By Eirikah Delaunay

Wicked Wordplay is coming soon! Join us online next Wednesday, 4/27, from 6-8pm to share a half hour of co-writing time followed by readings by writers who choose to share their smokin’ hot words with the group.

Your co-hosts, Chel and Eirikah, offer a prompt to guide your writing if desired, but you are free to follow your own erotic and creative impulse. During reading time, writers can share their freshly written words or something else they’d like to read to our appreciative collective. Not a writer, but love storytime? This event is for you, too! 

At our inaugural event in March, the writing prompt was “Play Space: Imagine your ideal sensual/sexual environment. Is it a BDSM dungeon, wild outdoors, cozy bedroom, or some other special place? Write a detailed description.” The brief extracts below offer just a little taste of some of the pieces shared by attendees that night:

The sunlight slant on your warm skin, playing off your fur; the silver and gold of your bristly, close-cropped beard; the soft brown of your chest hair and sparkling ginger of your still-damp belly and groin. You are so relaxed, stretched out on our air mattress. I envy you your quick transition after the hazardous trek back from the makeshift shower across the rocks, and roots, and mud of the campsite. I’m still struggling to kick off my boot, wet foot refusing to let go as I wobble wildly, half in and half out of our tent, trying to keep the dirt out, now that we are finally clean. You’re laughing at me, even as you reach up to steady me, hand pressed firmly against the back of my thigh.

–Skitty

This is it. The lighting set to low—goddamn LEDs looking fine as hell. Red cast on everything, the sheets, the pillows, the wood, the leather.

We’ve wanted this for years, my love. Talked about the st. andrews cross and the automatic fucking machine. We’ve joked about the firmness of positional pillows, and the wall of whips and paddles. The displays took too long to make, had too many splinters, and god, who can forget the paint spill?

The crash, the blackness draining from the bucket all around you on our carefully laid plastic sheeting. How you covered your face and apologized for your clumsiness. How I ignored your embarrassment and climbed on top of you, pushing you into the tar-like sea. Black handprints on your paint shirt, black strokes on your jawline. My kisses left no mark but a memory.

–Chel

They gave others on the street a wide berth, since they liked to go maskless outdoors. The road to the beach was downhill the whole way, and even in November she stopped to take pictures of the unseasonable flowers or the pattern of mulch left in the gutter after a hard rain. At the beach, the water stretched into the distance, small, insistent waves lapping the shore. A few dog owners strolled idly in the shoreline park, watching the ferry boats come and go.

They settled on the bench she liked, the one that was slightly sheltered from the wind by a large rock.

“I want to give you a treat,” she began. “May I?”

He was curious about what sort of treat she could possibly give him on the public park bench, exposed to so many watchful eyes. “Yes,” he said with only a little hesitation.

–Eirikah

They met at a Starbucks and decided to walk into the woods, except the woods were just a small stand of trees at the edge of an apartment development, more like the representation of woods. He held her hand as they walked into those trees, looking around for a spot of green thick enough to hide them from the road and the apartment windows. While he scoped it out, he listened to her talk about her favorite poets. A part of him would have gladly listened to her opine on poetry for hours, but another part of him pushed her firmly against a tree, smiled, then kissed her deeply. That tree became their first impromptu play space. He pushed his body hard against hers. After minutes of soft kisses, he pulled back, then rested his palm against her cheek. He waited a moment, kissed her once more, then slapped her face lightly – just barely enough to sting. He kissed her again, and this time her kiss was warmer, more open, like she wanted to melt into him.

–Ophir

Join us to hear more, with content so fresh it’s still steaming! Participation is free for CSPC members and $5 for non-members. Be sure to RSVP here to receive the zoom link for next week’s Wicked Wordplay!