A new erotic anthology pre-sanitized by corporate filters. Enjoy!
I think it’ll sell itself, but if you need more convincing, here’s an exciting and non-sexual excerpt that features no perverts or anything:
“Mrs. Jones?” Mr. Jones said to his wife of 20 years. “I think you forgot to lock the door behind yourself. Please correct that immediately.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, my husband, whom I am romantically in love with.” Mrs. Jones locked the bathroom door and then pulled her toothbrush from the medicine cabinet. “I wasn’t going to use the waste facilities, but I know an unlocked bathroom door might hint that we were going to engage in watersports or scat. Can you ever forgive me, oh love of my life?”
“I’ll try. Perhaps you can make it up to me by . . . .”
“Yes?” Mrs. Jones asked hopefully, fantasizing about rubbing his bare feet and possibly filing his corns. She gasped at her reflection in the mirror. Where did these pornographic thoughts come from? She hadn’t touched his feet out of socks in years, and it wouldn’t be happening tonight, either. Just for those naughty imaginings, she’d hold the mouthwash in well past the point it made her eyes water.
“Well, we could try to have another child, starting . . . tonight.” Mr. Jones’ voice carried even past the sound of her gargling.
“Mr. Jones!” she cried out, scandalized at such a suggestion. “You promised me last time that you’d never bring such a tawdry thing up again.”
“I’m sorry, dear. See what television brings a person to? I was watching the Food Network all day, and those women chefs in those starched white uniforms, covering everything up to their necks . . . that was just too much for me. But I still want to.”
Mabel Jones realized she wanted to, as well, mostly because she knew they shouldn’t. She joined her husband in the bed, making sure that her ankle-length flannel nightgown didn’t ride up as she slipped between the sheets.
“Mr. Jones, do you think we can manage doing this without being too . . . sexual?”
“Please don’t say that word. And yes, I’m sure we can find a way. We’re resourceful middle-aged people who are fully-covered and in love. What could be better?”
“You’re right, dear. Just be sure to turn the light off, and don’t touch bare skin anywhere but absolutely necessary. This is so exciting!”
Mr. Jones turned the light off. “Now, my wife, I will insert my relatively stiff penis into your birth canal, once you reach a certain level of inner lubrication. Just tell me when. Then I’ll move just enough to bring about ejaculation, and then we’ll both shower–separately, of course!–and sleep with our backs to each other. Sound good, baby?” He gasped, realizing his slip.
“Baby? Oh my God, Mr. Jones. You’re a pedophile!”
It took some time for him to calm her down and convince her that he didn’t want to have sex with babies, even though he had stupidly called her one. After a few hours, she gave in. She was so excited by the notion of passionless, practically motionless sex that she was soon ready again and puttering to go! I’m going to hell, she thought.
“I think I’m ready, Mr. Jones. It should be physiologically comfortable for us to engage in coitus now.”
“Oh, you and that dirty talk, Mrs. Jones!” As he began the maneuvers required to keep them mostly covered while exposing their shameful parts, he said, “By the way, Mrs. Jones, I’ve invited my brother to hold the candle and make sure we don’t do anything remotely sexy, inappropriate or forbidden. Let me just light it . . . .”
He lit the bedside candle and handed it to his brother. Mrs. Jones, who watched this closely, shrieked.
“I saw that, you–you deviants! Your fingers brushed the other Mr. Jones’ fingers as you passed the candle to him, and I think it titillated you! That’s incest. I want a divorce.” She sobbed into layers and layers of flannel.
Both men sputtered and protested for a moment, claiming that they hadn’t enjoyed the brief touch of fingers and weren’t in an incestuous relationship.
“Prove it,” Mrs. Jones said.
“All right. We’ll have to engage in double penetration with you, Mrs. Jones, not-touching each other, but sexually appreciating only your body during the act, both anally and vaginally, with no regard for each other.”
“Fair enough,” Mrs. Jones said, rolling onto her side with a sigh, already feeling a bit tired from all the lovin’. But oh how she loved that middle-aged, husband of hers, whom she would never dream of calling Daddy or tying up or even teasing in a slightly sexy way. Ever.
“Here we go, Mrs. Jones. Lie back and think of corporate America.”