True Stories: Let's Do Lunch

Over the past few months I've been having sex with an incredibly sexy woman at my office named Kay. Since both of us are married, you would think that our little affair would be very discreet, but that's just not the way it turned out. I wasn't specifically looking for an affair either; it's just one of those things that grew from spending a great deal of time with someone you have an attraction to. Chemistry. That type of purely physical, fucking stunning chemistry which is impossible to resist.
Anyway, Kay just loves the thrill of doing it in "public places". I guess she just gets off on knowing that we may get caught at any time. I was slightly less excited by this but I was so caught up in this thrill ride I just went with the flow. Since Kay only works two floors above me, it's not unusual for us to meet in the stairwell or in the elevator for a quick session of "kiss and grope". Sometime these little session have gotten a little too involved and we've almost been caught with "our pants down" on more than one occasion. Of course that didn't stop Kay from raising the ante from time to time.
Last week Kay and I went out for lunch. I kept asking her where we were going, but all she would say was, "It's a surprise". We finally arrived at one of the local downtown bars known for it's great hamburgers. Much to my surprise (and shock) Kay's husband was working there as a bartender! This girl was playing with fire! Since he was about 6”2 and built like a linebacker, you can imagine my level of enthusiasm at being there. We sat at the bar and ate our hamburger, exchanging small talk with Kay's husband. As we sat there, Kay crossed her legs and started to run her foot up and down the back of my leg. Damn!
When her husband turned around to pour another customer a drink, she glanced over at me licked her lips suggestively. I quickly shot a nervous glance toward her husband and she just threw her head back and began laughing. Of course, that wasn't enough for my risqué lover and Kay began to run her hand up and down the inside of my leg. Within seconds my cock was throbbing inside my pants.
When it was finally time to get back to the office, we exchanged some idle chatter with her husband and then we left the bar. I had no idea if he could tell something was up, but I didn't get the sense he was on to us. Or maybe he was just cool with the whole idea...either way, I wasn't going to ask!

As we walked outside, Kay tugged at my arm and said, "We aren't going back to work yet, I have another surprise for you". She quickly led me into the parking garage that was adjacent to the bar and before I knew it we were standing in front of her husband's convertible sports car. Kay pulled her keys out, unlocked the car and hopped into the driver's seat. She opened the passenger door and said, "Don't just stand there, get in".
I reluctantly climbed into the passenger's seat and closed the door. Kay turned toward me, gave me one of her mischievous looks and began to unbutton her blouse. I began looking around the crowded parking garage to see if anyone was around, half expecting her husband to be approaching, and when I looked back, Kay had unhooked her bra to expose her enormous breasts. I could feel my cock begin to get hard again and I soon forgot about everything else. Kay slid across the seat toward me and we started passionately kissing as I fondled her breasts. Her nipples were pink and erect and I could feel her body tense as I twisted them between my fingers.
I leaned over and kissed her breasts as I circled her nipples with my tongue. Kay grabbed my head with both hands and pushed it down between her legs. I pushed her skirt up as she spread her legs and just as I thought, she wasn't wearing any underwear. I put my hands under Kay's legs and pulled her butt toward me as I opened her legs even wider. I could smell the tantalizing, musky aroma of her pussy as I slid my head between her legs.
As my mouth touched her pussy, Kay let out a satisfied moan and I looked up to see her laying back against the car door with her eyes closed, a huge smile on her face. Kay was always very noisy when we fucked and this always turned me on in the past, but as I began to lick her pussy, she started to moan so loudly that I just knew someone was going to hear us. I slowly raised my head to look around, but Kay grabbed me by the ears and pulled me back down toward her cunt. At this point I decided to not worry about style points and began aggressively licking her folds, pulling her lips apart with my fingers so I could access the treasure within, focusing most of my attention on her clit. Kay loved to have her pussy licked and within seconds, her hips were pulsating up and down, pressing her warm, wet cunt into my face. I wrapped my arms tightly under Kay's legs so I could maintain my assault on her clit as she madly gyrated her hips across the seat.
As Kay neared orgasm she started to blurt out those pre-orgasmic mumbling that I've grown to love so much. Suddenly, Kay's body stiffened, her legs shook and finally I felt her entire body tremble as the orgasm surged through her. I slowed the pace of my stimulation and started licking up and down the inside lips of her pussy as she lay panting on the front seat. When I sat up, Kay began her post orgasmic ritual of fingering herself and rubbing her magic button. That always made me so fucking horny that I instinctively began stroking my thick, hard cock through my pants. Kay looked over at me and whispered, "No, no.... That's my job", as she sat up and scooted even closer to me. I leaned back against the car door as she began to run her hands across my crotch. She traced her fingers up and down the sides of my cock, using her thumbs to apply pressure. Kay really knew how to get me worked up and this was no exception. She would cup her hand and place it under my balls and then run her fingernails up the entire length of my shaft.

I could feel my cock begin to pulsate inside my pants, straining for release, as I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the window. Kay started to undo my belt and unsnap my pants and I lifted my butt off the seat and allowed her to pull my pants down toward my knees. She leaned over and started to run her tongue up and down the shaft of my cock in a slow, corkscrew pattern, starting at the base and working her way up to the head. When she would reach the head, she would swirl her tongue around it several times, then take my whole length into her mouth, and then repeat the process over and over again. She was incredible. My cock was quivering with excitement as Kay worked her magic; I was a slave to her pleasure. As I laid there with my eyes closed, I could feel her hand wrap around the shaft of my cock and begin to pump hard as she rubbed the underside of my balls with her other hand. Somehow she managed to reach a finger towards my butt and tickle my asshole; this girl had all the moves.
Kay was extremely proud of her expertise at blowjobs for good reason, it was one of the final flirtaceous secrets she offered before we finally hooked up, and as my cock began to swell and my breathing quicken, she knew I was nearing orgasm and got down to business. I could feel her warm mouth engulf my cock over and over as she slowly increased the pace of her up and down motions. She now focused her attention near the head of my cock and the waves of pleasure washed over me until I was in ecstasy! As I reached orgasm, my back arched and my warm cum surged into her mouth.
Kay slowed her up and down motions and began to gently suck my cock as it pumped out the last of my cum into her mouth. When I opened my eyes, I saw her circling the tip with her tongue as she slowly ran her encircled hand up and down the shaft with a gentle squeezing motion. I loved the way she could change from completely a completely rabid predator to such a gentle nurturer at the drop of a hat like that. When Kay sat back and began to get dressed I realized that it was time to return to reality. As I started pulling my pants up, she slid back across the seat and kissed me.

Come Inside

I cannot help asking, whether we do not, in that very heat of extreme gratification when the generative fluid is ejected, feel that somewhat of our soul has gone from us?” – Tertullian
As Balzac said, ‘There goes another novel!’” – Woody Allen
Chanel’s pint-sized butt pokes up into the misty, brisk, black night beach air. Each champagne-colored, pearl-shaped cheek bubbles outward under a delightful patina of gritty, flaxen sand.
Chanel is at attention like a good doggy. Hands and knees. Me on my knees behind her. She jutting away from my groin pointing toward her ass.
Minutes earlier, Chanel had been lying naked on her back. This explains the butterfly-shaped coating of sand ornamenting her perfect, tanned buttocks.
So perfect, in fact, I bow downward to bite her left cheek where she’s spotted with a black, strawberry-shaped birthmark. Something about this makes her ever-the-more adorable and I bite again, harder.
Chanel winces, but does not turn around to stop my nibbling her fleshy morsel.
She knows better than that.
The waves of the black, frothing ocean ooze up the beachhead twenty feet from where we’re enjoying our nocturnal assignation. Over this calming sound of the sea, I do hear Chanel’s winsome, “Careful…”
She’s still not turning around as I nosh on her drum-skinned, burnished buttock with growing fervor. “Quiet!” I demand between breathless bites.
I want only to tear through her skin with my teeth as one would the silky tenderness of a boiled chicken breast. But I’m lustfully hardened by twee Chanel’s beatifically repressed whimper and – cocksure – I can wait no longer to arise, driving my swelling erection peeking out of my unzipped, sandy denim jeans into that warm-moist aperture betwixt her two champagne pearls.
The Moon’s celestial luminance coruscates the sand on Chanel’s opalescent ass, as she deeply sucks in the cool mist that encysts us on this vacant plot of beach belonging only to us.
I shuffle my knees imposingly closer to her body, thrusting myself deeper into her crevice, clutching her flank with my right hand and slipping my left arm underneath and across her tight, washboard stomach.
I lower myself against her fey body, allowing my scratchy red flannel shirt to gently scrape across her maple-colored back.
She’s quiet like a good girl. Gasps once or twice as I pump myself back and forth, slow and steady, so deep inside her. The warmth of her inner body comforts and excites my nascent penis pressing onward within.
The rest of my clothed body is cold, clammy, and sweaty as it slides up and down her naked and fit soccer player frame.
The roiling waves continue to bat against the shore with a faint susurrus. A seagull squawks in the unseen distance of night. And the sand beneath our entangled bodies churns as my penis plunges the depths of her, me tightening my arm’s grip on her belly.
My hand stealthily smears up her flank to her fist-sized hard ball of a breast.
I squeeze tight – too tight, or perhaps just tight enough – and Chanel moans, craning her head backwards. My cold-sweat face is now diving into her redolent, bronze French twist of a downy soft hairdo.
“I love you,” I whisper not so much to her but to the pelagic air… and she knows this heralds what will come next.
“Wait…” she tries. But it’s of no use.

… groan a prolonged release, relieving myself of the impossible tension at once, pressing through her, squirting the hot spurts of gooey garlands within her. Quick fragments of the semen fusillade paint the inside of her with my effervescent essence.
Chanel seizes wildly – but only momentarily – with me still sealed to her like a stamp to an envelope.
Tremulously, Chanel blurts out, “Oh… my goodness…” Her puritanical reserve makes me giggle, and I slip out of her, rolling off her back and onto the ice-chilled granola sand crunching beneath me.
I extend both arms outward like Christ or the wings of the chimerical seagull out there squawking. The painfully refreshing sea air I’m quickly sucking into the back of my throat is salty and sweet.
I stare up to what almost seems to be an artificial glow of the Moon looming over us, perfectly round like Chanel’s perky backside.
Respiring, I roll over to my left side and playfully spank her ass cheek. Chanel collapses onto the sand belly-first with a hot-winded “Whoof” characteristic of the position in which we just made feral love.
“Did I do good?” she asks, chin in the sand and facing away from me to the ocean beyond her nose. The waves shimmying against the shoreline, Chanel’s bronze French twist – somewhat tousled now, of course – all but in my face.
I fall again onto my back and gaze up to the low, glaucous Moon. My penis –sticky with her body’s inner-workings – shrinks back into itself for the frigidity of the wet night air.
I zip up. “Did I do well,” I correct Chanel.
“Oh. Right,” she says without a hint of derision.
There’s a pregnant silence then but for the repetitive stretches of the bustling ocean. I hear the sand shift beneath her and I roll onto my left side once more. My fingers interlocked atop my head.
Chanel turns to me: naked, resplendent, delectable. I could easily fuck her again, and at twenty-three – being both sophisticated and easily subdued – she could probably keep up with me if I suggested it. Her eyes glimmer inquisitively in the creamy moonlight.
Her long, dark-brown eyelashes flutter, and she dislodges a grain of sand from her left eye (or right? I can’t quite remember). She’s staring at me. Gazing, really.
“What?” I grin.
She does not answer. Only gawks.
“What?” I laugh this time.
“Before… You said – ”
Oh, Christ. Here it comes.
“ – You said you love me.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Why’d you say it, then?” she asks, really wanting to know. As though it were her first time – Oh, at last! – that someone had deigned to confer the proclamation upon she of all people.
Chanel scratches her button-bunny nose tinged with a faint spray of reddish brown freckles.
“Look,” I say. “You feel really good when I’m inside you, and…”
But before I can sigh and resign myself to the mess unfolding, she says something uncannily unpredictable. Particularly uncanny for a twenty-three-year-old who confuses “good” with “well.”
“Is it because you…” she stammers. “… you see something in me that is… more than myself?”
“What?!” I exclaim.
She furrows her brow. “Is it… the objet petit a you see in me when we’re… making love?”
I huff – somehow through my nose – and smirk. “What have you been reading lately?”
Chanel shrugs, shaking her goofy head. “Nothing. I dunno. Tumblr’s ‘n stuff. The usual. Whatever, you know?”
“And, what, you’re reading Lacan’s posthumous blog or something?”
“Who’s that?” she asks.
Exactly,” I conclude.
“Gosh,” Chanel rejoins in that puritanical way of hers that both delights and exasperates me now. “I suddenly feel like I know what I’m talking about here. You love not me but rather instead that part of me that is more than me. The incomplete gap between the me you perceive as a symbol of me and the me that exists beyond your, my, or anyone else’s subjective parallax view of me.”
I’m shocked. And so is she, apparently. Only, she’s grinning… and I’m not.
“Wow,” she says.
“Here,” I say as epilogue to Chanel’s short dissertation. “Open.”
Leaning on my left elbow into her, I snatch at her chubby-cheeked dimpled chipmunk face, squeezing until she does as commanded, and unzip my pants. I pull out my erect cock – peremptorily jerking it with punishing celerity – and pull her face toward the reddening beast so that I can jam the girth of its flesh into her maw.
I keep her olive-shaped head against my groin and hold it there, staring up at the green-glowing Moon. There is no blowjob here. No back and forth movement on her or my part. I have a load to release into this irritating smart-mouth, and she’s gonna take it.
It happens… and I grunt, a beast myself now discharging into her throat.
Perspiring relief washes over me, as I look down to Chanel’s wide-open bunny blue eyes. Ejecting gobs of goop into her warm, fleshy-moist mouth.
Both of us still on the ground, Chanel smiles and lunges at me, lapping up my face with her tiny tongue. “Mmm,” she says. “You taste like butterscotch.”
“I do?” I say, incredulous.
She tilts her head to the side, questioningly, as though hitting upon another mysterious epiphany. “No. Actually… you taste like... like you. But the you that is more than you.”
Oh, fuck.
“I gotta write all this down,” Chanel says, bolting up, and pitter-pattering across the sand on her bare feet toward her clothes a few yards away. She quickly pulls on her frilly, pink underwear, tight black jeans, and red woolen sweater.
“Come on!” she calls out to me. “I just gotta write!”
* * *
Me, I can’t write at all lately.
I’ve been trying to finish like a fiend this piece I’ve been doing for The Coast – funnily enough, about Lacan and the objet petit a. But, nothing has been coming.
Certainly not since my beachfront tryst with Chanel.
To cope with the strain of my first-ever bout of Writer’s Block, I’ve instead been watching that new cable show Some Young Broads. The plots and dialogue are the worst kind of puerile flummery, and when I first tried to watch it, all I could think of was, Yup: This is definitely the work of ‘some young broad.’
But something about the main young broad – the show creator, of course – sickeningly gets me every time. Trini Dobowitz, with her stocky tree-trunk stems characteristically enveloped in white schoolgirl leggings, and those billowy polka-dot dresses of hers affectively widening her already generous waistline.
That haggard, droopy face. Her bobbed brown hair that’d look so damn good if Trini Dobowitz weren’t so damn ugly.
There I’d be, naked on my Good Will orange-peel couch in the near-darkness of my compact studio apartment. Mercilessly jacking off to the corpulent image of Trini on the intermittently glowing television before me. The corduroy ridges of the couch slicing into my bare behind. Keeping my t-shirt on (as always) even while masturbating to the boob tube.
Jacking it to that dumb dame with a flare for 1930s fashion and twenty-first century technology, with tits she so loves exhibiting to the public, to the camera, to me… and the millions out there glued to their sets and basking in the static-electric warmth of TV’s glass teat.
Me, pulling and tugging at my circumcised six inches bobbed at the tip (like Trini’s bobbed hair that in this scene is festooned with an O’Keeffeian purple rose).
She’s lying on her bed. Her deadened brown eyes peering up into those of the infantile series’ interchangeable svelte, five-o-clock shadowed Semitic boyfriend always named “Dave” or “Jonathan.” He lumbering over her bare, neotenous chest. The boys on this show always on the verge of tears; the gal always the man of the show…
… And I’m maniacally shucking my shaft in the flickering glare of the TV screen. Harder and faster, practically peeling off the cob’s irritated skin.
No moisturizer for me – I crave the friction and grit my teeth. I bite down on my bottom lip, close my eyes, hear only the sound of Dave-Jonathan and Trini on the screen making sloppy, silent white-people love.
I think the fellow is really crying now and I hear Trini cackling on screen between moaning and slapping Dave-Jonathan’s behind. He cries out and she laughs more with that mannish guffaw of hers.
But my eyes are shut, and all is a consuming void less the twisting and turning of my erect penis puffing larger, thicker in my right hand. I can feel it, the thickness swelling and the snake’s skin pushing upward.
I should loosen my grip and let the thing breathe, but instead tighten my grasp – along with my eyes that are clenched to the point of “seeing” before me a reddish kind of white light that comes to me always before sleep.
I gulp the excess saliva in my mouth that I’ve forgotten to swallow and listen as the creaky bed on the TV screen squeaks up and down with the continued banging of the broad and her boy.
I’m blowing out hot air through my clamped lips, intermittently squeezing my cock while violently stroking the bastard, and my nose forcefully expels my air like I’m a frantic bull, before…
… I open my eyes to see Dave-Jonathan leaning down to gently kiss the flappy flapjack tits of his porcine paramour, licking circles round the pointy, bright-red, sweaty nipples poking out from her brown areolas. She looking hopelessly into his whiny epicene eyes…
… And… Fuck her! I let loose the font of sticky-white spray, still ripping at the steamy skin of my erection handful.

I stand up and rush over to the TV, letting the last gasp of semen spittle pelt the screen. Right at Trini’s fucking face. Right as the purple rose falls from out of her antique hair, onto the remarkably well-kept carpet of her unrealistically large New York apartment.
I stand, trembling. Spent.
My penis strained and stingy. My fingers and wrist stiff with arthritic exhaustion. There’s one more squeeze of juice in me and I shoot it out at her dumbfounded face, frustrated now at the unsatisfying technique of her lover du jour who resembles all the others in her TV life.
I let go of my penis, already shriveling back from the seeming fluorescence of the TV. Standing, balling my hands into fists.
Ejaculating to that corpulent cunt? Christ! Fuck her. Fuck her! Me, feverishly jerking off to her mounds of gluttonous glob – purely out of spite, mind you! – and she gets picture deals and book deals and TV shows and her own fucking cereal… All of this: the shows and the success – just like Chanel, I realize – coming from my essence. These broads taking my essence and flourishing…
And that is what’s been going on! It all flashes before me at once!
There was even that one girl who became a poet. What was her name?
Let’s call her… Amy. Soft, simple, subtle, supple. Amy. Yes, “Amy”: the perfect name for this girl with messily cropped plucky pixie highlighter pink hair (did it glitter? can’t recall) and bright, alabaster-skinned face that never shined as though the whole of her physiognomy was nothing more than a matte photograph.
Pearly, smiley teeth and, just… You get it: adorable. A gentle swan of a girl working at the coffee shop across the street from me. Silvery barrettes in her pink-pixie hair and those emerald-green eyes bursting out of her alabaster face in vividly vivacious 3D.
She’d have on a too-tight, pedomorphic rainbow-striped 1980s retro polo that would really flaunt those size-B boobs of hers, poking out of the horizontal Skittle lines of her shirt. Her short sleeves would reveal the treasured tattoo on her right arm of a puckish fairy-child (not unlike Amy herself) enmeshed in a baroque network of faded-gray ivy.
Oh, and those black-and-white striped referee shorts she’d wear over her ultra-firm, nearly non-existent butt, all of which was then covered from waist to knees by her green, cotton coffee shop apron that domesticated this fallen angel in a way that made it ever-the-more inviting when she would come to you from the coffee maker to the register before saying, “Any room for cream?”
That night, I’m opening the door to my apartment with Amy on the other side of me. Her back to the door now nearly ajar. Me mashing up against her face-to-face, mouth-to-mouth, tongue-to-tongue. Forehead-to-forehead.
Pushing her the rest of the way through the opening door with one hand; my face and body against hers. Closing the door with a reverse mule kick and shuffling her across the stained gray carpet toward the orange-peel Good Will corduroy couch.
Amy unwraps her bright-red homemade knit-yarn scarf in the infinitesimal space between our two bodies even now smashed against one other.
We do not stop with the mindless kissing, and Amy falls against the back of the couch, allowing me to collapse atop her.
The scarf now off and thrown to the floor.
With the same cat-like dexterity – and without failing to continue consuming my mouth with hers – she unbuttons her black pleather jacket and tosses it too to the floor beyond us while I unzip my jeans and hold the side of her head with my other hand.
We’re making out like we’re sixth-graders in the back of the baseball field – full and vital, lustful and unfettered, sloppy and slippery, slobbering and great.
She says between panting and kisses – with her eyes closed and frenzied octopus hands all over my face and body now – “So how’s the cheese book coming along?”
I stand up, my pants in a heap around my shoes, my bare shins against the couch, the arrowhead knob of my erection protruding through the dark brown plaid of my boxers, right toward Amy’s head resting against the back of the couch.
Slowly, I pull her rainbow polo up and over her head. Amy’s raising her pale, silky-smooth doll arms (there’s the tattoo) in subservience to my touch, which I feel rings a quiver down her now…
… and – bending toward her body – I slowly, slowly suckle her ripe, pointy, salmon-colored nipple that caps her pastel-pink areola a thumb’s length round in circumference.
Amy’s whole body sinks back into the couch – arms still sprouting above her head, allowing me to do as I please – and I hear the crinkle-creasing of the corduroy as the only sound in the humid apartment.
I nurse on her tit so small and proud. I am satisfied that Amy feels no need for a bra.
I’m on my knees now, buttressed by hers.
Amy’s black-and-white striped ref shorts lead to her opaque black leggings that scratch a bit when I gently caress one, but look too damn good on this little swain to complain.
I’m licking her nipple, lapping up crystalline sweat droplets with my oversized, puppy-dog, raspberry-skinned tongue. Playfully, quietly squeezing the breast itself with my right hand.
My left hand continues to caress Amy’s scratchy legging filled with her leg before me.
I stop for a breath to answer, “Oh. You know, cheese is cheese.”
But what Amy did not know – while I retracted my hand from her leg in order to guide my arrow point penis from out of the plaid boxers through the slit in front, gripping its head and stroking; she taking the cue to bring her arms down and pull down her leggings to the floor, followed by those referee shorts of hers – was that the “cheese book” would never be finished.
I had stopped working on it and in fact had to return the advance from the publisher (not an easy task in this tough economy of ours, I can tell you!).
It was my second bout of Writer’s Block. A block of big, fat, stinky, Limburger cheese.
Not knowing this (or probably not much caring, anyway), Amy slowly raised her white, ceramic leg past the side of my head with the skillful grace of the ballerina she once most likely was as a fragile young thing.
I reached out to her foot just above my head and folded it down, popping a green-nailed big toe into my mouth, bobbing it as one would a tasty sucker; my right hand now playing again with her left tit whose nipple was unbelievably firm against the cautious swirls of my thumb.
Thinking to myself all the while, if only you knew…
All those faggoty years of fantasizing about being a poet! The modern-day laureate! No one does that anymore… but for a few sad, suicidal goth girls and rich, effete androgynies living in Park-Slope. I would bring back the Bukowski, the Miller, the Kinski.
Hence, no more cheese book.
These things came to mind to the new soundtrack: the faint flesh-petting of Amy’s soft, meringue of shaved pussy. Masturbating with her leg still vertically held against me.
Bending her foot further toward my face and gleefully feasting on her big toe, I selfishly decide to shove the entire size-6 into my grateful gob.
Taking the moment to climb spryly into her lap – folding her leg back into her; foot still in my mouth (further proof of those years of ballet flexibility) – and mounting her. My thickening, hot-blooded meat finding purchase in her gaping creaminess of crack.
I’m pushing myself forward, against her body, against the back of the corduroy couch. Pressing myself up inside her malleable innards with a soft groan from her closed-eye fairy face framed by sweat-lined strands of lithe pixie pink hair.
No, in lieu of confessing my longing to be a poet, I held her small head with both hands, thumbing her baby elf ear. I leaned in to nuzzle her cheek-to-cheek, hearing the sound of the couch keening (almost as though it were that creaky bed of Trini’s; Get it out of your mind!).
Breathing out of my nose and rocking myself back and forth – gently but true – against and inside Amy’s small body. I could feel my back straining. My spine tingled as I did burrow myself deeper inside her, pulling her impossibly close to me, jowl-to-jowl and eyes closed.
Amy’s chapped pink lips popped open, exposing the silver ball piercing her kitten tongue and then (no, I did not tell her)… it came. A long, prolonged stream of hot viscosity bursting forth from out of my body and into hers. The arrowhead shaft of my penis purging itself, flushing her insides with me; she digging her short-nailed fingers into my back and shoulders, pulling me even – yes – closer.
Clinging to me, inviting my sperm to enter her, wanting it, needing it.
I’m now drawing her closer, all but crushing her skull between my bear claws, mashing the side of my face into hers, pumping and pumping my hot load up into her warm, creamy crevice; filling her fey, frail body whose eyes suddenly bolted open.
“Wait,” Amy said, as though shocked back to life.
Uh, oh…
Amy’s surprisingly iron-grip on my back and shoulders loosened and she pulled away from me. I had heard it all before and knew it was coming. Here we go…
… But, no. Instead of How dare you, it was, “I suddenly have… thee… best… idea… for a poem… ever!
Navigating around my body, Amy stood up off the couch, tugged up her leggings and shorts, and was out the door and from my life for good. Out of the coffee shop, even.
About a year later, her two-volume poetry collection (Before the Storm and After the Wake) were bestsellers, single-handedly revitalizing the fledgling poetry industry. Meanwhile, I… I couldn’t write line one of my grand poetry opus.
Not after that evening with this bright new star.
You may have heard of her, in fact. They call her “Anais” Annie. Actually… Yes! That was her name. Annie. Not Amy. Annie.
* * *
The memory flashed to finito and I was left vacantly flipping through the TV channels in my otherwise dark studio apartment with one hand holding my emptied, limp dick. Literally marinating in my own juices of failure.
And what followed was yet another rerun of Some Young Broads (now on three channels, as you may know; one of the runs dubbed for Spanish-speaking audiences, which finally makes me laugh in a way that the English version never could).
So these fucking bitches keep stealing my ideas. My energy. My power. My… me.
Whether I’m pumping into her twat, face, or even TV image, it doesn’t matter. Off they go to become bigger, bolder, better than I could ever imagine (and if I could imagine, they would steal that from me, too! Whores!).
You don’t believe me?
I tell you, the more I jerk it to this Trini Dobowitz slut – to her fat fucking face – the more powerful and successful she becomes. It’s happened all year. OK? The same fame and power that then eludes me.
It’s mine. There inside me, percolating inside my loins, incubating and ready to rock and/or roll… then POW: a simple lapse of judgment and I flush it all out of me and into HER. Whomever SHE may be at the moment of too tantalizing temptation.
But… wait! Why hadn’t I realized it before? (Christ: The latest promo for Some Young Broads says Trini has been nominated for an Award for Brilliance in Women…)
And, more importantly, why hadn’t I done something about it? How could I have been so foolish? So weak? So cowardly to face the all-consuming fait accompli of the thing: Each time I come for a girl, she absorbs my ideas!

Really, it’s not even my fault. Or their fault. Like Chanel. Poor thing is (was?) so scatterbrained, I was always a bit surprised when she actually remembered to remove her tampon before our getting down to business. Then, suddenly, she’s deconstructing the double negations of Hegel through the perspective of Lacan’s Seminar III? Becoming some kind of grand poobah in the psychoanalytical Academic Circle that continues to shun me?
Clearly, this was happening all along.
I knew now what I needed to do. This would be the thing. This would be the one that would bring me to that next level of my career. The elusive “loose fish” mariners tried to best in the stories told by Moby Dick’s faithful crew.
Here it was. I couldn’t believe my luck once it all came together in my mind: I possess some weird “reverse” magic power, if you will, and now I can write about it. Do a standup act! Sure! Who’s doing standup these days? A bunch of hipster kids talking about their troubles with social media? Bah. I could do better!
I could wrap an entire set around this wacky story!
All I needed to do was write the christing motherfucker!
My palms were sweaty with exhilarated anticipation. Oh, how fun it would be to write! Oh, the exuberant joy of seeing my story told. And how – oh, yes! – how amazing it would be to at long last land myself in the coveted Victor’s Throne!
And I was off!
Off to the bar calling me with clarion siren’s song. (I needed a snifter of potvaliancy here before taking on that most formidable of all foes: the white-blank page.)
Three shots of Wild Turkey 101 and two bottles of Sam Adams later and my arm’s around the short shoulders/neck of the utterly ravishing, dark and brooding June sitting on the barstool next to me.
I’m laughing my sick fucking ass off, and June’s trying her best to smile with a crooked, placating grin, revealing her baby Chiclet teeth all adorably misshapen. Her pillows of red-red ruby lips glint in the dun-colored gas-lamp lighting of the Degas-blurry bar scene. And her blackest Snow White hair is topped by a purple-and-white polka-dot hair band affixed just so.
Just so for me. Just so for this night of revelation, excitation, and celebration. I will be writing all the wrongs of my life and finally…
… But, first: two more shots. And June.
June with the shockingly penetrating onyx eyes. Eyes that are pupils only. Somehow. June with the bashful button nose that crinkles when she continues to placate me with her custom crooked grin. June with the baby powder pale skin wrapped tightly around her baby-doll frame.
June in the flickering, fluorescent light of the drip-drop, claustrophobic box of the wet-floored, tile-floored bar bathroom.
There we are together. And she’s about 5’4, making her the perfect height to be spun around (bathroom door click-locked), and my two lesbo fingers – middle and ring – dig up and into her slippery, slick-wet cunt from behind.
We’re both standing, but that does not stop me from drilling her sweet vagina with these fingers, pounding her and all but scraping her bulbous clitoris along the way.
Over and over, fingers diving deeply into her gut, palm of my hand slapping against her supple white ass enshrouded in shadow for the moments of darkness from the flickering, erratically humming low light above us.
In the scratched, broken mirror before us, we can see through the layer of rust-brown dirt to our muddy reflections.
June’s eyes shut as I continue to finger-ram her remorselessly, gritting my teeth and letting go of any inhibition, allowing the alcohol to take over and make my hand a machine pelting her ass and forcing my fingers up and into her, over and over, without stopping, doing all I can to rip her whole goddamn petite body apart.
She’s loving it – I think – and I can barely see in the mirrored reflection her closed eyelids are painted with a light lavender hue.
There’s that crooked smirk of hers again, both of us hearing only the on-again/off-again buzz of the low light above and the quickening, gooshy flesh-slapping of my pile-driving fingers penetrating her body endlessly.
The fingers of my left hand knowingly wrap around her left ribs to clasp her flat stomach beneath her tight black leather biker jacket whose jangling, kitschy chains assure me she’s no motorcycle rider.
Holding her in place grants me purchase to really go to work here, forcing her to climax. My brow folds with sweaty, deliberate dedication. I want her to come and she will do it, and she will do it from my fingers alone.
Up and in, again and again, these two of my hand’s strongest fingers, ruthlessly excavating her slimy-lipped slit; her warm and welcoming body taking each thrust, almost inhaling the entirety of my hand.
June is soundless, licks her lips slowly, and I can then hear her deep breathing; each exhale long and quivering. Each inhale quick and strong as though her last.
“Harder,” she whispers as I quicken. “Harder!”
And I oblige, even faster still, pummeling her wet dripping vagina oozing with excitement and sweat.
With each rapid thrust pumping her insides, I feel the cold, firm skin of her buttock against the palm of my perspiring hand. I notice a small, brownish-black bruise just underneath the back of her knee and something about it turns me on in a way few other things could.
I’m really railing her now, banging her with my one hand, clutching her stomach with the other and literally pulling her into each advance of my fingers inside of her all but breaking her spine in the process.
No sound from her at all, as I open my eyes to look into our shared reflection in the grimy mirror and see her eyes – pupils, as I’ve reported already – and her lips mouthing the word, “Please…”
She whispers it now: “Please.”
And I stop, losing my balance a bit, and with both hands (my right fingers sticky and warm from her insides) I unfasten my belt, unzip my black slacks, and drop them to the floor.
I spin June around to face me.
Her body trembles as I drag my sticky-wet hand up and down her tight-crack vagina sprayed with a black peppering of prickly hair, and injudiciously ram myself home (a trick, to be sure, in my besotted state; but, still…).
And her eyes bolt wider than I’d ever dreamed and her breath expels a galaxy of cool spritz motes in my face.
I lean into her face, bite her lip, let her go, and birl her around again, shoving her up against the mirror with a crash and a grunt from June.
I spread her ass cheeks apart, draw back spittle in my throat, and shoot it out at her puckered spiral of an asshole practically winking at me.
“Wait,” she says. But I’m not listening. Clutching her pert size-C’s (impossible for her tiny frame, but not my prerogative) from behind, I bash myself up and into her, driving home and boring her tender, fleshy asshole.
The slimy flop of entrails’ mucousy skin encase my cock as I pump her faster and harder, jabbing her with all the power in my back and body, hanging onto her firm breasts underneath her leather jacket (jangling chains).
Her onyx marble pupils always open in the reflection of the mirror against which her head is banging with each crash of myself into her cold, fleshy cheeks.
It is in that reflection where I see her agog at me as though in disbelief, still making not a noise – petrified perhaps – and my right hand slithers down her belly-button to her black-peppered, bristly twat whose lips I strum, impossibly speeding up my cadence of savage ass-fucking.
Our inhales/exhales are in perfect syncopated sync, both of us clammy and sweating through the same jouissance and pain. June being torn from within, me tensing my back muscles and feeling the hot sting of my penis teeming with volatile sperm ready to engage.
Then I hear it once again: “Please, please, please.”
I let her know: “I’m gonna…”
“All of it,” she says. “Please. All of it. I want it. Oh, God! Please…”
And I feel it. Starting in my belly, hot and bothered like the whiskey’s gonna come back up – but it’s not – and I clench her left leathered tit with one hand, playing with the top of her ladyfinger pussy with the other; she screeching in pain as I squirt and let loose, draining my juice up and into her guck-ey mash of fenny flesh and breathing out quickly as I finish releasing deep within her asshole.
And I pull out, wipe the excess cum on her left buttock (just above the enticing bruise), place my hand on the mirror beside her face, and lean against it to catch my breath.
I expel a loud sigh and almost laugh.
June turns around, exhausted and pouring sweat. She stares into my eyes as she pulls up the black skirt that had been on the ground round her white, filthy tennis shoes.
She pivots round to her reflection. Fixes her hair, makes sure her polka-dotted hair band is just so once more.
I grip my cramped side in pain and breathe hard, a little wobbly from the booze still violating my system.
“Well,” June says. “Thanks.”
I nod my head. Then she breaks out into the loudest belt of laughter.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing,” she says.
“No, what? Tell me.”
She tilts her head now, and it’s the first time I sense a semblance of sentience in her otherwise expressionless, robotic face. She’s no longer placating me with a crooked grin. This is her. This is she. This is June. And she just figured it out.
“I just thought of something… sooooo funny.”
I’m suddenly sobered. Oh, no.
Wait, what was I gonna do after this…? What was the idea again?
“Wait!” I call out to her; but June’s already unlocked the door and is out of the bathroom. I see the back of her fake biker jacket – “Sorry! I really gotta go!” – as she’s out of my presence forevermore.
I’m alone. Spent. With an absentee mind.
And I know I’m too drunk to remember June.
Until a few months later, that is.
There she is. On the TV. On cable. It’s a clip from an upcoming episode of Some Young Broads. They’re talking about the season premiere.
And it’s June. Doing standup at a club on the show. I remember her!
I found her first! I… came in her ass! I came in her. And now she’s doing standup. On Some Young Broads. There she is: “Hey, girls. Does your guy ever do something that just… totally gets on your nerves? He’s demanding anal, and meanwhile you’re all like, ‘Uh, no thanks!’” Laughter in the crowd (fake? real?).
June finishes, “Just remember next time, when you’re feeling guilty about it: It’s not ‘complaining’; it’s ‘explaining what bothers you!’” The audience (fake? real? Almost all females, that’s for sure) goes crazy for it.
And now Trini Fuckin’ Dobowitz is discussing the clip and how she found June at a night club a few months back doing this bit about “complaining” and how it tohhhhhhtally gelled with her “aesthetic” and… etc., etc. etc.
Trini then explains that she and June are sooooo gelled in their “aesthetic,” in fact, that she will be executive producing June’s own series on NBC next year…
And I’m in my shitty little studio apartment. Wondering how I’m gonna pay next month’s rent. No food in the fridge. No ideas in my head. In the dark. Alone. And with nothing.
I can only look at the camera deadpan and say the line.
And I swear I can hear canned laughter and applause as the credits roll…

The Italian Villa

Antonio looked as handsome as ever; she expected nothing less. He greeted her, as always, with a single red rose, a kiss upon the hand and the words, "Sinorina, I cannot wait to fuck you," in a whispered tone, as he leaned close to her cheek to steal the first kiss of the visit. His words always made her shudder with excitement for his style was like the mood of a wild woman, always a surprise.
This spring Helena's drive to Lago di Garda was long. The Garda Sea was a jewel nestled between the valleys of the Northern Italian Alps. Snow capped mountains melted the glacier that streamed into the crystal blue waters below. Garda was a seasonal place, with hotel after hotel shutting their doors at the brink of winter, but Helena's destination did not need the warm weather or open hotels. She was going to the dreamy villa that possessed enough warmth to last through the cool months of the year and each time she drove to see Antonio, Helena remembered how strangely they had met.
Her journal was embroidered with loops of thread, bound in soft leather. She scribbled her heart's passions onto its pages. One day, Helena glanced into the distance when she heard the waitress drop a tray of desserts but was intrigued by a man across the room, charming, with eyes blue as the Mediterranean Sea. She smiled.
Within moments, he sat beside her and they fondled fingers in public view. Something about him was familiar. Time stopped as eternity entered the palm of her hand and just as forever seemed tangible, he stood up, kissed her forehead, said good-bye and walked away. Helena's cappuccino was cold, her mind dreamy and her journal gone.
For a month, Helena sobbed like a child whose pet had died. The journal was her soul, trapped in ink on hand-made paper, bound until its spine tattered. Her world changed when the mysterious stranger called claiming to have found her journal (Helena's contact information was written inside).

He offered to drop it off, but he lived in Italy. Instead she dashed into her car and drove nine hours from Frankfurt to confront the thief. After explaining that he inadvertently took it along with the book that he placed on her table that lovely winter's day, Helena was unable to accuse him of anything deceitful. As life's little ironies would have it, Antonio and Helena clicked, eyes passionate from centuries past. His charm was spellbinding and they ended up making love in his Italian villa. That was two years ago.
This was to be a weekend for the two of them, in her home away from home, where the sea was a brilliant blue, clean and fresh; where the sky's misty haze hid the full view of the mountains across the sea and the air smelled of olive oil. Upon her arrival, Helena was surprised to see several unfamiliar cars parked behind the iron gates. Antonio never mentioned there would be other guests.
Once, Antonio had her crawl through the garden grounds as he hid naked and hard behind a statute. When she found him, he asked her to show him what she would do with Pygmalion's image, if it were real.
Upon licking the V between the statue's legs, Helena was startled to find that the statue was in fact a real woman, painted white to resemble Pygmalion's vision of perfection. The three enjoyed an explosive experience on the garden grounds for an entire afternoon, where later, he paid the stranger and cooked a delicious pasta meal for lunch. His strangeness intensified her curiosity. A slice of eroticism was always on his menu. Walking through the iron gateway, into the garden of his villa, was like walking into a prison of personal desire. Once inside, she could not escape the aroma of lust until she had a taste.
The kitchen overlooked the tranquil Garda Sea that was usually surrounded by crowds sailing, swimming and sun tanning in the summer, but this was the end of a chilly winter. A small crowd of people sat in the dinning room that still had accessibility to the glorious view. Antonio handed Helena a glass of red wine and lead her to the group of strangers in silence. Uncomfortable, Helena sat beside him on an antique chair and was introduced to everyone.
There were four couples, all Italian. The room was filled with small talk and an occasional secret look from one to another. Helena noticed immediately, but chose to ignore the gestures. She was, once again, unsure of his plans if there were any. Helena just wanted to be alone with him and tried to signal her desire for granting his "fuck me" wish.
He played with her hair, caressed her legs and occasionally kissed her lips in front of his dinner guests. Helena sensed unfamiliar excitement. Each time he stroked her knee, he pulled up her skirt a little higher, exposing her thighs to him. Though some of the guests noticed and watched, others seemed to ignore the obvious gestures. Helena sensed his actions were part of his evening scheme, but wondered if they were within the boundaries she had set in the past. He certainly was capable of exposing her but wondered if he would extend such a public display without her consent. Voyeurism and exhibitionism were never a consideration, until now.

The conversations were light and entertaining, the pasta, rich with sauce and the wine heavy. Helena lost track of how much she drank, perhaps three or four glasses over the two-hour dinner. She finally felt comfortable. Apparently one of the other guests, Giovanna, did as well. In her happy natured manner she flung her top off, unhooked her bra and invited the other four women to join her in the liberation. Helena, usually daring and open-minded, sat dazed, even under intoxication. The men laughed and egged the women on in their masculine, ego-minded way. Each time a bra came off, it was flung onto the chandelier above the table. Helena's was the only one missing.
The guests turned toward her and Helena faced peer pressure; she flushed with embarrassment. "Go on, Sinorina, show them how beautiful your breasts are," Antonio spoke in his eloquent Italian accent. "They are ripened to perfection. Expose yourself." "I can't," responded Helena with a shyness he had never encountered. The challenge made him hard. Antonio slowly raised her skirt, caressing her upper thigh and leaned to kiss her. In a whisper he spoke, "Helena, go on, let go and become the woman I know you are inside. You are a wild, desirable woman. Show it. Show them. Show me".
Stranded and unable to escape, Helena realized that Antonio was correct; she was wild and desirable. "Isn't this why I flee to his mercy every few months?" she thought. Her weekend excursions to Antonio's villa always lead to a reawakening of her sexuality. Usually they involved only him, and occasionally another woman, but this was more than Helena ever expected. Her desires heightened.
She sat, timid and uneasy, looking at the audience waiting for Helena to join in the curious pleasure. The women were beautiful, the men, handsome and the situation so erotic that without another thought, Helena's bra joined the others on the light above. "I'm proud of you, my Sinorina," Antonio whispered in her ear as his hand came upon her breast, showing his prize to the others.
Helena did not remember when she began to feel the sexual pleasure between her legs but as Antonio nibbled on her nipples, between his sips of wine, a tender climax filled her; then she realized someone's tongue was soothing her below. She noticed several of the couples were no longer at the dinner table and when she tilted her head, Helena saw a glimpse of naked bodies in the other room. When Antonio noticed, he asked, "Would you like to join them, my Sinorina? " Helena could only muster a nod between her soft, pleasurable moans.
The room was candlelit: who lit them, Helena did not know, but the glow made the bodies sparkle; beads of sweat turned into diamond studs. Antonio held her hand as they walked into the lust filled room, where bodies swayed in an awkward harmony. Helena felt knots in her stomach as she, for a moment, questioned her ability to act upon her nodded commitment. She knew there was really no commitment on her end - to be a part of this - but Antonio lead her blindly into a new world and exposed the many levels of eroticism. This was a boundary she never encountered.

They sat on the sofa, making out like teenagers in the backseat of a car: heavy, passionate, yet with experienced frenzy. He never pressured her but offered options; she had the freedom to signal her desire to continue or stop. But before Helena could make her decision, another woman's hand melted the bashfulness she had been trying to wash away all evening. Fingertips dug into Helena's skin, powerful and lustful, slowly leading Helena's hand down to feel the other woman's wetness. Helena opened her eyes slightly to see who this woman was; her breasts were straight ahead, perfectly shaped - pear-like - with hard nipples begging for attention. Helena's consciousness liquefied when her lips touched Giovanna's olive skin, nipples a chocolate brown and familiar in a distant way.
It had been a months since Helena touched the velvet skin of a woman; Aphrodite seemed to emerge from her soul. She fumbled between thoughts of keeping her eyes open or closed; she wanted to savor the visuals in her mind but also wanted to confirm their reality. For a moment, Helena forgot Antonio and concentrated on the muse in front of her, silky as a spider's web; Helena was trapped in it.
Her consciousness opened secret doorways of passion. The most glorious sight was when both lips, Antonio's and Giovanna's, were engulfed in the salty sea of her breasts, licking her sweat as though the last drop of water. The sight translated into power, nurture and submissive lust, but they were submitting to her as she enjoyed them. Helena possessed a grain of dominance. She clinched her velvet walls and realized that a stranger thrust inside her. She could not remember when he entered but surrendered to his force. Helena's body entranced him as she lay on the sofa, her body nude, vulnerabilities exposed and legs open wide for anyone who wanted a part of her.
Helena wanted to see the bodies that played with hers, the men and women who tasted her flesh, decadent like Tiramisu, but kept her eyes closed and concentrated on the sensations that only multiple people could offer at one time. Helena's pleasure was beyond natural; she was the core of their desires and her decision to allow their play excited her. Without Helena's consent, another woman in the room would be "the one" - the one taking from the audience what she wanted and feeling the excruciating pleasure. Helena wanted that power: she wanted to be the one everyone in the room sought; she wanted to play goddess.
The moans in the room echoed in her eardrums; they were different, Italian, eloquent, like songs the Sirens in ancient mythology used to lure men into their provocative island. Helena soared to their music. Her body danced a song of forbidden delight: hips swayed in a rocking motion as a man plunged his hard cock within her and her torso guided the mouths along her breasts; her arms clenched to the edges of the cushions and her mind was dreamy with surrealism. Helena tried to fight the orgasm. She wanted to continue being the focus. She wanted more than she could comprehend, but her body heightened with delight, her pussy drenched from deep thrusts and her nipples hurt from too much stimulation.
Suddenly, Helena dug her fingertips into Antonio's skin as she cried out her song of ecstasy while convulsing to orgasm, with flickering movements from every extremity of her body.
"Oh, Sinorina," Antonio whispered, "You are not finished, my love." Before Helena could take a breath, Antonio exchanged places with the other man who had just climaxed with Helena and thrust his own hardness inside. She could bear no more and begged for a rest, but Antonio refused and continued with fierce passion. Helena's pussy was still wet, burning, and confused between wanting more and wanting it to end.
Having no choice, Giovanna sat above her face. Helena smelled her aroma and watched as the others began to join. She was overwhelmed with passion - some primitive desire for a lustful fuck - and dove her face into Giovanna and continued to surrender to the others. After all, it was a fair game: they got what they wanted, as did she. It was the perfect exchange of power, perfectly balanced, and amazingly accepted.
Dreamy with passion, she could not remember when Antonio climaxed and yet another entered her, but begged to be spared. Her body expelled every measure of energy it contained. They were brutal; they refused to let her go. Antonio arranged Helena's entrapment. She was the focus of the evening and the crowd obliged.
They were more delicate with Helena after her pleas to stop. The caresses became softer, more tender, like that of butterfly wings tickling her sensitive body. She was able to breathe. None of the men invaded her but rather shared in the delight of her sweetness and licked lightly enough to continue her stimulation. Her nipples were raw from teeth clamping onto to her while lost in passion, but Antonio demanded Helena be soothed, comforted, relaxed yet continually stimulated. She lay helpless to their actions, weak from orgasmic exhaustion and craving more. As long as they let her breathe and gain her composure - her lustful energy - she was content.
She made a mental note to write in next journal entry: "A pungent, musk scent filled the Italian villa, Cyprus trees standing tall in the hills, isolated - proud - like the sculptures on Easter Island; forgotten but always remembered". She never wanted to forget the adventures Antonio offered and decided to continue the evening with Antonio, in his Italian villa.

A Night With A Soldier

She stared after the soldier's retreating figure, hesitating.
It had been seven days since she'd met him, the soldier from the liberation forces that sought to free their town. After a week of negotiation and civil stabilization, the assigned soldier was finally to be re-deployed to another station.
She cleared her throat, her voice unsteady even as she made her request.
"Wait, Mr. Forrest."
The six-foot soldier with piercing grey eyes turned around, a confused look over his eyes.
"Why... Why don't you stay the night?"
He feigned politeness, his low voice posing a question but his upturning lips giving away that he knew what she wanted. "I won't be too much trouble, would I?"
She shook her head quickly, nervous, "N... no... not at all."
- - - - -
She gasped as he backed her towards the wall, his lips attacking hers.
His hands shot up to grab her breasts and she moaned into his mouth. His fingers were unbuttoning her shirt already and she gasped for breath as his lips left hers to trail down her neck.
Ronan Forrest grunted, his blue eyes dancing as his hands disappeared into her shirt and, growing impatient, ripped it off of her body.
When his head ducked downwards to kiss the swell of her breast, she thought he would be gentle with her. But in the next moment he had unhooked her bra and was licking her nipple, swirling his tongue around it to make it harden immediately in response, eliciting a surprised cry from her.
His other hand made its way to her other nipple quickly, rolling it between his fingers while he chuckled around her other breast. She moaned, pleasuring erupting from her chest. Throwing her head back, she stared at the ceiling while he bathed her breast with hot saliva.
When Ronan withdrew, she looked down disappointingly only to see that he was pulling down her pants, and her underpants followed suit. She gasped as something thick and hot entered her body. His long tongue darted into her vagina, forcing its way farther than any cocks had ever gone. She cried out in pleasure as he ate her out, his hands at her buttocks keeping her fixed to his mouth. His teeth hooked on to her clit and she bit her lips, undeniable pleasure rushing through her center and spreading through her body.

She cried out his name as she came, coating his lips with her secretions.
One thing was certain: Ronan Forrest knew how to pleasure a woman.
Ronan chuckled at her flushed, pleasured face and stood up. Taking a step back, he unzipped his fly.
"Your turn, babe," he drawled.
She looked downwards, lustful, and gasped as his hard cock sprang out from between his zippers.
He was ten inches, at least. Her face paled. It would never fit into her.
She descended, a haze of lust overcoming her as he dropped his pants and boxers. Her hands rested themselves on his perfectly sculpted muscular legs as she gently touched his massive member.
She smiled as she wrapped her mouth slowly around her prize, her hand coming up to massage the base as the crown of his large cock entered between her lips. She moaned, and began to suck.
Another inch went in and it almost reached her throat already.
He groaned, taking off his army jacket and then pulling off the T-shirt underneath. She looked upwards as he took it off, revealing his massive, muscled chest and taut abdomen. His shoulders were broad, his muscles rock hard from years as a soldier. He smelled virile - masculine but clean.
His hand wrapped suddenly around her head and he began to really plunge into her mouth. She moaned in pleasure, listening to his little sexy growls as he used her willing body.
As she sucked more earnestly at the sexy soldier, she was secretly glad he only expected a blowjob from her. His enormous cock would split her into two, no doubt. Before she had finished her thought, she felt him reach for her breasts. She gasped as he pulled her upwards and kissed her hungrily.
Then he was lifting her against the wall again, boosting her upwards and positioning his cock in front of her. She gasped, thinking that he would be too big for her. But her wetness left her unable to protest.
She wanted this.
She screamed as he rammed his hugeness into her, the full ten inches hitting the very back of her cunt. She cried out.
He panted, "You okay?"
She nodded shakily, afraid that he would stop.
He took no time plunging back in, his massive cock stabbing into her very center. She gasped again in pleasure, her body never having had something fill it up so fully.
She stared at him, helplessly seduced as she wrapped her legs around his narrow waist. She saw his head descend, staring at the top of his short blond hair as his mouth found her nipple again and his stubble tickled her breast. She moaned as he suckled at her noisily, her breast erupting in pleasure. Without warning his cock thrust into again like a battling ram. Her screams became moans for more.
"Please, Ronan," she gasped, "h... h... harder!"
He complied, driving into her mercilessly, groaning sexily.
She wrapped her arms around his muscular shoulders, feeling his hot sweat running down his back. She moaned, then cried out as she came, crisscross nail marks over his back. He growled at the pain, responding by biting her nipple and making her scream.

Ronan's cock continued to plunge upwards into her tight cunt and she could only give.
Then she cried out, tears of pleasure and joy running down her cheeks as she orgasmed a second time that night. Her juices spilled down and closed over his cock, more than she had ever come in her life. She fell limply against his hard body, sagging downwards on to the floor.
She was leaning against the wall, almost unconscious from in pleasured bliss when he pulled her legs forwards roughly and crawled on top of her.
And then she realized: he wasn't even close.
His large hands grabbed her thighs and forced her legs far apart, and she stared upwards at him in a sleepy daze as he plunged his large, wet cock into her tired body.
She cried out, her orgasms having worn her out and each thrust seemed overstimulating to her spent body. But his hands parted her legs easily as he thrust into her again and she moaned.
"R... Ronan..." she groaned, then panted as his thrusts became erratic.
He fell forwards, balancing himself on his two sinewy arms as he drove into her again and again almost violently. His metal chain necklace swung forwards and back over his muscular neck. He dipped down and thrust his tongue inside her mouth, making her moan before he gave another few sharp thrusts, releasing her lips.
She cried out, his cock reaching farther than even before. She found herself staring upwards at the very picture of male sex. His sweaty, massive, muscled chest, his mouth dripping cream from her breasts, his short hair wet from her juices and his very enormous cock disappearing into her body again and again, relentless. She turned her head left and right, not knowing what to do with her body as he used her to the extreme.
She came, again and again, gripping his body close to hers as he growled at her. Her juices spilled on to the hardwood floor from each orgasm.
Finally, Ronan Forrest roared, speeding up as his pistoning cock slammed harder and faster into her than ever before. She heaved as she climaxed again, so many now that she had lost count.
With loud grunts, he came. He shot jets of hot thick cum into her willing body, continuing to drive into her through his orgasm. It took him several minutes just to empty his cum fully into her body, and some of it dripped out and on to the floor.
She moaned, dazed and used.
He fell on top of her, his hard chest flattening her soft, swollen breasts. His mouth found her neck and sucked slowly, absentmindedless. His large limp cock rested against her thigh, still leaking cum.
She whimpered, falling into a tired sleep.
- - - - -
She woke up in her bed, naked under the blankets where he must have carried her to after their activities on the living room floor. She examined her body, seeing her swollen breasts with a light teeth mark where Ronan had bit her. Her thighs were bruised from when he kept her legs open as he plunged his huge cock into her.
Moaning at the memory, she wandered out to the living room, finding no trace of Ronan Forrest.
She hoped the next occupation of her town would appear very soon.

Silence In The Afternoon

You're always beautiful in the moonlight, but I've missed your face in the sunshine. When I meet you at the nature preserve you're all smiles, carrying a picnic on your arm. Though we're in a public space, we're lucky enough to be totally alone. The people making honest livings are off at their jobs. There aren't even any stay-at-home parents with their children. Just us, flowers, trees, sun.
      Light accentuates the wrinkles that have started forming around your eyes, wrinkles I haven't noticed in all the dark bars, movie theaters, and blue-lit clubs that make up our usual haunts, the places that your intellectual colleagues and friends don't visit. These wrinkles are beautiful, and I indulge the fantasy of growing old with you, watching the terrain of your face change with time. But then I bring myself to reality, with the world well-lit, with us unmistakably public, pretending to be legitimate lovers.

We drink wine from plastic cups, like college students - no sense in risking breaking your wedding crystal. But I don't mind; I like pretending I'm young; I enjoy being clandestine. I feel more appreciated knowing how much you risk in order to be with me.
      I haven't eaten yet today, so even one glass of wine makes me blissfully dizzy. I know that I should eat, that I should feel hungry, but the buzz magnifies the sensation of your hand on mine. I trace your arm, and my fingers slip beneath the buttons of your shirt. But you slide them back out, reach into the basket and lift up a tray of sushi. Chopsticks be damned; you lift up an eel roll with your fingers and feed it to me, lingering at my lips, my tongue taking all of the taste off of your skin. Then you feed me another piece and I'm getting greedy, biting at your hands as I try to take every morsel down my throat.
      "What a glutton," you tease, and I want to prove just how voracious I can be.
      Fingers aren't enough anymore. I pounce, knocking you on your back, and then I crawl on top, my skirt hiking up around my hips. My teeth go straight for the thin yet tough meat of your neck. I could draw blood for all I care, though your skin ultimately resists the invasion. But I don't need blood, just flesh, and so I pin your arms above your head with one hand, unbutton your shirt with the other, stroke my tongue up your sternum, take my teeth down to your nipples. The sensation is too much and you thrash, but I hold my ground, keep you stuck, make you wait to be devoured.
      My free hand loosens your belt buckle, then your zipper, and finally your cock is free for my use. I should tease, to make you last longer, but it's been more than a week since I last had you. And anyway, this isn't about your sustained pleasure; it's about my sustenance. I take your whole cock in my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat, hold it there for a moment, letting my tongue and gums and cheeks absorb every flavor, every bit of skin. When you start groaning, I begin to suck and thrust, swallowing you whole and releasing, only to swallow you again. Gradually, I release your hands so I can grip your hips, hold you down tighter. You begin stroking my hair, cupping my breasts. I should smack them away, pin them back down, remind you that your body is mine, not the other way around. But I'm too caught up in the rhythm of sucking and licking. When you reach to smack my ass your cock gives that familiar surge and suddenly I'm drinking you, too, draining all of your cum into my body.

Sated, I roll over, adjust my clothes, cuddle up to you. You wrap your arms around me, let yourself relax against my body. I begin to think you've fallen asleep, but then your hand starts to stroke my arm, my breasts, my hip, and then your fingers wander up my skirt, playing with my inner thighs.
      But suddenly, you stop. I feel you raise your arm to read your watch, and before I can blink, you're on your knees, shaking a few remaining drops of cum into the grass, zipping and buttoning up.
      "I should be heading back."
      "Oh. Okay."
      No other words, not even a goodbye kiss. You take off for the parking lot, most of our lunch still in the basket next to me, uneaten. I'm left to pack up the mess, to go home and pass my dwindling afternoon alone. You'll call maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, ignore my complaints, become angry if I dare dial your number. I can have your body, but I'll never have you. Just sex and booze and dancing, no laughter, no conversation. You only give yourself to me in exchange for my silence. Break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Morning Exercise

“I’ll be back around four,” he pressed a swift kiss against her cheek. “Any plans for the day?”
“Nothing much, just the usual. I might go for a coffee after lunch, to that new place a few blocks away, but other than that I don’t have any real plans love.” Connie smiled up at her husband. “What about you?”
“Work, meetings, the usual.” Derek picked up his briefcase. “The normal boring day for me. Still, it can’t be helped. Maybe we can take in a movie tonight?”
“That would be nice,” she smiled and tugged his tie into place. “Go on, you’re going to be late.”
“That’s one thing about being the boss, no one’s going to pull me up for being late.” He flashed a grin her way and brushed the tips of his fingers over her cheek. “I love you, remember that.”
“Not something I could ever forget.” Her heart skipped a beat as she looked into his eyes. “I don’t think you know just what I’d do to keep you happy and keep you in my life.”
“Maybe one day we’ll explore that together,” his smile warmed through her being. “But not now. Sorry love, I really do have to go.” He pressed one brief, tantalizing kiss against her lips, his tongue sliding between her lips, tasting her then he was gone, vanished through the door without another word.
Derek was a rare man and she was a lucky woman. As far as she knew, and he’d given her no reason to doubt this, Derek had never strayed. He loved her, cared for her, and took the time and effort to tell her what he was doing, where he was going and he still made time for her. How many other women could say that about their husbands?
Not many that she knew of.
Connie peered out of the window, watching as his car pulled out of the drive way before she pulled the drapes closed. With her husband gone there would be a chance to get her exercise routine done without him staring at her. Or worse. Laughing at her. She had enough time now, work called him away, he’d be gone all day, but she didn’t like to take any chances. Not with what she had in mind.

Alright, maybe that wasn’t fair. Derek wouldn’t have laughed, but she felt strange enough following through with the routine every day, the last thing she needed would be to see the look on his face if he walked in on her. She looked silly and she knew it.
The car had vanished, the sound of the engine faded into the background before Connie had the chance to set out a towel and bottle of water. Good, he doesn’t need to be around, staring at me, when I do this. Every day she waited until he was gone before she started to work, it wasn’t that she didn’t love, or trust him, it was quite simply that – well – she thought it looked silly.
Being jolted out of her routine by his laughter wasn’t her idea of fun.
Twenty years of marriage had changed things. At nearly forty she wasn’t the pretty blonde thing he’d first brought into his bed but it didn’t mean that she couldn’t try to keep things interesting. Her body wasn’t as nubile as it had once been. There were a few stretch marks, silver hairs and wrinkles, but that was to be expected with age and she wasn’t about to get any younger.
“Silly idea,” she muttered as she turned on the music and set up the pole. A friend of hers had introduced her to the idea of pole dancing as a form of exercise but Connie had laughed it off, until she’d come across the pole and DVD set in a catalogue. Now, two months into her routine, she had become used to some of the moves.
Sure, she’d never make a living as a stripper, but it had at least begun to make her feel a little better about herself. The difference had been noticeable in her clothing as well. She’d dropped a dress size, not that she’d needed to lose much weight to begin with. More a case of tone up what nature had tried to pull out of shape, thanks to the unrelenting caress of gravity.
She wasn’t what some would call slim, but neither was she terribly overweight either. Derek had never minded the extra curves but it didn’t mean that she had to let her muscles lose their tone either. With the pole set up and the DVD on, it didn’t take long for Connie to limber up and start her routine.
Her hips rolled as she moved around the pole, letting the now familiar moves take control of her body. Her eyes closed, the beat of the music poured through her senses, taking control as she danced around the metal pole.
Sweat beaded across her body, time lost meaning as she moved, surrendering to the beat that pumped through the room. Her thighs tightened, hips pressed against the pole as she arched backward, her hair brushing against the rug as she heard it. The door opened.
Through the sweat and hair she saw him. Derek. Connie’s grip on the pole faltered. With a whimper she stumbled back to the floor, jarring her hips and backside, and worst of all, her pride.
“God, are you alright?” Derek dropped his briefcase and darted to her. “What happened? What are you doing? Is that what I think it is?”
The color drained from her face and Connie’s mouth dried out as he helped her back to her feet. “I was just exercising.”
“But that’s a strippers pole! How can that be exercise? Where did you get that thing in the first place?” Derek made sure he’d settled her down on the edge of the bed before he turned off the music and walked back to the pole. “Did you – I have to know where you went to get one of these. How did you ever get it set up?”
The clever device had been extended so it pressed against both the floor and the ceiling, locking it in place through a series of quick locks. Connie had struggled the first three or four times she’d put the pole up, but after that it had become second nature to her. Just as the routine had become.
“I picked it up out of one of those little catalogues that come in through the mail. The one with the floaty dresses and fairies in? One arrives in the mail every quarter.” God, please let him remember the one I mean. The last thing she needed was for Derek to think she’d been wandering into seedy sex shops.
Not that there should be a problem, but – but what if he thought she’d been going to those places because he’d lost the ability to sate her sexually? No, she didn’t need that.
“I thought those were just full of clothing and things.” He turned and stared at her. “Not things like this.”
“They also sell naked yoga DVD’s and erm women’s stimulators.” Heat flushed across her cheeks in a heartbeat as he flashed her a confused look. “Vibrators love, they sell vibrators.”
“Oh,” he touched the pole again then looked back at her. “I wasn’t expecting – so this is for exercise? How does it work?”
“Yes,” she folded her hands in her lap and tried to calm her growing nerves. “It’s exercise and have you ever known of a stripper who wasn’t fit?”
“Since you put it that way – no,” he flashed a grin. “Not that I’ve known many strippers in my time.”
“Of course you haven’t.” Connie resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“So, why didn’t you tell me? About the exercise plans I mean.”
“I thought you’d laugh at me. I mean, I’m no spring chicken. I thought you’d think it was funny, or strange, or maybe that I was now insane?”
“I see, so do you want to know what I thought when I walked in on you? Or would you rather I didn’t say?”
“Tell me, please,” better that she know now that he had seen her, than be left with her own assumptions.
“I thought I’d walked into a wet dream.”
“My wife, dancing, like a stripper, performing like that with no one else watching but me. I didn’t know what was going on, but I liked it. I liked it a lot.” Twin spots of heat burned in his cheeks, a hunger flashing in his gaze. “I’d like to see it again, from the beginning, if you don’t mind.”

“Alright, just – I’m not very good at this just yet.”
“Where do you want me to sit?”
Good question? Connie looked around the room, she hadn’t thought about that aspect of what she had been doing. The chair she normally used at her dressing table, would that work? Connie moved across the bedroom and pulled the chair out, setting it up in front of the pole, but she made sure there’d be enough room so she could still do her routine.
“Here,” she tapped the back of the chair.
“Thank you.” Derek settled down into the chair, and wiped his hands down over his pants, the tip of his tongue sliding out over his lips before he looked up at the pole, then back at Connie.
He really does want to see me do this. Alright, she could do it. “Just stay in the chair, don’t move, don’t try and touch me no matter what I do, okay?”
“I won’t.” His gaze trailed over her form, lingering on her breasts, then down to her hips.
Should she change, up the ante a little, dancing for him in her exercise clothing just wasn’t going to have the same effect. “Want there a minute, I have an idea.”
He arched an eyebrow at her as Connie darted across the room to her closet and hunted for something that would work. Red, lacy, with a scrap of a thong, it was an outfit she’d only dared to wear the once and he’d loved it, for the few brief minutes it had actually been on her body. Well, this time he’d have to look, but not touch. With the flicker of sin in her hand she hurried into the bathroom and stripped off, he’d wait, she knew that, and watch for her to emerge in her chosen outfit.
Only when she had pulled the lingerie into place did Connie take a good look in the mirror. Walking temptation. Red lace with strips of satin caressed her body, offering it for his eyes, his touch, but for now, when she walked out there, he’d have to sit and watch her.
She’d be in control.
Shoes, what about shoes, don’t strippers always – no, if I try that I’ll fall over, I’ll stick to bare feet, it’s easier. She tugged her fingers through her hair, leaving it loose about her shoulders and added a touch of deep red lipstick to her lips, a shade she’d never worn before – it added the right touch. With her head held high and a deep sway to her hips, Connie stalked her way out into the bedroom.
He groaned, his eyes widening. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“No,” she smiled and rested one finger on the play button. “I’m trying to arouse you.”
“You’ve managed that. In more ways than one,” he growled.
“Just sit there, don’t move, not until I tell you that you can.”
“Understood,” he grasped the edge of the chair.
Connie nodded and took a deep breath, her stomach in knots. She’d never done anything like this before. Not in all their years of marriage. Normally she left the come on to him, and the closest she ever came to it would be – well walking into the bedroom wearing something sexy. That was it. Oh, or wearing stockings on occasions and letting him feel the edge of the old fashioned garter belt just as they walked out of the door.
This was a whole different ball game.
She pressed the play button and walked back to the pole, resting one hand lightly on it, her left hip brushed against the pole, her eyes closed. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, her breath caught in the back of her throat as she heard the opening beats of the song, Pain.
Her body fell into the familiar moves, but something changed. Even without looking at him she could feel his gaze play openly over her writhing form. Power. Heat and power claimed her being adding a deeper, sultry sway to her hips. Her belly tightened. Her nipples tightened into buds as she turned, caressing the pole with her breasts, her back arched, her mound pressed against the metal. For a moment she held in place and glanced at him through a veil of hair.
He growled, heat glimmered in his eyes. A tent had formed in his pants, one she was now all too aware of. A reaction she’d caused, and one she was proud of. Her hips ground against the pole, one leg hooked around the metal as she dipped backward. Her hair brushed against the floor, the red satin and lace contraption barely covered her nipples and threatened to release them from their sensual confines even as she lifted back up, grinding her hips with each beat of her heart.
The song urged her on, the pattern of the dance one she knew well now, but it had never left her feeling this sensual, this aroused before. Her core rippled, heat coated her inner walls, the slip of thread that pretended to be a thong, felt damp between her thighs.
Need him, want him, I can’t just stay here dancing, I have to – have to do more! The song changed, she’d danced through the entire track without even being aware of it until now.
Slow Down Baby burst into life and a smile claimed her lips. Connie turned and pressed her back against the pole. She knew what she needed to do. As the first lines of Christine’s song filled the room she strutted away from the pole and cupped her breasts. She sang, beneath the power of the track, the words and beat flowing through her body.
Derek didn’t move. His eyes widened, lips parted in a soft O. His grip on the chair tightened, knuckles white as he struggled to stay in place.
I can do this. I know I can.
Connie stopped right in front of him, her hips swaying, rotating as she writhed in front of him. He groaned. His pulse raced in his throat, his tie tossed onto the bed sometime during the time she had spent getting changed in the bathroom. A small tuft of chest hair beckoned her fingers and Connie settled into his lap, her thighs on either side of his, her toes touching the floor.
“Don’t move,” she whispered against his lips and reached over his shoulders to grab the back of the chair. “Remember the rules of a lap dance as you can’t touch.”
“Ah, and how much do I have to pay for this special dance?”
“VIP customers like you don’t have to pay for events like this, it’s our way of thanking you for your patronage,” she slipped into the part without hesitation. “But the rules still apply. You can’t touch until the dance is over.”
“And then what?”
“A private party, of course.” Two fantasies rolled into one, what more could a man ask for? Her hips rolled, her barely covered sex ground against his tented pants. Heat throbbed between them separated by a brief covering of cloth. Her hands tightened on the chair as she arched, tipping her hips, thrusting against him. Mock sex, with all the power and passion that she could imagine.
“I- I don’t know how much longer I can keep still, love.” His teeth gritted.
Nor did she. Connie half lifted up from his lap, her breasts brushing against his face as the first full jolt of pleasure rocked through her being. Now, please
“That’s it,” his hands claimed her waist as he lifted her up from his lap long enough to undo his pants. The slip of a thong was pulled to one side a moment later.
“God, I’ve never – never felt this hungry before.” She clutched his shirt, trying to find a way to keep her balance. “Please, I need you.”
“And you’re going to get me, all of me, now.” The head of his cock pressed between her lower lips, barely giving her a moment to get used to the idea before he pulled her down onto his lap. “You’ve never had me so hot, so hungry for you!”
She’d never felt this aroused before either. His cock filled her core. Slick heat tightened around his erection as she struggled not to move instantly against him. She wanted to savor this, enjoy it, but her body had other ideas. Her vulva massaged around his cock, her hips rolled, her thighs tight on either side of his lap.
“Yes, that’s it, move for me,” he massaged her hips and thighs.
Her belly tightened, heat claimed her core, she couldn’t shut it out, nor did she want to. He hadn’t even pulled off her clothing! He hadn’t needed to, quick, hard, hungry, that’s all that mattered right now. Loving, slow, caring, tender, those could wait for another time. She had what she needed right now.
Derek leaned in and closed his lips around one nipple, suckling it through the red lace. She arched, a cry torn from her lips. Heat flared through her being, settling in her core, into a rhythm she couldn’t ignore. His hips tipped, his cock pressed fully into her being.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Oh, God. I have to.”
“Just a moment longer.” His fingers tightened on her hips. “Hold, don’t move.”
Connie whimpered, her thighs quivering as she struggled to hold position. “Derek…”
“Now, come for me now!”
Heat clawed at her inner walls, her body dancing with a beat of its own. He groaned, thrusting into her, filling her. Pressure, pleasure, it tore through her, almost pain but she wanted it, needed it, craved what she now felt. She sobbed, screaming out his name as her release claimed her body.
For several long minutes neither of them moved, he panted, she trembled, her sex lost in spasms that slowly eased, each one less powerful than the one before until they faded completely.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his touch gentle now on her hips and waist.
“For what?” She knew, but needed to hear the words.
“Two fantasies, how many women could do that for their man, two fantasies rolled into one without even being told about them first?” He murmured against her neck, his cock twitching one last time against her slick inner walls. “I’m a lucky man, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll dance for me again sometime.”
Connie slowly eased off his lap and tugged the scant panties back into position, a slow smile claiming her lips. “Perhaps that can be arranged, though not today – aren’t you late for a meeting?”
“No, I got a call on the way into the office, it had been cancelled, as I had a clear day appear I thought I’d spend it with you. I never expected to come home to this, but I’m very glad I did.” His smile sent a fresh shiver through her. “Makes me wonder what other secrets you have hidden up your sleeve, love.”
“Ah, now that we’ll have to talk about, maybe over lunch?” Do I have anything else, no, not yet, but I can come up with something, if he’ll let me crawl around in his mind for a little while.
“After a shower,” he nodded toward the bathroom. “One we share?”
“You have the entire day off?” She glanced over at the open door then back at him, her stomach knotting afresh.
“Yes, to spend with you, in you, kissing you…”
Connie didn’t need to hear anymore, not this time at least. “Shower first, then I eat , and then we eat after that,” she watched him, waiting for the penny to drop, then smiled as realization dawned in his eyes. “I plan on making the most of this day with you, so if you’ve any objections speak now, otherwise I’m going to assume that makes you mine, for the day.”
Derek didn’t say a word, he slipped one hand into hers and led the way to the bathroom.
This hadn’t exactly been the exercise routine she’d had in mind, but Connie wasn’t about to complain. If she was lucky maybe this could become a regular event for them – after all, she couldn’t think of a better way of spicing up her morning exercise routine.

If We Were

It was a game one could only discover with a partner one knew very, very well.
      Magenta and I had been close as clamshells since high school, when she’d huddled in my arms till 4 a.m. in my parents’ basement—beautifully drunk, tearfully disgusted with the state of her life mid-way through senior year, and completely accepting of my platonic hugs. I don’t remember much about the party we’d just left—I was her ride, a conscientious “designated driver” at 18—but I’ll never forget the warmth I felt in that basement, on a single-digit winter night.
      Mind you, she wasn’t called Magenta back then. Just Maggie. It took two semesters of arts-driven blossoming at a small New England college before she emerged as Magenta.
      Some of our high-school acquaintances snickered. But I, glimpsing the unmistakable flicker of adventurous joie de vivre in her eyes whenever she came home for a visit, applauded her new choice of name. And it seemed to mean a lot to her that I did so.
      In my lazy way, I’d acquired my own version of joie de vivre. I attended local college, worked summers, went to indie-rock concerts, dated when something fell into place, and generally enjoyed myself. Truth was, I was still in love with Mag, but I’d accepted the reality that my feelings were unrequited.

And that was long before the spring break visit when she told me she was “ninety percent lesbian.” She said it the way you might say you were “three-quarters Italian and one-quarter Irish.”
      She was sitting at my kitchen table, the afternoon sun streaming through the window onto her face, as she made this earnest revelation. I’d been puttering around while we chatted, but now I joined her.
      “Hey, I’m so glad you’re finding yourself,” I said. “First step to happiness, right?”
      “First step to happiness at the moment is you baking me some of your famous peanut butter cookies,” she coaxed. “I’ve been thinking about them all semester.”
      Later, when she was munching cookies at the table, I said, “So, I’m curious. What’s the other ten percent?”
      She broke an edge off her cookie, and her hands toyed with it as she answered.
      “The other ten percent is that when I’m in figure-drawing class and we have a male model, I spend a lot more time looking at his dick than is, shall we say, artistically necessary.”
      She had such a way with words. Not to mention a way with the chunk of cookie that she kept rolling between her sensitive fingers.
      She continued. “I think the difference between how I feel about sexy women and how I feel about sexy men is sort of like the difference between how I feel about painting versus sculpture. Paintings are my whole world. I eat, drink, and breathe them, I’m thinking about them all the time, and I practically live in the landscape gallery of the museum at school. If I could, I’d crawl into a painting at night instead of a bed. Whereas sculpture—hey, I like fine sculpture. Nice stuff, keep up the good work. But I wouldn’t put one in my house or anything.”
      I made a wry, wistful sound—half sigh, half chuckle.
      “What?” Her eyebrows knitted the way they did when something puzzled her.
      “Nothing,” I said. “Only I never thought of myself as ‘just a sculpture’ before.”
      “You are not ‘just a sculpture,’ Nicholas. You, my friend, are the David.”
      I smiled. “You’re re-writing Cole Porter, you scamp, and I love you for it.”
      I was resigned to the fact that Mag and I were always going to be just friends. But there was still nobody I’d rather spend time with. All of the weekends she came home were blocked off in impregnable rectangles on my calendar. And it made me happy to observe that the bond was strong in both directions. Aside from some obligatory family time, it seemed like she was glad to let me monopolize her for the duration of each visit.
      And so we found ourselves snuggling on my couch one evening, during our junior year in college, watching Marx Brothers movies. I remember thinking, as I followed the antics of those manic siblings on the screen, that Magenta felt like the sister I never had.
      That night, things felt so comfy and cozy, that when she asked the question that launched the game, it startled me, jolting me back to the sexual undercurrent I’d kept at a low, inaudible simmer.
      She had telegraphed the change in tone by shifting her position just slightly—straightening up against the back of the couch, without losing contact with my body. I could tell she was about to broach a new subject. Beyond that, I had no idea what was coming.

    What she said was, “What do you think we’d be doing right now if we were, you know, more than just friends?”
      Time froze as I took her in from tip to toes. I drank in her thick, floppy mane of red hair, her pale but glowing face, the small, delectable breasts that shaped her aqua top into a dream, and the petite bare feet that sprouted the ten cutest toes I’d ever seen.
      Despite being taken by surprise, my talent for repartee did not fail me. “I’m not sure,” I said cautiously, “But I’m thinking that the Marx Brothers might not factor so heavily into it.”
      She laughed, and her eyes twinkled. Maggie had always laughed—and twinkled—at my one-liners, even when she’d been in the grip of a bleak teen winter. And my cheerful, grown-up Magenta was inclined to laugh even more heartily.
      So I was surprised when her brow suddenly furrowed. “I’m sorry, Nick,” she said. “I’m afraid that was an insensitive thing to ask. I mean, because of how you feel.”
      I took her hand. “No Mag, please, no worries. Yeah, it was sort of a strange question to ask. But when has that ever stopped us? And as a game, a theoretical discussion let’s say, it appeals to me. It lets me indulge my fantasies.”
      I instinctively pulled myself away from her a little bit as I said it. Even though she had started this whole thing, I wanted to be careful not to make her uncomfortable. But Mag immediately closed up the distance again, as she relaxed back into the sofa cushions.
      “To be honest, I don’t even know why I asked it,” she said. “But I think maybe . . .”
      She swallowed. “Okay, I think it’s about how I feel so close to you, so intimate in some way. And though I know it’s only a friendship thing, well, there’s no harm in buddies playing a little game of ‘What if we were more than friends,’ is there? Especially when you’re sitting there looking so sexy.” She blew me a kiss—an old habit of hers, and something not everyone could pull off like she could.
      I looked at the exquisite face of my beautiful “buddy” Mag, at her expectant smile. “If we were more than just friends . . .” I began.
      Then I stopped. “No offense, but that’s sort of a cumbersome name for a game, don’t you
      “Cumbersome always makes me think of cucumbers,” she replied matter-of-factly.
      “I think we need a snappier title. Something that grabs you.” On the word grabs, I gave a swift squeeze to the ticklish, enticing hint of bare flesh that peeked out above the left-hip belt loop on her jeans. Just as a friend, you understand.
      She shrieked, then gave another Mag laugh and smoothed her top down over the tickled bit.
      “Ahem,” she said. “All right then, what title would you suggest?”
      “Oh, something succinct. How about, ‘If we were lovers.’”
      Magenta looked doubtful. “No offense to you either, kiddo . . . but that’s fairly Hallmark.” This wasn’t a compliment in our circle.
      “You’re right,” I said sheepishly. “There has to be something better.”
      With a piercing frankness, she met my eyes. “How about ‘If we were fucking.’ ”
      My palms were suddenly sweaty. I swallowed hard.
      “Yeah,” I rasped. “Hats off. That’s definitely better.”
      I composed myself and took just a minute to think. My eyes were riveted on her graceful nose, which seemed to quiver with curiosity.

“If we were fucking,” I began.
      She took my hand. Her palms, unlike mine, were only the slightest bit moist; and her thin fingers, chilly against my own, exerted an eager, insistent pressure that sent my heart racing.
      “If we were fucking,” I continued, and then I hesitated. I swallowed and began again. “If we were fucking, I’d be sliding those jeans off you right about now. Slowly. I’d let your underwear—uh, what’s your underwear like?”
      “Pink bikini,” she said, with only the slightest acceleration of pitch to reflect the excitement of embarking on this strange journey with me.
      “I’d watch your pink bikini emerge like an achingly gorgeous sunrise, inch by inch, above the blue-jean horizon.”
      “Ha! That’s a new twist,” said Magenta, her flushed face belying her flippant tone. “Isn’t it usually compared to a moon, rather than a sun?”
      “Shh! Let me finish.” She stifled her nervous giggles, and I proceeded. “Anyway, I’d eventually have those jeans all the way off you, and I’d scoop you up by the adorable, pink-bikini sunrise ass, and sit you here on my lap.”
      I chortled self-consciously and shifted my position to accommodate the tension behind my zipper.
      “Your turn,” I prompted.
      “Okay. Right. If we were . . .” She lingered over the word, seeming to relish it. “Fucking.”
      “I’m thinking. Give a girl a chance.”
      “All right, but it had better be good.” I said this with a smirk, because we both knew it could hardly be anything but.
      “If we were fucking, and I were on your lap, I’d sit facing you, and I’d unzip you. I’d leave your pants on, because they fit you so nicely, my ‘David’—”
      “The David doesn’t wear pants,” I interrupted. “I thought you said you were an art major.”
      “Nick! Shut up.” She gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, I’d leave your pants on, but I’d coax your dick all the way out, so you were sitting there as just an adorable, fully-dressed Nick with—well, with his dick sticking out. Way, way out. Straight no chaser. I’d clutch it in my hands, and I’d rock for a while, just rock there on your lap. Maybe I’d hum.”
      “Hum?” I’d been ascending the slope of arousal at quite a clip, but this feature temporarily threw me off course. Now I was torn between a desire to kiss her and a desire to burst out laughing—neither of which, I knew, were options.
      Magenta blushed. “It’s a thing I do. I hum to my lovergirls, when I’m getting revved up. Most of them like it.”
      The image of her straddling another beautiful woman—humming or no humming—got me immediately, and powerfully, back on course.
      “Far be it from me to knock it, when I haven’t tried it,” I said in my most conciliatory fashion. I licked my lips, then closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying a wave of even more intense arousal. “Yes, so you’re rocking and humming, and now it’s my turn to—oh, crap.”
      “What’s the matter?” she asked.
      “It’s just that I’m going to have to really unzip my pants pretty soon. I—uh—don’t know how much longer I can contain things. Maybe I’d better excuse myself for a minute and embrace the
      I stood up, intending to head to the bathroom for a quick manual release.
      But Magenta shot out her hand and grabbed my leg. “No, Nick. It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
      I felt feverish. “You . . . don’t mind?”
      She smiled a smile of beautiful sensitivity. “You can come for me, Nick my pal. If you want to.”
      My pulse raced as I took this in. I thought a moment—a New York moment. “I want to.”
      “And, believe me, I know what you mean about the inevitable,” she said. “In fact, to be perfectly frank, I—now, don’t misunderstand, I don’t . . . I mean I can’t . . . oh, shit, can I borrow this cushion?”
      “Of course. Even though you won’t let me borrow yours,” I quipped, my banter on autopilot as my libido went into high gear.
      She helped herself to a throw cushion and swiftly nestled it between her legs. “Umm,” she said. And then, a few seconds later, “I hope it’s settled that you’re going to stay right here.”
      I sat back down—gingerly—on the couch.
      Satisfied with the spatial arrangements, she closed her eyes. “It’s your turn.”
      I used the seconds her eyes were closed to access my cock, as discreetly as I could. When she looked up at me again, I was stroking my shaft with my right hand while stroking my chin with my left, mulling over the next leg of the fantasy. Magenta glanced at my crotch, and her eyes seemed to flicker approval. She pressed her cushion tighter.
      “If we were fucking,” I said, my breath coming hard, “I would hold that cushion for you. I would ask you to teach me exactly where and how to press it for you.”
      As my nerves tingled from my cock to my brain and back again, my excitement at the fantasy we were spinning mingled and merged with my excitement at the fantasy-come-true that was playing out here on my couch. Magenta must have felt it too. I scarcely had time to say “Your turn” before she was off and running.

 “If we were fucking,” she galloped, “I would currently be ass-naked from the waist down. This cushion would be my only underwear. I’d clutch it as if my thighs were a vise, and I’d want you to keep pressing on it for me until about 3:30 in the morning.”
      Well, she wasn’t ass-naked, but she had the vise thing down.
      At this point, it was no longer necessary to say “Your turn” at all. Like a seasoned track and field runner, I accepted the baton gracefully, without missing a beat—and despite already having a tangible baton of sorts in my right hand.
      “If we were fucking—and you were ass-naked—I’d clutch your ass-naked ass and give your delicious toes gentle kisses, without ever letting up the customized pressure on your favorite cushion. I’d try to see if I could elicit ticklish giggles that alternated perfectly with your erotic moans. Giggle, moan. Giggle, moan. Faster and faster.”
      I heard a deep intake of breath from Mag, so I continued. “Then I’d kiss progressively higher, till I was tickling your thighs with kisses while I watched you clutch that damn cushion as hard as you could.”
      “If we—” Magenta began, looking straight at my dick, then broke off. “Oh man . . . oh wow.” She was squeezing the stuffing out of my throw cushion, grating it against her fully-clothed crotch, and letting her legs spasm over the edge of my couch.
      In one instant I was trying to absorb the fact that Maggie was coming on my couch, right next to me. And, in the next instant, timing, rhythm, and control all escaped me, and I spurted wildly, a blissed-out passenger in a pleasure vehicle that my dear friend Mag, the ninety-percent lesbian, was effortlessly steering with her own climax. Talk about a “designated driver.”
      After we’d both emerged from our separate but mutually-nourished cocoons of ecstasy, Magenta looked at me softly. “It may be hard for you to understand this, Nick, but I really wanted that,” she said.
      “Really?” I asked. “I know I wanted it, though I never would have dared dream of it. But you?”
      “Yeah,” she said. “It felt so personal, just like I thought it would. Like getting myself off in the privacy of my bedroom, except with top-notch companionship.”
      “That’s not exactly an ego-boosting compliment, Cole Porter,” I sulked.
      After what had just happened, I considered myself pretty stupid for having hurt feelings. But I couldn’t help it, and Mag and I had always been honest with each other.
      “Oh, but it is a compliment, Harpo,” Mag said. “You obviously have no idea how much I love masturbating alone in my bedroom – sometimes, even more than I love fucking.” She reflected a moment. “Shit, even more than I love painting. But don’t you dare repeat that when I’m a famous artist.” She paused again, then added, “Unless I’m very famous.”
      I knew she was telling the truth, and everything felt all right. In fact, I’d never been happier, in my lazy way.
      Magenta now spoke quietly, almost shyly. “And next time I’m home, maybe I can show you in more detail what I like to do.” She lowered her eyes. “I don’t have to, um, necessarily wear my jeans, right? That is, if you’re up for another round of this game.”
      I told her I was sure I would be up for it, indeed.
      “Meanwhile,” she said brightly, “It might interest you to know that I’ll probably be replaying some of the gorgeous things you said tonight in my mind, when I’m doing it sometimes. When I’m not thinking about luscious naked girls, I mean.”
      “In other words, approximately ten percent of the time?”
      “Yeah.” She grinned.
      “And when I’m doing it,” I countered, “I’ll be thinking about you thinking about the things I said. Approximately one hundred percent of the time.”
      She kissed me on the forehead. When she pulled back from the platonic kiss we laughed, harder than we’d laughed at the Marx Brothers. Mag passed me the box of tissues, and with my cock still hanging out, I made another fraternal grab for the ticklish spot above her belt loop.