Author's notes:

Where is art, where is erotica, where is smut, where is porn?

For me, art is something at moves you. Art is legitimate. It may be offensive, it may be a hit-or-miss proposition, but it is something that touches you when it hits, heart or adrenal gland.

Erotica is about heart, about people, about feelings. This may be "how many times can Sian experience la petite mort" on the surface, but I'm hoping to work something into it about people, love and sensation. Oh, and my usual power and responsibility thesis.

Smut is about the physical. Measurements, actions, reactions. One person opined that it is something you are ashamed to admit to anyone that you enjoy. If that's true, the the contrapositive is also syllogistically true: if you can think of one person with whom you would not be ashamed to admit to enjoying something, then it's not smut.

Porn is smut without any pretense of being art, enlightening, illuminating, whatever. It is dark, consuming, numbing. Well, not literally. But it numbs the soul to other people, to other hearts.

As for this, I say it's erotica. (I also say it's NC-17, but that may well be waving a red flag. We'll see.)

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



Sian had no idea of neither the club's name nor location. She had no need for either. It was unlike any other, it was something that arose out of the aether for her and Marc. None other needed know about it. None other could even absorb the whole of the experience. It pulsed with energy, the lights, the pyro, the stages, the poles. The DJs never let go of their synergy, one dealing out techno, the other meshing into it urban, and a third countered with trance / downtempo. The bar hummed as well, with the barkeeps putting their dexterity on display as well as their expansive repertoire.

Energy. Sian felt it coursing through her with every thump of the speaker, ever step of her heel. The weight of every longing stare rested on her, but she bore it gladly, thinking of how they were all jealous of Marc. She saw the awareness in his eyes as well, how he met those ooglers gaze and winked, evidencing his pride in her.

The little black dress grew damp and sheathed her. Every so often, a hand would brush her rump, then freeze. She'd smile and gaze up at Marc, glad that he inspired her to discard her underthings, but his attention would already be on he that owned that hand. Nothing angry, nothing jealous. Simply proud, proud and smug.

===

The drinks, the dancing, the heat of the place, it all added up. At some point, Sian neared collapse, and begged Marc to accompany her to one of the dark booths surrounding the dance floor. The leather barstool seat at first was ice-slick, but quickly grew sticky on her bare skin. Still, to her aching legs, this was heaven. Her thighs, finally allowed respite, glowed. They glowed from the tension getting here, from the exertions of this place. It was a happy ache, the feeling of accomplishment.

"I can't believe it, I can't believe it!" She kept repeating, her cheeks aching from laughter and smiles.

"What, this place?" His brow shone from his keeping pace with her, and his smile matched hers.

"No. I mean, yes. Of course, I can't believe this place. Look at them! It's amazing!"

"I told you, didn't I?" At this, his eyes gleamed.

"Yes. That's what I can't believe, that I almost turned you down!"

Marc paused, narrowing his eyes. "To be honest, I couldn't either."

"What?"

"Nothing. I just was thinking back."

"To the bank?" Her excitement dimmed slightly as she matched his thoughtful demeanor and tone.

He stopped, forced a smile and kissed her. As before, as always, it set her heart aflame, her body sizzling, her mind seared and blind. But this time, it did not consume her completely.

She held the kiss, but was the first to break it. "I remember ... I don't remember saying yes."

"You did, little one. You did with your eyes. Filled with ennui and desperation, lonely in the sea of people."

The back of her mind glowed with pleasure at the nickname. It fanned through her consciousness. "Wait... did I?"

He kissed her again, pulling her full measure from her. Almost.

Again, she nudged him free. Not at first, not as fast. Her hand was seeming at odds with her arm, unsure to grab his silk shirt or push him back. In the end, her fingers grasped at nothing as her wrist actually separated them. "No... I'm sure I didn't. I think I didn't. I had something ... someone -- Aaaaah!"

His hand sought her, found her, speared her. She shuddered and convulsed, hugging him. "Please... no. Not here. They'll see."

"No, pet. Everyone does it. No one notices." His hand moved in perfect time with his tongue. Her hindbrain felt the words a hairsbreadth faster than her consciousness heard them. His voice was cocoa butter, smooth, dark, creamy and thick. What the sensation alone framed, the voice filled.

Her hands locked behind his back, crushing him against her. Her legs trapped his hand, at once trying to tamp down his reach into her soul, and also to envelope it, to accept all of his attentions.

When he wasn't speaking, his hand moved to the music. The steady beat of the current DJ's mix assaulted her, sensation threatening to drown out awareness, each bass thump exploding in her chest and being echoed lower still.

The mix changed hands, from the steady boom-boom-boom of trance to the staccato tat-tat-tat of techno. She launched up, so close, so close. Desperate eyes locked to his, so cold, so black. "Please... not here... not like this."

"Oh, yes, pet. Here. Like this. In front of all these people, who will never know what they're missing."

"Please... please no." Tears broke free of lashes, scorched paths down her cheeks.

The mix stepped up tempo, and she flung her head into his shoulder, gnashing at her lip to keep the wolves at bay.

Faster still it went. Fast still flew his fingers, so deep in her, they may as well have strummed her soul itself. Her pleas became a whine, in perfect tune to the synthesizer punctuating the melody.

It built on itself. The beats came one after the other. Music. Strokes. Heart. Her fingernails dug into the backs of her hands, so tightly locked they were behind his neck. Her mouth was full with a mouthful of his shirt.

It passed. The song ceased. She relinquished hold on him, neck and shoulder. He relaxed hold on her, back and nethers. She backed off and smiled, teasing him. "Thought you had--"

The song restarted, double frenzy. As one, so did his hands. The one down low dug deep into her, too deep for her walls. The one at her back moved to her neck, sealing his lips to hers and drank her siren's song as the abyss claimed her once more.