* EXCLUSIVE * Sexy Excerpt From “In The Office” by Alyssa Halford

Posted on April 2, 2013 by Lady Cheeky

“Can you hold my sweater for me?” she whispers. “It’s a bit warm in here.”

I hadn’t noticed the sweater. She arranges it on my lap. Then the penny drops.

“There,” she says. “Comfortable?”

“Very,” I whisper back. Am I reading this right? There is no other way. I can feel my heart start to pound as I see her slim hand slide under the covering.

“Allow me,” she whispers. She finds my zipper and tugs. I look around quickly to see if anyone has heard but all eyes and ears are focussed on the front. Some bullshit presentation about avoiding your “triggers”. Too late for me. I help her as discreetly as I can, pulling up on the fly so she can unzip me. Jeans open, warm hand and long fingers reach into my boxer briefs and expertly circle my cock. She moves a bit to adjust her arm’s angle then squeezes. Squeezes oh-so-gently, and then waits. I don’t take my eyes from the screen.

And it begins, the tortuous grasp, her beautiful hand on my shaft stroking up and down slowly, achingly. Up to the head to rub and press just the right spot, then a quick subtle twist and back down. Her hand is lotioned with something floral and tantalizing. Not overpowering, just right. My cock is standing full at attention now and aching to be free of my jeans. There is no way we can do that, I realize. I glance quickly out the corner of my eye and see a soft smile on her beautiful face. She turns slightly to wink quickly before looking back to the screen. A dimple. A dimple in her beautiful face tells me she’s enjoying this. She crosses her legs and closes her eyes a moment. Oh yes, she’s enjoying this too. God I can’t wait to fuck her.

Her hand works faster, bringing me close to my breaking point. Up, down, twist, pressure under the tip of the head. She can’t reach inside my pants more so I can only imagine what it would be like to have her hand have free rein over my cock and balls. Pulling, squeezing, agonizing fluid motions, no hesitation as she works my dick and balls til I come all over her tits. Or ass. Anywhere.

About the Author: Alyssa Halford

A male-focused author. Women may enjoy too, of course; but it seems men prefer.

I write erotica and romance, including light BDSM, public sex, and casual encounters. I do not write hardcore BDSM or torture. I err on the side of Eros, not Thanatos.

I’m a big fan of HEA and HFN, whenever I do write romance.

In my spare time I suffer greatly as an actuary, but manage to find time to take long hot bubble baths with my sexy, nubile girlfriends. We giggle, kiss, paddle each other’s bums and then I write about it.

I like koalas.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Alyssa-Halford-Author

Twitter: @AlyssaHalford

Site: http://www.alyssahalford.com

Buy Links: http://www.alyssahalford.com/shoppe.html

Desert Showgirls: The Snickers Bar of Stripclubs

Posted on March 4, 2013 by Lady Cheeky

By Antonia Crane

Originally Posted on www.AntoniaCrane.co m 3/3/13

As usual, I drifted off to the True Crime channel at 3a.m. after stripping for 13 hours straight then L and I slept in a double bed in the Motel 6 off Highway 111 to save some dough. L sleeps exactly like me; I don’t even hear her breathe. She’s stiff and still and silent. We are like a couple of bruised dead dolls slathered with anti-aging eye cream, fantasizing about stalkers and sociopaths teeming in the parking lot below us, after our purses stuffed with stripper bills. But for once, that Motel 6 was quiet.

Our room was hot and stuffy in the morning and the door was stuck, so I used the wall for leverage and pulled hard. Outside, snow-capped mountains towered against a pristine blue sky. Palm trees lined a packed parking lot. I thought I recognized a customer from the club the night before, walking his dog on the lawn. He called me “Humboldt” all night then in a drunken stupor, asked me to be his Valentine.

Stripping has never flattered my real romantic relationships. It makes them look like fat neglect machines, poking holes in my pincushion heart. While guys in strip clubs shower me with easy, unconditional adoration, my real relationships are tense and difficult. Lately, I’ve been filling up my empty wallet and my emotional well with knee-jerk marriage proposals from strangers. I’m not saying it’s right, but I’m grateful to have found Desert Showgirls; at least, my ego is.

L is my stripper spirit guide. She knows where to go and I listen, pack my survival kit and hit the trail. Years ago, she swore by New Orleans, so after a bloody Mongol fist fight broke out at an Italian restaurant (that also illegally allowed us to strip) near Pasadena, I borrowed $200 for a one-way plane ticket and spent the next three years falling madly in love with NOLA and the clubs that embraced me there. Ever since then, I follow L’s lead. The best place to strip in LA is not in LA at all but near Palm Springs in a nondescript strip mall. Desert Showgirls is the Snickers Bar of strip clubs: Generic and dark on the outside, creamy gold mine on the inside. And like most places of ill repute, it’s near an adult video store and shares a parking lot with a suspiciously vacant cigar shop and a very good Mexican restaurant that keeps unpredictable hours.

A strip dancer performs for customers at the Mons Venus strip club in Tampa

Unlike San Francisco, dancing in LA has always sucked. After dropping the drunken girls off at their overpriced apartments in Hollywood, I wondered why I didn’t go put on a skirt and wait tables at Swingers instead. Actually, I knew why. I’m a terrible waitress, but a great stripper. The two jobs are similar but different. Both jobs require being nice to rude, demanding people and having superb listening skills. But, I have no instinct for that perfect balance of timing and attention to detail when it comes to serving food. However, I am acutely aware of other hungers: the desire to be desired and the need to be heard. And In twenty years of stripping, I’ve always been a night girl, never a day shift girl, but now I see the benefit of being the one girl on the floor at noon. Day shift guys are different. They seem sadder, sneaky and more stoned which can attract a strange breed of clientele, like Jerry, the man who cried while I gave him a lap dance.

No matter what time of day, strip clubs invite a heightened sense of suffering and affection, kind of like kissing the hand of someone dying; meeting their suffering head on and dancing with it, like last Saturday, when Jerry cried during our lap dance.

In issue #441 of The Sun, Janna Malamud Smith recalls psychoanalyst Jonathan Lear’s belief that we are “finite erotic creatures.” Meaning, we dangle on a tight rope between our “expansive desire and our inevitable death.” We Strippers shimmy to that tune. We experience the world through erotic movement and connection and that movement is towards our death.

An older dude in a bright red sweatshirt kept calling me “honey.” He followed me around the empty club, so I had to deal with him.
It was about 4p.m. and he was shitfaced.
“Honey,” he growled. “I’m sixty-four years old. I’ve been to clubs all over the world. I saw Jim Morrison perform in public for the first time.”

“Oh yeah? Where was that?”

“The Rainbow Room. He was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Performing in public. What’s the matter, Honey. You too cool to dance for me?”

“I’m about to go on stage right now,” I lied. “You like Pink Floyd? Led Zeppelin or the Stones?”

“Oh, Miss Attitude is too cool, huh.”

A petite brunette finally joined me on the floor. I told her Jerry was looking to spend some money. She refused to talk to him. He stunk. He was rude. He was shitfaced.

“I’ll dance for him, so he’ll leave,” I said and pulled him into the VIP area, slightly worried he didn’t have enough cash on him to pay me.

He grabbed my hands when I took his glasses off his head.
“What is wrong with you?” I whispered, my mouth brushed his ear.

“I love women. Been married four times and they always leave me.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“I cheat. I get bored. I hate women.” Tears streamed down both of his cheeks.

I kept dancing and he kept crying. At the end of the song I said, “I’m not taking any more of your money, Jerry.”

“Keep dancing,” he said, still crying.

“Fuck you, Jerry. Go smoke.” I snatched his cigarettes, phone and his cocktail, his headphones and his wallet.

“Listen honey.”

“Get up. We’re going.” He over tipped me by fifty bucks and I walked towards the door where guys could duck outside and smoke.

The bouncer walked up to us. “Your cab’s here sir.” I kissed Jerry good bye on his wet cheek.

Antonia Crane’s work has appeared in: The Rumpus, Salon.com, DAME Magazine, Black Clock, SLAKE, Word Riot, PANK, The Whistling Fire, The Coachella Review, Phantom Seed, Smith Magazine, Diverse Voices Quarterly and lots of other places. She holds an MFA in Fiction from Antioch University. She wrote a memoir about the sex industry and her mother’s illness: SPENT and is one of the editors of The Citron Review. She teaches Creative Writing to at-risk teens for Write Girl and Woodcraft Rangers. She lives in Los Angeles where she runs, tweets and blogs: Check her out on … Twitter: @AntoniaCrane Web: www.AntoniaCrane.com

SEEKING: Writers, Sex Educators and Sex-Positive Activists

Posted on January 16, 2013 by Lady Cheeky

I’m looking for Sex Educators, Sex-Positive Activists and Erotica writers to submit articles and stories for Smut For Smarties (www.SmutForSmarties.com).

Sex Educators/Sex-Positive Activists:

I’m looking for diverse subjects that teach in a fun, witty (if appropriate) and smart way. Feminist and body-positive issues a plus. You can cover everything from the female condom to modern cultural sexual mores to out-dated sex laws and beyond.

Writers:

It has to be well-written, smart smut that is above all … HOT!

No pay, but your work will be promoted on the Lady Cheeky Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook and stories could end up in a future e-book compilation!

Email submissions in the body of an email to: submit@ladycheeky.com

THANK YOU! xoxLC

ROOM 205

Posted on December 3, 2012 by Lady Cheeky

BY ANTONIA CRANE

PHOTO BY SHEILA HIBER

I’m staying in a dark Motel 6 in room 205 off Highway 111.The shades are drawn. It’s a dark and warm desert night. Someone is rolling their luggage on plastic wheels back and forth in front of the door as if they’re determining which room they should bury the fingertips of their dead. I hope not room 205. In places like this, bad things happen.

I’m applying bright turquoise eye shadow on my lids the color of striped mini-skirts I wore in 7th grade. Turquoise reminds me of Love’s Baby soft and Breck shampoo. I curled my hair and burned my ear those mornings in Mom’s pink bathroom waiting for “99 Luftballoons” to play on the radio again before school. Mom was a big believer in baths and I inherited her soaker gene. She filled glass vases with red and silver bath beads. She could build a robot out of erotic oil and bath salts clumped together in pink chalky balls. She morphed our DNA with her bubble bath, soaking and soaking while she assessed. The steam from that room was so epic I expected tendrils to slip through the crack under the door.

But this eye shadow would not sit on the shelf next to her incandescent body powder. This desert shadow was from Target down the road. I smear the lid with a cheap blue film. I know there’s a really good chance they won’t hire me but at least my eyes will sparkle nice.

I’m supposed to have a teaching job. I’m supposed to be happily married. I’m supposed to have a book. I’m supposed to have a full time gig. I’m supposed to be self-supporting. I’m supposed to have kids. I’m supposed to own something.
I’m supposed to know how to do this mainstream work thing. I don’t.

It’s been exactly one year since I’ve stripped. In that time, I’ve played a stripper in two movies and worked as a technical consultant for Jill Soloway’s dark comedic stripper film “Afternoon Delight,” but I have not danced for dough. I’ve not spread a man’s feet apart so I can squeeze in between them. I’ve not been on the pole.

I’m nervous. One look at my ID and they’ll turn me away. On tough girls, terror of rejection is dressed up like an over-smiling prom queen candidate, but never believe that. In my turquoise and pink spandex glory— I’m skinless. A part of me hopes this Motel 6 will be the end of the line but even the fart smells of our broccoli and hummus dinner on counter charms me. I focus on the task at hand: Eyelash glue.
$1.99 Sugar body spray also from Target.
My tax bill to the IRS=$337.00

Desert Showgirls is less than a mile away from our luxurious digs and like many places I’ve worked before, the parking lot is not full of cars—a bad sign.

We walk in the door like we’re really grateful to own the place and a cute blonde chick with rugged lines on her eyes puts her arms around my shoulders. “How old are you?” she asks. (I lie and tell her 40.)
“I’m forty-two,” she admits (three seconds from my age). I feel like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler when he knows better but does it anyway.

A big black guy younger than my nephew hands me a job application even though I just told him I worked here a year ago.

The blonde is taking her break with me. She looks older than forty-two but who am I to say.

“I made $250 on Thanksgiving just playing pool,” she crosses her arms. She must have kids and some dogs she rescued from the pound. I thought of all of the Thanksgivings, Valentine’s Days and Christmases I spent on the laps of strangers in clubs in San Francisco and that specific lonely ache of holiday sex work. Chasing the holiday spenders hoping for a big mint, but it never once was what I hoped for. It was always just a little more lonely than was reasonable.

And now. It’s Thanksgiving weekend and I’m dancing at a titty bar in the middle of the desert that attracts military guys from the base in 29 Palms and prehistoric golphers—completely in my element.

The black body builder dude did look at my ID and at me. Back at my ID. Back to me but he just shook his head and said I didn’t look my age at all.

The man returned my ID and took my filled out application while I watched the women dance on stage.

I have missed women’s bodies. How they uncoil and sashay on stage climbing the pole like savage hunters after blood in the ceiling. And customers are a place to mine stories, a place to fall into.

I sat with a woman who was so pretty like Heidi Klum. She had the word “Warrior” tattooed on her forearm so I got curious about it and waited for the story. Her boyfriend was short and charismatic with silver hair and had a gadget fixing business and he told me that I was exactly like him because I never give up and probably I had a bad childhood.

“I know you. You’re just like me,” he said. He sat very close to her and held her one free hand.

I wanted to tell him I’m not competitive, just hungry, but maybe that was his point. After all, I glanced at the strippers’ dances and made sure that I had more pen marked “X’s” than the other girls on the chart. The ones who had lots of “X’s” I studied hard for gesture and technique. Once we were are all little girls just doing our best, then things got ugly.

I didn’t want to hear about the man’s childhood or mine. I wanted to know about the “Warrior” on his Heidi Klum’s forearm. She got up to find the bathroom.

So when she was gone I asked him. The boyfriend swirled the gold liquid in his glass and leaned over so he was speaking directly into my ear and breathed jack and coke in my face. He told me a serial rapist guy who had killed 7 women abducted her when she was 19 and she was the only one who escaped. He told me that she had a daughter named August who didn’t know. I thought again about all of the little girls doing their best and things getting ugly like knives and projectile vomit and rape ugly.

She appeared again and sat down and crossed her Heidi Klum legs that were sweetly draped in a flow-y pant that looked more like a skirt. Maybe those things are called “skorts.” I wanted to hear the story from her, but I didn’t ask. She grinned the familiar sad girl grin and held her drink too tightly and I knew it was true. And when I danced for her I kissed her neck so softly that it’s possible she never even noticed she was kissed.

ANTONIA CRANE is the only person from Humboldt County who doesn’t smoke weed. She teaches creative writing to incarcerated teenagers in Los Angeles. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Salon, The Heroin Chronicles (edited by Jerry Stahl), The Rumpus, The Los Angeles Review, Black Clock, Slake, PANK, ZYZZYVA and other places. She wrote a memoir about the sex industry and her mother’s cancer called “SPENT” and hopes to find a home for it soon.

You can follow Antonia on:

TWITTER | FACEBOOK | WWW.ANTONIACRANE.COM | THE CITRON REVIEW

Re-Union

Posted on November 29, 2012 by ladycheeky

By biggirl4bigfun

We’re standing in front of his garage kissing like we’ve done many times before over the decades. It isn’t always here; we’ve made out in front of hotels, schools and libraries. But it’s familiar—his touch, his taste and I feel him starting to relent—to giving up his fight against our eventual coupling. This is the preliminary stand-off. We’ve been having these skirmishes since college. Because we aren’t a couple any longer, he thinks it’s ultimately wrong and I believe it’s forever right.

But I’m tired of always having to do the seduction. When we first got together, he went crazy with lust and I would use sex as a reward. I didn’t have to have it, so I could tease him relentlessly. Now I need sex and will do anything to get it from him, even if means dirty fighting like making sure he feels my rigid nipples as I accidently brush against him.

I have a mostly platonic relationship with the man I live with. He gave me permission to sleep with whomever I wanted outside the relationship as long as I never left him. We made this agreement a long time ago. I sense that he would like it to be null and void. But I need my every-so-often reunion sex with my college boyfriend and I don’t want to feel guilty about it.

It’s the fact that my ex fights it every time that makes me so wet. I make him powerless and I love that. I want to have one of those same tryst next year things and in the moment, pressed up against me, he does too.

We continue to kiss and touch there in the driveway. I can tell he is losing his desire to fight me and his lust is growing as his cock. I’m winning this battle of the flesh. Soon he will give up and let himself surrender to our mutual passion. He always does. The time he spends holding me off though is time we could be spending getting off.

During one of our reunions he tried to be adamant that we would not have sex and yet every night we ended up in bed together. He fucked me thoroughly but would not kiss me on the lips. To not get hurt by his actions, I fantasized that he was the manwhore and I was his Jane. It was his way of paying me back for being so stingy with my body earlier in our relationship and it made him feel (falsely) as if he had any control over our hunger for each other.

His cock is huge, beautiful and always wants me. I need to feel it inside me. I’m happy that most women do not know by looking at him about his cock or he would be too busy to reconnect with his old girlfriend. Not only does he have an amazing penis, he’s a genius at using it. What do they say about people who aren’t obviously hot? They try harder. And he gets even harder as he’s trying.

“We don’t have to have sex,” I lie. But our bodies came to an agreement long before now and there’s no stopping. We’ve got to get somewhere or we are going to be fucking in front of the house.

We miraculously make it into the overstuffed garage fully clothed. He slams me up against the washer and starts to touch my breasts, my face as his hand creeps down my pants. How can a disgusting garage be so erotic? Pulling out his oversized cock, he demands I suck it. I fall to my knees hoping to avoid a grease spot on the floor and take his almost hard dick into my mouth.

“You are my dirty girl” he growls. Yes, yes I am. Always.

It’s a good thing I’ve had practice sucking his cock because of its length and girth. Blowing him is not for the novice cock sucker. I can’t even get the whole thing in at once. I start by putting as much of the shaft in my mouth as I can. One of my hands is holding on to the base, the other is flat against his pelvis for balance. I lick the tip of his cock with quick jabs and then start to suck hard. Already in ecstasy he starts to furiously fuck my mouth. My moaning causes vibrations to bounce off his massive erection. He just gets more and more aroused.

I don’t care what happens in the future—this cock is mine and always will be. Normally I don’t enjoy cum but with him, I wish I could be bathed in it. I want him to coat my throat with his cum; I want to be baptized as his.

I remember our first movie date. As we sat in the darkened theatre he traced circles in the palm of my hand. Nothing has ever turned me on as much as that. It was the smallest of actions but so effective. He knows what works with me—a benefit of our on-going

connection.

He’s about to cum but I’m going to need more and I don’t want it to be bent over some old boxes marked “dishware.” We sneak into the house, careful to avoid his sister who is packing up her old bedroom. I feel like a teenager and that just makes it hotter.

He’s fast as he lays me down on the bed with my cunt hanging over the edge. He pushes my panties to the side, pulls out his hard cock and plunges in me. That first thrust is always the best. My pussy seems to mold itself around his shaft. We are the perfect fit. I’m wet, he’s stiff and it feels amazing. He is going at it fast and hard. His kisses cover my mouth and his hands grab my breasts, pulling at them. His attention is on every part of my body; every piece of flesh and every part of my spirit too.

Although I’m older and heavier, when I’m with him, I feel young. Our sexual chemistry is like a time machine, taking us back to the time where there was no recovery time needed and we could fuck six times a day. We were both beautiful and we are both beautiful now.

I’m just about to climax, when he turns me over and he fucks me doggie style. His hand is placed right where my neck meets my back, steadying himself as he continues to go in and out with that gigantic cock. I feel his sweat dripping on my back.

I start to cum but he gives me no time to recover. He has more to do. I’m flipped back on my back and I whisper “force me.” He understands immediately and pins my hands over my head with one hand, pries my legs apart with his leg, rips at the now dripping panties with his free hand and almost impales me with his huge erection. I nearly lose consciousness, it’s that intense.

We are joined, cunt to cock, hand to hand and heart to heart. In this moment our physical union is enough. As he starts to cum, he shouts my name, admitting his defeat; game, set and snatch.

You are my dirty girl. Yes, always but next time you do the seducing.

Big Girl 4 Big Fun is the author of the blog Tales From a Former Fat Slut .