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Tight Security

25 Tuesday Sep 2012

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So I had been out of work for what seemed like for-fucking-ever when I finally landed a job at JFK as a security guard in the parking structures. It’s not the best job in the world, but it’s a steady paycheck and it’s not like the work is hard. It’s a lot of walking around and keeping an eye out for suspicious activity. Of course anyone planning on doing anything bad is already suspicious himself, so he’s not doing it when I get there, but whatever, man. I don’t care. Money is money at this point.

The other guys who’ve been doing this a lot longer have some fucking ridiculous stories about the stuff they’ve caught people doing in the parking garage. Hot stuff, too. Seriously fucked up shit, in fact; but then if you could actually managed to get it up in that cold, gray concrete car zoo that smells like piss and exhaust fumes, you’d have to be a freak.

At least that’s what I thought up until last week.

I’m walking around, doing my usual rounds, and not seeing much of anything going on. It was chilly that day, it had been drizzling most of the morning so the wet tires were squealing more than usual as they turned the corners. If you’ve ever been in a parking garage on a wet day, you know what I mean. It sounds like someone’s stepping on a cat, and after awhile, it’s all you can hear.

The noise must be the reason I didn’t hear them at first, or why they didn’t hear me coming. I turned the corner and saw a guy out there with his lady friend. Her eyes were closed and her head was back, and at first I couldn’t quite see what was going on. But I got a step closer and caught sight of one luscious, creamy tit hanging out there in the cold. The guy leaned close and took that sweet, hard nipple in his mouth and I was all, “HELLO.”

Now, I knew I should get in there and break it up. As soon as I knew what they were up to, I should have stopped it. But her face was so beautiful. Her mouth was open slightly and she was breathing hard, and she would lick her lips making them red and shiny. I could tell that she was so turned on that she didn’t care who was looking, and before I knew it, I was rock hard. My cock was straining against my zipper and I had to reach down and adjust a bit.

I know it’s wrong, but I slipped behind one of the big, concrete support pillars and shielded myself behind a nearby Suburban. I watched the guy as he slipped a hand down her pants, and I could tell just by the way she squirmed and moaned that he found her clit and was going to town on it. He was fingering her like a violin and she was going fucking nuts.

She had her hands all over his crotch, fumbling with the button, and I have to tell you, mine throbbed in sympathy. I reached down and stroked myself through my polyester uniform pants and thought I’d cum right then and there. She was rubbing him through his pants, humping his hand, and when she opened her sweet mouth and sucked his tongue, I couldn’t stand it anymore. My mouth was dry and my cock was so hard it hurt. I went to unzip my pants and rub one out, but my nightstick banged against the side of the Suburban and made a huge, metallic bang.

Her eyes flew open and I didn’t have much of a choice at that point. I cleared my throat and walked up and hoped to hell they couldn’t see my dick was at full attention. “Everything okay over here?” I asked, trying to look imposing and not like a kid in a costume with a raging boner.

It must have worked, because he turned around, yanking his hands out of her cunt so fast I could see her pussy juice still shining on his fingers. He yanked the tails of his flannel shirt down and stuffed his hands in his pockets, but I could see that he was as hard as I was, and his cock was at least as big. When I looked up, the girl had zipped her pants and I caught sight of that beautiful, big tit as it disappeared inside her sweater. She was blushing and shaking a little and in my mind I could see how hot she’d be wrapped around my cock, her legs tight around my waist as I drilled her up against her boyfriend’s truck. Her tits would be bouncing around and she’d scream my name as she came…

I shook my head and stammered something about them having to do that somewhere else, and they nodded guiltily. I think she even called me “sir.” I walked away, but I had to look back over my shoulder. She looked every bit as hot as she had before I’d interrupted and I hoped they’d take their chances and finish up, but they caught me looking and got into his truck.

I heard them leave, and I knew they were off the floor when the tires of his truck cat-squealed on the wet concrete. I stopped walking and leaned against a minivan to catch my breath and compose myself. I couldn’t remember the last time I was that turned on. My dick felt ready to explode.

I looked around quickly, and seeing no one, I slipped between the van and a black sedan and unzipped my pants. I pulled my cock out and grabbed it, stroking it hard. “Oh God,” I said, and my voice echoed and bounced around the cars in the enclosure. I bit my lip and ran my hand through the spunk that was already drooling out of the tip and started milking my cock for all it was worth. Every shriek of tires made me jump a little and I hammered away at my dick, scared of being caught, scared of losing my job, scared of being arrested for indecent exposure, but nowhere near scared enough to stop.

I came harder than I ever had before. My balls tightened up in the cold air of the garage and I had to lean on the car so that my legs wouldn’t give out under me. My cum shot out in long, white curving arcs and splattered on the tinted windows of the shiny black car. “Oh, God,” I said again, both from the exquisite, throbbing, pounding release of my orgasm and because I realized I’d left slimy gobs of my DNA all over a brand new Mercedes.

Embarrassed and ashamed, and not having anything to clean it up with, I tucked my sticky, still-hard cock back in my pants and got the hell out of there as fast as I could, looking all around and hoping no one saw me.

I didn’t think to check inside the car, though. And in this story, that’s where the fine line between really bad luck and fortunate accident is.

In Him

20 Thursday Sep 2012

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The candles flickered and danced, casting light and shadow over her flawlessly smooth skin. Her bare legs were spread slightly as she knelt next to him, her plump thighs creamy in the amber glow. He ran his fingers lightly through the damp tangle of curls, teasing her with a whisper soft touch, watching as her full hips thrust to meet his hand, seeking greater contact and sighing as he withdrew.

She took his cock in her hand and stroked it lightly, her touch as soft as his, her teasing deliberate and slow. She lowered her mouth to him, pressing her lips against his cock. He breathed in deeply as she parted her lips with a soft click and flicked her tongue over the tender tip. The hard points of her nipples grazed his skin, making the hairs rise wherever she touched.

She took him into her mouth, wetting his cock and stroking the shaft with her hand. He ran his hands through her silken hair and tugged gently, making her moan and take him deeper. His hips thrust against her, fucking her willing mouth. He felt her hand slide softly over his balls, high and tight against his body, and her sharp nails rake through his thick hair and scratch seductively over the soft skin. He spread his legs slightly, inhaling sharply again as her strong fingers slid past his balls and over his ass, following the natural curve of his body to the sensitive, tight opening of his ass. Her cool finger pressed against him, massaging the sensitive spot. He spread his legs wider, submissive beneath her, watching as her head bobbed, her blue eyes looking up into his.

She drew her mouth up the length of him, letting the head go with a pop and with a knowing smile, ran her tongue down the length of his slippery shaft. He moaned at the feeling of her mouth pressed against his balls, feeling a shiver go up his spine as her warm breath stirred the thick hair at the base of his cock. She nuzzled him, kissing him, running her lips and tongue over him, nipping at him gently and making him squirm anew.

She pushed his legs apart and back and ran her tongue over his asshole. A shudder of pleasure coursed through him as her strong, slick tongue breached his opening and slid inside him. He grabbed the bed clothes, clenching the sheets in his fists as she probed him deeply, fucking his ass with her tongue. Her hand was firm on his cock, stroking him with deep even strokes that matched her busy mouth, and when she pressed her lips against him and sucked, he exhaled deeply, the only words he was able to manage was a breathless “Oh, baby…”

He wanted more.

She knelt between his legs and leaned into him. Her belly and breasts pressed against him and he ran his hands over every square inch of her. She stretched out beneath his busy hands as she reached for the drawer of the nightstand. He turned his head to see what she was retrieving, and when he saw the dildo grasped her fist, he felt his cock twitch with anticipation.

She slid back on her heels, running her lips along the length of his body, depositing kisses here and there, paying a bit of sweet attention to his already-bursting cock before leaning back and parting her thighs. She held the dildo like a cock—firmly, jutting away from her pelvis. The base curved upwards and flared into a thick, tapered bulb. She looked into his eyes and pressed the bulb against her pussy, parting the plump lips and sliding it against her aching clit. She teased herself with it, opening her legs wider so that he could see the deep pink inner folds shining with her own desire and passion.

The base slipped in easily and he watched as her cunt was filled with the thick base, spreading his legs unconsciously in anticipation as she held the long shaft that curved up from her curly nest of hair, looking so very much like a real cock. She stroked it like it was part of her, and he knew that with every move of her hand, the thick base moved deep inside her, and the ridges on the inside of the curve were rubbing against her hard clit. Without taking his eyes off her, he reached in the drawer and handed her a small bottle of lube. She smiled and let a slippery drizzle of it run over her fingers and the end of her cock.

Again, she stroked the dildo, making it shine, fucking herself with it. Her breath quickened, and she reached down with a shining hand and ran it over his ass. Her slick middle finger slipped easily inside him, making him moan. He brought his hips up to meet her hand, watching as a thick, milky gob of pre-cum oozed from the tip and caught in his hair.

She added a finger, widening him further, not satisfying him but making him ache to be filled completely. She stroked him slowly and deeply, seeing his need grow. His cock was purple and throbbing and he was afraid she was going to make him cum just like that. He needed that cock inside him, so he pleaded with her.

“Fuck me.”

She slid her fingers out of his ass and leaned forward, guiding the head of her cock to his ass. Her full breasts swayed as she teased his ass with the head, pressing against the tight hole and easing the head past the strong muscles.

He groaned as she spread him wide, opening his ass and filling it with inch after inch of hard cock. Her hands were on his thighs, holding him firmly as she entered him, sinking into him deeply, not stopping until he could feel her pubic curls against his ass. Again, he pleaded with her, needing to be fucked, wanting to see her tits bounce as she thrust against him.

“Fuck me, baby.”

Slowly she pulled out, letting him feel every delicious inch. The pleasure showed on her face as she moved; her cheeks were flushed and her breath was coming faster. She leaned in, easier this time as the dildo filled his ass. Her hips set a steady motion, thrusting into him, her smooth skin meeting his with a muffled slap. Slap. Slap.

He reached down and grabbed his cock, hard and hot in his hand. His fingers stroked the sensitive skin near the head furiously as her speed increased. Her tits swayed and bounced with every thrust. She pushed his legs further apart, drilling into him as deeply as she could go.

He felt his body crescendo and with a soft grunt of pleasure, he reached his peak. The cum boiled up from his balls and spurted out in hot jets, shooting over his stomach and chest, and he exhaled deeply as she stopped moving, allowing his body to process the bliss coursing through him.

Gently, she pulled out, feeling him shudder with spent pleasure. She leaned back and eased the dildo out of her cunt and standing, walked up the bed and straddled his face. Greedily he pulled her to him, burying his face in her wet pussy, sucking and licking at it, making her buck and writhe. He held her hips and focused on her pleasure, working her hard clit like a tiny cock, using his tongue inside her in the way he knew she liked best.

Her juices ran down his chin and he felt a thin trickle make its way down his neck. She grabbed the headboard and cried out as he made her cum, swallowing hard and fast to keep up with her. She slumped beside him, spent and panting, and kissed the lips that were still shining and musky with her juices.

“Thank you, babe,” he said.

“I love you,” she replied.

The Next Morning

19 Wednesday Sep 2012

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This is a sequel to the short story, “In Ms. B’s Bunk“.

“Do you really have to leave?”

Her head peeked around the shower curtain and she smiled at me, her eyes still heavy-lidded from lack of sleep. Her bed-tousled hair was sexy and I wanted to run my hands through it, pulling her close again, feeling her lips on mine. But the drive was a long one, and I was late getting started as it was.

“Unfortunately,” I replied, closing my eyes and tipping my face into the spray, letting the hot water soak my hair and wash the sleep out of my foggy, fuzzy brain. The curtain fell back into place with a wet whisper and I heard the splash of her feet on the tub floor behind me. In an instant, her arms were around me, holding me close, her soft, warm body pressed tightly to mine.

Her hands flitted over my skin, cupping my breasts and tugging gently at the nipples that had grown hard at the sound of her voice. My body had already learned how to respond to her, trained over hours of touching, stroking and kneading. I melted into her, unable and unwilling to resist the touch of her bare skin on mine. Her lips were soft on my shoulder, kissing me in a trail soft as butterfly footprints to my neck, to the sensitive spot behind my earlobe that made shivers run up and down my spine all night long. “It’s going to be awhile before you can come back,” she reminded me in a low voice, her breath warm on my ear.

It was going to be a long time before I would feel her knowing hands on my body again, a long time before I’d hear her soft voice whispering sweet, sexy, dirty words in my ear. It would be a long time before I would feel her precious lips on mine, make her nipple grow hard in my mouth, taste the musky sweetness of her pussy on my tongue. It made my heart ache, and my clit burn.

The snap of a plastic bottle opening brought me back to reality, and I breathed deeply the smell of coconut as her strong fingers worked the shampoo into a thick lather and massaged my scalp. I leaned my head back, letting her wash my hair. Life was so easy with her in control. Part of me wanted to stay and let her take care of me, but there were kids at home who needed me, babies who needed their hair washed, and a husband expecting to put his hands where hers had been. There were people who needed me to take care of them.

The soap ran down my body in thick, white streams, making my skin slick and slippery. She turned me around and I tipped my head back into the spray, closing my eyes against the stinging lather. Her hands were on me again, sliding around the curves of my ass and pulling me close to her. Her soft breasts pressed against mine and I grabbed them hungrily.

Right now she needed me, and for the moment, I was hers.

I gave into the desire. I ran my hands through her hair, feeling it silky between my fingers, pulling her mouth to mine. I tasted her hungrily. In her soft lips still swollen from lovemaking and in her searching tongue, all the passion we had shared, and all the pent-up longing and long-distance teasing before that, and the sweet ache of not knowing when she would be mine again mingled in pulsing currents between us.

I slid my hand between her legs and parted her lips, stroking her clit. She was so ready for me. I pressed her against the shower wall, letting the hot water wash over our bodies. She was slick and tight as I slid into her, hitting her most sensitive spots and making her arch into my hand. With my free hand I played with the silver barbell through her nipple, tugging it gently and making her moan into my open mouth. “What am I going to do when you’re gone?”

I didn’t answer her with words. I didn’t know how to say that she should savor this pleasure and store it up so she could pull it out when she was feeling alone. I kissed her sweet lips and used my hands the way she’d taught me, guiding me patiently over her pleasure centers, showing me what feels good to her over and over again until we slept in each other’s arms.

I no longer needed a map. Our first time–my first time–was far behind me, and I wanted to make this beautiful woman come over and over again. Or at least one more time. I stroked my fingers inside her, curling them deep within, feeling her clench around me. Her breath was shallow and fast, and her hips jerked against me. I needed to taste her again.

I pulled my fingers out of her and she sighed, opening her eyes, waiting breathlessly for me.

I put them in my mouth and tasted her, and she groaned as I smiled.

I knelt before her, running my hands over her curves, trying to memorize every inch of her soft, precious skin. I teased the little nest of curls between her legs, watching intently as she spread her legs for me and put one foot up on the side of the tub. Her shiny pink slit parted, and the silver loop through her plump nether lip beckoning to me. I kissed it and felt her shudder, and I let my lips linger on her sensitive clit for just a minute, before parting the rosy folds with my tongue and tasted her in earnest.

Her hands were on my head, caressing me as I sucked her sweet pussy, licking it, stroking her hard, berry-like clit with my flattened tongue. She was moaning with every breath, pressing me to her, coming too quickly.

I slid my fingers back inside her and she groaned. “Just let go, baby,” I told her, working her cunt hard, probing her deeply. My tongue and lips danced on the center of her pleasure, recalling her gentle direction and no longer needing it. She was mine, and I was going to make her come, make her tremble in my hands and hold her as she spiraled out of control, if only for a blessedly brief time.

My own cunt was swollen with desire and my clit throbbed painfully. I pressed my thighs together, the taste of her juices running over my tongue and down my arm bringing me to the edge. I needed to feel her come for me first. I slipped a third finger inside her, spreading her wider and making her moan and thrust against me again.

“I don’t want to,” she said, her voice husky with desire, shaking her head side to side, even as her hands urged me to continue. “I don’t want it to end.” But it was too late. Her last word dissolved into a cry as she came, her cunt spasming around my finger. Deep contractions and a warm gush of fluid in my mouth, hands in my hair, her leg around my shoulders, pulling me into her center.

Her eyes flashed under heavy lids, and I stood, but she turned away from my kiss. “Don’t,” I said, cupping her chin in my hand and kissing her, letting her taste herself on my lips. Her tears were salty as they fell and I kissed them away. “It’s not forever,” I said, holding her close, letting the water wash over us. “This is just the beginning of our story, love.”

Where Does This Stuff Come From?

18 Tuesday Sep 2012

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I get asked that question more times that you’d believe. “How do you think of this shit?” My inspiration comes, as I think it does for a lot of people who find themselves inspired to do, say, create, write, paint, craft, sculpt, or whatever something: in a sudden flash and usually out of nowhere.

One of my favorite stories I’ve ever written is “Dirty Little Secret” that’s published in Not Safe for Work. The working title for that story was “Ice Cream” until I actual compiled the anthology of short stories and was putting it into print. The entire inspiration for that story came from an exchange in an online forum in which an ice cream cone was mentioned.

Ice cream. Those two words were the catalyst for a whole story. Honestly, nothing more.

Obviously there’s more to making it into a full-blown story than that. Once the inspiration hits me, it sits at in the center of my thoughts not unlike a magnet, and bit by bit, ideas drift by and are attracted like bits of stray bits of metal. The ice cream story started small, as little more than a stroke piece. But as I finished writing the first section, published it, and stepped away from it, I realized that the magnetic inspiration that sat at the core was still attracting ideas. I thought the story was told, but it wasn’t. The characters had more to say, so I opened the file and kept writing.

The second time I stepped away from it, I felt like the story was told, and the resulting story of a man who in a moment of crisis walks away from everything he holds dear resolves itself in a way that was true to the characters. I felt like my characters had both grown and discovered something about themselves. The central idea had stopped attracting, so to speak.

It’s also one of the sexiest stories I’ve ever written, I think, not just because these are two people who’ve just completely given themselves over to fucking each other, but because of the turmoil going on inside his head. He’s a complex character and I think it’s why his story garners so much response. I think it’s why people are sympathetic to him even though he’s cheating on his wife. They can relate to how he feels. He’s very real.

He is, to be clear, no one man I know. Yeah, he shares attributes in common with real people that I know well. They’ve let me inside their heads by being friends and lovers and companions. I know how they think because they’ve told me. They’ve shown me. That character is his own man, but the way he feels about his life, the way he deals with his angst, the things he needs from the much younger woman in the story–those all come from different places. They are different bits of metal drawn to that central core.

One of the comments I hear a lot is that my stories are so real, but with the tagged on assumption that I draw heavily from my own life. Obviously, I do to an extent. I do write what I know.

For instance, I wrote the short story “Falling” out of thin air. The inspiration for that story was an ad on a website that had a picture of a rumpled bed. It flashed by as ads do, largely unnoticed. But the image that barely registered in my conscious brain became that magnet. And ideas floated by and grabbed on. I don’t know what order they took or how an innocuous picture of a bed made me think of two people being in it that shouldn’t be.

Even the imagery of falling means something different to me than it did to the people who read it first. I pictured two people on the edge of something big. Something life-changing. Two people having to make the decision to let themselves go, to give into their lust for each other, to just…fall, and damn the consequences.

I didn’t mean falling in love, and I was surprised when that was the reaction I got. I had to go back and re-read it again with different eyes to see if that’s actually what my words said.

I meant it was two people not necessarily in love giving in physically to a craving for each other.

I could see how a reader could assume deeper feelings, though. I thought to clarify it, but decided not to when I realized those beta-readers were bringing their own thoughts and feelings to the story. My experience, my fantasies, my own moral compass aren’t the only driving force. I steer the ship, but the readers all follow their own currents.

But that story brought up a lot of questions, especially from my husband. We had a long talk about just this sort of thing: where do my ideas come from? Is this about someone in particular? Am I having feelings for another man that he should know about?

The answers were no, it’s not about anyone in particular and no, I don’t have any feelings for any other man but him.

But I can imagine those feelings. I can articulate those feelings and apply them to characters I create. I can do those things because I’m a writer.

It has (and does, I guess) beg the question if my stories are in any way me working out my own personal fantasies.

The answer is yes, and no.

Sometimes I find myself working out some of my own issues in my writing. But more often than not, it’s just my imagination hard at work. Do I want to cheat on my husband? Hell, no. But can I imagine it? Hell, yes. I get in my own head and think, in that situation, how would I feel? What would I do? What kind of emotions would I be feeling? It’s not hard. And there’s an honesty to that kind of writing. A lot of the fantasy I write is just that–pure fantasy. Not some deep-seated desire or any sense of longing for anything in particular, just a matter of asking myself “Can you imagine?” and finding the answer is, “Well…yeah. I can.” I won’t lie. There are other men I find sexually attractive. I mean, just because I’m on a restricted diet doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu.

Right now I’m working on a story that’s got so much metal stuck to it that I can barely see the magnet at the core. I’ve started writing it three times now, trying to weed through all the bits that have stuck on and finally think I’m moving it in a direction where it will highlight the more substantial pieces I want to get at.

The basic idea that was kicking around in my head, the inspiration magnet, was the idea of a long-distance romance. I was drawn to the challenge of writing an erotic story where the two people never actually touch each other. There’s a lot of romantic possibility and a great conflict.

My brother-in-law’s wife once said that she didn’t consider Internet friends to be real friends. I was affronted, to be honest. Hell, one of my best friends is someone I met when she was living in England, then for the three years she was in Germany, and now even though she’s stateside again we still have yet to “meet”. We’ve laughed together (a LOT) and cried together and have shared our hearts time and time again. The fact that we’re not breathing the same air doesn’t matter. I’ve come to know her through words, and as a writer, words matter to me.

Knowing in my own life that I have Internet friends that I hold very dear to my heart, the idea of a romantic relationship forming doesn’t seem far-fetched at all. And sexually? Well, there are lots of dirty things that can be done over the ‘net. I know it. You know it. Maybe you’ve even done it. I don’t judge how you get your jollies.

So the story is a friendship with sexual overtones that’s about to jump over into romantic feelings, and while both people are free to be in that relationship, will it be enough for both of them? It’s been a hard story to write. The subtext is tricky.

And I really should get to work on it.

He’ll Never Tell

17 Monday Sep 2012

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In the cold calm of early morning, Bob opened his eyes and looked through the gap in the room-darkening drapes that had refused to close entirely. He could see the red glow of the motel sign that beckoned weary travelers from the highway shining brightly against the cold, slate gray sky. “Rooms starting at $69,” it declared. He snickered again at the double entendre, mentally high-fiving the clever son-of-a-bitch that had set the room rate.

Scratching his balls thoughtfully, he looked at the clothing strewn around the room. In the dim light coming through the broken drapes, he could see a black lace bra dangling from the bent television stand and he smiled, remembering the sight of Pam’s large melons tumbling free as he tossed it aside. His cock stirred, and deciding he wasn’t going to waste his sixty-nine bucks by missing out on a hot morning fuck, he stroked it, coaxing it back to life. After all, he reasoned, you didn’t become the owner of three successful car dealerships by wasting cash.

From under the badly hung bathroom door he could see a wedge of bright light shining in an irregular pattern across the well-worn carpet. The shower was running and he could hear occasional snatches of a tuneless melody as she hummed to herself. He rose and padded silently on bare feet across the floor, narrowly avoiding a large brown stain near the foot of the bed.

She jumped slightly when he pulled the heavy, white shower curtain aside, but smiled when he stepped between her and the stinging hot spray, and grinned a more knowing grin when she saw his purple cock jutting out from beneath the beginning of a paunch she’d never noticed as long as he kept it sucked in.

He spun her around, forcing his cock into the cleft of her ass, stroking her silicone sweater puppies and tugging on her big, brown nipples. He bent his head, pressing his lips to her neck where the dark roots of her hairline changed abruptly to the platinum blonde tresses that were pinned messily atop her head. “You’re a sweet piece of ass,” he said, feeling the head of his cock throbbing between her cheeks.

She giggled and looked coyly at him over her shoulder. She was too old to pull off the demure act anymore, but she still had a few good years left in her before those big titties started heading too far south for her to be able to dance on the main stage at his favorite gentleman’s club. He bent her over and ran his hands down her back, spreading her cheeks and stroking her bald beaver. She braced herself against the shower wall, moaning as he spread her snatch.

“Oh, yeah, Daddy,” she said, her voice high and breathless, “put your big cock in me.” She wiggled her ass and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “I’m your naughty girl.”

He sank into her, watching the round globes of her ass jiggle as he pounded her. In his mind, Pam was just what every man should have: a tight, hot cunt with a pair of huge knockers, always ready for a quick fuck whenever and wherever. So far she hadn’t mentioned him leaving his wife again–her one cock-wilting inconvenience. He told her he couldn’t afford an ex-wife and a girlfriend, but it didn’t keep her from opening her yap about it every damn time they fucked. He was grateful that for now the only sounds coming out of Pam’s mouth were the little kitten noises in the back of her throat that came with each powerful thrust of his cock. He grabbed her hips and drilled her, speeding up as the pressure in his balls built. “Come on, Daddy,” she said, reaching down and diddling her own clit. “Make your baby come.”

“Fuck!” he grunted, and shot his hot load into her cunt, wetting down her insides with his seed. He pulled her close, feeling his cock throb weakly as he spent, leaning on her long enough to catch his breath. He slipped out, watching as a glob of cum oozed out of her gaping crotch and slid down her leg, only to be washed away by the rapidly cooling shower spray.

“Sorry, baby,” he said, giving her ass a congratulatory slap. “I tried to hold back for you, but your tight pussy just drives me wild.”

Pam stood and turned, pressing her tits against Bob’s chest. She stuck out her lower lip. “Aren’t you going to finish me?” she pouted, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He disentangled himself and stepped out of the shower. “Not this time, baby,” he said, smiling at her as he quickly dried himself off. “I gotta get home before the wife finishes her shift,” he said, lifting the lid of the toilet and groaning as he released a long stream of urine into the bowl. “And besides,” he said, looking at her leaning against the wall of the shower, “it’ll give you something to look forward to next time.” He shook, splattering piss on the seat, and walked out of the bathroom.

He was zipping up his pants when he felt a sharp pain rocket through his head and saw a blinding light behind both of his eyes. He stumbled and fell, landing hard on his hands and knees. A heavy glass ashtray rolled past him and landed under the dilapidated dresser, and he could see blood on it. He wondered where it came from as his arms buckled and his cheek scraped roughly across the stained carpet. He gagged as a piece of some sort of fabric was shoved in his mouth, and as he felt the room fade to black, he heard Pam’s voice. The breathless schoolgirl affectation was gone, and her words sent a chill down his spine. “I intend to have you, love. How hard you fight is up to you.”

The Thrill of the Hunt

10 Monday Sep 2012

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“Don’t turn around. Just hand me the money and I won’t have to hurt you.” Nick spoke calmly and quietly, pressing the muzzle of a revolver into the small of the woman’s back to make his point.

She froze. They always froze. “Hurry up,” Nick commanded, snapping his victim out of her shock. His carefully laid plans allowed for only a few minutes to get the money and get the hell out of there without getting caught. A police siren wailed in the distance and even though he knew they weren’t coming for him this time, his tension level rose perceptively. He forced himself to concentrate on his breathing and staying relaxed and focused. The cops weren’t going to arrest him just because he lost his shit at every little noise. He dug the gun harder into her back, and with a whimper she took the bills out of the ATM and held them up with shaking hands. He grabbed the cash and said, “The bag, too,” pulling her purse off of her shoulder. “Now you just keep standing right there and count to a hundred,” he ordered.

“One, two, three,” she began in a shaky voice. Nick tore out of there, shoving the gun and the twenty-dollar bills into his pocket as he ran. He rounded the corner into an alley, then slipped through an opening in the chain-link fence that surrounded the loading dock of an abandoned warehouse. He crouched down behind the crumbling concrete wall, hidden by darkness and debris, and listened for the sound of footsteps or voices. When he heard none, he took a deep breath and quickly unzipped his sweatshirt. Moving fast, he pulled a black backpack from behind a pile of rubble and quickly stuffed his hoodie into it. He shoved the purse into the backpack as well, and running his fingers through his hair, he put the backpack on and slipped through the shadows out a second opening in the fence.

Half a block to the west, the bars and clubs were packed and the night life was in full swing. Nick walked calmly and with purpose toward the music and the lights. In five minutes he had melted into the city’s sea of humanity, while less than two blocks east an angry blonde tried to give his description to the police, but had to admit that she “didn’t get a good look at the guy.”

Nick knew there were easier ways to make a few bucks, but few were as satisfying or half as exciting. Nothing got the adrenaline flowing like picking a victim, helping yourself to their stuff, all the while knowing you could get caught at any time. The first time he realized that he was in the clear, that he’d committed armed robbery and got away with it, he was both startled and amused to realize he was half-hard from the excitement of it all, a reaction he hadn’t expected but had come to crave. It wasn’t even about the money anymore.

The best nights were when, after disappearing into the crowd, he’d see a handful of uniformed cops walking around asking people if they’d seen a guy in a hooded sweatshirt come running through with a woman’s purse. Of course, no one had, but he had to hand it to them for at least trying. It was after his second or third robbery that one of the cops had approached him. His heart pounded and his mouth went dry as he was questioned and he imagined he could feel the stolen purse in his backpack burning him between his shoulder blades.

The officer’s blue eyes bored through his own and looked into his thoughts, but he didn’t look away. Without blinking, he replied, “I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary tonight,” which was only a half-lie. The officer thanked him and moved on, repeating his questions to a couple nearby. His erection strained against his jeans and he shuddered as the thrill coursed through him. He ducked into an alley and hid in the shadows behind a dumpster. He pulled out his cock and stroked it furiously until he came, leaning against the building with one arm and splattering his seed all over the dirty bricks.

No police were on the scene tonight, so he milled around in the crowd looking in store windows for awhile, letting the ebb and flow of the foot traffic carry him along. He brushed past people, bumping them slightly and smiling in apology. “Sorry,” he’d say, and a charge would course through him as he’d be forgiven time after time. The physical contact acted on him like a drug, sharpening his senses and making his nerve endings tingle. He never failed to get aroused by the post-robbery social interaction, and the more people he could pull unwittingly into his game, the hotter it made him. He walked around until he could stand it no more; only when he was fully erect and the need for release reached the point of pain would he slip into the subway and make his way home.

Nick let himself into the empty apartment and locked the door behind him. He crossed the small studio space and pulled the backpack open, dumping the contents onto the bed. He pulled everything out of the purse and emptied the wallet. Glassy-eyed, he ran his hands through the lot of it, arranging and rearranging the driver license, credit cards, and pictures of families and pets on top of the comforter. He picked up her hairbrush and pressed it to his lips, inhaling her scent. He rubbed it against his erection through his pants before placing it back on the bed.

Finally, when he had touched everything he had stolen and had it arranged the way he wanted it, he stripped slowly and seductively, dragging out his pleasure. He lay down on the bed and stretched naked in the middle of the night’s take. He closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his cock and replayed the images in his mind.

Give me the money…I don’t want to hurt you…count to a hundred…

He recalled how they always shuddered with his gun pressed into their backs. The women–always young, pretty women with expensive shoes and expensive bags. Women with shiny hair and slender waists, and manicured hands that trembled as they gave him what he wanted. Women with soft voices that whimpered as they surrendered to him and quivered with fear when they begged him not to hurt them.

Nick stroked his cock slowly, feeling strong and powerful as it pulsed hard and hot in his hand. He thought about how he was taking more than some cash or a few personal items. He took their security. They were going to think of him when they asked their building managers to change their locks and cut new keys for them. They were going to think of him when they called to cancel their credit cards. And they were going to think of him every time they walked past a cash machine.

He moaned as he milked the precum from his cock and used it to lube his fist. His excitement grew as he pictured a beautiful blonde with a smart, new bag approaching a well-lit ATM and shaking as she punched in her new PIN code. She’d tremble all over again as she took the cash, and then she’d look over her shoulder, feeling his presence and reliving the fear.

He could see her scared expression in his mind’s eye, as real as if she was in the room. He came with a grunt, shooting hot gobs of cum onto his smooth, bare chest, thinking of the sadness in her eyes as she walked away, willing her hands to shop shaking and her breathing to return to normal.

Falling

08 Saturday Sep 2012

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“Dude, this is all kinds of wrong.”

His acknowledgment of our sins hangs in the air between us. The naughty transgressions that brought us to a breath away from broken promises, and the larger, looming ones yet to be realized hover, waiting. His voice is low and the naked desire in it makes me shiver, and in that instant I see in his eyes the glimpse of a man letting go.

His lips are on mine, warm and soft…hesitant…asking…he’s falling and I can feel his struggle as he looks for a last-minute hand, something to hold onto, to stop himself before it’s too late. In that gentle kiss is a plea…grab me, don’t let me fall, but I don’t listen. I can’t hear.

I’m falling too.

I yield to him easily, my mouth opening for him, inviting him to spill into me and make me his.

His tongue seeks mine and the heat that has been radiating and simmering inside and between us burns through and melts away all pretense. Decorum goes up in a blast of fire and dissolves into ash. His hands are on my body, and any chance of pretending that this is a bit of harmless flirting is consumed completely. I’m a child again on Christmas Eve, sneaking downstairs to shake presents, peeling back a bit of the paper, and catching a glimpse of the secrets contained, finally opening it and reveling in the joy of knowing what I found was mine, with little heed to the consequences that lie in the bits of paper around me.

Garments are pulled off and cast away, scattered debris and wreckage of what once was litter the floor as we are laid bare for one another. His hands tremble slightly as they touch my skin, private skin that he’s seen but only imagined sliding beneath his fingertips. Gentle hands that have cradled his babies are whisper soft on me, following the graceful curves of my breasts. Patient hands that ache to make a woman respond breathlessly are on the hard, pink points of my nipples, making my breath catch in my throat. Skilled hands that know what I will like pull me close, and guide me to the bed.

I lie down and smile at him and he slides between the clean sheets of this bed…borrowed…neutral…neither shared nor sacred. We pull the covers around us and share a sigh as the delicious current of skin on skin ripples through us. He is kissing me, lightly, savoring the feel of my lips on his, and I let my hands wander over him. I want to explore him, to take my time and get to know every inch of skin that I’ve coveted, but my hands are drawn ever lower, seeking the heat that is pressed hard against my thigh.

He moans as I wrap my hands around him, feeling him throb at last in my grasp.

I know there is no turning back now.

He knows.

His hand is between my thighs, seeking my heat, and finding it easily. His fingers open me and slide into my slit, parting the plump, soft folds and stroking the hard little nugget. I moan and spread my legs for him, urging him inside, needing him desperately. His fingers possess me, no longer gentle, but strong and searching, testing my readiness…seeking my limits.

I have none.

He looks into my eyes and I know he sees nothing there by pure desire and unbridled lust. I want his cock inside me and it is written on my face so plainly that he doesn’t hesitate for even a second. His legs are between mine and I wrap around him, enfolding him, needing his beautiful thickness to fill me. A moment of regret and cool emptiness when his skillful fingers slide wetly away, but another moan of desire and a shiver of delight as the hard, hot, thick head of his cock presses against me.

“I’m going to be so quick,” he apologizes, and the sweet, naked honesty in his voice melts my heart.

“We have all night,” I remind him with a smile. Then softly, a nearly whispered, “Take me.”

He slides inside me, his hot cock filling me easily. He is thick and wonderful, seated deeply, the root of his cock throbbing against my clit. We lie together like that, bodies joined, limbs entwined, and he kisses me, his lips on mine somehow more intimate than the joining below the waist.

Slowly, we move together, trying to draw out this first pleasure, knowing it will have a particular sweetness because it will be our first. But it’s too good. It’s too hot. It’s too intensely right. And wrong.

All kinds of wrong.

I’m moving my hips beneath him, meeting his thrusts, urging him to a faster rhythm as my cunt locks around him, basting him with my juices, soaking the sheet beneath us. I’m going to be quicker than him, I fear. His eyes have closed and his eyebrows are knit, and I can see the light beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he tries to hold back, to reserve his own pleasure, to share, not take it.

“I’m going to cum,” I tell him, and his eyes open. He has come undone. My legs are around his back and he’s lifting my hips with each deep thrust and I know it’s not going to be long. My cunt is hot and swollen, ready to explode, waiting for that perfect moment, that throb, that thrust that takes him over the edge. My voice is a whimper in the back of my throat as it comes. One thrust. Two. Deep inside, and then I feel it. The swell and throb, and the hot rush of his cum wetting me down, filling me, finishing me.

My pussy contracts around him, waves of pleasure starting in my core and radiating outward in ever widening spirals. My breath is coming in ragged gasps and I’m shaking from the fierce pleasure. I peak, and ride the swell back down again, relaxing under his reassuring weight that tethers me back to earth.

His hands are on me again, soft against my cheek, his lips gentle…melting summer-sweet kisses.

We lie together and he holds me close, running his hands lazily over me like he’s trying to memorize me. Neither of us speaks. Our thoughts are our own, but running in tandem. The same doubts, the same vague guilt, the fear and anxiety of not knowing how hard we’re going to land.

Falling.

In Ms. B’s Bunk

05 Wednesday Sep 2012

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I don’t know why I’m drawn to her. I can’t pin down what makes me think about her…dream about her…long for the touch of her strong hands on my body.

I’m not a lesbian.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I’m not attracted to women. Most women. But I’m attracted to her. Oddly.

Strangely.

I find her sexuality compelling.

When it got to be too much for me to bear, I sought her out.

I told her what I wanted, how I felt. How she makes me feel. Confused. Amused. Aroused. Oh, always aroused.

Curious.

She invited me to spend the night. In my own room, a quiet place to sit and write with no distractions.

No distractions. Just her. Sexy. Funny. Sweet. Kind.

Sexy.

Sitting with me on the sofa with a puppy draped across our laps. Her large, soft breasts barely contained beneath her simple cotton camisole. Nipples hard, visible…tempting. Both of us knowing why I’m really there, but neither one saying it.

Butterflies in my stomach.

She looks at me and smiles. Dimples make me melt and I smile back, shyly. She takes my hand in hers and just holds it. It’s warm, and soft, but strong. I feel safe. After a minute of not saying anything, she squeezes my hand, and I squeeze it back. She stands, and the dog reluctantly moves, stretching and lying down in the warm spot she’s left. I stand too, and without a word, she leads me to her bedroom.

We stand together, hands clasped.

“I’m nervous,” I confess.

She squeezes my hand again. “Don’t be.”

I don’t move, and she smiles again, that sweet, dimpled grin. “You’ve had a massage before,” she asks, knowing the answer is yes, but I nod. “I’ll go out for a minute. You get undressed as much as your comfortable with and lie down under the sheet. I’ll give you a massage. And if you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” I agree, but my mouth is dry.

She goes out and I slip out of my short nightgown. Naked, I lie down on my stomach and pull the sheet up to my neck. I try to relax, but I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. There’s a pounding much lower, too. Throbbing. Anticipating.

I hear her come in and shut the door with a soft click. The light is already low, and she turns on some music. No words. No real tune. But musical. Soft.

I feel her weight beside me on the mattress. My eyes are closed. I don’t know what she’s doing. I don’t know if I want to see.

I smell an exotic scent. Sandalwood, maybe. Or a spice. I don’t know. I can’t tell. It’s nice. Deep, not cloying. Not heavy.

Sexy.

Her hands are gentle as they slide the sheet down just a bit, leaving me covered. Then they are on me. Oily. Slick. Sliding over my skin easily. Firm, even strokes. Almost painful, but not quite. Soothing. Powerful.

My shoulders relax…my neck…my back. The sheet slides lower. I don’t realize she’s moved it.

Her hands work the muscles of my lower back. Not deeply, not painfully. Almost, but not quite. Her hands rub the oil into my skin, making me feel soft and pliable, and I am. Her hands are on my hips, exploring the curves of my ass, and I don’t mind. It feels good. My body feels alive. I don’t know what I want, but I know I don’t want her to stop touching me.

Ever.

Her hands find mine, tucked down by my sides. She runs her hands up my forearms, moving them away from my body and up over my head. Biceps. Triceps. All the muscles I don’t know the names of. She does, and she pays attention to them all, making me aware of them.

Down again, back to my shoulders. Hands on my spine. Hands on my shoulder blades. Hands caressing the soft skin where my breasts begin. My waist. My hips again. Fingers lingering in the warm, deep cleft between my legs, then away before my brain has time to think about it.

I feel the sheet shift and she tells me in a low voice to roll over. I do.

It does not occur to me to do otherwise.

My breasts feel the cooler air in the room and I know my nipples are hard. I can’t see them because I won’t open my eyes, but I can feel them. They are tingling.

Her hands slide up my arms again, over familiar territory, before sliding back down, along my shoulders again, across the flat planes of my chest, lightly around the curves of my breasts. I take a deep breath as her hands gently rub oil into the soft tissue.

Her touch is electric.

I want her in the worst way.

It doesn’t occur to me that it is happening. I am having her. She is having me.

She kneads gently, scooping up the handfuls of flesh and tugging gently on the hard, pink points. Each stroke, each tug brings a sound from my throat. It’s a deep breath. Not quite a moan.

Until it is.

When she is drawing moans, her hands move south, over the soft flesh of my stomach. I frown, feeling self-conscious for the first time.

She speaks, and her voice is low and soothing.

“You’re beautiful,” she says in nearly a whisper, and I believe her.

She leans over me and takes a nipple in her mouth. I feel her teeth, but she doesn’t hurt me. Not quite. Her hands are moving…always moving…and she is running them between my thighs, skimming my soft mound of curls, sucking and nipping at my nipple and making me squirm beneath her.

My legs part on their own. I don’t remember moving them, spreading them for her, but they are open for her.

Offering.

Her hand seeks my warm center, parting the folds and caressing the slick, inner flesh with the same strong, soothing touch. Theraputic touch. My hips rise off the bed to meet her fingers. “Oh, God,” is all I can manage to say as she works my clit with fingers that feel warm as fire.

She kisses me…my breasts…my neck…the hollow of my collarbone…

My lips.

She tastes sweet.

Soft, but strong. Asking, offering…and I answer.

I yield. My lips part, accepting her, a “yes” to every unanswered question.

Yes. Dear God, yes.

I taste her tongue, feel her mouth working mine, teaching it to dance in ways it never has before.

My hips are bucking beneath her hand, wanting more, needing to feel her possess me. She dips into me briefly…one finger…then two…I can feel how wet she is making me…hear the sounds of her fingers inside me, on me, around me…

“Fuck me,” I whisper, opening my eyes only long enough to look into hers. She is lovely.

Lovable.

More kissing. Soft, insistent.

My neck. My breasts.

The soft expanses of my flesh are kissed, nibbled, licked…teased.

Hands move aside, parting my thighs and stroking the sensitive flesh.

Her lips are pressed lovingly against my clit. Again, in her low, soft voice, deeper and huskier this time, “You’re beautiful.”

The room spins as her lips and tongue dance over the sensitive skin. I don’t resist. I can’t. I’m grabbing her headboard, trying to stay connected to reality, but feeling it spinning out of my control.

Her fingers are inside me…filling me deep…her mouth is always moving…sucking and licking…

I can’t hold back. I want to.

I want it to last forever.

Pleasure building inside me like a glass being filled. My breath is coming in short gasps as she fucks me, filling me, pussy filling with pleasure until it can’t hold any more.

And it overflows.

I cry out, writhing beneath her as I come.

Deep spasms rippling through me…pleasure radiating out from my very center…her mouth and fingers working every last pulse, every throb, until I’m still.

But I’m not.

Slowly she slides her fingers out of me and I shudder, breathing hard, hands clenching the headboard.

She runs her hands up my arms and I remember to relax, letting my arms down and putting them around her. She is soft and warm beside me, and I taste myself on her as she leans close. I pull her to me and kiss her, tasting my own muskiness.

I am delicious.

I open my eyes and look at her. She is smiling, and she runs her hands lightly over my breasts, making goosebumps rise on my skin.

Tentatively, I touch her.

Her breasts are full and large and I stroke one gently through the thin fabric of her pajama top. Her nipples are hard and large and I tease them, pinching them in my fingertips. She closes her eyes briefly, enjoying the feeling, letting me find my way.

She is so lovely.

I pull the straps down on her cami, letting the fall against her arms. The soft fabric falls away, exposing the creamy tops of her breasts. I pull her to me, kissing them.

Kissing her soft, sweet breasts.

I take her nipple in my mouth…I’m not sure how hard to suck…what feels good.

I start gently, and she arches her back, so I suck harder.

She makes a little sound, and runs her fingers through my hair. I pull, stretching the soft skin and tugging on the hard point.

She moans.

I look at her. She is smiling.

I am doing well, I think.

She answers me with a kiss. This time she is yielding to me, offering herself, and I accept her.

Gladly.

My inexperience hand…my willing hand…slides over her soft curves.

She is beautiful.

“You are beautiful,” I say.

“Shut up,” she says, but she’s smiling.

I slide my hand into her pajama bottoms and feel her soft mound. My finger seeks her slit, and a slight gasp tells me that I’ve found it. I feel her wetness. She is soaked. Her cunt is ripe and full, and I plunge my fingers into her. It feels good, and she cries out. Pleasure. Need.

Passion.

How hard? How fast? How deep?

Her hand is on mine, guiding me. I don’t need to be gentle.

Firm strokes. Even strokes. Fingers inside.

One…two…

Her clit is a hard, slick berry beneath my fingers and I work it like a tiny cock. She moans, her hips thrusting against me.

She sets a rhythm and I meet it, plunging into her pussy, making her writhe and buck in my hands.

I suck her nipple into my mouth and she cries out, putting her hand on mine again as her thighs close.

Her glass has overflowed too.

I feel her cunt grip me. Fluttering from deep inside.

Then a slow throb and pulse.

Then a deep breath, and her thighs relax.

Gentle strokes, gently used…wet…musky…spent.

We lie together, not speaking. We kiss. We giggle. Our hands touch each other.

Friendly.

Intimate.

Loving.

Lovable.

Ah, There’s the Rub

27 Friday Jul 2012

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As I submit stories to publishers, I’m realizing that there seems to be a certain type of smut that sells. And to be honest, I find it strange.

The collections my stories have been selected for are full of stories that I call “pretty people fucking.” Which is fine, as far as it goes. The men are studs: well-hung (of course), handsome, manly (but sensitive), wealthy. The women are thin and beautiful but think they’re (at worst) “plain”. They have perfect breasts and small waists and never have a problem buying pants to cover their asses.

These perfect people wind up madly attracted to each other and doing the nasty on every available surface. The sex is perfect and awesome and no one sleeps in the wet spot.

*yawn*

I write them, but I don’t like them. And to be honest, it’s why so many erotic stories and novels bore me. I need conflict.

I was taught way back in Basic Writing 101 that a good story needs a good conflict. The hero must have a struggle–something to fight against. In an erotic story, I still want to see that struggle. I don’t care if the obstacle is an external one, but I prefer an internal one. I want to read about what goes on in a character’s head. How do they feel?

Body image is a big one for me. To bare yourself for someone for the first time is scary. And awkward. Everyone has something they don’t like about their bodies. But so much erotica is fantasy. The heroine undresses and doesn’t wonder for a second if he’s turned off by her boobs that aren’t as perky as they used to be, or if the cellulite on her ass is turning him off. He’s never wondering if his cock is big enough, or if she prefers a guy who manscapes, or if she minds that he has a little beer belly and not a flat six-pack of abs.

In real life, these things come up. But as humans, we deal with our emotions and that struggle is interesting. When characters don’t, it’s boring.

Life is full of conflict and struggle. I just finished reading Brave New World and this passage struck me: “Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn’t nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand.”

And that right there is why “pretty people fucking” is boring. I don’t understand why it sells.

Scratch that. Yes I do understand. They’re what’s known in the world of erotica as “stroke pieces.” They’re hot and dirty. They’re not meant to make you think. They are aimed squarely at the genitals. And I suppose if you buy erotica to get off, stroke pieces will do it the fastest.

I had a story accepted recently that isn’t very good story, but it’s a good stroke piece. The sex is hot, but there’s no conflict and the characters are flat. I got it in my head last night to re-write it and make it a good story instead of a good stroke piece, just for fun. Because I can.

I guess I just wish the world of erotic fiction had more literature in it than porn. I wish publishers would insist on an interesting story and fleshed out characters.

I wonder what the tipping point for erotica is. There are lots of mainstream books with very adult content in it. When does one cease to classify their writing as erotica just because people fuck?

Something to think about, I guess.