Tag Archives: sexual literature

From “Deflowered”

01 Monday Oct 2012

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Here’s a little tease from a story that is going to be published in an upcoming anthology of “Mad Scientist Erotica” by Circlet Press called For Science! It’s the tale of a shy botanist who gets very into his work. This is actually a bit that was cut from the final story, but I liked how it read in its long form, so you get to have it here. 

*****

Bill sighed and made sure the front door was tightly locked for the night before switching off the lights and heading up to bed. He made his way through the dark, empty house on instinct, knowing each tread of the staircase like the back of his hand.

The air under the eaves was close and stuffy, and he looked forward to the cooler air the impending rains were promising to leave in their wake. He opened the windows of his bedroom wide to let in any stray breeze that might be passing before he snapped on the bathroom light and readied himself for bed.

He went through the same motions he did every evening, with no adjustment or variation to his routine. He changed into clean pajama bottoms and a fresh, white t-shirt, stowing his dirty clothes neatly in the hamper. He washed his face and dried it, hanging the damp towel back on the towel bar to dry. He began to brush his teeth, squirting a glob of ice blue toothpaste on the brush and raising it to his mouth.

A thought ran through his head on tiny mouse feet, scurrying and scuttling out of the dark, littered places of his brain. It ran across the clean white surfaces of his consciousness before disappearing back into the shadows.

No woman will ever be interested in someone like you.

The man in the mirror made eye contact with him, and he stopped mid-motion. He squinted at his reflection, peering closer to the face he looked at every day, then stepped back, his toothbrush frozen in mid-air. He set it down on the sink, not caring that the blue gel slipped off the bristles and smeared on the pristine white porcelain.

He squinted again, and appraised his reflection with a critical eye and a scientist’s powers of observation, wondering where that harsh assessment of himself came from. It was certainly unlike him. In general, he was content with his appearance, and the fact that a very few women had ever succumbed to his awkward advances generally didn’t bother him that much. He was under no illusions that he was a smoldering sex god sent to drive women wild, but he certainly was far from unattractive by any measurable standard.

Sure, there were things he would change if he could. He wished, for one thing, that he looked a little closer to his actual age. When friends took him out for some beers on his fortieth birthday, the waitress insisted on checking his ID because she said he didn’t look old enough to drink. It was a fair assessment. Even with day’s growth of stubble, he still looked like a hairy fifteen-year old.

There had to be something else. He peeled off his shirt and let it drop to the floor. He flexed in the mirror, noting well-developed biceps and pecs and admitting that he was a little thicker around the middle since turning 40 than he liked. Still, he was far from doughy, and he kept himself in better-than-average shape overall for a middle-aged guy. He pulled the waistband of his cotton pants out and peered down at his genitals. He shrugged at his utter unremarkableness, and let the elastic constrict with a soft snap. There was nothing he could do about that.

He sighed and reached down for his shirt. He was about to put it back on, but decided that it was too warm and sticky for it and dropped it in the hamper. He cleaned the toothpaste off the sink and rinsed his toothbrush before reloading it and brushing his teeth for exactly two minutes.

Leaving his bathroom much as he’d found it, he turned off the light and lay down on top of the covers, taking his glasses off and setting them carefully on his nightstand. The breeze was picking up outside and he could hear the poplar trees dancing as the rain approached from the west, turning over their leaves and showing their silvery undersides. An occasional gust caused the heavy air in the room to move, and while it wasn’t yet refreshing, it did relieve some of the stuffiness. It also caused the lightweight jersey of his pants to stir and brush against him, and the sudden sensation caused him to think of a woman’s soft hand, seeking him in the dark.

He closed his eyes and thought of Maria, allowing himself to fantasize about her. He pictured her lying next to him; it was too warm and humid to make love, but in his imagination, she would want to bring him pleasure anyway.

His cock hardened with anticipation, and he reached down, stroking his hand over it through the fabric, feeling its warmth as it thickened under his light touch. Hooking his thumbs in his waistband, he slid his pants down, freeing his erection as a gust of cooler air swirled through the room. He kicked them off and stretched out again, imagining his own hand was hers wrapped around his cock.

He stroked gently at first, teasing the shaft, running his thumb over the sensitive tip. He pictured her in his mind, lying next to her, her dark curls loose and free in a dark halo around her face. She would lean on one elbow, looking at him as the pleasure he was feeling played out over his face. He smiled slightly, and he increased the pressure on his cock, moaning a little and encouraging her to continue.

In the distance, he could hear the wind blowing hard through a stand of tall pines and he could smell the rain on the air. His cock oozed a bit of precum, making it slippery in his fist and his hips twitched, thrusting as his body’s own fluid offered just the right about of lubrication.

The pleasure in him built, the aching in his balls making them hard and tight, and he could feel the need for release growing ever more urgent. He used long, firm strokes, moaning with pleasure, imagining the sound of her lilting voice in his head urging him to come for her, whispering endearments in a language he barely understood, using words that required no translation.

As the first huge drops of rain splatted against his screen, he felt his orgasm approach. He moaned aloud, knowing he had reached the breaking point, the sweet moment when he was going to come no matter what. The skies opened up, soaking the overlong grass and drowning out his deep groan of pleasure as his cock exploded in his hand, and he felt the hot jets of semen wash over his bare torso.

He lay still, listening to the rain pound against the greenhouse roof, feeling his cock throb weakly in his hand, then soften as the waves of pleasure receded. The air felt cooler and his body shone with a fine sheen of perspiration. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His body felt heavy, but so did his heart.

He rose, retrieving his pajama bottoms from the floor and going into the bathroom where he deposited them in the hamper. He showered, letting the cool water wash the sweat and slippery secretions down the drain. He stood for a long time in the stinging spray with his eyes closed, his forehead pressed against the glass shower door.

Bill slept fitfully. The voice in his head refused to be silent, mocking him as he tossed and turned alone in his bed. When dawn’s first rays were breaking over the horizon, his eyes opened, and with a groan, he gave up the battle with sleep and sat up. His corneas felt like they were coated with fine grit sandpaper and every muscle in his body ached. His sheets were tangled and rumpled, and he sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, his fingers pressed to his throbbing temples.

He had fought with the voice in his head all night, pushing back as it berated him, accusing him of being less of a man than an average 13-year-old girl, and making sure he knew that he lacked the balls to actually ask a woman out–any woman, not just a goddess like Maria. It might have been fatigue, or just the simple fact that it had been a lot of lonely years since there had been anyone’s hand on his cock besides his own, but by the time he was seated at his kitchen table, alone with a hot cup of coffee and a slice of toast with peanut butter on it, he felt as low as he had in a week.

He chewed his toast thoughtlessly, staring out the window at the grass and decided it could wait another day, the same way he had the previous Friday, the morning after thoughts of Maria had caused him to act like a horny teenager yet again. He sighed, hating the pattern he had slipped into, wanting to get out of it, but knowing deep down that the voice in his head was right: he didn’t have the balls. The only place he was truly happy was out in his greenhouse–a fragile man, alone with his fragile plants.

The worst part, he thought, as he dumped the dregs of his cold coffee down the drain and threw away his uneaten crusts, was that not only was the voice right about him, but that at this time the following Friday, he would be sitting by himself in exactly the same spot, staring out at a lawn he didn’t feel like mowing, drinking black coffee that had gone cold on him, and not tasting the toast that he wouldn’t quite finish eating, feeling dirty, depressed, and very much alone.

Home, James

27 Thursday Sep 2012

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

This is a sequel of sorts to “Tight Security,” though it really goes off on a tangent more than it continues it. I had planned to keep spinning new stories off the old ones, but never got around to it. Maybe soon…

“Jeremy.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“It seems that very handsome young security guard just ejaculated on my window.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I will be very disappointed if his semen mars the finish.”

“Of course, Mistress. Shall I use a cloth?”

“What do you think, Jeremy.”

She watched him get out of the driver’s seat and tug on the tails of his chauffeur’s coat, putting his cap on, and shutting the door behind him. She watched as he bent and licked the congealing cum off her window, his tongue flat and pink against the gray glass.

As he worked, she spread her legs and hiked her skirt up, exposing her smooth, bare pussy. She diddled her clit lightly, feeling it spring to attention and smiled. Her cunt grew slick as she played with herself, her nipples hard and straining and very visible under the lightweight silk of her couture blouse. Jeremy swallowed mouthfuls of jism, finally licking his lips and standing at attention by her window.

She rolled it down and slowly unbuttoned her blouse, stroking her hands over the nipples that peeked out of the lace edge of her shelf bra, watching her firm, full breasts jiggle and sway with every slight move. “All done, Jeremy?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Come around to the other side of the car and join me in the backseat.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Jeremy did as he was instructed and opened the back door, carefully putting his cap on the front seat and smoothing his hair before entering. She turned to face him, offering him her dripping pussy. “Would you like something to cleanse your palate, Jeremy?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied, his voice husky with desire. Knowing he wanted her, wanted to please her, sent a thrill coursing through her lithe frame and she shuddered despite herself.

“You may eat my pussy, Jeremy,” she said, and he quickly slipped to the floor beside the long bench seat. He wedged his slight frame in behind the front seat, and leaned forward, pulling her legs apart and pressing his face to her sweet, fragrant center.

She moaned as his tongue found her aching hole and she ran her hands through his dark curls, pressing his head into her cunt. He fastened his lips around her clit and sucked it, drawing it in between his teeth and applying pressure until she cried out.

“Put your fingers in me Jeremy, and make me cum,” she instructed, and he did as he was told, sliding his long fingers into her and drawing out another moan of pleasure. “Very nice,” she said, praising him as she petted his head. She closed her eyes and let Jeremy bring her to the brink of orgasm, his fingers and tongue working skillfully in all the ways she had trained him.

He knew how to hold her hips as she climaxed and how to press his lips against her to receive the copious gush of sweet, sea-funky fluid that accompanied her pleasure without letting so much as a drop touch the fine, leather seats. He swallowed her flood of juices eagerly, licking her clean until the shuddering and bucking stopped. When she lay still, she allowed him to button her blouse and straighten her skirt.

Sated, she sat up and smiled at him, still kneeling in complete supplication beside her. She raised her hand to his smooth, brown cheek and stroked it gently. “Well, done, Jeremy,” she said. “Tell me, is your cock hard?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

“How lovely,” she said. “You have my permission to step outside the car and relieve yourself,” she said. “You’ve earned it.” He nodded, still blushing, and rose. As he backed out of the car, she reminded him, “Make sure you stand right there where I can see you, and you’d better make it quick so no one sees you. Oh, and don’t forget your hat,” she finished, gesturing at the front seat.

Jeremy put his hat back on and stepped outside the car, shutting the door. Through tinted windows she smiled at his visible discomfort as he looked around nervously. He pulled his long, slender cock out and began stroking it furiously, closing his eyes and obviously concentrating on finishing the job before anyone came along.

She watched his cock bob in the air, and how his eyebrows knit together in frustration as his erection began to fail. She knew he was considering his punishment for not following her directions, and as his eyes filled with tears, she almost took pity on him for a second. Then she thought of the hours of fun she would have paddling his soft, feminine ass, fucking him with dildos for hours, and how she’d torture him to the edge of orgasm over and over until he begged for mercy.

She was so lost in the fantasy that she didn’t notice the security guard approach her car. Jeremy started suddenly and quickly tried to conceal his rapidly softening cock, but the damage had been done. This was not the young, wanton guard from before, but an older, paunchy, dough-skinned excuse for a man who was perspiring from the mere exertion of apprehending the delicate Jeremy.

She rolled down her window and addressed the security guard. “Is there a problem, Officer?” she asked.

He looked in and saw her reclining like a cat in the backseat. He tipped his hat back to reveal his receding, greasy hairline and she recoiled inwardly. “Yes, Ma’am” he replied. “I caught this pervert outside your car here.”

She smiled a cold smile. “Yes, Officer. Young Jeremy belongs to me. I apologize if he’s been a bother. I promise you he won’t get away with this…abomination.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said, his eyes raking over her form. “I have to call this in to the local precinct. You’ll be able to pick him up in about 6 hours, after his arraignment.”

She sighed. “Very well.” Jeremy looked panic-stricken. “Jeremy, dear. Please be on your best behavior, just like I taught you. Do everything this nice officer tells you, and I’ll see you in a little while. Make me proud.” Jeremy blinked away a tear and nodded. “That’s a good boy.” She rolled up the window and watched as the fat guard led the winsome Jeremy away. She fished her cell phone out of her bag and with manicured fingers, dialed her office.

“Maria. I need a replacement driver here immediately. Yes. And call my lawyer and tell him to meet me at the local precinct for JFK. Yes, the airport, Maria.”

She ended the call with a gentle beep and waited for Jeremy’s replacement.

In the Stacks

23 Sunday Sep 2012

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

In a cool, softly lit corner of the adult fiction section, Lauren slid a plastic-covered murder mystery into its spot, reading the shelf and adjusting a couple of misplaced volumes back into their proper order. She ran her hand along the fine grain of the antique oak shelf as she crossed to the window and leaned against the sill. Squinting against the summer sun that streamed in through the tall windows, she watched as a patron walked past the whitewashed clapboards of the Town Hall and crossed the flag-lined main street to the front walk of the library. Her crocheted cotton bag bulged with borrowed books, and Lauren smiled, her heart skipping a beat as she smoothed her skirt and stood. Alana’s visit was always a highlight of Lauren’s week, not just because it offered a respite in the long stretch of weekday afternoon quiet, but because seeing Alana would have been a highlight under any circumstance.

The heavy door swung open and Alana came in, dropping her heavy books on the circulation desk with a dull thud. “Man,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, “It got hot out there today. I’m sweating like a whore in church.” She looked at Lauren in her simple skirt and light summer sweater, “Damn it, woman, how is it you always manage to look all elegant and put together and shit and I always look like an unmade bed?” Lauren felt her nipples harden as Alana appraised her form. “I like the outfit,” she said, smiling. “You got the whole ‘sexy librarian’ thing working for you today.”

Lauren felt a warmth spread from inside her blossom on her cheeks. The way Alana looked at her made her feel both unsettled and aroused. She had an intensity that Lauren was drawn to, yet at the same time she found it a little intimidating, and truth be told, frightening. She knew Alana had no qualms about sleeping with women. She knew Alana had no qualms about sleeping with anyone, in fact, since she was currently dating both her male yoga instructor and her the woman who was the promoter of her indie band.

It was that intensity that drew her, and the unrestrained and unabashed way Alana flirted with her. Lauren had never been attracted sexually to another woman before, but always felt like it was only because in her conservative upbringing in small town New England she may have missed the memo that it was okay to want to kiss a girl. Because she did want to. And badly.

In the back of her mind she still felt like she might be playing with fire, but as Alana moved around the small library checking out the new arrivals and poking through the new magazines, Lauren decided she liked the warmth.

“Oh, come on,” Lauren countered, “you know you’re gorgeous. And you always look great. Even on a day like today you look cool and comfortable.” Lauren loved the way Alana’s long violet skirt flowed and swirled around her bare legs and how the small silver ghunghru bells tied around her ankle tinkled as she walked. Her sleeveless shirt was hand painted and low cut in the front and Lauren could see the fine sheen of perspiration on her sun-kissed cleavage. It was obvious that she’d decided to forego a bra for the day, opting instead to let her large breasts bounce freely under her light top. Her long, shiny hair was caught up off her neck in a loose twist and secured with a couple of carved hair sticks and the fine, curly tendrils that escaped stuck to her damp skin and Lauren swallowed hard, wondering what it would be like to kiss her there. She was standing close enough to touch her, to smell the subtle aroma of nag champa and warm, moist places.

As she pressed her lips to the soft nape of her neck, she felt Alana’s breath catch in her throat. Her skin was salty and warm and she felt goosebumps rise under her gentle touch. Alana exhaled softly, and Lauren heard the copy of Yoga Weekly she’d been thumbing through thud clumsily against the magazine rack and flutter to the floor. Feeling bolder, she slipped her hands over Alana’s hips, wrapping around her and pulling her closer.

Alana’s hands were on hers, warm and dry, halting their movement, but not pulling away. “Not that it’s unwelcome,” Alana said, tipping her head back and arching her long neck, “but this is kind of a surprise.”

Lauren smiled nervously. “I know. I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away, but Alana held firm to her hands.

“Are you?” she said, turning and sliding a hand around Lauren’s waist. Alana’s fingertips brushed lightly over the curve of her ass pulling her close until their bodies were touching and their faces were mere inches apart. Lauren shuddered, goosebumps rising on her arms.

“No,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not.”

“Good,” Alana said. “Neither am I.” Lauren felt her knees go weak as Alana kissed her. Her lips were soft and inviting, not insistent, but offering, and Lauren accepted, tentatively at first, and then with increasing desire as any hesitation she may have harbored fell away.

Alana’s hands were twined in her hair, pulling her closer still, devouring her. Lauren leaned back and found herself pressed against the long, oak reading table. She leaned on it, reaching for Alana and feeling her large, natural breasts through the thin cotton of her top. In the dim, lusty recesses of her mind, she felt a fleeting recognition that it was right, that the curves of a woman felt natural in her hands, and as the cognizant thought slipped away, she cupped the soft globes and sought Alana’s hard nipples through the fabric.

Alana moaned and pulled her lips away from Lauren’s. “Damn, girl,” she panted. “You’re killing me. I’m ready to take you right here in the public library.”

Lauren looked at her watch and smiled. “Hold that thought.” She crossed quickly to the front door and turned the heavy brass bolt and snapped off the banks of lights. “Now we’re closed,” she said, crossing back to where Alana leaned against one of the heavy shelves. “It’s a tad early, but no one will probably be in anyway. It’s too nice out and on a day like this…”

Her thoughts were interrupted by Alana’s mouth on hers, more insistent this time, with an intensity that took Lauren’s breath away. Again, she found herself against the big table, leaning back on her hands. Deftly, Alana worked the small buttons on her cardigan, popping them open quickly and letting it fall open. Her breasts were heaving with desire and she could see her own nipples large and hard through the thin lace bra. Alana ran her hands over the hard brown points so clearly visible under the white lace and pinched them lightly, making Lauren moan anew.

Alana pulled the cups down and let Lauren’s small, perky breasts spring free. She leaned down and took one of the quivering nipples in her mouth and sucked it, smiling as Lauren gasped at the sudden, swift pleasure of it. She could feel Alana’s hands on her thighs, seeking the hem of her skirt and gathering it in her hands, pulling it up and exposing the tops of her stockings.

When Alana’s hand made contact with the garter clasp that held her stockings up, she looked up so suddenly that Lauren’s nipple popped out of her mouth with a jiggle and a bounce. “Oh, this is amazing,” Alana said, sliding Lauren’s skirt up around her waist. The white satin and lace of her garter belt lay against her tanned skin in high relief, and the lace of her panties was already visibly moist between the soft curves of her thighs.

“It’s…well, more practical in summer,” Lauren started to explain, but Alana’s fingers pressed against the crotch of her panties made the rest of her thought go out of her head. She spread her legs, letting Alana touch her through the lace, leaning back as Alana’s mouth again found her nipples and drew on them with long, hard sucks. Alana tugged the panties, pulling them up between her lips and rubbing them against her hard clit.

She kissed a trail down Lauren’s midriff, past her flat, tanned tummy and the bunched up fabric of her skirt. Swiftly, she pulled the crotch of her panties aside and pressed her face into Lauren’s neatly trimmed nest of dark curls. Lauren moaned and lay back on the table, sliding back and raising her knees, allowing her legs to fall apart as Alana’s tongue plunged inside her.

Lauren could feel her own juices flowing as Alana worked her tongue over and inside every inch of her aching cunt. She moaned as two fingers filled her, sliding in and out while Alana wrapped her lips around her hard clit and sucked the hard little pearl, making her writhe and squirm atop the hard table top. She could feel the knot that had been building and tightening inside her begin to unravel, even as in the distance she could hear kids’ voices shouting from the outside, laughing as they crossed the town green to enter the library through the downstairs children’s room.

She knew she should push Alana away, make her stop, but it was too late, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out as her powerful orgasm spilled out of her, washing through her pussy and making her whole body buck and shudder. She tried to sit up, to grab her sweater and cover herself, but Alana wasn’t stopping, and wave after wave of pleasure continued to course through her. She was laughing and panting, begging Alana to stop in a low, frantic voice as she heard the sleigh bells jangle against the heavy back door and the sound of kids’ voices being hushed as they entered the cool silence of the library.

Alana stood quickly, raising the hem of her skirt and wiping her mouth while Alana pulled her own skirt back into place and re-did the buttons of her sweater with shaking hands. Alana brushed a stray lock of hair out of Lauren’s eyes and kissed her, letting Lauren taste her own muskiness. Lauren sighed and reluctantly let Alana slip away, trying to compose her face into a some semblance of professionalism as the children’s feet clamored up the stairs. She snapped on the lights and unlocked the door and while Alana thumbed through the yoga magazine she’d picked up from where she dropped it, she settled herself behind the circulation desk and began checking in books.

The Next Morning

19 Wednesday Sep 2012

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

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.”

The Thrill of the Hunt

10 Monday Sep 2012

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

“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

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , ,

“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.

Lunch Break

03 Monday Sep 2012

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

His lunch break is only a half an hour, and she lives an hour and a half away.

Once a week he slips out of the office at lunchtime and they meet up somewhere away from prying eyes. He’s found a secluded spot behind a closed gas station, in the shadow of a crumbling whitewashed cinder block building, hidden from view by a rusted and sagging chain-link fence and tall, overgrown weeds. There’s no time for renting a comfortable room somewhere. She can’t chance her husband finding a receipt from a no-tell motel, even if there were any close and discreet enough to his office, and she has to get home and get the smell of sex off of her before the kids get off the bus. He can’t risk the temptation of a rented bed and willing partner, so it has to be quick.

And dirty.

It’s never a problem.

They slide into the backseat of her car, kicking aside a bike helmet and a few rumpled, coloring books. The waxy smell of crayons and the orange remains of fish-shaped crackers serve as less-than-subtle reminders that they’re no longer a couple of teenagers, even though the urgency with which they come together is adolescent–heedless and hedonistic. His hand is inside her shirt almost immediately, pulling her breasts out and tugging at her nipples, making her gasp. She can feel how hard he is through his pants, and she fumbles with his zipper, struggling to free him.

He laughs and says, “Let me,” and deftly pulls his cock out, stroking it like he does in the short phone-cam-recorded videos he makes just for her. She watches them after her husband and kids are in bed, and records some to send to him, taking pictures and writing him long, detailed emails about her sexy, dirty, hot, funky fantasies.

She doesn’t want to leave her comfortable life, and neither does he plan on abandoning his family for her.

Friends with benefits, the kids call it, and it suits them perfectly.

She pushes his hand out of the way and leans over, taking him in her mouth with no warning or explanation. None is required. He moans, running his hands down her back and gathering up the soft fabric of her skirt and pulling it out of his way. He finds the black lace panties she put on just for him and slides his hand inside, running his palms over the soft curve of her ass.

She’d love to keep sucking his cock, to taste him as he cums in her mouth, but there can be no long, drawn-out lovemaking between them, and a quick blowjob isn’t going to be enough. Not for either of them. Not today.

He guides her to his lap, pulling her panties to the side as she straddles his cock, taking him inside as far as he can go. He fills her perfectly and they sit together like that for a minute, his hands pushing her clothes out of the way, hers around his shoulders as his mouth finds her nipples. She squirms and grinds against him as he sucks them into hard, aching points.

They move together, his cock deep inside her, hitting all the secret, hidden spots that he knows will drive her wild. And it won’t take long. The pent-up desire and frustration needs an outlet, and like a current through a grounded wire, it’s found a short path through them. She tells him she’s close and that she’s going to be quick, her words a frenzied whisper in his ear.

His mouth is on hers, her hands twined in his hair, pulling him to her, his hips thrusting against her. He is determined to make her come first, and she’s in no position to argue with him as she feels the pleasure build to its breaking point. With a powerful throb, her orgasm bursts inside her like a bubble, and as she clenches tightly around his cock, she drenches him, soaking his open pants and crying out. She’s breathing hard, and so is he, and grabbing her hips, he drives hard into her…once…twice…and then he comes, his cock exploding, his hot cum mixing with hers in a slippery, ecstatic mess.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she says with a laugh, sliding wetly off his lap and running her thumb over the purple love bite starting to form right beside her left nipple.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” he says, kissing the spot before pulling her shirt back into place. “See you next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Ah, There’s the Rub

27 Friday Jul 2012

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

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.

Dirty-Minded Me

29 Sunday Apr 2012

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Welcome to my new erotica blog.   Do come in!  Take off your shoes, or your pants, or whatever makes you comfortable in the privacy of your own computer.  All settled?  Good.  Let’s get to know each other.  I’ll go first.

I write erotica.  There was a time a few years ago when I didn’t know why I write erotica.  I’ve had friends ask me over the years why I don’t write something “mainstream,” and for the longest time I didn’t have an answer.   The best I could come up with is asking why Agatha Christie didn’t write cookbooks, or why Danielle Steele never wrote a spy novel.  They have genres that speak to them, as do I.  It’s kind of simplistic, but it’s the best I could do.

Then one day I read this comment in a forum by a fellow erotica author, someone whose opinions and ideas I’ve found both challenging and enlightening.  And he writes some of the best erotic fiction I’ve ever read.  In a response to the question “What’s the difference between erotica and pornography?” he said:

“The law’s never been very good at making objective standards for subjective judgments. And etymologically there isn’t, at least as far as I can tell. All the dictionaries I looked at make no distinction between pornography and erotica.

“But from a literary and aesthetic standpoint I think there’s a world of difference and that it’s very significant. Porn is aimed at the genitals; erotica is aimed at the mind. Porn deals with concrete sex while erotica deals with the abstract of sexuality. The fact that we’ve lost sight of this distinction for the last 200 years or so is the reason why we have next to no serious sexual literature in the West to this very day (though things have gotten better over the last 20-30 years or so). It’s also one of the main reasons we live in such a puritanical and sexophobic society, because the erotic has become so tightly associated with the obscene.

“A man and a woman meeting for coffee has no pornographic content. A man and a woman meeting for coffee does have a huge erotic content, though, and a good artist can bring that out and make us see how it works. And that’s the point of literature (or one of them, anyhow): to reveal the world to us and help us see things we wouldn’t notice on our own.

“To the Greeks, Eros was a powerful force, and didn’t just rule things sexual. You had an erotic relationship with anything you were attached to deeply and viscerally–a place, a person, even an object–and even patriotism was considered an emotion rooted in eroticism.

“Eventually the Philosophers–Plato, chiefly–decided the erotic way of knowing the world was inferior to the intellectual methods they favored, and the seeds of the exaggerated mind-body dualism that would infect early Christianity were sewn, based on the supposed superiority of spirit over matter (intellect over emotion). But eroticism as a way of relating to the world was rediscovered and embraced with a vengeance by the neo-Platonists of the Italian Renaissance, which is one of the reasons for all those chubby Cupids in Italian art. They represent eroticism, sexual feelings without the sex.

“Today we still live in a very anti-erotic culture. It’s very sexual, but not very erotic. The great authors we think of as treating with sex in their works–Henry Miller, D.H. Lawrence, Erica Jong–really just titillate rather than examine. Anais Nin maybe comes closest to capturing the real spirit of eroticism that infuses our lives, and she’s considered a pornographer. I think Pauline Reage (”Story of O“) is up there too, though not many people are comfortable with her brand of eroticism.

So that’s my take on it. We all fuck, we all have sex, and anyone with at least some literary ability can describe a sexual act and voila! — they’re a porn author. But to discern the threads of eroticism that run through our lives, to be able to know them when you see them, to understand how sexual feelings are generalized and applied to the mundane, how we apply them in our relations with ourselves… That takes a special kind of talent and perception.

He describes how I see things.   I can see the erotic content in the mundane.  I do it all the time.  It’s like he was looking right at me when he wrote that.  And here I thought I just had a dirty mind.

If you’re reading this, someone somewhere has probably accused you of having a dirty mind.  Let’s talk about that for a minute, shall we?  What does the word “dirty” mean when it comes to sex?  It means “obscene”.  What is obscene?  Who defines obscenity?  The most accurate definition (according to Wikipedia, and if you can’t trust them to be accurate…) is “offensive to current standards of decency or morality.”  And there you have it.  It seems obscenity is in the eye of the beholder, or as another writer put it, “People with freaky kinks think that other people with different freaky kinks are disgusting perverts.”

By my own definition, I don’t think my mind is dirty or my thoughts obscene.  But since obscenity standards are clearly subjective, my stories might well be considered dirty to lots and lots of people.  Mind you, there are lots of things I find offensive, but when I run across them, I just click away.  It doesn’t occur to me to have them banned or their voices silenced because I was offended.  If what you see offends you, move on.

Having said that, this blog is under the radar.  Incognito.  Under an assumed name.  Most of my friends and family have not been invited to view it and know nothing about my erotic proclivities.  Maybe someday I’ll feel comfortable coming out to them.  Maybe the idea of being accused of having a dirty mind won’t bother me.  Hell, maybe I’ll have some ’splainin’ to do when my erotic novel hits the bestseller list and they all go “Why didn’t you tell me you were a writer?”  Maybe then they’ll understand.

In the meantime, the stories keep coming.  In this brave new world, self-publishing is simple and the invention of the eBook has made erotica more popular than ever.  No need to worry about what’s on the cover of the book giving you away: you can sit in a coffee shop or at a little league game happily absorbing tawdry tales to your hearts content.  This blog is a great place for me to talk about writing erotica, and I can pimp out my books in one neat and convenient location.  You’re welcome to come back any time and see what’s new.  You can even sign up to follow my blog for updates by clicking a button way down at the bottom of the page.

So welcome!  It’s nice to have you playing along!