RAW SEX: EROTICA WRITER - LANA FOX

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For those of you who tuned in to last weeks episode of Raw Sex, Our guest was erotica writer Lana Fox. As I mentioned on the show, I was first introduced to Lana's work around December of last year. Tamsin Flowers was doing a 12 days of erotica (or something to that effect) and each day she displayed a new piece of erotica by a different writer. For some reason, the day I landed on the website, Tamsin was displaying an excerpt from Femme Fetale, a story titled: Smart Folks Won't Screw Witless Girls, which happened to be Lana's work.

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I was sucked in to the style of writing, so detailed and thrilling. So many different elements that had my brain begging for more. So for this weeks blog, I wanted to share that excerpt with my listeners and Lana was kind enough to let me do that. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did.


Now, Elle wasn’t like my usual marks. For starters, she was sharp—the kind of woman who’d catch a thief like me. And by the time we were ready to split, she didn’t seem tipsy at all. So why did I hope to thieve from her? Well, here’s the pop psych: Although I may seem cocky, my self-esteem’s kinda low. I flunked out of school at 15 because I’m no academic. The only way I’ve ever felt “smart” is with cons and tricks and such. But this Elle wasn’t just gorgeous—she had more brains and wit than anyone I’d conned. If I could both bed her and steal from her, I’d feel cleverer than a fox! Because smart folks won’t screw witless girls.

Elle’s home, it turned out, was on the glitzy side of town—a tall, terraced house with a fierce, grey countenance composed of dark brickwork. Inside, there were artsy urns full of peacock feathers, not to mention wall-mounted photos of film stars like Ingrid Bergman and Lauren Bacall—ladies my Dad was into, ’til he died ten years ago. But the only woman I could look at was Elle, as she stood in the classy half-light of her living room. While she mixed me a drink, I watched her profile—her pouting lips, her sloping shoulders, the grief in her blue eyes, not to mention those phenomenal breasts and stockinged legs in stilettos. She passed me a glass of whisky, ice cubes tinkling, and raised her own to mine. “To sluts like us,” she said, with a smile I didn’t buy, before knocking back the liquor. I put my own glass down on the sideboard and took her unawares by grabbing hers, too, slamming it down, and pulling her face to mine. I felt her gasp of surprise as I pressed my mouth to hers, felt her whole body give as our tongues met. Then she leaned right onto me, her chest pressed to mine, her hands clawing my back, our bodies melding together. I’d never felt a lover so hungry. It was as if she was fighting for air. Besides, kissing her meant handling a dozen sensations—her soft mouth, her damp lips, the taste of liquor, the swelling breasts behind her layers—but when I finally walked her backwards toward the wall and slammed her against it, wet and hot and ready, my hips met hers and there it was.

The unmistakable shape of a hardening cock. 

I was so surprised that I pulled back for a moment, and as I reached out and pawed her skirt, checking that I wasn’t dreaming, the look on my face must have been priceless. “What’s this?” I asked, my pussy thirsty as hell.

“It’s mine,” she said. “Going to run now, are you?” 

“What?” Suddenly, I remembered what she’d said in the bar—that her husband had run off with a friend called “Pussy Galore”—and when I put two and two together, I saw that her husband had left cock for pussy. What a bastard. My anger pricked.

Elle said, “If you’re going, just go.” Her resigned stare settled on mine, as if to say How predictable, and suddenly, in her can’t-hurt-me wantonness, she was Ingrid Bergman, and I was Cary Grant in heels.

Down on my knees I went, running my hands down her body, feeling the rise of her breasts as she exhaled with relief, and I hitched up her skirt, way beyond her stocking tops, and found the prize itself. Within her black, silky panties with their red-lace trim was the outline of a small, stiff cock with a pair of tight, little balls beneath it.

Now, if you’ve never felt a cock through ladies’ underwear before, you’re missing out. Rubbing that smooth muscle through a kinky, silky layer is hot-hot-hot and then some. And to hear her purr above me, arching her back, her head thudding lightly against the wall, not to mention her cock hardening as I rubbed it through the silk, well, “hot” doesn’t do it justice. In a moment, I was unzipping her skirt and letting it fall round her ankles, and she was fumbling with my jeans, saying, “Jesus Christ, I need you.” I’d never had anyone say that they needed me before. I felt crushed by the longing in her and vital in ways I’d never felt. Soon, my jeans and briefs were off, and I was falling against her in all my trimmed glory, rubbing my sex against that silky material. 

Then, dear God, let’s not forget her tits.

A button pinged off as I tore her blouse from her, but neither of us said a word. We just panted and ground our hips even harder, the silk between us growing slippery. She pulled me onto her, then reached around to paw my buttocks, her mouth dipping back to mine and kissing me deeply. Then I felt her breasts behind her satiny bra and lowered my lips toward them. Oh, how I worshipped those pale breasts with their rosy-tipped nipples! I licked and bit and pawed and squeezed, until she was gasping for more, and then I was back on top of her, grinding against her perfect cock, as tendrils of hair fell from her chignon, and her cheeks flushed pink beneath her made-up face. Dear God, her moans were like the sweetest kind of torture, and her shivers of pleasure made me desperate to ride her. That’s why I pulled down her silky briefs, revealing that smooth, pale cock of hers.

She stood there, exposed, a maiden with a perfect cock. Breasts, cock, and perfect stockinged legs. 

And that’s when the whole scene changed.

You can read the whole story in Femme Fatale: Erotic Tales of Dangerous Women, which is available at Amazon, at Go Deeper Press, or Barnes & Noble.

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