Skin on skin

Erotic fiction lives in a world of touches, kisses, and the penetration of bodies and hearts. But any fiction benefits from a change of perspective. A story with no break from up-close sex can feel too strained, like a sweaty fuck when neither partner can come.

I try to shift perspective without thinking too much about it. Here's a passage from an up-close scene I worked on today:

We take the position, side by side on our hands and knees. He's behind us. He rubs my cunt. I squirm and moan. Denise does a more convincing act. He's fingering us both. She shoots me a glance from a half-closed eye. We're in a contest to see who gets the cock. I buck hard against the probing finger and beg, "Please, please."

From the same story, here's a passage with a broader perspective:

The two women from the other table nod at us as they pass by on the way to the powder room. They're pretty and nicely dressed in thin, flowing skirts and blouses and bits of jewelry. Under their cordiality their eyes register me as a threat, as if I might wiggle over and steal their men while they're peeing.

From later in the story, this passage starts with a panoramic perspective, then shifts quickly to the personal:

The helicopter descends toward sparkling Mediterranean waters and hovers over a helipad at the stern of an oceangoing yacht. The big boat and every visible accessory are white, including the aircraft I'm sitting in, the uniform of the pilot, the rubber rafts that circle at a distance, bouncing over light waves, and the guards riding in them. Only their rifles are black.

My left leg is shaking. I guess that's where I put my fear. The shakiness rises through me. Why am I doing this? The brothel, for all its air of wildness, is really pretty secure. People are always watching.

These shifts make a story more like the way we see life. One minute you're watching your navel, the next you're watching your neighbor. But in an erotic story, sex can never be far away.