Tag Archives: erotica

Erotic Fiction: Big Handed Sam

Black and white partial portrait of Alexander Skarsgard's hand for Big Handed Sam by Malin James

Portrait of Alexander Skarsgard (and his sexy fucking hands)

I wrote this story a couple of years ago and submitted it to an anthology. I was especially happy when it was accepted because someone had challenged me to make fisting romantic, and I feel like I got pretty close. Unfortunately, that anthology was scrapped and the story came back to me.

I sent it out again, (like you do), and wasn’t totally surprised when it wasn’t right for the call. But hey, you have to try. Still, at this point it’s been knocking around for awhile and, more than anything, I want it out there to be read so I’m posting it here.

And now, without further ado, I give you “Big Handed Sam”, a story of fisting and romance. I hope you enjoy it!

 

Big Handed Sam

“I want you to fist me.”

“What?”

I propped myself up on my elbows and looked at Sam. My sweet, handsome Sam looked horrified. I love that man. We’d been dating long distance for close to six months…. Long distance is hard. There’s never enough time no matter how long the visit. I was heading back to Boston the next day, and I wanted to do something special before I left. Apparently, Sam’s definition of special did not include fisting.

“You’ve seen my hands right?” he said, holding one up. It was long fingered and wide knuckled. So damn sexy. Sam did not agree. “I have monster paws. They’re huge.”

I snuggled into his arms.

“You do not have monster paws. And of course they’re huge—you’re a big guy.”

Sam is 6’3 and a solid 200 pounds. He’s hot and muscled and, unlike me, (a cog in a corporate machine), Sam works with his hands. He’s a sculptor and he’s good. He works with preservationists on statues and altars and other beautiful things. His hands make works of art, and I wanted them wrist deep inside me. Sam was not convinced.

“Blair,” he said, grasping at straws, “there is no way my hand is going to fit. Women’s bodies aren’t meant to do that. It’s physically impossible.”

I smiled. “You’re right. It’s impossible. Just tell that to every woman who’s ever given birth.”

He looked at me helplessly, and shrugged. I loved him so much that I could have gobbled him up, but I had a point to make.

“I’m not asking for the impossible,” I said, slowly bringing his fingers to my mouth. “I’m asking you to trust that I know my own mind.”

He looked at me warily as I proceeded to nibble his fingertips like a cat. I love the way Sam tastes—like soap and stone, no matter what. Always soap and stone.

“Babe,” I said, between licks, “trust me. I know what I’m asking for.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Oh you do, huh?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “I’ve done this before….”

Sam’s smile faded. His whole expression faded into the grain of his skin and the doubt in his eyes.

“Yeah, well. I haven’t. No woman in her right mind would want that from me.”

I want that from you.”

“Blair,” he said, drawing his fingers away from my mouth. “Look. I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” I said. “I promise. I promise you won’t hurt me. Please. Would you do this for me?”

Sam shook his head, as if he were thinking something through. I loved his protective instinct, but if our relationship was going to get to the next level, he had to understand that I knew my own mind. And suddenly, he did.

“You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met,” he murmured. Then he gave me a long, sweet kiss. I knew what that kiss meant, and it made my cunt ache.

“Okay, darlin’,” he said. “But you need to tell me what to do.”

I grinned. “You got it! Step One: Get the lube!”

Sam rolled off the bed looking earnest and serious, like a boy scout collecting supplies. He dug a small, half finished bottle out of a bedside table drawer.

“Is that going to be enough?” he asked, doubtfully.

“Nope. Not by half,” I said. “Don’t worry. I came prepared.”

I jumped up off the bed and bounced to my suitcase. Buried under a pile of unworn clothes were a king sized bottle of my favorite lube, latex gloves and my bullet vibe.

“Would you mind grabbing some towels,” I asked, dropping the supplies on the bed. Sam eyed the stuff, looking nervous.

“Yeah. Sure.”

I hopped back up on the bed and listened to him rummage while I idly fingered myself. I was plenty wet, but a weekend of marathon sex had left me a little tender. I was going to need a warm-up before the main event.

“Hand towels or big towels,” he called, voice muffled. His head was probably in the cabinet. God, I love Sam.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said, closing my eyes.

My clit was at that magically sensitive place between not enough and too much—I was barely touching it, and I could feel my pulse in my cunt. I love it when that happens. I sank back into the pillows and sighed.

“Hey, darlin’? Do you want the super soft ones or….”

Sam’s voice trailed off. I opened my eyes and gave him a lazy grin. I had two fingers in my pussy, and you could hear how wet I was.

“Doesn’t matter, babe. Honest.”

“Sure,” he said, without taking his eyes off my hand. He cleared his throat.

“So. What comes next?”

“What comes next,” I replied, taking my fingers out of my soaking sex, “is that you come up here with me.”

Sam dropped the towels next to the other supplies and settled in looking horny and vaguely terrified.

“Touch me,” I said, shifting my hips.

“Like this?”

His fingertips grazed my folds.

“Perfect,” I murmured. “Just like that. Get me all warmed up….”

I sighed as he found my clit. Then he took one of my nipples into his mouth and sucked, soft and slow, just the way I like it. I moaned and instinctively arched my back, but he didn’t take it too far. With a final suck he released my tit and gently nuzzled my cheek.

“Where are those gloves?”

“Down there,” I said, waving at the foot of the bed. “Bring the lube too.”

The brass bed creaked as he knelt beside me. I looked up at his face. He was frowning at the glove, as if he were cutting it a deal—you get on my hand and make this work and I won’t hate you for the rest of my life, the crinkle in his forehead seemed to say. My heart nearly broke. I was full of anticipation, but I had to stay focused. I was the one who had gotten him into this. I had to see him through.

“That’s great, babe,” I said, once he’d gotten the gloves on. “Now, grab the lube and coat your fingers. We’ll go nice and slow.”

“Do you want the vibe first,” he asked. “I’m gonna be covered in lube….”

“No,” I said, reaching up to stroke his face. How was I supposed to keep leaving this man? A weekend a month wasn’t enough. “No, it’s okay. I’ll take care of that myself.”

Sam nodded and flipped the cap on the lube. Then he coated his fingers and warmed up a generous amount in his hand. I held his gaze the whole time. My heart ached for him. It ached so much I could barely breathe. He must’ve seen it in my face because he stopped what he was doing and leaned in close.

“Hey, darlin’” he said, brushing the hair back from my face with the un-gooey back of his hand. “You sure you want this?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I want this so much. I just….” Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. “I don’t want to leave tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said, nuzzling the side of my neck. “I know. I don’t want you to go.”

His mouth covered mine in a way I’d recognized the first time we kissed. We’ll figure it out, his lips told me. We’ll figure something out…. He smiled against my mouth.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s the next step?”

“The next step,” I said, clearing my throat,” is to slick a bunch of that nice, warm lube onto my cunt.”

“That I can do.”

Very gently, Sam reached down between my legs. My hips thrust reflexively, meeting his hand as he massaged it into my pussy.

“You’re a natural, babe,” I sighed.

Sam winked, clearly enjoying himself as he stroked from the apex of my sex down my tender length of my engorged labia. I whimpered.

“That feels so good…. I want your fingers inside me.”

Sam nodded and, very slowly, slipped his middle and index fingers into me. The muscles shuddered and clutched, hungry for more.

“How’s that darlin’?”

“Good,” I breathed. “Good. Just thrust a bit right there…I’ll tell you when I’m ready for a third.”

Half dizzy, I reached down and fingered my clit. It was a good thing I’d said no to the vibe. I was so sensitized at that point that it would have made me come before he’d gotten a third finger into me. With the lightest, gentlest touch I could manage, I circled my clit. A wave of pleasure washed over me as Sam’s fingertips brushed up against my g-spot. I moaned as my legs went limp and dropped open. We had to get the show on the road.

“Okay, babe,” I whispered, panting. “I’m getting awfully close and we’re not even halfway there. How would you feel about slipping two more fingers in after a little more lube?”

“At the same time?”

Sam looked at me, concern creasing his brow.

“One at a time. One after the other. It’ll be fine. More than fine. I promise.”

Sam nodded. Then he used his unoccupied hand to coat his ring and pinky fingers before slowly inserting them into me, one after the other. I moaned. Sam froze.

“Blair? Are you okay?”

I nodded. Every nerve in my body had switched on. I’d never felt so open. Never in my life. I wanted him in me. Now.

“I’m good, babe. I promise. Ready for more?”

Sam nodded as a look of deep concentration settled over his face. I’d seen that look before, when he was carving something delicate, when one wrong move could ruin a whole piece. Love for him threatened to drown me.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Here’s what we do. Take your whole hand out, just for a second. Lube it up really well. Use more than you think you’ll need. Then, slowly, put those four fingers back into me. I’ll take care of the rest while you slide in your thumb.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t imagine how this is going to work….”

“It does,” I murmured. “Trust me.”

“I trust you, Blair,” he said.

Then he pulled his hand back and, suddenly, I was horribly empty. The contrast was so dramatic that it made me want to cry. Not wanting to worry him, I blinked the back the tears.

“Hurry, Sam. Please.”

“I am, darlin’. I am.”
He coated his entire hand with what had to be half a bottle of lube, and I wondered briefly if I should have told him to use the big towels after all. Oh well, I thought, as a glob of silicon hit the sheets. Too late now….

Before I knew it, his fingers were inside me again. Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky. I sighed in relief, anticipating the rest, but he hesitated with his thumb.

“Are you’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

I may have sounded a little abrupt there…okay, I kind of snarled. But really. I was sure.

“Okay, okay…. Here we go.”

My fingers went back to my clit as Sam gently maneuvered his thumb into me. I was soaked from the lube and my own juices, but even I was shocked by how hot I was. My body was radiating heat and my clit, when I touched it, felt like a little coal. I rubbed it, panting, as I bore down on Sam’s hand.

“You’re so gorgeous, Blair.”

“Please, Sam. Don’t stop.”

He had the hang of things now, which is good because my brain had checked out. I felt him slow and I mewled, sinking into the fill of his hand.

“We’re at the widest part now. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

I nodded distractedly, knowing there was no way in hell I was going to tell this man to stop. I felt like a live wire—I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried….

“Breathe, Blair. Lift your hips.”

I did what Sam said, opening my hips and arching my back as he slowly, slowly slide his hand in, past his knuckles, then the bridge. The heat kicked up a notch. I was pouring sweat and my chest was tight, but the rest of me was loose, loose and open, inviting him in. Suddenly, the pressure in my passage relaxed and my cunt closed over his wrist. My fingers left my clit and rested on my belly, as tears spilled down my cheeks. I had never felt so close to anyone before, never in my life.

“Hey, darlin’? Are you all right?

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Am I hurting you,” he asked, starting to panic. I smiled and blinked back tears.

“No, baby. You’re no hurting me. It just…it feels really good. It feels….” I shook my head. Full. Brimming. They weren’t good enough. But I didn’t need to say more. Sam looked at me and nodded. He understood.

“Will it hurt you if I move?”

“No. I’d love it. Nice and slow…rub my clit with your other hand.”

He nodded and brought his fingers to my nub. Then, very gently he began to move his hand. Almost immediately, the orgasm I’d been shoring up began to crest. I laid back and closed my eyes. I knew Sam would get me there.

What little discomfort I’d felt at the start had long since passed. Now all I felt was the greedy, clutching need to get him as deep as I could. I raised my hips up off the bed, giving my body free rein as the orgasm filled my lungs and my toes and traveled up my legs in fiery licking swells.

“Blair, you’re so fucking hot.”

But I barely heard him. My fingers plucked at the ruined sheets as my eyes rolled into my head. I must have looked possessed, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but Sam’s hand deep inside me. The sensation was nearly too much. Wanting to make it last, I shoved his fingers off my clit, but my body was ready. I came.

Guttural wails filled my ears, but I didn’t realize they were coming from me. I was too wracked by sexy, sexy greed. I never wanted that orgasm to end. I was gone, lost in my body and totally out of my head.

Slowly, slowly Sam brought me back down. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that he was a lubey, cum-streaked mess.

“Damn,” I said, looking at the dripping tip of his recently spent cock. “When did that happen?”

“Well,” Sam said, with a really sheepish grin. He was still wrist deep inside me. “I hope you don’t mind. You were just so gorgeous and so deep in it…when you pushed my hand off your clit I figured why not. Watching you made me come in record time.”

“I love you,” I said. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Blair.”

“Would you kiss me? Can you reach?”

“Yeah. I can reach.”

That pretty much sealed the deal. That’s why I moved to Georgia—to be with Sam. Sam and his gorgeous hands.

Flash Fiction: A Letter

Black and white shot of a handwritten letter for A Letter by Malin James

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.”

 

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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.

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: Lonely Things

Black and white ink drawing of a woman embracing a shinto lion

Fortitude by Miss Pybis

Her love runs deep, so deep it cuts. She wields it like a knife, coring her heart and peeling herself like fruit; soft and pulpy, sweet, grotesque and fragrant all at once. Her love is not a pretty thing. It’s a violence she metes to herself.

She smells cigarettes and knows it’s him. Even now, years later, her body knows the scent of Marlboro Reds. She can hear his voice if she tries to, in dreams, in her own…it disturbs her to hear his voice in her own. Lilting aural shrug. Sardonic, slanting grin. She learned that smile from him. She uses it all the time.

He is in her house in the dream, working, building. She comes in prepared, having smelled the Reds. He is so tall in her dream, much taller than in life.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

He tosses the word like a stone.

She steps closer. Approaching him is like approaching a wolf, but she does it casually, accepting the risk. She is bigger than he is. Now she is.

“It hurts to see you,” she says.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Good.”

She smiles. Of course he said good. It’s a good sign, that good. He’s angry and it shows. He showed her so much in the time they were together, things he didn’t see and didn’t know. But she did. She knew. She knew and she left. She remembers him hurt and cold.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“What for?”

He lights a cigarette with the lighter she gave him. Brushed, stainless steel worn dull. It slips back into his pocket as if the denim holds its place. Narrow hips, like a knife…. She leans into the edge, loving the risk, loving the heart’s blood she feels beneath her skin.

“For this.”

She puts her arms around his waist. His cock hardens as she presses her hips to his. Her own soft and narrow hips. He resists. She knows he will. He resists anyone’s terms but his own. But he wants her. She knows he does. And that’s why he gives. 

She thinks of their first kiss, in the hall of her old place. Sunny hall, sunny day, he caught her in his arms, playful but they knew. When they kissed, they knew. It was better than sex, that kiss. It held the promise of their relationship. Mutual evisceration.

He tosses out the cigarette. She rest her cheek on his.

“I could kill you,” he says.

“I know. I know. That’s why I love you.”

They are pressed, hip to hip. He wants her so much. But there is a reckoning still.

He brings his hands up, gentle and lover-like. His fingers circle her neck. She thinks of the knife he once put there, and the calm that she felt when he did. He could kill her. She knows it. She loves him because he could kill her. It would be a relief, in a nihilistic sense, and he is dead enough to do it. She is dead enough to want it. She sees parts of her in him.

He squeezes her neck and she lets him. Eyes flat. No feeling. Cold, dead eyes. She places her hands over his. They are scarred and rough. Familiar. She knows them like her own. Her palms cradle his knuckles as he squeezes her throat.

Their mouths are close. He is taut. But she is soft. She is soft, which is why she will win. His hands tighten around her neck and she holds them there, calm, inviting, through shiny, bursting stars. Stars in her eyes and she smiles. He could kill her now. He should.

She kisses him then, while his hands squeeze her neck, bruising her obstinate pulse. He tastes like he always tasted—cigarettes, mint, whisky, death. He tastes like fucking death. He squeezes harder. She tightens her grip, forcing his fingers into her swollen, beating pulse. Pushing him. Daring him. Do it. Please.

Suddenly, the pressure lifts and he is with her. His reckoning is done.

They are on the floor as she yanks at his jeans, hungry for his cock. Split open like fruit, sticky with juice, she cannibalizes herself. She fills herself with him in a slow, slick stab. She eats her painful heart.

She is lonely, so lonely…. Her hands go around his throat, the way he’d wanted then. But she was sunny and young, blue skies and white clouds. She hadn’t found her night…a swirling black sky punched through with starlight. But he’d seen it. He’d wanted it. And she’d kept it from him.

She gives it to him now.

Her fingertips drift over his throat and press, harder than he had, harder than he’d dared, though she can already feel the bruises forming on her neck.

“I could kill you,” she says.

She is riding him and crying it feels so good. So right for her with him.

“I know. That’s why I love you.”

He fucks her ache harder, the grinding ache, deep and bruised with years. She is lonely. So lonely. And he is lonely too. He’s lonely and he comes. He seeps into her edges, miles and miles of edge. It’s the part of her he wants – the night sky with its blackness and its cold, pretty stars.

He wants the thing. The monster. The mirror. He wants not to be found. That’s what she wants too.

She comes ugly and feral. He bites her and she bites him. They draw blood from each other and lick it like juice. They would. Of course they do. There is so much blood between them. Drops spilling into years…. One day they will kill each other. One day it will be done.

Erotic Fiction: Good Morning

Black and white fine arts portrait of a couple sleeping

Sleeping Couple by Karin Rosenthal, (1997)

Good morning….

He hears her voice and catches her scent – incense, candles. His private church. He feels her in their bed. Soft body. Jutting hips. Damp between the thighs. But she isn’t there. Hasn’t been in so long the sheets have lost her scent. Bottles in the bathroom keep it safe.

Good morning, love….

I’m dreaming…. Lucid sleeper. Don’t waste it. Don’t waste her.

Morning, baby, he thinks.

His cock stirs. Breeze from the fan. She hates it hot. Hated it hot. Hated sweating in her sleep. He buries himself in the covers and hides from the breeze. He wants to feel her warm, damp back pressed against his chest.

He loves her sweat. Loved her sweat. The way it pooled between her breasts…it made her taste like sex even when they hadn’t fucked. They always fucked. Her sleepy scent always made him want to fuck. He strokes his cock, but feels her instead, her thighs, her ass, so round and sweet he wants to take a bite.

He tucks up against her memory in their lonely, sweaty bed and feels her warm and damp as she seals herself to him. He sighs, nostalgic. He’s completely hard now.

He hears her chuckle as she parts her legs, not much, just enough. She’s so wet he slips against her, cock against cunt, until she tilts her hips. He slides in like a dream, rocking, rocking, rocking in his sleep.

Sigh. Tilt. Wet. Slip. Lazy fucking. Rolling hips. I’m dreaming, he thinks. Such a good dream. He rolls onto his stomach and thrusts against the bed, feeling her beneath him, hot skin and arching hips. He goes deeper, deeper, just the way she likes. I feel you in my heart, she said. He wants to fuck her heart.

Hey, sleepy head….

 Weight on the mattress. Good morning. Good dream. Soft, playful fingers down the backs of his thighs. More weight. Her scent. She kisses his spine…. He feels her legs around him and her breasts against his back. Softness beneath him, softness above. She’s everywhere. She’s home. He tries to open his eyes.

Don’t wake up….

Whisper in his ear. It’s a shiny little sound, a penny full of luck. He reaches back to touch her thigh, solid and sweaty beneath his hand. He hopes she’s there. He hopes she can hear.

No, I won’t wake up.

 

For more Wicked Wednesday, press the pretty button!

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Erotic Fiction: An Intense, Slightly Porny Blowjob

Vintage illustration of a couple at a soda fountain

Yesterday, the wonderful Honey over at Happy Come Lucky wrote a post called Addiction about her love of blowjobs. It’s a lovely, sexy piece of writing, so when Exhibit A shared some inspiring thoughts on a (slightly less educational) sequel to his excellent cock ring video, I got an idea that drew from both – Honey’s post and Exhibit A’s cinematic presence.

I wrote this little love note to giving head in roughly 40 minutes. It’s quick, hot and filthy. What you see if what you get, so hopefully what you get is good, clean (*wink*) fun.

Plug #1 – If you haven’t done so already, check out Honey’s post. It’s incredibly hot. And lovely. And incredibly hot.

Plug #2 – If you’re at all interested in cock rings but aren’t sure how to go about using one, check out Exhibit A’s Cock Rings 101 post and video. They’re really good stuff.

And now….

An Intense, Slightly Porny Blowjob

It’s probably not a good idea. We’re in a restaurant full of happy, not-quite-drunk people and our waiter, Carl, is beyond attentive. I don’t care though. My leg is pressed against yours in the booth and I’m stroking your cock through your jeans. You’re so hard it makes my mouth water. I catch your eye and kiss you. I suspect you know what I’m thinking, but you’re not sure if I’ll actually do it.

I kiss you again, a bit theatrically this time, as Carl pours the wine. Then he’s off and I slide down under the table. There’s no tablecloth to hide what I’m doing but I honestly don’t care. Apparently you don’t either because you slouch down in the booth enough to help me unbutton your fly. Then you lean back as I lick my lips and nuzzle your cock. Teasing. Maybe I’m teasing. I kiss the tip. I can feel you getting frustrated and self-conscious. People can see you. They might see me in the darkness under the table if they look hard enough. You touch my head—maybe a warning. I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter because I tuck myself in between your spread legs and slide your cock into my mouth.

Your body stiffens and I hear you try, unsuccessfully, to hold back a small moan.

“Is the wine all right, sir?”

“Yes. Fine. Thanks.”

I smile as I suck you, encouraging you—your job is much harder than mine. My job is a fucking pleasure, so much so that my thighs are wet and sticky beneath my skirt. I suck up the length of you, swirling my tongue over your head, loving the way you’re trying not to move. I can feel your pulse in my mouth. I can taste your salt and my own tang from when we fucked earlier, before we left for dinner. I lap it up, working you with my tongue in a way that indulges my pleasure as much as yours.

You get harder in my mouth, the way you do right before you come. Your fists clench at your sides, flexing, knuckles flushed. I reach out and put one of my hands over yours, while the other cradles your balls. Everything about you is wound up tight. I keep sucking and suckling, feeding off your tension and how good the sucking feels. Thick veins under my tongue, hard, hot dick…. If I keep doing this, I’m going to come. But you inhale sharply and come first.

I moan around your cock as your cum hits my throat, hot and salty and so fucking good. I keep sucking and lapping. I want every drop. I only stop my gentle, pulsing pulls when you start to go soft in my mouth. You tuck yourself in and button your jeans. Then you touch my head again, to tell me it’s okay. I slide back up into the seat.

I smell like sex and I taste like cum. I smile as Carl drops off our food.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No. Thank you. We’re good.”