Tag Archives: Erotic Fiction

Flash Fiction: A Letter

 

Dear You,

I want to go somewhere together. I want you to make me come – in a bathroom or a bookshop or in the middle of a film. I want you to make me come. Press against me hip, to hip. Touch me in a crowded room. Fuck me somewhere civilized, where people shouldn’t fuck.

I want to pull you into an alley and suck your cock. I want scuffs on my knees when I stand. Fuck me in a window where the neighbors will see, or high on a balcony in the warm evening air. I want someone to see us by chance.

I want to watch you with other people and I want you to watch me. Surrounded by other people I’ll still pick out your scent. I want mouths on our mouths and skin on our skin, tangled with other people and other people’s limbs.

I want you to fuck me, hard and fast, in the kitchen while we cook. Fuck me from behind just as company is due. Cup my breasts while I bend forward. Lift up my hem. Come inside me, fill me, make me wet. Then kneel and lick me clean.

I want to share a secret. I want to taste us when we kiss. I want to cross the room and feel your eyes, narrowed and hungry and sly. I know you with that look on your face. You’re waiting to gobble me up. Clever Fox. Big Bad Wolf. I promise I’ll gobble you too.

Me xxx

Erotic Fiction: Drinks with Friends

Black and white photograph of a woman kissing two men for Drinks with Old Friends by Malin James

Photograph by Anders Petersen

They said nothing in the cab, but the awareness Mia had felt at the bar expanded to fill the space. By the time they arrived at her place, she was drowsy and wet, just from holding their hands.

For a moment, they stood in the entry hall, three old friends on the black and white tiles. Then Mia turned and walked up the staircase, unzipping her dress as she did.

She was waiting for them in the bedroom. She kept her back to the door, watching their reflections in an antique oval mirror above her bed. Her dress was a dark, silky pool on the floor at her feet.

Michael and was first across the room. She’d known he would be, just as she’d known he wouldn’t rush. Edward stayed in the doorway. She’d known he would too, just as she’d known that he would watch…but only at first.

Michael moved slowly, pulled along by their history. Most men would have said something breathless and trite. Most men would have talked. Michael didn’t. Michael kissed her, like she’d known he would, and she arched into his kiss, relieved and glad.

Mia felt Edward watching them, felt his fingers flex, felt the weight of his gaze on her skin and on Michael’s big hands. She felt his shadow stretch across the room and cover them like a warm, dark pool. For the second time that night, Michael and Mia turned towards Edward, who stood like a man on a precipice.

“Edward?”

Mia held out her hand.

“Edward,” she said again.

She poured years of loving him into her voice until the weight of their history sank into her chest. The weight of it touched him, and the mask he wore, his smooth mask, slipped. Then he crossed the room and kissed her with a hard, deliberate edge.

Mia sank her fingers into Edward’s hair, aware of Michael’s chest against her back and his mouth on her neck. Then the angle changed and it was Michael’s mouth on hers as Edward slid behind her. Mia stretched and rubbed the curve of her ass against the uncivilized bulge in Edward’s civilized suit. She was blind and greedy and obscenely wet as he reached around and cupped her cunt.

She rubbed against his hand and kissed Michael’s neck as Michael reached around and slid Edward’s jacket off. Suddenly, Edward’s hand stilled and Mia watched, fascinated, as Michael lowered his mouth to their best friend’s.

Michael gave Edward time adjust as Mia dropped small, deliberate kisses into Edward’s palm. Little by little, Edward relaxed and as he did, he kissed Michael back, hesitantly at first, and then rougher, hungrier, until one of them moaned and Mia bit her lip. She wanted to gobble them both.

Michael murmured something against Edward’s mouth and one of them undid the clasp of her bra. She turned her body, angling towards Edward. He sucked her tits with his sweet, slow mouth while Michael knelt behind her and pulled her panties down. Fingers stroked her clit, her belly, her soaking thighs…. She was a breath away from coming.

“Stop,” she said

Mia’s cunt was so heavy she wanted to scream. She smirked instead.

“Strip. I want to see you both.”

Michael grinned and got to his feet. It was a predatory grin, like a lion scenting gazelle, and the look she gave him mirrored it. She’d felt their hands as they’d explored her body and her skin still throbbed. Now she stepped back to watch.

Michael gave Edward a curious look and slowly unbuckled his belt. Edward narrowed his eyes but didn’t look away. Michael dropped the belt and unbuttoned his cuffs, smiling at Edward the whole time.

“Better get moving. She wants to see you too.”

Edward blushed, but he smiled for the first time as he yanked off his tie. Shoes, shirts, pants, briefs. Finally, Michael and Edward stood with Mia, naked in the middle of the room.

“Oh,” she murmured, more of a breath than a sound. She stroked Michael’s chest and skimmed Edward’s with the flat of her hand.

Michael made a sound deep in his throat and backed her up into Edward. Then he dropped to his knees in front of them. Mia rose up on tiptoe and pressed her ass into Edwards’s hips, wriggling until his cock slid between her legs. God, she was so wet. Mia tipped her head back and rubbed her cunt against him like adolescent’s dream. Then she felt the tip of Michael’s tongue on her clit. He licked and sucked and her lungs grew full, almost too full to breathe. For a moment, she moved against both of them. Then Michael’s mouth left her and she felt Edward freeze.

Mia looked down, about to complain. But Michael was sucking Edward’s cock between her legs. She forgot what she was going to say. Michael smiled up at her.

“You taste amazing together.”

Mia closed her eyes as Edward’s arms tightened around her. They both began to rock and she rubbed her clit with her hand as she slid back and forth between them. Michael’s tongue flicked over her fingers and she knew, now, she was going to let herself come. It had been building for hours, a long, slow tide, and she bit her lip bloody when it finally pulled her under.

Mia’s hips jerked as she arched back against Edward’s chest. She knew they were watching her and it made her come deeper and harder as if it would never stop.

“Fuck me. Both of you. Now.”

Edward got on the bed. Mia could barely see straight as she straddled him, shoving her rump in the air like a cat in heat. Michael got up behind her and held her hips as he slid his cock next to Edward’s between her legs.

“M, are you sure you want this,” Michael asked.

Rather than answer, Mia reached for a bottle of lube and tossed it on the bed.

“Yeah. I’m fucking sure.”

Michael cupped her breasts and kissed her shoulders as if he were afraid that she would break. It was Edward who picked up the bottle.

“Better get a move on. She wants you too,” he said, handing it to Michael.

Then he lay back on the bed as Mia and Michael knelt over him again. Michael held her, rubbing her clit as she sank down on Edward’s cock. She rose and fell in tight, little jerks while he grabbed the lube and greased himself up.

Michael met Edward’s dark, dark eyes as he pressed Mia’s second, tighter hole. It gave and he entered, inch by slow inch. She shuddered and started to moan until she had them both  up to the hilt.

A sheen of sweat covered her skin and she trembled. She had never felt so full, so gorgeously full in her life. She started to move, rocking her hips as she clutched them both in her slick, muscular heat.

Guttural sounds poured out of her as Edward grabbed Mia’s waist and began to thrust. Behind her, Michael matched Edward until a terrible, aching pleasure overwhelmed her. She stiffened, clawing at Edward’s hands and Michael’s thighs as she came and kept coming, one orgasm bleeding into another.

She felt Michael move against Edward, separated by nothing but the thin membrane of her body. She felt Edward struggling for control as Michael rode them both. She tasted Michael in her mouth and she tasted Edward too. She felt four hands tighten and two mouths on her skin as they poured themselves into her like they’d always wanted to.

“So,” Edward said, afterwards. He was rumpled and flushed and covered in cum. So were Mia and Michael. “Is that what you meant by drinks with friends?”

“No…not exactly,” Mia replied.

But the curve in her voice said otherwise. Michael snorted.

“Whatever. So long as we don’t wait ten years to do it again.”

Erotic Fiction: Bel, Cal & A Girl Named Claire

Black and white photograph of two women standing while a man sits and watches them for Bel and Cal by Malin James

Photograph by Marco Sanges

“Do we have a plan?”

“No. Let’s see what we draw.”

Bel and Cal saunter away from the bar, loosely holding hands. They are easy together, and comfortable. Very well matched.

Cal sees her first, the adorable girl with librarian specs and a pretty mouse face. They’ve seen her before and exchanged the odd smile, but he can’t remember her name. Still, he likes the look of her dark, deliberate frames. They punctuate her face.

Cal squeezes Bel’s hand. She squeezes his back and waves.

“You’re Claire, right? Good to see you!”

“Isobel? Yeah, you too!”

Claire. The girl’s name is Claire. Cal comes up behind Isobel, itching to slide his hand beneath her dress. He loves that Bel remembers names…. He also loves that her thighs are probably soaked. Cal pulls her close but avoids her hemline. Then he smiles at Claire.

“How are you, gorgeous? Here with anyone?”

Claire laughs and shakes her head.

“I’m on my own tonight.”

Bel leans back against his chest.

“Really? Well, then, let us buy you a drink.”

Bel and Claire drift to a quiet spot. Cal follows carrying drinks. Bel throws him a look over her shoulder. Cal’s pulse thumps. He knows what that look means.

“Get on your knees.”

Claire jumps and starts to kneel. Isobel stops her, gently.

“Not you. Cal.”

Claire straightens. Cal shakes his head and kneels. Isobel grins.

“Let’s get comfortable, Claire.”

Claire and Isobel sit on a low, velvet couch right in front of Cal.

“Take out your cock and get hard for us.”

Cal’s already hard, and he knows that Bel knows it. He makes a teasing little show of unzipping his fly. Then he spreads his legs wider and pulls his cock out.

“Oh, my god.”

He smirks even as Claire’s reaction makes him blush. Isobel smiles like a wicked fairy queen. She loves it when he blushes. He looks from one to the other. Then he licks his palm, and wraps his hand around his cock. Isobel watches and reaches for Claire.

“Keep going. Don’t stop. And babe? Don’t come.”

He meets Bel’s eyes, honestly annoyed, but she winks at him and he nods. Then she kisses Claire.

Cal loves watching her. He can see what she’s thinking in the angle of her head. He can tell by the way they’re kissing that Claire is milky sweet, like strawberries and cream…. Cal grips his cock with both hands. Isobel thinks of women in terms of desserts—custards, chocolates, soft, ripe fruit. Men bring out her carnivorous side—red meat, red wine, salty, rich. Bel devours men. She drinks women in delicate sips.

Bel fingers Claire deep and slow. Claire angles so she can do the same to Bel. They’re pretty like that, fair and dark, coiled like a shell. Cal knows how plump and wet Bel is. He knows exactly what Claire is feeling with her hand up Bel’s skirt. He wishes his hands were Claire’s hands. He wishes his hands were Bel’s.

When Bel looks at him, her eyes are bright and glazed. Cal thrusts into his fist. He imagines Isobel sucking Claire’s tits. He imagines Claire sucking his cock. He imagines limbs and mouths and sweaty skin. And he knows if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to come.

Isobel pushes Claire back onto the couch and yanks aside her dress. Their hands bump and their hips grind. Bel fills her mouth with Claire’s milky sweet tits, and sucks until the girl comes. Claire is shaking beneath her, gasping and mewling like a rabbit in a trap. Bel tips her head back and rides out Claire’s climax almost as much as her own.

Cal watches their movements slow like melting glass. Isobel opens her eyes.

“How close are you, love?”

“Really, really close.”

“Then stop. There’s a lot of evening left. Let’s see what we draw.”

 

To read more Wicked Wednesday, click below.

Screen Shot 2015-03-18 at 10.36.51 AM

 

 

 

And for more Kink of the Week, click those pretty lips.

Erotic Fiction: The Gift

Black and white photograph of vintage decadence at a black tie party for The Gift post by Malin James

Photograph by Marco Sanges (2014)

On the evening of her birthday, Sabine’s husband gave her the gift of a slave.

So kind, you might be thinking. So generous to give his wife another man to fuck. Sabine’s husband was, after all, several decades her senior, and the possessor of certain appetites that did not suit his foreign wife. The gift was surely a generous act, especially at that time, when flesh cost more than gold.

Generous, so generous….

Generous. But not kind.

Sabine’s husband trafficked in humans, a practice she abhorred. The gift, presented with torturous ceremony before a roomful of guests, was an insult—one so subtle that her husband would look like a king while delivering a barb she couldn’t ignore.

Unhappy but silent, Sabine watched a handler lead the blindfolded slave to the center of the room, trailed by a clutch of cilevore—sentient bonds that resembled the vines of a thick, tenacious plant. Another cilevore bound his wrists, making itself both the manacle and the leash by which he was led.

Sabine eyed the creatures, which brought to mind a cluster of eels with their slithering, muscled strength. Swallowing her disgust, she turned her attention to the slave, who was tall and blond, like the men of her faraway home.

They had brought him in naked, of course. A leather cord—the sign of his station—encircled his scrotum and cock. It was a pretty picture he made. Against her wishes, Sabine’s body quickened. The slave was beautiful and masculine—the most masculine thing she had seen since she’d come to her husband’s house. Her husband liked boys and soft, young girls. This slave, with his hard, uncompromising frame, would never have been bought if not for her.

“Well, my darling,” Sabine’s husband said, pitching his voice to the room, “care to try your new toy?”

The guests tittered. A slave such as this was only meant for one thing. Who wouldn’t want to watch?

Sabine lifted her head, winter pale and calm, as the handler sat the slave down in a carved wooden chair. Then he signaled to the cilevore, which slithered up over the slave, coiling around his ankles and wrists and binding him in place. Unable to see through the blindfold he wore, the slave flexed against his bonds. The cilevore tightened in response. Noticing the shift in the bonds, the handler slapped his cock. Once. Twice. The slave’s jaw tightened. Satisfied, the handler stepped back.

The slave’s breathing was deep and even; his face calm beneath the mask. But to the watchful, (and Sabine was watchful), the man was in distress.

The cilevore flexed, addressing the strain his body could not hide—pulse, heart rate, nerves…. He vibrated, clearly longing to rip the creatures off. And yet he continued to sit, unchallenging and calm. Disciplined, she thought. Or experienced. He was either very skilled or used to biding his time.

“Come, my dear,” her husband continued. “He is fresh from the auction block.”

“Disciplined, then,” she murmured, as her husband’s voice echoed, bluff, indulgent and utterly false. Still she did not move. Her husband’s face took on a look of gently wounded pride. He is losing patience, she thought.

“Well,” he said, as if he were coaxing a cat with cream, “I suppose if you don’t like it we’ll have to send it back.”

The handler stepped forward, unsheathing a knife.

“No,” Sabine said, surprising herself.

The guests went silent as they watched the awkward tableau. She could almost hear the slave’s pulse. It would be stressful. Very stressful. The knife was very near. One needn’t see to know. That, at least, she understood.

“I accept your gift,” she said, denying her husband the reaction he’d paid the flesh-price for.

His smile faltered but did not fail. Sabine approached the slave while the guests clapped politely, like the spectators they were. Sensing the change in the room, the slave’s fingers twitched though he did not challenge his bonds. The cilevore tightened regardless, rustling organically as Sabine came near. She ignored them. She wanted to see his face.

His white-gold hair curled softly, like feathers. Silky. Like her own. Suddenly, almost violently, she wanted the blindfold gone. Reaching out with a cool, steady hand, Sabine removed the mask, revealing an angular face with a scar along the jaw. Then the slave opened his eyes. No blinking. No panic. Just a pool of angry blue.

I am sorry, she wished to tell him. You were not meant for this.

The slave narrowed his eyes and nodded, as if he’d heard her thought. All the while, his cock rose thick above the leather thong.

To her shock, Sabine’s nipples peaked and she grew instantly wet. Without removing her gaze from his, Sabine acknowledged his nod. Then, lifting the heavy silk of her dress, she mounted him, gracefully, without revealing her arousal to anyone but the slave.

Sabine’s body flushed as she slid her swollen cunt along the length of his shaft. Her breath caught. His jaw tightened. She struggled for control as the scent of him went to her head. Then, thighs trembling, Sabine sank down, taking him into her body as her fingers knotted in his hair.

The slave’s body tensed and the cilevore shifted, sensing his impulse to touch her. She could feel his need to touch her vibrate through his skin.

“Release his arms,” she whispered.

She’d assumed the bonds would ignore her, but they dropped away, only to wrap around his waist. Wrists or no wrists, he would not be permitted to move.

Sabine grimaced. Even the manacles in her husband’s house were perfectly trained. But then slave’s hands gripped her through her dress and she fell into her body, light as snow. A sigh escaped her and gentle laughter filled the room—teasing laughter at her husband’s expense. Her thighs grew slicker at the sound.

Sabine began to move, slowly at first, then more quickly, working his shaft as she rose and fell, loosening her limbs and warming the body her marriage had turned cold.

Her focus narrowed. The room, the guests, the handler disappeared. Only her husband’s image remained sharp in her mind, and even that wavered when she looked at the slave. He was silent, watching her, hands just beneath her breasts as his thumbs rubbed her nipples through the bodice of her gown.

He is not a slave, she thought. That was not something that slaves did. Slaves followed instructions. They did what they were told. But this slave was watching—watching and responding. He did not need to be told.

Sabine rocked her hips, taking pleasure in her body as she took pleasure in him. And all the while he watched, muscles working in his jaw as his hands cupped her neck and steadied her waist. He was taking his pleasure in her. Her lips parted, lush and hungry, as her head tilted back. He was taking his pleasure in her.

Sabine moaned as he strained against his bonds, seeking her mouth with his. Had they left him his tongue, she wondered. Please, let him have his tongue. They muted slaves so often…she had not kissed him yet to know.

But she wanted his mouth. She wanted his kiss even though she feared the hollow she might find. It was defiance – of her husband and his culture and her own shameful fear – that drove her to his mouth. But all that fell away as he touched her tongue with his.

She lifted herself, rising up above his body until the tip of his cock rested at the opening of her sex. Her cunt clutched and ached, desperate for his girth, but she held herself suspended as the slave bared his teeth, squeezing her waist so hard she feared she would break.

He could crack her in two with those strong, scarred hands. He could snap her like a stick. Thoughts of her husband filled Sabine’s head. His cruel tastes. His lie of a smile. Her husband who trafficked in flesh. What might he do if confronted with such large, disciplined hands?

It was that thought, as much as the strength in his hands, that pushed her over the edge. Her legs buckled and Sabine sank back down. For the first time in her life, she gave her body free rein and she writhed like a whore, but Sabine was well beyond caring. She writhed and savored as the slave beneath her moaned. It was a sibilant sound, low and sweet—a sound for her alone. It shuddered over her skin.

Sabine arched her back and came, filling the room with a shriek so rich and obscene the slave’s handler flushed. It’s me, she thought. I am making that sound. Her cunt clutched harder and she came again, imagining herself soaked in his seed.

“Come,” she whispered into his ear. But the slave shook his head.

It was only then that she remembered he was not allowed release. She could fuck him all she liked, but he could never come. Slaves didn’t. Not male ones. It was taboo. She looked into his eyes, into his anger and need. Then she reached down between them and unknotted the thong that constricted the base of his cock.

“Come now,” she said. Her voice filled the room. “Come now for me.”

There were gasps of genuine shock. Ignoring the guests, Sabine began to move, splaying her body as he bucked and thrust against the cilevore at his waist.

Sabine’s husband said something. The handler shifted. They were running out of time.

Sensing the handler’s approach, the slave crushed Sabine to his chest, pressing her down and securing her with every single thrust. For a moment, all she heard the rush of her pulse. Then the slave’s breath hitched and he groaned as he soaked her with his cum.

Slowly, their breathing evened and their bodies calmed, and Sabine became aware of a buzzing, like wasps, in the room. No, not wasps. Nothing so dangerous. Just her husband’s guests.

Swallowing her apprehension, Sabine brought her mouth to the slave’s. She lingered a moment, drinking in the taste of ice and snow and home. Then she rose and straightened her skirts as the cilevore slivered back to his wrists.

“No,” she told the handler, who stood awkwardly near.

The handler looked to her husband, eyes weak and small as a pig’s. Her husband did not respond. Her husband, she thought with his grim, angry face, lined hard like the cracks in a bowl. Before either could respond, Sabine cut them both off.

“I will not have him bound.”

The cilevore receded, curling up on the floor as docilely as cats. The slave watched them settle and then looked at her. She nodded. He rose and crossed the room until he stood just behind Sabine.

Sabine thought of the slave’s deceptive calm and the crush of his hands on her waist. She’d have bruises the following day. A smile curved her lips. Gifts have power. By the rules of her husband’s culture, the giver cedes control of an object the moment it is given. The slave, one of her countrymen—was just such a gift, one that was part of a larger game. For the first time since marrying, Sabine felt that she might win.

“Thank you, dearest,” she said to her husband, who appeared to shrink and age. “Thank you for your generous gift.”

Erotic Fiction: Stranger on a Train

A modernist paining of a woman in a blue suit sitting alone in a train car for Stranger on a Train by Malin James

Compartment C Car 293 by Edward Hopper (1938)

I wrote this ages ago in response to a challenge from F. Dot Leonora, who shares my love of Edward Hopper. I left it sitting in one of my files until I randomly remembered it this week. It was written so long ago that it needed some serious work, but it’s the kind of work I like to do, especially when I’m in a retro kind of mood….

Update: 3/17/18 

Will Crimson, of The Erotic Writer, is a formidable writer in multiple genres and I’ve enjoyed his work for a very long time. When someone you admire pays you a compliment, it means a lot, especially when that compliment comes in the form of a gorgeous story.

That gorgeous story is a mirror for “Stranger on a Train”. Will’s “Stranger on a Train” is the same story told from the man’s point of view and it’s brilliant – so, brilliant that I’m all kinds of honored and pleased (in fact, “pleased” doesn’t come close to expressing it). So, if you like Rose’s point of view, please check out J.D.’s – Will Crimson wrote the perfect guy for my filthy, classy dame.

Stranger on a Train

Rose tried not to tap her foot while the conductor fussed with her suitcase. She’d have preferred to handle it herself, but he’d insisted like men often do with attractive girls, so she waited while he checked her figure while stowing it in the rack. It didn’t help that her clothes were plastered to her skin.

Rose ignored him and thought about the storm lashing the compartment. After what felt like ages, the conductor waggled his brows and left. Rose sighed and touched her hat.

It had not been a good day. She’d bought that hat especially for her trip, and now it was a mess. She took it off and surveyed the damage before setting it aside. She’d have to hope it recovered while it dried. Rose looked at herself in the window and made a face. When she’d left her mother’s house, her hair had been a glossy, dark version of Veronica Lake’s sweep…. So much for that.

The train pulled out of the station and Rose sat back, grateful to be alone in a compartment. After getting pawed by her boss, dumped by her fiancé and soaked on the platform, she didn’t feel like talking to strangers.

Rose frowned. Her boss could go to hell, but it was a shame about Dan. He was a decent guy and her parents loved him – he already worked for her father and he wanted babies right away. It was Rose who had wanted to wait. But that was really just a symptom of their basic incompatibility….

It had taken months for them to move past kissing, and when they finally did – at Rose’s insistence – the results had been tepid at best. She and Dan had tried but, despite her mother’s disappointment, Rose had been relieved when he’d called the wedding off.  She wanted more than dry, chaste kisses and missionary sex – a fact that had become abundantly clear when she’d fallen asleep under Dan.

She wanted more than her job at the law firm too. She hadn’t graduated from Vassar with honors just to make coffee and get her ass pinched by horny, middle-aged men. Rose took out a compact and dabbed her nose.

“That’s really my problem,” she murmured. “I just want more.”

The train began to pick up speed. Rain streaking across the window like angry lines. Rose shifted, uncomfortble in her damp clothes. Finally, she took off her jacket and undid the top two buttons of her blouse, hoping it would dry faster that way. She was wondering what to do about her skirt when the compartment door slid open. Rose frowned, hoping it wasn’t the conductor.

It was definitely not the conductor.

A man poked his head in. He was young, for one thing. Rose glanced at him, curious. He was also, quite literally, tall, dark and handsome. In fact, he could’ve been in films. The handsome man took off his hat, which, by some miracle it was dry. Then his eyes flickered over her blouse, which reminded her that it was still unbuttoned. She blushed, but ignored the impulse to do it back up. That’s what her mother would do.

“Sorry, miss. Do you mind?”

The man gestured to the seat opposite hers. Rose shivered.

“Be my guest.”

He slid the door closed and settled down across from her. Their knees bumped as he sat. Rose felt the sudden urge to spread her legs. She crossed them instead. The man smiled. It was a rueful smile, but there was something else in it too…as if he were breathing in the scent of something he wanted to eat.

“Sorry. Long legs.”

Rose had no idea if he was referring to her legs or his own.

“That’s all right,” she said.

Attraction crackled between them. Rose looked out the window, giving him a look at her long, shapely neck. She was in unfamiliar territory, but she liked being there. She was curious. She wanted to see where it went.

But the man took out a book and didn’t say any more. Rose yawned, vaguely disappointed. But even as she leaned back, the feeling slipped away and she began to drift off, rocked by the train as it sped through the stormy landscape. Rose squeezed her thighs, savoring the flutter between her legs. It hummed along in time with the train, spiking, just a bit, with every railroad tie.

Rose dreamed she was on a train…and she was nude. It felt so good that she rubbed herself against the vibrating seat. She felt desperate – desperate for something as she spread her legs and ground against the plush velveteen….

The train whistle shrieked. Rose woke up with one hand clutching her blouse and the other one clenched in her skirt. She was flushed and frustrated. The man was watching her.

Rose met his eyes and slowly she spread her legs, natural as a foregone conclusion.

The man got up and knelt between them.

Rose lifted her skirt so he could unhook her garters and pull down her under-things. He stopped to look at her, but Rose didn’t want to wait. She sank her fingers into his hair and pulled him close until his mouth grazed her hot, wet skin.

She hissed. The man chuckled and kissed her cunt. Then he began to lick. Rose’s breathing grew ragged, and so did his, as he lapped at her like a cat. Stroke…stroke…. Rose spread her legs as she could and ground down on his face, but she couldn’t get enough. Her hips jerked in frustration. She knew she needed more.

Rose drew the man up and began to undo his belt. His fingers joined hers as he unbuttoned his pants and shoved them down. He paused, but Rose didn’t stop. She just turned around and knelt on the seat. Then she looked over her shoulder and raised her skirt.

Rose poured months of frustration into that look. She was wet and swollen, ready in the way that she’d always been. She’d always this – to be thoroughly, and unsentimentally, fucked.

“Now.”

The man grinned.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He didn’t sweet talk or kiss her. He just slid his cock in and slowly began to thrust. Rose’s body went loose as the pressure built, warm and slick, between her legs. She looked at herself in the window, at her wide, open mouth and wide, open legs and the man fucking her like a whore. She looked like a filthy whore. Rose imagined her mother sobbing. Filthy. Dirty. Whore.

Rose smiled, it felt so goddamn good.

The man kept thrusting as he reached around. His fingers found her clit. Rose gasped and bit her arm, but she couldn’t hold back the moans that were wrenching out of her. They pushed at her skin and pulled at her nerves until she thought they’d split her in two. And then, for the very first time in her life, Rose came.

“Grand Central Station. Next stop, Grand Central Station, New York.”

The man froze, as the conductor passed. Then he thrust into her, harder and rougher, as Rose arched her back.

“Come on me. Come.”

The train began to slow. Suddenly, Rose felt him withdraw and he groaned as sticky, hot cum spattered over her skin.

Rose looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were bright as Christmas and his were too. The man took out a handkerchief and quickly wiped her clean. Then Rose got down and brushed off her clothes while the man straightened out his suit. Then they sat down on opposite sides again. Anyone looking in would’ve assumed they’d never moved, except that now their knees touched.

Rose picked up her hat. It was dry and almost good as new. She placed it on her head and fluffed her hair. Outside, the train ground to a halt. Rose got up. The man put on his fedora, then he stood and tipped his brim.

“It was nice to meet you, miss.”

“It was nice to meet you too.”

Rose pulled open the compartment. The man stepped forward and held the door for her.

“Say, do you think I might see you again?”

Rose’s mouth curved into a starlet’s smile. He sure was handsome, all right.

“You just might,” she said.

Rose pulled a train schedule out of her purse. Then she took her lipstick out and circled her return date before handing it to him.

“Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Then Rose picked up her suitcase and sauntered off the train.

Erotic Fiction: Slow Burn

“Come closer.”

I lie back on your bed, curled up in the nest of your rumpled, blue duvet.

I’m naked. I love being naked with you, in your bed, where my body feels soft and silky, like a celluloid princess in a silent film. But I’m not a princess. Nor am I silent…not that I can’t be quiet as a mouse. I just don’t want to be. Silent. There is too much joy in your weight between my legs; and in the way my body feels fitted into yours.

You come closer to the edge of the bed. There isn’t much room, but now you’re squarely in front of the window, which is where I want you to be.

“Strip for me.”

You flush. You’re still cold from your run to the store. I imagine dark heat spreading through your cells, and seeping into your skin. We’ve done this before—the stripping. But your sloping shoulders seem bashful. So does the curl of your hand, as if you’re surprised that I want this from you…. But you do strip, meeting my eyes the whole time once your shirt is off.

“Slower,” I say.

I’m teasing you now and you know it. You’re already going slow. But you comply and go slower as your lips pull up to one side. You’re going to tease me back. You slow down even more. But I love it. I love the frustration and the time it gives me to watch your body move. And all the while, your eyes stay on mine, focused, very precisely, on me, and on us, and on the game we’re playing now.

You’re already hard when you take your pants off. I knew you would be—we’ve been playing all day and you’ve already fucked me twice. Once, slow and sweet, like spoons in a drawer with your arms wrapped around me and my hands clutched in yours. The second was  hard and fast, up against the counter after breakfast and tea. I was still soaking wet after the first time. I’m soaking wet right now.

Being around you makes me wet—your quick solidity; how small and strong you make me feel; your scent; our skin. I love the way we fuck. I love the noises you make when you come. I love the noises you make when you don’t. Since we woke up, I’ve come, in great, hazy waves, more times than I can count. You have not. You haven’t come at all because we’re playing a game and you won’t until I say.

I open my legs, half snuggled into your bed. My cunt feels soft and warm when I slip my fingers in. You watch me. You know what we’re doing. I don’t have to say. But you wait for me anyway.

“Lick your palm and stroke your cock.”

You do, eyes still on mine. My fingers slide over my cunt without my having to try. My body wants to be filled. It’s sucking at my fingers as I drag them out and push them slowly in.

My legs drop open even more. You pause and take a step.

“No,” I say. “Don’t touch me. Slide your hand up and down your beautiful, fucking cock and think about how good it would feel to be fucking me instead.”

I think about us when I get myself off. I think about us so often that it’s natural, even now, despite the fact that you’re less than a foot away. And all the while, your eyes are on mine. Your eyes bring me closer in ways that my hand alone never does….

I lie back and arch my hips, bringing my cunt up to your cock, as close as I can without blocking our hands. I want to keep the hard, thick pull of wanting you this bad. But I come, and I cry out as I do, a guttural, not-beautiful sound. And then I come again.

You’re sweating and your face is flushed, not cold anymore; I smile up at you and you smiled down at me. We are co-conspirators. You know what we’re doing. I don’t have to say. But you wait for me all the same.

“Don’t you fucking come.”

It’s a slow, slow burn.

Thank you to Exhibit A for the use of the words-fail-me, (very) inspirational image.

And if you haven’t read Exhibit A’s work, you should. The man is much more than just a pretty…em…face. He’s brilliant and his erotic fiction and sex writing are some of the best I know. Find more of him here.

Fiction: Fairy Tale of New York

Washington Square Park covered in fairy tale snow

Washington Square by David Carrales

New York is rarely quiet. The city’s a living thing, with subcutaneous systems and concrete skin. But New York in winter is different. In January, the city drifts in and out of sleep in the hours before dawn, when snow and ice muffle its pulse.

She is new to the city. It’s her first winter here. Fresh out of high school, she’s a fragile thing with hollow eyes and delicate wrists. Her father calls her a ghost. She hates it when he does.

Her fragility scares and angers her. She bristles into mirrors that reveal her sensitive bones. They are the sort of bones that get broken by wind and circumstance. She doesn’t want to get broken. She’s afraid she already is.

She leaves her dorm just before dawn – she has rehearsal before class. She pads through the lobby of the old brownstone that the University gutted and made a dorm. It’s charming from the outside, but it looks like an asylum above the ground floor. She breathes better whenever she leaves, even on mornings when the wind singes her face as it whips down 5th.

She usually goes around the park, rather than cut through Washington Square, but it’s 6am and the snow is fresh and no one is around. Besides, the smell of snow is comforting – it reminds her of mountains and home. The mountains are clean and simple. For all that she likes the city, nothing is simple here. Nothing, really, is clean….

She walks carefully down the icy street, watching her feet in their shearling boots and dreaming restless dreams. She thinks about boys she wants to fuck, and girls she wants to kiss. She has never had sex and she has never kissed a girl. She’s not the girl who gets kissed. She’s best friends with that girl.

She reaches the arch that frames Washington Square and looks up as she passes through. The city sounds hush and stop. Everything is still. Even her breath hangs, suspended, perfect and round, like a drawing of a cloud. The world within the arch is pure and white, relieved by slashes of black wrought iron and even blacker trees.

She takes a step back, afraid to ruin the snow. She’s a girl in the beast’s garden, but there is no father and no rose.

“Sasha!”

She jumps at the sound of her name. The syllables break the spell. She turns around, annoyed, until she sees who it is.

“Lana, it’s freezing! Why are you out?”

“You forgot this when you left. You can’t rehearse without a script.”

Her roommate hands her a binder. She looks like a Russian princess with her long blond hair and snow leopard eyes. Normally, they’re lined, gothic and black, but it’s early morning and her face is as clean and untouched as the snow. For a moment, Sasha imagines an old-fashioned sled taking them both away.

“Thanks, Lana,” she says, feeling awkward and cold. She’s stood in one place for too long.

“No worries, Sash. I was up anyway.”

Neither girl moves.

“I should… I should get going. I shouldn’t be late.”

Sasha turns away. She’s blushing and she doesn’t know why. She lives with Lana. There are no secrets in their room. But something in Lana’s measured gaze makes her feel like something’s changed.

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“You’re barely wearing a coat! Look – your hands are blue!”

Sasha reaches for Lana’s naked hand, but Lana pivots and links their arms.

“So snuggle and keep me warm.”

Sasha doesn’t argue. Lana is like that. She makes decisions on impulse and rarely changes her mind, but disaster never touches her. Disaster wouldn’t dare.

Together, Lana and Sasha step onto the snow, creating deep deliberate prints and moving like Siamese twins. Suddenly, Lana shivers.

“Maybe I should have worn a better coat.”

“And gloves,” Sasha says, stopping beside a bench. “Come here….”

She takes Lana’s hand in hers, intending to give her her gloves. But the park is a frozen garden again, and they are princesses in snow…. Following an impulse so old she can’t stop, Sasha slips Lana’s fingertips into her mouth, holding the other girl’s ice cold skin against the liquid heat of her tongue.

Her heart hammers but she can’t stop, and Lana doesn’t pull away. Their breath combines like a fractal bloom, warming the space between them. Sasha begins to suck, running her tongue over Lana’s skin in tiny, liquid strokes. Lana sighs.

“Don’t stop.”

Sasha freezes. The impulse that got them there leaves her and she feels too shy to move. Lana gives her a measured look. She looks ancient and wise, like the keeper of secrets Sasha wants to know. There’s so much she wants to know…

Lana strokes her cheek. Then her mouth moves over Sasha’s, like every boy she’s ever kissed. But Lana’s lips are soft and her skin is even softer, softer than a boy’s, and she cups Sasha’s neck like a dream – the dream of a restless girl who’s been brought up to look for a prince.

Their tongues touch and Sasha imagines Lana’s mouth between her legs. Sasha clenches her thighs. She’s strong. Not fragile. She’s feeling so much that she’s melting the trampled path.

They move closer, ignoring the cold as they pull at zippers and fumble with scarves. The bench feels like a bed. They’ve left the mundane world and bloom, surrounded by black and white.

Crunches in the snow.

Sasha looks up. A man goes by with a funny, little dog. He smiles and nods and keeps walking, making careful, deliberate prints. Sasha watches him go.

“When do you have to be at rehearsal, Sash?”

Lana bites her lip. It’s plump and pink and freshly kissed, and Sasha wants to keep it that way.

“I’m skipping rehearsal today.”

It may be several days after Christmas, but Exhibit A has been kind enough to leave all the prompts from his Awesome Christmas Erotica meme open until midnight on December 31st.

This story has very little to do with The Pogues EXCELLENT song, “Fairy tale of New York” (which ranks near the top on my favorites list). While the song is a glorious, semi-drunken duet that *always* makes me smile, this story is rooted in something that actually happened to me – a frigid walk through Washington Square Park one dawn in early January. The sight of Washington Square, quiet and covered in untouched snow, has stayed with me for many years. It seemed the perfect setting for this. 

To read more seasonal erotica and nonfiction, head on over to Exhibit A’s site. Click here to catch the prompts and participate (there’s still time!). And click here to see who else has made merry this December.

Erotic Fiction: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

Purple watercolor canvas of a woman in a black backless dress standing between two men and holding a drink

Woman in Backless Dress with Drink by Harry Weisburd

“Hey, babe? Would you get that?”

“Yeah. Did you order room service?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Jilly heard Mark open the door as she zipped up her slim, backless dress. Then she stepped into a pair of peek-a-boo heels and clipped across the room, enjoying the fact that she was bare beneath the silk. Everything just felt more when she skipped the lingerie, which is why she often did.

“Sam!”

Jilly smiled. She sounded much calmer than she actually felt, which was encouraging. Mark’s Christmas present was a bit of a gamble and it was up to her to pull it off. Luckily, she had enlisted help. Sam, her ex from a lifetime ago, whistled and gave her a slow, achy kiss. Ignoring Mark’s confusion, Jilly kissed him back.

“Jill, you look fucking amazing,” he said. Then he turned to Mark. “Hey, handsome. You look fucking amazing too.”

Mark gave Sam a shy, crinkly grin.

“Hey, Sam. C’mon in. I didn’t know you were coming by. Let me get you a drink.”

“No,” Jilly said.

Her voice dropped an octave on that single syllable. Both men turned and looked at her. It was adorable. She smiled.

“Sorry?” Mark said, giving her a look.

It was the extremely polite, what-the-fuck look he usually reserved for corporate events and, (apparently), the unexpected arrival of hot, male guests. Jilly kissed his cheek in a vaguely dismissive way and sauntered to the mini bar to pour herself a scotch.

“I said, no. No drinks – not for either of you, anyway. Not til after.”

Sam cleared his throat and drifted toward the window. Mark watched him go – or rather, he watched Sam’s fine ass carry him across the room. Then he looked at Jilly, who was sipping her drink.

“Not til after what, Jill?”

“Not til after you’ve sucked Sam’s cock and gotten fucked into next year.”

“What?”

She smiled sweetly and held his gaze as he blushed. It was wonderful. She loved it when he blushed. Relenting, she leaned in and nuzzled his neck.

“You know that fantasy we always talk about,” she whispered.  “That’s your present. Merry Christmas, babe.”

Mark stared at her in a way she couldn’t quite decode. Even after being together for nearly two years, there were still things about him that were quietly opaque. It made her nervous, but it excited her too. And it was only fair – she wasn’t exactly easy to read either.

They stood there, staring at each other in a way that made Jilly’s thighs slick. Suddenly, the stalemate broke and Mark grinned.

“So, what you’re saying is that Sam is my Christmas present?”

“Well, technically, your Christmas present is an ass fucking and the opportunity to suck Sam’s cock while I watch. But yes. I suppose you could say that Sam is your present.”

Mark picked her up and kissed her in the way she loved best – like she was something to be savored and slowly consumed. She curled her fingers through his soft hair and gently pulled, loving the bite of his fingertips on her hips. By the time he put her down, her body was humming beneath the silk. Mark glanced at the window but kept his hand on her.

“And Sam’s okay with this?”

Jilly arched a brow and gave him a lopsided grin.

“Golly, I don’t know. Are you okay with this, Sam?”

Sam turned and stopped pretending to look out the window.

“Fuck yeah. I’ve wanted Mark’s ass for ages.”

His grin was open and playful but, when he edged towards Mark, the playfulness drained away. Suddenly, he was nothing but hard-on and hips.

“Slow down, cowboy,” Jilly said. “We’re playing by my rules tonight.”

“Right,” he said, stopping just short of touching Mark.

Jilly took in Mark’s nervy breathing and Sam’s restlessness. They reminded her of thoroughbreds before a race – big, muscled animals straining at the gate.

“You’re both wearing too much. Strip.”

Jill sat in the leather chair in the center of the room, relishing the pleasure of crossing her legs. She knew Mark’s fantasy so well it had become her own, and it played out in her mind, sharpening her focus, as she calmly sipped her drink.

Sam grinned and turned to Mark. “You heard the lady.”

Mark glanced at Jill. He was trying to get his footing in the dynamic. Jilly held his gaze and sipped her scotch. She didn’t need to say anything. That slice of silence was enough.

Mark nodded, not docilely because Mark was not a docile man, but in a way that communicated a level of acceptance that was undeniably hot. Then he began to strip. Charcoal jacket. Cufflinks. Shirt. He hesitated at his belt, but then continued on, obviously determined to make the most of his present. When he was down to his briefs he stopped again. Jilly smiled. He was already hard.

“Go on,” she said, keeping her voice flat.

Mark nodded again. Then he stripped off the briefs and stood before his girlfriend and her fully clothed ex. Sam cocked his head.

“Hey, Jill? Would you have him turn around?”

Mark flexed his big, strong hands like a nervous boy. It made her heart hurt in a wonderful, happy way, but she kept her face blank to the point of disinterest.

“Sure.” Jill shrugged. “Turn around for Sam.”

Mark’s blush spread halfway down his chest, but he turned.

“Stop there,” she said when his back was to Sam. “Bend over, babe. Show Sam what he’s getting.”

Mark closed his eyes. She could see it in his reflection in the window. Every cell in her body focused on him – every twitching muscle and every change in his face – gauging how far she could push. She knew he wanted to be pushed.

Finally, he bent at the waist and voluntarily parted his cheeks with his hands so that Sam could see his ass. The heart-hurt Jilly had felt earlier swelled and filled her chest.

“That’s good, babe,” she said, softly. “Go ahead and stand up.”

Then she turned to Sam.

“Your turn, hot stuff.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sam threw off his clothes like a puppy let off the leash.

“Slow down,” she said, suppressing a smile. Sam was acting like a horny, cartoon wolf.

Soon both of them were naked in front of her – tall, strong, Mark and dark, stocky Sam, with the dick of a man twice his size.

Jilly glanced at Mark. She could practically see his mouth watering.

“Okay, babe. Suck his cock.”

Jilly knew Mark had gone down on a few other guys, but she doubted any of them had been as big as Sam. But Mark more than willingly knelt before his challenge. Suddenly, her big, complicated man was nothing but keen and eager. It was a part of Mark she rarely saw and it deeply turned her on.

Sam canted his hips towards Mark’s lips, but otherwise stood still while Mark angled his head and glanced at Jill. She nodded.

“Take your time. Work all of him in.”

Sam was more than a mouthful. It took Mark a while to work his way down Sam’s pornographic length, but even as he struggled, Mark got harder. Clearly, having him edge for three days had been the right call. Jilly crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her body knew exactly what he felt like when he was that hard, and knowing made her wetter.

She watched him choke and sputter as he struggled to take all of Sam in; and the more he struggled, the harder he got. Jilly pressed herself into the soft, leather chair, rocking her hips in tight, controlled circles that mimicked Sam’s own. Slowly, Mark found his rhythm, but he kept taking his time, sucking and tonguing the whole way down, until Sam’s knees buckled when Mark’s lips touched the base of his cock.

“Stay there, baby,” Jilly whispered, pulling out her phone. “Just keep sucking him.”

She set her drink aside and stood up. Her cunt was throbbing, but she ignored it as she got close enough to frame the details of Mark’s face. His clenched eyes and distended mouth were beautiful to her. The look on Sam’s face was too. She angled the phone and caught the two of them…Sam’s hands clutching Mark’s rumpled hair, Mark’s hands grasping Sam’s pretty ass…. Then she sank back down and raised her hem.

Sam moaned and began to thrust into Mark’s throat. She left them to it for another minute, half curious to see how long Sam could hold out against Mark’s relentless mouth. And all the while, she stroked herself, keeping time with Sam’s hips and Mark’s bobbing head without letting herself go. Finally, when Sam’s body began to tense, she stopped them.

“That’s enough. Sam’s getting close.”

Reluctantly, Sam eased himself out of Mark’s mouth. They both looked dazed and big-eyed. She wasn’t even sure if they were fully aware of her presence anymore. The energy between them was hard and needy and strong, and she didn’t want to interfere. But she also wasn’t going to let go of the reins.

“Get on your hands and knees, babe. Sam’s going to fuck you, and I’m going to watch. Let’s see how much of that big cock you can take.”

Mark looked at her. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes were nearly black. Then a smile pulled at the corner of his red, swollen mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.

Jilly got up and kissed him. She couldn’t help it. Then she stood and turned to their guest.

“Remember what I said. Slow and easy to start. Then have at it. And use a fucking lot of lube.

Sam nodded. Any trace of the puppy dog was gone, replaced by something much more carnivorous. He reached  over and grabbed the condom she handed him. Then he picked up the bottle of  lube and knelt between Mark’s spread legs. Sam nudged them even wider and poured a ton of the stuff between Mark’s spread cheeks. Then Sam put a hand on the small of Mark’s back. The second he did, Mark visibly relaxed, and so did Jill. Then Sam began to work his way in.

He moved faster than Jilly would have expected given the sheer size of his dick, but Mark didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he spread his knees wider and thrust back into Sam, groaning like porn star. She loved it when Mark acted like a slut. Finally, when Sam was balls deep in her boyfriend, he and Mark both turned and looked at her. It was adorable. She smiled.

“No rest for the wicked, gentlemen. Save something for round two.”

This piece was influenced by two things. The first was Girl on the Net’s fantastically hot post, Threesome Director. It touched on more than one of my own fantasies, so it was impossible not to let it creep into this little bit of joyful, holiday porn. 

The second influence was one of the prompts in Exhibit A‘s Awesome Christmas Erotica Meme. Admittedly, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” plays less of a role in the story than I’d originally intended, but I’m keeping the title because it makes me happy.

A new song title goes up every day between now and Christmas so click here to catch the prompts and participate (you should!). And click here to see who else is making merry this December.

PS – Exhibit A is doing his own variation on Girl on the Net’s fantastically hot post. The first part just went up. Check out his site to catch the rest. 

Flash Fiction: The Holly & The Ivy

A portrait of a young Tudor era woman

Portrait of a Young Woman thought to be Catherine Howard, Met Museum, NYC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It will be different with me, she thinks as he presses her down to her knees. Silk rustles as she bends like a young rose on a fragile stem. He smiles, and she takes heart. He is gentle with her now, this great man, larger than life, with hands like paws and a mind like jagged trap. He will be different with me.

Green groweth the holly,
So doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly.

He removes her wedding gown and she bows before him. He is already undressed. His vast, bear-like body, once wrapped in velvet and fur, fills her vision like the sun. She shivers. His fingers, so gentle with the outer casing of her gown, bite into her skin. He wants her, she knows. He has told her as much. He has written and told her so.

As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.

He is impatient and entitled as he grips her head. She opens her mouth and complies. She is no prudish Catholic, but neither is she a whore. Her cousin was a whore, an incestuous whore. She betrayed him and lost her head, spilled her blood all over the block, red as the holly he wrote about. Red blood on a dark green dress.

As the holly groweth green
With ivy all alone
When flowers cannot be seen
And greenwood leaves be gone,

There will be no blood with me, she thinks. I will keep his love. I will keep it evergreen. He grips her head harder, guiding her mouth as she sucks his cock with a skill that she learned as a girl. That skill would not betray her. That skill, and the gift of a pliant throat and an equally pliant nature, will keep me queen, she thinks.

Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make,
From all other only
To her I me betake.

Her eyes stream as his cock batters the back of her throat. She feels the bulk of his body tense. He’s getting close. She wills herself slack and feels the drool dripping down her chin onto her pretty white breasts. When he comes, he comes like an animal, grunting and thrusting into her mouth as if she were a thing. I will be his cherished thing, she thinks, gagging on his spend.

Adieu, mine own lady,
Adieu, my special
Who hath my heart truly
Be sure, and ever shall.

He tastes overly sweet, and beneath that a bitterness that makes her gag again, but she swallows and swallows and swallows. Then she smiles as she knows he wants her too, and lavishly licks her lips. I will do what I must do, she thinks. I will survive the love of this man.

Post Script: 

The italicized poem is called “Green Groweth the Holly” by Henry VIII. The lady whom it addresses is unknown but, for the sake of this piece, I imagined it to be his ill-fated 5th wife, Catherine Howard, cousin to Anne Boleyn and the second of his six wives to be accused of treason and beheaded.

The story was inspired by “The Holly and the Ivy” – a traditional Christmas carol and one of the prompts in Exhibit A‘s Awesome Christmas Erotica Meme. A new song title goes up every day between now and Christmas so click here to catch the prompts and participate (you should!). And click here to see who else is making merry this December.

Erotic Fiction: 2000 Miles

Photograph of author's back in front of a fireThey don’t live that far away from each other – just across town. But the relationship is young and there are families to consider. His children. Her child. He’s only twenty miles away, but circumstance has drawn the distance out, unraveling it to immeasurable lengths. It might as well be two thousand.

Two thousand would almost be easier. Two thousand is distance on a grand scale. I would get in the car and drive for days, just to feel his mouth, she thinks…his warm lips and clever tongue; those sweet, slow licks….. She would drive two thousand miles to feel his mouth between her legs.

Two thousand gives the gesture a rosy, cinematic glow…but twenty is not two thousand. Even without her baby asleep down the hall, she can’t travel twenty miles – not on Christmas Eve. Not when their lives have only just begun to nudge into one another. Twenty or two thousand, seeing him is a fantasy on the grandest of grand scales. Reality is reality. You can’t always get what you want.

She lights a fire in the grate, and turns off the lights – all, except for the pretty ones on the tree. The last time she saw him, she’d only just put it up. She lets her mind wander as her robe slips off her shoulders. She’ll wake up to Christmas carols getting yodeled at dawn, but for now the flat is quiet and the night is young. She can kneel in front of the fire and think of him.

The last time they’d seen each other he’d undressed her in front of the fire, unwrapping her slowly as if she were a gift. Her breasts tighten as she remembers his hungry, slanted look and his fingers grazing over her dips and hollows. There is nothing like needing to fuck a man who needs to fuck you back….

She kneels before the fire and imagines him behind her. She smells his scent in the wool of his sweater and feels denim against her skin. A shiver runs up her spine. She feels everything – her thick pulse and aching breasts. Her slick, wet cunt. She’s so wet she looks at the fire and imagines melting into herself.

She spreads her legs a little. The carpet rubs her knees as she spreads them a little more. Then she leans back on her heels and dips her hand between her legs, all the while imagining that her hand is his. In her mind, thick fingers find her plump, sensitive clit. She thinks of his hands before letting her mind drift. She imagines his breath on her shoulders and sweat pooling between them as he sinks his fingers into her warm, wet cunt.

She spreads her legs even more and pinches her nipples, thinking of his mouth. Oh, that mouth, that mouth…. Parts of him and all of him fill her mind as slides two fingers into herself, followed by a third. She knows how to play herself, and she plays herself right to the edge. Then she holds herself there for as long as she can while the fire pops and glows.

She lets the heat lick her skin until her long dark hair sticks to the back of her neck. She lets her mind stretch and retrieve him, heedless of distance and circumstance. She reels in mile after unraveled mile until he is with her in the warm, little room, cocooned in quiet night. She feels his cock inside her. A perfect, easy fit. Then she lets herself come.

She cants her hips and bows her back, riding out the long, slow tumble and release. Everything in her expands and for a moment she isn’t there at all. She is the shape of how good it feels.  Then draws her robe over her shoulders and reaches for her phone.

“Hey, you. Are you busy?”

“No – I was just going to call. I can’t stop thinking of you.”

She smiles and looks into the fire. Maybe next year….

The story was inspired by “2000 miles” by The Pretenders – one of my favorite modern Christmas songs and the first prompt of Exhibit A‘s Awesome Christmas Erotica Meme. A new song title goes up every day between now and Christmas so click here to catch the prompts and participate (you should!). And click here to see who else is making merry this December.