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



By Cervo
Client Services
Spring Breezes

By Chris Bridges
Impressionable
Moop Beep Beep ...

By Chris Skilbeck
A Small Piece of Real..
Wicked Wheels

By Corvidae
Campfires
The Winner

By Daddy X
How Long
Life's Little Gifts
No Tips Here
Self-centered Bastard
Stanley's Resolve

By Elliot DeLocke
Getting Help
Sleepless
Want

By Helen E. H. Madden
Gravity
The Goldfish Bowl

By Helena Settimana
Five
So Much Better

By J.T. Benjamin
A Therapeutic...
Hallelujah
Porn Star
Uniform

By James M. Hunter
Mixed Feelings
Passionlove
Whisperlove

By john e
A Round of Cheer
A Letter to Sarah Julie
The Cuckoo Clock

By Julius
A Nice Pair
Happy Birthday Mr....
Inevitability
Magnification
Sandy Hurts and Loves It
Savour
Shifting Focus

By Lesly Sloan
Curtains
Heads or Tails

By Mike Kimera
Burger Queen
Filling Usha
Fucking Money
Happy Hour
Need-Leash

Oxartes
Deus ex Machina
The Bawdy Ladies...

By Nick Nicholson
Light
The Bathroom Mirror

One Winter Night in Venice
© 2003 by William Dean



Snow fell in Venice.  Snow fell in softened pale drifts before his footsteps along the Ponto del Diavolo.  Though he knew it was impossible, still he felt the vibration of each step shake the ancient stone bridge beneath him.  The impossible dogged him, following or preceding him like a faithful hound he could neither drive away nor cajole closer.  He could, through the thin cottony puffs in the air, see the Hotel Priuli ahead.  More ancientness.  It is inescapable in Venice.  The oldness surrounds, accusing across the old squares, pointing-finger spires, rounded domes like the pedestals of question marks, sluggish canals that lead nowhere and everywhere.  Hurd Paginate breathed in the frosted air and knew he had been blind, deaf, and foolish to follow her to a city of dead-ends and memory.

Closing his eyes against the wind's cold sting, he allowed himself a step, two, three of reverie.  A walk in the might have been.  Dangerous; if one slipped there was the cold abyss of nothingness waiting.  Yet, sweet and strange as a tune on some odd instrument, the caress of a unseen hand in the night's darkness, was the moment's imagining.  He swayed his head, capturing and captured in the pause between the flex of fingers and the piano chord, the hesitation before the bow strikes the cell's strings.  It was what he had.  It was a frozen stillness before the actuality came crashing through his heart and made it a ruin.

Love in Venice; wasn't that a joke; a romantic folly that only sentimental writers and lunatic poets dared to even write about.  Like the floating sargasso in the canals, here the arteries clogged with fantasies; dark trysts where gauzy curtains parted to reveal naked lovers entwined in rapture.  His nose dripped, splattering on his already damp gloves.  He wiped at it and felt the crust of his sleet tears on his chilled skin.  He staggered against the wide railing and wanted to be sick over the side.  Heartsick; lovesick; he felt ridiculous.  A spark of rage, at least, ought to boil up inside him; nothing but air struggled up from his throat.  He belched loudly and laughed at the absurdity of himself.

Standing at the window of her room, hidden by the slanting curtain, she watched him lean against the bridge post, a sullen dark shadow, slightly bent, and wondered who he was, alone, out in the snow and cold.  She parted her legs a little wider and moved forward, resting her cheek against the cool window pane.  She rolled her face upward and sighed as the flat pane pressed her forehead and the thrust came again.  Her hand rose and filled her mouth to stifle the cry.  Christ, Stefano was thick! She felt the bulbous head of his cock slide wetly between her cunt lips again; felt it spreading her open as his forefinger rubbed her clit roughly.  She gritted her teeth and thought "More, damn you, more!"

As if he had heard her mind's shout, Stefano wrapped his other hand in her long hair and yanked her back from the window.  Her feet tangled in the curtain edges and she fell backward, impaling herself deeper on his shaft.  Stefano growled in pleasure as they tumbled to the thick blood-red carpet.  She turned, raising up on her knees, straddling his hips, and slapped at his face.

Stefano smiled and his eyes gleamed. "Again, bella mia!"

Quick slaps, four, six, and with each pair of slaps—right, then left hand—she felt his spine arch up from the floor and his cock probe deeper before sinking back.

"Aiee!"

She bit his right nipple until she felt the hot iron and salt taste of his blood.  It was enough.  Licking the two droplets of red from his wound, she felt the shudder of her own climax envelope Stefano's spurting come inside her.  She squeezed her thighs tighter around him, the muscles of her cunt working up and down his shaft to drain it.  She hugged her arms around herself and rolled off him, laughing softly.

Stefano rubbed a finger over his torn nipple and smiled at her.  He licked the blood from his finger, eyes rolling back in his head. "Bitch!" he whispered at the ceiling.

Down on the bridge, his head hanging over the bridge railing, Hurd Paginate finally found the remains of his dinner and brought them up in a retch.  Watching them spew down into the chilled canal and slowly sink, he wiped a glove across his mouth.  He looked up at the lit window in the Hotel Priuli.

"Bitch," he cried softly into the swirling snow of the night.

© 2003 William S.  Dean.  All rights reserved.  Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.


Authors live for feedback!
If you enjoyed this story, please send comments to
William S. Dean 

[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.

By Nikki Isaak
Chrema's Game
Demon Sunday
Dreamrealms: blasphēmos
In The Soup
Seasons by the sea
Shagging Oozing ...
Silencing the Circling Echoes
The Thief and ...
Undead Urges

By Robert Buckley
Backrub
Fertile
Glowing In The Dark
Hitchhike
Serendipity
Saturday Afternoon Confessions
Shared Ride
The Other Man
The Girl Who Taught...
Try it; You'll Like It
Upon the Shoals of Anticipation

By Sidney Durham
Bug Hunt
New Truck
Sisters
The Stacks

By Valentine Bonnaire
A Little Irish Honey
Guys & Dolls
It Came Upon a Mid...
Swingtimers
The Beautiful Kind
Tenderloined
Vanilla Suede

By William Dean
Earthquake Blowjob
One Winter Night...
Riding on the Metro
Reality Sucks
Stiffed
Whore's Borscht

El Padron
by Akosei

The Connection
by Alan

Party Girl
by Big Ed Magusson

Toenails
by Clover

Unassailable
by Corbin A. Grace

Nothing Personal
by Dawn Wan D'Stylo

That Holiest Place
by G. Russell

Looking for Work
Huck Pilgrim

The Village Church
by Ian D Smith

La Petite Mort
by Isabelle Carruthers

Sleeping Ducks
by J.D. Coltrane

Junkie
by Jaelyn

Home Again
by Jean Roberta

In A Restaurant
by Jim Danner

Silk Appetizer
by Jude Mason

A Demure Slut
by Kevin Morken

Fucked by a Cucumber
by Lauren Mills

A Day in the Life ...
by Laura Thorne

Prelude to a Sunday...
by Leigh Stirling

A Brief Time Together
by Randi Dixon

Targets
by Raziel Moore

Pattern Passion
by Remittance Girl

Scars
by Richard Raiment

God or the Devil
by Shiloh

In the Confessional
by TD Fallon