A Stream of Erotic Consciousness
This is an anthology of 21 short stories spanning a number of genres.
The title of this collection, Water for the Thirsty, is meant to convey that eroticism is fundamental to our human lives. Whether expressed in the physical world or not, the erotic imagination is cleansing, hopeful, and healing. There, we are safe. In that space, we are exactly where we wish to be at that moment. From that center, we can reconnect with the elements of life and renew our higher selves.
This collection contains a number of perspectives: gender, sexual orientation, point-of-view, relationship context, timeline, and perhaps, even reality. There will likely be stories here that you will be inclined to skip. Before you do, please consider this; out in the wide world, there are endless sources of erotica, easily found, from any given orientation. When we seek this nourishment only by category, we narrow our imaginations and, therefore, our existence. This book is a water-tasting; its flow derives from theme rather than category. I hope that you enjoy floating down the stream, spilling over the waterfalls, and drinking it all in.
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Excerpt from Water for the Thirsty © Copyright 2024 E.B. Barrett
Gun Hand
If you’re trained to never, ever, let anyone approach you in your blind spots, then, when you choose to allow it, your limbic system shudders, fights back. In a good way. This isn’t something she has ever told an escort service.
Ever since Janny, she doesn’t get involved, even five years out. Iraq changed things. The merc business was always dangerous, they knew the risks. Or thought they did. Throughout her career, killing had been expected but distasteful, and she never took a life off mission. On mission, it felt justified. They grimly called it a hard day at the office.
The two of them seemed unstoppable. Always back to back, fighting for each other. Janny knew about her blind spots. An armor-piercing round to one brain changed all that. Human ingenuity rendered helmets all but useless several wars ago. How could they have forgotten that?
She sighs restlessly, looking out over the city, flexes her gun hand, wishes she had stopped at the range first. She can’t remember back to when handling firearms made her nervous, and Janny’s death didn’t change that. Reflex bypasses thought, emotion.
Today, it’s to be a new hire. Breaking one in means less relaxation for her, Cary’s extended unavailability an inconvenience. She likes Cary even though his macho image chaps her ass. It took time for him to cut the suave act with her, to realize the waste of it, but he always makes her come and he has a creative streak. She thinks about last time. The apartment hallway, his fingers. Fast, unusual. Afterward he gave her a slow, deep leg massage and she fell asleep, woke up with him spooning her, inside her, just waiting. He’s been worth the money and the ridiculous gifts. But even Cary hasn’t figured out her most secret quirks.
Every so often, she realizes that these men must share notes about her and it makes her feel ashamed. She pushes that away. She knows about being a hired-gun, being good at it, taking pride. She shares notes with other bodyguards and is always respectful of the client. This is no different. To disrespect the client is to lower oneself.
She pretends she doesn’t hear the door. The first time with a new hire is always in a hotel—she insists. The unknown, well, that works on a different level. Not her favorite, she doesn’t chase it, but it’s something to compensate for the hassle. She sips her icy soda. She never was a drinker, except for the bender after the bullet. The lost time. She lets the ice rattle just a little in the glass, giving away where she is if he’s listening for it.
Despite her tipoff, it’s a genuine surprise when long, pale hands appear on either side of hers on the railing and she yips a little. “You took your shoes off,” she says accusatorily, glad she didn’t drop the glass over the railing.
“You heard me come through the front door,” he replies. He has a deep, steady voice, but she shrinks from it, knows right away that Mona has disregarded her over-30 instructions.
“I’m calling it off,” she says, softly, “Sorry, I don’t do college guys.”
He chuckles, equally softly. His body nudges up against her backside and his nose grazes behind her ear. She sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m well compensated either way, Ryka,” he says roughly. “But I’d rather stay. Your mind and your ass—they’re both exciting.”
He’s hard, and now, she’s wet.
“What could you possibly know about my mind,” she says, flatly, resisting the response she wants to give.
“Plausible deniability aside, your current client is a frequent BBC headliner. So, let’s take inventory. You knew I’d be on time, of course. Mona specified punctuality of military precision, but you weren’t anywhere near the door. You let me know where you were on purpose with the ice in your glass.” He pauses.
His nose is brushing along her neck and she suppresses a delighted shudder. She doesn’t grace him with acknowledgment.
He takes a precocious liberty, arms wrapping around her, thumbs brushing her in passing, and then returning and circling because her nipples have risen in response. His lips find her neck, not kissing, skating along. His hips shift just a little, reminding her, settling himself along the groove of her ass. Then, he tips her chin back. Her head drops lightly against his shoulder and he kisses her, soft but open. Keeps on kissing her.
She wants him now, fast and out of control with more afterward, but she gives him no encouragement. His hands slide down and under the sundress, one spreads on her belly, the other slips past elastic and dips into wetness, then up gently, to stroke her where it matters. She gushes a little and has a second or two to hate that she left the condoms by the bed. The belly hand leaves. She hears a crinkle sound in a pocket. His lips pull away. She still can’t see his face at this angle. He bites the wrapper, holds it. A zipper sound, a tear.
He’s stroking her, managing the rest one-handed. She smiles because he can’t see her do it. He pushes her forward with his chest, against the rail. Goose bumps. And then he’s going in, past panties nudged aside and her knuckles are whitened along the railing. His breath gusts fast and hot along her temple. His legs brace outside hers and he works her roughly, letting her get a sense of how well he fills her and then pushing sensation past specifics. Somehow, the swirling fingers don’t stop. She tips her own chin back this time looking for his mouth. He gives it.
