveled extensively and has grown up to appreciate the world in all its forms. Her erotic fantasy, Woman of the Mountain, won the 2008 Eppie for Best Erotica, and she has two other stories available from eXtasy Books. Look for her erotic vampire short story "Understudy" in Black Lace's Lust at First Bite, and her story "Standing Stone" in Pen Flourish's soon to be released goddess anthology, Maiden, Mother, Crone. She is currently working on the sequel to Woman of the Mountain and has several other short story projects steaming up her computer screen.
Learn more about Angela at her web page www.angelacapteron.com or her blog, http://blog.angelacaperton.com.


Authors live for feedback!
If you enjoyed this story, please send comments to
Angela Caperton

[Filigrie]



  E-mail this page


Search ERWA Website:

Copyright © 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
All Rights Reserved World Wide. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or
medium without express written permission is prohibited.

Archives

By Nan Andrews
At Rest
Spirit Guides


By Nick Nicholson
The Room
Grigore & Tatiana
Land of Smiles
The Uniform
Hooked


By Nikki Isaak
A Rathskeller Jar
Empty
The Dread That Stained Kalos


By Oxartes
Maybe You Can Go...
I Am Not A Scorpion
Babylon Nights
Eat Your Veggies
What Would Aristippus Think
The Vow Part I
Fiend in Need Part II
Androids Behaving Badly
Innocent Flower


By Remittance Girl
The Central Registry
The River Mother
Things Bettter Left Unsaid
Shellshocked
The Baptism
The Other Side
I Waited for You...
Pleasure's Apprentice
Fixed in Amber


By Riccardo Berra
Ligne Claire
The Girl with Two Lovers


By Richard V Raiment 
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Recalled to Life


By Robert Buckley
Absentee Ballots
Making Her Late For...
Crazy
Infidelity
Brotherhood Of The ...
Convenience Store
Head Games
Practicing Lovecraft
Outsourcing
Coins For The Ferryman
Seeing Is Believing
Matrons
The Mission
A Weekend in Queens..
The Exchange
Suspicion
Restive
Close to Hand
Excess Of Light
Patience
Smears
Malay
They Need Me
Bench Mates
Paladins
Pre Need
Rescues
Cthulhu's Toad
The Dog Park
Smells Like Money
Extraordinary Graces
Poe-tics
What Now?
You Get What You Pay For
The Angel of Loneliness
The Great Sin
Independence
Mere Moments
An Unconventional Friendship


By Robert GSK
Amarind
Still Life


By Rose B. Thorny
Maestro
The Thing Under the...
Only When It Rains


By Savannah
Naked Ambition
The Principal of the Thing


By Sidney Durham
Junk Yard Goddess
I'm Only Shaving!
Stripes
Santa, Baby!
Sometimes I Can ...
Speaking of Escher
The Road Not Taken


By Tulsa Brown
Flesh On A Woman
Half Moon Girl
Debt of Honor


By Valentine Bonnaire
American Daddy-O
Bukowski Girls
Afterglowing
Viresence


By William Dean
Stranger in the Bonfire
Great Notion
Kiss Me And Then...
Switch Back
A Hand in the Bush
Buy Me Something
Forest for the Trees
Swap Meet
Burning Man
Port Said
Kler
Twisted Faith
Political Asylum
Torn


Screen Play
by A.F. Waddell

A Filing Fling
by Addison Long

Ménage A Cart
by Adhara Law

Elevator Shaft
by Alana James

Torn in Two
by Alicia Night Orchid

May
by Angela Caperton

Tedia, Goddess of Boredom
by Arthur Chappell

The Lady-killer
by BJ Franklin

Cycle
by B.K. Bilicki

The Vacation
by Beth Vox

You Belong to Me
by C. Sanchez-Garcia

Frostbite the Ice Pimp
by Chuck Lovepoe

So Much in Common
by Daphne Dubonet

The Hand & I.
by EllaRegina

Safari Tuesday
by G. Gregory

The Puss Hater
by Inna Spice

One for the Road
by J. Corvo

Full Serviced
by J.D. Coltrane

Naked Over New York
by J.Z. Sharpe

The Chocolate Wife
by James Robert Sands

Once Shy
by Jamie Smithe

Fresh
by Jean Roberta

Caitlin Comes Clean
by Jerry Rightson

Something To Make...
by Jim Parr

Melanie and Jay Go...
by jtallen

Peeping George
by Jude Mason

It's Lovely. It's Horrible.
by Kathleen Bradean

The Temp
by Kaye Heche

A Husband's Lesson
by Kim Bax

Better Than a Blow...
by Lauren Mills

Page 12 - No. F
by LilyOrchid

In The Name Of...
by Michael Michele

The Classics
by Nettie Kestler

The Wounded Healer
by Nicholas M.

Stella
by Nick Santa Rosa

The Cabin
by P. E. Brink

Boom
by Raziel Moore

Post Mortem
by Riccardo Berra

Newly Reformed Woman...
by Seneca Mayfair

Idyll
by Teresa Lamai

Alter Christus
by Teresa Wymore

Shadows of De La Rosa
by Tori Diaz