{"id":283,"date":"2014-12-17T00:51:10","date_gmt":"2014-12-17T05:51:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/?page_id=283"},"modified":"2014-12-17T00:51:10","modified_gmt":"2014-12-17T05:51:10","slug":"best-fantastic-erotica-edited-by-cecilia-tan","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/?page_id=283","title":{"rendered":"Best Fantastic Erotica edited by Cecilia Tan"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"bfe-cover-iconsize\"<\/a>ebook $9.99
\nISBN: 9781613900376
\nprint $19.95
\nISBN: 978-1885865601
\n107,200 words; 344 pp
\n[wp_eStore_add_to_cart id=7]<\/p>\n

The ebook edition is also available at: Barnes & Noble<\/a>, Amazon<\/a>, Smashwords<\/a>, Kobo<\/a> & AllRomanceEbooks<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Buy the paperback edition!<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

The best erotic science fiction and fantasy as determined by the annual contest run by Circlet Press. Rewarding originality and positive sensuality, the contest inspires well-known and unknown writers alike to excel in this provocative genre. Erotic sf\/f combines erotic and sexual themes with magic, futurism, high fantasy, cyberpunk, space opera, magic realism, and all the many other sub-genres. The 2006 winner is a multi-genre writer from Canada Arinn Dembo, whose Monsoon draws on the mythic tradition of India. Second and third place went to two well-known erotica authors, both of whom have published with Circlet Press before, Thomas S. Roche for The Night the New Hog Croaked and Jason Rubis for Circe House. Over 400 manuscripts were submitted and only 20 were chosen for publication.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Contents<\/h2>\n

Monsoon<\/em> by Arinn Dembo
\nVenus Rising<\/em> by Diane Kepler
\nMarked <\/em>by Cody Nelson
\nThe Harrowing<\/em> by Corbie Petulengro
\nCapture, Courting, and Copulation: Contemporary Human Mating Rituals and the Etiology of Human Aggression<\/em> by Carolyn & Steve Vakesh
\nCopperhead Renaissance<\/em> by Argus Marks
\nThe Night the New Hog Croaked, Or, The Lascivious Dr. Blonde: A Romance<\/em> by Thomas S. Roche
\nNocturnal Emissions<\/em> by Joe Nobel<\/p>\n

Hot and dry excerpt:<\/p>\n

Monsoon by Arinn Dembo<\/i><\/h3>\n

It was June in Maharashtra, and the monsoon would not come. The
\nwhole district lay panting in the heat, the burning sky clapped tight
\noverhead like the lid of a tandoor oven. Lean goats stumbled down the narrow alleyways, udders hanging slack and dry beneath them; beggars cried for water in every village. Dust-devils swept over baked clay and through the dry weeds, whistling and shrieking. Hot sand blew into the eyes of torpid bullocks as they leaned into the yoke, whips snapping over their bony backs. A single stream crept along the valley floor, shrunken and muddy, and women stood ankle deep in its shallows, beating their laundry against rocks that rippled and danced in the sun.<\/p>\n

Benton watched those women from behind his mirror shades, their
\nsaris wringing wet and clinging like crepe to their bodies. The trip
\nto Wainganga by Jeep was long, particularly in a Jeep so old and
\ndecrepit as this one; any distraction from the heat and the choking
\nclouds of dust was welcome.<\/p>\n

He held up his fist abruptly and Charanjit brought the vehicle to
\na shuddering, squealing halt by the side of the road, burying the two
\nmen briefly in a whirlwind of fine grit. “How long, my friend?”
\nthe driver asked. He turned his wrist proudly, showing off the
\nglittering face of a new watch.<\/p>\n

“Das,”\u009d Benton said, climbing out of the passenger seat with
\nhis cameras swinging around his neck. He could speak relatively
\ndecent Hindi, and Charanjit’\u2122 English was impeccable, but the two
\nmen chose to communicate in monosyllables and hand signals more often
\nthan not; they had worked together before. Charanjit would now wait
\nten minutes before he began to lean on the horn imperiously,
\ndemanding that Benton return.<\/p>\n

The white man limped down the hill toward the water, his right leg
\naching and stiff with travel. The women continued their work in the
\nriverbed; he crouched beside a thorn bush and took several pictures
\nof them, focusing his lens on wet bellies\u2026 brown breasts\u2026 flexing
\nthighs\u2026 streaming, sopping masses of black hair. It was a
\nprosperous family, the daughters plump and smooth.<\/p>\n

The shutter clicked and whirred like the wings of a locust. One of
\nthe younger girls looked up suddenly and saw him across the river.
\nHer black eyes flashed. Just moments before her voice rang out in
\nwarning, Benton captured one last perfect image of her face, her pale
\npink tongue-tip passing over the ripe curve of her upper lip. Then
\nall the women were standing, laughing, scowling, chattering to one
\nanother in Hindi\u2026 all the while drawing the folds of their wet
\nsaris about them, arms crossed over their conical breasts to fend off
\nhis camera.<\/p>\n

He turned away and went back to the Jeep, half-staggering on the
\nincline. The passenger seat had been repaired so many times with
\nsilver duct tape that none of the original upholstery could be seen.
\nBenton sat down heavily, letting his long, lean body drop into the
\nburning chair. He massaged his aching thigh absently and drew his
\nfilthy red bandanna up to cover his mouth; the taste of dust was
\nthick on his tongue, but he could not slake his thirst here.<\/p>\n

Benton had been dry since Mombasa. His original plan had been to
\nstop in the Old Town there. Among those twisting alleys there was an
\noasis where the caramel-colored daughters of the Faithful could be
\nbought as easily as a dish of fried casava or a handful of sticky
\ndates; it was one of his favorite haunts in the city. He liked the
\nkohl-rimmed eyes of the dancers, lustrous and burning over their
\nfilmy veils. In the leaping shadows of the back room, he had drawn
\naside those veils more than once to kiss the forbidden lips of a
\nMoslem girl.<\/p>\n

Time had not allowed for his little diversion, however, and once
\nagain in Mumbai it was the same: no brothels, just an endless hurry
\nthrough passport offices and transit bureaus to get his papers in
\norder. As the Jeep jounced and rattled along the dirt road, Benton
\ncounted the days since he had laid hands on a woman.<\/p>\n

Half the reason for his choice of profession was the love of
\nwomen; he always devoured them greedily when he was abroad. He
\ncouldn’t capture the flavor of a place until he made love there.
\nThe women were as inseparable from the mystique of a foreign land as
\nits music, its language, its liquor and food. Every country offered a
\nsubtle variation on the eternal flavor–he sampled them all, like
\nthe alien fruit and curry in the marketplace.<\/p>\n

The women he could not bring to his bed, he collected with his
\ncamera. If possible, he would always do both. He was paid to take
\npictures of mountains, rivers, rice paddies and ruins–but it was
\nhis dream to someday publish his thousands of photos of women. He
\nwould present the beauties of the world, all the bright vivid
\ncreatures from Mandalay to Manhattan: they would be his gift to the
\nArts.<\/p>\n

For now, however, he was simply suffering, and it seemed that the
\nwhole earth was suffering with him. The sere hills of Pusad gave way
\nto the Upper Bhima Valley and then the plain of Nagpur, a broad flat
\nslab that stretched for miles in the blinding sun. The wind roared
\nlike a furnace at the nape of his neck. Dead, brittle cotton still
\nstood in the fields; dry leaves rattled, and stinging dust slashed
\nacross the faces of water-bearers walking by the side of the road.
\nThe women and boys were black and thin beneath their ceramic jars,
\ntheir arms and legs bent like wrought iron.<\/p>\n

When the Jeep passed a town, there were always red-eyed men taking
\nshelter in doorways, sitting on overstuffed sacks and smoking. Water
\nsalesmen pedaled along the streets, selling a single drink for three
\nrupees. A sudden gust would turn the sky the color of dried blood;
\nweak, irritable-looking mothers looked out their windows at the
\npassing shadow, holding listless babies in their arms and searching
\nthe sky for clouds.<\/p>\n

\u2026<\/p>\n

The monsoon was coming–this time it would not tease and then
\nretreat. He picked up his camera in the last light of day to
\nphotograph the clouds that natives called “the army of Indra”–a
\ntowering range of rolling thunderheads, black with promise, which
\nswept across the entire eastern horizon. Lightning glinted in the
\ndepths of the oncoming storm; Benton let the frames snap through the
\nend of his roll, hoping multiple exposures would give him at least
\none perfect frame of that scintillating mass.<\/p>\n

Thunder thrummed across the plain, still many miles distant. The
\ntamarind tree trembled in anticipation. Benton heard the rattle of a
\ndoor, and then the quick pit-pat of bare feet across the pebbles;
\nhere was Jeevan, carrying two big bowls. Benton brushed the cherry
\nfrom his cigarette on the doorframe and pocketed the unlit remainder,
\nsmiling as the shy boy sidled up to his hut. He reached into his
\npocket, taking out two coins, and traded them for a bowl of saffron
\nrice, pretending not to notice the distinctly child-sized bite
\nmissing from the edge of the scoop on top. Jeevan handed him a second
\nbowl, filled with fragrant curry; three warm loaves of bhakari bread
\nserved as a lid. Then the little monkey skipped away back to his
\nmother’s house. He held his coins in two cupped hands, like a
\ncaptured cricket, and shook them next to his ear to hear them jingle.<\/p>\n

Benton sat down cross-legged in the doorway, removing an old
\nstainless steel spoon from his suitcase. The woman had gone out of
\nher way to earn the ten rupees he was paying for this meal. Her curry
\nwas rich, a pool of spicy oil and chunks of tender goat’s meat–so
\ngood that he saved the last oily cake of flat bread for the end, to
\nmop every last speck from the bowl. The rice was sweet and sticky,
\nheavily laden with golden raisins, minced mango and crumbled almonds.
\nHe decided to save most of it for the morning, laying a pair of heavy
\nhard-bound notebooks across the top of the bowl to keep the bugs out.<\/p>\n

After a quick visit to the family outhouse in the garden, Benton
\nreturned to the empty little shack. Darkness had come. He sat down
\nand took off his shoes, balling up a sock to stuff into each one
\nbefore he put them down beside the bed. He relaxed, stretched out to
\nluxuriate in a full belly and a cool breeze, smoked the remainder of
\nhis cigarette in the dark and then crushed out the stub against the
\nwall. The ambient temperature of the room had dropped several
\ndegrees, and for the first time in days he rolled himself up in a
\nthin blanket to sleep. He drifted off painlessly, listening to the
\nlullaby of distant thunder and the croon of an east wind.<\/p>\n

He woke in the pitch black, wind whipping over him in cool velvety
\nbillows. Benton sat bolt upright in bed, blinking against the
\ndarkness. His heart was beating fast and hard; the air was heavy with
\nthe weight of another human presence, and he strained to pinpoint its
\nlocation.<\/p>\n

All he could hear was the thin whisper of rain, hissing across the
\ngravel outside, sifting through the canopy of the tall tree,
\ntrickling and dripping from the roof, the windowsills, the leaves.
\nLightning flared somewhere in the night, casting a split second of
\nharsh illumination–in that light he saw her standing in the
\ndoorway, muffled and hooded in her sari.<\/p>\n

“Who is there?”\u009d he demanded in Hindi. Brain still fuzzy from
\nsleep, he fumbled for a name from the mechanic’s household.
\n“Trusha?”\u009d<\/p>\n

Her low, musical laugh trickled across the space between them.
\n“Not Trusha.”<\/p>\n

Thunder suddenly split the night with its roar; as if in answer, a
\nfierce new sheet of rain swept across the village. Benton reached
\nhastily into his shirt pocket and removed his lighter. He held it
\naloft and flicked it alight.<\/p>\n

“What do you want?”<\/p>\n

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. She was still standing in
\nthe doorway. Her body was wound in a royal blue sari, embroidered
\nwith glistening silver thread; the fabric had soaked up so much rain
\nthat it now appeared almost black. Her face was wrapped in a twist of
\nthe silk which served as both headscarf and veil. As he watched, she
\nreached up with bare arms and unwound it, letting the sodden tail of
\nfabric fall behind her shoulder.<\/p>\n

His heart tumbled out of rhythm. Her face was a round soft circle
\nthe color of honey, framed with a coil of jet-black hair. Black brows
\narched like wings over huge, luminous eyes; no caste mark was painted
\nbetween them. Her nose was straight, nostrils sweeping to the side in
\ndelicate curls. Her mouth was broad, sensuous, lips lush and full and
\ndark. To reveal such a face was like drawing a sword. Benton had
\nnever felt quite so defenseless, sitting alone in a bed.<\/p>\n

She smiled slowly, and in her eyes he read the wicked intent of
\nevery woman since Eve. “What do you want?”\u009d she said, touching her
\ndark lip with a rosy tongue. She had simply repeated his words, but
\nher softly teasing tone made him shiver. She turned her head to the
\nside, one hand slipping to her nape, and suddenly her hair was free,
\nspooling down her slim neck. She closed her eyes, thick black lashes
\nstark against her pale cheek, and teased the rope with her fingers;
\nthe strands separated into fat, looping serpents.<\/p>\n

The beast inside him answered with a roar. He sat stock still,
\nbreathing deeply, as her delicate hand went to the brooch just below
\nher left shoulder. If she released that pin, the sari would fall; she
\ncocked her head at him coquettishly, her eyes asking the question–
\n“Should I?”\u009d For a moment he let his eyes drop from her lascivious
\nface to the soft abundance of breast and belly below. The wet folds
\nof her dress muffled her curves, but even at this distance he could
\nsee her nipples standing hard beneath the silk.<\/p>\n

He raised the lighter’s flame higher and made a beckoning
\ngesture with his free hand.<\/p>\n

She came to him slowly, sinuous hips shifting as she moved with
\nthe rhythm of the whipping rain. He looked down at her little feet,
\nand the heavy, sodden hem leaving a dark trail across the floor; it
\nwas odd that she wore no rings on her toes or fingers. Looking up, he
\nfound her standing beside the bed; he inhaled sharply as she bent to
\nkiss him, her eyes half-closed. Her lips were cool and soft. The
\nsmell of rain was powerful. Her hand touched his, and he suddenly
\nrealized that the burning hot metal of the lighter was scorching his
\nthumb; the flame winked out as it fell from his hand, clattering to
\nthe floor.<\/p>\n

Her mouth parted over his, the tip of her tongue touching him
\nsoftly; her wet hand found his hot neck and trailed down the open
\nshirt-front to the matted hair of his chest. Hungrily he reached
\ndown, finding his own buttons easily in the dark. With both hands she
\npressed the shirt back over his shoulders; she broke her kiss as she
\npushed it down his arms and then tossed it away. He gasped with
\npleasure as her lips found his shoulder and neck; already her mouth
\nwas growing warmer.<\/p>\n

With her palms she forced him back onto his elbows; there was
\nsomething ferocious about the way she pulled the blanket away from
\nhis legs, twisting her way down his belly with open-mouthed kisses.
\nHe found himself hissing each breath between clenched teeth, lips
\ndrawn back into a half-snarl. He put his hand to the back of her
\nhead, holding her for a moment as her tongue trailed along the border
\nof his waistband and her fingers worked busily at the zipper of his
\npants. Already he was rampant and aching for her, thinking of the
\nmoment when those sweet lips would engulf him; he could feel himself
\ndrip in anticipation of that pleasure.<\/p>\n

“Wait.”\u009d He tried to stop her, seized by sudden doubt. A
\nwhirlwind of fears went through him, not least the length of time
\nthat had passed since he had a proper shower.<\/p>\n

“I cannot. I must taste you, ishta.”\u009d Despite himself he shook
\nat the sound of her husky voice; he could hear the need in it, as
\nstark and urgent as his own. Her lips found him, even through the
\nbarrier of thin cotton, and hungrily kissed the length of him. His
\nhand clenched involuntarily in her hair, and he lifted his hips for
\nher as she skinned off his jeans\u2026<\/p>\n

To read the whole story and the dripping conclusion, buy the ebook now!<\/em><\/p>\n

[wp_eStore_fancy2 id=7]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

ebook $9.99 ISBN: 9781613900376 print $19.95 ISBN: 978-1885865601 107,200 words; 344 pp [wp_eStore_add_to_cart id=7] The ebook edition is also available at: Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo & AllRomanceEbooks. Buy the paperback edition! The best erotic science fiction and fantasy as determined by the annual contest run by Circlet Press. Rewarding originality and positive sensuality, … Continue reading Best Fantastic Erotica edited by Cecilia Tan<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"parent":863,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-283","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/283","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=283"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/283\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/863"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=283"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}