If you've ever taken an erotica writing class with me, you've likely heard me quote from one of my favorite stories of the many hundreds I've published: "Chemistry" by Velvet Moore. It's about, yes, chemistry, as in labs and scientists, and it's in Orgasmic: Erotica for Women, which, even though it's about 25 women and their 25 different orgasms, is really "for everyone." It's also currently on sale for 99 cents on Kindle, to end any moment (it was supposed to end yesterday). It's also 99 cents on Google Play.
What I love so much about it is that it taps into an unusual fetish, portrays a woman of science who's hot for scientists, uses the senses, especially the sense of smell, and brilliantly takes us inside the mind of the narrator and her fetish. It jumps right into what she's all about and doesn't let up. Part of why Orgasmic is the model I use when editing anthologies, such as Best Women's Erotica 2016, which I'll be reading all the submissions for next week (deadline is June 1, writers!), is that it is so wonderfully varied. No, it doesn't have every possible way a woman could come; I don't have the space for that. But it looks at single women, coupled women, kinky women, queer women, and so many more. Just as the book as a whole is a model for me for what I aim to achieve as an editor, this story is a model I offer as one example of an exquisite erotic story.
Here's a snippet, and I hope you'll like it enough to check out the book. As I said, the 99 cent sale is probably ending very soon. You can also get it in paperback and audiobook narrated by Lucy malone. Here's a little snippet of what I love about the story. I hope you like it too:
From "Chemistry" by Velvet Moore:
The smell of science makes me horny.
I narrowly resisted shoving my hands down my pants and rubbing myself to oblivion during my niece’s science fair. My stomach dips with pleasure every time someone lights a match. Each July I’m aroused by the vapors of the noise-making novelty fireworks called “snappers.” Little do tricksters know that when they crack one on the pavement at my feet, I shiver out of excitement, not fear.
Smell is the sense tied most closely to human memory. So when I sense any use of potassium chlorate; a white, crystalline compound well stocked in science laboratories and often used for combustion; I remember how it feels to have the fire of orgasm sizzle its way through my body and melt a liquid path down my legs. The chemical’s odor singes my nostrils and flashes me back to the sensation of a chilly, marble countertop pressed against my back, to the press of fingers digging into my supple thighs, to the slick pressure of rounded glass slipping in and out.
And it’s what I remember most about him.
Most scientists that I’ve met fit the typical stereotypes. Most would rather analyze your genes than pry off your jeans. Yet I suspected that Michael Harrison was capable of much more than stripping me of my pants. With his wavy black hair, broad shoulders and Clark Kent glasses, I believed that stripped of his unassuming attire, he would have something surprising and heroically powerful bulging underneath.
I understood this the first time I shook his hand and caught the scent of chemicals trapped in his clothes and seared into his skin, a smell faint and tangy and far too interesting to be cologne, like the smell of your body after a lengthy swim in a freshly chlorinated pool. I imagined that if I should run my tongue along his perky nipples, my tongue would sizzle as though touched to the tip of a battery.
We needed a scientist to impress the hospital donors with a tour of the lab. I planned to find an excuse to use him.